The Star of India (6 page)

Within moments we heard what we had come for. From the center of the horrible damp darkness came a sound which was more welcome to my ears than any I could imagine: Through the pounding of the surf upon the rocks, we heard the faint but unmistakable sound of Mrs. Hudson’s voice calling to us.

“Mrs. Hudson!” bellowed Holmes.

“Here—over here!” came her voice from the depths of rock and water. As my eyes became accustomed to the darkness I could just make out the figure of a woman huddled against a rock. Within seconds Holmes and I had splashed our way over to her and Holmes held her in his arms.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes, I thought I was—oh, thank God, thank God—oh, Dr. Watson!” she babbled, quite hysterical. I can’t say that I blamed her. When I thought of the fate from which we had narrowly saved her, I think I would have been hysterical myself.

Holmes carried her back across the torrent of water. The tide was truly pouring in in earnest now, and, in the onslaught of foaming seawater, he lost his footing and stumbled.

“Are you all right, Holmes?” I called over the din of rushing water.

“Yes, Watson—we must get out as quickly as possible!” he called back, and we pressed on. I couldn’t feel my legs at all now. The water had risen past my knees, and the numbness was creeping up my body. Still, we sloshed our way through the torrent of incoming tide, and finally reached the safety of the rock ledge. I climbed upon the slippery
shelf and Holmes handed Mrs. Hudson up to me. Then, with one final burst of energy, Holmes pulled himself up onto the rock, just as a spray of water hit and threatened to suck us all back into the deluge which we had so narrowly escaped.

It was only then that I noticed Mrs. Hudson was bound hand and foot. Even if she had the heart to try to escape through that terrifying black cave, she would have been unable to do so. I quickly loosened her bonds, but she was still beside herself with emotion.

“Oh, Dr. Watson!” she cried, and fell weeping upon my shoulder. I looked at Holmes: he was evidently moved. Though in control as always, I could see by his strained face the emotional and physical toll this near tragedy had taken on him.

“Your sister is waiting for us at the top,” said Holmes after a moment. “I think we shouldn’t keep her in suspense any longer than necessary.”

The three of us straggled up the hill. It had begun to rain in earnest now, and we were a sorry sight by the time we reached Flora Campbell. When she saw her sister, she could not contain herself, but came half running, half sliding down the hill to meet us.

“Oh, Martha, thank God you’re alive! Oh, thank God!” she cried over and over, as the two sisters fell into each other’s arms.

We were a strange sight staggering through the door of The Knights’ Arms pub, but the landlord looked at us with a face as blank and unreadable as a stone. Jack Crompton sat at a table in the corner, a pint of bitter in front of him. He shook his head when he saw us.

“’T is a strange day for roamin’ these rocks,” he said, downing the last of his beer. “Come on, then, let’s get you back home.”

Bill the Clydesdale stood out the back of the pub, a stolid expression on his big blunt face. The rain pelted his back as steam rose from his thick coat, now more gray than white, sprinkled with splotches of mud and dirt. The smoky smell of damp horsehair hung in the air.

“Oh, poor Bill,” said Flora Campbell as we climbed aboard the now sodden rig.

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Jack Crompton. “Horses don’ mind standin’ in the rain—do ye, Bill?”

Bill looked at his master and sighed heavily.

“’Ee’s a good boy, is my Bill,” said Jack Crompton cheerfully, taking up the reins.

It was a bedraggled crew that arrived at Flora Campbell’s cottage a short while later, wet and miserable and chilled to the bone. Jack Crompton refused Mrs. Campbell’s offer of hospitality. Though she importuned him to come inside and get warm, he shook his head.

“Thank yer kindly, but I’d best get Bill back to ’is barn an’ a nice bucket o’ fresh oats,” he said, tipping his hat. Holmes paid him handsomely for his trouble, and Crompton whistled merrily as he returned to the long-suffering Bill, who stood sullenly at the bottom of Mrs. Campbell’s garden, thoroughly drenched.

It wasn’t long before we were all huddled around a roaring fire, cups of tea held between our stiffened fingers, blankets around our shoulders. The room was suffused with the sweet smell of burning sod. (There aren’t many trees in Cornwall, and sod is often the fuel of choice for heating fires.) I told the sisters about the mysterious telegram, as well as the strange newspaper advertisement. By that time poor Mrs. Hudson had calmed down considerably, and Holmes wasted no time in pumping her for information about her abduction.

