Sherlock Holmes in
The Case of the Monastery Mystery

written by Colleen Burton

It was the summer of ‘92 when I finally persuaded my good friend, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, to revive his failing health by travelling to a faraway
country for a little rest and relaxation.  We chose the snow-capped
mountains of Ubet for our vacation spot.  After hiring two horses and
loading them with supplies, we crossed the rocky mountains just in time to
se the sun peek over the purple mountains and shine into the little Ubetian
village, nestled at the basin of the mountains.  The village was our
stopover point before we climbed the rocky cliff that led to the Ubetian
monastery.  I spotted it first, and pointed it out to my friend.  He, too,
was in high spirits, and remarked, “Ah, Watson, two weeks of peace and quiet
in the fresh air!  I’m almost glad you coerced me into this!”  All of the
establishments in the village (we noticed as we got closer) were made of
wood.  We stopped at a particularly shabby one with the single word “INN”
printed on a plank of wood hanging outside of it.  Holmes remarked of his
thirst, so we took a table.  A great, burly man in a green apron with a
general air of congeniality approached us, saying,”Welcome, strangers!  Have
some yak milk.”  “What on earth is a yak?” My slightly bemused comrade
asked.  The man gestured out the window at a large animal with shaggy brown
fur, a piggish nose, and white horns above the drooping ears.  “Why, it’s our
national animal!” The man declared as he set the simple tray before us,
“It’s also our main source of food.”  I couldn’t help chuckling at the
disgusted face Holmes made as he choked his down.  “Well, Watson,” said he,
“I trust it won’t replace a good British whiskey-and-soda.”

Later, as we remounted our horses, the inn owner expressed his thanks and
wished us an enjoyable stay.  The path was narrow, so we drove our horses on
single file.  Sherlock cast an introspective glance around the mountains
that towered around us.  “It seems that we are in a particularly dangerous
pass, Watson,” he cautioned.  No sooner had he finished his sentence, than
my horse caught sight of a huge green snake nearby and reared up with a
whinny.  I settled him down, and even managed to save myself from being
thrown, but a low rumbling noise was coming from the mountains.  Holmes
pulled his horse up sharply and looked quickly around.  “Listen,” said he,
“All our noise has started-a-rockslide!”  We dug our heels into the horses
and they pounded through the pass.  Great boulders crashed all around us as
they ran, and it was all I could do to stammer an apology to my companion. 
“Keep riding!” He yelled back, “Our only chance is to outrun those
boulders!”

Finally, we emerged shaken and exhausted onto a higher ledge, just large
enough to accommodate our steeds.  “We cut that rather fine, did we not,
Friend Watson?” He remarked.  My eye caught sight of movement up ahead, and
I shouted a warning to Holmes, who was ahead of me.  “Not to worry,” he
replied, “Merely one of the local yaks.”  And so it was.  Our attention was
soon called to the wide expanse of blue sky by the loud screeching of the
hawks up above us.  As we looked up, we noticed the large bronze gate that
encircled the monastery grounds.  “Not quite London, eh Holmes?”   “Well,
Watson, we are here for quiet, not luxury,” he pointed out.  As our horses
trotted through the entrance, I gazed around us at the seemingly deserted
monastery.  As we dismounted, Holmes pointed out, “Observe the litter
collected over there, and how well kept these buildings are.  It is
obviously inhabited at present.  He turned and pointed at a huge bronze door
set into one of the many adobe-and-clay buildings at the monastery. 
“Perhaps they are all inside,” he suggested, “Let’s go search for them.”  I
helped him shove open the heavy door.  The sunlight threw our shadows across
the stone floor, and we gazed upon a large inner chamber dimly illuminated
by candles.  “It’s a temple!” Sherlock whistled as he gazed.  But what held
our interest were the objects in the center; a huge golden statue of Buddha
holding a beautiful flower, and a large lustrous bell dangling over satiny
violet curtains.  “A golden statue and a silver bell!” I exclaimed, “I say,
Holmes, we seem to have stumbled upon quite a little treasure!”  But Holmes
frowned.  “Why isn’t all this treasure better protected?” He pondered.   Just
then, we felt strong hands clamp down on our shoulders.

“It IS protected,” announced one of our captors, “especially from thieves
like you!”  Turning, I could only see a group of hooded monks in orange
robes with pointed brown shoes.  “Us- thieves?!” I cried, “You’re making a
mistake!”  “Don’t deny it!” Shouted the same monk, “Come along!”  “I do deny
it,” replied Sherlock, “Where are you taking us?”  They were shoving us
through a door from the Temple and into a corridor.  One monk rushed ahead
to open a gold-plated door, and answered, “To the office of the Rama Lama!”  
Behind this door was a small room, in the middle of which, atop a purple
sofa, sat a large monk in flowing orange robes and a pointed orange hat.  He
gave us a questioning look as our captors rudely pushed us before him.  The
monks that were attending him turned to look at us.  The rough man that had
first spoken now appealed to his leader, “O Lama!  We have caught the
thieves who have been stealing our treasures from the temple.”  I lifted my
hands in a hopeful gesture and said, “We’re not thieves, sir.”  Holmes
attempted a further explanation, “My name is Sherlock Holmes and my
companion is Dr. Watson- we’re detectives travelling from London.”  The kind
man smiled and said, “Ah, detectives!  We could rather use some of those. 
How fortunate then that you have come to visit us!”  He gestured at the mat
beneath us, and we uneasily sat as the monks went away.  The Rama Lama
offered us refreshment, and a monk in spectacles appeared behind us, bearing
two glasses of warm yak milk on a golden tray.  Poor Holmes again choked
down the odd drink.  Then the Lama began to explain the situation, “We need
detectives because many of our holy treasures are vanishing from our temple.
  Perhaps you can help us!  But we shall talk further after you join me at
dinner.”  Sherlock and I followed the monk out of the room.  I could tell he
was all too eager at the prospect of real food.

