The Cave of Ali Baba in the French Quarter was nothing of the sort, but rather a low-ceilinged room of modest dimensions, off the avenue Mansour. It contained perhaps two dozen small tables spaced in tiers about an aproned stage with a raised platform at the rear, presently occupied by four bored-looking musicians, cradling instruments that were unfamiliar to me. To the right, three false arches in the distinctive Mogul style made of what looked like pasteboard upheld diaphanous red curtains with gold trim. Electric sconces had been shaded with pink glass to contribute a presumably exotic effect.
It was almost midnight and the smoke-filled establishment was crowded but not overflowing with an odd assortment of clientele scattered among the tables. Some were Arab, puffing on burbling hookahs or sipping a date-alcohol mixture called Arak, permitted Muslims; others, clearly Western, in evening attire, had obviously dined beforehand and now, with wives and families safely tucked elsewhere, had come laughing and jabbering, waving cigarettes or cigars, for their late-night diversions. All were male. Waiters, also male, and startlingly young (bare-chested boys in gold-tasselled red vests and matching skull caps, who looked no more than twelve), threaded their way among the tables, supplying drink, nuts, yogurt, and beans of some sort in response to imperious finger snaps. The aroma of smoke and drink added to the ambience and was here inhaled as a kind of incense.
“Salaam, effendi. Welcome to the Cave of Ali Baba. I am Majid.” Majid wore a strange assortment of Arab and Western dress, trousers of cavalry twill with Persian slippers that would have done justice to Ali Baba himself. “Have you booked a table?” I judged him roughly forty years of age, though it was apparent he dyed his hair, as clumps of untended white appeared here and there amid the boot polish black. His dark, glistening eyes and not-unpleasing features—the Levantine skin, the beaked Arab nose—were marred by an ivory gash across one cheek. It lent him a faintly piratical aspect and suggested other occupations at other times. I recalled Charpentier referring to him as “a bit of a character.”
“Assuredly,” Holmes answered, slipping Majid several Egyptian pound notes which the man deftly palmed, leading us to one of the empty tables and snapping his fingers at the nearest boy. “Arak!”
We had scarcely been seated and served the ghastly potion when there was a crash of cymbals from the stage that caused all talk to cease. The musicians, prompted by some invisible cue, commenced performing on their odd instruments, one plucking multiple strings, another blowing shrilly into a pipe that looked fit for a snake charmer, while the remaining two, moving their arms in rotating unison, struck a tattoo on slender drums that resembled tambourines, though larger than any I had ever seen in any Gypsy caravan.
The resultant sounds, barbaric, pulsating, and wild, served to introduce nine barefoot women who sprang from the three false arches. All were clad in a variant of the same gauze-like material as the curtains. All tapped miniature cymbals between their thumbs and forefingers as if they were castanets, though producing a metallic clang rather than the hollow Spanish clacking. Small bells around their ankles jangled as they spun. Below their heavily kohled eyes, the lower portions of their faces, in Muslim fashion, were draped with veils, but in a kind of mockery of the modesty proclaimed by their faith, these veils were as transparent as the curtains and their pantaloons, revealing flesh and features as clearly as if there had been no covering at all. Most shocking, their navels and midriffs were bare for all to see.
And if the foregoing was not sufficiently sensational, the convolutions of their bodies in synchronicity with the insistent music displayed postures, movements, and supple gyrations one would not have dreamed possible of the human form. And all the while, the undulating waggle of their hips and backward bending of their torsos was accompanied by those finger cymbals and ankle bells, the whole capped by an unearthly ululation produced by their flicking tongues. Their ages, as best I could determine, ranged from little more than young girls to women bordering on matronly.
Why their tall, spangled headdresses failed to topple amid their contortions I could not fathom. To be sure, this was the sort of thing I had glimpsed on certain French postcards, but in motion and accompanied by the pulsing beat the effect was quite different. A photograph, after all, left something to the imagination.
