The Churchill Casebook of Curiosities
Book Four: The Mysterious Case of the Severed Hand
Chapter Four: Cui Bono
Rumpled silk skin?
Cui Bono
‘To whose benefit’
“There were dens of horror where the memory of old sins could be destroyed by the madness of sins that were new.”
Wednesday 6th August 1879: London
“Have you come to finish my nephew off?”
I was already drifting away after a long draw on the opium pipe when the Madam asked her question, but Silas was equal to the task, jumping to his feet. “And why would we want to do that, madam?” he said shortly.
“You’re clearly not customers, and I believe you,” she said nodding toward the rapidly approaching Blackwood, “Were obviously looking for him.” She was sharp, this one, unlike myself.
Jack doffed his cap respectfully. “We are not here to harm him, madam, but we do want to ask some questions; it need not be a matter for the constabulary,” he said adjusting the strap on the hammer-toting toolkit slung over his shoulder. “Cam we talk?” Despite my growing fog I admired his cleverness, the polite manner wrapped around a veiled threat. Who knew he could be so subtle.
“So you are not with those that sent him?”
Blackwood admitted to confusion at this, but filed it for later interrogation. “Can we sit and talk?” he repeated.
The Madam indicated the table near her nephew, taking them out of my sight—but I could still eavesdrop comfortably enough. It was a struggle as I kept slipping away, but I believe the basic facts are accurate.
“You are here to talk with my nephew?” the Madam asked.
“Or possibly you, if you know what is going on,” Blackwood said. “Would you allow my friend to attend to your nephew? I believe time is of the essence given that wound.”
“By all means.”
Silas described later how he frowned at Blackwood’s offer of his service. He was on high alert and slightly miffed at the approach Blackwood was taking. “Why would I want to do that?” he snapped.
“I think there is more here than meets the eye, and it would be a show of good faith toward our host,” Jack said smoothly.
I heard Silas let out a long sigh, then a scrape as he dragged his chair out and walked over to the patient. “He’s heavily sedated,” he reported, “But this limb has not been well tended. The opiates will restrict the blood flow and pain, which is good, but the chance of gangrene is rapidly increasing. Silas also determined the wound was three days old, which squarely placed him at Lichfield Hall at the time of the crime.
“Has gangrene set in?” Jack asked, sniffing the sodden air. “If it has it will need the application of fire or further surgery,” he added, addressing Madam.
“It’s getting there. The stump is in bad shape. He has a week at most, and more needs to be removed if we are to save him.”
The woman paused to absorb this terrible news. “Thank you for your clarity. Are you a good doctor, Doctor…?”
“Very,” Silas said.
“His name is Hawthorne,” Blackwood added helpfully.
“Jack,” Silas growled, “Never do that again.”
“And I’m Jack. Or Blackwood. Or Jonathan,” Blackwood smiled ignoring Silas’s displeasure at being revealed.
“My name is Mrs Pan,” the Madam said, “And this is my establishment. Doctor Hawthorne—can you help my nephew?”
“My helping your nephew depends on the result of this conversation,” Silas said cuttingly.
“The result of this conversation will depend on if you help my nephew,” Mrs Pan shot back. As I said—she was sharp. “I did not know you would not follow your oath, Doctor.”
“My oath is my concern, not yours, Mrs Pan,” Silas said quickly, not to be outsmarted.
She laughed. “As are mine. Well put, Doctor.” It seemed they had reached some kind of understanding and the tension lowered, each respecting the other after that battle of wits.
“Anyway,” Jack said, re-joining the conversation, “As to why we are here. There was an incident where you nephew lost his hand.”
“We know how it was removed,” Silas added.
“Then you have me at a disadvantage, Doctor,” Mrs Pan admitted.
Blackwood and Silas exchanged a glance at this, equally surprised and suspicious.
“He was involved with a murder where the hand was lopped as part of self-defence by a friend of ours,” Silas said warily. “Our friend was then killed.”
“That explains your involvement,” Mrs Pan said. “And you would seek vengeance?”
“We would seek explanation.”
Mrs Pan considered this. “If you can make him more comfortable I will tell you what I know.”
