Moriarty examined the 700-year-old cup. “A treasure,” he agreed. “Which reminds me.

I have a favor I
would ask of you.” Prince Tseng spread his arms wide. “It is granted,” he said. “I have been sent some
rubbings from ancient bronze vessels found in the Wu’ang Valley,” Moriarty told him. “They may be from
the Shang period.”

“Old, indeed,” murmured Prince Tseng. “There are inscriptions on the vessels which appear to be
medical in nature, but I have been unable to decipher some of the old form pictographs. I could not find
them in any of the reference books to which I have access. If you

Tseng nodded deeply. “My son Charles,” he said, “is on his way back from visiting his grandmother in
Peking. He is a student of the old forms, and would be pleased to assist you.” “I thank you,” said
Moriarty.

After an exchange of pleasantries just long enough to assure Moriarty that he had fulfilled the Chinese
imperative for excessive politeness, and Prince Tseng that he had been sufficiently brusque, in
accordance with English custom, Tseng approached the subject which had occasioned Moriarty’s visit.
“Have you familiarized yourself with what is known of this man Lord Turlick?” he asked.

Moriarty nodded. “Second son of the sixth Baron Turlick. Winchester, Oxford, and the Colonial Service.
Became the seventh Baron when his father and brother went down in the Pomonia in ‘82. Served in
India, Ceylon, and as deputy governor of Hong Kong, but seems to have developed little understanding
of other peoples or cultures in the process. Thinks of anyone who is not British—English—as a ‘native,’
and thereby inferior. Has a noted collection of Chinese, Japanese, and Indian art, for which he has
neither an understanding nor an appreciation beyond pride of possession. His grandfather started the
collection and founded a museum in Cambridge to house it.”

Tseng nodded. “Just so,” he said. “It is in reference to his Chinese collection, or, more precisely, a few
specific items of it, that I wish to consult you.”

“Ah!” said Moriarty. “Pieces of exceptional value?”

Prince Tseng stroked his long, thin beard. “Seven small antique jades. Lord Turlick believes them to be
chessmen,” he said. “They are not. As historical artifacts their value to the Chinese people is beyond
price. As pieces of art in the collection of a foreign barbarian who has no idea what he has—” He
shrugged. “Who can say? At any rate, he will not sell them.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Moriarty, “you would like me to suggest ways in which these artifacts might be
artfully removed from the baron’s possession?”

“For something so simple I would not impose upon your friendship,” said Tseng. “I had contemplated
and made preparations for such a venture, but an added complication has developed. It was then that I
thought of you.”

Moriarty laced his fingers together over his chest. “Tell me,” he said.

“They have disappeared,” said Tseng, “from a room in the Turlick Antiquities Museum. The associate
curator, a man named Bing, was found dead in the middle of the room, impaled on a long bamboo
pikestaff which had been holding up a Ming dynasty war banner. The banner was ruined. The, ah,
chessmen were missing. The room has only one exit, which was in view of the guard at the front desk
the whole time. No one was seen to enter or leave the room, except for the unfortunate Mr. Bing.”

Moriarty leaned back. “Really?” he asked. “How, ah, interesting.”

Tseng took a deep breath and refilled his teacup. “Lord Turlick is perturbed,” he said. “In his mind seven
ancient chessmen have disappeared. If he knew what they actually were,” Tseng shrugged, his arms
raised in vast wonder at the unexplainable ways of the world, “who knows what he might think—or do.”

“And what are they?” asked Moriarty.

Prince Tseng Li-chang stroked his wispy beard. “In the Dao-ist mythology of the Middle Kingdom,” he told
Moriarty, “there is described a demon known as The Impure One. He is ninety chi tall and has six eyes,
which are constantly peering around to see if anyone is looking at him. He dislikes being looked at. From
his nostrils come dragons, and from his mouth he spits sea monsters and other foul things. He has seven
fingers on his left hand and nine on his right. These fingers move about on their own in the guise of
human beings, spreading discord and promoting panic wherever they go.”

“Charming,” said Moriarty.

“The seven fingers on his left hand are Greed, Sloth, Filial Disrespect, Gossip, Disorder, Cruelty, and
Impiety. The nine on his right hand are—well, you do not need to know, and that is fortunate for you.”

“Really?” asked Moriarty.

“Just so,” assured the prince.

“Ah!” said Moriarty. “Tell me about the missing statuary.”

“Carved jade with inset brass decorations. At least fifteen hundred years old. It is not known what
technique was used to create them. The pieces are four to six inches high and one and one half to two
inches wide. They are carved representations of peasants, mandarins, and courtiers. Each is said to
contain the vital energy of one of the fingers.”

“And Lord Turlick thinks they are chess pieces?”

“So I understand. I assume he does not play chess.” The prince gestured and a servant brought over a
rosewood box. “These are duplicates I had made,” he said, opening the box. “The brass fittings on the
figures have had to be cemented in place and will eventually come loose. How the originals were done is
not known. Nonetheless, this is what the figures look like.”

Moriarty examined the figurines one at a time. “Remarkable objects,” he said. “Tell me all you know
about the disappearance of the originals.”

 
“Gone,” said Baron Turlick, waving his arms in exasperation. “Just gone. Totally. From this room. That
case over there. And an employee murdered. With a guard in the hall. Impossible, you say?”

