I handled the gem in my palm and tried to imagine its worth based on the few facts I had been given. Even with this brief lesson, having been alerted to its flaws, I was at a loss. My only real thought was that however much it cost, it was more than I could currently afford to spend, although perhaps not out of my reach.
Holmes interrupted my thoughts. “Is it possible to differentiate possible territories where this particular stone might have been mined?”
“I believe so, yes. This appears to be one of the newer diamonds. You see the crown, Sherlock? It’s smaller than the traditional cut. That’s one of the vital differences between the diamonds mined in India and the ones coming by the tonne from Africa. They each have the same small tables and deep pavilions, but Indian diamonds have the heavier crown. This also strikes me as unfinished, or a rejected cut, because the cutlets are very uneven.”
I had little idea about these technical terms, but Holmes nodded in agreement and I understood that his identification of this stone as being from Africa was another damning clue, tying Nayar to the Boers and Norbert Wynter. The assassination attempts on Holmes along with the death of the South African solicitor Lewis and presumed murder of Disraeli formed another strong series of strands to the web of intrigue, with the Indian and his wretched allies in the centre.
“I had hoped you would confirm my suspicion, Antoine. I too noticed the crown was smaller but being such a small gem compared with the ones I have previously studied I wanted an expert’s opinion to bolster my own conclusion.”
“You knew this was from Africa?” I asked, struck by the comment.
“I have made it abundantly clear, Watson, that I have made a great study of crime. One might reasonably deduce that that would mean I need to know the value of things thieves may seek to acquire, no? Diamonds certainly rank high on that list. In this particular case, I believe our Indian friend was paid in a currency that is lightweight and accepted everywhere. Given the relatively low quality and size of this stone, I would further suggest he was paid in easy to dispose of quantities and qualities once he returned home. Luckily for us, it also increased the likelihood of one such stone being left behind as there were so many.”
“Do you need anything further?” Pintard asked.
“No, not at all. Thank you for the help, Antoine. It has been invaluable.” With that, Holmes turned on his heel and left the shop. I shook the man’s hand, said my own farewells, and chased Holmes out into the street.
“So, Holmes, now that we have more damning evidence, what is our next step? Nayar cannot be found and we need to link him to the men of the East India Club.”
“Quite true, Watson. Now that we know for a fact this stone and its companions all came from a South African mine, we need to learn more about those mines. That requires some additional research.”
“I daresay Lomax will be wanting to charge us rent at the library.”
“For once, it might be well worth the investment to ensure our discretion when dealing with sensitive research.”
We had—or rather I had—a brief meal before making our way to the London Library and my friend Lomax. He was good enough to once more find us some private space where we were able to conduct our research into mining in and around Pretoria.
The discovery of diamonds in the south of Africa had triggered a rush similar to that which had taken place in California. The first diamond was found in 1867 near the Vaal River, nearly five hundred and fifty miles northeast of Cape Town. One account told of a young child, Erasmus Jacobs, finding a diamond measuring an unheard of twenty-two carats in the Vaal. When an eighty-three carat stone was unearthed in 1869, the world needed little convincing that there was money to be made. The resulting uproar was dubbed the “Scramble for Africa” as panhandlers, swindlers, claim jumpers, the hungry and the desperate sought their fortune. The small town of Kimberley swelled to over fifty thousand people in just five years.
The most lucrative of the mines were dug on a farm owned by two brothers, Diederik and Johannes De Beer, Vooruitzicht. The Kimberley Mine and De Beer Mine were dug out by all manner of people, both white and Negro, but as they went deeper into the earth, the costs began to rise. In short order, the smaller operators began selling out to larger concerns, including Barney Barnato who had recently formed the Barnato Diamond Mining Company and bought out claims from desperate men with cheap cigars and Alfred Beit undercut them by using heavy machinery for extraction.