We were led to another huge candle-lit chamber where the monks were eating
on white mats at low tables.  We supped at the Lama’s elevated table,
however.  He addressed us before his followers, “Honored guests, please join
us in our traditional meal of yak milk and yak cheese.”  By now, even I was
beginning to miss the fogs of Baker Street.  The Lama fully explained the
thieves’ possibilities for escape, “...therefore, the mountain pass is the
only route thieves could take to gain access to our temple.  However, we
have guarded it night and day for weeks, and seen no one but yourselves.” 
Sherlock Holmes promised he would do everything in his power to aid the
monastery.  Our host smiled and said, “Thank you.  Now it is time for
everyone to sleep.  Come!”

In a few minutes, I found myself trying to relax on a particularly hard
straw mat.  Holmes’ mat was vacated however, as he was leaning out the
window and gazing at the mountain pass, lit by the sliver of the moon. 
Sitting up, I began to reproach our wasted vacation, “Confound it!  We come
here for a vacation, and fall into more detective work.”  “Well, it does
keep our lives rather interesting, Watson,” remarked my companion, who was
obviously pleased by this turn of events.  Suddenly, Holmes gave an
exclamation.  I turned to see what was the matter.  “Halloa...what’s this?”
Sherlock said, “There’s a light moving about in the courtyard.  Someone is
walking towards the Temple!”  We dashed into the courtyard and ran for the
Temple doors.  “If they are thieves,” Holmes said, “Perhaps we can catch
them in the middle of their thievery!”  As soon as we burst in, however, we
realized that all the candles had been doused and we were in pitch darkness.
  We blinked like owls for several moments, when I heard a rustling sound
behind me.  Before I had time to turn, someone had dealt me a sharp blow on
the head, and I collapsed, insensible.

When I woke up a few minutes later, I saw that Holmes, too, had not escaped
the onslaught.  He awoke with a groan and mumbled something as he fumbled
for his matches.  In the dim light we saw the bronze candlesticks that had
been used to attack us.  In a minute, we had relit all the Temple candles,
and our minds cleared.  Then Holmes chanced to look up at the gleaming
golden Buddha statue.  “Devil take it, Watson!” He shouted, “Whoever
assaulted us were the thieves we’ve been looking for!  Look!”  I, too,
gasped at the sight, “They took the jewelled flower from the statue’s hand!”
  We heard a rush of feet, and all the monks burst into the Temple,
brandishing candles and moaning in dismay.  The Rama Lama rushed up,
shouting, “What has happened?  A monk saw you leave your room and called
us!”  We endeavoured to explain the ambush and the theft of the jewelled
lotus.  The head monk stared at the empty hand with a serious face and
grief-stricken eyes.  “This thievery must end!” He declared, “For we are
poor monks indeed if we cannot protect our own shrine!”  “We’ll stop them,”
Holmes replied with fiery determination in his eyes.  As we turned to leave,
the Rama Lama advised us, “There is but one path they could take to smuggle
it to the village--the mountain pass you came through!”  “Come, Watson,” my
friend commanded, “I know what we must do.”  We went back to our room, and
Holmes ran to the window (or rather the window-shaped hole in the stone)
and gestured at it.  “It is nearly dawn.  The pass is in clear sight from
this window.  We’ll see anyone that uses it!” He said.  I came to his side
and swung my head out round his for a clearer view.  “Holmes!” I cried, “I
see some movement down there already!”  “Let’s take a closer look,” he
mumbled.  He leaned forward until the object was in plain sight.  “Drat!” He
exclaimed, “Not the thieves-just a yak!”

