mountain. He said that he thought he was an Apache. The man seemed harmless enough, but somethin’ in his eyes made Romero uneasy. It was as if he was constantly on guard. And, said Romero, he noted that the man was not truly dumb, for he communicated with the priest in some primitive soundin’ language that he had never heard before. He pried no further, preferrin’ to maintain a certain distance from the priest. The acolyte certainly did not interfere with the priest’s activities in any way and was rarely seen.
“Finally, said Romero, just before the priest left the mountain and disappeared, someone came to El Porbenir lookin’ for him. He was a man, well dressed, and in his early forties, who said he was lookin’ for the priest. His English was good, but he had a heavy Italian accent. He said that he had come because there was a chance that the priest was a long-lost brother of his, and he wanted to meet him to see for himself. His brother, he said, had a history of mental trouble, and his family had sent him to find him. His brother had boarded a ship in Marseilles bound for America but had never been heard from again. A chance meetin’ with one of the passengers on that ship a year later had indicated that a priest had left the ship in the company of a well-known gentleman from northern New Mexico. Upon his arrival in Las Vegas, the Italian had learned of him and the hermit of the mountain. Romero immediately sent word by one of his servants, who returned and said that the priest was gone. Romero himself climbed up to the hermit’s cave with the Italian, and found the place abandoned. The followin’ day, Romero learned that the priest was seen in Las Vegas, from where he was reported to have headed south on foot. The Italian gentleman thanked Romero for his help and said he would follow the priest to see if he could catch up with him. The Italian never returned to El Porbenir, and the priest was never seen again alive.”
Vasquez gulped down his tea and said, “Maybe I should stop there. It’s time to go . . .”
“Indeed, it is,” said Holmes.
The three of us bundled ourselves against the cold, and hailed a cab that took us to Scotland Yard. We arrived just before twelve at Lestrade’s office, where we found the inspector pacing up and down, a smile of triumph on his face. Holmes introduced Vasquez and we sat there as Lestrade began his description of the night’s events. As he reached the end, he said, “And so I arrested Manin, the well-known and jealous paramour, and the old lady Reeve, the accomplice—”
“You would do well to release them immediately, Lestrade,” said Holmes, interrupting him.
I could see Lestrade’s face fall. He had been in this position before many times, and Holmes was rarely easy on him.
“And why is that?” he said meekly.
“First, my dear Lestrade, I must inform you that before the murder I was hired by one of the principals to make a certain investigation of the deceased. In pursuing this investigation, I happened to be at the scene of the crime when Sir Jaswant was murdered, though in disguise. I can assure you that the murderer bears no resemblance to Daniel Manin, and you should release him immediately, poor man, he has done nothing to warrant his arrest.”
“And the old lady, Mrs. Reeve?”
“Safely home in bed, as she claims.”
“Then, pray tell, Mr. Holmes, who was the old lady and where is she now?”
Holmes stood up, “Your humble servant, the old woman, stands before you exposed. Forgive the theatricality, Lestrade, but my disguises are quite good. As to the truth of what I am saying, my friend Watson here can attest to my return home last night not, shall we say, in my usual attire. No, Lestrade, the murderer is sitting here in London, about to leave, if my surmise is correct, and I would ask you to direct your assistant to usher in Mr. Shinwell Johnson as soon as he appears. He will know where the murderer is at this very moment. And now to the morgue.”
Lestrade showed a certain pluck at this moment, despite the unassailability of Holmes’s arguments. “I suppose I could stop you, Holmes, at this juncture from viewing the body since you are connected to one of the principals. And who is that, may I ask?”
“You could stop me, Lestrade, but I could have the necessary papers within the hour to view the remains. As to my client, it is Lady Singh herself. But more of that in due course.”
We rose as a man and followed Lestrade to the morgue. The body of Sir Jaswant Singh lay on a table in front of us. Jones, the forensic pathologist of Scotland Yard, stood by. Holmes motioned me forward.
“Anything unusual, Doctor?”
“It is as you described, Holmes. A direct hit in the center of the chest, destroying the heart. Death instantaneous.”
“Quite correct,” said Jones. “Here is the bullet, which I extracted.”
Holmes took it, examined it and passed it to Vasquez.
“Forty-five caliber, Colt revolver of the most common variety,” said he.
Holmes then took to a minute scrutiny of the dead man, pouring over every inch of him, particularly his wrists and ankles.
“Hallo, what have we here?” said Holmes. He was pointing to a rough patch of skin on the man’s right wrist. I took a look and saw what appeared to be a series of pin pricks.
“And here,” said Holmes, pointing to the left ankle.
“I’ve seen them many times,” said Vasquez. “They’re what you get when you remove a tattoo—”
“Precisely,” said Holmes. “Jones, a pen please. Thank you. Now, if I simply connect the dots . . .”
Holmes skillfully traced the outline of the old tattoo.
“An odd one,” he said, “first the letter A, then the letter I, or so it appears, and then the numeral 3. So much for the wrist. Now the ankle: a triangle with a cross inside, with three marks at the bottom. It is the symbol of the bank. Or very close to it.”
Vasquez’s face became quite dark with thought. He began to pace.
“Holmes, you know what we have here. These are prisoner brands, tattooed on this man at some time in his life. We’ve used them in New Mexico. He obviously had them removed . . . to hide his identity.”
“Precisely, Eusebio, you are quite right. But note. The wrist marking is a tattoo, the ankle mark is a brand, burnt into his flesh with a hot iron, somewhere in this vast Empire of ours. It may have been the supreme irony of this man’s life to employ this common thieves’ mark as the symbol of the prosperity of British might throughout the world.”
Holmes fell silent for a moment, as if in deep thought.
“It is clear now that Sir Jaswant had a past which he wished to deny,” he said. “What that past was we shall soon know, unless I miss my guess. You know, Eusebio, one is sometimes put in the position of Javert . . . the unmasking of a Monsieur Madeleine to find a Jean Valjean.”
“With this difference,” replied Vasquez. “I suspect that our man here is guilty of far more than the stealin’ of a loaf of bread or a pair of silver candlesticks. Tell me, Mr. Jones, what was found on the deceased? Any personal objects, jewelry perhaps?”
“No jewelry, Mr. Vasquez. A few pounds, a pen . . . and this peculiar set of worry beads found round the neck.” He handed a string of beads over to Vasquez, whose face showed immediately a frown of recognition.
“Rudraksa,” said Holmes from across the room, “the beads of Shiva, a common enough devise in India.”
“But not in New Mexico, and yet they are remarkably similar to what I found in the hands of Agostini’s corpse. Look . . .”
There was total silence in the room as Vasquez pulled from his pocket a set of beads precisely like the one found on Sir Jaswant.
“Gentlemen,” said Holmes grimly, “I sense the shrinking of the world around us, that what appears far away and unrelated is all part of a web, made possible by a new world in which nothing is unrelated and nothing is as it seems. Lestrade, do you have here at the Yard the records of our prisons abroad?
“We do, indeed, Holmes,” said the inspector.
“Then let us look up A.I. 3.”
“And what may that be?”
“Very simple, Lestrade, and obvious as soon as one directs one’s attention to it. A.I., unless I am mistaken, refers to the Andaman Islands and our prison at Port Blair. The numeral “3” means the third prisoner placed there. As you may be aware, the prison in the Andamans was opened shortly after the Mutiny in 1857 as the place where the most dangerous prisoners would be housed. Unless I am again mistaken, Sir Jaswant, or whatever his name was at the time, was placed there shortly after the Mutiny itself, considering the low numeral three. Surely
