The Star of India (24 page)

W
hen we arrived at Baker Street, Mycroft was waiting for us in the sitting room.

“Well, Sherlock, so you pulled it off,” said Mycroft as we entered. “Good heavens,” he exclaimed, rising from his chair, “what has happened to you?”

“It doesn’t take a brilliant deduction to figure that out, surely,” I muttered as I helped Holmes to the sofa.

“You were quite right, of course; Moriarty rushed in to capture the king, and that proved to be his fatal error,” said Mycroft, settling his bulk back into the chair. “You might even say he was castled.”

“What does that mean?” I said.

“It is a chess move in which the rook changes places with the king. It is subject to certain restrictions, and certain conditions must be met, but it can be quite useful,” answered Mycroft.

“And who is the rook in this case?” I said.

“Why, Sherlock, of course.” Mycroft smiled. “And the Black Queen?”

“Miss Merriweather,” Holmes said from the sofa.

Mycroft nodded.

“I had my suspicions. What finally gave her away?”

“She used a Hindu word for friend—
dost
—instead of the Bengali word
bandu
, which made me suspicious. I knew many of Rabarrath’s enemies are Hindus.”

“But how did you know she was to be the assassin?”

“She lived in Blackheath, Mycroft. I had the realization when I saw the figure of a black witch being carried about on the street—and I suddenly remembered the day I escorted Miss Merriweather home to Blackheath.”

Mycroft smiled and folded his fat hands over his stomach. “Ah, yes: give the queen her color. Well, where else would the Black Queen come from except Blackheath?”

“Precisely,” answered Holmes. “There were of course other things as well. I knew she was lying about her father early on when she claimed he was an Italian opera singer but didn’t know the meaning of the Italian word
face,
which is widely used in the opera world to denote the type of voice a singer has. She then claimed her father was a tenor, but when I asked if he had sung the role of Rigoletto she assured me that it was one of his favorites. The role of Rigoletto—surely one of the most famous in the operatic repertoire—is a baritone role.”

“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” I said. “How did the prince come by the Star of India if only Holmes knew where it was?”

Mycroft Holmes smiled. “Because he wasn’t the only one who knew.”

“You knew, then?”

“Yes, indeed. I even suggested it to him.”

“Well, where
was
it, then?”

“Why, with the Crown jewels, of course. I suggested hiding it in the last place Moriarty would ever think of looking for it, and the Tower of London seemed to fit the bill. I used my authorization
within the government and placed it there myself.” Mycroft chuckled. “You should have seen the reaction of the Tower Guard when I told them I was to have access to the Crown jewels... they didn’t know what to make of it, but I had a paper with the Royal Seal, so they had to obey.”

“I see,” I said. “So when it was time for the ceremony—”

“Well, it was a simple matter for the Star to be retrieved; it never had to leave the Tower.”

“The White Tower, eh, Sherlock?” Mycroft chuckled. “How very appropriate. That was, of course, the final piece of the puzzle.”

Holmes shrugged. “Certainly. Moriarty’s instinct for theatricality is second only to mine.”

There was a knock on the door and Mrs. Hudson entered. When she saw Holmes she threw her arms up in the air. “Thank God you’re safe, sir!” she said. “You don’t look so well, though.”

“I shall recover, Mrs. Hudson, don’t worry,” said Holmes.

“Well, at least let me bring you some hot broth.” She bustled out of the room, and we all turned to see a small figure standing in the doorway: It was Jenny.

“Come in, Jenny,” I said, and she took a few timid steps into the room.

“Ah, here is the real White Queen,” said Holmes from where he lay on the sofa.

“Not only that, but she was the Lady in the Lake,” I said, rather pleased with myself.

“So she was,” said Holmes, “quite right. Do you know what this child did, Mycroft?”

Mycroft shook his head. Jenny stood there shyly while Holmes and I told him of our capture and rescue. When we were finished, Jenny tiptoed over to Holmes and kissed him on the forehead.

“What was that for?” he asked, embarrassed.

