“How clever you are.” I leaned over and kissed her again. It lasted a long while. She drew away at last, and brushed back the long tresses at the right side of her head. “I suppose there is no harm in giving it a trial run, especially if you cannot simply return it.”
“No harm at all.”
She smiled at me, and then the bell sounded, shattering the calm of the quiet afternoon. “Oh Lord,” I moaned. “Ignore it!”
“Someone might be genuinely ill, Henry. It would be one thing if we were—but at this point, we have no excuse. Let me just look out the window.” She walked across the room, raised the sash and quickly looked out down below. “It’s Sherlock.”
“Let him wait.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, all right, let’s see what he wants. I shall be right back.” I left the room and quickly went down the stairs.
I opened the door, but no one was there. I stepped out and looked right, then left. Holmes had swung his stick up over his shoulder and started down the sidewalk. I hesitated only an instant. “Sherlock!”
He turned. “Ah, there you are!” He came back toward me. “I hope…” He smiled at me. “I have received a letter from Mr. Murthwaite this morning. I thought it would interest you and Michelle.”
“Murthwaite! Then the Moonstone…”
“It is all in the letter.”
“Come in, then. We must see it.”
He gave me an amused glance. “I shall not detain you long.”
I said nothing, just nodded and ushered him in. I went up the stairs first. On one particular case, Holmes had deduced that a man must have spent the afternoon with his mistress from the slight disorder of his dress and the lingering smell of cheap perfume. He had also proclaimed that the afternoon was a time of day reserved exclusively for expensive harlots and their clientele. I told him that was absolutely not true. He had regarded me thoughtfully, then said he must defer to my greater knowledge. I knew, however, that this particular fact had been filed away in that great brain of his!
Michelle had put on her shoes and bound up her long red hair in an unruly coil, errant strands falling every which way. The necklace and its case were gone. “Sherlock, what a pleasant surprise.”
“He has a letter from Mr. Murthwaite,” I said.
“Does he now? Have he and Mr. Tyabji returned the diamond, then?”
Holmes withdrew an envelope from his pocket. “You shall read it all for yourselves.” He unfolded the pages and handed them to me. I went to the window where the light was better, and Michelle followed. We began to read.
Dear Mr. Holmes and Dr. Vernier,
I thought you would want to know all that has happened with the Moonstone. Geoffrey, his father and I presented it to the Maharajah, who was most grateful. Geoffrey has insisted that Alice receive the thousand pounds he originally promised her for its return. I then spent some time with my wife and sons, but rejoined Geoffrey some days later. We had resolved to once again see the magnificent desolation of Somanatha and its ruined temple. The Maharajah has his hopes of restoring the temple, but they may or may not bear fruit.
In the wild regions of the Kathiawar peninsula where Gondal lies, the population is fanatically devoted to the old Hindu religion—to the ancient worship of Brahma and Vishnu. Two of the most famous shrines of Hindu pilgrimage are contained within the boundaries of Kathiawar. One of them is Dwarka, the birthplace of the god Krishna. The other is that sacred city of Somanatha—sacked, and destroyed as long since as the eleventh century, by Muslim conquerors.
Somanatha was some three days distant, journeying on foot, from the Maharajah’s palace.
We had not been long on the road, before we noticed that other people—by twos and threes—appeared to be traveling in the same direction as ourselves. By then, Geoffrey and I had both “gone native” as they say, wearing the linen garments of the locals, as well as turbans. With his head of golden hair hidden, the Indian half of my friend becomes prominent. I know the local language as well as I know my own, and I am lean, worn and brown enough to make it no easy matter to detect my European origin. Thus we could pass muster with the people readily, not as one of themselves, but as strangers from a distant part of their own country.
On the second day, the number of Hindus traveling in our direction had increased to fifties and hundreds. On the third day, the throng had swollen to thousands; all slowly converging to one point—the city of Somanatha. This multitude was on its way to a great religious ceremony, which was to take place on a hill at a little distance from Somanatha. The ceremony was in honor of the god of the Moon; and it was to be held at night.
The crowd detained us as we drew near to the place of celebration. By the time we reached the hill the moon was high in the heaven. Some higher-caste Hindu friends possessed special privileges which enabled them to gain access to the shrine, and they kindly allowed us to accompany them. When we arrived at the place, we found the shrine hidden from our view by a curtain hung between two magnificent trees. Beneath the trees a flat projection of rock jutted out, and formed a species of natural platform. Below this, we stood, in company with our friends.
Looking back down the hill, the view presented the grandest spectacle of Nature and Man, in combination, that I have ever seen. The lower slopes of the eminence melted imperceptibly into a grassy plain, the place of the meeting of three rivers. On one side, the graceful winding of the waters stretched away, now visible, now hidden by trees, as far as the eye could see. On the other, the waveless ocean slept in the calm of the night. Imagine this lovely scene with tens of thousands of human creatures, all dressed in white, stretching down the sides of the hill, overflowing into the plain, and fringing the nearer banks of the winding rivers. Light this halt of the pilgrims by the wild red flames of torches, streaming up at intervals from every part of the innumerable throng. Imagine the moonlight of the East, pouring in unclouded glory over all—and you will form some idea of the view that met us when we looked forth from the summit of the hill!
