Will Thomas - Fatal Enquiry

“I don’t intend to travel to Tibet this afternoon based upon it, if that’s what you mean. Just tell me what you think and why.”

He nodded. “That I can do, I suppose. Let us reason together, as Isaiah said. Shambhala cannot be a country of any size, or it would have been found by now. I know Tibet is forbidden to Western visitors and much of it is unexplored or at least uncharted, but something akin to what I’ve described to you could hardly pass unnoticed. Likewise, a city would require thousands of people living there, and surely travelers will have passed through and left records beyond these few paltry examples before us. The explorer Burton stole into forbidden Mecca, for example, merely to write about it.”

“That leaves the so-called ethereal plane,” I said.

“That, too, is problematic, at best. A place where people can project their minds or souls, it’s beyond our Western understanding. I’m not certain I can fully believe it. As one gets older, one’s mind is less vigorous at leaps of faith, as one’s body is less vigorous at leaping over puddles.”

“So, what are we left with if you eliminate both?” I asked.

“We are left with something lesser. Personally, I like lesser. It’s pragmatic, especially given the chance for exaggeration by travelers. What if Shambhala is a monastery high in the Himalayas or perched in the Kunluns, or even in the middle of the Gobi Desert? Monasteries often keep valuables, being considered the safest and most well-fortified buildings. They are also places of deep meditation and some would say of miraculous occurrences. Tibet is littered with such forgotten monasteries, hidden away in high, inaccessible mountain ranges.”

“Perhaps,” I agreed. “But it doesn’t sound nearly as exciting.”

“True,” he answered, “but it is more exciting than another possibility, that the kingdom of Shambhala was sacked and abandoned centuries ago, and that’s why we’ve heard no more about it, lost to history like the Ten Tribes of Israel.”

“I see what you mean. Still, it would be exciting to find.”

“I’d prefer to travel to Shambhala in my mind, thank you, though if I went anywhere in the world it would be to Tibet. There is so much there I want to study. But I’m not the sort to go traipsing over far mountain ranges looking for something that may not be there.”

“I agree, but it isn’t me who wish to go, nor even my employer.”

“Who intends to go, then?”

“A certain scoundrel I know.”

“Tell me about him.”

I hesitated before speaking again. After all, I did not know this man from Adam. While he waited patiently, I deliberated for a full minute before deciding to offer an expurgated version of the tale.

“There is a man in London trying to gather funds for an expedition to Tibet, possibly to Shambhala.”

“Aha,” he said. “Hold on just a moment.”

He stood and made his way soundlessly to the center of the room to the staff desk and returned a few minutes later with an index card in his hand. “A gentleman without a membership has been here recently. He sat over there, as I recall. He requested these two books, as well as asked to study our collection of maps.”

“What kind of maps?” I asked.

“Tibet and the Himalayas. Do you believe he is looking to make a fortune by finding Shambhala?”

“He may be. And if he can achieve fame or infamy along the way, I’m sure he thinks so much the better.”

“Some of the monasteries in that part of the world are wealthy beyond description, having altarpieces of pure gold, studded with jewels. What army exists to defend Lhasa is small, disorganized, and poorly armed. China is attempting to usurp power but there is also a nationalist movement afoot in Tibet. The country is run by a regent, because the last several Dalai Lamas have been murdered. If Tibet is what he’s after, it is a very vulnerable place at the moment.”

“What else could he be after?”

“There are some powers on the earth that require a great purity and noble motives, you know, such as Galahad and the Holy Grail. Shambhala is not like that. It can be used for great good, but it can also be usurped for evil purposes, as well. We encounter people in our lives who are mean-spirited or petty, or selfish, but one may go one’s entire life without finding someone who has attained pure evil.”

“You sound like something of a mystic.”

“I don’t know that I’d go that far. I read and think a great deal. Sometimes I get an insight or two. I shall certainly be meditating over this situation.”

“Sir,” I said. “I’m a simple Methodist boy and Barker is as Baptist as Cromwell. I don’t know anything about mysticism and Buddhists. Please don’t think I mean you any disrespect, because I don’t, but you needn’t go meditating on my account.”

“Of course not,” he said, giving me a slight smile. “You simply came upon me in your path while looking for answers to Shambhala.”

“Accidentally,” I added.

“If there are such things as accidents. Did you get answers? To your satisfaction, I mean?”

“Answers? I certainly got answers. Whether they are to my satisfaction is a different matter. Do you really think this man will try to get to Shambhala? Would anyone really go to so much trouble for a place that probably doesn’t exist?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think, Mr. Llewelyn. Your employer mentioned the name and it certainly wasn’t random.”

“True.”

“His opinions are generally sound.”

“How would you know that?” I asked. “He doesn’t come here.”

“Mr. Barker is of interest to a number of people, even without a price on his head. I like to keep track of him, in a loose sort of way, I mean.”

“He would be gratified to hear it, I suppose,” I told him.

My companion peeled off his gloves, the tips brown and powdery, and dropped them in an ash can.

“I’m sorry,” I said to him. “I did not get your name.”

“I did not give it. It is Liam Grant.”

“Mr. Grant, from time to time our work in the private enquiry trade requires deep study on various subjects. I wonder if you would be interested in helping us. We would pay you, of course.”

“Oh, keep your filthy lucre, sir. As I said, I’m an amateur. I’d do it for the research alone. I must admit, it sounds exciting, working for an enquiry agent.”

“Yes, I suppose it would. I felt the same when I first took the position. But allow me to take you to lunch sometime.”

“The Alpha Inn across the street grills a fine chop. I should know, I’ve dined and supped there every day since I moved to London. I’m not particular about food.”

“Do you live close by?”

“I purchased a flat in Montague Street from a friend. It’s small but snug and meets my humble needs. I lead a modest and prescribed life, Mr. Llewelyn. Truth be told, I have not gone farther than Regent’s Park since I arrived eight years ago this Whitsuntide. That’s the way I prefer it. My body stays put, but my mind travels on diverse planes.”

“I shall leave you to your travels then, Mr. Grant. I wish you a bon voyage.”

“One day I shall give you a proper tour of this place,” he said, gesturing toward his circular universe. “You’ll be amazed at what can be found here.”

“I look forward to it. Good day, sir.”

Outside I stopped, adjusted my bowler against the bright sun, and hailed a cab. I had gone in merely for some information. It wasn’t until later that I realized I had chosen the first “watcher” of my career.

I had just left the British Museum, passing the Alpha Inn where Grant took his meals every day, and I was ruminating about walking sticks. James Smith and Sons was just around the corner, the purveyor of the best walking sticks in England, if not the world. Whenever I was in this part of town I liked to visit. I stepped in the door and spent a few minutes contemplating umbrellas, life preservers, and dagger canes. I picked up a thin wand with a silver head, plain but effective, and was looking at it when someone I recognized strolled in the door with a jangle of the bell above him. It was Terence Poole.