The Star of India (10 page)

“I think I saw your man. I’m not certain, but I think—”

“Thank you, Watson; that will do,” said Holmes, sitting up in the chair. “Blackmail is no longer their game. That is, if it ever was.”

“What
do
they want from me, then?” she said in an agitated voice.

“Perhaps they want what you are carrying in the inner pocket of your cloak,” said Holmes.

Our visitor blanched, and then she laughed again—a forced, mirthless sound.

“Why, Mr. Holmes, whatever do you mean?”

“Miss Merriweather, I would appreciate it if you would drop the pretense,” Holmes said impatiently. “If I am going to help you I must insist on complete honesty.”

At these words Violet Merriweather’s shoulders sagged and her face lost some of its vivacity.

“Very well, Mr. Holmes,” she said, rising and fetching her cloak from the rack upon which I had hung it. “I don’t know how you could possibly have known—”

“Miss Merriweather, you are a very poor liar. The room is very warm, and yet you parted with your cloak with reluctance when you came in. Since then, you have glanced in the direction of your cloak no less than half a dozen times. Whatever it is you have in there evidently has great value, at least to you.”

“I think you will agree that it would have great value to anyone,” said Miss Merriweather, extending her hand toward us, palm open.

I do not consider myself a fancier of gemstones, but even I gasped involuntarily when I saw the object in Violet Merriweather’s hand. I recognized it at once as a star sapphire, but I had never seen a jewel of such size and luster before. It was as blue and translucent as a tropical sea, and the pattern of a single white star was contained within its depths, catching and reflecting the light in an infinite variety of angles. Indeed, light seemed to emanate from its very core, illuminating everything around it with an unearthly glow. The thing was truly bewitching, and I wanted to gaze at it forever, to plumb the secrets which it contained in its glittering center.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” said Holmes, and I could only nod, unable to take my eyes off its radiance.

Holmes turned to Miss Merriweather.

“Well, well, Miss Merriweather,” he said, “if I had known you were in possession of
this
... I suppose
he
gave it to you.”

“Yes, he did, though I told him it was far too grand a gift.”

“I wonder if even he knows how grand it is,” murmured Holmes.

“What do you mean?” said our visitor.

“I cannot be absolutely certain, but I think what you now hold in your hand is none other than the Star of India.”

This remark produced no impression upon Miss Merriweather, but I was thunderstruck.

“The Star of India!” I exclaimed. “So it
does
exist!”

“What is it?” said Miss Merriweather, puzzled.

“There are tales dating back three centuries which tell of the existence of such a gem,” I said. “It was mined—so the story goes—in Ceylon, then purchased and brought to India by an Indian prince as an engagement present for his bride. Soon afterward both of them were murdered, and the gem disappeared, perhaps stolen by whoever killed them. Stories of it have surfaced off and on for years. I myself first heard of it some years ago when I was traveling in the East. I have never doubted that the stone exists, though I never thought I would come face-to-face with it.”

“Good heavens—I had no idea!” said Miss Merriweather.

“The superstitions connected with it are legend,” said Holmes. “For example, it is said to bring death upon a wrongful owner.”

“Perhaps I am better off rid of it, then,” Miss Merriweather said with a shudder.

Holmes held out his hand. “May I?”

“Yes, of course.”

She handed him the stone and he held it aloft so that it caught the russet glow of the fireplace. It seemed to pull all light into it, like a magnet, and send it back out again magnified a thousand times in beauty and splendor.

“Would you object to leaving this in my safekeeping?” Holmes asked.

Miss Merriweather hesitated, and looked at me with her yielding
brown eyes. “No, I suppose not, if you think it would be best.”

“I do think so,” Holmes replied. “Those who are in pursuit of you may or may not be after this, but I suspect they know you have been given something of great value, and that is why you are being pursued. You will be much safer if you do not have possession of this, at least for now. Miss Merriweather, have you told anyone else other than ourselves of this... situation?”

