Mandala of Sherlock Holmes (15 page)

The Lama Yonten looked dreadfully crestfallen with Sherlock Holmes’s answer. I too, I must confess, was somewhat disappointed with my friend. I had become so accustomed to witnessing the fertility of his genius, and the awe-inspiring powers of observation and concentration that his great mind could bring to bear on any problem, that I had overlooked his inherent human limitations. Even the world’s greatest detective could hardly be expected to challenge the ambitions of Imperial China, single-handedly.

The Lama rose, somewhat unsteadily, from his chair, and lifted his hands as if in a gesture of resignation. His eyes, through his thick spectacles, were sad and tired, though he tried not to betray in his voice the disappointment he must have felt.

‘Well, Mr Holmes. I can see that your refusal is final. I know you are a brave and honourable man, and that you would not refuse to help us if you thought you could do so in any way.

Therefore I will not attempt anything so vulgar as offering you wealth for your services, or persist in wasting your time with an old man’s pleas. Goodbye to both of you. May the Three Jewels protect you on your journey home. Now if you will excuse me, I have certain duties to attend to.’ He rang a small handbell. ‘Tsering will see you to your residence.’

We bade him goodbye. As that small, disappointed figure shuffled off to an adjoining room, I could not but help feel slightiy disappointed with my friend for giving up without even trying. He must have sensed my feelings, for as we descended the short flight of steps in front of the palace, Holmes turned to me and remarked: ‘You disapprove of my want of enthusiasm in the matter, do you not?’

‘Oh no, Mr Holmes,’ I protested. ‘I am sure that
ex facto,
your decision was one hundred percent correct. I just thought that with your great powers … and that scoundrel of an Amban and how they nearly cut off my head …’

At that moment Tsering came down the stairs to join us. He had just met the Lama Yonten, who had instructed him to let us know that preparations for our departure to India were being made, though they would take a few days to complete. In the meantime we were to remain in our quarters and refrain from going out into the streets.

Our ride back to the city was a melancholy one. Holmes rode slightiy ahead, puffing at his pipe, deep in contemplation. I rode beside Tsering and attempted to be convivial, but he either sensed that something was amiss, or the Lama Yonten had told him of Holmes’s refusal, so the conversation did not exactly proceed smoothly.

Dinner too, was not a very cheerful event. The filet of yak and Chinese cabbage in cheese sauce was delicious, but Sherlock Holmes ate very littie, and conversed even less. After dinner I retired to my bed-chamber and spent an hour composing a report of the political situation in Lhassa for Colonel Creighton, which I would have to convey to a Newari merchant at the Barkhor market, in the centre of the city. He would take it to Darjeeling and deliver it to the Departmental agent there. I made no mention in the report of our meeting with the Lama Yonten.

I got into bed and tried to sleep. I heard Mr Holmes pacing up and down his room, which was next to mine. He walked exactly six steps, stopped, turned around (you heard a slight shuffle), then walked back six steps, turned around (you heard the shuffle again), and started again. Somewhere on the eleventh turn I drifted off to sleep.

1. Being Buddhists, the Dalai Lamas would, of course, never have had animals captured for their amusement. The animals in the menagerie were wounded or lost creatures rescued by pious travellers and presented to the Dalai Lama for safe-keeping. When there was an excess of animals at the zoo, the Dalai Lama would present them to government officials, who were obliged to give them a good home.

AND BEYOND

17

The Flying Swords

A strong hand shook me by the shoulder, waking me from a deep sleep.

‘Wha … who?’

I tried to blink away my drowsiness and noticed that it was still dark. The glow of a candle in his hand outiined the troubled face of Sherlock Holmes, and told me at a glance that something was amiss.

‘Come, Hurree,’ he cried, ‘the game’s afoot. Not a word! Into your clothes and come.’

‘Why, Mr Holmes? What is the …’ I began to ask, but he had already left the room. I did as I was ordered and was ready in a trice.

