The Star of India (23 page)

After he had gone there was a pause, and then Holmes said, “I’m going to give him the information, Watson, even though he will probably have us both killed anyway.”

I started to answer, but just then I thought I heard a noise—a faint tapping sound—and I turned to face the window. To my utter astonishment, a small figure squatted on the ground outside the window. A little face peered inside through the glass: it was Jenny! I had an impulse to shout, but I restrained myself.

“Jenny!” I whispered. “Here, Jenny! Can you open the window?”

She made a sign to me and then I heard the sound of a deadbolt being drawn across metal—the sweetest sound I think I have ever heard. In a flash the window was open and the girl crawled nimbly inside, dropping soundlessly to the floor.

“Oh, Jenny, thank God!” I whispered as she began to untie me. “How on earth did you know? I mean, how did you find us?”

“I heard you talking with the gentl’man upstairs at Baker Street,” she said as her nimble fingers worked quickly on the ropes which bound me. “I was comin’ out of me room to peek, and I sees the other one go upstairs and I says to myself, he’s no good, that one. Then I sees them
carry you downstairs. I follows them outside real quiet like and I hears what he tells the cab driver. I knew the place right away, o’ course, ’cause I knows the river real well, I do, so I comes along here on my own.”

“On foot? Alone?”

“It’s not so far. I suppose I’ve gone twice that far on a day’s work many a time.”

By now I was untied and we were both working to free Holmes, who looked more dead than alive. I helped him to stand up, which he did with difficulty.

“Do you think you can make it out the window, Holmes?” I said.

“I’ll try.”

Jenny scrambled out first, and then I helped Holmes through and followed last, closing it behind me. As soon as I cleared the window I saw the familiar sight of the Blackfriars Bridge to the west; a sallow setting sun had just sunk under the bridge. The building from which we had just emerged was a dock warehouse of some kind, and lay at the bottom of a muddy embankment leading up to the road. I held Jenny’s hand as the three of us scrambled up the bank as fast as Holmes’ condition would allow. We scurried up the embankment, hands clawing at the soft clay soil, our fingernails filling with mud. As we reached the top, we heard the chimes of Big Ben tell the hour: six o’clock.

“What time is the ceremony?” Holmes gasped.

“Seven o’clock.”

“We must hurry, Watson!”

We dashed across a lot containing other warehouses, and out to the road, where we hailed a cab.

“The Tower of London, as fast as you can!” Holmes cried as we piled in. The cab started up with a jolt, throwing us to the back of the seat. Holmes groaned and held his side.

“Holmes?” I said, but he waved me off.

“I’ll be all right, Watson, don’t worry,” he said as we rattled across the rain-slicked streets.

The avenues were beginning to fill up with people celebrating All Hallows’ Eve, and the going became slower as we approached the center of town. Throngs of merrymakers blocked the way. Groups of people were pouring out of pubs in search of merriment and mischief. People dressed as goblins and ghosts were everywhere, carrying candles, flooding the street in a great procession of flickering orange flames. The effect was quite stunning: In the fog, the candles seemed to merge under the gas light into one gigantic fire, a great river of flame moving across the cobblestones. However, we were in no mood to appreciate it.

“This will never do; we’d get there faster on foot,” Holmes muttered. Finally, when we reached the crossroad of Victoria and Cannon Streets, Holmes rapped on the roof to signal the driver.

“We’ll get out here,” he said, giving the man two guineas. “There will be two more for you if you get this girl to 221B Baker Street,” he said, indicating Jenny. “Just tell the landlady that Mr. Sherlock Holmes said so.”

“I want to come with you!” Jenny cried from inside the cab, but Holmes shook his head.

“You’ve had enough excitement for one night,” he said, and nodded to the cab driver, who flicked his whip and turned the cab around in the direction of Baker Street as we set off on foot through the crowded streets. At the intersection where Great Tower feeds into Byward Street, a gigantic bonfire blazed, and a crowd had gathered to watch a huge puppet of a witch being carried through the streets. Made of sticks and papier mâché, she sat upon her broomstick and hovered over the crowd like a giant black bird, her huge cloth hat flapping in the wind like great dark wings.