“No.”

“Whatever it is
they
are up to, they are playing a complicated game. You are merely a pawn to them, so I must advise caution on your part. Go nowhere unaccompanied; do not go out at night at all if you can help it, and report to me every day. I will send a young man to check up on you—his name is Tuthill—and you can rely on him to carry a message to me.” Holmes rose and put on his coat. “For tonight, I will escort you home. Where do you live?”

“Blackheath. Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” she said, rising. “Thank you too, Dr. Watson.” A flush of warmth went through my body when she pressed her warm palm to mine. It had been some years since my wife’s death and I was unaccustomed to thinking of such things, but I confess that Miss Violet Merriweather had an effect on me.

“Here, Watson—catch,” said Holmes, tossing the precious gem at me as though it were a child’s toy. “I shan’t be long,” he said as he closed the door behind him.

I held the stone in my trembling hands, reluctant to put it down. I stood gazing at it for some time, quite entranced. The longer you looked at it, the more all things seemed within your grasp: happiness, love, peace, fulfillment. I told myself that it was a piece of rock, inert matter from the earth, and yet when you looked into its shining depths such realities vanished. I finally placed it carefully upon a cushion on the sideboard and settled down on the couch with my pipe.

The room felt unusually empty. I picked up Miss Merriweather’s brandy glass from the table and, in Mrs. Hudson’s absence, decided to tidy up. I spent some time arranging things in the room, washing glasses and emptying pipes, all the while thinking of Miss Merriweather’s smooth cheeks and full lips. After I finished I sat on the couch and tried to interest myself in a volume of Lord Byron’s poetry, but my mind kept wandering to the feeling of that soft hand pressed ever so briefly to mine...

An urgent knocking at the front door shook me out of my reverie. I looked out the window to see who could be calling at such an hour, and was astonished to see a very grand carriage with the royal coat of arms emblazoned on it sitting in front of our building. I smoothed my hair and straightened my collar, and then I hurried down the stairs.

The gentleman who greeted me at the front door was elegantly dressed in a burgundy silk-lined cape and the shiny black boots of a cavalry officer. He was of medium height, with lustrous black hair and a sunburned complexion.

“Dr. Watson, I presume?” His accent was very cultivated, with a suggestion of a foreign tongue.

“Yes,” I said, a little awestruck by his grandeur.

“May I come in?”

“Yes, of course.” I led the way up the stairs.

“Mr. Holmes is not in at present?” he said after refusing my offer of cognac.

“No, he’s gone out. Please sit down, Mr...?”

“Oh, forgive me.” He swept aside his cape and sat upon the sofa. “I am Count de Chervaise, Earl of Huntingdon.” He shrugged modestly. “It is not as great a title as it sounds. I have, however, been fortunate enough to earn the trust of His Majesty, the Prince—”

“—the Prince of Wales?” I said, scarcely able to believe my ears.

“Yes. We attended school together, and His Majesty is not one to forget services rendered... well, let us just say that he has always been vulnerable to the influence of the weaker sex. In any event, he has sent me on this rather delicate matter for reasons I feel it best not to go into, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, of course—I mean, I understand,” I said, flustered.

“The matter concerns a gift given to a certain young lady—a gesture made in a moment of passion which was ill-considered, to say the least. The gift was not only monetarily handsome, but it has a political significance which cannot be underestimated. Forgive me if I do not go into the details, but suffice it to say that it could profoundly affect England’s relationship with a foreign power...” His eyes roamed the room, and rested on the jewel sitting on the sideboard. “Good heavens!” he said, standing up and taking a step toward it. “Is it possible that—?” He turned to me. “But this is it—this is the very thing I was speaking of! How did you come by it?”

“The young lady in question brought it by not half an hour ago.”

“Oh, His Majesty will be pleased!” He rubbed his elegant hands together. “He had feared... well, you see the delicacy of the situation. And here it is! You will let me return it to him, won’t you?”

