The Moonstone's Curse

by Sam Siciliano

  I frowned. “Is it as bad as all that?”

  “Oh no, not yet—not yet, but I worry about the future.”

  “Once the diamond is locked up, things should be better. Even she acknowledged that.”

  He nodded quickly. “Yes, that is what I am hoping for, too. Do you think all this reading she does is good for her? I sometimes think she should give it all up.”

  “No, no—it is her one avocation. She shouldn’t perhaps read things like… Dr. Jekyll, I believe it was, but anything that keeps her mind occupied is worthwhile.”

  “Good, good. I would not want to deprive her of her one consolation.”

  I hesitated and took my lower lip between my teeth. Now it was Bromley’s turn to say, “Yes?”

  “Do you and your wife have sexual relations frequently?”

  He gave me an incredulous stare. “Certainly not.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, given her condition, I hardly think… I am not a mere animal, Dr. Vernier, to put my own unclean desires above my wife’s health and well-being.”

  “I don’t think her health and well-being would necessarily suffer.”

  “You do not?”

  “No. It might actually help matters.”

  “Really?” He lowered his gaze. “If only it were possible… I cannot deny that it is difficult, but I would do anything for Alice—anything.”

  “In this case following your natural inclinations may be helpful.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “I must… think about this.” He had a smile that might warm the chilliest room. “You have been very helpful, Dr. Vernier. Perhaps there is hope, after all.”

  “Of course there is. I cannot say for certain, but I doubt there is anything seriously wrong with her.”

  “If only I could get her out of Dr. Cowen’s clutches! I do think he brings out the worst in her. Do you think you might talk with him?”

  I shrugged. “We are not exactly on the best terms. Still, I do need to discuss the situation with him.”

  “Excellent.” He beamed, then snatched up his gloves and slapped his leg once with them. “It’s odd, you know.” He shook his head. “Sometimes loyalty seems so rare a virtue, especially among a certain class of men. However, I can tell, Henry, that you are absolutely devoted to your wife.”

  I shrugged slightly. “Yes, I am.”

  “And so it should be. They speak of the lower animals, and yet that little dog of mine, my Sally, has a truer heart than certain of my acquaintances. There is nothing I value more in a friend than loyalty.” He was briefly silent, and a faint smile came and went. “Sometimes, however, there is a price to pay.”

  “How so?”

  “Oh, I was recalling a time at school. There was a clever older boy we all liked, a very popular one with a certain mischievous streak. He poured out a bottle of India ink onto the Latin master’s chair while the man was out of the room, and later the master sat in it!” He laughed. “His trousers were ruined, and he was furious. For some reason he chose me as a representative of our class. He must have suspected Huntley, and he knew I admired him. He gave me the choice of naming the guilty party or suffering his punishment in his stead. I refused to tell him. He had me drop my trousers, and he proceeded to angrily cane my bare bottom. Periodically he would pause and ask me again who had done it. I could not hold back the tears, but somehow I managed not to speak.” He smiled, shaking his head. “Sitting was torture for the next week or two.”

  I also shook my head. “Our boys’ boarding schools employ far too many sadists.”

  “Some good did come of it. Huntley and I became fast friends after that.” He stood up. “I have taken enough of your time, Dr. Vernier. Thank you and your wife for all your assistance. I look forward to seeing you both at dinner on Saturday. The cook is preparing a feast.”

  I walked him to the front door. Michelle came out of her examining room with a patient. Soon Bromley and the patient had left. Another woman was waiting for Michelle, but she touched my hand lightly. “How did it go?” she asked.

  “I hope I have done my good deed for the day.”

  She smiled and gave me a knowing look.

  A couple of hours later I set out for Holmes’s flat and arrived around three thirty. We went back down the stairs and stepped out onto Baker Street. A big four-wheeler, aptly nicknamed a growler, rumbled by. The sun was out, the light breeze pleasantly cool. We had both put on our top hats. “Still a fine day for a stroll.” Holmes set off at a brisk pace, his stick swinging in time, and I followed.

  “Where exactly are we going?” I asked.

  “Remember our journey to the Underton rookery to visit Ratty and Moley?”

