The Star of India (15 page)

Holmes smiled again and sat in his chair by the fire. As Miss Merriweather was seated in my usual chair, I perched upon the arm of the sofa, the better to hear what Holmes had to say.

“Well, for one thing, I detect the aroma of a blend of Turkish tobacco which, as it happens, neither Watson nor myself use,” he said, removing his coat and hanging it on the bentwood coat rack. “As for the nap, I hope you will forgive my impertinence when I observe that the impression upon your cheek was made by the lace doily on the back of that armchair. As I see you are now in a rather agitated state, I presume that only sleep would have induced you to remain in the chair in one position for so long. Am I correct?”

“Indeed you are, Mr. Holmes, and I hope you and Dr. Watson don’t think the less of me for my indulgence in such an unladylike habit.”

Holmes merely smiled and shook his head; for my part, I had to admit that it only added to our visitor’s sense of mystery. What sort of life had she led, I wondered, that she took up such a habit as smoking?

Miss Merriweather herself interrupted my ruminations. “Once again, I am startled at the breathtaking speed of your conclusions, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes shrugged. “Mere child’s play. Unfortunately, more important deductions are often harder to come by,” he said seriously.

“Is it true, then, Mr. Holmes? Has the Star of India fallen into other hands?”

Holmes lit a cigarette.

“I’m afraid so, Miss Merriweather. It is entirely my fault; I should have foreseen what would happen.”

“But Holmes—” I began, unwilling to let Holmes take the blame, but he interrupted me.

“No, Watson,” he said. “I am perfectly prepared to accept responsibility for my mistakes. The disappearance of the Star of India is entirely my fault. I am sorry, Miss Merriweather; I have failed you, and now I can only endeavor to right the wrong. I can assure you that if I do retrieve it, it will not easily be wrested from me again. That much I can promise you.”

Violet Merriweather looked at Holmes, and though I am by no means an expert on women, I think I know enough to recognize that particular light in a woman’s eyes. A slight blush crept into her cheeks, and she cast her eyes down demurely. At that moment I was certain that she had begun to feel something for my friend. I cannot say that I blamed her, although I could well wish myself in his place. With his restless nature and his dedication to reason, Holmes was not of a domestic disposition, whereas I was made for married life. Such things were, at present, out of the question with the lovely Miss Merriweather; the great personage who currently bestowed his favor upon her certainly far eclipsed both Holmes and myself both in renown and resources.

If Holmes noticed Miss Merriweather’s emotional response to him, he made no sign of it.

“The important thing now, Miss Merriweather, is that you convey to His Majesty my assurances that I will do everything in my power to maintain the stability of the political situation.”

Violet Merriweather grew pale. “Do you mean to say there are political issues at stake?”

“Forgive me, Miss Merriweather; I assumed that you had His Majesty’s full confidence, but I see now that you do not have complete knowledge—”

“No, evidently I do not, Mr. Holmes.”

“Perhaps he is trying to protect you—”

“Or perhaps he does not trust me.”

Holmes looked at me, obviously feeling extremely uncomfortable. I did my best to come to his rescue.

“It is possible that he thought you would be put in a position of some peril if he—”

“—if he was completely honest with me? No, Dr. Watson, I appreciate your attempt to spare my feelings, but if I cannot trust him to be honest with me, then...” her voice trailed off, and I thought she was about to cry. But then she pulled herself up and addressed Holmes in a firm voice. “No doubt you have already surmised this by whatever methods you use to come to your astonishing conclusions, but I am an actress, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes threw his cigarette into the fire and rose from his chair.

“You are correct. I did come to a conclusion early on that you were a practitioner of stagecraft—either an actress or a singer.”

“My father was an Italian opera singer; my mother, who was English, was a dancer when she was young. I myself took to the stage at a young age. I mention this now only to show you that I am aware of the enormous social gap which exists between me and—him.”

“I see. What
face
was your father’s voice?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What type of voice did he have?”

“Oh, he was... a tenor.”

“Ah, so he must have sung the role of Rigoletto.”

“Oh, yes, it was one of his favorites.” There was a pause, and then she continued. “Mr. Holmes, you refer to a political situation; may I ask what that is?”

