The Star of India

by Carole Bugge

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” said Holmes, and I could only nod, unable to take my eyes off its radiance.

  Holmes turned to Miss Merriweather.

  “Well, well, Miss Merriweather,” he said, “if I had known you were in possession of this... I suppose he gave it to you.”

  “Yes, he did, though I told him it was far too grand a gift.”

  “I wonder if even he knows how grand it is,” murmured Holmes.

  “What do you mean?” said our visitor.

  “I cannot be absolutely certain, but I think what you now hold in your hand is none other than the Star of India.”

  This remark produced no impression upon Miss Merriweather, but I was thunderstruck.

  “The Star of India!” I exclaimed. “So it does exist!”

  “What is it?” said Miss Merriweather, puzzled.

  “There are tales dating back three centuries which tell of the existence of such a gem,” I said. “It was mined—so the story goes—in Ceylon, then purchased and brought to India by an Indian prince as an engagement present for his bride. Soon afterward both of them were murdered, and the gem disappeared, perhaps stolen by whoever killed them. Stories of it have surfaced off and on for years. I myself first heard of it some years ago when I was traveling in the East. I have never doubted that the stone exists, though I never thought I would come face-to-face with it.”

  “Good heavens—I had no idea!” said Miss Merriweather.

  “The superstitions connected with it are legend,” said Holmes. “For example, it is said to bring death upon a wrongful owner.”

  “Perhaps I am better off rid of it, then,” Miss Merriweather said with a shudder.

  Holmes held out his hand. “May I?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She handed him the stone and he held it aloft so that it caught the russet glow of the fireplace. It seemed to pull all light into it, like a magnet, and send it back out again magnified a thousand times in beauty and splendor.

  “Would you object to leaving this in my safekeeping?” Holmes asked.

  Miss Merriweather hesitated, and looked at me with her yielding brown eyes. “No, I suppose not, if you think it would be best.”

  “I do think so,” Holmes replied. “Those who are in pursuit of you may or may not be after this, but I suspect they know you have been given something of great value, and that is why you are being pursued. You will be much safer if you do not have possession of this, at least for now. Miss Merriweather, have you told anyone else other than ourselves of this... situation?”

  “No.”

  “Whatever it is they are up to, they are playing a complicated game. You are merely a pawn to them, so I must advise caution on your part. Go nowhere unaccompanied; do not go out at night at all if you can help it, and report to me every day. I will send a young man to check up on you—his name is Tuthill—and you can rely on him to carry a message to me.” Holmes rose and put on his coat. “For tonight, I will escort you home. Where do you live?”

  “Blackheath. Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” she said, rising. “Thank you too, Dr. Watson.” A flush of warmth went through my body when she pressed her warm palm to mine. It had been some years since my wife’s death and I was unaccustomed to thinking of such things, but I confess that Miss Violet Merriweather had an effect on me.

  “Here, Watson—catch,” said Holmes, tossing the precious gem at me as though it were a child’s toy. “I shan’t be long,” he said as he closed the door behind him.

  I held the stone in my trembling hands, reluctant to put it down. I stood gazing at it for some time, quite entranced. The longer you looked at it, the more all things seemed within your grasp: happiness, love, peace, fulfillment. I told myself that it was a piece of rock, inert matter from the earth, and yet when you looked into its shining depths such realities vanished. I finally placed it carefully upon a cushion on the sideboard and settled down on the couch with my pipe.

  The room felt unusually empty. I picked up Miss Merriweather’s brandy glass from the table and, in Mrs. Hudson’s absence, decided to tidy up. I spent some time arranging things in the room, washing glasses and emptying pipes, all the while thinking of Miss Merriweather’s smooth cheeks and full lips. After I finished I sat on the couch and tried to interest myself in a volume of Lord Byron’s poetry, but my mind kept wandering to the feeling of that soft hand pressed ever so briefly to mine...

  An urgent knocking at the front door shook me out of my reverie. I looked out the window to see who could be calling at such an hour, and was astonished to see a very grand carriage with the royal coat of arms emblazoned on it sitting in front of our building. I smoothed my hair and straightened my collar, and then I hurried down the stairs.

  The gentleman who greeted me at the front door was elegantly dressed in a burgundy silk-lined cape and the shiny black boots of a cavalry officer. He was of medium height, with lustrous black hair and a sunburned complexion.

  “Dr. Watson, I presume?” His accent was very cultivated, with a suggestion of a foreign tongue.

  “Yes,” I said, a little awestruck by his grandeur.

  “May I come in?”

  “Yes, of course.” I led the way up the stairs.

  “Mr. Holmes is not in at present?” he said after refusing my offer of cognac.

  “No, he’s gone out. Please sit down, Mr...?”

