The Oriental Casebook of Sherlock Holmes (29 page)

Holmes smiled inwardly, for it was then that the idea he had when he first saw the button came to final fruition. Manning was not the center of this Tibetan drama, nor was he a major actor in it. He was, if anything, a victim, as so many had been in the past, of events that were controlled by others. As Holmes began to realise what was happening in Tibet, a whole series of ironies revealed themselves, and he knew then that he had but one course of action. It was then too that he sensed the growth of trust between himself and Gorashar. He felt, for the first time, that he had an ally upon whom he could rely.

He took leave of Manning, who, he believed, was now as safe as he could be in the city of Lhasa, and returned to Gorashar’s own quarters. There he told the merchant that he needed his help once again. Holmes looked directly into Gorashar’s eyes: he was determined to enter the Potala that very night and to meet the Regent face-to-face. Gorashar looked at him quizzically, then smiled and said, “You very intelligent man. Many things knowing you are.”

A rather devilish grin broke out on his face as Holmes told him what he planned to do. Then a serious look crossed his face as he revealed to Holmes the easiest way to enter undetected. In the past, Gorashar himself had been asked by various officials to come to the Potala at night and was thoroughly familiar with the building. First, he said, the Potala is well protected but not impregnable. After midnight, the guards are generally asleep, those at the north entrance being the laziest. Dressed as a monk, Holmes should have no difficulty entering and then moving about, for there are few guards inside, and the patrols pass only once every two hours. He reviewed with Holmes the general plan of the palace and the location of the quarters of the Grand Lama and the Regent. Then he promised to supply him all that he would need in the way of disguise, including a monk’s robe that would suit his frame. It was at that moment that he took from a drawer in his desk the gold knife that served as the occasion for this story.

“Please take this and keep it with you. You may need it.”

Holmes took it with gratitude, for he had no weapon of any kind, and the knife provided him at least with a fighting chance should he be attacked.

“Show it to the Regent as soon as you enter,” he said.

Holmes spent the rest of the day readying himself for the visit. Then, in the dead of night, he left Gorashar’s residence and walked quickly through the dark streets of Lhasa to the foot of the Potala. He felt his way around the west wall to the north side. There he saw a narrow stone staircase that led halfway up the massive building to what appeared to be an entranceway. There was no one in sight, and the night was completely still. He climbed the stairs as quickly and quietly as he could. To his delight, he found the door unlocked. It led directly to a dark corridor, dimly lit by a series of oil lamps placed at long intervals along the wall. A monk passed in prayer, but he was so engrossed that he noticed nothing. From some distance ahead Holmes then heard the drone of the monkish chant of Tibet. He judged that he was close to the Grand Lama’s quarters. So far Gorashar’s directions were exact. He had instructed Holmes very carefully with regard to the Regent’s quarters: the second door after the chanting room. The Regent usually slept alone there, with no guard.

Holmes passed the monks in their chant and arrived at the Regent’s door. He opened it. There, seated at his writing table in the flickering light of an oil lamp, observing him impassively in no great surprise, sat the Regent of Tibet, the great Tsarong.

For a moment that seemed an eternity, they stared at each other. They had reached the end game, and Holmes decided to move first.

“Well done, Moorcroft,” said Holmes in English deliberately and slowly, “your impersonation has been perfect. Little did we suspect that Britain has had a friend in high places in Tibet these many years.”

There was no immediate reaction. So complete was the Regent’s composure that for a moment Holmes thought his reasoning to be incorrect. Then, slowly, a slight smile crossed the old man’s face. Holmes could see his lips begin to form hesitantly the syllables that began to cross them, as if the language he was about to speak had not been used for decades. Holmes took the gold knife from his pocket and threw it on the floor between them.

“Who are you?” he asked slowly. The words were perfectly formed, but Holmes heard the accent of the distant past in them, and a voice that had not used English for over half a century.

“Who I am is of little importance. If you must know, my name is Sherlock Holmes. My mission is that of which you have been informed.”

“Sherlock Holmes is dead,” said the Regent emphatically.

