The Moonstone's Curse

by Sam Siciliano

  “Yes. I’ve been up for a few hours, since five or so. I felt for the longest time as if I might vomit. Charles gave me the drops around six. He told me about the necklace and wanted to talk, but I could not bear the sound of his voice. I begged him to leave me in peace, and he did. I dozed in my chair after that.”

  I frowned. “Your mouth looks very dry. I think you need to drink some water.” I went to the dresser where a pitcher of water and a glass sat, as well as the laudanum bottle.

  “I’m not thirsty.”

  “Drink it down anyway—doctor’s orders.” I handed her the glass, and she took a big swallow. The muscles in her long, slender throat rippled. “Again. It will make you feel better.”

  She finished the glass, then handed it to me. “Thank you.” Her eyes stared up at me, their blue color somehow as wan as her face, and tears suddenly formed a film along the lower lids. “I’m so ashamed—not because of the others—not exactly—but you and Dr. Doudet Vernier… How I wish you had not been there! Especially your wife. She was so kind to me. Now she will never want to see me again.”

  “No, no, I assure you, you are wrong. She is made of stronger stuff than that.”

  “I was so rude to her.”

  “You were not yourself. You had too much to drink.”

  “I certainly did. I hope you do not think… I never drank so much in my life. At least now I know I was not missing anything.” A smile pulled at one corner of her mouth. “Henceforth I shall stick to my laudanum and do without wine and champagne.”

  I shrugged. “You would be better to do without the laudanum and take an occasional glass of wine. Regardless, would you feel up to seeing Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard and Mr. Holmes?”

  “Mr. Holmes, yes, certainly—but a policeman? Must I?”

  “A valuable jewel has been stolen. You must see him, either now, or later.”

  She drew in her breath slowly, then brushed a long strand of hair back from her face. “Best, I suppose, to get it over with.”

  “I think so, too.”

  “Very well.” She nodded resolutely. “But they must not stay too long. I don’t feel very well.”

  “I shall tell them that.” I turned. Sabine stood listening, her right hand grasping her left wrist. Her faintly bored expression seemed typical.

  I went downstairs and soon returned with Lestrade and Holmes. Both men looked none the worse for wear. Holmes’s ability to go with minimal sleep for long periods of time had always impressed me, and that capability must also be necessary for a Scotland Yard detective.

  After the introductions, Lestrade asked her about the necklace. “I took it off before I got into my night things and set it just there.” She pointed at the walnut dresser.

  Lestrade watched her carefully, his dark eyes intense under the black eyebrows. “And you are absolutely certain it was there before you went to sleep? After the doctor left?”

  “Oh yes. Before he stepped outside, I remembered the diamond, for some reason, and sat up suddenly in bed. ‘Where is the necklace?’ I asked. And he said—begging your pardon—‘The damned thing is there where you left it, on the dresser.’ I saw it was so. He closed the door behind him, and then I lay down.”

  “Did it take you long to fall asleep?”

  “Oh no, not at all. He had given me some drops, and I was asleep almost at once.”

  “And the windows were closed?”

  “Yes.” She laughed nervously. “Ever since I saw—or imagined I saw—an Indian at the library window, I’ve kept my windows closed at night. I know it is superstitious nonsense—and it does get warm—but…”

  “Hardly nonsense,” Lestrade said. “Someone came through that window last night to steal your necklace. I don’t suppose you heard anything?”

  “Not at all. I was fast asleep for a few hours. I did not wake until about five.”

  “Do you have any idea at all about who might have taken the diamond? Could it have been this Mr. Tyabji?”

  She gave her head a quick shake. “I doubt it. He struck me as a very honorable gentleman. I cannot believe he would have been involved, although perhaps some other Indians might have taken it, some dark cult or some such thing.”

  “And how do you feel about the loss of this incomparable diamond? I must say, you seem remarkably composed.”

