The Star of India (17 page)

Two men came out of the ship to greet the carriage; one of the men carried a lantern. Two more men descended from inside the carriage; the taller of them carried a wooden box in his hands. Words were exchanged, but again I couldn’t make out what they were saying.

“All right, Watson, this is it,” said Holmes. “Have you your gun handy?”

“Right here,” I said, taking it out of my pocket.

“All right, take off the safety.”

“Right.”

“Now, I want you to follow me: keep a safe distance, but keep your gun out and pointed at them at all times.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Just follow my lead; surprise is of the essence. Quickly, now—go!” And with that, he sprang from behind the mooring post and I followed close behind, my gun drawn.

Our approach was muffled by the falling rain and also covered by a thick fog which had begun to descend, so that the men did not see us coming. Before they knew it we were upon them, and their faces expressed utter astonishment at the sight of us. By now we no doubt looked like drowned rats, appearing out of the harbor mist.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Holmes in a calm but firm voice. “And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll take that box,” he added, indicating the wooden box. The man holding the box looked at us, his face catching the light from the ship, and I saw with a start that it was Freddie Stockton.

“So, you’re not dead after all, Mr. Stockton,” said Holmes. “Well, I am relieved.”

“Y-y-you’re nothing of the s-s-sort,” Stockton replied.

“Oh, but I am,” replied Holmes. “Though I did begin to suspect as much from a conversation I overheard tonight.”

“What?” I whispered.

“The two drunks in front of the pub, Watson.”

I remembered their cryptic conversation, and the meaning was suddenly clear to me: They had been talking about Stockton.

“Really, though, Mr. Stockton,” Holmes continued, “the thought that Moriarty would dispose of his own man so readily was disquieting.”

“If anyone needs disposin’ of, it’s you,” said a snarling voice, and George Simpson stepped out from behind Freddie Stockton.

“Well, you seem to have recovered from our little scuffle the other day rather well,” said Holmes genially. “I hope the professor wasn’t too dismayed by our little... encounter.”

Simpson took a step forward, a look of rage on his ugly face, his little pig’s eyes squinting even in the dim light. “I’ll take you on any time,” he said in a murderous voice.

“Kidnapping women is more your line of work, I should think,”
said Holmes. “I wouldn’t try anything if I were you, or Dr. Watson will be forced to use his gun, and who knows what kind of attention that might attract?”

The two other men, who were dressed as sailors and were evidently crew members from the
Queen of India
, looked at the gun in my hand nervously. They obviously hadn’t bargained for anything like this when they agreed to what must have sounded like a simple smuggling arrangement. I held the gun steadily before me, aiming it at Simpson’s heart.

“And now, if you would hand over that box, we’ll be on our way,” Holmes continued.

Stockton hesitated and looked at Simpson for guidance.

“Go ahead,” Simpson growled, “’e won’t go very far.”

Stockton took a step forward and Holmes did the same, holding out his hands. Stockton handed it over to him, all the while keeping his eye on the gun which I kept trained on him during this operation.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Holmes. “Please give my regards to the professor. Come on, Watson, it’s time we were going.”

We walked backwards slowly, my gun still trained upon them, until we were swallowed up by the fog and the rain. When we could see them no longer Holmes said, “Now, Watson, run! Run as though your life depended upon it!”

And run I did. I shoved my gun back into my jacket and we tore across the mud-drenched path leading back up toward our waiting cabby, but before we had gone far I heard the sound of gunshots behind us. I began to pull my gun out to fire back but Holmes grabbed my arm.

“Never mind that; it’ll only slow us down,” he said. “Just run!”

I could see the lights on the side of our cab up ahead through the fog, and I think I never saw a more welcome sight in my life. Just then I heard the sound of another gunshot, and Holmes cried out and stumbled.

“Holmes, are you hit?” I cried.

“It’s nothing,” he gasped. “I’ll be all right. Whatever you do, don’t stop! Here,” he said, shoving the box into my hands, “take this, in case I don’t make it!”

“No,” I said, grabbing him around the waist and pulling him along. “We go together or we don’t go at all.”

He did not argue, but allowed me to half drag him along with me. The cab was just ahead, and the cabby stood waiting anxiously by the door, his whip in his hand.

“What’s going on?” he said as we approached. “I thought I heard gunshots!”

“You did,” I said, “and if you don’t want to get shot yourself, you’ll hurry out of here as fast as you can!”

The man evidently believed me, for within seconds Holmes and I were in the cab and we were headed back toward Aspen Way at a gallop. It was only after we were in the hansom for some moments that I noticed a small figure cowering in the corner: Jenny the mudlark.

“Is he going to die?” she said, seeing the blood upon Holmes’ chest.

“Not if I can help it,” I said, examining the wound. The bullet had grazed his ribcage; it was a nasty gash, though not life-threatening. I was concerned by the amount of bleeding, however, and pressed my scarf to the wound to stem the flow.

“Just lie still,” I said to Holmes as he struggled to move. “If you move around you’ll only bleed more.”

“The box, Watson,” he said in an unsteady voice. “Open the box.”

I did so, not knowing what to expect, and was astonished to see, nestled in the box’s red-velvet lining, the Star of India.

“Good heavens, Holmes, how did you—?”

“I’ll explain later,” said Holmes, and then he fainted.

As the cab tore through the deserted streets I looked out the back
window, but, failing to see any sign of our pursuers, I put down the box and leaned back in the seat, exhausted. Jenny snuggled up to me, whimpering softly, and I put my arm around her thin shoulders.

“Is he dead?” she said in a small voice.

“No, he’s just fainted; he’ll be all right,” I answered in the most soothing tone I could manage. “There, there, now. Why don’t you come back with us and we’ll give you a nice hot meal and then you can go home to your mother.”

