The Star of India

by Carole Bugge

  Lestrade and I made our way to the bottom of the teapot and through a second plate of shortbread. Finally Lestrade stood up and brushed the crumbs from his trousers.

  “Well, Dr. Watson, I’d best be going now. Tell Mr. Holmes, if you would, that I came by. I’m afraid I don’t have much news about the case. My boys are out trying to find that Stockton fellow that Mr. Holmes says is involved, but it’s as though he’s disappeared into thin air. Also, we brought that parrot over to the Yard. Mr. Holmes seems to think there’s something to what the bird says, though to me it sounds just like idle chattering.” He took another gulp of tea, set his cup down, and put on his coat wearily.

  “Well, thank you for the tea, Dr. Watson, and I’d appreciate it if you’d ask Mr. Holmes to contact me if he has any more information.”

  “I will, Inspector.”

  Lestrade had not been gone long when the door burst open and Holmes entered. His face was cut and bleeding, and he was holding his left arm.

  “Holmes!” I said, rising from my chair.

  “Steady on, Watson; I’m all right,” he said, though he didn’t look it.

  “What happened, Holmes?”

  He walked somewhat unsteadily to the fireplace and sank down in his usual chair.

  “I managed to play the part of the hound but I got a bit stuck in the role of the fox at the end. No matter, though—I found out what I needed to know.”

  “Where have you been?”

  Instead of answering, Holmes glanced at the copy of the Telegraph which still lay open upon the table.

  “Ah, I see you have been doing a bit of sleuthing on your own, Watson—”

  “Never mind about me; what happened to you?”

  “Well, since you evidently have read the entry from Mr. Fermat, I should think you might deduce, Watson.”

  “Holmes, this is no time for games,” I said, fetching my medical kit from the corner. “Would you please just tell me—”

  “Very well,” Holmes said a bit huffily, “if you insist. I supposed that whatever Moriarty had in mind, he was luring me into a trap of some sort; the trick was in sensing it ahead of time and acting accordingly.”

  “You could have at least taken me with you,” I said, hurt at being excluded.

  “There was no time,” Holmes replied. “That can wait, Watson,” he said in response to my attempt to clean his wounds.

  “No, it can’t wait; I will do it now,” I said with unaccustomed force, whereupon Holmes shrugged and submitted to my ministrations. “Whatever it was he had planned, it evidently worked to some degree,” I said as I applied iodine to the cuts and bruises on Holmes’ face.

  “Moriarty’s fatal flaw is his vanity, Watson, his intellectual arrogance. He could have misled me entirely, but he could not resist putting the solution just within my grasp, for the sport of it.” Holmes lifted the newspaper from the table. “You see, in deciphering this message, there were many potential meanings, for a rook is both a castle and a type of bird.”

  “Yes, so it is.”

  “However, it is also slang for a swindler, or one who cheats at gambling. I happen to know that one of Moriarty’s agents—George Simpson, remember? In all likelihood, it was he who kidnapped Mrs. Hudson—”

  “Yes, I remember. Hold still, please.”

  “Well, this Simpson is an inveterate gambler. In fact, it is his constantly accruing gambling debts which keep him in thrall to Moriarty. In any event, I know that Moriarty does not like to keep anyone in his confidence, but that Simpson comes as close as anybody to being his right-hand man, so to speak. Therefore, I concluded that Simpson is the rook referred to in the cryptic message. So I decided to pay a visit to Mr. Simpson at his favorite gaming establishment.” Holmes winced as the iodine stung his abrasions. “They often gamble through the night, and I arrived just as the game was breaking up.”

  “And what did you hope to find there?”

  “Exactly what I did find, Watson: Moriarty’s next move.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Well, I persuaded Mr. Simpson through the rather crude use of fisticuffs to reveal a key bit of information: The theft of the jewel is part of a larger blackmail plan—”

  “Oh, that reminds me: Inspector Lestrade was here earlier.”

