Murder in the Monastery
A Great Mouse Detective Pastiche
by Ethel M. Grimes
Adapted
from "Murder Beyond the Mountains" by Ken
Greenwald
(based upon the radio play by Denis Green and
Anthony Boucher, based
in turn upon an incident in The Empty
House from THE RETURN OF
SHERLOCK HOLMES by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)
©
2001 Ethel M. Grimes. "Murder Beyond the Mountains" ©1989,
1993 by 221 "A" Baker Street Associates.
No part of this pastiche may be copied or otherwise re-used in
any manner without the author's written permission.
~~~~~~~~~~~
In Part I: Basil has returned to his Baker Street flat, after a long and mysterious disappearance during which he was rumoured to be dead. It develops that Basil has spent his absence traveling through various lands, particularly Tibet. Having constantly evaded Dr. Dawson's questions about his wanderings, Basil finally relents and tells his friend of his harrowing adventures in the Tibetan mountains.
Disguised as a Norwegian explorer, Olaf Sigurdsen, Basil means to journey to the forbidden city of Lhasa; but after his mountain guides are killed in an avalanche, he is forced to go on alone through a deadly snowstorm. Finally, delirious and at the point of death, Basil is rescued by Ilene Furley, an American missionary. Miss Furley's purpose is to visit Lhasa also, as it is with a Russian envoy, Dimitri Feodorovich Borodin, who soon joins the pair on their journey.
The three soon arrive at the monastery of Pancha-Pushpah, where Basil is nursed back to health. Another English mouse, Sir Harvey Foster, is already present and also seeks to go to Lhasa; however, the old abbot of the monastery denies them all permission. Da-Wu-Sen, a visiting Chinese overlord, is equally reluctant. Seeing the rage and fierce competition between the Russian envoy and Sir Harvey, Basil is worried that violence is about to disturb the peace of Pancha-Pushpah...
Part II
BASIL, of
course, was almost always right in his assumptions. He had an
uncanny knack of being able to
quickly decipher the elements that lay beneath the surface of
various actions and deeds and piece them
together with newfound conclusions of the most accurate kind. So
it was in this case. Later that day, as
the sun was setting over the mountaintop, sending its golden rays
through the open windows of the
monastery, the old abbot walked slowly in the inner gardens,
talking to the mouse whom he thought
was a Norwegian explorer.
"My
dear Mr. Sigurdsen, what can I do to help you? Our conversation
has pleased me, and I can see
that you are a mouse of rare perception and knowledge, and one
worthy to enter Lhasa, but I can offer
no hope. Mr. Da has already rejected the applications of both the
Englishmouse and the Russian."
"He did that?" Basil said in surprise.
"He did, my son. He told me they were both very angry and they threatened him."
"If
anything were to happen to the Chinese emissary, would you have
the right to grant permission for
a journey to Lhasa?"
"Yes.
Until the new envoy arrives from Peking. But what are you
suggesting, my son? This monastery is
a haven of peace, a backwater far from the troubled stream of
life. No violence has ever occurred here."
"I hope it never will, and yet...The Chinese envoy was frightened, you say, reverend sir?"
The old mouse abbot seated himelf upon a stone bench in the last rays of the day's sun. Basil sat beside him.
"Yes, he was frightened, my son."
"He has left the monastery, of course?"
"No,"
he returned, shaking his head, "those who come here even for
a short visit must break bread
with us, and sleep at least one night. Mr. Da is quartered in the
cell you see before us."
"Would you mind if we call on him, reverend sir?"
"Of
course not, my son, though you will but waste your breath in
talking to him. He will not give
you permission to take the road to Lhasa."
Basil
helped the old abbot to stand and they quietly walked over to the
emissary's room. Basil
knocked on the door.
"He sleeps, my son. Let us not disturb him."
"If
you don't mind, reverend sir, I must waken him. If he can be
wakened." Basil knocked again,
and then again, louder each time.
"What can be wrong?" said the abbot, the first signs of doubt crossing his face.
"I think I know," said Basil. "I'm going in."
Basil
pushed the door in and the two mice stepped inside. The emissary
lay on his bed, his eyes
open, staring blankly at the ceiling above.
"There is your answer, reverend sir."
"He is dead?" said the old mouse in disbelief.
"Yes sir. Strangled with his own queue."
"No," said the abbot, "the poor misguided mouse has taken his own life."
"No sir, look at those marks on his shoulder. He has been murdered."
"Murdered? But what are we to do?"
"As
it happens, reverend sir, I have had a certain amount of
experience in my own country with this kind of
violence. If I were to produce the murderer for you, with
absolute proof of his guilt, would you authorize my
going to Lhasa?"
"Yes.
Since, for a few days, the permission is now mine to give, I will
grant it. You fill me with a strange
confidence, but how will you find this taker of life?"
"I cannot tell you now, sir, but I shall find him! All that I require is a little assistance from you, sir."
"Of course, what is it?"
"Let
us both leave the cell. Post a guard here and give him strict
orders that no one is to enter unless
accompanied by me."
"Very well. But, my son, where are YOU going?"
