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The Oriental Casebook of Sherlock Holmes - Hardcover

Riccardi, Theodore

 
9781400060658: The Oriental Casebook of Sherlock Holmes
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 1400060656 ISBN 13: 9781400060658
Verlag: Random House Inc, 2003

Inhaltsangabe

After his supposed death in a struggle with his nemesis Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls, the master detective escapes to Florence with the help of his brother Mycroft, where he takes on a series of master criminals out to destabilize the countries of Central Asia, including Moriarty's brother James, master poisoner Rizzetti, and Russian anarchist Dojiloff. 35,000 first printing.

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Über die Autorinnen und Autoren

Ted Riccardi is professor emeritus in the Department of Middle East and Asian Languages and Cultures, Columbia University, New York. He began teaching at Columbia in 1968 and served as chairman of his department and as director of Columbia s Southern Asian Institute in the School of International and Public Affairs. Among his special interests are the history and cultures of India and Nepal, where he has lived and traveled widely and about which he has written extensively. He has received a number of research awards, including grants from the American Council of Learned Societies and the Ford Foundation and Fulbright fellowships. From 1980 to 1982 he served as counselor for cultural affairs at the United States embassy in New Delhi. In 1999, he took early retirement from Columbia to raise a new family and to write. Riccardi lives in New York City with his wife, Ellen Coon, and their family. They spend as much time as they can in New Mexico. The Oriental Casebook of Sherlock Holmes is Ted Riccardi s first work of fiction, a tribute to his favorite mystery writer, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Theodore Riccardi is professor emeritus in the Department of Middle East and Asian Languages and Cultures, Columbia University, New York.

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THE CASE OF THE VICEROY’S ASSISTANT

F or several weeks after his return to london, my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes had once again begun to evince those symptoms of melancholic lethargy which had led me on occasions past to increased apprehension about his mental health. He rarely ventured out from our quarters on Baker Street, consumed almost nothing despite Mrs. Hudson’s stern admonitions, and spent most of the day staring idly into space. Occasionally, he would pick up his violin, tune it slowly, and attempt some mournful piece by Mendelssohn, but at the slightest rebellion from the instrument, he would fling it down and throw himself onto the couch, sometimes falling into a deep sleep. His only moments of enthusiasm came when the morning paper arrived. He scoured it quickly, his eyes hungrily searching for something that could satisfy his restless brain. Alas, however, most of the crime was of the most ordinary variety, and the absence of intelligent design behind any of it was apparent to him at once.

“I have destroyed my enemies, Watson,” he said one morning over breakfast, “and in so doing I have perhaps destroyed myself. Look at this: a bank robbery in Charing Cross, a woman has murdered her adulterous husband in Oxford, and several drums of fertiliser have disappeared from a factory in Whitechapel. What is to be done?”

“Holmes,” I said, “perhaps we should take an extended trip to the Continent. The grey weather in London is causing a melancholic state in you that—”

But he already seemed lost in his usual silence and vacant stare, and I knew by now not to irritate him when such a mood overtook him. I looked with dread also at his return to the use of cocaine, which as far as I was able to judge, he had avoided until then.

Unexpectedly, he said, “You are right, Watson. A change would be most welcome, but I haven’t the energy for the Continent. Let us begin with a walk and then perhaps a concert. Sarasate is playing this afternoon, and if he is in form, it will be worth our while.”

The stroll through St. James’s seemed to do him some good, and after the concert we again walked, this time through Hyde Park. It was just before dinner when we returned. As we entered, I noticed that Holmes had inadvertently left a window open, and that a pile of papers had blown off his desk. I reached down to pick them up, and in so doing my eye was caught by a note written in a large and vigorous hand. It read:

My dear Holmes,

My gratitude for your help in the sad Maxwell affair. You have served your country well and have in no small way helped to preserve peace in the Empire. I wish you every success upon your return to England.

(signed) Curzon

The note filled me with the greatest surprise and interest. At dinner, I said: “My dear Holmes, you have never told me of your journey to India.”

He looked up vaguely, but I could see a slight gleam appear in his eye.