“Mrs. Hudson said it would make you get better faster,” she answered. Mycroft and I laughed.

“And if that doesn’t do it, this will,” said Mrs. Hudson from the doorway where she stood with a steaming bowl of hot soup. Just then Inspector Lestrade appeared behind Mrs. Hudson, who turned and saw him.

“Oh, begging your pardon, Inspector,” she said; “I was just about to tell Mr. Holmes you were here.” She placed the soup on the coffee table and turned to me. “Now you be sure that he has some of that, Dr. Watson,” she said. “Come along, dearie, let’s go make some tea for the gentlemen,” she said to Jenny, who got up obediently and followed her out of the room.

“Please come in, inspector,” I said, rising from my chair.

“Thank you,” said Lestrade, entering the room.

“Please sit down,” I said, pulling up a chair for him.

“’Ta very much. Good evening, Mr. Holmes,” he said to Mycroft.

“Good evening, Inspector. I understand it’s been a busy one for you.”

“You might say that, although thanks to Mr. Holmes here I think we’ve got the situation under control for now. You were right,” he said to Holmes. “Miss Merriweather, as she called herself, was a member of Prince Bowdrinth’s gang ever since her brother was killed in a skirmish by one of Rabarrath’s people. Her real name is Sree Malthi; she was working for Bowdrinth’s people all along, feeding them information, and then when it looked like their scheme was going to fail, they sent her to kill the Prince.”

“So
was
Moriarty involved in the assassination plot?” I said.

Lestrade shrugged. “No one knows—he’s disappeared. I have sent some lads out to round up some of his men, but they have a habit of disappearing too, it seems.”

Mycroft got up and sat in Holmes’ chair by the fire. “Oh, he was
involved—I would bet money on it. And, as my brother can tell you, I am not a gambling man.”

Holmes turned over onto his side and grimaced. “He will probably drop out of sight for a while until things cool down, but you will hear from him again, Inspector—mark my words.”

Lestrade nodded. “I’ve no doubt you’re right, Mr. Holmes.”

“Speaking of dropping out of sight, Sherlock, what
did
happen at the Bar of Gold opium den?” said Mycroft.

“I learned several interesting things before my identity was discovered. Your man Hazelton was betrayed, Lestrade. I found that out for certain at the Bar of Gold—though I had suspected as much. Then I was discovered, captured, and taken to Moriarty, who hoped he could persuade me to give up the location of the jewel.”

“And he very nearly succeeded,” I said. “And the count— who was he?”

“Oh, the one who fell from the Tower? Nasty affair, that,” said Lestrade.

“He was undoubtedly one of Bowdrinth’s people too,” said Mycroft. “Moriarty’ s web stretches farther than we’ll probably ever know. Even I haven’t yet fathomed the extent of his influence.”

“Wait, there’s something I don’t understand,” I interjected. “Miss Merriweather presumably could have killed Prince Edward at any time while she was his mistress—”

“Oh, but that was a last resort,” said Mycroft Holmes. “And even so, it had to look like a political act, not the revenge of a spurned lover.”

“Something else bothers me,” said Lestrade. “Why did she give Mr. Holmes the Star of India?”

“Part of Moriarty’s plan was to draw my brother in and then destroy him,” said Mycroft. “He probably had three or four plans for getting the jewel back. If Miss Merriweather herself surrendered the jewel, who would think to suspect her? And then she stayed in close contact,
hoping to gather information as to how things were proceeding from our side. However, she failed to reckon with my brother’s notorious distrust of women—didn’t she, Sherlock?”

Holmes waved his hand as if dismissing the thought. “I should have mistrusted anybody under the circumstances, I think, though I did think she played the part of the female in distress rather heavily.”

“Well, she took me in, and I’m not ashamed to admit it,” I said.

Holmes smiled. “Well, I have always said the ladies were your department, Watson, but you made the mistake of letting your heart override your head.”

