The Star of India

by Carole Bugge

  “All right, Watson, I’ll help. First, the young lady. What did you make of her?”

  I never saw her face clearly, only from a side angle, but I had a vague memory of what she wore, a burgundy brocade dress—fashionable enough, but not of the most expensive cut.

  “Well, she was well dressed, but not richly dressed.”

  “Excellent. So now we may surmise she did not buy herself the very expensive perfume which she wore, but that it was given to her as a gift.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s a reasonable conclusion.”

  “Was she married?”

  “Uh... no, I shouldn’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, she was alone—”

  “Oh, come, Watson; there is no mystery to this one! She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.”

  I was tired of Holmes’ attempt to educate me; I found his use of the Socratic method on this occasion irritating.

  “Look, Holmes,” I said, “you might as well face that you won’t turn me into a reasoning machine such as yourself.”

  “Very well,” he said, shrugging. “Her agitated state of mind was clear to me when I saw her standing by her seat, craning her neck to look around, as though she were expecting to see someone. She remained standing until the moment the lights went down, and then she took her seat for the first half of the concert, leaving, as we both noticed, during the interval.

  She left so hastily, in fact, that she left these.” And with that Holmes produced from his pocket a pair of cream-colored kid gloves.

  “She left without her gloves? Why would she do that, I wonder?” I said, examining them. They were of good quality, quite new, and exuded a faint odour of Golden Nights.

  “She left without them because she had other more important things to think about,” said Holmes, lighting his pipe, “and I can’t help wondering what they were.”

  “Well, I for one am going to bed,” I said. “It’s late.”

  “Go ahead, Watson; I’ll follow later.”

  Holmes evidently saw me glance at the desk drawer which contained the dreaded needle, because he smiled. “Don’t worry, Watson; I promise you I shall take nothing stronger than shag tobacco tonight.”

  I waved my hand at the blue mist of smoke which hung in the air.

  “You might cut down a bit on that as well, you know.”

  Holmes shook his head.

  “One vice at a time, Watson.”

  I went upstairs. I was so tired that I fell upon the bed immediately, only to wake up shivering in the middle of the night. I crept downstairs to see if Holmes had retired. He had not, and was sitting in the same position in which I had left him, his head wreathed in smoke, gazing out the window. Not wanting him to see me, I said nothing and tiptoed back upstairs. The last image in my mind as I fell asleep was of Holmes, seated in his chair, his sharp profile surrounded in smoke which dispersed the yellow lamplight around his head like a halo.

  Two

  I slept like the dead that night, dreaming of rows and rows of shelves covered with mysterious bottles. I was looking for something in the bottles, but I could not find whatever it was I wanted. I kept dropping bottles to the floor and breaking them. Instead of perfume, they contained acid—like the acid which had so horribly disfigured Baron Gruner’s face. Each time a bottle dropped to the floor, it ate a little more of the floorboards away, until finally I was standing on a tiny piece of wood. I awoke, covered in sweat, with that strange sense of relief one always has when a bad dream proves not to be real after all.

  When I finally came down to breakfast, it was late and Holmes was already seated at the table. It was evident from his red-rimmed eyes and haggard face that he had not slept, and yet he greeted me cheerfully.

  “Ah, Watson, you’re just in time to try my own recreation of Mrs. Hudson’s famed Scotch eggs,” he said, lifting the lid of a silver chafing dish.

  I peered dubiously into the dish, expecting untold horrors, but to my surprise the contents did look amazingly like Mrs. Hudson’s admirable version of the Scottish delicacy. I spooned some onto my plate.

  “Well, what do you think; will it pass muster?” said Holmes, leaning back and lighting a cigarette. The smoke rose and curled around his face, which looked almost gray in the thin morning light. “Try to be kind; I spent a good part of the morning working at it. This may come as a surprise to you, but lately I find cooking almost as calming as smoking when the mind is engaged upon a problem.”

  “Not bad, not bad at all,” I said, tasting it. In truth it wasn’t bad, though it lacked the magic touch of Mrs. Hudson’s talent.

