Between the Thames and the Tiber

friend Dr. Watson of your plight. And do sit. I see that you are exhausted by what has happened to you in the last day or so.”

“My story, if one can call it that, begins in India, Mr. Holmes, a country which I left thirty years ago, but in a frightening way has come back to haunt me. In any case, let me commence by telling you the needful. I was born in Madras fifty-one years ago, the son of John and Mary McMillan. My father was the editor of the Madras Observer, a highly respected newspaper. I was an excellent student, and I won many prizes for my schoolwork. As a reward, my father announced to me one day that, because of his love for India and my successful studies, he proposed that I should take a walking tour of the subcontinent before we settled in England. He offered to pay all my expenses along the way and encouraged me to travel not only with the rich and prosperous people I had been raised with, but with the poor as well, the latter being a means of knowing India which he said was avoided by most of our countrymen, who considered their lives there as a dreary bore.

“I of course jumped at the offer. Imagine, Mr. Holmes, having such an opportunity. I planned my route carefully. I decided to walk along the coast down to Cape Comorin and then up the Western Ghats, making full circles to the great religious sites of the interior. Early on in my trip, something happened which almost stopped me from going on. But I persisted and arrived back in Madras fifteen months after my trip began.”

“And what happened early on?”

“It happened in a place scarcely on any map, a small colony called Tranquebar.”

“Ah, yes,” said Holmes, “there is a Danish fort there and a convent of German nuns—Lutherans, I believe. We captured the fort and the land around it about a century ago.”

“You are again quite right, Mr. Holmes. I had been to the village many times in the past because there were also two temples on the beach, both filled with beautiful images carved in the stone but woefully neglected by both the Danes and by us, the English. Sometimes I would sit for hours in the ruins feeling the surf envelope me. Then I would help the fishermen with their nets.

“It was near sunset when I left the fishermen on that fateful night at the start of my long journey. The sea was calm, but there was a strong ominous wind which I thought might quickly turn into a tufan. I decided therefore to stay in the guest room of the nunnery. I took a path which I well knew through the small patch of thick forest that grew around the convent.

“And then, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, it happened: I was grAbbed from the rear by assailants who forced me to the ground and tied me up with my feet stretched back and tied tightly to my wrists. They gagged me, making it impossible for me to cry out. It was dark and my captors said nothing. All that I could see was that they were naked except for the usual loincloths worn by the local fishermen. I shall never forget the strangest thing about them: their faces glowed a bright yellow in the dark as if they had rubbed some glistening ointment on their faces, something resembling the phosphorescent light of countless June bugs. They spoke not a word, but carried me silently to an obscure place in the wood, dropped me there on my stomach, and disappeared. Their faces seemed to float disembodied in the darkness as they passed into the night.

“I spent the hours before dawn in mortal terror, not only because of the painful position they had put me in but because I was terrified by the thought that I should die there without anyone ever knowing what had happened to me.”

Mr. McMillan seemed to shrink as he spoke to us. His breathing became laboured and he almost fell out of his chair. I caught him just as he was about to drop onto the floor.

“Hold him, Holmes; let me listen to his heart.”

His heart was beating rapidly but steadily enough and I revived him with some salts.

He sat up and apologized profusely. “I am so sorry, Mr. Holmes, but I am most upset,” said our guest.

“Please continue,” said Holmes, “I suspect that we are a bit far from the end of our story.”

“I writhed all night, trying to extricate myself from the ropes, but I could not. I heard wild beasts moving about and was afraid. Morning finally came. By this time, my wrists were bloodied and my back nearly broken, or so it felt. It must have been just before dawn when I sensed the presence of someone near. It was a nun from the school, dressed in grey and white, her face hidden, who cut my ropes and quickly disappeared into the forest. So great was my relief that I fell into a sleep and only awakened around noon.

