The Travels of Sherlock Holmes, page 6
Fenton laughed at my bewilderment, and drew a great cross in the air. ‘ “X,” the unknown quantity in those algebraic problems the professor was wont to set us,’ he said. ‘We must call him that, for we know nothing more about him.’
‘Yet he is an aristocrat?’ said Sigerson.
‘A prince, which in Russia is not necessarily the same thing. “Prince,” with them, is not always an hereditary title, but a distinction conferred upon any man who reaches a certain rank in the army, or seniority in the civil service. It approximates most closely to the English “Esquire”, for practical purposes,’ said Fenton drily.
‘An army man, then, or a diplomat,’ mused Sigerson. ‘Or possibly both, a military attaché at one of their embassies or legations. An eye for the route an invading army must take, and some knowledge of the politenesses of an ambassador. Perhaps some grasp of the Tibetan language. Yes, he begins to take shape, this adversary of ours, albeit the shape is a nebulous one. What is certain is that his ally, Moriarty, is a most determined, and a most dangerous man. And they are bound – where? Lhasa?’
Norbu looked puzzled. ‘Lhasa is certainly the seat of power in my country,’ he agreed. ‘However, there are various complications. The spiritual head of Tibet is the Dalai Lama, and he is in Lhasa, the seat of government, that much is true. However, the present incarnation of His Holiness is a young boy, who must be trained in the ordinary ways of life. Until His Holiness is old enough to assume his proper place, the power is in the hands of the Regent.’
‘I quite understand,’ said Sigerson. ‘So that any negotiations must needs be done with this Regent?’
Norbu nodded vigorously. ‘And that is one of the complications,’ said he. ‘The Regent is the Abbot of the monastery of Ten-gye-ling, and he is no lover of the Russians. So I am puzzled as to what these Russians can hope to achieve. If they know of the Regent’s antipathy to Russia, they must know they are wasting their time. If not, then they are very foolish, and are in for a grave disappointment.’
‘Well, then!’ said Fenton, rubbing his hands together. ‘It would seem that we have little need for concern, or indeed for haste. If our Russian friends – and the professor, if indeed he has anything to do with it, which is still not proven – do get there ahead of us, then they’ll be sent packing with the proverbial flea in their ear.’
Sigerson shook his head slowly. ‘It might be fatal – in a quite literal sense – to underestimate Moriarty,’ he said. Then, to Norbu, ‘You say the Regent is no friend of Russia. Does that mean that he might lean towards Britain, think you?’
‘He would see Tibet free, I think – as would I,’ said Norbu. ‘But if it is between Britain and Russia, then I think Britain would have the advantage.’
‘What are you driving at, Mr Sigerson?’ I asked.
‘Well, does it not strike you that one possibility is that the professor – a trained teacher – might offer to tutor the young Dalai Lama, and thus gain some influence over him in that way? That is one point.’ He looked serious. ‘There are other possibilities, rather more ominous than that one.’
‘Indeed?’ said Fenton.
‘Indeed. The professor is quite ruthless, I assure you. And I take it his Russian colleagues will not be men of any great sensitivity. For instance, if this Regent were to be – to be removed from the stage, shall we say – then might they not be able to put their own man forward for the job? I could give you more examples of what a completely unscrupulous man might do, but I had rather not think about them.’
‘I think you are exaggerating,’ said Fenton. ‘Still, my orders are clear. What would you have us do?’
‘Whatever Moriarty is planning, he must reach the seat of power in order to carry it through. Is the Regent at this monastery – Ten-gye-ling, is it?’ he asked Norbu.
‘No, at Lhasa. The various ministries are there, you understand,’ Norbu explained.
‘Then be sure that is where they are heading. And so we too must make for Lhasa,’ said Sigerson.
Norbu looked solemn. ‘It is already later in the season than I could have wished,’ he said. ‘We shall have to move fast if we are to reach Lhasa before the winter sets in.’
