“Right,” said the Codger. He pushed himself to his feet. “See you gents; I’m off to guard the gold.”
TWELVE
THE EMPRESS OF INDIA
I’ll have them fly to India for gold,
Ransack the ocean for orient pearl.
—Christopher Marlowe
It was late in the afternoon of Friday, March 14, when the steamship Empress of India made her way up the Hooghly River and approached Calcutta Harbor. At 652 feet long and 70 wide, the Empress was the queen of the Anglo-Asian Star steamship line. Built by John Brown & Company, Clydebank, Glasgow, in 1888, she had a pair of Garrett & Harris quadruple expansion engines to drive her twin screws and, when everything was working perfectly and the sea gods were smiling, was capable of hitting a speed of nineteen knots. She was not quite the longest, nor the heaviest, nor the fastest, nor the most luxurious ship afloat, but she was not far off any of the four.
Two oceangoing steam tugs, Egbert and Ethelred, had come out to prod the Empress, bow and stern, into its berth alongside the Commissariat Jetty, just down from Fort William. Ordinarily one tug would have sufficed, but The Empress of India was bringing the new issue of paper currency, and precautions must be taken. The two tugs were crammed with armed men, ready to fend off any possible attempt to filch the lucre. The Clive, the viceroy’s own steam launch, fitted with a pair of twenty-year-old Schoenfeld-Waters breech-loading two-inch guns, was chasing up and down the river, warning off all other boats. As the Empress docked, special armored drays pulled up on the wharf to receive the sealed boxes of currency. The jetty was guarded with a full company of Bengali heavy infantry, which formed a cordon sanitaire between the usual army of peddlers, hawkers, mendicants, street performers, hustlers, and pickpockets and the disembarking passengers.
“In a week now we’ll be loading the gold for the return trip,” said the viceroy, who was watching the proceedings from a window in the Bengali Military Administration offices on the third floor of Fort William. “This is a sort of dress rehearsal for that.”
General St. Yves stood beside the viceroy and surveyed the scene. “It looks to me as if you’re quite prepared for any sort of t-trouble you might expect,” he commented.
“It’s the unexpected trouble that I’m concerned about,” the viceroy said. “Somebody clever enough to think of something I haven’t thought of, or that I’ve discarded as being too fanciful.”
St. Yves smiled. “And here you’ve been reassuring me that I have nothing to worry about.”
“Ah,” the viceroy said, “but your situation will be quite different. You’ll be on a ship at sea. The Empress’s master, Captain Iskansen, is one of the best qualified, most capable ship’s officers I’ve ever known. Anglo-Asian Star is lucky to have him. The Empress will be escorted out to sea by the Clive and the torpedo gunboat Sea Lion. They won’t leave until she’s about twenty miles out, by which time she’s untouchable. Another ship might try to come alongside and board you, but The Empress of India is the fastest thing afloat, just about, in this part of the world. There are a couple of naval vessels that can match her for speed, but I can’t picture Her Majesty’s Navy stealing Bank of England gold. And as for passengers or crew: No one on board the ship will attempt to steal the gold, not after they’ve thought it out. If they do, where are they going to put it?”
St. Yves stared out at the docking ship and thought it over. “What you said before,” he said, “about the unexpected. You know, I think that’s what’s going to keep me up nights; worrying about how to prepare for the unexpected.”
From his vantage point by the ordnance building, a scant few hundred yards from the Commissariat Jetty, Professor James Moriarty leaned on his owl-headed walking stick and watched the two tugs pushing and pulling at The Empress of India. “Look at that sight,” he said to Colonel Moran, who stood to his right. “It makes one marvel at the accomplishments of modern engineering. Fifty years ago the wooden sailing ship still ruled the seas, and the few great side-wheel steam ships were dirty, noisy, uncomfortable, and inefficient. Their engines were remarkable more for the fact that they worked at all, rather than anything they were able to accomplish in the manner of speed or reliability. Not a few of them ended up burning up their own furniture and fittings for fuel when delayed by a storm or other natural mishap.”