It made for dark but fascinating reading, proving once more that the very rich were the only ones to profit from the back-breaking labours of the poor. What was the true cost of these diamonds? What safety measures were in place? What corners were being cut in pursuit of the bottom line?
While I studied the history of the mines, across the desk, Holmes read British government reports and parliamentary minutes. I noted that he was taking notes in a pad that went into his coat pocket when he concluded his reading. Whatever its contents, he kept it to himself and would no doubt share it only when he needed to. As the hours dragged on, my companion seemed to grow increasingly intent on his studies, the hunch to his shoulders growing more pronounced and his silences lengthier in duration. Finally, he turned his solemn gaze towards me.
“It appears, Watson, that several British Army officers made reports stating their suspicions that illegal mining works had been established under cover of the war,” he said.
“Profiting when others are dying,” I said. It was much the same conclusion I had reached on my own. “How absolutely abhorrent. I find it galling that their suspicions may never be investigated.”
“It falls to us to make sure that does not happen, Watson.”
* * *
It was still several hours before dusk when we left the London Library, but the bright blue sky was already changing to deeper shades by degree. The warmth of the day reminded me we were still in the grip of summer. Perspiration began to form almost immediately on my neck and run slowly down my back, making for an uncomfortable walk.
Out of a newly developed habit, I studied the streets and forced my ears to detect patterns. It was quiet and that in itself was odd given the last few days.
“Since we returned from Newcastle, there has been no evidence of Hampton’s men trailing our steps,” said I.
“I suspect, Watson, Hampton knows we are back in town but since we are doing nothing that appears to threaten the Admiralty, he’s leaving us alone. For now, that allows us to move about freely.”
“What now, Holmes?” I inquired as we worked our way back towards Baker Street.
“I believe I will need the evening to plot out our next course of action,” Holmes admitted. “There are so many threads to this investigation and I fear we could go in one of several directions that would take us away from our ultimate goal, so I shall need to be absolutely certain we go towards that which will afford us the most useful information and greatest chance of success.”
So taken with the possibility of illegal mining being mixed up with everything else we had learned over the past few days was I, that I was entirely unaware of my surroundings. My feet knew the way home through these familiar streets, so I allowed my mind to work harder than usual on the minutiae of the case, hoping to come up with a useful suggestion for Holmes that he might not have considered. As a result of that concentration, I entirely missed the flash of an arm cross in front of me, streaking from out of an alley. My companion, though, was far more alert and reached with his walking cane to block the attack.
I collected my wits and realised that we were both under assault, and catching a glimpse of our attacker, knew immediately that it could be none other than Nayar the fakir. Standing just within the alley opening, he was covered mostly in shadow, his dark brown skin blending into the shadows. He wielded that deadly tiger claw in his right hand, which made a horrid noise as the five blades cut through the humid night air between us. He was clad in a light, loose shirt and trousers that afforded a great freedom of movement, and
some sort of sandals on his feet that gave him a degree of flexibility that Holmes and I lacked in our more appropriate attire. Nayar regained his balance, adjusting from his misjudged attack, and stepped back, reaching into a trouser pocket to withdraw a curved blade, which he now held in his left hand.
My medical training certainly taught me where a man might feel the most intense pain and my military experience included learning how to fire a weapon. I was therefore no stranger to combat, but nothing this intimate. I could feel adrenaline pumping through my veins, energising me, but I lacked the knowledge of how to fight him, and could only hope to defend myself. Holmes, on the other hand, was quite the experienced fighter, trained in a great many fighting styles. Still, he was confronted by a well-armed fighter and lacked the resources to even the odds.