Throughout this exhibition, the audience of men responded with hoots and rhythmic clapping, urging the dancers to ever more brazen choreography. Arak seemed the inevitable complement to the spectacle and I found myself throwing back the fiery brew without hesitation, gritting my teeth at the spiky flavour. There was, I noticed, no difference between the response of Arab and European men; all were caught up in the same frenzy of enthusiasm and manifested their approval in identical fashion. The dancers, not insensible of the encouragement, strove to satisfy the crowd. To the intoxicating formula of smoke and drink, human sweat was now added.
I stole a look at Holmes and was mildly astonished to see that the performance interested him not at all. A finger held statically aloft, he was summoning one of the youthful waiters and handing him a note, torn (like Mycroft’s communiqués) from his pocket book, as well as two crumpled Egyptian pounds. Over or perhaps below the riotous cacophony, Holmes whispered to the boy, who nodded vigorously and departed with the items in his fist.
Surrounded by tables of onlookers, the dancers on the tiny apron were performing virtually and deliberately under our noses, vibrating as close as possible to the glazed eyes of the spectators. I confess it required an act of will to tear my eyes from the extravaganza and watch as the boy handed Holmes’s note and money to Majid, hovering near the entrance. Reading it, he frowned, bent low, and whispered something to the little messenger, who in turn wheedled his way back to us, whispering (or shouting? It was heard to tell) in the detective’s ear.
Nodding, Holmes rose, plucking me forcefully by the sleeve. I followed him towards the disappearing figure of Majid, who was in the act of flinging aside a beaded curtain I hadn’t noticed before.
We followed him into the darkness, where he waited.
“What is this about?” He did not append the salutation “effendi.”
“We came here hoping to experience Fatima,” Holmes said.
The man spat. “May Fatima rot in hell. She has bankrupted me.”
“Fatima?”
“Why do you think half the tables are empty? When Fatima performs there is no room even to stand,” the impresario snarled, lighting a cigarette with a match that briefly illumined his scar. “It takes nine of those cows”—with a head jerk he indicated the gyrating women—“to equal one of her. And she has a contract!” he added with bitter indignation.
“Where does Fatima live?” Holmes held up another pound note that disappeared like a fly in the mouth of a frog.
“Why do you want to know?”
Holmes set more pound notes among the tubes of cosmetics and greasepaint on the shelf between them. Majid swept the money into his pocket without taking his eyes off the detective.
“Where?” Holmes flourished another banknote.
“Sixty Suleiman Pasha Street near the avenue Muizz.” Brows drawn together, he glowered at the detective as if to hold him responsible for his present difficulties.
Holmes handed over the money.
“But she’s not there. I have a man watching the place and I will know if she returns.”
“Ah.”
“But she won’t. Not anytime soon.”
“Oh?” Another note.
Majid dropped his cigarette on the floor and snuffed it with the curled-up toe of his Persian slipper, reminding me in that moment of where Holmes kept his tobacco years ago in Baker Street.
“She’s at Shepheard’s with that damned Englishman.”
“Englishman?”
“Some viscount or other. They won’t let the likes of me in the place, but mark you this, and I don’t care who hears me: if I ever lay hands on either, that vixen or her drunkard lover, I’ll kill them, kill them both.” Uttered in a conversational undertone, this threat seemed all the more chilling.
Holmes produced yet another banknote.
“When did she take up with the Englishman at Shepheard’s?”
He scowled at us, remembering. “November sometime. Ruined,” he added in a tired voice.
“You have been most helpful, Monsieur Majid. Good night.”
Majid replied with a surly grunt by way of farewell. “If you see them, tell them what I said!” he called after us.
As we left, we squeezed past the bevy of panting dancers traipsing offstage following their exertions and onto the avenue Mansour, well-nigh deserted by this hour. With my head throbbing, I slumped against a kiosk plastered with successive layers of posters and notices it was too dark to read.
