Chapter 3 ― The Disappearance of Rachel Musgrave (Part 2)

One would be hard-pressed to think of anyone who better exemplified aristocracy than Reginald Musgrave. He was dressed in a suit of the finest quality, and no defect could be found in any aspect of his calm, elegant manner. His pale, stern countenance brought to mind a brooding medieval fortress. Premature strands of grey flecked his hair, and he held his small head high, with a tendency to point his chin at whomever he spoke to which added to his lofty charisma. Professor Moriarty had described his father as being an energetic man; the contrast could not be more stark.

As we approached him, my eyes went to Mary. Silhouetted by pearlescent winter sunlight, she kept a strange silence, as did Irene Adler who sat close beside her. What business could they have at Sir Reginald’s residence?

Owing to Moriarty’s acquaintance with Robert Musgrave, Moriarty and Reginald had known each other since the latter was a young man at school, and they greeted one another with evident delight, their last meeting having been at Robert’s funeral. Moriarty had quit his post at the college not long afterward.

“I feared something had befallen you.”

“But here I am, in no small part thanks to Holmes and his friends.”

“How strange fate can be. I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Dr. Watson. Allow me to express my thanks; I have read all of your records, and through them stayed abreast of Holmes’s many adventures.”

“The honour is mine, Sir Musgrave.”

“May I ask how you knew Holmes was here? I am frankly surprised that you have shown up on my doorstep; Holmes insisted that there was no need to let anyone know.”

“A simple deduction,” I said modestly; “Call it the intuition of an old friend.”

“You are not Holmes’s partner for nothing,” smiled Sir Musgrave. “Holmes arrived at Hurlstone in the afternoon two days ago, alone. He said that he had retired from the detecting profession, and asked for my permission to build a hermitage within the bamboo groves. I replied that he was welcome to rest at the manor if he wished, but he would not hear of it and simply went off into the bamboo. Strange fellow, he’s hardly changed at all since our school days.”

“Holmes is here?” interjected Irene Adler, leaning forward. It seemed even she had not guessed that Holmes would be hiding in a bamboo grove in Rakusei, for her face was flushed with astonishment. “And he said that he was retired?”

“Yes, he said it quite clearly, though whether he truly meant it is another question altogether.”

Irene Adler narrowed her eyes with a pale scowl of displeasure. “What’s this about retirement, Dr. Watson?”

“Well, we did try our very best…”

“How disappointing.”

“How dare you, Miss Adler!” Moriarty suddenly burst out, his voice quivering with anger. “We have done our very utmost to stand Holmes back on his feet. We have tried to squeeze blood from a stone! It is you who have driven Holmes into despair, yes, and now driven him into retirement!”

“What do you mean?” frowned Irene Adler, with a haughty puff of her chest. “I have done only what I ought to do, and no more.”

“And what you have done is destroy his pride.”

“That is his own problem to solve, not mine. Pride, tush! What good does pride serve? Better that he learn to throw it away.”

“You go too far!” Moriarty snarled.

“You and Dr. Watson have coddled Holmes all this time, and that is why despite your best efforts he remains unable to leave his cradle. He must discard that worthless pride, and come to terms with what he can and cannot do. He must seek advice from those who know better than he, and improve what is lacking. Without courage and humility he will never solve this dilemma. If one cannot deal with one’s own problems, how can one ever hope to solve those of another?”

Irene Adler’s logic was unimpeachable, though whether it was practicable was another question entirely. A man who has fallen to rock bottom tends to develop a most obstinate disdain of listening to orthodoxy. I was sure that confronted with Adler’s words, Holmes would retreat even further into the confines of his bamboo hut.

Professor Moriarty was quivering with anger; he looked as if he might explode into a thousand pieces. Yet it seemed that even this would not bring Irene Adler to budge from her own position.

Reginald Musgrave stepped in to diffuse the situation.

“Perhaps it would be advisable for you to speak to Holmes directly. I will have the butler show you to him directly,” said he, ringing the bell to summon Brunton.