“Comfortable? Or to live?” Silas probed.
“Live. But if he has but a week, then comfortable will do. Stupid nephew.”
Silas sighed again. “If you have somewhere clean, with fresh hot water and towels, I can help.”
“You are an honourable man, Doctor, that is clear. You do not wish to help but you will. And so I will tell you what I know,” Mrs Pan said.
At this juncture, despite my best intent, I lapsed into a stupor. The opium provided by Mrs Pan was powerful and clean, and letting go of my exhaustion and confusion over Clement was a great relief. The torrent of blood rushing in my ears drowned out the voices as the damp earthy smell of opium overwhelmed my senses. Darkness closed in from all sides, until only a narrowing tunnel remained. The familiar melancholy womb.
Even as Mr Blackwood and the good Doctor hung on the woman’s every word, Ms Harrow found herself inexorably fading from view.
Thus the tale Mrs Pan told was relayed to me some time later by the gentlemen. She unravelled the story in consultation with her opium-addled nephew, often reverting to Cantonese to sort out the finer details.
It seems that several days a go a (white) man approached Mrs Pan with a job proposal. A simple task, he explained, and he was willing to pay handsomely. When asked who he represented, the man simply said he was employed by a man with ‘rumpled silk skin’. A funny turn of phrase, but it was easy enough to picture an elderly, loose-jowled fellow of that description. We had plenty of such types at the Coffee House desperate for a last thrill.
The job in question was outlined as a simple robbery: to steal a book from a nobleman. The man lived alone and was an invalid (ha! there was no question now), and the theft should pose little difficulty for a half-competent thief.
Despite this the fee offered was extremely generous, which made Mrs Pan immediately suspicious. It smelled like trouble, so she declined and sent the man on his way.
Unbeknownst to her, her “two stupid nephews—Jimmy Chee (he of the missing hand) and Lee Kwon—followed the man and approaching him independently, taking on the job. They were told the location—Thornton Heath, of course—and given the name of a book.
The nephews travelled together, broke into the house, and started their search. “There are many books,” Mr Chee was heard to complain. They searched and searched, becoming more desperate and less cautious, when suddenly they were interrupted by a ‘terrifying Indian man’ (poor Sanjeev) with a sword advancing down the stairs, and behind him a man in a chair (so it would seem the Major appeared of his own accord if this account is to be believed).
A short fight ensued, wherein Mr Chee’s hand was removed. Mr Kwon overcame Sanjeev as Mr Chee lost consciousness. His next memory was being thrown from a carriage outside the laundry where he now lay.
“And we have not seen Lee Kwon since,” Mrs Pan scowled, “Stupid boy.”
I was blissfully unaware of all of this, until without warning that bliss turned into something horrific. A horror I have never experienced in all my years of addiction and withdrawal.
Something was not right. The womb, the tunnel, became a maze, a hive. And, worse, there was something there, something in the dark, hunting me, seeking me. I was lost and had to keep pushing ahead, seeking escape, and everything I touched tore at my skin. The pain and terror grew and I wanted to stop and curl up, but I couldn’t keep still or it would find me. I couldn’t breath, but I had to breath, it was coming, it was here, it’s right here!
Then a voice like flowing sand spoke: “Hello Gideon”
I woke, gasping for breath, sitting bolt upright and crying out unintelligibly.
Jack, bless him, leapt to his feet and ran into my alcove. “Lady? Are you alright?”
“No, Jack, no, no no no,” I cried, heart racing. I grabbed desperately for his strong arm, clutching him to me. “It is coming for me Jack, help me!”
“You’re ok now,” Jack said kindly, allowing me to draw from his strength. “Breath, slowly, you’re safe.”
“It was in a hive, a maze, searching for me…and it knew my name,” I said with a stifled sob. “It knew me!”
My breath still came rapidly, and my eyes darted around the darkness, but Jack’s presence calmed me enough for me to stand. He led me staggering over to the table where I collapsed into a waiting chair.
Silas looked at me with great concern. “What else is in that opium, Madam Pan?” he asked as he measured my pulse (racing) and examined my eyes (drugged).
“My opium is the purest,” she shrugged. “Perhaps the lady is not accustomed?”
