The Star of India

by Carole Bugge

“Never mind, Sergeant... that will be all, thank you.”

  Sergeant Morgan saluted smartly, turned on his heel, and left. Lestrade shook his head.

  “That Morgan... still thinks he’s in the military, what with all that bloody saluting,” Lestrade muttered. He rose from his desk and poured himself a glass of water from a pitcher which sat on the windowsill directly behind Bandu. The parrot followed his movements with interest, and when the bird saw the water he opened his mouth and stuck out his odd, sharply pointed black tongue. Lestrade held the glass out to the bird, who drank from it, pointing his face skyward to swallow.

  “I think I can explain, Inspector,” said Holmes. “You see, when Dr. Watson and myself interviewed Mr. Stockton he expressed some fear of... reprisal... from his employer if he told us anything. At the very least, it was not good for him to be seen with us.”

  “His employer? And who is his employer?” said Lestrade.

  Holmes interlocked his fingers and looked directly at Lestrade.

  “There is a man, Inspector, who was behind half of what was evil in London, a man who—”

  “Yes, yes,” said Lestrade wearily. “I’ve read Dr. Watson’s accounts of the evil Professor Moriarty. Not that I believe a man like that ever existed, mind you,” he added with a wink at me. “Still, it makes good fiction, doesn’t it?”

  “I assure you, Inspector, Professor Moriarty is very real—and not only that, he is very much alive,” Holmes replied.

  Again Lestrade looked at me, imploringly this time, but I nodded my head.

  “I’m afraid Holmes is quite right, Inspector. Moriarty also survived Reichenbach Falls.”

  Lestrade’s face went red. “But—but how... I mean, how is it that I don’t know about him?”

  Holmes shrugged. “Most people don’t know of his existence. That has always been the secret of his power. However, having returned to London to find his empire in a shambles, he is acting more desperately now to reassert his control. His movements have become more open—and more reckless. His challenge to me has an air of bravado about it, something I would never have expected from him in the past.” Holmes leaned forward, resting his sharp elbows on his knees. “It is this alone which gives me hope that we may actually overcome him. Before he acted out of a cold self-interest; now he is acting from vanity.”

  “So he really does exist?” Lestrade said softly, sitting down again.

  “I’m afraid so,” Holmes replied. “And I am quite certain that he is responsible for Stockton’s death. He no doubt wished to make an example of Stockton, who, after all, made not one but two mistakes.”

  “Two mistakes?” said Lestrade.

  “The first one was killing Wiggins,” I said.

  “You mean Wiggins was not meant to die?”

  “Oh, no,” said Holmes. “Stockton was just sent to get information out of him, but he died before Stockton got what he came for. He died of strangulation—which was, I believe, how your sergeant said Stockton was killed.”

  “Moriarty’s idea of poetic justice,” I said.

  “I see,” said Lestrade. “And the second mistake?”

  “Why, talking to us, of course. We made no secret of the fact that we were looking for Freddie Stockton. During the course of our search, we must have been seen by half the criminal population of London,” said Holmes. “He didn’t really tell us anything we didn’t already know, but he did confirm my suspicion that Moriarty was alive and in London.” He then described our interview with the late Freddie Stockton, including our visits to the various places of debauchery. While he talked, Lestrade idly stroked Bandu’s feathers, and the parrot responded by rubbing its beak against his shoulder.

  “Well,” he said when Holmes had finished, “if this is what he does to his own men, he is even worse than I thought.”

  Holmes smiled grimly. “Oh, he is worse than anyone can possibly imagine, and I hope for your sake that you never come up against him face-to-face, Lestrade.”

  These words cut Lestrade’s vanity, and he bristled. “I am sure I shall be equal to the task, should the time arrive, Mr. Holmes,” he said stiffly.

  “Of course, of course,” Holmes replied genially. “Still, it is a ruthless player who eliminates his own man, and I can’t help but wonder what he has in mind next.”

  “Oh! That reminds me—I have something to show you,” I said, fishing around in my pocket for the slip of paper I had shoved in it before I left my office. “Here, what do you make of this?” I said, handing it to Holmes.