  I came to an abrupt halt. “You do not propose to go there again!”

  He smiled. “No, no—calm yourself. We are hardly dressed appropriately for a visit there. I only brought it up by way of contrast. That was our journey into the lowest depths of London society. Today, instead, we shall journey to a high-class street near Grosvenor Square and a representative of la plus haute société, a personage who is the counterpart of Ratty, the illustrious Dowager Viscountess Tigleywink.”

  “I have never heard of her.”

  “But you are not a frequenter of the highest circles, Henry. I helped her out with a difficult business involving her son, the Viscount Tigleywink, a few years ago. Since then… To put it bluntly, Henry, she is one of the biggest gossips in all of London. If I want to find out what is being said about anyone in society, she is the person I go to. She knows everyone, talks to everyone.”

  “What do you want to ask her about?”

  He laughed. “Henry, do not be obtuse.”

  “Oh. The Bromleys, I suppose.”

  “Exactly. Bromley is the younger son of Lord Bromley. The Moonstone is a famous jewel. Lady Tigleywink will no doubt have some interesting tidbits of information.”

  “Gossip, you mean—that was the word you used.”

  “Yes. Although gossip is frequently fictitious, it is occasionally true, or, at least has some grounding in reality. We should be just in time for afternoon tea.”

  We came to Portman Square. The tall plane trees, with their pale blotchy trunks and abundant green canopy, shaded the expanse of lawn. A woman watched her two small boys running about in some chase game. Holmes shook his head. “Hard to imagine now that London is gray and miserable for so much of the year. In January, it grows dark at this time.”

  We walked on until we came to Grosvenor Square, then turned and went past it to a small side street. Holmes stopped before a red-brick townhouse with white columns and window trim, then went to the white door and used the knocker to rap loudly. A plump older parlor maid in her black dress and white apron soon appeared before us.

  “Mr. Holmes, so good to see you! It has been a long time.”

  “It’s good to see you, too, Nancy. How have you been?”

  “I can’t complain. I can’t complain. Let me take your things. Just in time for tea, you are.”

  She led us through the grand parlor with an enormous cut-glass chandelier, several gold-framed paintings on the wall and a luxurious carpet to a smaller sitting room. A small woman in a dark silk sat in a chair with her tiny feet in their brown laced boots resting up on an embroidered ottoman. She swung her feet round and stood. “Ah, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you wretch, where have you been keeping yourself?” She turned to me. “And who is this gentleman?”

  “My cousin and friend, Dr. Henry Vernier.”

  She nodded. “Much better-looking than Dr. Watson. I approve. Vernier—let me think. Ah yes, you must be the husband of the lady doctor.”

  “Yes.” I tried not to sound sour. Some days it seemed half the female population of London knew me only as the lady doctor’s husband. “A pleasure, madam.”

  “Do sit down and make yourself comfortable, gentlemen.” She turned to the maid. “Give us five or ten minutes, Nancy, and then you may bring the tea service.” She sat again
and put her feet on the ottoman. “My ankles tend to swell unless I keep my feet up.” Holmes and I had sat on the purple velvet sofa, and she looked at me. “Some of my friends see your wife, Dr. Vernier. Myself, I am a traditionalist, and besides, I have always preferred the company of men—men, like Mr. Holmes, who has been sadly remiss in his visits.

  “Duty has called, madam.” Holmes’s gravity was faintly ironic. “Nothing else could keep me away.”

  “How charming! Even though you don’t mean a word of it. Well, what is it? About whom are we inquiring today?”

  Lady Tigleywink had a round face with considerable flesh pouring forth below her small chin. Her hair was silver-white, bound up, her face pinkish with wrinkles radiating out from her eyes, which were a piercing blue at odds with the rest of her face. The navy silk was stylishly cut and looked new. She appeared to be in her seventies.

  “The Honorable Charles Bromley and his wife, Mrs. Alice Bromley.”

  “Oh yes.” She nodded enthusiastically. “Little Alice. I say little, even though she has grown into a giantess. How well I remember her and her mother Charlotte. Charlotte was so very refined, and Alice has turned out the same way, refined in a particularly pale, weak-blooded way. A thin line, Mr. Holmes, between being refined, and being a great ninny. Of course, one cannot mention Charlotte and Alice without bringing up the Moonstone.”