“I am more than accustomed,” I panted, eyes still looking around in distress. “This was not simply your drug.”
Silas got up and emptied a water bowl, the sound of the water hitting the stone floor making me flinch. “Lean over this bowl,” he demonstrated, “And breath, slowly, calmly, with your eyes closed. Your need to slow your heart.”
I immediately obeyed. As the fear gradually subsided, the conversation continued.
“What was the name of the book, Mrs Pan?” Silas asked.
The Madam turned to Mr Chee and they had a short exchange. She walked over and took a slip of old paper that he proffered, returning and laying it on the table.
It was a torn slip of old, browned paper. In the top right margin the words ‘Kebra Nagast’ were scrawled by hand, alongside similar length characters in an unknown language. On the rest of the torn page there were printed sentences in the same language, alternating between red and black paragraphs.
“Jimmy Chee say they were told the book my have either of the two phrases written in the border here,” she pointed, “And in any case the characters within would look like those on this paper.”
Even in my half-aware state I knew this was an extraordinary clue!
“Remarkable,” Jack said, echoing my thoughts. “This lettering seems vaguely familiar to me, perhaps African, but I cannot place it.”
Mrs Pan looked pleased that the scrap was useful. “Jimmy also says he and Lee were due to meet the white man after the break in. At WH Smith booksellers, three days ago.”
Another clue! This visit was proving most fruitful, if it were not for my turn.
“And you said he said the man he was to meet had ‘rumpled skin’?” Silas asked.
Another Cantonese exchange followed before Mrs Pan nodded. “Rumpled silk skin.”
“Rumpelstiltskin?” Jack said scratching his head.
“Rumpledsilkskin,” Mrs Pan nodded.
“Rumpelstiltskin??” Silas said with astonishment. “The fairy tale?”
Mrs Pan looked confused. Jack looked thoughtful. I snorted into my bowl.
“Well Mrs Pan,” Silas said, pulling things together, “You have been very helpful. And now I will return the favour and help your nephew. Please prepare a clean space upstairs, plenty of hot water, and clean towels. I will be back within the hour.”
“Thank you Doctor,” Mrs Pan bowed. A ruckus from upstairs caused her to excuse herself. “I think it is my turn,” she explained.
Silas returned as promised, with his loyal butler, Mr McRae, in tow (I noted McRae concealed a hefty blackjack).
Mrs Pan had prepared the front room of the laundry for the operation, and Silas prepared to work. “Your nephew will be in a lot of pain,” he warned.
“It’s as much as he deserves,” Mrs Pan grimaced as a quantum meruit hovered over her shoulder.
“Does he have any other family?” Jack asked, hovering nearby.
“Only a stupid father,” Mrs Pan snapped.
“Good. So there will be no repercussions from either side, will there?”
Jack! Again he surprised me with his keen and passive threat.
Mrs Pan raised an eyebrow, observing Silas sharpening his blades over the prone body of her (favourite?) nephew. “After he is fixed?” she said with a measured tone. “No.”
Jack looked satisfied with that, and gave Silas a short nod.
It took some time, and there was a moment of slight panic when an artery sprayed freely over Silas’s gown, but he managed to recover beautifully, skilfully turning the near disaster to his advantage. Soon after he emerged to declare the procedure a great success.
“He is heavily sedated, and I was forced to remove his arm from just above the elbow,” Silas explained (he later told Jack and I that in the course of the procedure he had intuited a method for a lower cut that would save more of the arm, but did not feel this was the time to test that hypothesis. “But if it works it will be revolutionary,” he explained modestly.) “Meanwhile—no opium! And no smoking.”
“Except tobacco cigarettes, surely,” Mrs Pan said, “They bring life!”
“Of course madam,” Silas conceded. “I should have qualified: no smoking opium. I will check back in a few days. Please do let us know if you hear from Lee, we are keenly interested in talking to him as you might imagine.”
“Of course, Doctor. And I would appreciate if you would inform me should you find him,” Mrs Pan nodded.
“What would you do to him if we did?” I asked, returning to reality slowly.
“That is my business,” she smiled.
