The Star of India (18 page)

He sighed deeply. “All right, Watson, you have made your point. I will try to rest. Why don’t you go up to bed and get some sleep and I promise you I will close my eyes and do the same.”

As he spoke I felt a wave of fatigue sweep over me which left me weak-kneed. In my concern over Holmes I had forgotten all about my own exhaustion. “All right,” I said, “if you promise.”

“I do. Now go to bed.”

I dimmed the lamps and went upstairs, fell upon my bed, and was instantly asleep. I awoke to the sound of the streetsweeper’s broom, its rough bristles scraping the sidewalk in front of the building. I heard church bells ringing the hour in the distance, and along with the sudden realization that it was ten o’clock, came another awareness: Until this moment I had completely lost track of what day of the week it was. I sprang from the bed, threw on my dressing gown and went downstairs. To my dismay, the couch was empty. I looked in Holmes’ bedroom to see if he was there but there was no sign of him. I called for Mrs. Hudson, who appeared at the door holding a coffeepot.

“Mrs. Hudson, did you see Holmes go out?”

“No, Dr. Watson, he must have gone out before I got up.”

I groaned. Holmes was in no condition to be running around London at the best of times, much less with Moriarty’s men everywhere. I cursed his pig-headed stubbornness and then, not being able to think of anything better to do, I gratefully accepted Mrs. Hudson’s offer of breakfast. I was ravenous, having gone without dinner the night before, and put away an amount of eggs and sausages which surprised even me. When I had finished I sat back to smoke my pipe and consider what to do next. It was after eleven and there was still no sign of Holmes, and though I tried not to be, I was worried. As I sat smoking a timid little knock came at the door. I went to the door and opened it: Jenny stood in the hallway in a nightgown much too big for her, her feet clad in oversized woolen stockings.

“Come in, Jenny,” I said, and she followed me silently into the sitting room, treading on the hem of her nightgown as it dragged on the floor.

“Where’s the other gentleman?” she asked, seeing the empty couch.

“He’s gone out,” I said.

“Oh.” She looked around the room and then, seeing the chess set on the sideboard, pointed to it. “May I play with it, please, sir?”

“Well, it’s set up a certain way,” I said. “Why don’t we see if we can find you something better to play with?”

“Oh, can I just make one move, please, sir?”

“Oh, all right—just one.” I walked over with her to the chess set. “Which one would you like to move?” I said, thinking that I would just put the piece back where it was after she had gone. She studied the board, a look of fierce concentration on her little face.

“Have you seen this game before?” I said.

She nodded. “Yes, sir. My brother had one what he found on the street and he used to let me move the little men around the board.”

“I see. Did he play by the rules, then?”

Jenny shrugged. “I don’t know. I only know that each little man has to move a different way.”

“Go on, then, make a move.”

To my surprise she picked up the black queen and moved it diagonally so that the white king was in check. She looked up at me. “Now your king is in danger.”

I stared at her, and was about to say something, but Mrs. Hudson burst into the room.

“It’s Mr. Mycroft Holmes to see you, Dr. Watson,” she said, huffing and puffing.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, show him in.”

“Come along, dearie,” she said to Jenny. “We’d better find some clothes for you to wear.”

Mrs. Hudson withdrew, taking Jenny with her, and moments later Mycroft Holmes entered the room.

“Hello, Dr. Watson.”

His enormous bulk filled the doorway as he stood there breathing heavily, winded from the unaccustomed exercise of climbing the stairs. I thought about making a suggestion that he get more exercise, but then thought better of it. In some ways he was even more intimidating than his younger brother, with his massive frame and equally impressive intellect. “Good morning,” I said.

“Where’s Sherlock?” he said, looking around the room.

“I’m afraid he’s gone out.”

“Hmm. Where has he gone, do you think?”

“I don’t know, and I wish I did, because he is in no condition to be out,” I said, briefly recounting our adventure of the night before.

“Well,” he answered after a moment, “this is disturbing. Do you mind if I sit down?” he said, eyeing Holmes’ favorite chair.

“Oh, by all means, please make yourself comfortable. Forgive me—I’m not quite myself today, I’m afraid.”