  He studied it for a moment and then gave it to Lestrade.

  “It is simplicity itself; don’t you agree, Lestrade?”

  Lestrade looked up from the paper. “Why, it’s some sort of code, I suppose,” he said.

  “You are correct there,” said Holmes. “It is a chess move.”

  “A what?” Lestrade studied the paper.

  “It’s written in the shorthand which chess players use to indicate a move. ‘K.Kt.-B4’ means that the king’s knight—which is of course the knight closer to the king—moves to the square known as Bishop Four; in other words, four squares in front of the bishop.”

  “Oh, right; of course,” Lestrade said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

  “Where did you get this, Watson?”

  “It was in with my mail.”

  “What was the postmark?”

  “There was none, and no return address either... but the man who delivered it matched the description of the strange little fellow who gave me the newspaper in the train station. McKinney said he had muttonchop whiskers; and he came and went without a word.”

  Holmes’ eyes narrowed. “Ah! As there was no message in today’s Telegraph, I expect that this is his next move, then.” He studied the paper. “This could mean so many things; it all depends on proper interpretation.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Lestrade. “What do you mean by ‘his next move’?”

  Holmes proceeded to explain the affair of the missing jewel, stressing that it was a matter of great national importance. Lestrade’s eyes widened with each detail, and when Holmes finished he gulped.

  “Well, I’ll be,” he said softly, pouring himself another glass of water from the pitcher behind his desk.

  “You see,” Holmes continued, “Wiggins’ death was one of the moves in... a kind of chess game.”

  Lestrade received this information with some skepticism but agreed to follow Holmes’ lead in the matter.

  “That part sounds a bit far-fetched to me,” he said a bit sullenly, “but if you think that’s what he’s up to, I suppose it can’t hurt to go along with it...”

  “I do, and my brother Mycroft agrees with me,” said Holmes.

  “Oh, he’s in this, too, is he?” said Lestrade. “He’s a smart one, is Mr. Mycroft Holmes, but... well, if you don’t mind saying so, a bit odd. That club of his...” Lestrade shook his head. “And why is it this Moriarty fellow is tipping you off to what he’s up to?”

  Holmes leaned forward, resting his arms on the front of Lestrade’s desk.

  “I believe he feels the need to establish his superiority once again amongst his lieutenants in order to exert the same kind of control he had before he was injured. You see, he has been out of circulation now for over three years, and a lot has changed in London since then. He is playing such a dangerous game to show that he is still the mastermind criminal he once was. But beyond that, there is his arrogance. In fact, his sense of intellectual superiority is the closest thing he has to an Achilles heel. It may be his only weakness, Lestrade, but we must take advantage of it if we are to defeat him.”

  “What do you think he means by this, then?” said Lestrade, holding up the paper containing the chess move.

  Holmes leaned back in his chair. “I’m not certain, but I have several theories. We can’t cover all the possibilities, but we must try to do our best. The first thing you could do is to alert all of your men that a move is expected.”

  �
�What exactly is... expected?”

  “It’s difficult to tell. It all depends upon interpreting this move correctly. You have already no doubt given orders to inspect any suspicious ships or other conveyances leaving London.”

  “Uh, yes; I was just about to do that,” Lestrade said. “I’ll, uh, tell Morgan to get on it right away.” Lestrade went to the door and opened it. “Morgan,” he called, “come in here.”

  A moment later Morgan’s ruddy face appeared in the doorway.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “See that an extra man is posted around all governmental buildings and other places which might be a security risk. And put a couple of extra men at 221 Baker Street, will you?” Lestrade turned to Holmes. “Now that he knows you are on the case, so to speak, it can’t hurt to have some extra protection.”

  Holmes nodded. “That’s very good of you, if you can spare the men.”

  “I can. Have you got that, Morgan?”

  “Yes, sir.” Morgan turned to leave.

  “And Morgan—”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “See that the—the earlier orders regarding the ship inspections are carried out.”

