The Star of India (19 page)

“Good morning, Watson.” To my surprise, his voice came not from the couch but from the other side of the room. I rubbed my eyes and saw Holmes bending over the chess set on the sideboard.

“Holmes! You shouldn’t be up yet.”

“Nonsense. What have we here?” he said, indicating the board. “Did Mycroft do this?”

I explained to him that Jenny had moved the queen and recounted also Mycroft’s reaction to it. When I had finished, Holmes nodded and pointed to the black queen.

“He is, of course, quite right: The queen is the key to everything... But who, I wonder, is the black queen?”

“That’s exactly what Mycroft said.”

“It is the obvious question.” Holmes took a deep breath and winced.

“How are you feeling?”

“Oh, not too bad. A bit of soreness around my ribs, but otherwise I’m fit enough.”

“I detected a slight fracture when I examined you. I did my best to tape it up, but you really should—”

“Watson, I appreciate your concern, but we have more important matters before us.”

Just then there was a knock on the door and a very sleepy-looking Mrs. Hudson entered.

“Begging pardon, but Inspector Lestrade—” she began, but before she could finish, Lestrade himself barged into the room. He was breathing heavily, his face red.

“What’s
this
I hear about you
hiding
the Star of India?” he bellowed.

“Inspector Lestrade, how kind of you to drop by,” said Holmes. “Please, won’t you have a seat?”

“The minute the gem was recovered it was your
duty
to deliver it straight to Scotland Yard!” Lestrade sputtered. “What on earth were you
thinking
?”

Holmes sat gingerly in his favorite chair and regarded Lestrade with an air of condescending affection. I think in spite of everything, he
really liked the little inspector, who right now reminded me of a bantam rooster whose feathers have been ruffled.

“My dear Lestrade,” said Holmes calmly, “when you have quite finished I will explain everything.”

Lestrade abruptly stopped his blustering and looked quite sheepishly at Mrs. Hudson and myself. I think he even blushed a bit. In any event, his face turned a deeper shade of crimson. He marched over to the sofa and sat down.

“All right,” he said, “I’ll listen to what you have to say, but it had better be good.”

“Mrs. Hudson, I’d be willing to bet the inspector has not yet had his morning coffee—or is it tea, Inspector?”

Lestrade looked positively crestfallen. “Um, tea’s fine, thank you,” he mumbled.

“Tea all round then, please, Mrs. Hudson, if you would be so kind, thank you,” said Holmes. Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes at me and withdrew.

“First of all, the jewel is quite safe, I can assure you of that,” Holmes continued, addressing Lestrade. “Second, did it not occur to you that once the Star of India is in the hands of the ‘authorities,’ so to speak, that Professor Moriarty will have to resort to desperate means in order to acquire it—even if that means killing someone in the royal family?”

“The royal—
what
?” Lestrade stuttered.

“There are rumors of a planned assassination of the Prince of Wales.”

“Good Lord,” said Lestrade. “What makes you think—”

“I can’t go into all the reasons I have for believing it right now, Lestrade, but suffice to say that the danger is very real. You see, if the Star is still at large, so to speak, then Moriarty will have to concentrate a certain portion of his energy and resources on recovering it. In other words, it is a
decoy
while we try to thwart the more dangerous threat: The attempt against the life of the future King of England.”

Lestrade sat staring at Holmes for a moment. “I see what you’re getting at,” he said slowly, “but why couldn’t we just
pretend
that we’ve hidden it?”

“Oh, Moriarty is far too clever to fall for a ruse like that,” said Holmes. “He would find out sooner or later. And besides, there is a leak somewhere in Scotland Yard.”

Lestrade stared at Holmes as though he had been slapped. When he spoke, his voice was a hoarse whisper.

“What did you say?”

“I said there’s a leak somewhere in Scotland Yard.”

Lestrade opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came. At that moment the door opened and Mrs. Hudson entered bearing a tray of tea and hot cross buns.

