seating accommodation for four to six persons, apart from the driver. Since Mr Holmes and I had taken the whole tonga exclusively for ourselves, there was more than ample room for us and our few articles of luggage. Our tongawallah, or driver, was a shrivelled old greybeard with a dirty red turban wrapped around his bony head; but he kept the brace of the Kathiawar ponies moving at a brisk pace on the Kalka road, in the freshness of the rain-swept dawn.
For hours the tonga rattled along the hard, kankar-surfaced road, only stopping occasionally at a roadside parao, a travellers' resting place, to allow the ponies a breathing spell. We used the opportunity to stretch our legs and drink the jaggery-sweetened mahogany brown tea, which is the only kind of beverage available in these simple places.
About thirty-five miles out from Umballa city I espied the distant mountains floating above the far northern horizon. The slight shower early that morning had cleared the air so that the peaks were pellucid and brilliant against the sunny blue sky.
'Look Mr Holmes, the Himalayas! The abode of the gods -or so we are informed in the Skanda Puranas!
Sherlock Holmes lifted his head. An extraordinary change came over his face and his eyes sparkled like stars. All men are affected by their first view of the Himalayas, but in Mr Holmes's case it was as if his cares and worries had, at least momentarily, been lifted from his shoulders; as if he had been away on a long voyage and had now finally come home. For some time he gazed silently at the distant peaks.
'How does that thing by Beethoven go?' he murmured to himself. ''On the heights is peace – peace to serve.' Tra la la… la… la… la… la la… lirra… lay…' [22]
Mr Holmes reached for the violin case by his side and, working the catches open, pulled out a rather battered- looking instrument. Tucking the violin under his long chin he set about tuning it. Finally he commenced to play. His eyes took on a dreamy look as the haunting notesflowedfrom his instrument. He was probably playing the piece by Beethoven. I really did not know. I must confess to a slight ignorance in matters musical.
Be that as it may, Mr Holmes's musical accomplishments were of a nature to move the feelings of the most hardened Philistine. I was bewitched. The old tongawallah gave a happy cackle, and even the tired ponies seemed to become more sprightly.
Indeed with the inter-mingling of other sounds: the steady rattle of the cart, the rhythmic clip-clop of the ponies' hooves, the murmur of the distant Gugger river, and the songs of the doves and barbets in the shady jamun trees lining the road, a strange,
fascinating symphony of nature was, in my fancy, performed before the approaching presence of the Himalayan foothills.
The piece ended and the last memorable notes faded away. I sat silent for a moment, and then broke out in spontaneous applause. 'Wah! Mr Holmes, Bravo! You have more talents than the god Shiva has arms.'
Sherlock Holmes smiled and bowed his head slightly. The great detective, in spite of his cold, scientific mind and masterful ways, could be moved by a genuine appreciation of his powers.
We stayed at Kalka that night. Early next morning we were on the road to Simla. Past the nearby Pinjore Gardens the road climbed and dipped about the growing spurs, the sound of gurgling mountain streams was everywhere and the chatter of monkeys filled the Deodar forests covering the hills. Traffic increased on the road. British officers on Badakshani chargers, Pathan horse-dealers astride spirited Cabuli ponies, native families packed on slow bullock carts, passengers like us on noisy tongas, and even a turbanned mahout on a solitary government elephant – wended their various ways, at various speeds, on this winding mountain road.
Gradually the air became colder, the vegetation more lush, and the road steeper as we neared Simla. Mr Holmes puffed contentedly on one of the many pipes he always seemed to have about him and hummed snatches of a tune to himself, gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to his humming. The horrors of Bombay seemed far away: the sinister Colonel Moran, FerretFace, the blood-covered corpse, the dead Portuguese clerk, and the nocturnal Thugs, seemed to take on the distant, unreal quality of a half-forgotten nightmare.
But I reminded myself that I had been charged with Sherlock Holmes's safety, and, though I had till now done littie to merit this great trust, I must not, for the honour of the Department, be caught off my guard again. So I was jolly careful when we finally got to Simla and kept my eyes peeled for any further possible mischief initiated by Colonel Moran.
