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.
Part I
"BASIL!" I said in anger, "the least you could do is tell me what transpired during that month you spent in Tibet!"
"What?" he replied, his eyes still at his microscope, "and have you write it all up as another one of your highly exaggerated stories about my so-called exploits?"
I said nothing. I merely sat there, pencil in hand, ready to write, as I stared at Basil. The deathly quiet at last penetrated his thoughts and he looked up to see me sitting there, anger across my face.
"I must apologize, old friend; it was a thoughtless thing to say. Can you forgive me?"
"I don't know, Basil. It's been nearly a year that you have refused to even utter a word on what happened during those months you were missing. You've sorely tried my patience each and every time I have asked you for information!"
It should be revealed at this point that there was a long period when I did not share any adventures with my friend Basil of Baker Street. Nearly two years ago, Basil had gone out on (as we thought) a routine case; and as he occassionally did, chose to go alone. What occurred is best saved for another story; suffice it to say, however, that Basil disappeared and for several months was missing. All efforts to locate him proved fruitless, and my friend was feared to be dead---until one day, he returned to our flat on Baker Street just as mysteriously as he had left it.
Two months of his absence had been spent in Tibet, but Basil had vehemently refused to speak further of his wanderings there; and by now, my patience about the subject had worn completely thin.
But now, Basil put his microscope aside and came to sit before me. His face was filled with a look that I could only assume was that of anxiety. He seemed hesitant to speak. Finally, leaning forward, he looked at me with a sense of friendship and compassion that I had seen only rarely before.
"My dear Doctor, do try to understand that, for me, those months that I spent wandering the world are of the most personal nature. It is not easy for me to speak of them, even to you. Much transpired then that has affected and changed the inner core of my being, and it is for that reason I have found it difficult to reveal any of what I have gone through."
"Basil," I said, letting go of my anger, "why didn't you reveal at least this much to me before? I would have understood."
"Call it a stubbornness on my behalf. Or a reluctance to talk about my experiences during that period. I merely resisted your curiosity with as much patience as I could muster."
"Basil, I am truly sorry. I shall not bring it up again."
"No, Dawson," he returned, surprising me by his change of mind, "I believe you are right. I should have gotten some of this off my mind long ago. There is one experience I had that almost shattered me as a mouse. I shall reveal it to you if you will bear with me."
"Of course."
Basil had, in the short time since he had returned to Baker Street, referred to his having wandered to such places as Persia, Egypt, and the south of France. But that was all. He never revealed to me, until now, any of his actual exploits. As I sat listening and taking notes, Basil graphically depicted to me one of the most interesting adventures he had ever had. I shall try to do justice to this amazing story by putting into my own words exactly what Basil revealed to me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
FOR two months,Basil spent his time in Tibet, where he disguised himself as a Norwegian explorer by the name of Sigurdsen. His object being to visit the forbidden city of Lhasa.
Basil, accompanied by native guides, had spent days working his way through a mountainous region in an effort to reach his objective. Finally, he found himself standing on the outskirts of his tiny encampment, high in the Tibetan snows. Surrounding him were the excited group of native guides, their fur-capped faces and shaggy woolen coats making them appear like scruffy beasts, as they stood there gesturing wildly.
The freezing wind whirled great clouds of snow away from the mountain top that loomed above them. Basil felt a premonition of impending disaster as the leader of the guides approached him.
"Sire, we will go no further. My fellow guides say the Goddess of the Mountain is angry! If we climb further, she will swallow us up! She will bury us!"
"But we cannot go back now!" Basil yelled through the ever increasing wind. "We have come so far. Over a thousand inches! A few feet higher and we shall reach the pass where we shall be safe!"
"I will not go!" yelled one of the guides. "We can stay back there in the tent, until the Goddess of the Mountain tells us we can go further!"
"He is right," added the leader. "We can't go!"
The mouse guides moved to stand together in defiance of Basil, as he looked about and saw the danger as the snow and wind increased, swirling around them like snakes ready to pounce and kill.
"Fools! Fools! If you stay here in the wilderness, there might be an avalanche and you will all be buried! You will be swept away! The only road to safety lies upwards!"
The mice stood their ground, protesting wildly that they would go no further. Their fear of the Goddess of the Mountain was greater than their concern for themselves. Basil saw it was useless to argue with them.
"Then I shall go on, alone!"
He turned away and slowly, painfully, began the long climb up the side of the mountain some feet to the safety of the pass above. Basil was the only one who arrived. As he struggled through the pass that led to safety, the icy gale lashed at him in a frenzy of cold and stinging snow.
A few moments after he reached the top, the avalanche occurred. The tents, the guides, and all their equipment were buried beneath hundreds of inches of hurdling, thundering snow. The way behind him was now closed. It was impossible to go back and attempt to rescue any of the guides. Basil turned his sight to the freezing rock and snow that lay ahead. Alone, unaided, he descended the path that led to the plateau beyond, for the Goddess of the Mountain was still angry. Through the knifing wind and snow he battled on, without food and without much hope.
