tales of Suchita

“Hello,” said the voice on the phone. “My name is Sherlock Homes. I know you never expected a call from me, as famous as I am, but I’ve been given your name as someone who can help me solve a rather sticky situation.”

Mrs. Agarwal rolled her eyes and hollered for Radha. She handed him the phone and said, “This is getting out of hand.”

Puzzled, Radha took the phone, looking at it as if unsure if he wanted to hear whatever the caller had to say. Shaking himself, he put the receiver on his ear and said, “Hello?”

“Hello,” said an exasperated voice. “Can you not hear me?”

“I can hear you loud and clear. Who is this?”

“Why I bloody well told you who I am only moments ago. I am Sherlock Holmes and I…”

“Listen mister,” said Radha, shaking slightly, “I don’t know what you are selling but I am not interested.”

“Master Radha I understand it is difficult for you to grasp the situation but I insist you believe me.”

Radha removed the receiver from his ear and stared at it, trying to make sure it was still a telephone and not a device that promoted hallucinations. He wanted to believe it was indeed Mr. Holmes calling him but, nah, it couldn’t be. Someone from school was definitely pulling his leg. Everyone knew about his skills and how he adored Mr. Holmes.

“Who is this? Is it you Dev D? Is Gee D with you? What are you playing at? Do you want something from me?”

“The temerity! How dare you sir take these names and club me with such abominable…”

Radha laughed out loud. Either his brain was herniating or his tormentors had suddenly gained an excellent vocabulary. Or…could it be? No…no…it couldn’t be…why would…besides he was a character…how…gosh none of it made any sense.

“Are you laughing at me?”

“Are you really Sherlock Holmes?”

“How about you meet me at Prince of Wales Museum at 5 and find out?” The click on the other side gave Radha no opportunity to argue or question further.

The point wasn’t whether he should go but rather what could he possibly tell his mother?

*

Looking at the spiral wooden staircase in front of him, an involuntary shiver ran down Radha’s spine. Either something serious was going on or someone had gone to great lengths to prank him. The incidents of last summer flashed before him. Could it be…? He shook off the thought, half scared half incredulous. It wouldn’t do to go looking for ghosts where there were none.

In the end he had told his mother the truth; that he was going to the museum. He had just not told her about who he was hoping to meet. He had taken Sheetal tai in his confidence – in case he fell into trouble, someone should know what was going on; he had learnt this lesson the hard way. He knew she would keep his secret as long as he reached home by 6.30 PM. A minute later and he would be in a world of trouble.

Radha heard a faint whisper coming from behind him. He turned around slowly, opening his eyes wide to see more in the dim lighting. He saw an orange light winking in the darkness ahead. A cigarette he presumed. “Hello,” he whispered. He didn’t dare move closer.

“I knew I had found the right person. Good job boy,” said the figure as it stepped into the light. “Now where can we discuss important matters at hand?”

Thrilled, speechless, confounded and afraid, Radha stood there for a minute, his body trying to absorb the shock of seeing Sherlock Holmes, in the flesh, standing in front of him. “Is it really you?”

“Well of course it isn’t lad. Get a hold on yourself for pity’s sake. Maybe you aren’t the right person for the job.”

“I know what you’re after,” said Radha, gaining his confidence and voice. “I did some research. You’re looking for a painting which is on display in this museum. You don’t care for the painting particularly. You only want to note down the code written in it which can help you find…uh…I don’t…”

Mr. Holmes smiled benevolently. “And I suppose you already know where the painting is?”

Radha returned the smile. “I can help you find it if you know what you’re looking for.”

“It is a tall painting with two pots – one is right side up and the other is upside down. The colour palette is rather unique with blues, and browns and the brushstrokes…”

“I know the one,” said he, interrupting his deluge of information. He raced up the stairs, not waiting to see if the old man was ambling along in his wake. He turned right and ran down a corridor. At the end, hidden from general view, was the painting Mr. Holmes had talked about. The only reason he knew where this painting was Gayatri miss who had brought her students to the museum to get them interested in finer things. Even though it wasn’t painted by anyone famous and it had a dubious history (every one of its owners had died a terrible death), it cost a fortune.

Now it was relegated to a dusty corner of a museum, used to amuse and scare school students. Radha reached the painting and turned around. Mr. Holmes was right behind him, panting slightly.

“This is the one,” he said in awe. He had been searching for this painting for nigh on two years. And now he had it in his grasp. He couldn’t believe a careless Facebook post had led him to it when none of his contacts could find it.

 “Why did you need my help?”

“There is a little ritual that needs to be performed so the spirit inside the painting does not harm us.”

His eyes growing round with fear, Radha took an involuntary step back. “I thought you didn’t believe in all this.”

“I don’t but it would be foolish of me to ignore the overwhelming evidence.”

“What do you need?”

“Oh nothing much – just a little blood to keep her satiated till we get the information we need.”

Gulping loudly, Radha extended his palm, all the while hoping someone would jump up and scream prank and start laughing hysterically. While he had been excited before, he wasn’t so sure now. What was he going to tell his mother? How would he explain the cut palm? After everything that had happened last year, he had promised himself he would stay away from detecting and stirring trouble. And now…

But what are you to do if trouble comes looking?