“We understand,” Silas said quickly. “Please contact us at this address if you can,” he said, handing over one of my cards.
“You will be at ‘Harrow’s Exotic Coffee House’?” Mrs Pan asked with surprise.
“I will,” I smiled, “For I am Ms Harrow.”
“You are?!” Mrs Pan beamed. “I am honoured to meet you at last, Ms Harrow!”
I curtseyed to hide my surprise that she knew of me. “And I am honoured to meet you, Mrs Pan.”
“I would like to visit you, if I may?”
“Of course, you are welcome any time,” I smiled. “But please don’t bring any of your opium.”
She laughed. “You were perhaps not ready for my variety.”
“Oh no, I was, and am, but I do not wish to revisit my vision any time soon,” I said. “Good day, Mrs Pan.”
Back at the Coffee House, Eunice entertained McRae (they compared techniques for dealing with troublemakers, displayed their favourite weaponry (Eunice proudly producing her shotgun to match McRae’s imposing blackjack), and I could see Eunice had taken a shine to McRae’s massive fists).
The gentlemen and I retired to the quiet booth near the kitchen, and set about laying out what we had discovered from our visit to Mrs Pan. From our discussions we managed to identify five key clues on which we could act (or more correctly, four and one which had already stymied us):
- The Baron’s elephant parts (a dead end, for now);
- Jimmy Chee’s torn page of cryptic writing;
- The missing cousin—where was Mr Lee Kwon?
- WH Smith as a rendezvous for those who commissioned the theft;
- Rumpelstiltskin??
“If we are right and it is indeed the name of fairy tales,” Silas observed, “Then we are looking for a very short man.”
“Do we know any politicians, or men of means, with a similar name, or such a stature?” I wondered. We came up blank on this, so resolved to park that clue for the time being, though Jack vowed to ask around his club.
“Mr Lee will turn up, but it’s unlikely we can shake him out given our different social circles,” Blackwood observed.
“It seems to me that our best next course would be to find someone to identify the writing on the page,” I said. “What language is it? And what does it say?”
“I agree,” Silas nodded, “And the most likely place for success will be the great library at the British Museum. I have head the Iron Library is quite something, and houses the finest library this side of the universities.”
We all agreed this was the best course of action, and resolved to meet again at the Museum for elevenses on the morrow.
As our deliberations drew to a close Blackwood departed, but Silas delayed in order to quiz me further about the vision in the cab back to Covent Garden, bringing on another panic attack.
“Gideon I think it was just a reaction to the purity of the opium. A brief mania indued by the strength.”
“It knew who I was!” I croaked. “It spoke my name!” I pulled up my sleeves and checked for the tenth time that my arms were not shredded.
“Breath Gideon, breath.”
“I am breathing, Silas! This was unlike anything I have seen or felt. It was real, not a drug induced fantasy.”
Silas looked sceptical. “You know I have a colleague at St Barts who has focussed his studies as an Alienist. He studies the mind—I think it would be worth your while having a talk with him.”
I shook my head vehemently. “No! I will do nothing of the sort. This is private, Silas, not something to share with a stranger.”
“He is not a stranger to me, Gideon, and I really think it would help.”
“Never. And I will not discuss it further.”
Silas sighed and shrugged. Blackwood took his leave, and soon Silas too was ready to leave. He asked McRae to accompany him, but the big man weakly protested (‘it is only fifteen minutes until I knock off’) as his eyes involuntarily strayed toward Eunice. Silas raised an amused eyebrow but allowed it.
“Oh Gideon, before I go,” he said as he put on his cloak and hat. “Hana would like to invite you for dinner.”
I paled. “Dinner? But…I…Silas, I must confess that makes me very nervous! Should a fine lady such as Hana (your wife!) entertain a wretch like me?”
Silas grinned. “Believe it or not, in Japan there is far less stigma associated with your profession, Gideon.”
I wasn’t sure how to take that, but before I could answer Silas leaned in and whispered to me. “As my father liked to say, you either shit or get off the pot! Good night, Gideon!”