‘That may well be so, but then Moriarty’s expedition is facing the same difficulty,’ said Sigerson cheerfully. ‘Moriarty had to cross Europe, then travel through Russia, and part of China, and that would have to be done as secretly as may be. I believe that he could not have reached the Tibetan border very much sooner than I have done. With luck, we shall get there ahead of them.’
‘And do what, exactly?’ asked Fenton.
Sigerson raised an eyebrow, for Fenton’s tone was that of a man who pours cold water on an overly optimistic suggestion.
Fenton continued, ‘I mean to ask, do you have any specific plan in mind? My own orders originally were to observe what may be happening, and if possible to take what steps I might think necessary to counter any hostile incursions into Tibet and the north of India – orders which have been kept deliberately vague purely and simply because we have no real notion of what is going on, and no real standing in those parts. Those orders were then modified to say that I am to obey your orders, and I shall do so, but it might help to know what your plans might be at the very start of our mission. For one thing, despite the fact that Britain may have friends in Tibet, technically we are still outsiders, foreigners forbidden to be there officially. And that must needs constrain what we can accomplish, surely?’
‘I understand your concern,’ said Sigerson. ‘My own concern has been – and necessarily must continue to be – mostly with Moriarty, and perhaps that has led me to overlook the wider issues. Yet if we can frustrate Moriarty’s plans, then the rest of it should fall into place as a consequence. I do not see any conflict with your own earlier instructions.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Fenton. ‘You seem to be suggesting that the professor is intending to put his knowledge and talents at the disposal of the Russian government, and may perhaps have done so already, in return for – what, exactly?’
‘I do not think it too fanciful to imagine that he sees the governor-generalship of India, or some such situation, as his reward,’ said Sigerson.
Fenton nodded. ‘Just so, that is how I should read it. And by arresting him, or something of the sort, we would effectively prevent that. But the point I am trying to make is that, were the Russians to conclude some sort of treaty with the lamas – though I take Norbu’s point as to the political situation, and so forth – or even if they were to seize power by force, to look at it in the most gloomy light, then, even if Moriarty were nowhere to be seen, it would still present a very real danger to British India – after all, I do not imagine there is any shortage of Russian diplomats or generals who might see themselves as ruler of the sub-continent.’
‘I quite see that,’ said Sigerson. ‘And yet I feel you are taking a gloomy view of the prospect ahead of us. Any treaty that Moriarty and his colleagues might conclude with the lamas must needs be secret; it can hardly be with the approval of the Chinese authorities. And if the Regent is an enemy of Russia, there will be difficulties in their way there. I see no reason why we should not conclude our own, secret, treaty if we reach Lhasa first, and can forestall whatever devilry Moriarty has up his sleeve. That must be our main concern, to frustrate his schemes, whatever they may be.’
‘And I take it you have the necessary authority to conclude such a treaty, if the Regent is agreeable?’ said Fenton. ‘For to speak plainly, I do not.’
For a long moment, Sigerson tapped his fingers impatiently on the arm of his chair, and I took that to mean that the answer to Fenton’s question was in the negative. Then he smiled, and said, ‘If needs be, I can take that authority upon myself.’
Fenton looked at him with a new respect. ‘That is good enough for me.’
‘Besides,’ said Sigerson, ‘it may not come to that. If we can but prevent Moriarty and the others reaching Lhasa, if we can do nothing more than preserve the status quo, that in itself may be enough, for the present, at least. Let us not be downcast, gentlemen. Even if Moriarty takes a couple of tricks, we stand a good chance of winning the rubber.’ He stood up and stretched. ‘And now, gentlemen, if you are quite ready, so am I.’
Chapter Six - ‘A journey of a thousand miles begins with but a single step’
Despite Sigerson’s eagerness to be off, an eagerness which was, as I have said, shared by Fenton and myself, we decided after a moment’s discussion that, as it was by now early afternoon, it would be as well to delay our departure a very little while longer, and leave just before dawn next day. We should then get a decent night’s sleep in a proper bed – and there was no telling when we would be able to do that again – and also leave the vicinity of Darjeeling without drawing any unnecessary and unwelcome attention to ourselves.