  “It is because of my laudanum drops, I believe, but all the same, I have never exactly felt that the diamond truly belonged to me. Have Mr. Holmes or Charles explained to you that I have only a life-interest? Well, the diamond was a part of our family inheritance, and as such, its loss is a blow. I do feel bad, too, for Charles, but all the same, all the same…” She clenched her teeth, her mouth forming a grotesque smile. “I am glad to be rid of the ‘damned thing.’” She laughed once, then covered her mouth with her long, slender hand. “Forgive me, but I truly believe it was cursed. It had—it looked beautiful—but it had blood all over it.” She blinked twice. “My head hurts so. Could you leave me alone now, please?”

  Lestrade stared curiously at her, his brow furrowed, and he ran the fingers of his left hand along the right side of his jaw. “Certainly. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Do you have any questions, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Only one, and then we can leave you in peace, madam. Dr. Cowen said you did not take your laudanum drops the night before last, so that you might drink wine during the party. What made you decide to do that?”

  Her blue eyes were the palest hue I had ever seen, washed out in a way that matched the pallor of her face. “I…” She swallowed once. “I think you must know that I was dreading the party. I have never liked wearing the diamond—nor have I ever really liked high society. I thought some champagne might make the whole ordeal easier to bear.”

  Holmes smiled briefly. “And did it help?”

  “Yes.” Her lips squeezed together into a brief ironic smile. “But there was a price to pay, then and now, as you can see.”

  “Thank you, madam.” He and Lestrade exchanged a look, and then they turned to leave.

  “Oh, wait,” Alice said. Some slight color appeared in her cheeks. “Please pardon my outburst last night, Mr. Holmes. It was unforgivable.”

  “It was… understandable.” With a parting nod, Holmes turned again.

  I touched Alice lightly on the shoulder. “I would suggest you try some dry toast along with hot tea. The tea may help with your headache.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Vernier. So I shall.”

  On the stairway, Lestrade shook his head. “A lady who doesn’t care for diamonds. Will wonders never cease! I would never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it.” He stopped at the bottom of the stairs to speak to Holmes. “By the way, I saw Dr. Cowen briefly this morning before I came here, and his story matches hers. He said she asked about the diamond just before he left the room. And he had a last look at the necklace before he closed the door.” Holmes gave an almost imperceptible nod. “The doctor wanted to rush over here, but I told him he would only be in the way and to remain at home until noon or so.”

  Lestrade had arranged with Bromley to conduct interviews with the servants again in the library. He sat at the end of the large table, Holmes and I to one side, one of his men with notebook on the other. The servants entered, one by one, and stood at the far end of the table. Lestrade’s questions were always the same: how long had they worked for the Bromleys, what did they think of their master and mistress, what did they know of the diamond, when had they last seen it, what exactly were they doing while it went missing, who did they think might have taken it?

  Holmes, on the other hand, asked if they had noticed anything unusual in the house in the last few weeks, absolutely anything the least bit out of the ordinary. That question generally drew blank looks, although everyone except Sabine came up with something. Mrs. Bateson the cook, who came first, mentioned that the butcher had delivered some dreadfully “off” mutton three weeks ago on Monday. She had had to return it along with a stern warning never to sen
d such deficient meat again.

  When he asked Susan that question, she grew very grave. She was one of those tiny, thin, pale women who looked weak, but somehow managed to do much of the cleaning and housework in upper-class townhouses around London. Her white lace cap sat slightly to the side, as if to emphasize her small, perfectly shaped ear with blond hair swirling back over it. “Anything, sir?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Holmes said, “anything in the least bit unusual.”

  “Well, the master was struck ill one day, most powerfully so.”

  Holmes set both of his long hands on the table surface and leaned forward slightly. “When was this? Please explain yourself.”

  “Well, I was coming down the hall near the library door about a month ago, and I heard a groan. I came closer, and the groan came again, longer than before. I rapped at the door. ‘Who’s there?’ I asked. ‘Are you all right?’ No one answered. ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Please?’ Then the door opened and the master was there. He told me he had had a bad stomach ache, that it had momentarily got the best of him, but that he had just taken some medicine and felt better already.”

