Fatal Enquiry

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Shambhala was one of those names I’d heard or read of somewhere in my studies, and one a classics scholar is supposed to know, but to tell the truth, whether the place was actual or literary, I had not the slightest idea. There wasn’t a book on the subject in my employer’s library. As rough-and-tumble as he was, Cyrus Barker respected the knowledge that could be obtained in books, and his collection, while not especially deep on any one subject, was large enough to attract a bibliophile like myself. So far I had skipped across it like a flat stone on a placid lake. I hadn’t realized, up to that moment, how much I had come to rely upon it for information and research, if not for entertainment. Much of it was in foreign tongues and modern novels were scarce, but I was giving myself a second education through the study of Barker’s haphazard bookshelf.

Before settling myself in the Reading Room, I often liked to poke about the mummies from Egypt and the Asian relics, basking in the antiquity and the wisdom of ages past, but that day, I simply made my way to the desk which I consider my own, P-16, and fell into the chair. I breathed in the must of books and listened to the echoing murmur of scholarship. The Bodleian may beat it for research, but not for the sheer joy of sitting surrounded by books for which you never have to pay a farthing. I love its perfect gold-leafed dome and its curving recessed bookcases and the blue-green-leather-clad rows of desks radiating out like the spokes of a wheel. Its staff is deferential and knowledgeable and often better dressed than the patrons who can occasionally be rather scruffy and eccentric looking, present company excluded.

“Excuse me,” I said to a passing librarian. “Could you help me find something?”

“Certainly, sir,” the man replied with formality. “For what, pray, are we looking today?”

“I’m searching for something called Shambhala,” I told him.

“Aren’t we all? If you’ll excuse me, sir, I shall return in a couple of minutes.”

I listened to the echoed coughs and conversations, the whisper of pencil on paper and the scrapings of chairs. It never failed to soothe my fraught nerves. It’s as if the books absorbed all of the tension.

“Follow me, sir,” the librarian murmured at my elbow. I got up and went after him. He moved so silently that I could not help but look down at his shoes. On his feet, he wore a pair of patent-leather opera slippers with thick felt soles attached to the bottom. Perhaps, I told myself, the staff is in its way as eccentric as the patrons. He led me to a large table not far from the front entrance, stacked high with books and notepads. A space had been cleared in front of a brace of chairs save for two small and aged volumes in imminent danger of falling into dust. The librarian donned a pair of white gloves, sat in one of the chairs, and opened the first book carefully as I seated myself beside him. He was fiftyish with gray hair and hooded eyes behind a pair of pince-nez spectacles. He was tall, of medium build, and wholly unremarkable in appearance, a bookish man, even by the standards of the people who inhabited this vast chamber.

“There isn’t a great deal written about Shambhala, I’m afraid, at least very little that has been translated from the original Tibetan. Shambhala is a mythical city or country, either in Tibet or the Gobi Desert, or possibly along the ethereal plane.”

“Did you just say ‘ethereal plane’?” I asked.

“Yes, sir, I’m afraid I did. There is some question whether Shambhala exists on Earth at all. If it does, it is a fabulous city of gold and jewels and a highly enlightened people, a utopia, if you will, and if it does not, it is a place which exists outside of our universe, not unlike heaven, which one can enter at will only after many years of study in Tibetan Buddhism. Does that help you?”

“I have no idea. I was merely told by my employer to research Shambhala.”

“Would your employer be the mysterious Mr. Barker for whom everyone is searching?”

“How did you know?”

He gave a wan smile. “I’m afraid the library staff are a group of old women when it comes to gossip. They know most of their customers by name. You, for example, are Mr. Llewelyn, who was recommended to the museum by Lord Glendeening. You like to read poetry.”

“I do,” I confessed. “But I notice you didn’t include yourself in the group.”

“Oh, I am not a librarian, Mr. Llewelyn, much as it would please me to be one. I am merely a humble scholar.”

“Good heavens,” I said, standing quickly. “I do apologize. I thought you were a member of the staff.”