Tying the lappets of my old rabbit-skin cap under my chin, I ran out through the living room to the courtyard, where some of the servants were hurriedly saddling our ponies. In a very short time Mr Holmes, Tsering and I were on our steeds and out of the gates, Tsering leading the way through the dark, deserted streets.

For the bally life of me I could not comprehend what was going on. I attempted to ask Mr Holmes, but it was difficult to make enquiries when riding single file in narrow alleyways. I thought it indiscreet to shout. When we came to the outskirts of the city it was possible for the ponies to travel two abreast, and I thought that I would take this opportunity to ask Mr Holmes the reason for this nocturnal excursion. But no sooner had I begun to get my pony beside his, than we came to the Western Gate of the city, and were soon galloping furiously on the dirt road that led to the Jewel Park. No conversation was possible then.

A bright summer moon occasionally lit our way as it scudded through a cloud-patched sky.

A hard twenty-minute ride brought us before the main entrance of the Jewel Park.

Two soldiers, with rifles at the ready, ran out of a sentry box and challenged us. Tsering quickly dismounted and identified himself. He also made some enquiries, though I could not discern his exact words as he spoke softly.

‘But it is very late,’ one of the soldiers replied. ‘He must have retired hours ago.’

‘… and we cannot disturb him now,’ said the other soldier. Sherlock Holmes dismounted and walked over to them. ‘Even as I speak …‘he said gravely,’… the life of the Grand Lama is threatened by a terrible danger. It is vital that we see the Lama Yonten.’

‘But we have our orders,’ one of the guards replied, slightiy shaken by Mr Holmes’s portentous declaration. ‘We cannot desert our post.’

‘A most commendable course of conduct,’ replied Holmes rather sardonically, ‘but surely one of you can guard the gate while the other goes to fetch the Lama Yonten.’

‘Well, I don’t know, Sir,’ the soldier scratched his head bemusedly.

‘If anything happens to the Grand Lama, I shall personally hold the two of you responsible,’ said Sherlock Holmes in that stern, masterful way of his, which rather rattled the two simple fellows. ‘Get a move on, man,’ he urged.

Bewildered and not quite sure of themselves, they reluctantly opened a small door set into the main gate. One of the soldiers went through it and disappeared into the darkness.

We waited. Sherlock Holmes extracted a dark lantern from his saddle-bag and proceeded to light it. He then closed the shield and handed it to me. No gleam of light escaped but the smell of hot metal and oil told me it was ready for instant use.

‘Keep it handy. We may have urgent need of it.’

Sherlock Holmes paced restlessly about in a fever of suppressed frustration, occasionally throwing out his hands as if chafing against the inaction. Finally, after about fifteen minutes, the gate opened and the small, cloaked figure of the Chief Secretary appeared, accompanied by our soldier, and a giant warrior monk.

‘Mr Holmes, what a surprise …’ said the Lama Yonten.

‘Reverend Sir,’ interrupted Holmes, ‘we have no time to lose. I fear an imminent attack on the person of His Holiness.’

The Lama looked up at Sherlock Holmes in a queer sort of way. Not puzzled or bewildered, mind you, though a bit dazed; but on the whole reassured and pleased. ‘Then we must do something about it,’ he said firmly. ‘What are your orders, Mr Holmes?’

‘Quick, follow me,’ cried Sherlock Holmes, leaping past them and running into the Jewel Park. Mr Holmes was decidedly a swift runner and it was all we could do to keep up with him. We were permitted a brief pause by the inner wall, as the Lama Yonten ordered the gates opened. Then once again we were racing through the dark gardens. I must admit to tripping and stumbling a few times, but recovered swiftly enough to just about keep up behind Mr Holmes. He must have had the eyes of a panther for he sprinted unerringly in the darkness towards the palace building. On arrival, he paused briefly near the door to wait for the rest of us. As soon as I arrived he grabbed the lantern from me and entered the building. Past the reception hall we ran, coming to a long corridor with a number of doors on either side.