  “Well, you’re very kind to say so,” said Holmes. “Personally, I find it lacks something—it has the form without the substance, or something to that effect. Never mind; it’ll stick to your ribs, and that’s what counts on a day like today.”

  I looked outside. Holmes was right. It was the kind of gray, blustery day that London is famous for, the kind of weather that cuts right through your clothes and chills your bones.

  “I hate to rush you, Watson, but we shall have a visitor before the morning is out,” Holmes said.

  “A visitor?” I said, my mouth full of Scotch egg. “What sort of visitor?”

  “Oh, you’ll see soon enough.”

  I sometimes thought one of Holmes’ chief pleasures in solving what he called his “little problems” was keeping me in the dark as long as possible. Then, like a theatrical impresario, he would draw aside the curtain and enjoy the astonished gasps of his audience as he revealed in an instant the results of his labors. Fortunately for him, I was usually content enough to play my role, and I certainly was an appreciative audience.

  Now, as if on cue, the front bell rang.

  “Aha, she is early!” he said, and dashed out of the room. I took a sip of coffee and then settled on the couch to see who this mysterious visitor might be. I didn’t have long to wait: within seconds, the pungent odour of Golden Nights wafted up the staircase and in through the open door of the sitting room. A few moments later, Holmes entered the room with the young lady in tow.

  “Watson, may I introduce Miss Violet Merriweather; Miss Merriweather, this is my friend and colleague, Dr. John Watson.”

  “How do you do?” she said in a low and pleasing mezzo.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said, and in fact it was a pleasure to be introduced to such an attractive young woman. I have often marveled at Holmes’ imperviousness to feminine charms, considering some of the women who have graced the sitting room of 221B Baker Street. This particular young woman had large brown eyes, smooth black hair, and olive skin so lustrous that it shone in the lamplight. She wore a yellow linen dress and a cloak to match; though not showy, both suited her perfectly. I was sorry that I had not paid more attention to her during the concert at the Royal Albert.

  “Please sit down, Miss Merriweather,” Holmes said smoothly, indicating a chair by the fire.

  “Thank you,” said our guest, and sat with a delicate grace which made me wonder about her breeding. Her manners and gentility were of the highest refinement, and yet her clothes, while respectable, were not of the first order.

  “I believe these are your gloves?” said Holmes, holding out the kid gloves which our visitor had so carelessly left behind the previous evening.

  “Yes!” she cried, rising slightly from her chair. “I thought I would never see them again. Thank you so much for retrieving them for me!”

  She took the gloves from Holmes and handled them lovingly, as though they were a lost kitten. She looked up at Holmes.

  “Please allow me to offer you a small reward—”

  Holmes shook his head.

  “Certainly not,” he said. “It was my pleasure to return them... however, there is one question which you could answer for me.”

  “Certainly. What is it?”

  “I was intrigued by your perfume,” said Holmes, “and I wonder if you could tell me where I could find some.”

>   To my surprise, the lady blushed and coughed delicately into her handkerchief.

  “It—it was... a gift,” she said in a tone which indicated a reluctance to speak about it.

  “Ah, I see,” said Holmes. “And the gentleman in question— you don’t know where he purchased it?”

  “No, I’m afraid not,” she replied, still blushing, her eyes averted.

  “Ah, I see,” said Holmes. “I will inquire no further in the matter, madame. I am sorry if I have caused you any discomfort.”

  “Oh, there is no need to apologize,” she answered quickly. “The gentleman in question is—dead, I’m afraid.” She was a very bad liar, and this time I was the one who blushed.

  But Holmes did not bat an eye. “I see,” he said gravely. “I’m very sorry.”

  “Oh—thank you,” she said, sounding surprised that her lie had been accepted. “Well, I’m afraid I must be going,” she said, rising from her chair. “Thank you again for your kindness.”

  “My pleasure,” said Holmes, escorting her to the door. “I was happy to be of some small service. And,” he said, holding the door open, “please let me know if I can be of any assistance in the present matter which is troubling you.”