“I was wandering along the cliffs, you know, not thinking about much of anything, when I saw a man coming toward me from the other direction. He stopped and asked me politely if I had the time. I told him that I didn’t and turned to go but that’s when he grabbed me...” She stopped, quite overcome by emotion. Holmes averted his eyes, always
embarrassed by any display of feelings, but Mrs. Campbell put her arms around her sister.

“Don’t you worry, dearie,” she said. “You just have a good cry, there’s a good girl.”

But Mrs. Hudson recovered herself and continued.

“I struggled, of course, and even cried out, but there was no one to hear me. The pub is too far away, way down at the bottom of the hill by the road—”

“There were no tourists, no other hikers?” said Holmes.

“You saw what kind of a day it was, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson said almost apologetically. “I’m afraid I was the only one foolish enough to walk about on a day like today.”

“We actually saw some others, some Swiss hikers,” I said.

Holmes looked at me. “Yes, so we did,” he said. “Did you happen to get a good look at them, Watson?”

“Well, not a very long look, but—”

“Did you notice anything peculiar about them?”

I tried to think. “Oh, I did notice that the one man had very light hair—not white exactly, but that’s why it struck me. It was unusual, you know?”

“Yes,” said Holmes, “yes, I know.”

“I couldn’t make out his face, though, because his cap was pulled so low over his eyes, and he was looking at the ground when he passed us.”

“Yes,” said Holmes. “I wonder...” His keen eyes narrowed. The three of us sat quietly sipping our tea, afraid to say anything for fear of spoiling his concentration. After a minute he broke out of his reverie and addressed Mrs. Hudson once again.

“This man who abducted you—can you describe him? Had you ever seen him before?”

Mrs. Hudson looked into the fire and bit her lip.

“He was big, very big—I would say well over six feet, and he was very strong. I’m not exactly a small woman,” she said, referring to her comfortable girth, “and yet he picked me up as though I were a child. His hands...” She stopped and shuddered. Mrs. Campbell patted her sister’s hand sympathetically. “His hands were huge—big and rough, very rough, as a workman’s hands might be after years of manual labor.”

“Excellent!” cried Holmes, and we all looked at him. He was not insensitive to Mrs. Hudson’s pain, and yet, for him, the facts now superseded any other factors in the case. “What about his face?” he said. “Did you get a look at his face?”

“What I remember is that his eyes were red, small and red like a pig’s eyes. His skin was ruddy, as though he had spent a lot of time outdoors... all his features were blunt and indistinct, kind of like a face pressed up against a windowpane, you know?”

Holmes leaned back in his chair. “Mrs. Hudson, you have acquitted yourself well! In spite of the terror which you experienced during this horrible event, you managed to do a credible job noticing and remembering important details. I congratulate you!”

Mrs. Hudson blushed and smiled. In spite of her tremulous state, Holmes’ words were high praise indeed, and they did as much to warm her as any fire.

“One last thing. Can you tell me anything about his voice?”

“It was like a growl. Very low and rumbling, like thunder you hear from way off.”

“Well done, Mrs. Hudson, well done indeed.”

“What I don’t understand is how you knew poor Martha was in trouble,” said Mrs. Campbell.

Holmes shrugged. “I couldn’t afford to take a chance. The telegram combined with the newspaper advertisement added up to a sinister conclusion, to say the least.”

“Who would do a thing like this?” asked Mrs. Campbell.

“I don’t know,” said Holmes, “although I have my suspicions.”

“Mr. Holmes has ever so many criminals who wish to get even with him,” Mrs. Hudson said to her sister with an air of pride. Even after her narrow escape, she evidently felt honored to be a part of Holmes’ work, a feeling I knew well myself. However, I had to admire her pluck. I suspect that many people who had just been through what she had might have been considerably more flustered. I also knew, though, that her relative peace of mind was due to something that all of us who knew Holmes felt: His very presence encouraged a feeling of security, so that when one was around him one had the impression that no matter what happened Holmes would know what to do. It was a way he had about him, this ability to inspire confidence in others. In fact, I had on occasion remarked that if he had chosen a military career he would have been an outstanding general.