  “Oh, forgive me.” He swept aside his cape and sat upon the sofa. “I am Count de Chervaise, Earl of Huntingdon.” He shrugged modestly. “It is not as great a title as it sounds. I have, however, been fortunate enough to earn the trust of His Majesty, the Prince—”

  “—the Prince of Wales?” I said, scarcely able to believe my ears.

  “Yes. We attended school together, and His Majesty is not one to forget services rendered... well, let us just say that he has always been vulnerable to the influence of the weaker sex. In any event, he has sent me on this rather delicate matter for reasons I feel it best not to go into, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yes, of course—I mean, I understand,” I said, flustered.

  “The matter concerns a gift given to a certain young lady—a gesture made in a moment of passion which was ill-considered, to say the least. The gift was not only monetarily handsome, but it has a political significance which cannot be underestimated. Forgive me if I do not go into the details, but suffice it to say that it could profoundly affect England’s relationship with a foreign power...” His eyes roamed the room, and rested on the jewel sitting on the sideboard. “Good heavens!” he said, standing up and taking a step toward it. “Is it possible that—?” He turned to me. “But this is it—this is the very thing I was speaking of! How did you come by it?”

  “The young lady in question brought it by not half an hour ago.”

  “Oh, His Majesty will be pleased!” He rubbed his elegant hands together. “He had feared... well, you see the delicacy of the situation. And here it is! You will let me return it to him, won’t you?”

  “Well, it was given to us—to Mr. Holmes, really—for safekeeping.”

  “Yes, yes; of course, and Mr. Holmes shall receive His Majesty’s personal thanks for his part in the matter.”

  “But the young lady—”

  “Yes, well, it can’t be helped,” said the count, shrugging his shoulders. “As I said, His Majesty acted unwisely, but I’m sure you yourself know what the throes of love can do to a man.”

  “Well, certainly, but—”

  “Then we shall say no more upon the subject.” He reached for the jewel, but I stepped in front of him.

  “I’m sorry, but you will have to wait for my friend Sherlock Holmes to return. I cannot allow you to—”

  He made a quick movement with his right hand, and I felt the hard barrel of a revolver pressed into my ribs.

  “Forgive me, Dr. Watson. I had hoped not to resort to such... well, crude behavior. Still, it can’t be helped,” he said, plucking the jewel from where it lay and depositing it into a si
lken pouch which hung from his belt. “Good night, Dr. Watson, and thank you for your invaluable assistance.”

  With a bow and a flourish of his cape, he was gone. As soon as I heard the click of the front door latch I bounded down the stairs after him. I arrived in the street just in time to watch his carriage drive off into the night. I looked around for a cab, hoping to follow him, but none was forthcoming, and after several minutes I gave up and trudged dejectly back upstairs.

  I sat down to await Holmes’ return. My heart felt heavy as a stone in my chest, beating dully against my ribs. I could still feel the place where the gun had pressed against those ribs, but I blamed myself, thinking that if only I had not been taken so off guard I could have prevented this. After another quarter of an hour I heard Holmes’ light step upon the stairs, and I opened the door to let him in.

  “Ah, Watson, you needn’t have waited up.” He hung up his coat and went to warm himself by the fire. “Where did you put it, by the way?”

  My heart sank. “Holmes,” I began, but my voice gave me away. He looked at me intently.

  “What has happened?” he said softly.

  I explained everything, and he sat listening, asking questions about the coat of arms on the carriage, the man’s clothing, and other details. When I had finished he sat for a moment without saying anything. I felt as bad as I ever had before in my life. I could think of nothing to say, and stood miserably, waiting to be castigated for my stupidity. To my surprise, however, when Holmes spoke his voice was gentle.

  “It’s my fault, really,” he said. “I left in too great a hurry, and it didn’t occur to me that he would make his move so quickly. He was obviously ready for us, and had several plans waiting to be put into action. I should have warned you; really I should have. Don’t blame yourself, Watson.”

  The kinder his words were, the more I did blame myself, of course. I had failed Miss Merriweather and the Prince of Wales, but most of all I had failed Holmes.

  “Holmes, I—” I began. Holmes put his hand on my shoulder.

  “Never mind, Watson; it’s better that you didn’t put up a struggle. He most certainly wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot you. What did you say the man looked like?”

  “Well, he was not much taller than me, though very grand and elegant, with a trace of a foreign accent of some kind. His hair was very black and his skin was quite dark.”

  “He was dark, you say? Could he perhaps be of Indian descent?”

  “I suppose so, although his accent suggested he was educated at an English university.”

  Holmes rubbed his forehead. “Hmm... I’m not aware of anyone of that description moving in London criminal circles. Still, Moriarty’s web stretches far and wide, and it is not difficult to imagine that he could have such a man working for him. Never mind, Watson,” he said, seeing my glum face. “Now all that matters is what to do next. It’s too late to act tonight, so I suggest we both get some rest. If you’d care to stay here tonight, I would feel better about your safety.”