Even Basil was helpless in that battle of mouse against the elements. What happened in the next thirty-six hours, he never really knew, except that the wind howled and the driving snow lashed at him without mercy. Finally, unable to endure the ever increasing cold and pain, his mind began to wander. He became delirious, tracking about in the snow, gesturing and mumbling to himself in a dreamlike state that bordered on death.
"Dawson, dear boy, hand me my violin, will you?...Ratigan, I want to introduce you to the Goddess of the Mountain; I think you have a lot in common...back to Baker Street, Toby, and for heavens sake, get me there as fast as you can, I think I've caught a chill!"
Though his mind was wandering, his great strength, combined with his instinctive urge for self-preservation, kept him on his feet. When finally he returned to normal consciousness, he found himself lying in a litter on top of a St. Bernard, as the large dog trod along a rough road. Although it was cold, the sun was shining down on Basil, giving him some relief from the intense freezing he had lived through. Next to him was a female mouse who slowly fed him warm broth from a cup. For a moment the lady looked at him with a comforting smile, then put the cup aside.
"No wonder you look puzzled, poor fellow, you can't make up your mind whether you are in this world or the next."
Basil, through swollen and bleary eyes could see that this was no native girl who was comforting him.
"Who are you?" he asked weakly, still assuming the role of Sigurdsen, the Norwegian explorer. "And how did I get here, please?"
"My name is Ilene Furley. I'm a medical missionary. I found you wandering out of your mind two days ago, just beyond the mountains, at the foot of the village. And, well, I've taken you under my wing, so to speak. We're going to the monastery of Pancha-Pushpah."
"I am most grateful to you, Miss Furley. You have saved my life. Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Sigurdsen. Olaf Sigurdsen, a Norwegian explorer."
The young lady laughed.
"Oh, no. No, you are Basil of Baker Street, a famous English detective. Mr. Basil, you have been delirous for the last two days. In your ravings I was much delighted to learn that The Greatest Detective in All Mousedom is very much alive, for I understand there were reports to the contrary."
"I can see that further simulation at a disguise is useless, my dear young lady. However, I must implore you to keep my secret. It is essential that for a while longer the world continues to think me dead."
"You need not worry, Mr. Basil. I'm a great admirer of yours, and I promise that no one will ever learn your secret from my lips. Now, try to drink a little more broth. You are dreadfully weak."
"Thank you so much," Basil smiled.
With great effort Basil lifted himself up on one elbow and drank again from the cup. Suddenly, from the roadside, a voice began to yell.
"Help me, please! Please to give me help!"
Miss Furley looked around and saw a mouse beside the road.
"Another European travels the road to Pancha-Pushpah," she said, commanding the St. Bernard to stop. "Do you need help, sir?" she called out to the mouse.
"Ah, thank you, lady. The cart I was riding upon has broken a wheel. You are going perhaps to the monastery of Pancha-Pushpah?"
"We are."
"Good. Dimitri Feodorovich Borodin, Imperial Russian envoy, will travel with you. Please to make room. Ah, spasiba!"
The Russian was a large, muscular mouse and had a blazing red beard. He smiled as he pulled himself up onto the large dog. Basil leaned close to Miss Furley.
"Remember my secret," he whispered to her.
"We may proceed," the Russian said with authority, then turned to Miss Furley. "Your name please, young lady."
"Ilene Furley. I'm an American medical missionary."
"I do not approve of missionaries," he frowned, "but...you are very beautiful. So Borodin will forgive you. Who is this lying here? He looks half dead."
"I am half dead," said Basil, attempting a smile. "My name is Sigurdsen, I am Norwegian."
"What is a Norwegian doing in Tibet?"
"I have been exploring the mountains. And what, might I ask, is a Russian doing in Tibet?"
"What is a Russian doing? Ha! You shall see, my friend. To Holy Mother Russia shall belong Tibet! But now, let us relax. We have some hours ahead of us before we reach the monastery. You like vodka, Miss Furley?"
"I'm afraid I don't drink."
The Russian bellowed with laughter. Basil watched every move he made, fascinated by this gruff mouse's authoritative air.
"Borodin will teach you to drink. Then he will sing you songs of his native Russia. We shall be happy!"
He placed a small flask to his lips and gulped greedily of the vodka. He wiped his lips with his sleeve, then burst into song. Every note jarred Basil's already aching and weary head. It seemed like an eternity to my poor friend, but finally, the St. Bernard, with its strange, assorted trio, arrived at the gates of the monastery. It was an edifice, Basil told me, of great antiquity and of breath-taking beauty, built in the shadow of a giant mountain.