Much later that afternoon, the Rama Lama came to relieve us of our duties. 
“My friends,” he said, “You watch most vigilantly, but it is time to take
some rest.”  I yawned as an exhausted Sherlock agreed, “True, it wouldn’t
hurt.  We’ve seen no one on the pass all day.”  We walked up to the open
roof, stretched, and leaned on the wall.  “It does feel good to rest my
eyes,” Holmes admitted.  “Indeed.  I nearly forgot we were on a vacation,” I
mentioned.  “You must live a strenuous life to have to come so far for
rest!” The Lama said.  “Well, it seems we can’t refuse people in trouble,”
my friend replied modestly.  As we walked back down to the ground, Sherlock
suggested we walk through the shrine to look for clues.  I readily agreed. 
As we walked down the dark passageway, something suddenly swooped low over
my companion’s head.  “Wha...?  A bat!” He exclaimed, “A bat flying about in
broad daylight?”  We hurried to the central chamber.  Next to the gold
statue was an empty hook and nearby, a door we hadn’t noticed before in the
wall.  With a curse, he said, “The thieves struck again--and while we were
on the watch!  They came through that hidden door and stole the silver
bell.”  “THAT is where the bat came from!” I deduced.  As we darted to the
secret door, he turned to me with a familiar gleam in his eye.  “At least
they left us a trail to follow this time, Watson!”  The door led us to a
small room that was fenced in all around from top to bottom with bookcases
full of old books.  Holmes whipped out his lens and examined the ground. 
“It looks as if there were two of them... they left tracks in the dust
covering the floor,” he observed, “They walked across here,” he said, “And
through a bookcase?!”  He straightened, and began whisking the books off the
shelves and strewing them around carelessly around.  I questioned him as to
this curious action.  “I’m looking for the one book that can’t be pulled off
the shelf,” he replied, and giving the last one a vicious tug, it snapped
back into place and the entire bookcase swung back on its hinges.  “Ah-hah!”
He shouted.  “ANOTHER secret passage!” I gasped.  Behind the books lay a
winding stone staircase.  Up this we ran, while my friend triumphantly
yelled,”NOW we’ve got them, Watson!  Hurry!”  He shoved open the bronze door
at the top and we rushed in.  Before us lay a simple room--a table to one
side and window cut into the stone, partially covered by a brown curtain. 
But our attention was riveted on the pair of orange robes, which lay before
us.  “I say, Holmes--monk’s robes!  But why would the monks take off their
robes and run away?”  “Because, my dear doctor, they were only disguises.  
The thieves are villagers!”

He went to the window saying, “If they’ve just left, we ought to still be
able to see them!”  I peered out beside him, groaning in dismay, “Confound
it, Holmes!  They’ve escaped again!  Now there isn’t a thing on the pass,
except that yak.”  He, however, was looking at the bizarre animal with an
expression of intense interest and curiosity.  “Look closer, Watson.  That
yak is wearing the Temple’s missing silver bell!”  I failed to draw any
inferences from the puzzling sight, but may be sure I was close at his heels
when he rushed out of the monastery and down the cliff with a rope in his
hands.  Holmes made a lasso and whirled it round as he approached the yak
that was walking along the cliffside.  The yak turned to look at us.  My
friend sent off the lasso and caught it on the yak’s back foot.  The
frightened creature jerked its foot up, and Holmes lost his balance and flew
up into the air.  He was flung over the edge and saved himself by twisting
around and grabbing a protruding branch.  Infuriated at this crude
treatment, I rushed at the yak, swinging my fists.  I grabbed its white
horns and gave them a good jerk.  To my surprise, the entire head came off
in my hands and I fell back against the rocks.  The bell clattered loudly to
the ground and two heads peeped out at me from slits in the hide.  The two
villagers climbed out from their costume, one clad in a brown robe and
another in a green.  I stared, shocked, at what my quicker friend had
already deduced.  The heavyset one in brown grabbed up the bell, and
clutching it to him, ran off, but the thin man in green came up to me as I
was climbing to my feet and said, “You must not stop us!”  With that, he
shoved me hard, and I began to fall backwards over the cliff.  Sherlock, who
had been struggling up the rocks, now braced himself and caught me in his
hand.  I grabbed for handholds frantically as he pushed me up.  By the time
I had dragged him up again, the crooks were well on their way to the
village.

Panting, I watched them run.  “We’ll never catch them now!” I wailed.  
Holmes got behind a boulder and began throwing his weight on it.  “Don’t
count on it, Watson!” He replied.  “You-you’re going to start a rockslide!”
I said, as the huge boulder crashed into the pass below.  “Yes,” he
explained, “But well ahead of them.”  We ran down to catch up to thieves.  
Green-Robe shrieked,” AAIIEE!  The rockslide had blocked the pass!” as the
cliff came tumbling in before them.  “Now we can round these two up and
learn the truth about this monastery mystery!” Holmes said to me.

Back at the monastery, our prisoners bowed low to the holy personage of the
Rama Lama, and fervently expresses their apologies.  “Forgive us, O Rama
Lama!  We will return all that we stole!” Said Brown-Robe.  The confused
Lama asked, “ But why did you villagers take out temple treasures?” 
Brown-Robe replied, “We are very poor and want money to open an English
restaurant.  No one in the village can stand the yak milk and cheese any
longer.  We want English food!”  My friend turned to me with laughter in his
eyes.  “I know EXACTLY how they feel,” he whispered.  As we strolled out
into the sunshine, getting ready to depart for London, the Rama Lama joined
us.  “Thank you for your great assistance to us on your vacation.  This
great stress makes me wish to have one!” he said.  As Holmes turned to face
him, I knew just what he was going to say.

Back in London, as Mrs. Hudson served us up a hearty dinner, she thanked the
old monk for coming to visit.  He smiled and said, “No, I must thank you! 
For I, too, have tired of yak milk every day!”

THE END