“We’ve come a long ways,” Moran agreed easily.
“I find it remarkable and not a little frightening that science is progressing so rapidly,” Moriarty told him. “But what good will come of this remains to be seen, as most men remain for the most part the stupid brutish louts they’ve always been.”
Moran raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bleak view of the world you’ve got there, ain’t it?” he said. “It sounds to me like you’re a devoted—what’s the word?—misanthrope.”
Moriarty raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think that mankind is irredeemable,” he said. “I just think that he’s not doing overmuch to be worth redeeming.”
“Just as I said,” Moran insisted. “You’re a whatchamacallit.”
“And you’re not?” asked Moriarty.
Moran paused to think about it seriously. “I don’t think most men are worth the powder to blow them to hell,” he said finally. “But there are some—yes, there are some. And as for women, well, I confess I’d go out of my way to save many of them. But I’m not sure it would be for an entirely worthy motive.”
Moriarty grunted and returned his gaze to the scene in front of him.
“We’re going to need togs, you know,” Moran said. “For the ship. A couple of suits, evening clothes, shirts, that sort of thing.”
“It was inconvenient, losing our luggage,” Moriarty said. “I suppose you’re right; there are certain ways in which one does not wish to be unconventional, and dress is one of them. Best to blend in.”
“My dear man,” Moran said, “I’d rather be caught cheating at cards than not dress for dinner when in society.”
“I daresay,” Moriarty said.
“I know of a tailor on Bubbling Well Road, by the big bazaar,” Moran said. “We let him take our measurements today, and we can have our clothes tomorrow. And they’ll fit right, too. Remarkable chap.”
“Then by all means let us visit his establishment,” said Moriarty. “I’ll fetch the mummer, too. I have an important role for him in our coming enterprise. We’d best enlarge his wardrobe so that he can dress the part.”
“What part?” Moran asked.
“I think a peripatetic merchant,” Moriarty said. “One who travels in statues.”
“Statues,” Moran said, visibly cheering up. “Then you’ve thought of a plan?”
“I have.”
“Well!” Moran slapped the professor on the back. “I knew I could count on you, Professor. What do we do?”
“Since we can’t steal the statue, or hurt anyone in acquiring it,” Moriarty said, “our best option is to have it lose its perceived value.”
“How’s that?”
“We must make the officers of the Duke of Moncreith’s Own cease to desire the statue. We must make them think that the statue is not worthy of being kept in a place of honor. We must make them give it to us.”
Moran cocked his head sideways and stared at the professor. “They’re going to give it to us?”
“Just so. Or, less probably, sell it to us for an extremely reasonable price.”
“Very funny, Professor.”
“I sincerely hope not, Colonel.”
Moran looked suspiciously at Moriarty. The professor had an unpredictable sense of humor; could this be an example? “All right, then. And just how are we going to do that, if I might ask?” A certain tightness in his voice showed that he was repressing some strong emotion.
“Come,” said Moriarty. “There’s something we have to do as quickly as possible if my plan is to work. I think it best not to ask your friend for help; it might give him ideas. We should be able to locate the assistance we need at or around the b
azaar.” He turned and headed toward the carriage stand a block away. “Did you know,” he asked Moran when the colonel caught up with him, “that I am something of an expert in the ancient and mysterious art of mesmerism?”
Moran looked at him for a long moment, and then said, “Bah!”
Moriarty chuckled.
THIRTEEN
THE SCORPION KILLERS
As I was going up the stair
I met a man who wasn’t there,
He wasn’t there again to-day
I wish, I wish he’d stay away.