“Instead of going to the convent, I went down to the sea and threw myself into its icy depths. The salt water stung my bloodied wrists and feet, but I felt renewed and determined to continue on rather than look back on the incident that now began to seem more like a nightmare than reality.

“I moved on, following the plan that I had laid out for myself, and continued through India. Towards the end of the trip, when I had arrived in Bengal, my father came to meet me and we visited together Puri, the home of the Juggernaut temple and other religious sites. It was in Gauhati in Assam that my father said that he had arranged for me to attend the university in England. I was overjoyed at the prospect. I returned with him to Madras. Shortly thereafter I left for London and a new life.

“I needn’t tell you much more of my career, Mr. Holmes. After my studies at the university, I became a teacher at the Overbrook School in Sussex, where I taught for seven years. I was then sent to Italy by the school to tutor English children living in Rome. Returning to London after years as deputy consul, I served for a time as principal of the Grindly School in Horsham.’

“I am still in the dark as to why you are here, Mr. McMillan,” said Holmes with a bit of impatience.

Our guest grew pale and visibly sagged in the chair as he fought to continue his story.

“I implore you, gentlemen, to listen to the end,” he said with a sob. “I came to London from Horsham three days ago to visit friends. Yesterday, towards evening, just at dusk, I entered Hyde Park on my way to my friends’ house, the way I had taken several times during my stay, when I suddenly saw the masked faces of that bitter night in Tranquebar. Fearing that I was hallucinating and about to expire, I sat down on a bench. But there was no doubt now: the creatures came towards me, the same expressions on their strange faces. I became terrified but I could not cry out. Then I must have fainted for I have no memory of what came next. I awoke tied as before and lying in a thick set of trees and brush. I was in an unfamiliar place. I tried to break my bonds but to no avail. At daybreak, I heard someone come. It was a nun, dressed in the grey habit of before, who cut my bonds and disappeared into the bright sunlit dawn. I sat up in what turned out to still be Hyde Park I have been half dazed since I was released.”

Holmes looked directly at our guest and said, “Mr. McMillan, your story, highly improbable as it is, is one that has obviously caused you considerable distress, but one that I find of some interest to me, largely because of the rare circumstances in which you have found yourself. I shall take on your case, provided that you leave London and return home immediately and remain there until I visit you. Please leave your address. And do not tell anyone that you have spoken to me about the matter.”

“Mr. Holmes, I agree to your stipulations. I shall return to my residence at once and await your visit.”

Our guest appeared so weak that he barely could lift himself out of his chair, and I guided him to the door. When he had left, I turned to Holmes, who was peering through the window curtain, watching as our client walked down Baker Street and faded into the crowd.

“What do you think, Watson?

“Almost too bizarre, Holmes, the man may be a congenital liar or someone who suffers from terrible delusions.”

“He walked at a fair clip as I watched him and seems to have recovered from his ordeal fairly quickly.”

Holmes began his usual pacing. “Interesting, Watson, most interesting. Masked figures. Strange, absurd, and inconsequential, if what you say is true, but there may be more to it. One must first eliminate all impossibilities— and whatever remains must be the solution. In this case, we have a very high degree of improbability, to say the least. Let us think for a moment.”

“Surely, Holmes, the man is quite mad, or is telling tall stories. Frankly, I wouldn’t waste my time. The only question is why he is taking the bother to engage the world’s greatest detective.”

“A good question, Watson, to which I have as yet no satisfactory answer, but all in good time. And, by the by, did you notice how quickly he accepted as true my random statements about his life, relying on me to explain his grim circumstances rather than reveal the truth. His story is certainly most incomplete. If it is made up, why did he, for instance, not tell us that the same thing happened to him in Italy? Surely, the masked dancers would have found him there as well if they are located in his brain, and not outside it? Come, Watson, a walk in Hyde Park will do us some good. There are only a few places where McMillan’s encounter could have taken place. Let us see what we might find there. My ragged irregulars must have seen the man. Let us speak with them and have a look