Free The Oriental Casebook of Sherlock Holmes by Ted Riccardi Page B

sometimes crumbled to dust at his touch, and invisible rodents scurried over his feet.
    Holmes must have walked for about twenty minutes, when the lane ended and he found himself in an open area that he took to be the main square of the town near the old royal palace, the so-called Hanuman Dhoka, or Door of Hanuman, the Ape-god. The square itself presented an unearthly appearance in the night, shadows of pagoda temples and idols barely visible. It was here that much of the bloody drama of Nepalese kings and princes haf unfolded. In the centre of the square he saw the hideous image of the Black Goddess. Even in the almost total obscurity of this night, her fangs and the whites of her eyes were visible.
    It was only after he passed through this rather lugubrious scene that he noticed any sign of human activity. Before him, just at the beginning of that portion of the bazaar known as Makhantol, he saw the flicker of a candle emanating from a partially open window and heard voices speaking what he thought was English. Curious, he went closer. An argument, quiet but deadly serious, was under way. Three men were seated round a small table, one facing in Holmes’s direction. Holmes could barely see his face, but he thought for a moment that he recognised him. The others, their backs towards him, were wrapped in darkness.
    The first man spoke in English but with a very heavy European accent: “No more, unnerstana? No more! I geef you no more—”
    “These were his last words, Watson,” said Holmes grimly, “for as he spoke, one of the men seated opposite him rose slowly. He was tall, far too tall for a Nepalese. I could see little of his face by the candlelight, but I saw his eyes. I am not a fanciful person, Watson, but they were enough for me to realise that I was in the presence of a major adversary, for within them I saw a look of such familiar evil intelligence that it took all of my self-control to prevent a gasp of surprise from issuing from my lips. The look was visible for but an instant, for in the same motion with which he had risen from his chair, he pulled a dagger from under his cloak and plunged it into the heart of the man in front of him. So quick was he and so surprised was his victim that the latter let out no sound. The murderer withdrew his weapon from the dead man’s chest, calmly wiping it on his victim’s shawl, and disappeared with his accomplice into the night. As they withdrew, however, the candle flamed bright in the ensuing draft, and for an instant the accomplice’s face was revealed. It was the face of an Englishman.”
    Holmes was tempted to follow them, but they disappeared immediately into the dark labyrinth of the city. He sensed, however, that another meeting with the murderers was inevitable. He found the door to the wretched victim’s room and entered. His corpse lay in a pool of blood. The candle was still aflame, and by its light he recognised the face of Rizzetti, the poisoner. The killer of many, he had come to a violent end, richly deserved no doubt, but one that was deeply troubling to Holmes for what it seemed to portend for his stay in Katmandu.
    “I left Rizzetti to whoever would eventually find him and walked back to my quarters. As I passed through the hotel courtyard, I noticed the slightest touch of light blue in the sky. I had been gone almost until dawn. No one, however, was aware of my nocturnal peregrination.”
    He lay down on the bed and must have fallen into a light sleep, for he suddenly awoke to a strange clatter coming from outside his window. Hundreds of pigeons had gathered on the roof outside to feed on the grain that was thrown to them. It was a morning ritual of Buddhist worship, and he had not yet grown accustomed to the sound of handfuls of maize—muckeye, as they call it—striking the roof. He peered out to see an old Newar woman above him, hurling grain from a veranda high above his room. The day had begun. Morning worship had started all over the city