—Hughes Mearns
At five-thirty the next morning, five men climbed a well-worn staircase in that quadrant of Fort William being used by the Duke of Moncreith’s Own Highland Lancers, went down a long corridor decorated with Indian regalia, cricket bats, cases full of sports trophies, ancient Scottish battle flags, faded color prints of great moments in fox hunting, and other impedimenta of the British officer, and knocked on the door to the officers’ mess. The five wore white smocks and carried pails and boxes and bottles and rolls of fabric and a pump sprayer. Two of them were English, or at least British; the tall sahib and the broad sahib, as their Indian companions thought of them. If looked at closely, they bore a striking resemblance to Professor James Moriarty and Colonel Sebastian Moran. The remaining three were native Indian, experts at what they did, and were not at all sure why they had allowed themselves to be talked into joining in this farcical and dangerous masquerade. They were, after all, tradesmen and artisans, not brigands and thieves.
“The money,” Damodar, who was the eldest, and a well-kept sixty if he was a day, reminded the others.
“Ah, yes, the money.” Half already paid, and in the hands of their families. The other half due immediately upon their timely and safe removal from this most dangerous project. “It is quite a sum,” agreed Harshil, a short, rotund man who tended to be glum at the best of times. “But is it worth the five years in prison we shall assuredly acquire if we should happen to get caught?”
“Come, surely that will not happen,” Farokh said firmly. He had always believed that the gods, being essentially perverse, would be most likely to help those who appeared not to need help. “Look at our leader. Does he look like the sort of man who would lead us into prison?”
“He looks like a man who would be quite capable of leading us anywhere he felt like going,” said Damodar, “and out again.”
“Just so,” Farokh agreed.
Damodar folded his arms. “We are here. We will do what must be done; what we agreed to do. And the rest is in the hands of Vishnu.”
Harshil stared at the others bleakly. “It is written,” he said, “that if you would make Vishnu laugh, tell him your plans.”
“It is also written,” said Farokh, “that he who worries constantly about the future has no joy in the present. And we live in the present.”
“Yes,” Harshil agreed morosely, “until the future arrives with a loud noise and blows out the candles.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Look like you know what you’re doing; here comes the guard.”
The man approaching the door in answer to their knock was not actually a guard. He was the second under-cook; a corporal name of Pip-pins. “What can I do for you gents?” he asked, pushing the door open.
“Actually,” Moriarty said, unfolding an official-looking bit of paper and handing it to the cook, “it’s more likely to come down to what we can do for you, mate.”
Corporal Pippins perused the document as best he could. Why these military orders and such couldn’t be written in plain English was beyond him. Sorting through all the “whereas’s” and “hereby requested and directed to’s” to figure out just what it was those gentlemen of limited intelligence that God and the British government had put in command over him wanted him to do, was a constant pain; half the time they never actually stated what they wanted him to do, but if he guessed wrong he’d probably lose his stripe.
This one seemed to want the professional gentlemen in front of him to spray the dining room for scorpions and other pests. Scorpions?
“I ain’t never seen no scorpions in or around thissere room,” said the corporal.
The tall gentleman who seemed to be in charge had pushed through the door and was surveying the dining room with a critical eye. “Well,” he said, “someone seems to have done. Maybe it was just a great jumping spider or something of the sort. You want us to spray or to go away? It’s all the same to me.”
“Jumping spider?” Corporal Pippins looked concerned. “We ain’t got no jumping spiders around here, do we? I mean, the snakes is bad enough.”
“It’s like Mr. Darwin said; it’s a question of survival of the fittest,” Moriarty explained. “Usually your snakes eat your scorpions. But your jumping spiders, now, there isn’t much will eat one of them.”
“Oh,” said the corporal, looking around the room with a renewed interested in cracks, corners, and crevices.
“Don’t worry about it,” Moriarty assured him. “The spray we use will eliminate spiders, jumping or nonjumping, scorpions, ants, roaches, centipedes, millipedes, mice, rats, snakes, cats, dogs, pigs; and it will do a pretty good job on people if you don’t take the proper precautions.”
“Damn!” said the under-cook feelingly. “What about all the silverware and glasses and plate and such?”
“I hear as how you’re shipping out any day now, isn’t it?” Moriarty asked.
“Well, the officers is, anyway,” Pippins admitted.