  “Oh, yes; I tipped him off about Stockton being behind Wiggins’ murder.”

  “Oh, and this came for you,” I said a little sheepishly, suddenly remembering the note from the Diogenes Club. I took it from my jacket and handed it to Holmes, who opened it eagerly and read it.

  “So,” he said after a moment, “they have come to Mycroft for help. Things must be dire indeed, because now Mycroft has come to me.” Holmes folded the note and put it in his pocket.

  “By the way, did you tell Lestrade of Moriarty’s reappearance?”

  “No, I thought I would leave that to you. To be honest, I doubted whether he would believe me.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Holmes. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? His resurrection, as it were, is almost biblical. Instead of Christ who’s risen this time, though, it’s Satan who has risen after the Fall. Do you know your Milton, Watson?”

  “It’s a bit rusty, perhaps, but I did read him in school,” I said.

  “‘The mind is its own place, and in itself

  Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n.’

  “Moriarty lives in his own private hell, Watson, and he has spent his life trying to bring others into it with him, because one can get lonely in hell.”

  I thought this was rather uncharacteristically philosophical of Holmes, and I said so. He shrugged.

  “Perhaps so. But I have had many years to think about this, Watson, and I hope you will indulge me in a little philosophizing.”

  “Certainly, Holmes; certainly.”

  He rose somewhat stiffly from his chair.

  “I think a bit of late lunch at the Cafe Royal is in order, and then we will pay a visit on my brother.”

  Seven

  Mycroft Holmes was such a creature of habit that you could set your watch by him. His routine was sacred, and it never varied: He spent the day at his office in Whitehall and then at exactly 4:45 he made his way to the Diogenes Club, where he was to be found until 7:40. The club is just opposite his rooms on Pall Mall, and it was to this august establishment that Holmes and I made our way after fortifying ourselves with the grilled lamb at the Cafe Royal. Holmes ate as though he hadn’t eaten all day, which I have no doubt was the case.

  It was exactly 5:57 when we entered the Diogenes Club, that extraordinary establishment where London’s most antisocial men gather to indulge in their mutual need for seclusion. It had been some time since I had been to the Diogenes, and yet, as soon as Holmes and I entered the front hall, I remembered our first visit there some years ago. Nothing had changed. There was the same tomblike silence in the front hallway, the same elegant glass paneling through which I could see the large and comfortable reading room. I even fancied that the very same men were sitting in leather armchairs reading their papers. I followed Holmes into a small antechamber looking out over Pall Mall. The room smelled of ancient leather and books.

  “If you would wait here just a moment, I shall return,” he said in a whisper.

  I nodded and sat myself upon a large Turkish cushion which covered the window seat. Apart from the noise coming from the street, the only sound I could hear was the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the lobby. The place had a mummified air, as though time did not exist inside its thick stone walls. I could almost believe that the inhabitants themselves did not age so long as they sat in their stuffed armchairs, immobile and silent except for the occasional crackle of a page turning.

  Holmes returned with his brother Mycroft. He was exactly as I had remembered him, only perhaps a little thicker around his considerable girth. He extended his hand to me, and his gray eyes crinkled warmly.

  “Dr. Watson, so nice to see you again. I would say the same t
o you, Sherlock, but I must say you look as though you’ve just emerged from a brawl,” he added, looking at Holmes’ bruised face.

  Holmes dismissed the comment with an impatient wave of his hand.

  “The fact is it’s a delicate matter, a piece of tricky business,” Mycroft continued. “A matter of international relations, you might say.” He cleared his throat and looked around the room, as though he were afraid of being overheard. There was no sound of any kind coming from the hollow stone corridors, but he lowered his voice all the same.

  “It seems that a particular Indian prince was in possession of a jewel which was supposed to confer great favor upon its owner.

  “The Star of India,” said Holmes. Mycroft regarded him through narrowed eyes. “So you’re involved already,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Holmes shrugged. “I’m telling you now.”