“I ain’t got a mother.”

“Well, to your father, then.”

“I ain’t got no father either. He went away and then me mother died, an’ left only me an’ my brother but I don’t know where my brother is.”

“Good heavens, you mean you’re all alone?”

She nodded, and I pulled her closer and stroked her hair as our horse galloped through the night. “Never mind,” I said. “You’ll be safe with us.” But as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I doubted very much that they were true.

I
won’t repeat what Mrs. Hudson said when I turned up at Baker Street dripping from head to toe; half carrying Holmes, who was partially conscious and quite weak from the loss of blood; and accompanied by a shivering little waif of a girl—all of us chilled to the bone, tired, and hungry. However, Mrs. Hudson’s good Scottish heart melted at the sight of Jenny, and the girl was soon seated in a chair by the fire, wrapped in blankets and sipping hot chocolate.

I laid Holmes upon the divan, removing his shirt and vest in order to examine the wound properly. Mrs. Hudson hovered about, frightened by the amount of blood on his clothes, and even after I assured her that he would be all right she walked around wringing her hands and moaning softly to herself. The bullet had passed between the third and fourth ribs, and although it had not penetrated any organs, there was still the possibility of internal bleeding brought on by trauma. I also detected a fracture of the lower rib, painful but not life-threatening. Holmes was still not fully conscious, and his breathing was shallow.

“Oh, Dr. Watson, what are we going to do?” Mrs. Hudson said, pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace.

“It looks worse than it is, Mrs. Hudson,” I said reassuringly.

“Why is he unconscious, then? It frightens me,” she said, still wringing her hands.

“He’s in shock right now. All we can do apart from dressing his wound is to keep him warm. Now, how about some hot water and a clean towel?”

She scurried off, happier now that she was able to do something. Holmes lay motionless on the divan; I took his pulse and found it weak but steady. I knelt beside him and then was suddenly aware that I was being watched. I looked in the direction of the fireplace: A serious little face peered at me from the depths of Holmes’ favorite armchair.

“Yes, Jenny, what is it?” I said.

“Is he going to get better?” she said gravely.

“Yes, he is,” I answered. “I wish everyone would stop asking me that.”

There was a pause and then Jenny said, “My mum lay down one day and just never got up again.”

I looked at her: She clutched the mug of chocolate between her thin white hands as though she would never part with it.

“Jenny,” I said slowly, “have you ever had hot chocolate before?”

She shook her head. “I always thought it would taste bitter, like coffee, but it’s ever so sweet. It tastes even better than it smells.”

I looked at Jenny, wondering how many other things she had never tasted in her short life, but just then Mrs. Hudson returned with a basin of hot water and a pile of towels.

“One towel would have done,” I said, taking them from her.

“It never hurts to have too many, I always say,” she replied, sitting down next to the couch to watch.

When I began to clean the wound Holmes stirred and groaned.

“Oh, you’re hurting him, doctor!” Mrs. Hudson said.

“I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped,” I said firmly. “I wish you’d just let me do my job, please, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Very well, very well; if that’s how you feel, I’ll make myself scarce. Heavens knows, I don’t want to be in the way,” she muttered, rising from her chair and scuttling off toward the door. “I mean, I just try to keep a good house and have meals ready on time, and it’s not
my
fault if people have to go dashing about in the middle of the night getting shot at and coming home at all hours, drenched to the bone. Come along, dearie,” she said to Jenny, “we’ll find you a nice soft bed to sleep in downstairs. It’s way past bedtime for little girls.”

Jenny allowed herself to be led by the hand downstairs, leaving me alone with Holmes. I finished cleaning and dressing his wound and then settled myself in a chair with my pipe to watch over him in case he regained consciousness.

I must have dozed off, because the fire in the grate had burned down to embers when I was suddenly awakened by the sound of Holmes’ voice.

“Watson?”

“Yes, Holmes, I’m here.” I bent down over him.

“What time is it?”

“I don’t know; it’s late.”

“How long have I been out?”

“Oh, several hours, I should think.”

“And the Star of India—where is it?”

In all of the excitement I had quite forgotten about the precious jewel; it still sat upon the mantel where I had carelessly deposited it upon entering the room.

“Don’t worry, it’s right over there.”

Holmes tried to rise up from where he lay on the couch, but I put my hand to his shoulder to stop him.

“No, Holmes, you shouldn’t move just yet. I’ll bring it over to you if you like.”

“Yes, please; I want to see it.”

I rose and retrieved the box from where it lay and brought it over to Holmes. He opened the lid and gazed at the stone inside—there it was, unmistakably the Star of India. Satisfied, he lay back down again. I could see, however, that this small effort had exhausted him.

“Very well,” he said in a weak voice. “I just wanted to make sure that we have not been fooled.”

“What do we do now that we have it?” I said.

“Now that we have it we are in extreme danger,” Holmes answered. “Watson, will you do me the kindness of looking out of the window and telling me what you see?”

I did as he asked. “I see two policemen, one across the street and one in front of our building.”

Holmes smiled. “Say what you like about Inspector Lestrade, but he is as good as his word. The police presence will help, though it will be no means stop Moriarty from getting at the gem—or at us. No, it would be better if it were hidden somewhere else, somewhere other than here...”

I looked at him: His face was extremely pale and haggard. Beads of sweat glistened upon his forehead.

“Holmes,” I said gently, “you must rest. If you do not, I shall insist that you be taken to hospital, where you shall be forced to rest.”

“Oh, Watson,” he said impatiently, “you said yourself that the injury is not life-threatening.”

“No, not if you take care of yourself properly. If you ignore it, however, there is no telling what damage may be done—fever, infection...”