  Morgan looked puzzled. “What orders, sir?”

  Lestrade looked at us and rolled his eyes. “The order I gave you earlier about inspecting all suspicious-looking vehicles leaving London.”

  “Oh, those orders! Yes, sir—right away, sir.” The young sergeant saluted smartly and withdrew. Lestrade closed the door and sat down at his desk.

  “Morgan will be the death of me,” he said.

  I looked at him with what I hoped was a sympathetic expression. I couldn’t be sure, but I think Holmes was suppressing a smile.

  “All right, what next?” Lestrade asked.

  “Now we wait,” replied Holmes. “Or rather, you wait, as I have a few matters to attend to. Shall we go, Watson?” he said, rising from his chair. Lestrade followed us to the door, a wistful expression on his ferret-like face.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he said. Just then Bandu left his perch and, with a great flapping of wings, settled on Lestrade’s shoulder. Lestrade looked both pleased and embarrassed by the bird’s behavior.

  “Well, Lestrade,” said Holmes as we left, “I do believe that bird’s taken a fancy to you.”

  “Oh, that’s nonsense,” said Lestrade.

  “Nonsense,” Bandu echoed, “that’s nonsense.”

  Nine

  When we returned to Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson met us at the door. I have often described her as long-suffering, which is true, but equally true is that her hardy Scottish nature revels in the constant aura of adventure which surrounds her famous tenant. In short, though she might not admit it, Mrs. Hudson has often displayed a certain exhilaration in her proximity to Holmes—even when the dangers to herself are as real as her recent kidnapping. Now she met us in the hallway, her face animated with unspoken questions.

  “There’s a young woman upstairs waiting to see you,” she said with a conspiratorial nod to me.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes said, ignoring any implication that he reveal anything more to her. When it came to women— excepting of course the much-admired Irene Adler—Holmes tended to be old-fashioned. Women aroused in him a protective instinct, and he did not relish the idea of exposing them to the perils which his profession occasioned. This attitude was not entirely confined to women; he sometimes expressed a regret that my association with him exposed me to dangers—dangers which I risked gladly but which he felt responsible for.

  When we opened the door to the sitting room, Violet Merriweather rose from her chair by the fire to greet us. As she did, the aroma of Golden Nights wafted up from her rustling skirts. The smell of it made me quite dizzy, and I stood there transfixed for a moment.

  “Mr. Holmes, I hope you don’t mind—” she said, looking flustered. Holmes smiled and closed the door behind him.

  “Not at all, Miss Merriweather; I am sorry if we have detained you.”

  “Oh, I didn’t have to wait very long.”

  “Long enough to smoke two cigarettes and take a nap.”

  Our visitor blushed, and again I was struck by what an agreeable change it made in her complexion.

  “But h-how did you—?” she stammered.

  Holmes smiled again and sat in his chair by the fire. As Miss Merriweather was seated in my usual chair, I perched upon the arm of the sofa, the better to hear what Holmes had to say.

  “Well, for one thing, I detect the aroma of a blend of Turkish tobacco which, as it happens, neither Watson nor myself use,” he said, removing his coat and hanging it on the bentwood coat rack. “As for the nap, I hope you will forgive my impertinence when I observe that the impression upon your cheek was made by the lace doily on the back of that armchair. As I see you are now in a rather agitated state, I presume that only sleep would have induced you to remain in the chair in one position for so long. Am I correct?”

  “Indeed you are, Mr. Holmes, and I hope you and Dr. Watson don’t think the less of me for my indulgence in such an unladylike habit.”

  Holmes merely smiled and shook his head; for my part, I had to admit that it only added to our visitor’s sense of mystery. What sort of life had she led, I wondered, that she took up such a habit as smoking?

  Miss Merriweather herself interrupted my ruminations. “Once again, I am startled at the breathtaking speed of your conclusions, Mr. Holmes.”

  Holmes shrugged. “Mere child’s play. Unfortunately, more important deductions are often harder to come by,” he said seriously.

  “Is it true, then, Mr. Holmes? Has the Star of India fallen into other hands?”