‘This is His Holiness’s bed-chamber,’ whispered the Lama Yonten, pointing to the second door on the right. But Holmes did not seem to have heard him, for he quickly strode up the corridor to the fifth door on the left, and there paused to open the metal shield on the lantern and draw a revolver from the pouch of his Ladakhi robe. He then signalled me to push open the door. Slightiy apprehensive, I leaned against it.

The door swung back somewhat awkwardly on its clumsy wrought-iron hinges. A shaft of light from the lantern cut through the darkness of the room to reveal a terrifying red face with long white fangs sticking out of a grimacing mouth. I gave a littie start. Actually, I nearly screamed, but recovered my wits sufficientiy —and in the jolly nick of time — to realise that the fearful apparition was nothing but the idol of a
yidam,
a wrathful deity of the Lamaist pantheon. We were obviously in some kind of chapel. Mr Holmes did not betray any surprise but kept the lantern shining steadily on the idol. Then he slowly moved the beam of light across the room, revealing more images of fierce tantric deities, peaceful Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, all disconcertingly life-like in the silence and gloom of the chapel. The heavy scent of juniper incense contributed to the mystery of the place.

The clear, effiilgent beam of the lantern rested on the image of a divinity (or demon?) attired in black and holding two short swords, one in each hand. Its head was entirely wrapped in a black scarf, revealing only a pair of dark sinister eyes that glittered like moonstones.

Then they blinked!

‘My gosh!’ I exclaimed

‘Look out! He’s armed,’ shouted Holmes, raising his revolver as the figure sprang forward to attack us.

Just as swiftly another figure — our warrior monk — leapt forward to confront the assailant. Our monk had also unsheathed his weapon — a heavy piece of iron in the shape of a large key, suspended from the end of a leather thong — which he whirled and flicked about him with practised dexterity and deadliness. Uttering savage yells both the protagonists gave battle. For a few minutes there was a confused melee of hurtling limbs and flashing weapons. By the solitary light of the lantern it was difficult to follow clearly the full course of the fray.

Awakened by the pandemonium, more guards and servants came shouting down the corridor, carrying candles and lamps. In the relative glare of the collective illuminations, our masked intruder appeared to become somewhat discomposed.

Then suddenly he initiated a flurry of wicked thrusts with his swords that caused our warrior monk to fall back a pace. That was all the masked intruder needed. He spun around, and running to the side of the room, jumped out of an open window —probably the same one he had entered by.

‘After him!’ shouted Holmes.

Our warrior monk unhesitatingly jumped through the window, followed by Mr Holmes and, slightly later, by myself. I am not the most agile of persons, I must admit, and I tripped on the sill and tumbled into a bed of rather prickly roses. I sprang up briskly enough, though, and sped after Mr Holmes. It was extremely difficult to see anything clearly in the infernal darkness, but I did manage to get occasional glimpses of Mr Holmes’s running form, so that I was just able to follow him in the confusion of trees and bushes. Then the dark shadow of the garden wall loomed ahead and I saw Mr Holmes run into it — and disappear!

On reaching the wall — at the point of Sherlock Holmes’ disappearance — I discovered a small but solid wooden door built into the wall. The door was open, so I went through it quickly. The moment I got to the other side, the moon came out from behind a bank of clouds, and I saw that we were outside the palace compound, on an open stretch of land, probably at the back of the Jewel Park. The pale moonlight clearly revealed the warrior monk and Mr Holmes running close at the heels of the black-garbed intruder who was heading for a small stone bridge arching over a little winding stream. Before the bridge was a palanquin borne by some half-a-dozen uniformed figures.

The intruder was now running very fast. He had transferred both his swords to his left hand, while with his right he extracted a white tubular object from the recesses of his clothes and held it forward, as if to hand it over to someone in that company ahead.