  “Well, never mind. Let me tell you what I know first. This same Indian prince gives the Star of India to the Prince of Wales as a gesture of friendship. And now this Indian prince is coming to London next week, and he’s made it clear that he expects to see his gift displayed among the Crown jewels—which is fine until the jewel goes missing. It’s gone, and no one knows who took it.”

  Mycroft extracted a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to Holmes.

  “This morning the Minister of Foreign Affairs received this message. That is when they contacted me. If the jewel is not recovered it’s likely to touch off an international situation.”

  I looked over Holmes’ shoulder at the paper, trying to employ my friend’s methods in analyzing it. The message was handwritten in block letters on plain parchment which was a dark shade of ivory. When I looked at the watermark I saw that it was a common one available in most stationery stores. The ink was black, and I would have said the lettering belonged to a person of great force of personality.

  “The Star of India is in my keeping,” it read, “until such time as my demands can be met by the government. I will send you my first demand within twenty-four hours.”

  “This is not good, Sherlock—not good at all,” Mycroft Holmes said, frowning.

  “No,” answered Holmes. “What is the name of this Indian prince, by the way?”

  “Prince Chandan Tagore Rabarrath. You see, Prince Rabarrath represents a significant segment of his people, and they are on the verge of declaring warfare on another group within India. Prince Rabarrath has considerable influence; he currently has the largest following of any leader in India. Unfortunately, there are a number of extremist elements among his followers, and it is very important that we maintain a good relationship with him. The political unrest in that country is considerable; not only are there groups agitating for the removal of English rule, but there is also the threat of civil and religious warfare within India.”

  “I see,” said Holmes, and began telling Mycroft everything that had happened to us in the past few days. When he came to the part about the stone conferring good fortune upon its owner, Mycroft interrupted.

  “Upon its rightful owner,” he said, smiling. “Like most superstitious beliefs, there is a dark side to this one: unworthy or unlawful owners of the stone are supposedly cursed—and we believe that certain sects within Prince Rabarrath’s people would feel compelled to commit certain violent acts to make sure that the curse is borne out.”

  “This is very serious indeed,” said Holmes.

  “Yes, it is. I’m glad that you are involved, Sherlock.”

  “Thank you for your confidence, Mycroft, but I feel I must tell you that—”

  “—that he has returned?”

  Holmes stared at his brother.

  “How did you know?”

  Mycroft waved the question away with a hand so fat that it was more like the flipper of a seal. “Really, Sherlock, you do me some insult by looking so astonished. It is true that I am not so energetic as yourself, but like you I do not merely see, I observe. In fact, I am quite certain we have come to the same conclusion: that he is behind all of this in some way. Am I right?”

  “You are,” said Holmes in a low voice. “But why didn’t you tell me?”

  “For the simple reason that, like yourself, I had only suspicions—until now, that is. There are aspects of this case which are so clearly the work of his hand that one can really come to no other conclusion.”

  “Yes, exactly what I thought.”

  Mycroft sighed and took another paper from his breast pocket; without a word he handed it to his brother. Holmes read it and gave it back.

  “So this is his game,” he said grimly.

  “What is it?” I said, feeling somewhat of a third wheel between the two brilliant brothers.

  “A demand for money from the Exchequer in exchange for the Star of India.”

  “Good heavens.”

  “Well, if he is playing a game of such stakes you would expect him to ask such a reward; if you play a high-risk game you expect the odds to pay off.”

  Holmes sank into his chair and stared out the window which overlooked Pall Mall. Well-dressed men and women came and went, part of the endless procession of humanity which is London. “It is all a game to him on some level,” Holmes said moodily, “just a game...” Suddenly he sat bolt upright in his chair. “That’s it—a game! We must not neglect that aspect, for therein lies the key!”

  “What are you talking about, Sherlock?” said Mycroft Holmes.