“Perhaps you might humour me with a little favour, Dr. Watson,” Sir Musgrave continued; “Would you convince Holmes and bring him back here? Tonight Hurlstone will host a most unique gathering, and I would like nothing better than if you, Holmes, and the professor were to join it. You are welcome to stay the night. If you have any need at all Brunton will supply it.”

It was a queer request, and one that I had not been expecting. As we dithered, Irene Adler asked, a little acidly, “I suppose you think I am not up to the task alone, then?”

“Nothing could be further from the truth, madam,” replied Sir Musgrave placidly. “But Madame Richborough is an experienced old tigress, and she surely has made plans for every eventuality; it would behoove us to do the same.”

“Madame Richborough?” interrupted Moriarty, with a scowl.

“No need for alarm, professor; I am no true believer,” said Sir Musgrave. He went on to describe the many times that Madame Richborough had petitioned Robert Musgrave to be allowed to perform investigations into the spiritual energies which inhabited Hurlstone Manor, only to be rebuffed. Over a year after his father’s passing, Sir Musgrave had decided to extend an invitation to Madame Richborough to settle the matter once and for all.

“But she is a fraud, a swindler!”

“And that is exactly why I have invited her, dear professor,” replied Sir Musgrave, and a deep solemnity entered his voice. “Madame Richborough is an exceedingly dangerous person. She has steadily accumulated a devoted following over the past several years. We can no longer simply dismiss spiritualism as a childish fad; left unchecked it will no doubt become a grave threat to the progress of the empire itself. I have invited Miss Adler for her services as a detective, so that we might expose what lies behind the mask; I should certainly be glad to have Holmes’s assistance as well.”

　　　　　　　◯

After our interview with Sir Musgrave Moriarty and I exited the manor. It was a clear winter’s day, but at four o’clock the shadows of the oak trees already stretched long across the courtyard. Following the stable-boy, who carried in his hands a basket, we walked across the broad lawn of Hurlstone, across which loomed a green wall of bamboo stalks, like an unexplored continent on the shore of the brimming sea.

“What is the size of the forest?” I asked the boy.

“It is vast, sir,” replied he, “It is easy enough to get lost in there, and some have. We must all of us search, William and the rest of the staff, to fetch them out again.”

“You mean the groundskeeper?”

“Yes, sir,” he nodded. “He’s a strange fellow, but with a good heart.”

William was apparently renowned across the nation as an expert on the subject of bamboo forests, and had been engaged about a year earlier to manage the forest at Hurlstone. Due to the clearing of the launchpad for the moon rocket, as well as the diversion of funds away from the estate, the once-grand bamboo forest had fallen into a state of disrepair, but under William’s careful tending was reclaiming its former glory.

“He seems to be quite skilled,” I observed.

“William loves his bamboo, he does,” said the stable-boy with a chortle. “I’ve hardly seen him come out.”

While the stable-boy and I were having this conversation, Professor Moriarty kept swinging his stick about and muttering to himself.

“Selfish, inconsiderate woman!”

“Come, professor, there is truth in Miss Adler’s words.”

“And that is what makes it all the more frustrating! If things were so simple we would long since have escaped this slump. It is precisely because it is not that we suffer!”

“But she means well.”

“I am not as certain.”

“I will agree that she is not very sympathetic.”

I looked at the bamboo stalks swaying in the wind. In my mind I envisioned Irene Adler in the raiment of a primeval goddess; she was chasing Holmes around, firing off “Arrows of Truth”. Holmes danced all around the lawn before darting off into the gloom beneath the bamboo. Yet Adler did not follow him in there alone, for she was accompanied by a second goddess who trailed her close like a shadow.

Mary’s silence was to me the most perplexing thing of all. All the while that Adler and Moriarty were arguing, she had not offered a single opinion of her own. It was as if she was attempting to erase her own presence. She herself had seen, to her own chagrin, the intractability of Holmes’s slump, and the futility of the logic that Adler so vehemently advanced, and in spite of it remained silent. That this was the product of some dispassionate calculation was plain to see.