“I’m too old for this sort of thing,” I protested to no one in particular.
“Can you recall what Mustafa cried out as he died?”
I shook my head. “One word—if it was a word. It sounded like … something that started with a T? ‘Tourette’s’? I know that can’t be right. I’m sorry.” I was unable to suppress a yawn.
“Watson, get thee to bed.”
“I will.” The detective started off. “And you?”
“I’ll return to my digs at Shepheard’s. It is quite a three-pipe problem.”
“What of VR 61?”
“That is the three-pipe problem.”
And thence we parted. There was no transportation to be had at this time and place. The Jardin des Plantes and my bed were not far off, but I was in truth at the very limit of my strength. I stumbled across the now interminable Nile causeway and made my way to the Khedivial Club, where I was obliged to knock up the sleeping porter to let me in. I swallowed an Aspirin, ignored my mosquito netting, and fell into my bed fully clothed, where I slept like a dead man.
“Dr. Watson, effendi! Dr. Watson?”
“What is it?” I squinted against the glare of the sunshine as the boy raised the blinds.
“It is nine o’clock,” he responded, misunderstanding my confusion. My head felt like a split melon, which I judged were the effects of last night’s intake of Arak. “Today you are taking your wife to the pyramids!”
I could swear he looked gleeful at my discomfort, whose origin he appeared to have no difficulty diagnosing, but in truth I could hardly open my eyes to make him out in the sudden access of sunlight.
“Have you forgotten? She is waiting.”
I might have drawn the bedclothes over my head, but he had thoughtfully arrived with black coffee, which I would have inhaled had that been possible. How could I have forgotten that today was Juliet’s big day, the long-promised trip to the pyramids? A calash, driver, and guide had been laid on.
I will omit the details of my painful ordeal. My powers were so much under a cloud that even Juliet, exhilarated like a child loosed from school for the holidays, noticed.
“John, are you ill?”
I explained I had merely awakened with a migraine which would doubtless pass.
“Poor you!” she moaned in sympathy. “Today of all days. Should we postpone our jaunt?”
“By no means,” I insisted, knowing that was the last thing she wanted. “May I borrow your parasol?”
“Of course. Are you certain? Poor you.”
The weather had begun to warm since our arrival in November, which was not to my advantage at present. I slept partway in the calash, only to be jostled awake when Juliet first caught sight of those stupendous mounds. The day, or certainly a good part of it, dragged on while I suffered her chirping exclamations of wonder. “Really, this is beyond anything!” Her inquisitive nature prompted an endless number of questions put to our guide, many of which he was unable to answer. “We do not know,” or, “No man can say,” was at least part of his threnody.
Pleading my ailment, I remained in the carriage while Juliet descended and, in what seems a visitor’s ritual, stood for some time in contemplation before the Sphinx, after which, while the driver helpfully raised the roof of the calash for my benefit, she reclaimed her parasol and marched to the edge of the Great Pyramid. It was only with difficulty that I finally succeeded in persuading her not to exhaust herself and to return.
“You’ve no idea what you’ve missed, John!” she said, adhering to Dr. Singh’s instructions and sitting across from me. Feebly I reminded her that I had in fact visited the place already, but her enthusiasm remained unchecked. The calash hood was folded down once more to ensure nothing interfered with the free circulation of air between us as we wound our way back to the city.
“I’ll go again another time,” was the best I could manage, heartsick at having disappointed her but simply unable to keep my eyes open or my head from throbbing.
“Poor John!” she suddenly wondered, a gloved hand to her mouth. “I pray you’ve not come down with—”
“Nonsense. I’m feeling better already.”
In this fashion we trundled back to the Jardin des Plantes. I attempted to comfort myself with the reflection that at least I was not astride a camel. Referring to the excursion, Juliet kept repeating, “I’ll never be the same,” at regular intervals, finally blowing me a farewell kiss as she returned to isolation at Al Wadi, while I stumbled off to the Khedivial’s common room for tea and sandwiches. I was awake now and hungry.