  “Chess, my dear Mycroft—the board game of warfare.”

  “What’s that got to do with Moriarty?”

  “I was about to tell you when you interrupted me earlier,” Holmes replied. He then told Mycroft about the chess references which Moriarty had been placing in the Telegraph.

  “If I am not mistaken—” began Holmes.

  “—and you seldom are—” Mycroft interjected dryly.

  “—I believe the term exchequer is from the Latin saccarium, or chessboard.”

  “You are correct,” said Mycroft. “Roman accounts of revenue were kept on a squared board, much like a chessboard; hence the derivation.”

  “There is something here,” said Holmes, rising from his chair and pacing about the room. “It only needs figuring out.”

  “For God’s sake, Sherlock, stop that infernal pacing; you are making me quite nervous.”

  Holmes stopped and looked at his corpulent older brother, so unlike himself physically and yet so similar mentally. His expression was something close to affection, though if I had remarked upon it he would have promptly denied it.

  “You never could stand excess movement of any kind, could you, Mycroft?” he said.

  Mycroft shrugged his massive shoulders. “I dislike waste of any kind, Sherlock, either mental or physical; excessive expenditure of energy has always seemed to me to be an abuse of Nature.”

  Holmes smiled and sat down again, but his long fingers twitched nervously upon the arms of his chair.

  “There is a woman involved, of course,” Mycroft said.

  I stared at him. “How did you know that?”

  He chuckled, a deep rumbling sound which came from the folds of flesh at his throat.

  “My dear Dr. Watson, there is always a woman involved, sooner or later—especially when priceless jewels are at stake. In fact, I have people checking on her background as we speak.”

  “And what have they found?” said Holmes.

  “Nothing, as yet. She has been at her present address for only a few months, and so far the post office hasn’t come up with any previous listings for her. We’re somewhat hampered by the need to make our inquiries discreetly, of course, so it is proceeding slowly.”

  “Do you suspect her, then?” I said, my heart sinking.

  Mycroft shrugged and twisted the gold signet ring he wore on his right hand. “I would suspect her were she Caesar’s wife herself.”

  “I’m afraid my brother shares my jaundiced view of the ‘weaker sex,’ as they are so mistakenly called,” said Hol
mes.

  “The more his loss,” I muttered.

  “Oh come now, Watson, don’t sulk,” said Holmes. “Just because you are a bit taken with the young lady in question, there’s no reason to get moody.”

  I could feel my face redden.

  “I am not—”

  Holmes put a hand on my shoulder.

  “Forgive me; I didn’t mean to embarrass you. It wasn’t a criticism— she is a most attractive young lady.”

  “I didn’t think you noticed these things about women,” I said.

  Mycroft laughed. “Oh, that is what he has always pretended. He notices everything, as I do; it’s simply a question of whether one acts upon it or not. I myself seldom act on anything.”

  “True,” said his brother. “I was reading an extraordinary tale the other day, by Herman Melville—”

  “—the American writer?”

  “Yes, the same. The main character reminded me of you in some ways. His name was Bartleby.”

  Mycroft Holmes smiled. “I have read it. He more or less starves to death, I believe. There is no fear of that where I am concerned,” he said, patting his substantial middle. “On the other hand, you are looking a bit thin, Sherlock,” he said, studying his brother’s lean form. “Has he been eating, Dr. Watson?”

  “Well, I doubt that he ate much while Mrs. Hudson was away, but now she’s returned.”

  “Good. I doubt Moriarty has any further use for her. He certainly is planning his moves ahead, exactly as you might on a chessboard...”

  Holmes sprang from his chair.

  “I have it!” he cried. “It isn’t the Exchequer which is his chessboard! Mycroft, is there a map of London anywhere in this building?”

  “I believe there are some maps in the large oak desk in the reading room.”

  “Watson, would you be so kind as to fetch it for me?” said Holmes.

  “Yes, certainly,” I said, intrigued.