“I say no such thing,” said Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, looking slowly around the room.
The three windows along the left-hand wall were long and thin, perhaps eight inches wide, and highly
placed. They cranked outward from the top and were open four or five inches. Bars on the outside
assured that no access was possible. On the far wall was a display of Ming dynasty battle banners, four-
foot square silk flags attached by silk cords to long bamboo pikestaves with pointed iron tips. One of the
staves was lying on the floor along the wall, its banner shredded. The ancient solid door of thick oak
through which they had come into the room was the only entrance.

“Scotland Yard is baffled,” Turlick said.

Holmes turned to face him. “Of course they are.”

Turlick, a thickset man with a shovel beard which was clipped straight across around mid-throat, scoured
the echoing room with an angry glare. “Their best men. They assured me. Their very best. Baffled.”

Holmes bent down and peered for a long moment at the large freshly-scrubbed stain on the hardwood
floor, where the unfortunate Mr. Bing had met his end. “A pity they’ve cleaned the area up. The most
suggestive clues have probably been removed. Still….” He whipped out a four-inch magnifying glass and
knelt on the floor. “Tell me everything,” he said to Turlick. “Particularly those facts you consider
irrelevant or unimportant. Start from before the theft. How long had you owned the missing pieces, and
where did you acquire them?”

Lord Turlick’s face puckered as though he were tasting something sour. “I have no time for such
foolishness,” he said. “I’ll send in Hastings, my museum director, to speak with you. Let me know when
you have solved this little mystery. And remember, I pay for results.”

Holmes stood up, towering six inches over Turlick, and looked down at him. “My fees are fixed,” he said
coldly. “If you prefer, I will deal with your insurance company.”
“Yes, yes,” said Turlick hastily. “I mean no, no. Send me your bill, sir, and I shall honor it. I am distraught.
The chessmen were the focus of my collection.”

“And the death of Mr. Bing,” Holmes said.

“Yes, yes,” Turlick affirmed. “That, too.” He went to the door and then stopped and turned back. “There
are photographs,” he said. “I’ll have Hastings bring you a set to examine. They don’t do them justice, of
course. The depth of color in the jade, the richness of the brass. Quite something.”

Turlick left the room and a short time later Hastings, the museum director, a short, dumpy man sporting
thick side whiskers and thicker glasses, trotted into the room and introduced himself to Holmes. With
him was a tall man with a prominent nose and the eyes of a hawk. “I have some photographs of the
missing objects for you to examine,” Hastings said. “This gentleman,” he indicated his companion, “is
Professor—”

“Moriarty!” Holmes snarled, rising from the floor, where he had been peering through his glass into the
dust under one of the windows. “I did not expect to see you here. Although perhaps I should have, eh?
Perhaps I should have!”

Hastings beamed. “You know each other,” he said. “How nice.”

Moriarty leaned on his cane. “Holmes,” he said. “Glad to see you here hard at work. Nose to the, ah,
floor, as it were. You have the case solved already, no doubt?”

“Your interest in my progress is touching,” Holmes said dusting off his knees, his words clipped and
precise. “Into collecting chess pieces, are you now, Professor?”

Hastings handed Holmes a folder of photographs. “I have heard favorable reports of your abilities, Mr.
Holmes,” he said. “I am pleased that the baron decided to call you in. The police are getting nowhere.
Bing—the dead man—was a truly talented curator and a good friend.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Holmes said. “Tell me, why is this man with you?” he said, thrusting his chin toward
Moriarty.

“Professor Moriarty arrived about a half hour ago,” Hastings said. “He came with a letter from Prince
Tseng Li-chang, an expert on Chinese antiquities who has been quite useful to us in the past. These
small, exquisite vases,” he said, indicating a display case by the door, “were acquired with the prince’s
assistance. Sung dynasty. Unbelievably rare. He has also helped us evaluate some of the items that have
long been in our collection, dating from the present baron’s grandfather’s time.”

“Ah!” said Holmes. “And what,” he asked, turning to Moriarty, “is your connection with this Prince
Tseng?”

“He is an old and valued friend,” Moriarty said. “He is quite worried about the missing artifacts, and he
asked me to come down to Cambridge and help recover them. However, as you no doubt have the whole
matter well in hand by now, I may just retire to one of the local inns for a spot of lunch instead.”

“I have hardly begun,” said Holmes. “And now I shall have the added distraction of having to determine
the level of your involvement. Although I confess such a small crime is usually beneath your notice. I
refer, of course, to the missing chess men, not to the death of the unfortunate Mr. Bing, which I assume
was an unintended result of the theft.”

“Look at the photographs, Holmes,” Moriarty suggested. “Do you play chess?”

“Far too intellectual a pursuit for me, Professor,” Holmes said with a grim smile, “although I am familiar
with the pieces and the moves. Success at chess requires devious thinking and working at secret ends. I
understand you’re quite good at the game.”

“It does teach one not to hold steadfast to a theory when it has been shown to be erroneous,” Moriarty
commented. “But I call your attention to the chess pieces in the photographs.”
Holmes took the packet of photographs over to one of the windows, where the light was better, and
examined them carefully. “They are not in any of the standard patterns that I am familiar with,” he said.
“Indeed, I cannot tell which piece is supposed to be which.”

“They are not chessmen,” Moriarty told him, “but figurines representing aspects of an ancient, ah,
deity.”

“Then why—”

“It is so,” Hastings interrupted. “I’ve told the baron. Mr. Bing told him repeatedly. We attempted to get
him to change the sign in the case. But he would have none of it. His father said they were chessmen, he
told me, and his grandfather said they were chessmen, and so chessmen they are.”