The Star of India

by Carole Bugge

  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.”

  Four

  We rose early the next morning, and Holmes reluctantly accepted an offer of breakfast. He did it on my behalf, I think. Whatever the reason, I was glad enough to fortify myself with Mrs. Campbell’s excellent Scotch porridge and hot tea before we left for the train station.

  “Are you sure we’ll be all right?” said Mrs. Campbell as we waited for the train to London.

  “Yes, quite sure,” said Holmes. “Stay in touch by telegram if you should see anything unusual, but I shouldn’t worry if I were you.”

  As the train pulled into the station, a thick cloud of black smoke pouring from its smokestack, Mrs. Campbell impetuously hugged us both. I found the gesture touching, but I could tell it made Holmes uncomfortable. Mrs. Hudson and I exchanged a wry glance at the behavior of her sister. Still, Holmes bade both sisters a warm farewell, and the last thing I saw was the two of them, arm in arm, waving to us as the train pulled away.

  Holmes settled into our compartment with a copy of the Telegraph, which he had purchased at the station. He seemed to be looking for something, and he evidently found it, because he gave an exclamation and held the paper out to me.

  “See, Watson—another message like the one yesterday: here.”

  I took the paper and read the entry in the classifieds:

  “‘Mr. Fermat to Mr. Shomel: you have thwarted my knight but my pawn captures your pawn. The sword has been pulled from the stone, but at what cost?’”

  I handed the paper back to Holmes.

  “What does it mean, I wonder?”

  “Oh, the meaning is clear enough,” he said grimly. “The sword in the stone is a reference to King Arthur. As for the recipient, the message is evidently intended for me.”

  “So the message is for you?”

  “Watson, surely the crude anagram of ‘Shomel’ did not escape you,” Holmes said impatiently. “That the message is for me I have no doubt. It is who is sending it that has me worried.”

  “Who do you think it is?”

  “We are being watched, Watson. Our every move is being followed, and I cannot but think that we ourselves are being used as pawns in a much bigger game.”

  “Watched? Who is watching us?”

  “Watson, you yourself noticed the Swiss ‘tourists’ yesterday, but you failed to notice the most telling thing about them.”

  “What was that?”

  “Their shoes.”

  “Their shoes?”

  “Yes. I remarked it at once: Their shoes were brand new.”

  “Well, I don’t see how that—”

  “Consider, Watson. Any experienced hiker knows that you do not go on a lengthy holiday with a new pair of shoes. You buy your shoes well ahead of time and wear them in properly, otherwise you end up with blisters. So when I asked myself what self-respecting hikers would go out so foolishly wearing brand-new shoes, I came to the conclusion that they were not hikers at all: in short, that they were impostors.”

  “Impostors!”

  “Yes, Watson: they were sent there to spy on us.”

  “But—why?”

  “Why indeed?” Holmes held up the newspaper. “You see our actions have been carefully noted here. If they had wanted to kill Mrs. Hudson, it would have been easy enough, but instead she was captured and we were lured away to save her—which it was possible to do if we read all the signs exactly right.”

  I looked at the newspaper again.

  “So you are Mr. Shomel—I see that now clearly enough. But who is Mr. Fermat?”

  “That is what worries me, Watson. It is impossible, and yet...” He stared out the window at the rolling countryside, the tidy hedgerows and farm fields giving way to villages. “I wonder, do ghosts rise from the dead?”

  When we returned to Baker Street, a small, shabby boy was leaning up against the building which housed 221B. I recognized him as Tuthill, Holmes’ most trusted member of the Baker Street Irregulars.

  “Mr. Holmes!” he said when he saw us. “I’ve been waiting for you ever so long. I’ve kept an eye on the place for you just as you asked.”

  “I appreciated that, Master Tuthill,” Holmes said in a kindly voice. “Why don’t you come upstairs and have something to refresh yourself, and then you can tell us what you’ve seen.”

  “‘Ta very much,” Master Tuthill said gratefully, bounding up the stairs after us.

  After he had put away the better part of the joint of cold beef, Tuthill sat back in his chair and gazed at us with warm eyes. It was evident from the way he tucked into the meat that he could do with a few more meals like that.

  “So, what do you have to tell us?” Holmes said, lighting his pipe.

  Tuthill pushed away the lank strands of dirty blond hair which hung over his eyes and wiped some of the smudges from his cheeks with a dirty sleeve. “I don’t know as how it’s important or not, but you told me to always report to you if I sees anything strange like.”

  “Yes, yes, quite right, Tuthill,” said Holmes. “What is it that you saw?”

  “Well, you know how you told me to keep an eye on that poor crippled fellow, Mr. Wiggins?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, Billy Kimball’s been watchin’ him regular like, only yesterday he gets no answer when he knocks.”

  “And—?”

  “That’s all. I just thought I should tell you.”

  “Did Billy see anyone suspicious lurking around Mr. Wiggins’ place?”

  “No, sir. I asked ’im that myself, and ’e says ’e didn’t see nobody.”

  “Thank you, Master Tuthill; you have done well to report this to me.”

  “I—I hope there’s nothing the matter, sir. Mr. Wiggins, ’e’s a nice man—all the fellows think so, sir.”

  “Don’t worry; I shall look into the matter myself.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tuthill stood and straightened his ragged clothes. Though he was old enough to wear long pants, his well-worn breeches barely covered his thin knees. “Thank you for the beef, sir.”

  “You’re quite welcome, Tuthill. Why don’t you take some with you when you go?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t, sir...”
<
br />   “Go ahead. We won’t eat it all.”

  Tuthill managed to stuff an amazing amount of roast beef into his pockets, along with a couple of thick slices of bread, and then he left. Holmes closed the door after him with a sigh.

  “There are thousands of street urchins like him out there, Watson. The problem grows larger every day, and yet society doesn’t seem to think it important enough to do anything about it. I’ll tell you one thing: The Tuthills of this world are headed for a life of crime unless someone steps in between them and the hard life they’ve been forced to live.”

  “Someone like you?” I said with a smile. I had always wondered if the Irregulars were Holmes’ own secret charity case, one he could indulge in without exposing his sentiments, on the pretext that the ragged boys and girls he sponsored helped him solve his cases. That they occasionally did help him, I had no doubt. But the coins he regularly distributed among them were far out of proportion to the services he required of them. Holmes was already putting on his coat.

  “Come, Watson,” he said. “I am disturbed by what Tuthill has told us.”

  I quickly fetched my own coat and hat.

  “You don’t think...?”

  “I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”

  There was no sign of the storm which had blown so bitterly in Cornwall. In fact, London was being visited by a rare period of bright sunshine. It was not hard to find a cab in such weather, and within minutes we were on our way once again to Mr. Wiggins’ extraordinary establishment under the shadow of St. Paul’s Church.

  The same narrow street did not look so threatening in broad daylight, and, as we stood in front of Wiggins’ door, I looked about me and saw that some of the other establishments on the street were quite respectable: Facing onto the alley were the back entrances of a cobbler’s shop, a saddler, and a silversmith. We stepped over a small pile of rotting vegetables and knocked on the door. There was no answer to our knocks, however, and when Holmes pushed lightly on the door it opened. Holmes looked at me, his face grim.