After I had spent some time studying our elephants (I decided to make it a practice to look in on them in case a sudden insight should strike me) Eunice saw me to my chamber. “That McRae can drink like a fish,” she said ruefully holding her head. “We could do with someone like him—fists like steel!”
“I am sure we—or you—could,” I smiled tiredly. “But it would be a grave disservice to Silas to tempt McRae away. And I doubt he would leave in any case, he is very loyal.”
“There’s always a price,” Eunice said.
“Not always, Eunice. Now. Tell me about Liberty. What did you find?”
Eunice shrugged. “She’s ok, Madam. Just a little stupid, and a little green.”
I frowned. “Are you sure? She listened at that door for over an hour! Who would do that?”
“Have you met any of your maids, Madam?” Eunice smirked.
“Oh come now, an hour! Surely she was put up to it by someone?”
“I really don’t think so, Madam.”
“Tell me again how you found her.”
“Selling buttons in the Garden,” Eunice said. “Only someone very silly would do that.”
“And why did you pick her?”
“She is a looker, cute, and I figured we could mould her,” Eunice explained.
It all sounded reasonable, even though I could not shake my suspicion she was placed here by the Rat King, or d’Chartreuse, or, god forbid, Clement. But I had to show Eunice I trusted her. “Very well Eunice. But remember this decision is on your head—should she prove to be less than trustworthy it will be your judgement that will be found wanting.”
“Don’t I know it, Madam. She will be fine.”
“Good. And how goes your search?”
“My search?”
“For a second in command. You know I am overly absent so you need to find someone to trust like I trust you.”
“Oh! Yes. I confess I have not had a moment, but I will find the time. Somewhere,” she added somewhat sulkily (justifiably, I had to admit). “Maybe Gloria?”
“Gloria?”
“You know, the Spanish woman.”
“Spanish…Not Lulu?”
“Lulu left, pregnant to a customer!”
“What?”
“Madam,” Eunice sighed, “You really need to spend more time here.”
Thursday 7th August 1879: London
I was, naturally, late, where Silas was bang on time. He appeared excited, waving a copy of the London Illustrated News at me as I arrived. “Gideon! Take a look at this,” he said, “The front page may be of relevance to our current enquiries.”
HEADLESS BODY RECOVERED FROM THAMES
“‘Headless body recovered from Thames’,” I read. “My goodness Silas—you don’t suppose that could be Lee Kwon??”
“My thoughts exactly, Gideon. And look, it was found at the Grosvenor Lock. Where is Jack, this is right up his avenue!”
“We will need him to interview this ‘Derrick Drinkwater’, the nightwatchman. I will be surprise if they are not already drinking partners.”
There was no sign of Jack, so Silas and I entered the great edifice of the British Museum and made our way to the Iron Library. It was as impressive as Silas had hinted, a magnificent structure of huge iron beams and shelf upon shelf of heavily bound books and more.
We approached the central reading area, a domed space of great light and beauty. A dowager looked up as we walked to her counter, distaste clear on her well lined face. “Yes?” she muttered, plainly unhappy to be interrupted.
“Good day, madam,” Silas said removing his hat. “We are hoping you may be able to assist us with a rather unusual enquiry.”
“Oh yes? We get all sorts here I assure you, so I would be surprised if it were truly ‘unusual’.”
“I see. Well, be that as it may: we are seeking some advice on a fragment of a book we have recovered, in a language which is not English.”
“Foreign books then. What language is it?”
“We don’t know.”
She sighed deeply. “So you want a textual expert, is that it?”
“Indeed, madam, particularly regarding the provenance of the language” Silas said, maintaining his professionalism. If it were me I would have been rather het up by her attitude, so I kept mum.
“Do you have an appointment?” the dowager snapped.
“We do not. But we are more than willing to make one if you would be so kind, and if no-one is available at short notice.”
The woman scowled, lifted her copious skirts, and waddled away. Silas snorted and I rolled my eyes.
However, only moments later, and much to our surprise, a gentlemen emerged from the back rooms and made his way toward us. As he got closer I felt a flutter: he was very handsome indeed! Even Silas seemed slightly taken aback, no doubt imagining Hana abandoning him in the face of such a magnetic fellow.