  I had to hand it to Holmes; this stopped Miss Merriweather in her tracks.

  “Why, I—I have no idea what you’re referring to,” she said finally, and it was painfully clear that she knew exactly what he meant. I wondered how much Holmes actually knew and to what extent he was fishing.

  “Never mind, Miss Merriweather. I ask nothing except that you consider turning to me when you feel the need for some assistance.”

  “Well, if I ever need assistance, as you call it, I shall certainly—I mean, all of London knows who you are, Mr. Holmes, and I am no exception.”

  “Yes, well, that is all I ask. Good day, Miss Merriweather.”

  “Good day. Good day, Dr. Watson.”

  “Good day.”

  She left in a swirl of skirts, leaving a trace of Golden Nights behind her. Holmes closed the door and turned to me, his eyes twinkling, all trace of his former fatigue gone. His lean body shimmered with energy.

  “Well, Watson, what do you think of our visitor?”

  “She’s very attractive—”

  “Yes, yes, I know; always the eye for feminine beauty,” he said impatiently, cutting me off. “I mean, what do you think of her, not what you feel!”

  “Well, she was obviously lying.”

  “Wasn’t she, though?” he said with relish. “And very badly too. She’s not accustomed to lying, Watson, and she’s not accustomed to the life she’s leading. There’s more to her than meets the eye, Watson, mark my words!”

  “But how did you know she’s in trouble?”

  “Well, the gloves were the first indication that all was not well—”

  “How did she know you had them, by the way?”

  Holmes shrugged. “I sent a message to the Royal Albert Hall early this morning that, if a young lady came to inquire for a pair of cream-colored kid gloves, she could find them at this address.”

  “Ah—but how did you know she would come today?”

  “The gloves themselves told me.”

  “But how—?”

  “Consider, Watson. A certain young lady is given a pair of very expensive gloves by a certain young man. The gloves are much finer than anything she has in her wardrobe. However, the next time she sees him, she is not wearing the gloves. Now, what young man would not become extremely suspicious under such circumstances? Therefore, when she lost the gloves she had to retrieve them as soon as possible.”

  “But how did you know they were a gift?”

  “As I said, they were of much finer quality than the rest of her attire—not the kind of thing that a respectable, but by no means wealthy, young lady could afford for herself. No, I was fairly certain they were a gift—and quite new, at that. Nothing soils so quickly as cream-colored leather, and yet these gloves were spotless.”

  “So she is a young lady who is seeing a man who is considerably wealthier than she is. Surely there’s nothing sinister in that?”

  “Perhaps not, Watson; perhaps not. We shall see.”

  Just then we were interrupted by the sound of the front bell, followed by a boy’s voice calling Holmes by name. Holmes went to the window, opened it, and shouted down into the street.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Telegram for Mr. Sherlock Holmes!”

  Before I could speak, Holmes was out the door and down the steps. I saw him conversing with the young lad in the street, at the close of which the boy tipped his hat and went off. Moments later Holmes reappeared at the sitting-room door, his face grim.

  “Bad news, Watson.”

  “What is it?”

  He brandished the telegram.

  “This is from Mrs. Hudson’s sister in Cornwall.”

  “What does it say?”

  Holmes read the message aloud. “‘Martha in extreme danger: Come at once.’”

  “Good Lord!”

  Holmes stared grimly out the window.

  “I am very sorry for my words yesterday, when I complained to you of ennui. I am reminded of an old Chinese curse: Be careful what you wish for, because you may get it.” He turned to me, his face set. “I have gotten what I wished for, Watson.”

  Three

  Within minutes we were in a cab on our way to Waterloo Station. By the time we arrived there it was eleven-thirty. We saw on the departures board that there was a twelve o’clock train to Camelford, the nearest station to Tintagel, so Holmes went off to get our tickets. I stood under the departures board in the great central hall, which was bustling with people coming and going. Families bundled past us, dressed for a day’s outing; young men and women stood in line waiting to buy tickets for their Sunday afternoon jaunt to the countryside.