“Have I the honour of addressing Dr. Henry Jekyll?” Sherlock Holmes was brushing crumpet crumbs off his lap as he clambered awkwardly to his feet. “Or had I best salute you as Mr. Edward Hyde-and-Seek?”
I shrugged, too tired to either appreciate his humour or dispute his analogy. I had certainly been burning the candle at both ends, companion to a semi-invalid by day and turning into Count Dracula by night. Or something along those lines. I helped myself to the remaining crumpets and asked the steward for some cucumber sandwiches.
“You needn’t tell me about your day”—the detective smiled sympathetically—“as I’ll wager it was not half so rewarding as my own.” He stretched awkwardly and groaned. “I believe I’ve thrown out my back.”
“How did you manage that?”
“I spent the better part of the day burgling the premises at 60 Suleiman Pasha Street.”
“You don’t say.” This news failed to surprise me. By now I knew and to a certain extent could anticipate a great many of my singular friend’s habits of action. There was no question entering Fatima’s flat had been on his mind from the moment he learned its whereabouts.
“It was no great business gaining entry. The fellah Majid had posted on watch had long since concluded there was scant possibility of Miss Fatima’s return. I had to wake him to offer baksheesh, which, as you may anticipate, he had no trouble accepting. He’d been told to watch for the woman, after all, nothing or no one more. The rest was entirely none of his bailiwick. The concierge was of the same opinion and similarly accommodating. The lady’s rent was paid up and he did not seem particularly surprised to receive a visitor who pressed pound notes upon him.”
“This investigation is proving expensive,” I noted as my sandwiches arrived.
“Her Grace can well afford it,” the detective replied. “And I keep strict accounts. In any event, someone had been to the dancer’s flat before me.”
“What?”
“The place had already been, as the Scotland Yarders would put it, ‘tossed.’ Small wonder the concierge appeared unfazed. I felt like the second man who’d invented the wheel.”
I was now fully awake. “Tossed? By whom?”
“Amateurs. Or at any rate people who didn’t expect to find anything. Their efforts appeared cursory.”
“Sent by Majid?”
“In addition to his watchman? I doubt it. Whoever they were, they anticipated she would be too clever for them—as indeed she was. The place is well furnished but conspicuously ordinary, if such a thing is possible. A single woman’s residence, tastefully but not richly appointed in the French fashion, as befits the vicinity. Some inferior nudes by Vernet on one wall, risqué cartoons by Daumier on another. The noteworthy exception being her extravagant wardrobe and varied collection of footwear, which those who came before me had flung in all directions. Fatima evidently does, or did, a fair amount of entertaining, even maintaining a cabinet of spirits, some of which had evidently been sampled direct from the bottles by my predecessors. There was a gramophone which they had smashed to bits, unaware, I suspect, of its agreeable purpose. Or perhaps regarding its function as blasphemous. They also slashed the goose down mattress on an enormous bed that would not have been out of place in our gaol of the other night. Who knows, perhaps they found something hidden there, but I suspect not. A woman in her line of country is unlikely to be indiscreet about her private life, what with various guests and visitors having access to the place. And certainly, when she moved her field of operations to Shepheard’s she took her most valuable possession with her.”
“The pearls.”
He nodded.
“So you found nothing of interest?”
“Far from it. I did claim to have had a rewarding day. Those who came before me were lazy and had persuaded themselves theirs was a fruitless errand. I worked from no such assumption and arguably have more experience in these matters. For a start, here is her portrait.”
Reaching into his breast pocket, he carefully withdrew a photograph of a remarkably beautiful dark-haired woman with blazing eyes, a cruel mouth, and an inscrutable expression. Obviously taken for professional purposes, the picture had the single name, Fatima, in gilt cursive, emblazoned on the grey nether border along with the name and address of a photographer’s studio in Alexandria.