Radha laughed to himself. He nodded at Mr. Holmes and before the knife had even touched his palm, started to flinch. A quick nick, a little blood, a splash on the painting and grey smoke began to emanate from it. Stepping back to keep away from inhaling the smoke, he saw that the smoke disappeared almost at once.

“We are ready to begin,” whispered Mr. Holmes. He removed a magnifying glass from his pocket and put it to his left eye. He bent forward, squinting at the right bottom corner of the painting. Without being told to, Radha moved a little away from where the detective was doing his work to keep a lookout. Though he doubted anyone would disturb them – this section did not come in the popular section of the museum nor was it strictly prohibited to come here – he still thought it his duty.

He heard a grunt from behind him and saw drops of blood on the floor near Mr. Holmes’ shoes. “Everything alright?” he whispered. The atmosphere had become such that anything above a whisper seemed foolhardy.

“Yes, my boy. Come here. While I applaud the wisdom of a lookout, I doubt we’ll be disturbed here. Come here I want to show you something.”

Abandoning his post, he went to where Mr. Holmes was on his haunches. He was rubbing his thumb over his fingers again and again. He brought them close to his nose and sniffed. He got up with a speed Radha would have thought impossible, pulled him by the shoulder and walked out, out of the corridor, down the stairs and back into the shadows where he had been hiding.

Radha asked no questions. It wasn’t the time to ask questions. He simply waited.

After ten minutes of utter silence, two thugs showed up. Seeing their dark suits and bulging pockets, Radha broke into cold sweat. He quickly looked at his watch. It was 5.40 PM; not a lot of time until Sheetal tai raised the alarm. Knowing her, she probably wouldn’t wait until 6.30. He had to do something, and fast.

He pulled Mr. Holmes’ jacket and breathed into his hear, “Did you get what you wanted?”

“Mr. Holmes, we know you’re in here.”

He felt the man beside him tense. Before he could stop him, Mr. Holmes had already escaped the hiding place and stood directly in the line of fire. “Ah Sergio. There you are. I had been wondering when you would remove your thumbs from out of your arsehole and use them to find me instead.”

“What you hiding in my arsehole?” he retorted with a grin.

Rolling his eyes, Radha left the men to their devices of name calling, riling each other up and the works. He started to move sideways, hiding behind the suits of armour. What could he do? Could he trust the security guard to take down someone as experienced as Sergio? No he could not. Could he spook them into believing…an idea forming in his head, Radha kept moving sideways, hoping he’d reach closer to the staircase any minute.

6 PM and counting.

Sherlock Holmes was aware that people…family…were awaiting the boy’s return. That gave him no comfort. If they came looking for him, they’d be caught in the crossfires and he couldn’t allow that to happen. “Sergio we both know that the code I got from the painting will be useless to you. What is the point of this harassment?”

“You think you’re the only one who can read gurgun? I have a scholar who can read the language and point us in the direction of the hidden treasure.”

Sherlock laughed. “Oh Sergio you were always the gullible one. There is no treasure. The code opens a family crypt full of family secrets and heirlooms. Why would you be interested in something as mundane as that?”

Sergio looked at his partner – that was not the information he had been given. His partner shook his head and Sergio turned back only to find Holmes missing. He cursed loudly and ran up the stairs, instructing his partner to check every nook and cranny of the ground floor.

Radha was preparing to pounce out of his hiding place when he saw Mr. Holmes. “Psst, over here.”

Going over to where he was hiding, Sherlock crouched behind a shelf and asked, “What’s the plan Master Radha.”

Grinning, he told the man he idolized beyond compare.

“A simple, workable plan. I am, most humbly, impressed.”

The conversation stopped as soon as they heard the heavy footfalls and the heavy breathing. When they were sure Sergio was within hearing distance, Radha started a mighty racket using a short sword he had borrowed from the armour downstairs. Sherlock added to the commotion by whooping as if in pain.

Sergio stopped in his tracks, a trickle of sweat running down his face. He had heard about the howling woman – the name of the painting even though it had no woman and no howling, only two pots.

Taking it as their cue, Radha and Sherlock began to scream as though terrified. Then nodding at each other, Radha got up from his hiding place and streaked past Sergio, still screaming. When Sergio saw Holmes in similar agony, he followed them, without question.

The screaming had reached the partner who stopped his search to see what was going on. He had heard the stories too. He saw two figures run out of the door and ten seconds later, the doors to the section thudded close.

“Master Radha,” panted Sherlock, “You must make your way home. I have gotten what I came here for. I will contact you again.”

“Will you be okay?”

Sherlock Holmes smiled. A boy worrying about an adult. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had worried about him. “Yes boy, I will be fine. I am leaving directly and going to Delhi. I will see you soon.”

Radha nodded in understanding and went to leave but came back and hugged the man. “I don’t know if any of this is real. But thank you…thank you.”

“Come now my boy,” said he gruffly, oddly touched. “We have miles to go. Run along now. And look for my coming on the seventh day of the rising sun.” With that cryptic message, he disappeared into thin air.

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Written for the Write Tribe Festival of Words – June 2018 prompt: “Hello,” said the voice on the phone. “My name is __________. I know you never expected a call from me, as famous as I am, but I’ve been given your name as someone who can help me _______.” (Write a story that follows this line.)