As it turned out, I was mistaken, as Holmes raised his walking stick once more, brandishing it horizontally before him, gripped in both hands like a quarterstaff. He twirled it first one way then the other, gaining speed and keeping it as a barrier between him and Nayar. The Indian lunged, his knife hand raised. Holmes’s natural balance was a match for the full-frontal assault. The walking stick smacked directly into the Indian’s rib cage, driving him into the wall of the alley. Holmes held the stick vertically, rocking back on his heels, then lunged forward to ram one end down on our foe’s left foot forcefully enough, surely, to break the bones through those soft sandals. The pain must have been excruciating, but Nayar betrayed no sense of pain. His cruel features remained fixed on Holmes, studying his prey, circling him as best the tight confines allowed.
Their two bodies clashed, the wooden stick becoming entangled in four arms, Holmes desperately trying to keep either the tiger claw or the knife from penetrating his hide. They slammed up against the stone wall, cannoning off of it, spinning about, grappling as they crashed once more into the hard surface. Nayar drove his forehead into Holmes’s face, finally breaking them apart as the detective staggered backwards, dazed and confused. The Indian followed that with a vicious kick to the stomach, which sent the air from Holmes’s lungs and forced him several feet back. I thought for sure he was a goner as the space between them allowed the Indian to gather his strength and rush forward, the tiger claw poised for the kill.
At the very moment I feared all five blades would slice into his flesh, Holmes twisted his torso, somehow evading the wicked claws, and rammed an elbow downward on Nayar’s shoulder, changing his momentum and forcing the mystic to his knees. Holmes slammed the stick in his left hand down onto Nayar’s hand, driving it open. The knife dropped free. Holmes went to kick it away, but even as he did Nayar swept his own leg in a semi-circle and knocked my friend off his feet.
Nayar leapt atop Holmes, using his knees to pin his arms. I feared Holmes was surely done for as the Indian raised back his right arm, ready to strike a killing blow. I sprang forward, intending to throw myself at his attacker, but before I could reach them Holmes bucked at the hips once, wriggling frantically beneath the assassin, then a second time, bringing his legs up hard enough that his knees dug into Nayar’s back, distracting him for a precious few seconds from making that fatal swing. Holmes then twisted to his left, and raised his legs, which now gripped Nayar between them, and used the momentum of that turn to dislodge the man.
Still grasping his walking stick, Holmes raised it and began to savagely beat blow after blow on Nayar’s body, never relinquishing the leg lock he had pinned the man with. The beating continued for fully half a minute until the Indian sagged. At that point, I felt free to rush to the pair and using my belt, looped it around the limp man’s arms, binding him. Holmes then released Nayar and snatched at the tiger claw, tearing it from the man’s hand.
Winded and breathing hard, Holmes sat with his back against the wall. Given the hour, people walked past the alley’s entrance although precious few offered our fracas so much as a sideways glance. I took a position over the now harmless Indian and glowered down at him, rather amazed to note that neither man had drawn blood.
“Now then,” Holmes began, standing over his bound opponent, his voice raspy from the exertion. “You know I am Sherlock Holmes and I know you are Nayar, an Indian performer who has been rather busy in London and beyond.” Holmes drew in a deep breath, presumably gathering his wits. “I would very much like to know who your employers are. Do not waste your breath on lies. I already have my suspicions and am merely seeking confirmation.”
Nayar said nothing, his eyes half-closed. A look of contempt crossed his face.
“Am I not making myself clear? All I seek is some information before we summon the constables. Or do you do nothing without compensation?”
There was still silence.
“Could it be, Watson, that the man does not know English?”
“I should think not,” I offered. “After all, he has worked in this country without a translator in tow.”
“Indeed, and his correspondence was all in English. Look closely, his eyes betray him. They demonstrate comprehension. I take that to mean that he chooses not to share what he knows, which is unfortunate.”
Nayar stared, glowering menacingly up at us, though he didn’t try to move. I guess that Holmes’s blows had cracked a rib or two.