  Holmes lit a cigarette.

  “I’m afraid so, Miss Merriweather. It is entirely my fault; I should have foreseen what would happen.”

  “But Holmes—” I began, unwilling to let Holmes take the blame, but he interrupted me.

  “No, Watson,” he said. “I am perfectly prepared to accept responsibility for my mistakes. The disappearance of the Star of India is entirely my fault. I am sorry, Miss Merriweather; I have failed you, and now I can only endeavor to right the wrong. I can assure you that if I do retrieve it, it will not easily be wrested from me again. That much I can promise you.”

  Violet Merriweather looked at Holmes, and though I am by no means an expert on women, I think I know enough to recognize that particular light in a woman’s eyes. A slight blush crept into her cheeks, and she cast her eyes down demurely. At that moment I was certain that she had begun to feel something for my friend. I cannot say that I blamed her, although I could well wish myself in his place. With his restless nature and his dedication to reason, Holmes was not of a domestic disposition, whereas I was made for married life. Such things were, at present, out of the question with the lovely Miss Merriweather; the great personage who currently bestowed his favor upon her certainly far eclipsed both Holmes and myself both in renown and resources.

  If Holmes noticed Miss Merriweather’s emotional response to him, he made no sign of it.

  “The important thing now, Miss Merriweather, is that you convey to His Majesty my assurances that I will do everything in my power to maintain the stability of the political situation.”

  Violet Merriweather grew pale. “Do you mean to say there are political issues at stake?”

  “Forgive me, Miss Merriweather; I assumed that you had His Majesty’s full confidence, but I see now that you do not have complete knowledge—”

  “No, evidently I do not, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Perhaps he is trying to protect you—”

  “Or perhaps he does not trust me.”

  Holmes looked at me, obviously feeling extremely uncomfortable. I did my best to come to his rescue.

  “It is possible that he thought you would be put in a position of some peril if he—”

  “—if he was completely honest with me? No, Dr. Watson, I appreciate your attempt to spare my feelings, but if I cannot trust him to be ho
nest with me, then...” her voice trailed off, and I thought she was about to cry. But then she pulled herself up and addressed Holmes in a firm voice. “No doubt you have already surmised this by whatever methods you use to come to your astonishing conclusions, but I am an actress, Mr. Holmes.”

  Holmes threw his cigarette into the fire and rose from his chair.

  “You are correct. I did come to a conclusion early on that you were a practitioner of stagecraft—either an actress or a singer.”

  “My father was an Italian opera singer; my mother, who was English, was a dancer when she was young. I myself took to the stage at a young age. I mention this now only to show you that I am aware of the enormous social gap which exists between me and—him.”

  “I see. What face was your father’s voice?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What type of voice did he have?”

  “Oh, he was... a tenor.”

  “Ah, so he must have sung the role of Rigoletto.”

  “Oh, yes, it was one of his favorites.” There was a pause, and then she continued. “Mr. Holmes, you refer to a political situation; may I ask what that is?”

  Holmes related as much of the current situation as he thought prudent, but it was enough to give Miss Merriweather an idea of what was at stake.

  “Then the Star of India never was truly mine,” she said. “It was all a mistake, the misguided actions of an impetuous man—”

  “—a man who loves you,” I felt compelled to say.

  She smiled sadly. “Perhaps, but who sees me as little more than an amusing plaything, I fear. I had hoped... well, never mind. How could I suppose that such a great man would continue for long to be interested in me? After all, what can I offer such a man?”

  “Oh, a great deal,” I said warmly, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks. I looked at Holmes, who regarded me with curiosity. Suddenly, I feared I had revealed too much of my own feelings. But Holmes merely turned to Miss Merriweather.

  “Dr. Watson is right,” he said graciously. “Never mind the position of the person, it is the trueness of the heart that counts.”

  Violet Merriweather turned her lovely dark eyes upon him, and I felt certain now that her own heart was beginning to waver. “Oh, do you think so, Mr. Holmes?” she said in a tremulous voice.