“Ah, you saw the note from Lord Curzon.”

I nodded. “Indeed, I did,” said I with some annoyance, “and I must say that I am confounded. You have never given me even the slightest intimation of an adventure in which you helped to preserve the peace of the Empire.”

“It was a most disturbing affair, Watson. Even now only Lord Curzon and I know the details, and if I may say so, in all probability I know more than he. If I tell you the story, Watson, you will be the third to know. I think it should be a long time before you bring it to public attention, however. The tensions between nations remain, and several parties still living bear the wounds of what was a most grisly affair.”

He had begun to warm to his subject, and I could see that he was eager to relate to me what for him had been a most absorbing case. The vague faraway look in his eyes had vanished completely, and he appeared once again engaged with a worthy opponent, if only in memory.

“Of course,” I said, “I shall bring nothing of this to public notice until you deem it appropriate.”

“Very well, my dear Watson, listen then. It will probably do me some good as well, for lacking a new problem, I could do worse than retrace the steps of some of my most difficult cases of the past. In this way, I shall at least keep my brain alive until something worthy of interest appears here in London.”

We moved from the table to our comfortable armchairs in the sitting room. Holmes lit his pipe after removing it from his slipper and began, his eyes bright now, his voice composed.

“I suppose, Watson, that I had better go back and review my travels after the death of Moriarty. You will recall that I mentioned on a previous occasion that I had journeyed to Tibet, where I spent two years with the head lama.”

“Yes, indeed,” said I. “You travelled as a Norwegian by the name of Sigerson. You then went on to Persia, visited Mecca, and then went to Khartoum, I believe.”

“Precisely. You have a good memory, Watson. There was of course far more to my stay in that part of the world than I have related to you. That I visited Persia and Arabia is true, but I travelled by a most circuitous route. Upon leaving Lhasa, I gave up the disguise of Sigerson. As you know, Watson, I have a certain facility with languages. I had picked up a good deal of Tibetan in the monasteries and even studied the ancient Tibetan practice of concentrating bodily heat. It is a most useful and extraordinary technique, which I can still perform on occasion. Indeed, it saved me from two serious misadventures in the mountains from which I might have frozen to death. In any case, I donned a lama’s robes and travelled with a merchant’s caravan on the old trade route south, arriving after a few weeks in the valley of Nepal, where I rested in that most pleasant place at a Buddhist shrine atop a hill overlooking the city of Katmandu. Were it not for its xenophobic rulers, Watson, I have often thought of retiring to that idyllic spot, for I know of no better place to spend one’s declining years. To do so now of course one would have to remain forever as a lama or in some other appropriate disguise, for the present ruler, the Rana, does not tolerate easily the presence of Europeans.

“Although keeping a disguise at all times, I did identify myself at one point to the British Resident, Mr. Richardson, and was able to help him out of strange difficulties. That was the episode that might one day be entitled the case of Hodgson’s ghost. Another case concerned the bizarre troubles of a French savant recently arrived from Paris to study ancient inscriptions in the Sanscrit tongue.”

Holmes stopped to puff on his pipe. He eventually left Katmandu, he continued, and headed south toward India. Once across the border, he journeyed to Banaras, where he deepened his studies of Oriental body techniques.

“I found that after a few months of concentration I could control my breathing and heart rate to such an extent that even you, Watson, might declare me dead on your usual diagnosis.”

“Extraordinary,” I exclaimed.

“Yes, dear Doctor, extraordinary indeed. I have studied these and other techniques with great success, for in my line of endeavour, one can never foretell when such knowledge may be of use.”

“And how did you acquire these techniques?” I asked.

“Diligence, of course, and a bit of luck in finding the right teacher. My interests are in the main practical, Watson, as you know. Whatever the metaphysical foundations of Indian science are, I am of course uninterested. Give me a technique, however, that will...

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Verlag
Random House Inc
Erscheinungsdatum
2003
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
1400060656
ISBN 13 
9781400060658
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Auflage
1
Anzahl der Seiten
303
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Harder
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