Holmes related as much of the current situation as he thought prudent, but it was enough to give Miss Merriweather an idea of what was at stake.

“Then the Star of India never was truly mine,” she said. “It was all a mistake, the misguided actions of an impetuous man—”

“—a man who loves you,” I felt compelled to say.

She smiled sadly. “Perhaps, but who sees me as little more than an amusing plaything, I fear. I had hoped... well, never mind. How could I suppose that such a great man would continue for long to be interested in me? After all, what can I offer such a man?”

“Oh, a great deal,” I said warmly, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks. I looked at Holmes, who regarded me with curiosity. Suddenly, I feared I had revealed too much of my own feelings. But Holmes merely turned to Miss Merriweather.

“Dr. Watson is right,” he said graciously. “Never mind the position of the person, it is the trueness of the heart that counts.”

Violet Merriweather turned her lovely dark eyes upon him, and I felt certain now that her own heart was beginning to waver. “Oh, do you think so, Mr. Holmes?” she said in a tremulous voice.

“I do, Miss Merriweather, although the world does not always make way for such people. And now, if you will excuse us,” he continued, looking at his watch, “Dr. Watson and I have a lead of some importance to follow which concerns this matter.”

“Oh, please don’t let me detain you,” she said, rising abruptly from her chair. “I am sorry if I have taken too much of your time already.”

“Not at all,” said Holmes, escorting her to the door. “I’ll let you know the moment there is anything to report.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” she said, taking his hand in hers and holding it a moment longer than necessary.

When she had gone, the intoxicating scent of Golden Nights lingered after her. I now felt quite bewitched by the perfume. I sat there inhaling it as it grew fainter, then I tried my theory out on Holmes.

“She’s quite taken with you,” I said.

Holmes looked at me as though I were mad. “Nonsense! What on earth gives you that idea?”

“The way she looks at you when you aren’t watching.”

Holmes snorted. “Good heavens, Watson, next thing I know you’ll be writing gossip columns instead of fiction.”

“Really, Holmes, she’s smitten. You have your area of expertise; allow me mine. I know something more of women than you do, and I say the lady’s quite under your spell.”

Holmes sat down across from me. “Watson, what you are mistaking for infatuation is merely the hopeful attitude of a young woman who sees in me someone who may be able to help her. What you see as attraction is merely the expression of quite another kind of desire. She may look up to me as someone who can be of assistance—but, really, Watson, I need hardly remind you that her heart is quite engaged elsewhere.”

“Very well,” I said peevishly. “If you think a woman is incapable of being divided in her affection, you don’t know very much about women.”

“Did I ever claim to?” Holmes said with a sardonic smile.

I had to admit he had me there. Never has a man made a more public protest than Holmes of his distrust of the opposite sex. Still, I
have always suspected he did protest too much, though I never would have said so to his face. He had lost interest in the topic, however, and disappeared into the bedroom only to return with a boxed chess set which he opened and began to lay out upon the sideboard.

“Now we must turn our attention to this information which came to you so mysteriously,” he said, studying the note which I had received earlier. “K.Kt.-B4, or king’s knight to Bishop Four... let me see. There is already a black knight abroad upon the board—”

“Who is that?”

“Why, the mysterious count who so conveniently jumped over you to capture the jewel.”

“Oh.”

“So perhaps this is another knight... and if he moves to Bishop Four,” Holmes said, turning to a map of London which he had spread out upon the coffee table, “then he should end up approximately here,” he said, pointing to the neighborhood of Spitalfields. “Ha!” he cried suddenly, peering at the map. “Of course! Why did I not think of that before?”

“What?”

“Wormwood, Watson, wormwood.”

“I don’t quite follow you, Holmes.”

“Watson, do you recall what lies at the intersection of Bishopsgate and Wormwood Street?”

“No, I can’t say that I do.”

“Well, I have made it my business to know London as well as other men know their own sitting rooms—”

“Yes, yes, I know! But what lies at the intersection of those streets?” I cried, unable to bear the suspense any longer.

“A pub, Watson, but not just any pub: it is, in fact, the Lancelot Arms.”