“Let me tell you what I know. You are free to add or, in the rare instance I might have misconstrued the facts, correct me.” Nayar said nothing. “You and a ring of compatriots were hired to come to London and most likely Africa, to perform acts of murder on a number of people. So as not to call attention to yourselves, you used silent but still deadly means such as the poisonous extract of castor beans. For a reason I have yet to fully deduce, you hastened the death of Benjamin Disraeli. A compatriot of yours also killed a solicitor involved in the preparation of the treaty that should draw to a conclusion the conflict with the Boers, and is to be signed next week. I’d very much like you to tell me how any of this relates to an officer of the Royal Navy, a man by the name of Norbert Wynter. Now it is your turn to speak.” I was so caught up with Holmes’s summation that I was slow to react when Nayar finally stirred.
He sprung to his feet and threw himself forward, impaling himself on the tiger claw which Holmes had tossed aside, wriggling atop it before we could reach him.
Each of the five blades had pierced his abdomen, shredding skin, veins, and organs, creating a mess of blood and viscera.
We pulled him off the weapon, but even with only a cursory inspection, I could see more damage than any surgeon could possibly repair. Nayar would bleed to death before we could summon a cab to get us to the nearest hospital. Blood oozed from the wounds, bubbling between Holmes’s fingers as he sought to staunch the flow, and still Nayar did not emit a single sound. Holmes knelt over him, a silent sentinel, watching as I checked the dying mystic’s pulse, studied his eyes, which were already glazing over, and realised I was helpless. Our quarry would die in a dingy alleyway in the heart of London and there was nothing either of us could do about it but watch in horrified silence.
With no policeman in sight, we dragged the mystic’s corpse further into the alley so he would not be easily visible in the fading daylight. From there, we decided it made the most sense to report the crime at the nearest police station.
There was little knowing at that moment that Nayar would not be the final victim in this sordid affair. He would not even be the final victim that day.
Thirteen
A Summons from Gregson
The remainder of the evening was a sombre affair.
It took us some time to make our way to the nearest police station, and then considerably more time to convince the officer on duty that we were serious about a dead body. By the time we returned to the alley with a constable in tow, Nayar’s corpse had grown cold. The constable accepted my medical credentials and therefore allowed me to dictate the findings for his report. We mentioned nothing of our case or that we knew Nayar’s identity, allowing the officer to conclude that our attacker’s motive must have been robbery.
Neither of us desired to correct him as it suited our needs for that to remain the official word on the subject.
We returned to Baker Street without much appetite for supper. Both of us went to our rooms in silence.
* * *
The following morning dawned without a clear notion of how we should proceed. Nayar was dead, but I was sure that the signing of the peace treaty was still in jeopardy. We had little information to make a convincing case that it should be delayed or relocated, and an overwhelming fear that our enemies were bold enough to stage an attack to get their own way, even if that meant stepping finally from the shadows.
As I sat down to breakfast there was a sharp rapping on the street door below. It was followed by the sound of shuffling feet and the lock disengaging as Mrs. Hudson greeted someone. I could not hear the exchange, but the timbre of our landlady’s voice led me to infer that it was an unexpected guest. I knocked lightly on Holmes’s door, alerting him to the impending arrival of a visitor. He emerged within moments, eyes red from lack of sleep and the tension of the last few days. I was pleased to see that he was dressed, until I realised he was still wearing the same clothes he had been wearing the day before.
I was about to point this out when there was a ringing of the bell and Mrs. Hudson ushered in a young constable.
“Begging your pardon, but I am seeking Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” He looked from Holmes to me and back again. “Which one of you gentlemen might that be?”
“I am Holmes.”
“I have been asked to bring you to, well, not to put too fine a point on it, the scene of a murder,” the young man said. He was in his early twenties, sunburned cheeks and curly hair, brimming with nervousness.
“We know all about the murder,” Holmes said, a look of confusion on his weary countenance. “After all, we are the ones who reported it.”
Now the young constable seemed confused. He inclined his head slightly, trying to process this new information which obviously did not sit well with what he had been told. “You are?”
Murder at Sorrow's Crown Page 17
