Jamyang Norbu - The Mandala of Sherlock Holmes

'It did not take me very long to form my conclusions, gendemen. I scrambled down onto the path, once nearly falling off into the chasm, when another stone sang past me. Halfway down I slipped, but by the blessing of God I landed, torn and bleeding upon the path. I took to my heels from the spot and managed to do ten miles over the mountains in the darkness. Finally I came upon one of those shepherd huts that you find in the upper reaches of the Alps. It was empty and only a short beam of wood served to bar the stout door. I stumbled in, and fumbling in the darkness managed to find a battered tin lantern. By its cheerful light I proceeded to make myself at home. The household effects were somewhat primitive, but more than ample for my few needs, and indeed luxurious, considering the state of my present predicament. I washed and bound my wounds, which were, thankfully, of a superficial nature.

'It was with a light heart that I strode through the Alpine meadows the next morning. Though I took due precautions, I relegated most thoughts of Moriarty and his gang to the back of my mind. After all, the sun was shining, the snow on the mountain tops was virgin white, and my old cherry wood, which had survived my precipitous descent, was drawing very nicely. That evening I came to the town of Hospenthal. With the help of a guide I proceeded over the St Gotthard pass, which was deep in snow, and continued southward to the border town of Como. After ten days I reached Florence, the city of Dante -who when he remarked "Nel mezzo del camin di nostra vita," could have been describing the position of my own life at that moment.

'I had wired to an old acquaintance in London for money. [11] He was my only confidant, and it was he who wired to Colonel Creighton to assist me here in India. For you see, by then it was quite clear that I would require some active assistance especially when in unfamiliar surroundings, if Moriarty's avengers were not to succeed altogether. Four separate attempts were made on my life: the one that came closest to taking it was in front of the Gezirah Palace Hotel in Cairo, where I was set upon by two black-cloaked figures wielding over-size scimitars. I had fortunately taken the precaution of purchasing a hair-trigger and a hundred Boxer cartridges, so the conflict was rather one-sided.

'And now we have this bizarre murder, which if my theories are correct, is the latest, and so far the most interesting attempt on my life. But the temptation to form premature theories upon insufficient data is the bane of our profession. Nothing can be concluded till the results of the autopsy are released. I expect you, Strickland, to fit in this final piece of the puzzle tomorrow. Until then, good night.'

As my ghari moved along the dark streets of the city carrying me back to my lodgings, I tried to sort out in my head the events of the day. How had that poor man been murdered? Why all that blood? How did it all tie in to the manager and Moriarty and the ferret-face? But it was beyond me. I knew I had to wait till the morrow for an answer.

That night I had frightening dreams.

Despite a somewhat restless night, I made my way early next morning to the hotel. Once again I was subjected to the hostile glare of the Sikh commissionaire, but I managed to avoid the manager and the desk clerk in the hall and quickly made my way up to Sherlock Holmes's room.

'Come in, come in,' a sharp voice cried out, as I knocked on the door of Room 289.

The room was full of dense tobacco smoke, but a single open curtain permitted a little of the early morning sun to shine into the room. He sat with legs crossed like a native rajah, on a kind of Eastern divan that he had constructed on the floor with all the pillows from his bed and cushions from the sofa and armchair. The effect of oriental splendour was heightened by the resplendent rococo purple dressing gown he wore and the opulent hookah that was laid out in front of him – the long satin-covered tube ending with a delicate amber stem that he held pensively between his thin long fingers. His eyes werefixed vacantiy up at the corner of the ceiling. The blue smoke rose languidly from the hookah-bowl, while he remained silent, motionless, a shaft of sunlight shining on his strong aquiline features.

'Good morning, Mr Holmes. I perceive that you favour the native pipe today.'

'It has its virtues,' he replied languidly, 'especially during such sedentary moments. It is a recent discovery of mine that the balsamic odour of the native tobacco is peculiarly conducive to the maintenance of prolonged periods of meditation.'

He puffed thoughtfully. The smoke bubbled merrily through the rosewater.

'You have not slept, Sir?' I enquired solicitously.

'No. No. I have been turning over our littie problem in my mind – besides a few other things. Tell me…' he said suddenly, '…what is the meaning of life, of this perennial circle of misery, fear, and violence?' [12]

'Well, Sir…' I began, somewhat at a loss for words. 'I am, if you will pardon the expression, a scientific man, and therefore at quite a disadvantage when expressing opinions on such… ah… spiritual matters. But a Thibetan lama whom I once had the privilege of interviewing, for strictly ethnological purposes on matters of Lamaist ritual and beliefs, was of the opinion that life was suffering. Indeed, it was the primary article of his credo.'

'Wise man,' Holmes murmured, 'wise man.' He was silent for a while. His eyes gazed into space with a strange burning vacancy. For just a moment it seemed to me that beneath his calm, rational, superior self there struggled another more intense and restless soul – not at all European – but what would be recognised in the East as a 'Seeker'. Then with a conscious effort he broke off his singular reverie.

'Have you breakfasted?' he asked. I noticed an empty breakfast tray pushed away to the side.

'A cup of coffee? No? Well then, if it is not too early, could I trouble you to accompany me to the Bombay Natural History Society that you mentioned last night.'

'Mr Symington, the secretary is at the premises quite early, Sir. He works on his own researches there as it is much cooler in the mornings.'

'Excellent. Then let us not waste any time.'

He carefully coiled up the tube of his hookah, and taking off his dressing gown, put on the grey linen jacket he had worn the day before. Unlike most Europeans in India he did not wear a pith helmet or a topee, but made do with a light cap, of the kind which I think is called a deerstalker.

We quickly made our way downstairs. Before leaving the hotel Mr Holmes went over to the reception desk where he scribbled a chit and sealing it in an envelope handed it to one of the hotel clerks there. I suspected that the note was for Strickland. Then Mr Holmes and I left the hotel in a ghari.

There was the tang of saltwater in the air as we rattled down the beach road, where near-naked boys were selling coconut water, fresh in its own shell, and two ash-covered sadhus were performing their sun worship in the sea. Things were less peaceful at the Borah Bazaar where shopkeepers, vendors, tongawallahs, coolies, and pedestrians of all kinds were noisily beginning their day. Finally we arrived at the brick bungalow of the Bombay Natural History Society.

We waited in a large hall while the chaprasi went to find Mr Symington. The whole place was filled with an extraordinary variety of rather moth-eaten exhibits of stuffed birds and animals behind labelled glass cases. After a few minutes the chaprasi returned.

'The sahib awaits you. Please come this way.'

Stumbling over stuffed crocodiles and the hoofs of sambhar floor rugs, we followed him through a corridor and into a long chamber lined and littered with botdes of various chemicals. Broad, low tables bristled with retorts, test-tubes, and littie Bunsen lamps, with their blue flickeringx flames. An overpowering smell of formaldehyde permeated the air. It did not seem to bother Symington, who sat behind a long marble-topped table sorting out what looked to me like dirty duckweed with the aid of a pair of tweezers. He was a small, untidy man with a bald shining head that was covered scantily on the sides and back with tufts of grey hair. Raising his head slightly he peered through his thick spectacles with weak watery eyes.