“It was by no means hidden,” he added, observing me closely as I studied the image. “It lay among several on an escritoire, along with bills of no great import. Invoices from the florist. The drawers were empty, to be sure. Anything of value had already been seized, but I doubt she was so careless as to incriminate herself on exposed paperwork.”
“If she dances as well as she looks,” I remarked, setting down my sandwich, “one can readily imagine standing room only at Ali Baba’s Cave every night. But what did you actually uncover?” I knew my friend so well by now that I anticipated his love of the dramatic flourish.
He smiled as much as to say he appreciated my understanding and again reaching into his breast pocket laid down on the table between us a French passport, a faded tricoleur stripe on its binding.
“Open it,” he commanded.
I did so and found a very different photograph of the same woman. Here she was blond, Caucasian, perhaps a bit younger, grinning like a schoolgirl, and was identified as Ghislaine Marie Zelle, age 23, born in Aix-en-Provence.
“So she’s French,” I remarked.
Holmes said nothing, but set beside it a tawny-hued Dutch passport with embossed lettering on the front. Inside was yet another image of the same woman, this time identified as Margareta Gertrude Grumet, 25, born in Rotterdam.
“Well, well.”
“And this.”
Her Turkish passport, a simple yellow page covered in Arabic with fragmentary English underneath, in which the same woman was identified as Fatima Johar, 26, born in Constantinople/Istanbul.* In this photograph she wore the niqub, appeared Levantine, and was virtually unrecognisable.
“And this.”
In her blue American passport, placed beside the others, she was Mary Jane Owens, 25, with freckles, from Nashville, Tennessee.
I sat back, staring at the documents before me. “Where were they?”
“That large, immovable bed of hers made me curious. Its corners pinned down a multicoloured Persian carpet. Its bulk and weight may have discouraged the others, who may have missed it in any case, but by dint of much straining and shoving, I managed to free one corner, hence my back injury. Crawling under the bed among the goose feathers and rolling back the liberated portion of rug, I found the knot in the floorboards that triggered open the ingenious cache beneath.”
Holmes looked pleased with himself and I was tempted to applaud.
“So the woman is some kind of spy.”
“Exactly,” the detective agreed. “But for which side? Or, to put it another way, in whose pay?”
“Good questions,” I allowed. “But has she taken up with the duke on assignment or from purely private motives?”
Holmes gave a derisive sniff. “Let us assume, for the present, her motives were professional and mercenary. And let us not forget: for all we know the lady is carrying yet another passport on her person as we speak. I should think it highly likely.”
This was a daunting thought, but Holmes was pursuing his first. “Who might wish to know what about the Duke of Uxbridge?”
“Mycroft and his crowd? I believe you said you’d never named your client when you met with him at the Diogenes.”
“True,” the detective mused, “but regardless what could Uxbridge know of value to Whitehall? He couldn’t even manage to obtain a digging permit, his chief object. Nothing then, unless he was somehow in league with the Turks, but if that were the case, why would he be so desperate for money? Spies are expensive. The Ottomans may be impoverished but surely would pay well for whatever services they imagine he could render. But, as we know, his bill at Shepheard’s remains ‘astronomical’”
“So we are dismissing the notion that Miss Fatima was in British employ?”
“For the present.”
“Could she be working for the Turks? She carries a Turkish passport.” I tapped the yellow paper.
Another snort. “That hardly signifies, given her collection. But the idea is not implausible. According to Mycroft, the Turks are rabidly suspicious of British objectives and intentions in the Mid-East. He suggested the Khedive is playing a double game. The Turks would give much, I’ve no doubt, to learn His Britannic Majesty’s long-range plans for the region, especially the canal. Perhaps the lady is on retainer, plying admirers of different ranks and nationalities with music and drink in her flat, hours after hours, if you follow me.”
“I do.”