“One should not believe all that one hears. I am amused that the report of my death has reached as far as Lhasa, and doubly amused that someone such as you, who was reported dead many years ago, believed it. How odd that we should be seated here together in the Potala, two Englishmen who have so successfully manufactured our own deaths that we are believed by all the world to exist no longer.”

“An odd coincidence, indeed,” he said, bemusedly, “although I have been dead for almost fifty years longer than you. And how long do you propose to prolong your own death?”

“Provided that you and I come to an understanding not to reveal each other’s circumstances, I shall remain in my present state indefinitely, or at least until I have rid the world of several archcriminals, some of whom are my personal enemies, dedicated to my demise. A few of them have taken refuge here, as you probably know.”

“I am aware of the presence of these Western criminals, and have found their presence most annoying. As to you, I shall be completely silent. You may continue as Doctor Sigerson, and as such you may stay in Tibet as long as you please. I shall help you in every way. I have not been pleased about the influx of riff-raff from America and Europe into Tibet, and I have done everything to prevent their entry. In some cases, however, I have found their presence useful.”

He smiled as he uttered the last few words.

“Like Sackville-Grimes,” said Holmes.

“Like Sackville-Grimes, of course. But I would include Dorjiloff and Yamamoto. These are the mercenaries of the Russians and the Japanese, pretending to be other than they are. But Tibet in many ways has become a land of pretense, a land in which nothing is quite as it seems. To Lhasa in disguise: is that not the cry? Everyone is in disguise,” he said.

He paused for a moment, then continued: “I of course came in disguise myself but stayed so long that the disguise became reality. At a certain point in my stay, I found myself suddenly thrust by events into the middle of Tibetan politics. I did not shirk the responsibility that fell on my shoulders. When the present Grand Lama comes of age, that responsibility will end. Through these many years, I have worked to keep Tibet out of the clutches of its neighbors, and I have instructed the young lama in the politics of independence. But I do not know whether the Tibetan theocracy is ready to assert itself sufficiently to guarantee its independence in the future. This is why I have relied heavily on a friendly neutrality with the British through the years. My years of effort may in the long run prove to be in vain. The Russians, the Japanese, the Chinese, are all ready to pounce . . . but more of that later. How did you come to know my identity? Almost no one else knows, so you must have reasoned it out yourself.”

“In my profession, it is the smallest things that often make the difference,” said Holmes. He reached into his pocket and produced the button that he had found in the vulture’s talons. He handed it to the Regent.

“Ha!” he exclaimed. “‘A mistake on my part, but something that I thought necessary at the time. But I still want to hear your reasoning.”

(Holmes went to his desk, retrieved the button, and handed it over to me.)

“It is clarity itself,” he said to the Regent. “My methods are based on the minute observation of trivia, in this case a button, innocuous in itself. The button bears the initials W.M., obviously coincident with the initials of William Manning. But close examination of the small threads left in it, together with its somewhat antique appearance, led me to hypothesise that the button as well as the coat to which it had been sewn was made in the early part of the century. You will notice that the button also bears inside the inscription of the maker, Rollins and Company, a company that disappeared several decades ago. If this came from Manning’s jacket, he would of necessity have been wearing an antique piece of costumery, highly unlikely judging from what I had heard of his sober ways. When I found the coat itself on the dying form of Sackville-Grimes I knew that something was amiss: it was meant to identify Manning to those who wished to believe that Sackville-Grimes was Manning. But who could manipulate things in such ways? Who had such power? And who might have such a coat? Here one had to look at recent Tibetan history as well, the broad picture if you will, as it coincided with these minute bits of evidence, for despite the wishes of Dorjiloff and Yamamoto to the contrary, Tibetan policy had more or less followed British desires over the last few decades. What if this were not accidental but were due to the firm intentions of someone high in the Tibetan Government? Suppose that person was the Regent himself? Suppose that the Regent did not wish to see Manning die but wished him only to leave? Suppose the Regent himself had arranged to have Manning removed before death and the coat put on the body of the moribund Sackville-Grimes as an added indication of his identity?”