"Before very long, sir, I hope to be on my way to Lhasa."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Basil paused a moment, deep in thought. Slowly, he lit his pipe and went to the window to gaze up at Baker Street and its busy people and passing hansoms. He turned to me, a sad and forlorn look upon his face.
"All
this," he said with a sweeping gesture, "and all that
outside, Dawson, is often quite meaningless to me. When I crossed
the Tibetan mountains, struggling to save my life, I came to
realize how insignificant we are in
the scheme of things. Nature does not care if we live or die, it
goes on, regardless. When I awoke on that cart,
understanding that I had come close to death, I came to see
things differently. In the monastery, surrounded once again by my
fellow mice, I had meaning again. And therein lies the power of
nature, my dear friend, that
in its complete neutrality toward us, it allows us to see life as
a gift or a hindrance. I see it as a gift. When I suspected the
Chinese overlord was dead, I knew I had to find the murderer, not
just because it was a challenge to me, or a way of stimulating my
mind as other cases so often have done, but because this tragedy
would forever affect the monastery and the very essence of peace
and tranquility that resided there."
As Basil spoke I continued to take notes, listening carefully to his every word.
Realising
that I was not there to help him, Basil decided to enlist the aid
of Miss Furley, the American girl.
Immediately after he left the cell of the murdered mouse, he'd
gone to Miss Furley and told her of the tragedy.
They quickly returned to the scene of the crime, where Basil saw
that his instructions had been carried out, and
a guard was barring the entrance to the dead mouse's cell.
"The abbot gave you your orders?" Basil said to the guard.
"Yes. You may go in."
They entered the cell, Basil gesturing for Miss Furley to close the door behind them.
"You're sure your nerves are up to this, Miss Furley? It's not a pretty sight."
"I've
seen sudden death before, Mr. Basil. In any case, I wouldn't dare
feel frightened, I'm so flattered that
you asked me to help you."
"You were the only one who knew my true identity, that is why I suggested you take my old friend's place. You see, I need...what shall I say?...I need a sounding board for my deductions. Wait, here, I'll light a match."
Basil took
a candle from a table and lit it. The room was filled with light,
revealing the body of the overlord to
Miss Furley. She gasped in horror and stepped back. Basil touched
her shoulder to calm her.
"I warned you it wasn't a pretty sight. Hold the candle, will you please, Miss Furley."
Basil inspected everything in sight in his usual manner.
"This isn't hard to re-construct. The killer stood behind his victim, holding him by the left shoulder, so. Wound his queue behind his neck and pulled back. Yes, the marks are self evident. Hello, what's this on the floor at his feet?"
"A cigarette," said Miss Furley, "dropped as it was burning, I should think. And now it's nothing but ash."
"Exactly. Ash. Now which of the visitors at the monastery smoked cigarettes?"
"Yourself, Mr. Basil, the Russian, and Sir Harvey, the Englishmouse."
"I
think we may justifiably omit myself from the list of suspects,"
added Basil with a look of chagrin, "so that
narrows it down to two. Look here, Miss Furley, there are clear
traces to the naked eye not only of tobacco ash
and paper, but of cardboard!"
"Cardboard! But what does that signify, Mr. Basil?"
"That the case is clearly solved! Come on, young lady, we must pay a visit to Borodin's cell at once!"
Basil,
accompanied by Miss Furley, hurried to the quarters of Dimitri
Borodin, where they found both Borodin
and Sir Harvey Foster arguing. Both mice turned as Basil entered.
"Ha!
Mr. Sigurdsen, can you believe that Sir Harvey can do nothing but
argue with me all the time. It is disgraceful. Come in, both of
you. We will drink vodka and I will sing songs from our Mother
Russia for you.
Anything will be better than arguing with Sir Harvey!"
"We
have not come here to listen to songs, Dimitri Borodin,"
said Miss Furley in disgust. "The Chinese
envoy was murdered tonight!"
"Yes, yes, so we have been told, my dear. Sir Harvey and I are very happy because of his death, are we not?"
"Well, I won't pretend I'm not," said Sir Harvey, raising a glass of vodka to his lips.
"Feodor Borodin," Basil said, "you were in the cell at the time of the murder!"
Borodin turned to Basil, his face suddenly becoming a mask of rage.
"That is a lie, Norwegian!"
"I
can prove it. In that cell I have just found ashes, totally
burned cigarette ashes that included fragments
of cardboard. Only a Russian cigarette has a cardboard mouthpiece."
"He's
very obstinate tonight, Sigurdsen," Sir Harvey put in.
"We've just been having a political argument.
Couldn't agree on a single point, except on the dangers of the
common man. He was telling me of the most
extraordinary revolution on his estates. Do you know they chopped
off one of his paws?"
Basil was surprised, looking quickly at Borodin's paws.
"Your paw, Borodin, quickly, which one is missing?"
"As God is merciful, it was my left paw."
"Then what is that paw beneath your glove?" asked Basil.
"Is made of wax, my good Norwegian, is made of wax. Come, see for yourself."
Borodin
carefully removed his glove, revealing a paw made of bees wax
that was tightly
bound to his wrist.