“Well, it was given to us—to Mr. Holmes, really—for safekeeping.”

“Yes, yes; of course, and Mr. Holmes shall receive His Majesty’s personal thanks for his part in the matter.”

“But the young lady—”

“Yes, well, it can’t be helped,” said the count, shrugging his shoulders. “As I said, His Majesty acted unwisely, but I’m sure you yourself know what the throes of love can do to a man.”

“Well, certainly, but—”

“Then we shall say no more upon the subject.” He reached for the jewel, but I stepped in front of him.

“I’m sorry, but you will have to wait for my friend Sherlock Holmes to return. I cannot allow you to—”

He made a quick movement with his right hand, and I felt the hard barrel of a revolver pressed into my ribs.

“Forgive me, Dr. Watson. I had hoped not to resort to such... well, crude behavior. Still, it can’t be helped,” he said, plucking the jewel from where it lay and depositing it into a silken pouch which hung from his belt. “Good night, Dr. Watson, and thank you for your invaluable assistance.”

With a bow and a flourish of his cape, he was gone. As soon as I heard the click of the front door latch I bounded down the stairs after him. I arrived in the street just in time to watch his carriage drive off into the night. I looked around for a cab, hoping to follow him, but none was forthcoming, and after several minutes I gave up and trudged dejectly back upstairs.

I sat down to await Holmes’ return. My heart felt heavy as a stone in my chest, beating dully against my ribs. I could still feel the place where the gun had pressed against those ribs, but I blamed myself, thinking that if only I had not been taken so off guard I could have prevented this. After another quarter of an hour I heard Holmes’ light step upon the stairs, and I opened the door to let him in.

“Ah, Watson, you needn’t have waited up.” He hung up his coat and went to warm himself by the fire. “Where did you put it, by the way?”

My heart sank. “Holmes,” I began, but my voice gave me away. He looked at me intently.

“What has happened?” he said softly.

I explained everything, and he sat listening, asking questions about the coat of arms on the carriage, the man’s clothing, and other details. When I had finished he sat for a moment without saying anything. I felt as bad as I ever had before in my life. I could think of nothing to say,
and stood miserably, waiting to be castigated for my stupidity. To my surprise, however, when Holmes spoke his voice was gentle.

“It’s my fault, really,” he said. “I left in too great a hurry, and it didn’t occur to me that he would make his move so quickly. He was obviously ready for us, and had several plans waiting to be put into action. I should have warned you; really I should have. Don’t blame yourself, Watson.”

The kinder his words were, the more I did blame myself, of course. I had failed Miss Merriweather and the Prince of Wales, but most of all I had failed Holmes.

“Holmes, I—” I began. Holmes put his hand on my shoulder.

“Never mind, Watson; it’s better that you didn’t put up a struggle. He most certainly wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot you. What did you say the man looked like?”

“Well, he was not much taller than me, though very grand and elegant, with a trace of a foreign accent of some kind. His hair was very black and his skin was quite dark.”

“He was dark, you say? Could he perhaps be of Indian descent?”

“I suppose so, although his accent suggested he was educated at an English university.”

Holmes rubbed his forehead. “Hmm... I’m not aware of anyone of that description moving in London criminal circles. Still, Moriarty’s web stretches far and wide, and it is not difficult to imagine that he could have such a man working for him. Never mind, Watson,” he said, seeing my glum face. “Now all that matters is what to do next. It’s too late to act tonight, so I suggest we both get some rest. If you’d care to stay here tonight, I would feel better about your safety.”

“Well, I—” I began, but Holmes interrupted me.

“I do think it would be safer for you not to venture out tonight.”

I nodded, still feeling terribly guilty. “Very well, if you think so.”

“I do.”

I took his advice and went to bed, though I doubt if either of us slept much that night. I tossed and turned fitfully, dreaming of the sound of coach wheels against cobblestone in the night and midnight jewels reflecting in candlelight.