  Holmes smiled. “Certainly not.”

  “The Moonstone! What a wonder. I was there when Charlotte first wore it, and again, after her death when Alice first wore it. As I recall, neither of them looked very happy. In a way, who can blame them? What woman would not be eclipsed by a jewel of that magnitude?”

  I smiled faintly.

  “Out with it, Dr. Vernier.”

  “I know of one.”

  “Ah, a hopeless romantic, I see. Your wife is a redhead, I believe? That explains it—redheads are known for their lickerish dispositions. My friend Dorothea Dobson was a redhead, and she could never… Well, regardless, Dr. Vernier certainly comes from a different bloodline than yours, Mr. Holmes—he has none of your deliciously cynical streak. Yes, Alice and Charlotte with all their maladies, and the long suffering Dr. Cowen who has had to deal with them both. At my age, I have ailments aplenty, but the trick is never to let them take control of your life. Once that is done, you are lost.” Her face showed a fleeting gravity. “But for a young woman, someone in her twenties—no, no, it will not do! And with a husband like Charles. Granted, he has his faults, but…”

  “Such as?” Holmes asked.

  “Well, certainly not a lack of charm—no, not that. He could charm the dress off a virgin. Oh dear—I didn’t quite mean that the way it sounds, although he always had something of a reputation as a lady’s man—little wonder, given that head of hair, that mustache and those teeth. Interesting. His brother is something of a sullen lout. Perhaps Charles always tried harder because he knew he wouldn’t get the title and the fortune.”

  “Do you know about his business activities?”

  “I certainly do. Lady Margaret got an emerald necklace from his jeweler friend Harter. Over-priced, but she is convinced it was a bargain. Who am I to disillusion her? And Lord Frederick found a townhouse to let with Charles’s help—it’s only a block from here, very nice indeed. These second sons have to make a living some way, after all, and I don’t find it reprehensible in the least.”

  I frowned slightly. “You don’t think it is somewhat deceptive?”

  She laughed. “Dear boy, surely it is deceptive! Deception is what makes the world go round. There is good deception and bad deception, and if people like Lady Margaret can afford the bracelet and are content, where’s the harm? That’s the good part of a charmer like Charles Bromley. All the same, I always feel the need to lock up the silver when he’s to come calling. Either that, or have myself lashed to the mast like Ulysses did when he sailed past the singing sirens. One must protect oneself from oneself, if you know what I mean.”

  Holmes laughed. “You are in rare form today, madam.”

  “From Mr. Sherlock Holmes, that is true praise indeed. Ah, there you are, Nancy! Help yourself to tea, gentlemen.” She sighed wearily as she contemplated leaving the chair again.

  Holmes bounded to his feet. “Let me get you something, Lady Tigleywink.”

  “That is very kind of you, Mr. Holmes, very kind.”

  Nancy had wheeled in a cart. On it was a beautiful tea kettle and matching cups of white china with gold trim and a few red and yellow roses with green leaves. A pyramid was formed of three plates on a wire rack, the higher ones slightly smaller. On the plates were scones, tiny quartered sandwiches and biscuits. Holmes took the tea kettle and poured into a cup. “Milk or lemon, madam?”

  “Milk, please.”

  “And anything to eat?”

  “One of the raisin scones, if you please.” Holmes set a small plate and the tea cup and saucer on a small table next to the chair. She reached over and sipped at the tea, almost but not quite slurping. “Oh very good, just the right amount of milk.”

  Holmes took tea, a scone, a biscuit and a quarter of cucumber sandwich. I was content with tea and a slice of lemon. We sat, and I squeezed the lemon into the liquid, then stirred it.

  “So civilized, tea time, and such a pleasure to have gentlemen callers! You must come again, Mr. Holmes. The fate of the British Empire can be set aside for a few moments while you join me for tea. Cook makes such excellent scones, you know.”

  “They are delicious,” Holmes said.

  “Where were we now?” she said.