“Well, then, you’ll have to wash all that stuff anyway before you packs it up,” Moriarty said. “And what skin is it off your nose?—it ain’t you as does the washing.”
“And besides,” added Moran, “you don’t want to be taking no scorpions back to England with you, now, do you?”
“Scotland,” corrected Pippins.
“Ah, now,” said Moran. “Scotland. That’s different.”
“Wait a minute,” said Corporal Pippin.
Moran held up a placating hand. “Just a joke, mate. Your poisonous invertebrates should not be permitted to make their way back to Scotland, either. My word.”
“Shouldn’t send no scorpions back to Scotland,” Pippins insisted.
“Even so,” said Moran. “Even so.”
Corporal Pippins thought it over. “I’ll have to check with Cookie—Sergeant Ostogood—about thissere. You just wait right here—I’ll be back in a bit.”
As Pippins left the dining room, Moran leaned over to Moriarty and intoned, “Your parents must have moved around a lot.”
“How’s that?”
“I’m no expert,” Moran said, “but it seemed to me that you had about three different London accents going for you in the space of as many minutes. Not that yon corporal noticed.”
“You’re right,” Moriarty agreed. “I get carried away summat.” He smiled. “I’ll endeavor to be more consistent.”
The corporal returned a minute later. “Cookie says that you are to go ahead, but that I’m to keep watch on the silver plate and such.”
“Fair enough,” Moriarty agreed. He gestured to the waiting native artisans, and they pulled out white head scarves and face masks and wrapped their heads in the white cloth as they had been shown by the professor earlier. Theirs was not to reason why; theirs was but to follow instructions and get paid.
“We don’t have any extra headgear for you,” Moriarty told the corporal. “But if you hold your breath, you should be all right. And take a good shower after we’re done.”
“Hold my breath?” Pippins held his breath experimentally for a few seconds and then let it out with an explosive sound. “For how long?” he asked.
“No more than, say, half an hour,” Moriarty assured him, through the two layers of white cloth that he had tied around his mouth and nose. “We’ll be done by then.”
“Say, I can’t hold my breath for anything like half an hour!” Pippins complained.
; “Really?” Moriarty asked, sounding surprised. “No, I don’t guess you can. Silly of me.” He thought for a second. “Tell you what,” he said. “You stand outside the door to make sure we can’t sneak out or anything. And then when we’re done, we’ll wait here while you check the spoons and such to ascertain that they’re all there. Right?”
Pippins nodded slowly. “Right enough,” he agreed.
Moriarty shooed the corporal back into the kitchen and closed the connecting door. He and his crew then made sure all the doors were tightly shut and closed the cracks beneath and above the doors, using some rags they had brought along and, when they ran out, the brigade’s tablecloths.
“Pardon, sahib,” said Damodar, who was stuffing a tablecloth under the double doors to the corridor. “But this does not seem, somehow, just.”
Moriarty paused. “I respect your opinion, Damodar. What is it that does not seem just?”
“This—” Damodar gestured. “This using of the tablecloths of the brigade officers. It will surely increase their laundering costs.”
Moriarty nodded thoughtfully. “There is something in what you say,” he said. “I’ll make an anonymous donation to the officers’ mess fund.”
Moran nodded agreement. “Seems only proper,” he said.
Damodar smiled and spoke to the others, and they nodded and were satisfied. These were God-fearing, just, and understanding men, whatever the strangeness of their desires.
Corporal Pippins peered through the little window in the door to the kitchen, and watched the depesting proceed. First the men sealed off the room. Then they unrolled the rolls of fabric and spread them about. Then they took the pump sprayer and sprayed here and there, misting up the room until it was hard to see anything whatsoever. They were over there by the shelf on which resided the Lady of Lucknow. Pippins tried to see what was happening, but couldn’t quite make it out. He could have sworn that they took the statue and lowered it into a bucket. Whatever for? If anything happened to the Lady, well, wouldn’t the officers just about have a fit. And they’d blame him, right enough.
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