Simla, the summer capital of the Government of India since 1864, is a most delightful and sophisticated town. The European section of the town – with the church, the Mall, the Gaiety Theatre, the Viceroy's residence, and all the better buildings, houses and shops – is situated on the heights of the hills and inter-connecting ridges. Lower down is located the native bazaar – a veritable jumble of rusty tin and wood houses packed so closely together on the steep mountainside that they give the disconcerting impression of being stacked, willy-nilly, on top of each other.
After tiffining at Peleti's and installing Mr Holmes at Dovedell Hotel, I made my way to the lower bazaar where I maintained a modest apartment. Nikku, my faithful servant, poured me tea and gave me a report on events in Simla. Afterwards I set out to meet certain people: rickshaw-pullers, saises, shopkeepers, government clerks, hotel employees, beggars and a pretty little Mohammedan lady of easy virtue, all of whom were not averse to providing me information or performing small commissions-pn the provision of pecuniary remuneration, ad valorem. Thus I made pretty dam'
sure that neither Colonel Moran, his confederate Ferret-Face, nor any of their hired cut-throats could commence nefarious activities, or even arrive at Simla without the fact becoming first known to me – me, Hurree Chunder Mookerjee M.A.
After two days I managed to rent a small but fully-furnished cottage for Mr Holmes – Runnymeade, near Chota Simla. The previous occupant had been a notorious poodle-faker, a doyen of the Simla smart-set who, due to a number of causes, including inebriation, fell off his horse nine hundred feet down a ravine, spoiling a patch of Indian corn.
I was afraid that in spite of my efforts Mr Holmes was not very comme il faut, socially speaking. One would have thought that after all the difficulties and dangers he had undergone he would at least relax a bit and enjoy himself with the other holidaying Europeans at the hill-station. But he did nothing of the kind. He did not call on the Viceroy or sign the guest list at Government House, or even drop cards at the residences of important officers and personalities – in fact he did not even have cards printed. As a result he was not invited to the great balls and banquets, or even asked out to dinner; a situation which he maintained just suited him 'down to the ground'. The tournaments of the Simla Toxophilite Society, and even the polo matches and horse races at Annandale left him cold.
I was really at my wits end trying to make him enjoy himself. But at the same time one had to be quite wary about attempting to persuade Mr Holmes to do anything he did not so desire. There was that in his cold, nonchalant air which made him the last man with whom one would care to take anything approaching a liberty. Knowing his liking for music, I thought it would not be improper to suggest a visit to the Gaiety Theatre, where at the time a comic operetta by Messrs Gilbert and Sullivan was being performed. It was only much later I learned that his musical interests leaned towards violin concerts, symphonies, and the grand opera.
'An operetta. A comic operetta?' exclaimed Sherlock Holmes, a tinge of horror colouring his voice.
'Yes, Mr Holmes,' said I, a trifle defensively, 'and a jolly entertaining performance it is too – from what I've heard. The whole of Simla is talking about it. Why, His Excellency the Viceroy has seen it twice already.'
'Which is, no doubt, why it should recommend itself to me also. No, no. Let His Excellency do what he will. As for me, odi profanum vulgus et arceo. Horace's sentiments may not be exacdy democratic, but at least they reflect mine at the moment.' He handed me a long list. 'Now, Huree, if you really want to make yourself useful, you could go down to the chemists, and get these reagents for me.'
This was another thing that I found rather difficult about Mr Holmes. As the reader will have realised by now, I am a scientific man, but I do draw the line at performing malodorous experiments in the living room. But not Mr Holmes. On the very first day that he set up house at Runnymeade Cottage, he made me get him a whole collection of beakers, retorts, test-tubes, pipettes, bunsenlamps, and chemicals, (some of which were not immediately available in Simla) which he happily set up on a few shelves in the corner of the living room, spilling acids and what not on a beautiful Georgian table which he used as a work bench.
I shuddered to think of the day when I would have to return the cottage and its furnishings to that hard-faced Oswal Jain, who was the housing agent, for it was not only the table which would have to be accounted for but also