  Lestrade eased his breath out, his impatience obvious, but Holmes tapped at the table with his fingertips. “And did the master look sick to you?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Was he… was his face pale or ruddy—red?”

  She stared curiously at Holmes. “I can’t remember.”

  “Try to remember. Think carefully. You opened the library door, and there he was. Perhaps if you think of his face set against the white of his collar.”

  She frowned, then closed her eyes tightly for a second or two. “Red, I suppose.”

  “And there were no reoccurrences of this stomach ache that you can recall?”

  “No. That’s why I said it was unusual. He sounded in most dreadful pain. It frightened me some, that sound, it did.”

  Holmes smiled graciously. “Thank you, Susan.”

  Matilda was older than Susan, taller and plumper, with bad teeth. She had been with the Bromleys for two years. When Holmes asked his question, she also had to think for a while. “The missus had considerable wine to drink with dinner last night. I never seen her do that before.”

  Holmes smiled. “Very observant. She admitted as much. Anything else?”

  She screwed up her face in a pained expression. “Well, Sabine actually helped us serve the dinner last night.” A brusque laugh escaped her. “I never seen that before either!”

  “Ah. And what do you think of Sabine?”

  The pained expression returned. “Think of ’er? I don’t. I don’t think of ’er.” Her distaste was obvious enough, and indeed the two women were certainly a study in contrasts.

  “Did you have much to do with Amy?” Holmes asked.

  “Amy? No.”

  “Who is Amy?” asked Lestrade.

  “A former maid whom Susan replaced six months ago,” Holmes said. “She supposedly left to be married.”

  Matilda was frowning. “Amy was… Amy was not a good girl.”

  Holmes’s eyes opened ever so slightly. “Why do you say that?”

  Matilda suddenly blushed. “Not nothing too terribly bad—I don’t mean to say… She was not a fast girl. But she was always joking about, and being disrespectful, and all. She didn’t go to church either. I offered to take her along myself, but she wouldn’t go.”

  “And is Susan more to your liking?”

  She nodded eagerly. “Oh yes! They’re like night and day. Susan is a very good girl.”

  “And did you know this William with whom Amy went off?”

  “No, sir.”

  “She had never spoken of him to you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did Amy say much to any of you before she departed?”

  “No. She was here one day, gone the next, so to speak. She did say she wouldn’t have to dirty her hands again anytime soon. She was done with all that.”

  “Very well. Thank you, Matilda.”

  Sabine was clearly on her best behavior, but something about the set of those full lips conveyed a mild disdain. The constable taking notes glanced at her as she walked in, lowered his eyes, then sat up straight and gave her an appraising look, his eyes clearly fixed on the area just below her neck. Her black dress was stylish and tight enough that it showed off her bosom to good effect. I knew I had a tendency myself to stare at women, but I hoped I was not quite so obvious as this man. Lestrade gave him a dark, chiding look, and he quickly busied himself with his pencil and notebook.

  Lestrade went through his questions, and she answered them briefly and mechanically. Holmes’s question about anything unusual made her simply shake her head. “Nothing at all?” he asked, and she shook her head again immediately.

  Holmes sat back in his chair and briefly massaged his thin jaw. “Do you like your mistress?”

  “Like her? It is not my job to like her, but to serve her. For that, I do my best.” She spoke with a strong accent, and her dark eyes smoldered.

  “And does she follow your recommendations concerning dress and style?”

  She shrugged. “Sometimes. Not always. We have some different tastes. Occasionally I succeed.”

  “Ah. Perhaps that lacy silk robe she was wearing this morning was one of your suggestions?”

  She gave Holmes an inquisitive look. “Yes.”

  “But she does not share that love of fashion and meticulous devotion to dress which many society women do?”

  Sabine’s eyebrows came together. “No.”

  “I suppose that must be a disappointment.” She did not respond to his observation. “And is it true that you are engaged to Hodges?”