“Then at some point in all this maneuvering, the Turks stumble upon Uxbridge, a down-at-heels nobleman in desperate straits and attach someone to learn if Egyptology is in fact his real motive for being here or does he in fact harbour ulterior objectives? They worry he’s playing the fop while spying for His Britannic Majesty and they engage Miss Fatima to keep an eye on him.”
We pondered this possibility before the detective added, “If the Turks are her masters that might well explain the Khedive’s orders to Monsieur Charpentier via Major Haki not to report the couple’s disappearance. They are—or were—confident she would keep them apprised of the duke’s movements.”
“Speaking of which, ought we not report that disappearance and Miss Fatima’s activities to the authorities? The duke may be in danger.”
“Aye, there’s the rub, my boy,” Holmes rejoined. “Which authorities? We don’t wish to repeat Charpentier’s mistake and approach the wrong party. Do the British in point of fact desire to let the Turks know they’ve unmasked La Belle Dame sans Merci? If we report the lovers’ disappearance, we may be reasonably sure that will happen. Everyone here is playing a deep game. Is our Major Haki working for Constantinople or Whitehall? Does anyone besides us know about Ohlsson’s map, authentic or not? No,” he concluded after a moment’s further reflection, “for the present let us play our cards close to your regimental necktie.”
“None of this brings us any closer to their whereabouts.”
“It does not.” He attempted another stretch. “Does this place have a steam room and might an honourably discharged Northumberland Fusilier obtain the use of it?”
They did boast such a room and Holmes and I shortly found ourselves basking in the facility, along with several other towel-draped patrons. Still reeling from the effects of the previous twenty-four hours, I must have dozed off. When I awoke, Holmes’s slender form was still beside me, motionless, but his eyes remained open. I sometimes wonder if he ever closed them.
“Have you made any headway on VR 61?”
He scowled. “I’ve cudgelled my brains and even dreamed about that wretched code, for it must be something of the kind, all to no avail. I keep writing it down and staring at it. ‘Vacuum,’ ‘Vale,’ ‘Variety,’ ‘Veal,’ ‘Vector,’ ‘Viceroy,’ ‘Victoria,’ ‘Voisin,’ ‘Volte-face,’ ‘Road,’ ‘Route,’ ‘Royal,’ ‘Rue,’ ‘Roi,’ and so on. I have tried every possible combination in English and French, but perhaps we’re dealing with another tongue entirely, German or Italian or who knows in what language the wretch was scribbling as he died?”
“Or have we just imagined he was scratching out anything at all?”
“An even worse possibility, though I’m sure we were seeing something.” Exasperated, he slammed a fist into a neighbouring palm. “Are we dealing with a proper name? Someone’s initials? Violet Something or are we back to Victoria Regina? A little calculating confirms her reign lasted sixty-three, not sixty-one years. Regardless, I cannot for the life of me reconcile the late queen empress in any form with Mustafa’s dying revelations.” He shook his head. “The possibilities are infinite. I even stopped at the British Consul this morning before my house-breaking and put it to the chargé d’affaires, but no one could tell me anything. And the number sixty-one was likewise no inspiration to anyone within hearing. There is a Victoria Road, but the numbers stop at 49, a milliner’s emporium.” He sighed and stretched again, evidently a painful endeavour. “Absent any progress I must allow time for what Dr. Freud would call my ‘unconscious’ to grapple with the problem.”
Shortly thereafter, we made use of the showers and Holmes, finally feeling more like himself, departed in time for me to join Juliet at supper. She was still full of the day’s adventure—poor woman, so long accustomed to segregation and routine, it was a major achievement to have ventured forth, and to my relief and delight she seemed none the worse for it.
“John, you are looking quite your old self,” she observed in turn.
“It took long enough,” was my moody rejoinder, “but I’m so pleased that today was a success.”
“Have I ever told you of the time I was nearly gored by a water buffalo in Durban?” Lady Cunningham called to us from her end of the table.