Fenton had provided Sigerson and me with a native costume of baggy white pantaloons and a long cotton shirt, with an oddly shaped little hat made from some sort of embroidered felt stuff. We changed into these – from thenceforth we should be Indian pilgrims, gone to Tibet for the good of our souls – and Fenton regarded us with an eye as critical as that of any sergeant-major.
‘Too obviously new, and far too clean by half,’ said he – I may add that the same charge could not honestly be levelled against his own travelling apparel, which would have caused any Savile Row cutter to curl up on the spot. ‘Still,’ he added, more cheerfully, ‘a couple of nights at a Tibetan inn will cure that.’
Fenton had debated for some time as to whether to attempt to stain the skins of Sigerson and me, the better to disguise us, but had come down against the idea. ‘Once you start that,’ he explained, ‘you must renew the stain every few days, or it looks odd, and there will be difficulties in doing that. You are both pretty sallow, so with that, and the sun, and the lack of proper washing facilities, you should pass muster.’
The phrase about lack of proper washing facilities sounded ominous, but I had endured worse on previous expeditions, so it was with an overall air of cheerfulness that I regarded the immediate future.
Both Fenton and Sigerson, on the other hand, were somewhat subdued. I had no idea what Sigerson might be thinking, for although he had a knack of commanding attention when he spoke, he nevertheless seemed to be one of those men who give little away unless they intend to do so.
Fenton’s case was quite different, and when I spoke to him alone during the latter stages of our preparations, he openly expressed some considerable doubt as to Sigerson’s entire story.
‘I had thought that you were quite convinced,’ I protested.
Fenton shrugged. ‘It sounded reasonable enough when this fellow was telling it, for he has a very persuasive manner with him,’ he said, ‘but I was turning it over and over in my mind last night, and every time I thought about it afresh, it seemed the more fantastic. You must remember that I know – or, at any rate, I knew – Professor Moriarty. And I quite liked him, for all his odd little ways – after all, who ever knew a schoolmaster who didn’t have some odd little ways? But I don’t know anything at all about Mr Sigerson, other than that he is using a false name, and that he has some fanciful tale that my old schoolmaster is now training criminals, for all the world like that old rogue in Dickens – you know the one I mean.’
‘Fagin? Yes, it was an odd yarn he spun. But then, he comes highly recommended.’
‘Does he?’ asked Fenton. ‘All we know is that London said they were sending someone, and then this fellow arrives. He claims to have the authority to conclude a treaty with the Tibetan lamas – something that I don’t believe the Governor himself could do – and yet he introduced himself with an airy, “Captain Fenton?” and nothing more – no credentials, no letters of introduction – why, not even a visiting card.’
‘He could hardly give us his card when he is using an alias,’ I felt obliged to say.
Fenton shot me an angry look. ‘He could have brought the card of his superior, surely, with a note of introduction? That would have been something. No, Dyce, I confess I am not at all happy about this. And I shall keep a close eye on Mr Sigerson.’
Oho, I thought, I trust we are not setting out in any atmosphere of distrust, for in the wild places it is as well to be able to rely implicitly on one’s companions.
For reassurance, I talked to Dass, who regarded the expedition purely as a job of work, but one that would get him away from his family – which seemed an enormous one, by what he said – for a time. ‘Not that a man wishes to be parted from his loved ones,’ as he told me earnestly, ‘but the separation makes the next meeting all the more appreciated.’
Of our little group, only Norbu seemed to regard the adventure as something wholly desirable for its own sake. He made his simple preparations with some sort of religious chant on his lips, and as we set out he remarked sonorously, ‘It is said that a journey of a thousand miles begins with but a single step.’
‘Do the lamas quote Lao Tze now, then?’ asked Fenton.
Very seriously, Norbu said, ‘The apparent differences between the religions are made by man. However a man prays, in the high places he may turn his head suddenly and find one of the ancient gods at his side.’ And he strode out, his gaze fixed on the distant hills, and in his eyes that curious look of those who love the mountains, a look that neither comrades, nor wife, nor even child, can produce.