“I understand,” Mycroft Holmes replied, settling his bulk into the armchair. “I am quite out of sorts myself. You know how I hate disturbing my routine, and yet I felt compelled to come over here today, only to find that Sherlock is gone.”

“Perhaps you can tell me what you came to tell him,” I said, sitting across from Mycroft in my usual chair.

“Well—” he began, just as the door opened and Holmes staggered in. He was white as a sheet, and his hand was clutching the wound in his side.

“Holmes!” I cried, leaping to my feet and helping him to the couch. Even Mycroft Holmes looked worried; he rose from his chair and stood over his brother, shaking his head.

“Good heavens, Sherlock, what have you done?” he exclaimed in a voice which, though meant to sound disapproving, could not hide his concern.

Holmes waved his hand weakly. “I’m all right. I just need to rest.” He closed his eyes and let his head fall back on the pillow.

“But what on earth—” Mycroft Holmes began, but I held up my hand.

“Forgive me,” I said, “but he really should rest undisturbed for a while, if you don’t mind.”

Mycroft sighed and lumbered back to his chair in front of the fireplace. “Very well, but I have come all this way to tell him—”

“—to tell me what?” Holmes said weakly from the couch.

“Our intelligence sources have just informed us that there is to be an assassination attempt of some kind during Prince Rabarrath’s visit later this week. Extremist elements in India consider the relationship between Rabarrath and England threatening to India’s independence movement.”

“Do you agree?” I asked.

Mycroft shook his head. “No. Rabarrath is a moderate, and is against violence of any kind, either internal or against England. Those who oppose him are the more militant citizens among his own principality, as well as violent factions elsewhere.”

“Who... is... in danger?” whispered Holmes. He now sounded so weak that I was about to insist on utter quiet, but Mycroft’s next words riveted me to the spot.

“Our sources believe the target of the assassination will be the Prince of Wales.”

“
Shah mat
,” said Holmes. “The king is dead.”

“Precisely. The smuggling operation you fortuitously interrupted yesterday was part of a plan to place the Star of India in the hands of Rabarrath’s chief rival in India, Prince Bowdrinth. He is a brutal man opposed to any form of diplomacy between England and India; he also intends to wage warfare against Rabarrath as soon as he feels he has enough of a following. The Star of India could very well be
instrumental in giving him that following. It is well that you intercepted it when you did.”

“What is Moriarty’s game?” I mused.

“Oh, his game is deep, very deep. I doubt that even I understand every facet of it,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Where is the jewel, by the way?”

I looked at the place on the mantel where the box had been last night— it was empty. “Good heavens!” I cried, but Holmes’ voice stopped me. “I have hidden it,” he said.

“You’ve
what
?” I could hardly contain my incredulity.

“I’ve hidden it,” he repeated.

“
Where
?”

“In the last place Moriarty would ever think of looking for it.”

“Why on earth did you—?” I stammered, but Mycroft Holmes interrupted me.

“Who has been moving these pieces?” he said, pointing to the chess board upon the sideboard.

“Oh, we’ve had a little girl staying with us, and she was just playing around with it this morning. Here, I’ll put it back,” I said, moving to the board.

“Don’t touch it!” Mycroft’s voice froze me where I stood. He walked over to inspect it more closely. “Extraordinary,” he said, bending over the board, “quite extraordinary.”

“What?” I said, not catching on.

He straightened up and looked at me, his face twisted in a peculiar half smile.

“Well, I don’t know quite how to say this, but this little girl has made an amazingly intuitive move.”

“She was just playing with it,” I said lamely.

“That may very well be,” Mycroft answered, “but whatever the reason, she has exactly demonstrated the situation:
She has put the white
king in check,
and she has done so using the only piece which could do so in just one move—the black queen!”

“But who
is
the black queen?” I asked, mystified.

“Exactly what I was wondering,” replied Mycroft Holmes. “If we knew that, it would all be so much easier.”

“Wait! The smuggling ship last night was called
Queen of India.
Holmes even remarked upon it at the time,” I offered.

Mycroft shook his massive head. “No, that’s only part of the picture. There is another operative here, one I have not yet discerned... Sherlock?” he said, looking over at where his brother lay upon the couch, but Holmes was fast asleep. Mycroft smiled. “I think I’ll take your advice and let him rest, Doctor. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

Mycroft accepted my offer to stay for lunch, and I must say Mrs. Hudson outdid herself with roast duck and apple stuffing, and I could see that even Mycroft Holmes was impressed.