The Iron Library
“Good day to you both,” the gentleman said. “Mrs Burnsbury has given me quite a riddle—how can I help?”
I managed, barely, to control my emotional response and gave him a radiant smile. “Sir! Thank you so very much for assisting us today.” I held my hand out and he took it briefly, but not briefly enough to avoid a small squeeze. It was quite thrilling! That will show you to treat me badly, Clement!
“Of course, madam.”
“Please, call me Gideon. Ms Gideon Harrow.”
“Alistair Tinsdale,” he bowed shortly and glanced to Silas.
“And I am Doctor Silas Hawthorne,” Silas nodded, wisely allowing me to take the lead.
“Sir,” I beamed, “We have come into the possession of a scrap of paper that appears to be torn from a book. The language is not one we know, and we are hoping you may be able to enlighten us.”
Silas handed over the slip. Mr Tinsdale glanced at it, then frowned, and looked closer. “This is…most interesting,” he said to our surprise. “Where did you get it?”
“That’s…a longer discussion,” Silas said. “For now we are simple interested in identifying the script.”
Mr Tinsdale looked at us both for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. “Follow me, please.”
The Iron Library: Mr Tinsdale, it seemed, occupied a veritable labyrinth of ironwork.
Shelves of books extended as far as the eye could see in all directions.
He led us to a quiet corner and we sat around a small wooden study desk. “I really must insist: where did this come from?”
Silas knew we had to give something. “It is from a private collection, a friend of ours.”
“May I ask who?” Mr Tinsdale persisted. “I really must know. It is extraordinary.”
“I will put in a request that our friend be identified to you, but for now I must maintain his privacy so as not to break his trust.”
Tinsdale grunted, but seemed to accept this. He pulled out a loupe to study the scrap in more detail. “Who wrote this across the corner?” he said pointing to the diagonal text.
“We do not know.”
“Well,” Mr Tinsdale leant back and settled in. “It says ‘Kebra Nagast', as I’m sure you have seen. What you won’t know is what that means: it is an Abyssinian holy book. Perhaps the Abyssinian holy book,” he emphasised.
He then explained the contents of the tome in some detail, most of which passed over my head. The Kebra Nagast speaks of the Queen of Sheba, Makeda of Ethiopia, journeying to Israel to meat King Solomon. Makeda subsequently converted to the worship of the god of Israel, abandoning her own worship of the sun. Solomon then tricked her into sleeping with him (men have ever been thus, I reflected sadly), and gave Makeda a ring so his son (because of course it would not be a daughter!) once born would be able to identify himself to the King on his return.
Entertainingly, on the Queen’s departure, Solomon dreamed of the sun leaving Israel. (Ha! Men are so predictable.)
The Queen dutifully give birth to a son, Menelik, in a town called Bala Zädisareya. When grown Menelik travelled back to visit his father, identifying himself with ring. Solomon was overjoyed, but Menelik refused his offer to stay in Israel as Solomon’s successor. Solomon settled on honouring Menelik by sending the first born sons of the elders of his kingdom to accompany his journey home. Solomon then turned to the solace of his wife (again, men!), the daughter of the Pharaoh, who seduces him into worshipping the idols of her land (a brilliant win for women!).
Mr Tinsdale ran out of steam at this juncture. “The story continues another sixty chapters,” he smiled ruefully, “But you get the picture I’m sure.”
I smiled and nodded. “Thank you for the fascinating tale—you tell it so well! I take it this book is rather rare?”
“Very, madam,” he said hiding his pleasure by combing his hair back with his academic-tender hand. “There is only one copy in England. It is very concerning that this appears to be torn out of an original copy, and then written upon. Quite scandalous if so.”
“Only one copy?” I said glancing at Silas. “Do you think this scrap is taken from that?”
“No I do not,” he said with convincing certainty. “For it is under lock and key in this very library, and the only man who can access it is my senior, Richard Rivington-Holmes. He controls access, and I do believe very few have ever seen it.”
“Well then where could our segment be from?”
“Precisely,” Mr Tinsdale frowned.
“Could we ask Mr Rivington-Holmes to examine your copy to be sure?” Silas suggested cleverly.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Mr Rivington-Holmes was called away recently on a dig in the Indies. Only a week and a half ago, but there it is. There is no other means to access it I’m afraid.”