The first leg of the journey took us to Gangtok, which is the last town on the Indian side of the border. Gangtok is at no great distance from Darjeeling, a couple of days’ brisk walk, and in the event we did walk briskly. Fenton told us that he had toyed with the idea of using mules for this first stage, but decided against it, or rather them.
‘Why?’ I asked, somewhat irked that I should not be able to ride for part of the way at least.
‘Because pilgrims are seldom able to afford mules, and we should have to abandon them in Gangtok in any event,’ was Fenton’s answer. ‘We might get away with it as far as the border, but it would attract attention once we were in Tibet. Moreover, it would only save us – what – a day, at most? Poor compensation for the trouble of looking after them, that, for mules can be awkward beggars.’
And so I had to be content with shanks’s pony. By way of mitigating the inconvenience, the air was like wine, and the scenery – as one says on a postcard from Nice – magnificent. Our loads were not heavy, for all our baggage was contained in a leather satchel, or scrip, like those carried by Dan Chaucer’s pilgrims. A bowl for our rice, or for that porridge of meal the Tibetans call tsampa, which I would come to know, if not to love, a blanket, and what seemed an inordinately large quantity of that curious green tea of the country, of which more in a moment.
We also carried a generous amount of money, for use in case of emergency, if anyone needed to be bribed, or the like, but we made sure that it was well hidden about our persons, for, said Fenton yet again, pilgrims were seldom rich men. We carried no weapons, for they would have marked us out as no true Buddhists. I protested about this, for Norbu had said the mountains were full of bandits who would slit your throat for a pair of shabby boots, but Fenton remained adamant, saying that my protest had been noted, but was overruled.
Dass, who was now beginning to enter properly into the spirit of the enterprise, enlivened the journey by inventing a complex pedigree for me. Fenton had assumed that alias of ‘Chandra Dass,’ that Sigerson had alluded to, a nom de guerre he had used often enough before, and was apparently fond of. I was to be Jagdish Dass, cousin to both Ram and Chandra, and something of a rogue, according to my tutor.
Dass went on to invent a wife for me, several children, and a successful business – something in the betel nut line, as I recall – which I had sold in order to wander through the Himalaya seeking enlightenment. This, said Dass, was by no means an uncommon course of action for Indian businessmen, though most of them were somewhat older when they abandoned the world.
‘Is not all this just a little too complicated, Dass?’ I asked him.
‘Not at all, cousin,’ said he gravely. ‘It is these little details that can easily trip a man up. Now, what were the names of your brothers and sisters, again? And their children’s names?’
Thanks to this sort of catechism, by the time we reached Sikkim I had every detail of the history of Jagdish Dass off by heart, and pretty disreputable most of it was, too. That first night we found lodgings at a wayside inn of sorts, and as we sat under the stars with a great throng of merchants and other travellers, Dass took great delight in embarrassing me by constantly referring to a dancer in Hyderabad, to whom I had apparently been attracted for a time, thereby causing my wife to become jealous to the point of violence. Dass had a command of many languages and dialects of which I was ignorant, and he provided many details, which I have no doubt were scurrilous in the extreme, for the further delight of his audience, who could follow what he said. As I could not follow what he said, I was obliged to grin weakly at each new roar of laughter. I suspect that by the end of the evening, most of the others in that inn thought I was slightly feeble minded, though still an object of envy. More to the point, none of them seemed to suspect that I, and the others, were anything other than we appeared to be, and that was some compensation for Dass’s slanders.
This inn was quite large, for the road was a well-used one, but Fenton said that there were few inns in Tibet itself. The traveller could ask for a night’s lodging at the monasteries, of which there were a great number, in return for a small donation. The only approach to an inn, in the sense in which I understood it, would be found in the larger towns and villages. These inns, added Fenton, were not to be recommended to one’s worst enemy.
After three days, we arrived in Gangtok, where we made for the British Residency. The Resident was an old friend of Fenton’s, and had evidently conspired in similar schemes before. He asked no questions as to what our business in Tibet might be, but merely issued the permits we needed to cross the border – for the regulations are, as I found out, enforced as strictly by the British as by the Tibetans, indeed more strictly.