And here Holmes paused and said slowly, “And suppose that the Regent himself were an Englishman? An absurd thought? Yes, absurd, but were it true, who might that Englishman be? Who might fit the historical record as well as the initials on the button? The name of the early adventurer Moorcroft immediately comes to mind, but his first name is Clement, and so there is a difficulty. But Moorcroft sticks in one’s mind because his death is unexplained and uncertain, a casual mention in the diary of Le Père Huc, the well-known French monk and traveller. “He died while leaving Tibet.” That is all we know. “All of this came to me in a flash, far faster than the time it takes to relate my reasoning—”

“Enough!” he interrupted. “Well done, Holmes. I see why your reputation grew so quickly. If you must know, the coat with the buttons belonged not to me but to my father, William Moorcroft, and of course I did not die while leaving Tibet. I left the papers of Clement Moorcroft on the body of a dead friend and re-entered Tibet in disguise with a group of Newar merchants led by Dharma Ratna, the father of Gorashar. It was Dharma Ratna who retrieved the knife that you have placed before us from the dead body of Farouk, the assassin of my own father. On learning my story, he kept my secret, and returned the knife to me. Later, I gave it to his son, Gorashar, in friendship, and he has remained my confidant. I have been in Tibet ever since, and I became through the years a Tibetan. The story of my life here is of course rather unique and I may divulge it to you someday.”

The Regent then rang a bell, and two guards carried in a figure, bound and gagged, whom Holmes recognised immediately in the dim light as Dorjiloff. The Regent walked up to him, removed his gag, and slapped him across the face with all his still considerable strength.

“You have tried my patience these many years, Dorjiloff,” he said in Tibetan, “and I have suffered your cruelties and stupidities in my country as long as they served my broad purpose. They no longer do. You are to leave Tibet now and forever. I have arranged an escort that will take you to the Russian border. Do not return upon pain of death.”

Dorjiloff tried to free himself, but to no avail. He said nothing coherent, for the insult of a slap across the face had angered him beyond words. He cast a malevolent look in Holmes’s direction before he was carried out. He never encountered him again but later learned that in attempting to re-enter Tibet he was killed on the spot by border guards, thus bringing to a futile end a career dedicated to the cause of evil.

“I think, Mr. Holmes,” said the Regent, “that it would be best for us to limit our direct contacts in the future, considering the complexity of the political situation here. You may stay as long as you like, and I will provide you with every facility to continue your botanical and zoological studies, and incidentally to rid us of some of our more nefarious visitors.”

“I agree to that. We can continue to communicate through the one person that both of us trusts in Lhasa.”

“Gorashar,” he said.

“Yes,” said Holmes, “Gorashar.”

Holmes stopped for a moment to light his pipe.

“A most engrossing tale, Holmes.”

“Indeed, Watson, and there is little more that need be told. Sir William Manning and the Tibetan princess Pema left Tibet and are now living here in London. I see them on occasion. Yamamoto was put in the custody of the Chinese authorities, and I gather that he died recently in a prison in Shanghai. Unfortunately, the accomplice of Dorjiloff, Rastrakoff, escaped, to my chagrin, and I was to deal with him later. I myself remained in Lhasa for almost two years and was not only able to bring several other criminals to justice but also assisted in preserving the delicate relations between Tibet and our government. I then left on my long journey in the Orient, which eventually brought me homewards. It was on the final leg of my journey that I learned, to my great sadness, that the Regent had died just after the new Grand Lama came to office.”

“And what did you learn of Moorcroft’s own life, Holmes? How on earth did it happen that an Englishman became the Regent of Tibet?”

Holmes walked to his desk and pulled from a drawer what appeared to be an old manuscript.

“Here, dear Watson, is Moorcroft’s own statement of his life in Tibet up to my departure. Perhaps you will find it of interest. You will see that he was a most improbable Englishman. He gave me his account just before I left Lhasa. As an explanatory postscript you will find it most valuable. You will notice some differences in our recollection. Do not try to reconcile them, for each of us is entitled to a good story told for our own purposes.”