“Long live the Queen!” shouted a drunken man as she went by. Suddenly Holmes stopped and grabbed my arm.

“Watson, that’s
it
!
”
he exclaimed.

“What is?”

“Have you heard the expression in chess, ‘Give the queen her color?’”

“Yes; it means—”

“The
Black
Queen, Watson! How could I have been so stupid!
I know who the Black Queen is
!”

“Who is it?” I said, but Holmes was already ahead of me. I was amazed at this burst of energy from someone in his condition, but I had known him long enough to realize what he was capable of in times of crisis. I dashed after him, bumping into revelers as I went, hurtling apologies behind me.

Finally we reached the entrance to the Tower. The policeman standing guard stared at us blankly when Holmes announced that he must be allowed inside, but just then Lestrade appeared from inside the gate.

“What is it, Mr. Holmes?” he said. “What’s going on?”

“There’s no time to explain,” said Holmes breathlessly. Lestrade and I followed as he bounded up the steps to the White Tower. The ceremony was being held in the largest of the domed stone chapels, and Lestrade led us to the rear of the crowd which had gathered. Several policemen were at the back of the room with us, standing stiffly at attention, hands at their sides. Holmes’ eyes searched the crowd, as if looking for someone. I followed his gaze, but I did not know what he hoped to find.

Up at the altar, among various other dignitaries, sat the queen. To her right was the Prince of Wales, and to his right sat a dignified-looking Indian man dressed in brilliant flowing robes whom I took to be Prince Rabarrath. Behind him stood a darkly handsome, distinguished-looking man also dressed in flowing crimson robes. The man looked familiar,
but I could not remember where I had seen him. All eyes were upon the Prince of Wales as he rose to speak, addressing his remarks partly to the crowd and partly to Prince Rabarrath.

Holmes continued to peer at the crowd, as though searching for something or someone in particular.

“What’s he looking for?” Lestrade whispered to me, but I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“... and will I hope lead to a renewed sense of commitment between our two great countries,” the Prince was saying, his grave dark eyes scanning the crowd as he spoke.

Suddenly Holmes seemed to find whatever it was he was looking for, for his whole body went tense and he leaned forward like a bird dog on a scent.

“... and so, in hopes of promoting this renewed understanding,” the Prince continued, “I am pleased to accept formally the very great favor bestowed upon me by His Royal Highness Prince Rabarrath on behalf of his people.”

Prince Edward looked back at Prince Rabarrath, who smiled at him. The tall dark man standing behind Rabarrath smiled too, and suddenly I remembered where I had seen him.

“My God, it’s the count!” I muttered, turning to Holmes, but he had disappeared, so my remark was addressed to Lestrade instead.

“What?” said Lestrade.

“It’s him—the man who stole the Star of India from us!” I said. Now there was no question in my mind that the man standing behind Prince Rabarrath was indeed the same man who had come to Baker Street disguised as the Earl of Huntingdon on that fateful night. I craned my neck to see where Holmes had gone, and was about to make my way through the crowd to look for him. But just then, my eyes were riveted to the stage when I saw what the Prince of Wales held in his hand.

“And now, may I present... the Star of India!” And with that he held up the glittering sapphire so that we could all see it.

“How on earth did he—” I began, but I was interrupted by a commotion in the front of the crowd. I saw the gleam of metal in the light at the same moment I heard the shot. Several people screamed, and others instinctively ducked or began to run for cover. The policemen who had been standing in the back rushed up front to protect the Royal Family and the other dignitaries. Within seconds the queen was surrounded by a phalanx of blue uniforms and whisked offstage. No one appeared to have been hit; the people on the podium looked shaken, but the shot had missed its target. The Prince of Wales stood staring into the crowd. I followed his gaze, and now could see clearly through the crowd who was responsible for the gunshot. Holmes stood, a revolver in one hand, and Miss Violet Merriweather’s wrist in the other. Lestrade and I sprang to his assistance.