Silas raised an eyebrow. “Do you mean to tell me that if your superior were to be waylaid there is no-one else who could open the seal?”
“I am sure a royal writ would suffice,” Mr Tinsdale said archly.
“May I ask where your copy was sourced?” I said gently.
“Why it was Rivington-Holmes himself, madam. He was quite the explorer in his youth, travelling with Napier to Abyssinia. It was there the tome was retrieved. Unfortunately Mr Rivington-Holmes was injured in the line of duty and had to return to London.”
Napier?! I stared at Silas who gave me a quick nod. Blackwood had also served under Napier, as had the Baron. The plot was thickening so rapidly my head spun. Could this Rivington-Holmes be an alter-ego of our very own Baron?? “Tell me, Mr Tinsdale, what sort of injury did he sustain?” I probed.
“Bitten by a scorpion and lost two toes.”
“And can he…walk, still?” I said, almost dreading the answer.
“Oh yes, with the aid of a stick,” Mr Tinsdale explained, much to my relief (for I was certain the Major was rather less able. Although upon further consideration, he did manage to walk out of his manor…)
“And he returned with the copy of the Kebra Nagast?” I said, recovering my train of thought.
“He arrived with both copies.”
“Both? You said there was but one?” Silas jumped in.
“Ah, my apologies. There were two, but the second was returned to the Emperor of Ethiopia by Queen Victoria, may god preserve, herself.”
Silas nodded, though he, like I, thought the earlier omission quite strange. “And can you tell us the language it is written in?” he asked, returning to more solid ground.
“It is Ge’ez, an ancient South Semitic classical language originating in Ethiopia and Eritrea. Quite obscure I must say,” Mr Tinsdale said, picking up the scrap again to study.
“Can you read it?” I asked.
“No. No-one can. Well, maybe Dr Joseph Trotter can, but he is in Prussia.”
“Mr Tinsdale you have been extremely helpful,” I said.
“Indeed sir,” Silas added, “We greatly appreciate your encyclopaedic knowledge; this has been very instructive.”
“I am glad to help,” Mr Tinsdale said, standing. “You know, if you wish to further your enquiries, seek out Tobias Neville at Cecil Court. He runs Caliban Books, and is one of the best vendors of antique books in London.”
“Thank you kindly,” I beamed. “We will trouble you no further, but I do hope you will visit me at your leisure.” I slipped him a card which he looked at with keen interest.
“I hope so too, Madam,” he said with a small blush. He extended a hand to Silas. “I will take my leave, good day Sir, good day Madam.”
I turned to watch his handsome buttocks walk away and felt a flush of excitement at the prospect.
In the aftermath of this revelatory morning I had many thoughts. Such was the fervour of my thinking that I felt it might be attributed to the opium Mrs Pan provided. Despite Silas’s warnings, I find myself drawn to the freedom of thought and quickening of pulse that so often occurs in the aftermath of a descent. I do not believe I am suited to the life of one who does not stretch the mind through the application of the powders and tinctures that are so often frowned upon. If you ever read this, Silas, I am sorry to disappoint you.
I initially hypothesised a sequence of events:
Saturday August 2nd (or thereabouts):
- The Major dispatched three elephant parts to our small company.
- Each delivery contained a handwritten note asking we keep the items safe.
Sunday August 3rd (or thereabouts):
- Someone contracted Mrs Pan’s nephews to extract, non-violently, a selected tome from the Library of the Major.
- The contact was described as having either ‘rumpled silk skin’, or perhaps being named ‘Rumpelstiltskin’.
- That book to be stolen was an extremely rare Ethiopian religious text, the Kebra Nagast.
- The Major’s edition was the second of only two copies known to be held in London, the first being secured in the Iron Library of the British Museum.
- Sanjeev interrupted the attempted burglary at the cost of his life.
- The intruders—Jimmy Chee and Lee Kwon—escaped without the book, and Mr Lee without his hand.
- The Major, who witnessed the attack on Sanjeev, somehow walked out of his mansion and vanished somewhere on horseback. This is conjecture as we have no concrete proof, but it seems hard to deny.