Could it be Mary who was the true mastermind? Was it she who had persuaded Irene Adler to set up her office directly opposite 221B Teramachi Street, and challenge Holmes to a showdown of detection? Had she engineered this entire conspiracy after her chance reunion with Adler in order to drive away Holmes? But that was too repellent a thesis even to entertain.

We entered the forest.

After five minutes’ walk we could see nothing but innumerable stalks of green bamboo on all sides. It was a resplendent view, if not a little eerie, and each time the cool wind rustled the treetops a tremendous creaking noise engulfed us from all sides. The pools of sunlight which filtered through the leaves here and there made it seem as though we were walking underwater. The ground was not completely flat, and every so often we crossed over dry hillocks and through dark, damp depressions.

“How is it you are so sure of your path?” I marvelled. In place of an answer the youth pointed to one of the stalks in our path. A red piece of yarn was tied to it, at just about his eye-height, and once I was made aware of this fact I soon noticed a number of similar pieces of yarn affixed to other stalks further along. By those signs one could find the way to Holmes’s hermitage and back again, and were it not for them I would instantly have become irretrievably lost.

“Perhaps there’s gold waiting to be found inside these bamboo shoots.”

“This isn’t a fairy tale,” snorted Moriarty. “But you’re not the first to wonder. The northern Musgraves went extinct centuries ago, yet to this day the Musgraves of Rakusei boast of riches few can even dream of. Gold-laden bamboo aside, there are many who suspect that this land hides some sort of secret, and Madame Richborough is no doubt one of them. Some even say the Musgraves struck a deal with the devil, and in exchange for those riches, the house is forever cursed. The Tale of the Bamboo Cutter is a metaphor for that forbidden pact.

“And there is also the case of Miss Rachel…” he added, after a moment’s consideration.

“You think her disappearance was the work of a curse?”

“Of course not! Such stupidity is beneath me,” he snapped, waving his cane angrily. “But the fact remains that the mystery was never solved. Even Holmes could not unravel that wretched case. I met Miss Rachel at banquets on a number of occasions. She was a sickly girl, but full of curiosity, and quite intelligent.”

When the disappearance of Miss Rachel became public, whispers about the curse were not far behind. Call it petty jealousy or envy, gossip tends to swirl around ancient, wealthy houses, and even after discarding the less scientific rumors that flew around, the unexplainable circumstances of her disappearance remained.

My mind turned to Madame Richborough’s impending spiritual investigation.

“I suppose Madame Richborough intends to solve that mystery.”

“You may be right,” scowled Moriarty. “But I don’t see what that fraud hopes to accomplish.”

　　　　　　　◯

We arrived at a small depression where the bamboo had been cleared away. At the center was a strange object which our guide informed us was Holmes’s hermitage. It was a crude affair, made of simple canvas draped over a bamboo frame, and was not much larger than a casket. In front of the hut a tin pot rested over the flames of a fire pit dug in the earth, issuing an aroma of curry which seemed quite out of place in a bamboo forest. A young man in his twenties sat upon a cloth spread upon the ground, watching over the pot.

“Hello, William,” said the stable-boy.

“Hello, John,” replied the young man placidly.

I had been imagining someone much older than this dreamy-eyed youth, considering that he was entrusted with the care of the Musgraves’ treasured bamboo forest. He wore a coarse brown jacket and a peculiar hat which resembled a withered lotus leaf, and was smoking what appeared to be a pipe whittled out of a bamboo stalk. His appearance was manful in its own way, and yet I could see in his expression an absent-minded detachment; perhaps this was what happened when one lived in a bamboo grove for a very long time.

“Mr. Holmes offered me the rest of his curried mutton,” said he as he stirred the pot. “I do enjoy curry from time to time.”

“I’ve brought some of Mr. Holmes’s friends.”

“Dr. Watson and Professor Moriarty. Mr. Holmes has often spoken of them.”

Holmes himself was nowhere to be seen, and there was nowhere in the foliage-strewn depression to hide. Seeing us look around in confusion, William lifted an arm to point at the treetops. We all looked up to see the bamboo stalks swaying unnaturally; and hidden amongst the leaves was the seat of a grubby pair of trousers.

“I say, Holmes! What are you doing up there?”