“I thought you might need a little nourishment,” she said, setting the tray down on the coffee table.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” I said, and began to pour tea for everyone. After Mrs. Hudson had gone, Lestrade still didn’t say anything for some moments, and the only sound in the room was the rattling of china as I handed the tea round. Finally Lestrade rose from his chair and stared into the fire, which flickered feebly in the grate.

“I suppose you think me quite an idiot, Mr. Holmes,” he said quietly.

“I think nothing of the kind,” Holmes replied. “I have had years of dealing with Moriarty; he is so clever that he usually hides every trace of his actions, and it is only by paying very close attention to small details that one is able to decipher his movements.”

“That’s all very well and fine,” Lestrade said bitterly, “but a
leak
in Scotland Yard—that’s a bit thick, don’t you think?” He sounded as though he were accusing Holmes of planting the leak himself.

“Inspector, believe me, I only just figured it out myself; you shouldn’t be too hard on yourself.”

“And so how did you figure it out, then?” Lestrade said, a challenge in his tone.

“Well, actually, it was Freddie Stockton.”

“Oh, you mean the fellow they found in the Thames?”

“Whoever they found in the Thames, Inspector, it wasn’t Freddie Stockton. I can assure you he is alive and well.”

“What?” Lestrade put down his teacup so abruptly that it rattled.

“Watson saw him too.”

Lestrade turned to me, his eyes pleading.

“Yes, I’m afraid it’s true. Holmes and I saw him last night,” I said.

“But, why—I mean, who—”

“Who exactly
is
lying in the morgue right now? I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that, Inspector, though I have some ideas... how many men do you currently have working undercover?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know, around fifteen or so, I should think.”

“Have any of them been late in reporting in recently?”

Lestrade screwed up his face. “Well, let me think now... hold on a minute—yes, there is one: Hazelton! We haven’t heard from him in a couple of days.” His face suddenly fell. “Good Lord, you don’t think...” he said unsteadily.

“I think it very likely that it was Hazelton fished out of the Thames yesterday. The question is, who managed to get him identified as Freddie Stockton?”

“Well, he does look a bit like Stockton, except that the hair is different.”

“I have a hunch, Inspector, that would be borne up by a trip to the morgue. What do you say, Watson; can you be dressed in quarter of an hour?”

“Certainly,” I said, setting down my cup. “Though I don’t think you should be running around—”

Holmes dismissed me with an impatient snort.

“One of these days, Holmes,” I said, “you are going to regret not taking my advice.”

Holmes looked at me, his face serious.

“Watson, may I remind you what is at stake here?”

And so it was that twenty minutes later we were on our way to the city morgue with a very subdued Inspector Lestrade, who sat in the cab hardly saying a word. The morgue attendant looked surprised to see us, but led us immediately into the preternaturally clean storage room, every inch of the white walls and floors scrubbed and shining. I inhaled the sharp, rather sickening smell of formaldehyde, so familiar to me from my days as a medical student.

“Ah, here he is: number eighteen,” the attendant said, pulling out the white-sheeted body from its bin. The rolling wheels echoed hollowly through the stark whiteness of the room as he slid the metal tray out with its grisly contents. Holmes lifted the sheet to reveal the man’s face. The first thing I noticed was the hair: It was the same curious white-blond shade as Freddie Stockton. The water had done some damage to the face, however, and the features were blurred, so that recognition wasn’t an easy task. Lestrade, however, sighed grimly.

“That’s him, that’s Hazelton,” he said sadly.

“This is not his natural hair color, of course,” said Holmes.

“No, he has brown hair. Why do you suppose it’s like this?”

“To make him look more like Freddie Stockton, of course.” Holmes turned to the attendant. “The cause of death was strangulation, I believe?”

The attendant nodded. “That’s right, sir.”

“He may have even been strangled first and then his hair dyed,” said Holmes. “Watson, would there be any way to determine the order of those events?”