“The Lancelot Arms? What’s that got to do with—?”

“Oh, Watson, don’t you
see
? King’s knight—Lancelot, in other words—to Bishop Four: The fourth street which intersects with Bishopsgate Road!” He looked at me and smiled.

“How’s your East End accent, Watson?”

“Well, I’m not quite the actor you are—”

“Yes, yes—but do you think you can pull it off?” he said impatiently.

I thought for a moment. “Aye s’pose aye can give it a try, what?” I replied, slurring my vowels wretchedly.

Holmes regarded me coldly, as though I were a laboratory animal and he the scientist. “I suppose it will do,” he said. “Just let me do most of the talking.” He then disappeared into his bedroom and returned with a pile of clothes.

“Here, Watson,” he said, tossing some at me. “Do your best to make yourself look disrespectable.”

I held up a pair of trousers and a workman’s coat, both of which looked as though they had seen better days.

“What are these for?”

“If we are going to be inconspicuous, we must dress as the natives do. Now hurry, Watson; we haven’t much time!”

A quarter of an hour later we emerged from the sitting room looking for all the world like a couple of laborers just off work at the docks. A smudge or two of dust and grime on our faces and the transformation was complete. We were about to close the door behind us when Holmes stopped and put his hand on my arm.

“Watson, do you still have your old service revolver?”

“Yes, it’s upstairs in my old bedroom.”

“You might want to bring it along—and see that it’s loaded.”

I went upstairs and got the gun from the closet where it had lain unused for quite some time. Apart from my adventures with Holmes,
I had little use for it. I shoved it into my jacket pocket and followed Holmes out the door, still a little mystified by his reasoning.

“I hope you’ll be back for supper—I got a nice rack of lamb!” Mrs. Hudson called after us as we hurried out the door.

We quickly hailed a cab. The driver looked at us oddly when we climbed into the hansom—we didn’t look like the sort of men who were used to traveling by cab. A thin twilight crept over the cobblestones as we traveled east along Oxford Street.

“You see,” said Holmes, “king’s knight refers to Lancelot because he was in fact King Arthur’s knight... and I thought at the time our little trip to Cornwall was no coincidence. No, I am certain that whatever is going to happen, the Lancelot Arms will figure into it somehow.”

Traffic was light and we soon arrived at our destination. The Lancelot Arms had seen better days, but they were far behind it now. The wooden exterior was weatherbeaten and as careworn as an old face, the windows greasy with years of build-up of tallow and the grime from whale-oil lamps. A couple of drunks stood outside the saloon bar, talking loudly.

“Ay say ’e
is
; my brother is certain ’e saw ’im the other night!” one of the men was saying. He was tall and stringy and wore a coat which was several sizes too small for him. His greasy hair fell in lumps about his head, and his teeth had probably never seen the inside of a dentist’s office.

“So what if ’e is?” said the other, a little man with a florid face and short stubby hands.

“Nothin’,” said the tall stringy one. “It’s just strange, that’s all. There’s somethin’ fishy goin’ on, that’s all.”

“Oh,
I
get it, somethin’
fishy
! That’s very good, that is—very good indeed,” said his companion, laughing. “Fishy, eh? Fishy, is it? Well, that’s well done, it really is,” he said, slapping his knee as if to wring
every bit of amusement he could out of this jest. I personally couldn’t make out what they were talking about, but Holmes listened intently.

“Nothing is as it seems in this case, Watson,” he said.

I waited patiently for him to explain this cryptic remark, but he did not enlighten me; instead he said, “Mark, Watson, there’s more here than meets the eye.”

What met the eye inside the Lancelot Arms was a motley collection of working-class fellows: Some of them had the sunburned skin of sailors and dock workers, and others wore the natty red scarves which singled them out as costermongers. They were a rough lot, and I was glad of our disguises, though I worried that we were not as inconspicuous as I would have wished. Holmes, as usual, was unconcerned, and he stepped up to the bar, sliding in between two red-scarved fellows. One of the men—already well in his cups—looked Holmes over and winked at his companion.

“’Ere now, maybe this gentl’man could solve it for us.”

Holmes turned to the man. “Solve what?” he said coolly.