“What I don’t understand is why they didn’t just kill me outright,” said Mrs. Hudson, stirring her tea.

“Yes, that is most certainly important,” said Holmes. “One obvious reason is that they did not wish to incur my undying wrath.”

Mrs. Hudson blushed at this remark with its implied compliment.

“At any rate,” Holmes said, “you are no longer in danger. Now, I think,” he continued, rising from his chair by the fire, “Watson and I will leave you in the care of your sister and return to London.”

“Won’t you consider staying a while, Mr. Holmes?” said Mrs. Campbell anxiously. “I mean, aren’t you just a little afraid that whoever did this will—well, will try again?”

“If my theory is correct, you are both quite safe now,” said Holmes, “and we should get back to London as soon as possible. But if it will make you feel better, I suppose Watson and I could spend the night—that is, if there’s room.”

“Oh, there’s plenty of room,” said Mrs. Campbell. “This cottage was built for a family, and now there’s just me here. There’s a storm on its way, and I’d be very glad if you would consent to spend the night.”

I looked outside: A storm was indeed gathering, the wind tossing the trees back and forth like a dog worrying a rag, their trunks bending and swaying in the gale. Travel on such a night would be difficult if not downright impossible.

“What do you say, Watson—can you stay the night?” said Holmes, much to my relief. I had no wish to venture out in the approaching storm.

“Yes, I believe I can,” I said with a deliberate casualness. I didn’t want Holmes to know that I was loathe to leave the warmth of Mrs. Campbell’s hearth for the fury which awaited us outside.

“Very well, Mrs. Campbell, thank you for your hospitality,” said Holmes.

“Good!” said our hostess, clapping her hands together like an excited child. “I hope you have no aversion to steak and kidney pie for dinner?”

“None whatsoever,” Holmes replied. “In fact, I believe it is one of Dr. Watson’s favorites.”

“It most certainly is,” interjected Mrs. Hudson, who was rapidly regaining her old form. “He likes it with a bit of cress on the side. Do you have any fresh watercress, Flora?”

“I believe I do,” said Mrs. Campbell. “It grows out by the stream, and I picked some just yesterday.”

“I’ll make the pudding,” said Mrs. Hudson. “I’ll just need a few fresh eggs, some vanilla, and a few other things I’m sure you have.”

The two sisters headed for the kitchen, chatting about the upcoming meal, leaving Holmes and myself alone before the glowing embers of the fire.

“The man who abducted Mrs. Hudson—did he sound familiar?” I asked after a few moments.

“Oh, he did indeed, though I haven’t seen him for some years; I thought he was still in prison. A nasty character—George Simpson by
name, an East End sewer rat who used to do the dirtiest sorts of jobs for Professor Moriarty. I sent him to Newgate Prison some years ago and haven’t heard of him since.” Holmes got up and stirred the dying embers back to life. “It certainly sounds like him, though I wonder how he managed to get out of Newgate...”

After that Holmes lapsed into silence, fingertips pressed together, sitting deep in his chair, his gray eyes staring into the fire, until we were called for dinner.

Mrs. Campbell’s steak and kidney pie was as good as advertised, and after our exertions of the day, I ate heartily, gulping down large quantities of gingery Cornish ale. Holmes, however, didn’t eat very much at all. We were all exhausted, and retired to bed soon after dinner. Lying between the clean starched sheets of our attic bedroom, feeling drowsy from the beer, I should have fallen asleep immediately. However, sleep did not come. I listened to the fury of the wind outside, howling and wailing, pressing up eagerly against the eaves. We were safe inside the thick walls of the cottage, though, that had been built to withstand such gales. I settled deeper into the goose-down quilt comforter, and dozed off for a while. I awoke suddenly and sat bolt upright in bed. The room was still. No noise had awakened me, but I noticed that Holmes was not in his bed. My eyes could just make out his tall, spare form, seated by the window. He sat perfectly still, staring out into the night, his sharp profile silhouetted by the occasional flash of lightning far in the distance. The storm was moving off.

“Holmes?”

“Yes, Watson?”

“Who... who do you think is behind all of this?”

There was a silence, and then he spoke, his voice far away.

“A ghost, Watson—a ghost.”