‘Stop him!’ cried Holmes, raising his revolver to fire.

But once again he was anticipated by our valiant monk. The fellow twirled his weapon rapidly over his head and released it in the direction of the fleeing intruder. The missile hummed across the distance and struck the man squarely behind the head with an audible crunch. He dropped in his tracks like wet buffalo dung. His two swords fell on the ground with a clatter, and the white cylinder rolled away from his lifeless hand. It was a rolled up scroll, or something like it.

Sherlock Holmes rushed forward to recover the object. Just then the thick curtains covering the sides of the palanquin parted slightiy, and a sickly white hand emerged. The thin, gnarled hand described some strange gestures, like the passes of a way-side jadoo wallah, and — may I be born as a louse in a Baluchi’s beard if I am lying — the scroll rose from the ground, hovered in midair for a brief moment, and then flew over to the palanquin, straight into the waiting hand. The hand, with the scroll, then quickly drew back into the palanquin and the curtains closed. A thin wailing voice came from within the palanquin, issuing some kind of order, for the uniformed men quickly shouldered the closed litter and prepared to leave.

Our warrior monk was clearly a chap with a bounden sense of duty, for he charged unhesitatingly forward to intercept the departing company. The thin hand emerged from between the curtains of the litter again, and made some more of those strange passes. As if at a command the two swords on the ground flew up into the air, flicked and swung around like the needle of a monstrous compass searching for the North pole, and, on pointing in our direction, suddenly froze. A split second later they shot forward like twin arrows.

The first one flew in the direction of the monk. The second sped straight towards Mr Holmes. He raised his right hand to ward it off. At the last moment it seemed to deflect the tiniest bit and, striking his right shoulder plunged into a tree trunk behind. With a cry Mr Holmes dropped his revolver. I ran up to assist, to resuscitate, but then noticed that the first sword had struck our warrior monk in the middle of his chest, impaling him like a lepidopterist’s specimen.

For a moment I was transfixed with fear and indecision, but then noticed that the palanquin and its bearers were fast disappearing over the bridge and into the darkness beyond. I quickly picked up Mr Holmes’s revolver and fired a few rounds at our departing foes. It was, of course, a futile gesture, made more so by my previously mentioned incompetence in matters concerning the discharge of firearms. But at least the report of the weapon served to draw the attention of Tsering and the others — who had lost their way in the park — and who now came quickly to our aid.

‘What has happened …?’ Tsering cried, looking around him. ‘Mr Holmes, you are hurt.’

‘A mere scratch, my dear fellow,’ said Holmes clutching his right arm in pain, and not looking as well as he claimed to be. ‘But how is he — the monk guard?’

The warrior monk — brave fellow — was dead as a door-nail. The sword had gone right through his heart. But he died partially avenged, for the masked intruder too — we discovered on investigation — was dead. The back of his head had been crushed by the force of the monk’s missile. Tsering removed the black scarf from around the dead assassin’s head.

‘See the small burn-marks on his shaven head, Mr Holmes,’ said Tsering, holding a lantern over it. ‘He was a Chinese monk.’

‘Hmm … yes. I have heard that certain monasteries in China have the reputation of training their members to become skilled assassins rather than holy men.’ Sherlock Holmes remarked, rather abstractedly. Then he clutched his arm tighter in sudden pain, and spoke in a low hiss. ‘But we lose precious time. The palanquin must be followed.’

Mr Holmes quickly explained to Tsering about the cylindrical object being taken by the mysterious person in the palanquin, and instructed Tsering to take some guards and follow it.

‘… it left a few minutes ago so it won’t be too difficult to catch up with it. Keep a safe distance. And don’t, if you value your life, try to stop or apprehend it. I just want to know where it is going.’

Tsering quickly went off with two soldiers, while some other guards carried away the two bodies. Mr Holmes’s wound was now bleeding quite severely and his face was drawn and deathly pale, so I helped him back to the palace.