I felt my face redden as Lestrade and Mycroft looked at me. It was a weakness in my character, perhaps, but I was still unable to reconcile Miss Merriweather’s actions with her beautiful face and figure. That a woman could look like such an angel and be so devious was difficult to comprehend. I wondered if even her attraction to Holmes had been an act to throw him off the scent, but somehow I didn’t think so; she was clever enough to know of his famous distrust of women. No, I believed still that her reaction to him may have been the one real thing about her.

“Never mind, Dr. Watson,” Lestrade said. “We all have our momentary lapses of judgment.”

“Speaking of which, have you plugged your leak yet, Lestrade?” said Holmes.

Lestrade looked down at the floor and rubbed his hands together nervously. “Yes, I did, Mr. Holmes.”

“It was Morgan?”

Lestrade nodded. “Yes. You were right; he had been spying on me using the parrot. When I was out he’d write down whatever the bird said and then give it to Moriarty. We caught him red-handed, though, once you told me what to look for.” Lestrade walked over to the window and looked out onto the street below, where the sound of
horses’ hooves on cobblestone mingled with the patter of rain on the windowpanes. “I suppose I’ll have to get rid of Ban—get rid of the bird now,” he said in a tight voice.

“Oh, I don’t see why you shouldn’t keep him, Lestrade,” I said. “You can always take him home.”

“Yeah, I guess I could at that,” Lestrade said, brightening. “The thing is... well, he’s sort of gotten used to life around the Yard—I mean, I think he likes it there.”

Mycroft Holmes rolled his eyes and rose from his chair. He stood with his broad back to the fire, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something, Lestrade,” I said kindly.

“Right; of course,” Lestrade said, suddenly aware that we were all looking at him. “Well, I suppose I’ll be on my way,” he said, rising from his chair just as Mrs. Hudson entered with a tray of tea. Jenny followed behind her with a plate of sandwiches and butterscotch biscuits.

“Don’t leave yet, Inspector,” she said, “I’ve just made tea.”

Both Mycroft Holmes and Lestrade looked considerably more cheerful at the sight of the food, and I had to admit I was rather famished myself.

It was late before everyone left, and only then would Holmes allow me to attend to his injuries.

“Human nature is really beyond all comprehension,” he said as I applied iodine to his forehead. “Four men dead, the prince nearly shot—and over what? A rock. Corundum, a mineral with a six-sided crystalline structure. And for this men plot and fight and kill each other...” He sighed and shook his head.

“Hold still, please,” I said. “This was about more than just the Star of India, you know, Holmes,” I added as I wound a dressing round his head.

“Oh, yes, no doubt the future of India is important... and there are certainly changes coming, perhaps not in our lifetime, but soon enough. Still, Watson, why must people continually grasp and grab and harm one another, when life is so short?”

“So that you have something to do,” I said, “to keep you from dying of boredom or overdosing on cocaine.”

Holmes looked at me and frowned.

“Really, Watson, that is unworthy of you. Is that really what you think of me?”

I shrugged. “I am afraid it is what you think of yourself.”

“Well, perhaps you are right,” he said thoughtfully, and then he smiled. “I wonder what your friend Mr. Freud would have to say on the matter?”

“I really am more interested at the moment on what Mrs. Hudson has for us in the kitchen,” I said, closing up my doctor’s kit. “I’m starving.” It had been hours since our tea and sandwiches.

“Why don’t you go find out?”

And so I did—I tiptoed downstairs so as not to wake Mrs. Hudson or Jenny, and to my delight there was a cold rack of lamb and some pudding in the icebox. I made a tray up and brought it upstairs.

“Look, Holmes, what I found!” I said, opening the door to the sitting room, but there was no reply—he was already asleep. I stood over him for a few moments and watched him sleep. I could only hope he was, for a time at least, safe from the nightmares which haunted him.

“W
ell Watson,” Holmes said some nights later, as we sat down to the roast which Mrs. Hudson had prepared for our dinner, “how are you going to write this one up?”

“I don’t know,” I said, pouring myself a glass of Bordeaux. “Now that I look back on everything that happened, I can’t help wondering if anyone would believe it. Besides, I fear your reputation might suffer if it became known that you were saved by a ten-year-old girl.”