  Holmes sipped at his tea, then said, perhaps too innocently, “Did you say something about Charles Bromley being a lady’s man?”

  “Oh my, yes. Before his marriage, he had something of a reputation. Well, not exactly a reputation, because it was hushed up. There were one or two young ladies of the most impeccable breeding—one especially—and Charles forgot himself on the divan one evening when the elderly aunt who acted as chaperone had wandered off. When her father appeared… He was a big man, Sir John, stout but strong, if you know what I mean. Luckily he could not run very fast. Charles was not allowed to see her again. They were still fully clothed when apprehended—that must be said. Georgiana went on to marry a clergyman, I believe. Yes, the Reverend Wrangles, and they have had a child nearly every year like clockwork. Clearly she wishes to emulate the old woman who lived in the shoe.”

  “Who was the other young lady?”

  “Let me see.” She sipped at her tea, again with a faint hint of a slurp. “Ah yes, Lady Alexander, I believe, although she wasn’t Alexander or Lady then but only Miss Jane Huntley.”

  I frowned. “Alice Bromley’s friend?”

  “Yes. I’m sure she never said anything to Alice about Charles. Too embarrassing, after all, and she was frightfully young.”

  Holmes was watching her very closely. “And have you heard of anything more recently?”

  “No, no, he’s supposedly above reproach, turned over a new leaf, and all that, but I’ll wager he’s just like all the others. There is always a mistress hidden away on the side. Can’t be a gentleman without some dainty little thing kept in her own quaint villa.”

  “That is truly cynical.”

  She smiled. “Ever the romantic, aren’t you, Dr. Vernier? Most men would assume that lady doctors must be very plain things, but I hear your wife is quite pretty. That certainly helps. Well, I hope your feelings will last. One can always hope.”

  “My feelings will definitely last.”

  “Again, let us hope so. Mine lasted about five years, and then I found out about the dainty little creature—an actress, of course—and the villa. Still, I made the best of the situation. I never expected much from Edward after that, and I was never disappointed again.”

  “But in Bromley’s case, this mistress and the villa are only supposition on your part?” Holmes asked.

  “They are. I could be wrong. Alice is not unattractive, which helps matter
s. Still, she is a great ninny.”

  Lady Tigleywink had begun to grate on me. “Why do you say that? What exactly do you mean?”

  “All these ailments and palpitations and faintness! I have no patience for it. I know so many women who have adopted a valetudinarian outlook early in life. They are always worried about one thing or another. A pang in their stomach may indicate a fatal illness, or someone who snaps at them may set their heart all aflutter and make them nearly faint, or the death of a young poet demonstrates the deep and abiding sadness of life! It is all such nonsense. Life is what you make of it. One should not allow oneself the luxury of all this histrionic misery.”

  My lips were pressed tightly together, but I said nothing.

  “You do not agree, I see, Dr. Vernier.”

  “I don’t think it is merely a matter of willpower. I’ve seen too many people, men and women alike, who were terribly unhappy even though they seemed to have everything.”

  “Yes, and often they have to work very hard indeed to make themselves so unhappy.”

  “Do you think Charlotte Blake’s death was suicide or an accident?” Holmes asked.

  Mrs. Tigleywink didn’t hesitate for an instant. “Suicide. Her husband had become a terrible bully. Anyone could see that. She was a sensitive woman, as I said. And she was afraid of the Moonstone. Anyone could see that, too. Little wonder she killed herself.” She sipped at her tea.

  I said nothing, but my good mood inspired by the fine weather and the walk was gone.

  “Do you also know Alice Bromley’s younger sister, Lady Bartram?” Holmes asked.

  “Oh yes. Have you met her? She is the opposite of her sister in every way, physically and mentally. She also reigns supreme in her household. James Bartram was always a shy and lanky sort of milksop, nothing like his iron-willed father, but in a remarkable feat of legerdemain, Norah managed to convince James he was in love with her and to propose marriage. He has been rewarded with a James Junior. Norah would love to get her hands on the Moonstone. She thinks her sister is an idiot about the diamond.”

  I frowned. “I wish Mrs. Bromley would just give the diamond to Norah.”