A strain of plaintive music, played on stringed instruments, and flutes, recalled our attention to the hidden shrine. Suddenly, a new strain of music, loud and jubilant, began. The crowd around us shuddered, and pressed together.
The curtain between the trees was drawn aside, and the shrine was disclosed to view.
There, raised high on a throne—seated on his typical antelope, with his four arms stretching towards the four corners of the earth—there, soared above us, dark and awful in the mystic light of heaven, the god of the Moon, Chandra. And there, in the forehead of the deity, gleamed the yellow diamond, whose splendor had shone on me in England, from the bosom of a woman’s dress!
Yes, after the lapse of eight centuries, the Moonstone looks forth once more, over the walls of the sacred city in which its story first began. You have lost sight of it in England, I hope forever! So the years pass, and repeat each other; so the same events revolve in the cycles of time. What will be the next adventures of the Moonstone? Who can tell? I for one hope it will rest on the god’s forehead for many years to come!
Yours truly,
Jack Murthwaite.
I shook my head. “Amazing. I would not have expected such poetry from Jack. He certainly brings the scene alive.”
Michelle nodded. “I would have liked to be there to see the moon rising over all the worshipers.”
Holmes took the letter from me, folded it up, and put it back into the envelope. “Certainly this is one of the most satisfying endings to a case that I can recall. Alice Bromley is relieved of the burden of the diamond, and it has returned to its rightful home. As for its next adventures, as Murthwaite puts it, let us hope they will be in the far distant future when we have long absented the scene! I am in a celebratory mood. Would the two of you be my guests for dinner this evening? Fittingly enough for a Vernier and a Doudet, there is a new French restaurant which Mycroft has recommended, and he has a most discriminating palate.”
I glanced
at Michelle. “Certainly. We would be happy to accompany you.”
“Excellent, then. I shall be back here at exactly six.” The corners of his mouth flickered upward, his gray eyes fixed on me. “In the meantime, the afternoon is yours to amuse yourselves as you will.” He nodded. “I can let myself out.”
Once he was gone Michelle stared closely at me. “Do you think he knows?”
“Of course he does. I made the mistake of once telling him that the afternoon was not reserved only for harlots and their clients.”
“Oh, yes, I remember. You told me that—and I said, how could you! Well, I for one am embarrassed.”
“You needn’t be. Where were we now? You were about to try on the necklace.”
“Yes, and Henry…” She reached out to grasp my hand. “I have been thinking. We can keep it, at least for a while, although if we should ever need the money, we must agree to sell it.”
“Oh, certainly.”
“Very well.” She went to the bureau drawer and took it out.
“Let me help you,” I said. “First, however, we cannot have the sapphires resting on mere fabric.” She was wearing a favorite worn green muslin dress with a row of buttons down the front. Its tight collar hid the hollow between her collarbones. I undid the top buttons and opened up the dress. “That’s better.” She gave me a bemused smile. “Stay put.” I unfastened the necklace, stepped behind her, kissed the nape of her neck, then reached round to grab one end and bring it around. I re-fastened the clasp, then gently turned her around. “Oh, yes. That is lovely.” I pulled down her left sleeve, baring her shoulder, and kissed it.
“I can see where this is leading. So I suppose you want me to model it for you?”
“If you insist.”
She touched my cheek with her hand. “Give me a minute, then.” She walked away in the direction of the bedroom.
I sighed softly. I sat down, then heaved off one boot, then the other. After a while I stood and went down the hallway to the bedroom door. “Ready?”
“One second. All right.”
I opened the door. She had wrapped a sheet around her, leaving one long white arm and her feet bare. Her red hair was unbound again and all astray. “I feel slightly preposterous—like Messalina, or Salome, or another femme fatale in some dreadful overwrought romance.”
“I shall be the judge of that, foul temptress.”
I stepped forward, took hold of the sheet and tugged at it. She resisted for a moment, then let me pull it away. She raised her hands, then lowered them. “This is embarrassing, all right.”
“It is as I thought,” I murmured.
“And what was that?”
“That you are more beautiful than any diamonds or sapphires.”
She flushed slightly. “Oh, Henry, you are a hopeless romantic! You were never this way when I first knew you. Love has made you delirious.”
“No, no—love has made me see exactly how glorious you are. The sapphires do bring out the color of your eyes. They complement one another.” I reached out with my fingertips to touch the central blue stone, then let my finger slip off onto her sternum and on down to her waist. I felt her shiver. I shook my head. “Bromley really was a fool. How could any man prefer the beauty of something cold and dead to that of a living, breathing woman?”
“Oh, enough talk, my darling—enough talk! And you must take off your clothes, too.” She opened my jacket, yanked off one sleeve, then the other, and we held each other.
We discovered almost immediately, that while the necklace might be enticing in the anticipation, when you actually drew together, the stones were truly hard and almost sharp! We cried out in unison as they dug into our flesh. I quickly turned her, unfastened the clasp, and set the necklace on the night table. Sapphires and diamonds were soon forgotten.
About the Author
Sam Siciliano is the author of several novels, including the Titan Sherlock Holmes titles The Angel of the Opera, The Web Weaver, The Grimswell Curse and The White Worm. He lives in Vancouver, Washington.
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