And so our meal concluded and after a brandy and soda in the Common Room back at the club, I retired for bed, anticipating a much-needed night’s rest.
But sleep did not come. I had been overstimulated by sights, sounds, and mysteries. I did the usual tossing and turning and finally gave it up, switching on the light and trying to switch off my brain by reading the copy of Martin Eden I had brought from home, but even Jack London’s magic, which I normally enjoyed, was unable to divert me.
Finally, I threw aside the netting, put on my robe, and sat at the small desk that was part of my room’s Spartan furnishings. As ex-military men, I suppose we were intended to find such simplicity a nostalgic plus.
I pulled out a sheet of foolscap and, like Holmes, wrote down VR 61 as traced in the dirt by the dying waiter.
Then I wrote it out again. And again. And …
Then I saw something—something that astonished me. It was not Holmes’s unconscious but my own that had performed the miracle. I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them again and sat staring at what was essentially my accidental handiwork, hardly daring to move for fear that, like a dream after waking, the whole thing would abruptly vanish forever.
But vanish it did not. Hardly daring to move my eyes from the page, I fumbled for my clothes and stole from the room.
The city was deathly still in the hours before morning prayers, broken only by a distant cock crow. And it was chilly. In my haste, I had neglected to throw on a jumper, but as I limped as quickly as possible across the causeway, I soon grew accustomed to the temperature. Or perhaps I was too excited to care.
Shepheard’s was likewise somnolent when I entered. Charwomen were beating and airing the omnipresent carpets, while others polished the teak and mirrors. The American Bar was conspicuously empty save one fellah washing an infinite number of drinking glasses and rinsing out carafes. I spied serried bottles of Uxbridge Elixir on a shelf behind him.
At the front desk, I asked for Colonel Arbuthnot’s room. There was some difficulty about this at first as the clerk enquired who I was and gave me the usual folderol about not being allowed to give out such information.
“Mr. Dumfries, do you not recognise me? Must we pay another call on Monsieur Charpentier?”
That brought it all back to him.
“Colonel Arbuthnot is in room two-seventeen in the annex,” he explained, and pointed me down another of the hotel’s innumerable carpeted corridors, towards the end of which I located the lift operated by a sleepy boy, who shaking himself awake and mumbling apologies, took me up.
I knocked on the door of 217. I hated the idea of waking the detective, especially as he was suffering the effects of back strain, but my discovery could not wait.
“My dear fellow.” Holmes stood in the doorway, clad in a pale blue dressing gown.
“Were you asleep?”
“By no means. Come in.”
I would not have conceived Shepheard’s letting such a small space to any of its guests. It was clear Holmes had, from the first, attempted to economise on the duchess’s behalf.
In the centre of the room he had assembled a nest of pillows and cushions, whose indentations informed me he had—as was his custom when meditating—been squatting there. The small place (perhaps originally intended for someone’s maid) was choking on stale tobacco. It had proved more than a three-pipe problem.
“What is it, my dear fellow? You seem quite worked up.”
“I am. Holmes…” Here I hesitated. What if I were mistaken?
“Would you like some water?”
I shook my head. “May I show you something?”
“By all means.”
I looked about. “Have you some paper?”
“There’s always my notebook. Will that do?”
“Of course.”
He switched on a small lamp on a nightstand beside his monk-like bed, little more than a pallet, and flipped to a blank page. I couldn’t help noticing that the page opposite was filled with repetitions of VR 61. The combination had been tried frontwards, backward, and in many random permutations.
“Holmes,” I began again, “what if we didn’t correctly make out what Mustafa scratched in the dirt?”
He blinked. “How do you mean?”
“Well,” said I, trying to keep my voice steady, “we thought he wrote ‘VR 61.’”
“That is what we both agreed we saw.”
“But the man was dying; his hand was unsteady. Suppose what he actually wrote was this?”
And I showed him.