"Extraordinary!" exclaimed Sir Harvey.
"It is more than that. It is conclusive proof!"
"What do you mean, Mr. Sigurdsen?" Miss Furley asked in confusion.
"I
cannot tell you now. I must leave for the moment. Let me warn you:
The three of you would
be well advised to keep an eye on each other! Meanwhile, I must
see the abbot."
"But why?" implored Miss Furley.
"Because now I know who murdered Da-Wu-Sen!"
Before the
full impact of what he had implied could be comprehended by the
three suspects,
Basil was gone, leaving them to their own devices. Through the
open door a thin mist was
edging its way into the room, slowly encompassing the three mice
who stood there. Dimitri
Borodin was again taking long drinks of vodka as he eyed the
other two. Sir Harvey Foster
sat back in a chair, resigned and waiting for the final verdict.
Miss Furley stood, her hands at
her chest, shivering, frightened and unable to move.
It was
done. As Basil sat at the foot of the abbot, the sounds of
chanting could be heard not so
far away in the sacred temple. The abbot looked toward the
mountain as the mist began to slowly
dissolve with the coming of the sun. He turned to Basil and,
smiling, placed his ancient paw upon
my friend's shoulder.
"The
pink fingers of dawn are stealing across the mountain top, my son.
Soon, you will be on your
way to Lhasa."
"Yes,
reverend sir, you have kept your promise," Basil said in a
voice so soft and gentle it was
almost a whisper.
"And
you have kept your promise, Mr. Sigurdsen. The Chinese soldiers
have arrived, and the
taker of life has been given into their custody. Before you
leave, my son, I want you to do something
for me."
"Anything, reverend sir, what is it?"
"The
hooded figure in the corner is that of the monastery scribe. He
keeps our annals. I want you
to explain, for our records, how you knew which one of the three
was the taker of life."
"It
was not difficult, sir," offered Basil, "the killer had
gripped Da-Wu-Sen's shoulder with the
left paw while the right was used to strangle him. Therefore the
Russian Borodin could not be the
killer since his left paw was artificial."
"Quite so, it was as you told me made of wax. Then---"
"But
the clue, reverend sir, of the cigarette pointed directly to the
Russian. It had been planted
there to deliberately incriminate him. Now, there is no plain
police force in Tibet, am I correct?"
"We need no police for there is no crime here, my son. But do continue."
"Why
should the cigarette be planted to incriminate the Russian? Who
could arrest him? Who
could bring the Russian to justice? Unless the murderer knew
there was someone capable of
making the deduction that the Russian was guilty, all from a
handful of cigarette ash. Therefore,
the murderer had to be the one person who knew my true identity.
Miss Ilene Furley, the supposed
missionary."
"Ah,"
smiled the abbot, "she was no missionary, as it transpired
when she confessed. And no
American."
"No.
A secret service agent of German origin, seeking to reach Lhasa
before the Russians,
and infuriated by Da-Wu-Sen's denial of passage. Any secret
service is better off without such
employees."
"She will pay for her mortal sin, my son. May she redeem herself in her next place on the wheel."
The
distant gong from Lhasa sounded. The abbot looked down upon
Basil, a look of deep sadness
crossing his face.
"My
son, you are about to leave me, and I shall never see you again.
Though evil and death
came to Pancha-Pushpah, and to my monastery in the caravan that
brought you here, I shall
miss you. I shall miss you, greatly."
"And I you, reverend sir," said Basil with the heaviest of hearts.
"Would
you consider staying here? I can only offer you peace, a shelter
from the outside world,
and quiet companionship."
"Ah, three great gifts, sir. But I cannot take them. My work is not done. I must go on."
"Of course, my son. It was an old man's dream. One last question."
"What is it, sir?"
"You spoke of your true identity, just now. Who are you, my son?"
Basil
gazed into the old mouse abbot's eyes and was deeply shaken by
their calm and
their beauty.
"Reverend,
sir, I cannot tell even you the answer to that question. One day,
if I pass this
way again, but not now. Let us just say that I have wandered
through a world of trouble, just
as you have remained tranquil in a world of peace. I hope, sir,
that we shall meet again."
"I hope so, too. Goodbye, my son."
"Goodbye, reverend sir, good bye."
Basil
rose, and with great reluctance, bowed deeply to the abbot, who
gave him his blessing.
He walked to the entrance of the monastery, the abbot watching
him with eyes of wisdom.
Basil
turned at the entrance for one last look, managed a sad and weak
smile, then turned
back towards Lhasa. He walked slowly up the rough trail towards
Lhasa, knowing in his
heart that he had to move on in his quest for the inner knowledge
that he yearned. In Lhasa
he would find some of the answers that had plagued him throughout
the years of his life.
And,
although he would not reveal his deepest most inner feelings to
me, I knew, as he sat
before me finishing this strange story, that my dear friend had,
indeed, found something of
the inner peace we all seek. A better understanding of that
precious soul within all of us. The
answers he came upon helped him make up his mind to once again
return to England and his
life here on Baker Street. For which, I must admit, I am most
thankful.
The End
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