“Excellent woman, Sherlock’s landlady,” he said contentedly over cigars and brandy in front of the fire. “She knows how to turn a spit, and yet I have often wondered if it is a lost art.”

After sleeping half the afternoon, Holmes awakened long enough to eat something—at my insistence—and now he lay half awake upon the sofa, tossing and turning as Mycroft and I talked.

“Prince Rabarrath is due to come to London on Thursday,” Mycroft said, examining the fat cigar he held between his plump fingers. “I actually think my brother did a wise thing in hiding the jewel—assuming of course that he picked a safe place—because if it were returned to His Majesty Prince Edward now, I fear there would be an attempt on his life sooner rather than later. Our sources tell us that the plan is for him to be assassinated during Prince Rabarrath’s visit, but my experience informs me that timing in these matters is everything. As my brother said, whoever possesses the jewel now is in great danger. It has become a
symbol, and in times of political unrest there is nothing more dangerous than a symbol. I will tell you one thing, though: Your little girl intuited something very important. I’ve no doubt the black queen is the key to this affair. We must find her or I fear we will fail.”

Holmes moaned and I went over to the couch where he lay.

“Holmes, are you all right?”

“Lestrade,” he said, “send word to Lestrade the Star is recovered.”

“Don’t worry, I will; you just rest now,” I said, feeling his forehead. It was hot and dry. Just as I had feared, he was coming down with a fever. I pulled the blanket up over him and tiptoed back to his brother.

“How is he?” asked Mycroft.

I shook my head. “His forehead is burning. I am afraid he has a fever.”

Mycroft shook his head. “My brother and I should really take a page out of each other’s book. He was always too impetuous by half, whereas I... well, as you can see, doctor, I am far too lazy.” He sighed. “A happy medium between the two of us— now there you would have a well-balanced, contented man.”

I looked at Holmes, turning and moaning in his sleep. Well-balanced, contented... these were not words anyone would use to describe my friend, and yet I felt certain that if he were more balanced or contented then he would not be Sherlock Holmes.

By the time Mycroft left it was early evening. Mrs. Hudson had taken Jenny out to shop for clothes, and they returned with their arms full of packages, laughing and talking noisily in the foyer. Hearing the child’s voice downstairs I had a sweet yet sad longing for a child of my own, a pleasure I had been denied throughout my two marriages. I had not felt it such a terrible loss—the loss of my wives eclipsed everything else— but now with the sound of Jenny’s quick little footsteps on the stairs, I found myself full of a nostalgia for my own childhood. I waited by the
door for Jenny to come in and show me her purchases, and when she entered, followed by Mrs. Hudson clucking over her like a mother hen, I had an agreeable sensation of domesticity which I had not experienced since my Mary died.

Jenny looked such the little lady in her new clothes that I hardly recognized her. A full twenty-four hours of Mrs. Hudson’s good cooking had put roses on her cheeks and a glow in her eye.

“There, Dr. Watson,” she said shyly, “what do you think of the nice clothes what Mrs. Hudson has got me?”

“Very nice, Jenny,” I said. “You look like a proper lady.”

She walked over to the couch where Holmes lay in a deep sleep.

“Is he going to be all right?” she said, stroking his forehead.

“Yes, but you must let him rest,” I said.

“There, there, child, let’s go see what’s in the pantry for us,” Mrs. Hudson interjected. “Haven’t you worked up an appetite with all this dashing about?”

“You mean we are to have another meal?” Jenny said, incredulous at her good fortune. “I never has more than one or two a day at the most.”

“Come along, dearie, and we’ll fix you a nice cup of tea with some sandwiches and cakes.”

Jenny’s eyes filled with tears. “You are so very good to me; I only wish my mum were alive to see this. She would be ever so happy, she would.”

Mrs. Hudson escorted her out and as I stood looking after them for some time, my own eyes were far from dry. I sighed and sat down by the fire to wait until Holmes awakened. Before long I felt sleep overtake me, and sank gratefully into its soft pull. I was evidently more tired than I thought, because when I awoke dawn was peering through the curtains.