Ted Riccardi - Between the Thames and the Tiber

“I spent the hours before dawn in mortal terror, not only because of the painful position they had put me in but because I was terrified by the thought that I should die there without anyone ever knowing what had happened to me.”

Mr. McMillan seemed to shrink as he spoke to us. His breathing became laboured and he almost fell out of his chair. I caught him just as he was about to drop onto the floor.

“Hold him, Holmes; let me listen to his heart.”

His heart was beating rapidly but steadily enough and I revived him with some salts.

He sat up and apologized profusely. “I am so sorry, Mr. Holmes, but I am most upset,” said our guest.

“Please continue,” said Holmes, “I suspect that we are a bit far from the end of our story.”

“I writhed all night, trying to extricate myself from the ropes, but I could not. I heard wild beasts moving about and was afraid. Morning finally came. By this time, my wrists were bloodied and my back nearly broken, or so it felt. It must have been just before dawn when I sensed the presence of someone near. It was a nun from the school, dressed in grey and white, her face hidden, who cut my ropes and quickly disappeared into the forest. So great was my relief that I fell into a sleep and only awakened around noon.

“Instead of going to the convent, I went down to the sea and threw myself into its icy depths. The salt water stung my bloodied wrists and feet, but I felt renewed and determined to continue on rather than look back on the incident that now began to seem more like a nightmare than reality.

“I moved on, following the plan that I had laid out for myself, and continued through India. Towards the end of the trip, when I had arrived in Bengal, my father came to meet me and we visited together Puri, the home of the Juggernaut temple and other religious sites. It was in Gauhati in Assam that my father said that he had arranged for me to attend the university in England. I was overjoyed at the prospect. I returned with him to Madras. Shortly thereafter I left for London and a new life.

“I needn’t tell you much more of my career, Mr. Holmes. After my studies at the university, I became a teacher at the Overbrook School in Sussex, where I taught for seven years. I was then sent to Italy by the school to tutor English children living in Rome. Returning to London after years as deputy consul, I served for a time as principal of the Grindly School in Horsham.’

“I am still in the dark as to why you are here, Mr. McMillan,” said Holmes with a bit of impatience.

Our guest grew pale and visibly sagged in the chair as he fought to continue his story.

“I implore you, gentlemen, to listen to the end,” he said with a sob. “I came to London from Horsham three days ago to visit friends. Yesterday, towards evening, just at dusk, I entered Hyde Park on my way to my friends’ house, the way I had taken several times during my stay, when I suddenly saw the masked faces of that bitter night in Tranquebar. Fearing that I was hallucinating and about to expire, I sat down on a bench. But there was no doubt now: the creatures came towards me, the same expressions on their strange faces. I became terrified but I could not cry out. Then I must have fainted for I have no memory of what came next. I awoke tied as before and lying in a thick set of trees and brush. I was in an unfamiliar place. I tried to break my bonds but to no avail. At daybreak, I heard someone come. It was a nun, dressed in the grey habit of before, who cut my bonds and disappeared into the bright sunlit dawn. I sat up in what turned out to still be Hyde Park I have been half dazed since I was released.”

Holmes looked directly at our guest and said, “Mr. McMillan, your story, highly improbable as it is, is one that has obviously caused you considerable distress, but one that I find of some interest to me, largely because of the rare circumstances in which you have found yourself. I shall take on your case, provided that you leave London and return home immediately and remain there until I visit you. Please leave your address. And do not tell anyone that you have spoken to me about the matter.”

“Mr. Holmes, I agree to your stipulations. I shall return to my residence at once and await your visit.”

Our guest appeared so weak that he barely could lift himself out of his chair, and I guided him to the door. When he had left, I turned to Holmes, who was peering through the window curtain, watching as our client walked down Baker Street and faded into the crowd.

“What do you think, Watson?

“Almost too bizarre, Holmes, the man may be a congenital liar or someone who suffers from terrible delusions.”

“He walked at a fair clip as I watched him and seems to have recovered from his ordeal fairly quickly.”

Holmes began his usual pacing. “Interesting, Watson, most interesting. Masked figures. Strange, absurd, and inconsequential, if what you say is true, but there may be more to it. One must first eliminate all impossibilities—and whatever remains must be the solution. In this case, we have a very high degree of improbability, to say the least. Let us think for a moment.”

“Surely, Holmes, the man is quite mad, or is telling tall stories. Frankly, I wouldn’t waste my time. The only question is why he is taking the bother to engage the world’s greatest detective.”

“A good question, Watson, to which I have as yet no satisfactory answer, but all in good time. And, by the by, did you notice how quickly he accepted as true my random statements about his life, relying on me to explain his grim circumstances rather than reveal the truth. His story is certainly most incomplete. If it is made up, why did he, for instance, not tell us that the same thing happened to him in Italy? Surely, the masked dancers would have found him there as well if they are located in his brain, and not outside it? Come, Watson, a walk in Hyde Park will do us some good. There are only a few places where McMillan’s encounter could have taken place. Let us see what we might find there. My ragged irregulars must have seen the man. Let us speak with them and have a look ourselves.”

“Why not?” said I in agreement.

“Keep your eyes open, Watson.”

“For what?”

“Anything of a material nature that might have been part of McMillan’s—what shall we call it—his meeting, let’s say for the moment.”

Holmes knew Hyde Park well. He often walked there when he thought through a case. This time, however, the park itself was part of the riddle. We walked away from Oxford Street toward the seediest section, an infamous jungle of urban despair. Here the drunks, the hungry beggars, the down and out and other malingerers tried to survive amidst the hundreds of rumbling pigeons that surrounded them. Holmes stopped for a moment and beckoned to someone at the edge the crowd.

“Hello, Harry,” said Holmes. One of the ragged denizens came forward.

“’ello, Mr. ’olmes. This be your sidekick, eh?”

“Indeed, Harry, this is the illustrious Watson, teller of tales and custodian of the Holmesian fables,” said Holmes. “Harry, we have a question for you and your friends. Have you seen a man wearing a green woollen hat during the last few days?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, Mr. ’olmes, you mean McMillan. ’e aint ’ere right now, but we know ’im. Comes often and sleeps under a tree, thet tree in fact. I know ’im pretty well. Strange old toff. Does terrible things, Mr. ’olmes, like today ’e killed a big dog by stranglin’ it. Right be’ind thet bush over there. Never saw such a thing before in me ’ole life. We chased ’im out of ’ere after ’e did it. Why, ’e tied up the poor mutt and ’ung ’im from a tree, and then ’e ’elped the rope wid ’is ’ands. ’e’s not gonna be allowed ’ere again. ’e’s got the boys all riled up, all right.”