  Her hands curled into fists even as she seemed to stand taller. “What?”

  “I did not think it was supposed to be a secret. Mr. Bromley said that you and Hodges are engaged to be married.”

  “We are—but that is none of your business.”

  Holmes smiled faintly. “No, I suppose not. Thank you, mademoiselle.”

  Hodges was also uncommunicative. A certain wariness, perhaps of the police, seemed to show itself in his eyes. If the blue of Alice’s eyes recalled some muted lake or sea, his had more in common with crags of ice. His broad face was carefully neutral. His complexion was pale, his cheeks pocked. His sandy-colored hair was parted to the right side and cut short more in the Prussian than the English style. He was not quite so laconic in his responses to the inspector as Sabine had been. When Holmes asked his usual question, he was silent for a moment.

  “Mr. Murthwaite came to visit a few weeks ago. He was someone new, not one of the master or mistress’s usual visitors.” He shrugged. “Not terribly unusual, but it’s all that comes to mind.”

  “Yes, and it was out of the ordinary. Were you present during his visit?”

  “No, sir.”

  Holmes nodded rather mechanically. “I see. And I have heard that there is an attachment between you and Mademoiselle Pascal. Is that so?”

  His reaction was not so extreme as hers, was instead a studied indifference. “Yes, sir.”

  “And you are engaged to be married?”

  “Yes.”

  Holmes’s fingers drummed briefly at the table. “I suppose you take her to the music hall and that sort of thing?”

  “No, sir—a music hall is hardly the place for a respectable woman.”

  “Perhaps not. And have you set a wedding date?”

  “More or less. We hope to be married next year in June.”

  “That seems a long time to wait.”

  “So it is.” He eased out his breath in a strangely long sigh. “But our love sustains us. She is truly the woman for whom I have been searching all my life.” His impassive face was at odds with the flowery declamation.

  “Mr. Bromley pays you well and provides for your needs. Given your passionate sentiments, why must you wait?”

  Hodges’s face remained impassive. “I have some debts to pay off, and I�
��m saving to buy her a fine ring and a wedding dress worthy of her.”

  Holmes nodded. “I see. You said earlier that you have been with Mr. Bromley for about four years, so nearly two years before his marriage. And he told me that before you worked for him, you were a soldier. He said you had some difficulties with an officer which led to your dismissal.”

  “That was a long time ago now, Mr. Holmes. I drank too much, and when I drank too much I was ill-tempered and insubordinate. Mr. Bromley took me in, and I haven’t touched a drop since then. I owe him everything, and I have never betrayed his trust in me.” His look at Holmes was faintly antagonistic.

  “I am happy to hear it. That will be all.”

  Last was Mrs. Carlson. She had worked for Alice’s father as housekeeper, and Bromley had kept her on after his marriage. When Holmes asked if she had noticed anything unusual happening recently, she scowled horribly. “Just over two weeks ago there came from the butcher’s a joint of mutton with a smell which can only…”

  Holmes raised his hand, his long fingers spread wide. “Yes, we know—Mrs. Bateson already told us.” He looked ironically grim, then shook his head. “Most unfortunate. Do sit down for a moment, madam.”

  She pulled out the chair and sat. Her face was full, almost square. Above her broad forehead, her graying hair was parted in the middle, just beneath the lacy border of her cap. She wore a black dress, but nothing so stylish or expensive as Sabine’s.

  “Tell me, Mrs. Carlson, when did you learn of the engagement between Hodges and Sabine?”

  She gave me a puzzled look. “About a year ago.”

  “And did it surprise you?”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it. “No. They did seem most friendly right from the start, but it’s hard to tell anything with her, isn’t it? Maybe it’s a French thing. She’s a very quiet, shut-up sort of person.”

  “Yes, I had noticed that.”

  “More obvious with him, perhaps, although he’s the quiet type as well.”

  “And do you see any problem with having a romantically inclined couple under your roof, Mrs. Carlson?”

  She stared at him. “What do you mean?”