  As I stood watching the crowd, a curious little man with bushy muttonchop whiskers breezed past me and shoved a newspaper into my hands. Startled, I called after him, but he wove his way back into the crowd, quickly disappearing into the throng of people. I looked at the paper: it was today’s Telegraph, though there was nothing remarkable about it that I could see.

  “Look at this, Holmes,” I said when my friend joined me, and did my best to describe the little man who had given it to me.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” Holmes said, examining the paper closely. Then, glancing at the huge clock which overlooked the main hall of Waterloo Station, he said, “Come, Watson, we must hurry or we will miss our train.”

  Soon we were seated on a train bound for Cornwall, speeding through the English countryside with all the efficiency our modern rail system could muster. Fields and villages flew by: the grasslands on the outskirts of London were soon replaced by the rocky scrubble of Dorset and Devon. Mrs. Hudson’s sister, Flora Campbell, lived near the town of Tintagel, noted not only for its excellent cream teas but also as the location of the ruins from which it takes its name—Tintagel—a medieval castle widely believed to be King Arthur’s seat on the west coast of England. The castle, upon its rocky promontory overlooking the point where the Bristol Channel merges with the stormy waters of the Atlantic, attracted tourists from all over the world.

  Holmes sat across from me, oblivious to the magnificent scenery, eagerly scanning the newspaper which the strange man had thrust at me. His keen eyes flickered about the pages restlessly. Suddenly his body went rigid.

  “Here’s a strange entry, Watson.”

  “What? What’s strange?”

  He handed me the paper and pointed to an entry in the classified ads. I read it out loud.

  “‘Mr. Fermat to Mr. Shomel: it’s your move; your pawn is in deep water and speed is of the essence.’ Now, what on earth does that mean? It sounds rather like a chess game of some kind.”

  Holmes’ eyes narrowed.

  “Yes, Watson,” he said, “it is a chess game... but who is playing it, and why?”

  He l
ooked out the window at the heaths and meadows sweeping by, his face grim. “I am beginning to sense deeper waters than I ever would have imagined, Watson. I only hope that I am wrong.”

  When the train pulled into Camelford, located a few short miles from Tintagel, the only other people who disembarked from the train, besides ourselves, were a couple of hikers. They immediately shouldered their packs and took off across the windswept moors. Holmes and I stood on the platform for a few moments, and then went inside the tiny stationhouse. The sleepy stationmaster looked at us through one eye when Holmes asked about hiring transportation. He was a porridge-faced man, his skin white and lumpy as oatmeal, and he looked surprised when Holmes asked about cabs.

  “Whar do yer need ta go?” he inquired in a heavy West Country accent.

  “We have come to see Mrs. Flora Campbell.”

  The stationmaster nodded slowly, as though digesting the information.

  “Jack Crompton’s rig’s just outside... Jack’s around ’ere somewhere, I think. I’ll just go see if I kin find ’im.” With that, he shuffled out of the stationhouse, muttering to himself.

  Holmes and I watched him go. I could sense that Holmes was losing what little patience he had; he was all twitches and tics, his long hands fidgeting at the buttons of his ulster.

  “Come to think of it, why didn’t Mrs. Campbell come to the station to greet us, I wonder?” I said finally.

  “I was wondering the same thing, Watson,” Holmes replied softly.

  In a few moments our stationmaster returned with Jack Crompton, a hairy fellow whose salt-and-pepper locks and beard took up most of his face, leaving only enough space for his little raisin eyes and stubby red nose to poke through.

  “Yer the ones wantin’ a lift, are ye?” he said, scratching himself. At that moment I had the unpleasant thought that the rest of his body might be of the same excessively hirsute condition as his face.

  Holmes stepped forward.

  “Yes, please—and there’s extra money in it if you can get us there quickly.”

  “Thar wantin’ to see Flora Campbell,” said the stationmaster with a wink.