Before long, Basil was fed and bathed and made comfortable in his own quarters. Weakly he walked about, trying to regain his strength. At one point, he requested a chance to speak to the abbot of the monastery, and spent a few moments with him. It was not long before he and his two companions were summoned into the presence of the head abbot himself; a mouse of great age and wisdom. The faint chanting of religious music could be heard coming from another part of the monastery, as the old abbot stood before Basil and the others, keenly observing them before they spoke.
"My dear Miss Furley, my dear gentlemen. I have welcomed you to this monastery, and yet, each one of you has come to me seperately, and asked that he be given permission to go to the sacred city of Lhasa. I cannot give that permission, my children."
"Borodin has traveled a long way," the Russian said in restrained anger. "Russia will be most unhappy if he does not get the permission!"
"I am an explorer, reverend sir," Basil said. "Will not that fact entitle me to some consideration?"
"I too have traveled a great way, sir," added Miss Furley.
"My children, I realise your claims, but the permission is not in my power to grant. Tibet is ruled by our Chinese overlords. In any case, I will ask you to turn your heads. The gentlemouse approaching us has proceeded you in residence here. He also wishes to tread the road to Lhasa."
"You have new visitors, I see," said the tall mouse who now approached Basil and the others.
"Yes, my son. Permit me to introduce you. This is Sir Harvey Foster from Great Britain, and this is Miss Ilene Furley from America, Dimitri Borodin from Russia, and Mr. Olaf Sigurdsen from Norway. Please be seated, everyone. My children, the Chinese ruler in this province has heard of your presence here. He has announced his intention of visiting you. Before he arrives, I should like to ask you each a question. Four of you, all from different countries, have traveled here to the mountains of Tibet. At this monastery, I can offer you refreshments, the opportunity of acquiring wisdom, and peace. What more do you seek that you must go to Lhasa? I shall ask you each that question in turn. You, Miss Furley, what do you seek?"
"I seek the opportunity to bring both God and health to your Tibetan people."
"And you, Mr. Sigurdsen?"
"I seek to chart the true course of your mountains; and so to bring knowledge to the world."
"And you, Dimitri Borodin?"
"I seek to bring about complete understanding between the great peoples of Tibet and Russia. If I suceed, the Tsar and his family may consider turning to Buddhism."
"Indeed?" smiled the abbot incredulously, then turned to the last of the group, "and you, Sir Harvey, as representative of the British government, what do you seek?"
"I shall not join in this contest of wishful thinking," he said mockingly. "I merely remind you, sir, that your government has signed a treaty with mine!"
"And was not that treaty forced upon us by our Chinese overlords? No my childrren, you have advanced brave reasons, but I cannot help remembering that the streams of Tibet bear gold nuggets the size of hazelnuts. You foreigners in your pitiful ignorance esteem gold..."
Suddenly, a large gong interrupted the abbot as its sound filled the vast halls of the monastery.
"That signals the arrival of Da-wu-sen, the Chinese emissary. Your problems will soon be settled, my children. I will acquaint him with your requests."
The abbot bowed deeply and hurriedly left to meet up with Da-wu-sen. As the rest of the companions mumbled to each other in frustration, Basil laughed gently under his breath, a large smile covering his face.
"Why are you smiling, Mr. Basil?" said Miss Furley.
"I'm smiling, young lady, at the name of the Chinese overlord, Da-wu-sen. I must avoid falling into old habits and saying, 'Elementary, my dear Da-wu-sen.' "
In a moment the Chinese overlord entered the room, robed in elegant clothes, bedecked with gold and jewels.
Silence! Silence! The abbot has told me your wishes. I have made my decision. American lady and Norwegian will not be allowed. Only Great Britain and Russia have treaties with my country."
"I insist that I have prior right over the Russian representative," demanded Sir Harvey. The Russian stepped forward, his great bulk pushing Sir Harvey aside.
"How dare you! I represent the Tsar! And Russia is your neigbour. I demand my diplomatic privilege!"
The overlord looked at the two mice standing before him, their fists clenched, ready to do battle.
"Follow me. I will decide these things, not you!"
The overlord turned and walked away, the two men following as they ranted at each other, demanding their rights brought about by their respective treaties with China. Basil and Miss Furley watched until the great oak doors at the end of the room closed tightly, leaving the two standing alone.
"Well, Mr. Basil, it looks as if you and I, at any rate, don't get to Lhasa."
"No," said Basil, deep in thought.
"You look worried. Does the journey to Lhasa mean so much to you?"
"It isn't that. I'm worried about the potential danger that hangs over this monastery. Violent forces are at work."
"What do you mean, Mr. Basil?"
"As you know, Miss Furley, I've some specialised acquaintance with these matters, and I tell you that I rarely see more clearly exemplified that emotional tension which leads to one thing: Murder! That is what I am afraid of, young lady, murder!"
End Part I
Continue to Part II
Return to Basil's Pastiche Parlour