“What I do is my own business,” Holmes’s voice drifted down in reply. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to fetch you, of course.”

“No, I’m sorry, I won’t be going back to 221B Teramachi. I have renounced the material world and will spend the rest of my life building a kingdom of my own here in this bamboo grove. Henceforth you may consider me a creature of folklore, like a tsuchinoko. Good day, sir!”

“I don’t understand half of what you mean…but why don’t you come down from there?”

I shook the bamboo, but Holmes did not budge.

“Come, you can do better than that!” he smugly called, to my ire. But try as I might, Holmes’s trouser seat only swayed back and forth overhead in unison with the flexible stalks.

“Holmes,” called Professor Moriarty. “Will you not listen to reason?”

There was no reply, but Moriarty continued his kindly entreaty.

“These three days I have been distraught over your disappearance. I thought you had tired of me, and few other thoughts could have made me more miserable. I do not blame you. I understand completely your desire to seclude yourself in a bamboo grove. But I was deeply grieved nonetheless.”

When Professor Moriarty finished speaking there was a long silence from the top of the bamboo. At last Holmes came clambering deftly down. His appearance was so changed that at first glance I could hardly believe it was him; like William he was wearing a gardener’s overcoat, with a fowling cap on his head, and a slight scratch on his right cheek which I believed must have been from the bamboo. He took the basket from the stable-boy and sat down beside William.

“I never meant to wound you,” he murmured, staring into the fire.

“I believe it,” replied Moriarty with a small nod.

Holmes continued to stare mutely at the pot, so we all gathered around the fireplace and squatted down on the bare ground. For a time the only sound was the crackling of the fire.

“Let me introduce you to my master,” said Holmes, pointing to William. “There is no-one on earth who knows more about bamboo than he.”

William doffed his odd hat and scratched at his tousled head.

“Bamboo is all I know,” he said. “I’ve lived my whole life in the bamboo, and I suppose I will die here. Not many folk will seek me out like you did.”

“Like you, I am prepared to lay my bones to rest here in this bamboo grove.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it. That’s not the person you are.”

“He’s right, Holmes,” I said forcefully. “The clients you abandoned have formed a victims’ group and are pounding on the door of 221B Teramachi as we speak; Mrs. Hudson is doing her utmost against them. How can you simply turn a blind eye?”

“None of that matters, not a bit,” he interrupted, with an air of disinterest. “I am weary of trying to solve the mystery of my slump. I am no longer of any use to anyone, that’s all. Now my only wish is to live quietly and peacefully.”

“That is all well and good,” said Professor Moriarty patiently. “But would you at least do us the favour of going to Hurlstone manor? Reginald Musgrave is in need of your assistance.”

“What assistance can this worn-out husk of a man possibly provide?”

“Madame Richborough will be coming to Hurlstone tonight,” said Moriarity, and he explained what Sir Musgrave had in mind. Holmes listened attentively, yet it seemed that even the prospect of unmasking Madame Richborough was not sufficient to rekindle his old detective’s zeal.

“You’d better let Miss Adler handle it,” he yawned.

Just when it seemed that we were at an impasse yet again, William intervened.

“If I may,” he said, lighting a bamboo pipe packed with tobacco and handing it to Holmes. Holmes took a single puff and handed it back. A shiver went through the rustling bamboo, and Holmes’s obstinate expression relaxed just a little more than it had before.

“Won’t you help them, Mr. Holmes?” said William, studying the pipe.

“But―”

“Won’t you at least try?”

Holmes hung his head like a schoolboy receiving a lecture.

“I am no longer fit to call myself a detective.”

“No one is asking you to be a detective,” replied William, with that curiously limpid gaze. “You needn’t solve any mysteries. All you need to do is be by Reginald’s side.”

William’s voice was like a mystic wind rustling the treetops; we all hung on every word.

I was struck that William had called Sir Musgrave “Reginald”; how many groundskeepers would boldly address their employers by their first name in front of a guest? And there had been a clumsy tenderness in his voice which reminded me of a father talking to his son, or a brother talking to a younger sibling.