Tuesday August 5th
- We returned from Birmingham to find the elephant deliveries waiting.
- The notes were given a peculiar date (21 August 1879) and each was initialled with a single letter.
- The letters (PRV) and date (21 August) were deduced to reference a verse from the Anglican Bible: Proverbs 21:8
- The Proverb in question: The way of the guilty is devious, but the conduct of the innocent is upright
Wednesday August 6th
- We discovered the aftermath of the break-in at the Major’s home.
- Sanjeev had been dead some three days, placing the burglary on or around August 3rd.
- This date lines up with Mr Chee’s claim that the contractor, he of rumpled silk skin, was to rendezvous with the thieves ‘3 days ago’ at WH Smith’s.
- We found another bible, Catholic, containing a command and a warning: Keep them safe: trust no-one
A major question arises from this sequence: Did the major dispatch the elephants before or after the break-in? It seems it must have been before, for the house as in disarray (to say nothing of poor Sanjeev’s remains) leaving the major unable to invite workmen inside to remove and package the pieces. But the timing is very tight.
If we assume they were packaged and delivered beforehand, that means the Major has some warning or inkling of the impending house invasion. This is most curious: how did he form this opinion? Did he expect the book to be the target?
In any case, having sketched out these events, I found my mind racing. I record the results of those stream of consciousness thoughts here. Many I believe will lead nowhere, but perhaps a kernel of truth lies somewhere within.
Firstly;
Who seeks the Kebra Nagast? The bookseller Mr Neville is an obvious candidate, but perhaps too obvious. However the WH Smith rendezvous makes Mr Neville a prime suspect, as he would be more than familiar with making exchanges and deals in said establishments. He is hiding in plain sight if it is indeed him.
A second possibility (and this is verging into a conspiracy that I sense only opium could generate) is that Mr Rivington-Holmes has found himself in a spot of money trouble or such like and hence has contracted for the second priceless copy to be acquired such that he can fence it to Mr Neville. Or perhaps he already has stolen and sold the known copy, and requires the Baron’s remaining copy in order to restore it to the Iron Library. It is even possible that this is how the Major got wind of the impending tragedy: Mr Rivington-Holmes may have begged the Major for his copy or some such, only to be denied.
This seems rather far-fetched and mercenary given the Major’s warnings and disappearance which seem to indicate a far more sinister plot, but perhaps not everything hangs on supernatural mysteries. A simple robbery motivated by greed or gambling debt would be a relief of a kind.
I only wish we had asked the lovely Mr Tinsdale to at least confirm the Library copy was still extant. In any case, the sudden absence of Rivington-Holmes from London seems rather too convenient to be coincidence.
Secondly;
Why has the Major disappeared himself? If it is merely the book that is wanted, it seems rather extreme for him to have hidden himself away. Possibly it is merely the shock of seeing Sanjeev murdered before his very eyes, but the Major is made of sterner stuff.
If he fears for his life, who threatens it? If we are to believe Mrs Pan (which I concede the Major has warned us not to (‘Trust no-one’)) his life was never in danger. This leads me to another thought: did the Major take his copy of Kebra Nagast with him on his secret journey? Does he run not because of the threat of the loss of his life but because of the possible loss of the book?
Thirdly;
Who or what is Rumpelstiltskin? Is it indeed a small man of legend, or is it a misunderstanding and simply a rumpled gentlemen of wizened silk skin?
If we are looking for the former, I find myself rueing the momentary confusion that Mr Rivington-Holmes and the Major might be one and the same, which led to us not questioning Mr Tinsdale as to the stature of the said gentleman. We found he uses a stick, but not his stature.
At least our pending introduction to Mr Neville should quickly clear up the possibility that he is the man that meets the description.
If it is neither Rivington-Holmes nor Mr Neville, then we are at rather a dead end, unless Mr Blackwood has had success at his club.
Fourthly;
The elephants haunt me.
I cannot shake a nonsensical but recurring fear that it was they that hunted me in the maze of my opium nightmare. Absurd, I know. Silas is right, I should stop.
But I shan’t.