“Oh, don’t apolgize,” he said, raising a hand and smiling. “I take it as a high compliment when someone confuses me with the staff here.”

“So, you’re just a patron, like me?”

“Not precisely. One could say for all intents and purposes that I live here. I’m the first in the door each morning and the last one out of the door at night. In fact, they are kind enough to let me in early most of the time. They don’t like their first patron hovering outside.”

It turned out that I had disturbed another of the eccentrics that, chameleonlike, had attached himself to the edifice.

“Don’t you have an occupation?”

“None save the accumulation of knowledge. I have an ample private income and have nothing or no one in particular to spend it on. And I like to help people like you when I can, in an amateur capacity, of course.”

“What is your field of study?”

“Any and everything. I’ve dipped into most of the books in this library. I do have an interest in esoterica, such as the possibly noncorporeal existence of a land known as Shambhala.”

“I thought you seemed well versed in the subject.”

“The information that exists is only found in these two old volumes. The first is from The Relaceo, by Father Estavio Cacella, a Jesuit missionary in Tibet. The second is from The Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society by a Hungarian Orientalist, Alexander Csoma de Koros. Both speak of a fabulous city of the north. De Koros calls it the Buddhist Jerusalem. This city may be found in China or in the north of Tibet.”

“So, which is it? Is Shambhala of this world, or the next, in your opinion?”

“In my opinion?” he asked, touching his chest and leaving brown, velvety dust on his waistcoat. “Who cares about what I think?”

“I do. That is, it seems to me to be an educated opinion.”

“You honor me. Either that or you are in a hurry. I really dislike giving opinions. What if I am wrong?”

“I don’t intend to travel to Tibet this afternoon based upon it, if that’s what you mean. Just tell me what you think and why.”

He nodded. “That I can do, I suppose. Let us reason together, as Isaiah said. Shambhala cannot be a country of any size, or it would have been found by now. I know Tibet is forbidden to Western visitors and much of it is unexplored or at least uncharted, but something akin to what I’ve described to you could hardly pass unnoticed. Likewise, a city would require thousands of people living there, and surely travelers will have passed through and left records beyond these few paltry examples before us. The explorer Burton stole into forbidden Mecca, for example, merely to write about it.”

“That leaves the so-called ethereal plane,” I said.

“That, too, is problematic, at best. A place where people can project their minds or souls, it’s beyond our Western understanding. I’m not certain I can fully believe it. As one gets older, one’s mind is less vigorous at leaps of faith, as one’s body is less vigorous at leaping over puddles.”

“So, what are we left with if you eliminate both?” I asked.

“We are left with something lesser. Personally, I like lesser. It’s pragmatic, especially given the chance for exaggeration by travelers. What if Shambhala is a monastery high in the Himalayas or perched in the Kunluns, or even in the middle of the Gobi Desert? Monasteries often keep valuables, being considered the safest and most well-fortified buildings. They are also places of deep meditation and some would say of miraculous occurrences. Tibet is littered with such forgotten monasteries, hidden away in high, inaccessible mountain ranges.”

“Perhaps,” I agreed. “But it doesn’t sound nearly as exciting.”

“True,” he answered, “but it is more exciting than another possibility, that the kingdom of Shambhala was sacked and abandoned centuries ago, and that’s why we’ve heard no more about it, lost to history like the Ten Tribes of Israel.”

“I see what you mean. Still, it would be exciting to find.”

“I’d prefer to travel to Shambhala in my mind, thank you, though if I went anywhere in the world it would be to Tibet. There is so much there I want to study. But I’m not the sort to go traipsing over far mountain ranges looking for something that may not be there.”

“I agree, but it isn’t me who wish to go, nor even my employer.”

“Who intends to go, then?”

“A certain scoundrel I know.”

“Tell me about him.”

I hesitated before speaking again. After all, I did not know this man from Adam. While he waited patiently, I deliberated for a full minute before deciding to offer an expurgated version of the tale.

“There is a man in London trying to gather funds for an expedition to Tibet, possibly to Shambhala.”