I shook my head. “Not that I know of. The hair even continues to
grow for some time after death, so that some darkness of the roots could exist in either case.”

There was a knock on the door and the attendant rose to answer it. He opened it to admit two police officers carrying a body wrapped in canvas, which they deposited on one of the tables.

“What’s this all about, Connally?” Lestrade said to one of the men.

“Fellow by the name of William Strater, sir. He’s been murdered—an East End job. Looks like it was a pub brawl. Routine matter, I expect, sir.”

“May I see?” said Holmes to the attendant.

“Certainly, sir,” he answered. He was a small, dapper man with thick glasses, and looked more like an accountant than someone you would expect to find working in a morgue. When he lifted the sheet, Holmes whistled softly.

“Have a look at this, Watson.”

I did, and saw at once what had made Holmes whistle: There upon the table, was our cribbage partner from the Lancelot Arms, throat cut from ear to ear, his neck a horrible red grin.

“Good heavens, it’s Yellow Teeth!” I exclaimed. Lestrade and Holmes both looked at me curiously. “Oh, I—that’s what I called him. I mean, because of his teeth, you see?” I said lamely.

“Do you know this man, Mr. Holmes?” said Lestrade.

“We met him two nights ago at the Lancelot Arms,” Holmes replied. “He knew about the attempt to smuggle the Star of India. In fact, it was he who gave us the information, though he was unaware he had divulged the secret.”

“So we’re not the only ones with information leaks,” Lestrade said with some satisfaction.

“That could explain his turning up here!” I exclaimed. “When Moriarty found out the information had been leaked, he had this man killed as an example.”

Holmes looked at the body lying on the table. “Yes... I wonder how many more will have to die before this is all over?” he mused. “First Mr. Wiggins, then Hazelton, and now this fellow Strater.”

Lestrade sighed and shook his head. “Poor Hazelton... he was about to go on holiday.”

“Didn’t his wife notice he was missing?” said Holmes.

Lestrade shook his head. “He wasn’t married. The ones we use for undercover mostly aren’t; it’s a difficult job, you know, and often the hours are long...”

Holmes nodded. “I see. They picked their victim carefully. I wonder why Hazelton, though? Was he getting too close to them, perhaps?”

Lestrade shrugged. “I had him working in an opium den—perhaps you know it—the Bar of Gold? It’s a meeting place for smugglers.”

“Oh, I know it well,” said Holmes. “I have on one or two occasions been there myself. On official business, of course,” he added, seeing Lestrade’s surprised look. “Perhaps it’s time to pay another visit,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe I can find out what Hazelton was on to.”

“Holmes, do you think it wise?” I said. “I mean, look at what happened to Hazelton.”

Holmes smiled. “With all due respect, Watson, Hazelton was neither prepared nor equipped to deal with Professor James Moriarty.”

Holmes’ tone expressed his usual confidence, but I couldn’t help wondering whether anyone was prepared for such a daunting task.

A
t Lestrade’s request we returned with him to Scotland Yard. When we entered his office, there, sitting on Lestrade’s desk, was a large shiny brass birdcage, tied around with a broad red ribbon. Lestrade looked at us and then at the cage; then, without a word, he went to the door and opened it.

“Morgan!” he called, and the young sergeant appeared at the door.

“Yes, sir?”

“What is this?” Lestrade said, indicating the cage.

“Well, sir, it’s a sort of... present.”

“A present?”

The young man blushed and stared at his smartly polished shoes. “Yes, sir. You see, sir, me and the lads thought that since you’re going to keep the parrot you might like to have a nice cage for him to live in when you’re not around. The fellow at the pet shop says parrots like a nice comfy cage. He said it makes them feel secure, like.”

“Oh, he did, did he?”

“Yes, sir—do you like it, sir? I picked it out myself.”

Lestrade looked at the cage, then at the floor, his face working. I looked away and Holmes coughed delicately.

“It’s very nice, thank you,” Lestrade said finally, his voice thick.