THE MOUNTAIN OF FEAR
N.B. The reader of the following story will note, as he progresses into the text, a certain inconsistency in style, particularly at the beginning of the second section. Holmes himself pointed it out to me, and I enter a note of explanation here. Although I have used the same technique in other chronicles, particularly in “The Valley of Fear,” Holmes has convinced me that a word of comment would not be amiss.
Some time ago, on one of our long journeys between London and Rome, Holmes settled himself quickly in his seat and barely spoke, having immersed himself in a very long novel from which he refused to be distracted.“My apologies, Watson, but as soon as I finish with this I shall hand it over to you.”It was on the following morning, if I recall correctly, that he read through the final pages and with a flourish, handed me the large tome.“Here,” he said, “is one of the finest novels I have ever read. I recommend it to you with great enthusiasm.”I took the book from him and read on its cover: The Betrothed
IT WAS A TIME OF GRAVE CONCERN IN THE HISTORY OF Britain. The year was 1901, the sixty-fourth year of Her Majesty’s reign. The Queen lay dying, and the world waited with the greatest apprehension for the announcement, now deemed inevitable, that the longest reign in English history had come to an end. Edward, Prince of Wales, stood by, manfully aware of the awful burden that was about to descend upon his shoulders.
During this period, I had seen little of my friend, Sherlock Holmes. Indeed, the national melancholy seemed to have affected him severely. He offered almost nothing beyond rather curt greetings when we met, and appeared to be completely absorbed, possibly in a case of great importance and intricacy. At least so I judged, for I had lived with him long enough to have become familiar with his most peculiar ways. He was as he had always been, only more so during this period, or so it seemed to me. He came and went at all hours, often in disguise, rarely as himself. On these particular occasions, he had a preference for members of the working class. A carpenter, a housepainter, and several varieties of maid were among the figures that came and went from our quarters, almost on a daily basis.
Once at home, he would sit silently or immerse himself in a strange assortment of books. I noted at the time a number of old tomes strewn across the floor in front of his easy chair: Mackey’s
It was towards eleven one night, a cold, rainy one in early January, if memory serves, that the mystery in which Holmes was engrossed began to show the first grim fragments of its still rather shadowy outline. I sat alone in our quarters on Baker Street. Holmes had not appeared for dinner, as he had promised in a rare moment of affability. I supped alone, therefore, and then lit a fire and sat reading, warmed by its flames. I must have dozed off for a time, for I remember being startled awake by the rapid opening and closing of our front door. I jumped up to find an old woman, her hair and clothes dripping from the rain, standing on the threshold, shaking and closing her umbrella.
“Please, Watson, control yourself if you can, and refrain from comment,” said a familiar voice. “I am soaked through, and I can assure you that a tight feminine corset stuck to one’s middle does nothing to improve one’s humour.”
My friend must have seen the smile that flickered across my face as he stretched to his full height and tossed the old woman’s grey wig onto the floor. There, soaking wet in humble feminine attire that would have befitted our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, stood Sherlock Holmes, the world’s greatest detective.
Avoiding my gaze, Holmes retired to his room for a few moments and then returned wearing the heaviest of his woollen robes. At first, he said nothing. He lit his pipe, sat in his easy chair, and stared at the myriad shapes produced by the flames in the fireplace.
“Lestrade should have been here by now,” he said absently. “There has been a murder tonight, dear Watson, and our ferret-like friend will be well beyond his depth in trying to solve it.”
“And who was murdered?” I asked rather offhandedly.
“Sir Jaswant Singh,” he replied firmly. “We shall read of it in the morning papers.”
I was taken aback at the news. “Good Lord, Holmes, how terrible. One of the great lights of London Society. How did you learn of it?” I asked.
“I was there, Watson, and called the bobby for help. A man rushed up to him shouting “
“And the killer? Did you see him?”
“I did indeed, but I couldn’t follow him, having to rush to Sir Jaswant’s aid. I have a fair idea of where I may find him. He is quite clearly an Italian, judging from his appearance and language. But it is late, good doctor. Shinwell Johnson and Bobbie Neary, the most resourceful of the Baker Street Irregulars, are on his trail as we speak. There is little to be done before they report. Let us therefore continue our conversation in the morning. The rain has turned to snow, and by now Lestrade may be fast asleep in his bed, waiting for the morning to show his face.”
I awoke early the following morning. I had had difficulty falling asleep and felt weary in my bones. The murder of Sir Jaswant had lain heavily on me, and I slept fitfully. As I dressed, I reviewed to myself what little I knew of the great financier. I had known him personally, if not at all well, for we had served together on the boards of several of London’s medical charities. Sir Jaswant had become in recent years one of England’s most generous philanthropists, the benefactor of hospitals and other institutions. Of his origins, I knew little except the barest facts known to almost everyone. He was reportedly the scion of a Rajpoot family of the United Provinces in India, the son of a petty rajah of a small kingdom near Gwalior. He had arrived in England some twenty years before after a quarrel with his father, and in a short time had seen his small family inheritance grow into a successful banking business. A man possessed of great financial talent as well as considerable personal charm, Sir Jaswant soon came to enjoy the trust of many of London’s rich, and his bank, the Anglo-India Bank, Ltd., was at the time of his death second in financial power only to the Bank of England. He was a financial pillar of the Empire, and the symbol of his bank—a simple cross inside a triangle—was now to be seen even in far-flung outposts of the empire, recognized even by children. In recent years, he had become a favorite of the Queen, and a confidant to some of the most illustrious of Britain’s leaders. He was a lifelong bachelor until his marriage, a few years before his death, to Marietta, the youngest daughter of Melchior Barony, the shipping magnate, a woman twenty years younger. The marriage was not a happy one, and there was great public gossip as to the reasons, all of which must have been quite painful to Sir Jaswant. There were no children. Sir Jaswant lived in his mansion in Eaton Square, and his wife spent much of her time at their country mansion in Sussex. He traveled extensively on business and spent a good deal of his time in sport and other pastimes.
That is, in brief, what I knew of this quiet and polished gentleman. Shivering from the cold damp, I entered our sitting room to see that Holmes was up and sipping his morning tea. He had already lit the fire and read through the account in
“Here, Watson is the account in the newspapers. Lestrade did not sleep a wink last night, contrary to my accusation. Considering what he has done, however, he would have done far better to have slept a full night.”
I took the paper and read the following brief account:The Times regrets to inform its readers of the death of