“Aha,” he said. “Hold on just a moment.”

He stood and made his way soundlessly to the center of the room to the staff desk and returned a few minutes later with an index card in his hand. “A gentleman without a membership has been here recently. He sat over there, as I recall. He requested these two books, as well as asked to study our collection of maps.”

“What kind of maps?” I asked.

“Tibet and the Himalayas. Do you believe he is looking to make a fortune by finding Shambhala?”

“He may be. And if he can achieve fame or infamy along the way, I’m sure he thinks so much the better.”

“Some of the monasteries in that part of the world are wealthy beyond description, having altarpieces of pure gold, studded with jewels. What army exists to defend Lhasa is small, disorganized, and poorly armed. China is attempting to usurp power but there is also a nationalist movement afoot in Tibet. The country is run by a regent, because the last several Dalai Lamas have been murdered. If Tibet is what he’s after, it is a very vulnerable place at the moment.”

“What else could he be after?”

“There are some powers on the earth that require a great purity and noble motives, you know, such as Galahad and the Holy Grail. Shambhala is not like that. It can be used for great good, but it can also be usurped for evil purposes, as well. We encounter people in our lives who are mean-spirited or petty, or selfish, but one may go one’s entire life without finding someone who has attained pure evil.”

“You sound like something of a mystic.”

“I don’t know that I’d go that far. I read and think a great deal. Sometimes I get an insight or two. I shall certainly be meditating over this situation.”

“Sir,” I said. “I’m a simple Methodist boy and Barker is as Baptist as Cromwell. I don’t know anything about mysticism and Buddhists. Please don’t think I mean you any disrespect, because I don’t, but you needn’t go meditating on my account.”

“Of course not,” he said, giving me a slight smile. “You simply came upon me in your path while looking for answers to Shambhala.”

“Accidentally,” I added.

“If there are such things as accidents. Did you get answers? To your satisfaction, I mean?”

“Answers? I certainly got answers. Whether they are to my satisfaction is a different matter. Do you really think this man will try to get to Shambhala? Would anyone really go to so much trouble for a place that probably doesn’t exist?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think, Mr. Llewelyn. Your employer mentioned the name and it certainly wasn’t random.”

“True.”

“His opinions are generally sound.”

“How would you know that?” I asked. “He doesn’t come here.”

“Mr. Barker is of interest to a number of people, even without a price on his head. I like to keep track of him, in a loose sort of way, I mean.”

“He would be gratified to hear it, I suppose,” I told him.

My companion peeled off his gloves, the tips brown and powdery, and dropped them in an ash can.

“I’m sorry,” I said to him. “I did not get your name.”

“I did not give it. It is Liam Grant.”

“Mr. Grant, from time to time our work in the private enquiry trade requires deep study on various subjects. I wonder if you would be interested in helping us. We would pay you, of course.”

“Oh, keep your filthy lucre, sir. As I said, I’m an amateur. I’d do it for the research alone. I must admit, it sounds exciting, working for an enquiry agent.”

“Yes, I suppose it would. I felt the same when I first took the position. But allow me to take you to lunch sometime.”

“The Alpha Inn across the street grills a fine chop. I should know, I’ve dined and supped there every day since I moved to London. I’m not particular about food.”

“Do you live close by?”

“I purchased a flat in Montague Street from a friend. It’s small but snug and meets my humble needs. I lead a modest and prescribed life, Mr. Llewelyn. Truth be told, I have not gone farther than Regent’s Park since I arrived eight years ago this Whitsuntide. That’s the way I prefer it. My body stays put, but my mind travels on diverse planes.”

“I shall leave you to your travels then, Mr. Grant. I wish you a bon voyage.”

“One day I shall give you a proper tour of this place,” he said, gesturing toward his circular universe. “You’ll be amazed at what can be found here.”

“I look forward to it. Good day, sir.”

Outside I stopped, adjusted my bowler against the bright sun, and hailed a cab. I had gone in merely for some information. It wasn’t until later that I realized I had chosen the first “watcher” of my career.