“I think you’ll find the powder marks on her right hand consistent with a recently discharged gun, Inspector,” Holmes said as he handed Miss Merriweather over to Lestrade.

“Long live His Majesty Prince Bowdrinth! Down with all traitors to India!” she cried, struggling to free herself.

“Right—thank you, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade. “Come along, miss; we’ve got some questions to ask you. Don’t worry—everything’s under control,” he said as he escorted her through the frightened crowd. Holmes and I watched them go and then I looked back at the Prince of Wales. He still stood rooted to the spot, his eyes following Miss Merriweather’s retreat. I suddenly saw him not as a prince but as a man deceived in love, and I felt sorry for him as one feels sorry for any man who finds himself betrayed by one he trusted.

Then I remembered the man I had seen standing behind Prince Rabarrath, but both he and the Indian prince had vanished.

“Holmes!” I cried. “Prince Rabarrath’s aide—he’s not what he appears to be!”

“What do you mean?” said Holmes.

“He’s the same man who took the Star of India from me! I’m afraid the prince may be in danger!”

We rushed toward the altar. The room was rapidly clearing as the police escorted people out, trying to maintain as much order as possible.

“There!” cried Holmes, pointing, and I looked just in time to see a flash of crimson disappear through the back entrance.

“Quickly, Watson, after him!” cried Holmes, and set off through what remained of the crowd.

We pushed open a heavy oak door with a tiny barred window; a sign on the door read DANGER—DO NOT OPEN. We found ourselves upon the parapet of the White Tower, where a strong wind was blowing. A gust of wind slammed the heavy door shut behind us as though it were made of paper. The force of the gale nearly took my breath away. I looked at Holmes, who staggered under the powerful blast of air.

“Holmes, look—there!” I cried, shouting to be heard over the wind. There, standing close to edge of the rampart, was our “count.” Held close to him was Prince Rabarrath, who struggled to free himself. The wind whipped at their hair and clothing, their robes flying like brightly colored wings around them. Both men saw us at the same moment we saw them, and the prince called out to us in English.

“Help! He’s going to kill me!”

“Don’t come any closer,” said the count, “or I shall be forced to throw him over the edge.”

“Don’t be foolish,” said Holmes. “Give yourself up. There’s no escape from here.”

The count dragged Prince Rabarrath closer to the edge. Rabarrath
was a small man, no match for the tall, athletic count. I took a step forward, but Holmes laid a hand on my arm.

“Wait, Watson! Let us see if we can reason with him,” he muttered.

“This will solve nothing, you know,” Holmes called to the man.

“Maybe not, but we will accept tyranny no longer!” cried the count. Just at that moment, Prince Rabarrath made a mighty effort and violently pushed his adversary from him—and in the direction of the parapet. As he did so, the count tripped on his own robe and lost his balance. For a moment he teetered on the ledge, his crimson robes blowing in the wind like the feathers of an exotic bird—and then, as we watched in horror, he fell from his perch. His bloodcurdling cry sent shivers up my spine and I turned away. When the sound of his voice died out there was nothing left but the rushing of the wind in our ears. Prince Rabarrath remained seated upon the ground where he had fallen after freeing himself. I walked over to him and offered my hand. Without a word he accepted it, and without a word the three of us left the battlement through the same door we had come out.

Back inside, Prince Rabarrath was immediately surrounded by a group of concerned aides; his absence had caused a momentary panic. They spirited him away, but not before they did he shook our hands warmly.

“Thank you,” he said. “I hope I shall have a chance to thank you more formally later.” His voice was low and mellow, and his English was excellent, with just a hint of an Eastern flavor in his ‘r’s.

I turned to Holmes, who was as white as a sheet. He looked as if he were about to collapse. The rush of energy which had filled him earlier had now left, leaving him on the verge of utter prostration. He did not protest when I took him by the arm.

“Come on, Holmes,” I said. “Let’s go home.”