  “Well, I—” I began, but Holmes interrupted me.

  “I do think it would be safer for you not to venture out tonight.”

  I nodded, still feeling terribly guilty. “Very well, if you think so.”

  “I do.”

  I took his advice and went to bed, though I doubt if either of us slept much that night. I tossed and turned fitfully, dreaming of the sound of coach wheels against cobblestone in the night and midnight jewels reflecting in candlelight.

  Six

  I awoke to the smell of coffee. I could tell by the height of the pale autumn sun that it was late. Thinking Holmes had no doubt been up for hours, I went downstairs, only to see the table set and Mrs. Hudson pouring coffee.

  “Mrs. Hudson! I thought you were in Cornwall for another week.”

  “I decided to cut my holiday short. Mr. Holmes needs me more than my sister does right now,” she said gruffly, though I knew the affection underlying her words.

  “I can’t argue with that,” I said, sitting at the table. “Where is he, by the way?”

  “He’s gone out,” she replied, pouring me a cup of coffee. “Now, how do you want your eggs?”

  “I’m not very hungry,” I said moodily.

  “Now, Dr. Watson, there’s no need to punish me or yourself for your mistake,” Mrs. Hudson said sternly.

  “Holmes told you, did he?” I said, still feeling sulky.

  “Yes, he did, and it could have happened to anyone. Now, how do you want your eggs?”

  I suddenly had to laugh. “It’s good to have you back, Mrs. Hudson.”

  “I don’t see what’s so funny about it,” she said, and trundled off to the kitchen.

  After breakfast I rummaged around the room, looking for something which might tell me where Holmes had gone. Sitting on the couch was a copy of that morning’s Telegraph, opened to the classified. I scanned it eagerly for another entry from the ubiquitous Mr. Fermat, and I was soon rewarded. “From Mr. Fermat to Mr. Shomel,” it read. “My knight has gained ground but I have left my rook unprotected.”

  I put down the paper and pondered these words. I could make neither head nor tail of it, though I have no doubt the meaning was clear to Holmes and Moriarty. As I was trying to unravel the meaning, Mrs. Hudson entered the room.

  “Inspector Lestrade to see you, sir. Shall I show him in?”

  “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

  Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard was a slight man who wore his vanity uneasily, like an ill-fitting suit. The impression was of a man who wasn’t sure whether or not he really believed his own presentation of himself. He was given to huffiness, easily insulted, and more than a little pompous. Like so many people, he was intimidated by Sherlock Holmes’ superior intelligence, and resented the fact that he had so often needed the great detective’s help in solving his cases. Nonetheless, there was something touching about the man, a certain childlike innocence in his ferret-like face.

  He entered the room and when he saw I was alone his face expressed disappointment mingled with unmistakable relief.

  “So Mr. Holmes isn’t here?” he said.

  “No, I’m afraid not. Can I help you, Inspector?”

  Lestrade sat wearily on the couch.

  “I’ll just wait here for Mr. Holmes, if that’s all right with you. What time do you expect him back?”

  “I really can’t say. I don’t even know where he went.”

  Lestrade sighed and twisted his hat in his hands.

  “It’s a bloody nuisance,” he muttered, and I didn’t know if he meant Holmes’ absence or the matter Lestrade had come to see him about. There was a pause and then he said, “I got a message from Mr. Holmes last night regarding the death of that poor deformed chap he knew—”

  “Oh, yes, Wiggins.”

  “Nasty piece of business, that... looks like he was strangled. How was it Mr. Holmes knew about it?”

  I wasn’t sure what Holmes had told Lestrade, so I deflected his question.

  “Oh, you know Holmes—there’s very little that goes on in London that he doesn’t know about.”

  I said nothing about his theory regarding the return of Professor Moriarty, feeling that the divulgence of such information was best left to Holmes himself. Right now I wasn’t even sure I believed it myself. In the light of day—even a gray London day—it seemed only a remote possibility.

  Lestrade picked up the Persian slipper which held Holmes’ tobacco, looked at it, put it back down on the table, and sighed deeply.

  “Would you like something to drink?” I said.

  He looked at me hopefully. “Thanks all the same, but it’s a little early for that, don’t you think?”

  “I meant tea or something.”

  His face fell. “Oh, right; of course—tea would be very nice, thank you,” he said unconvincingly.

  “I’ll just see to it with Mrs. Hudson,” I said, and left him to his own devices for a few minutes while I consulted with Mrs. Hu
dson. She was in her kitchen, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, pounding away at some pastry dough, flour flying in all directions.

  “Yes, yes—I’ll get to it right away,” she said when I made my request for tea. I was suddenly so happy to see her safe and sound at Baker Street once again that I had an impulse to kiss her on the cheek. When I did, she looked at me with a startled expression. “Really, Dr. Watson,” she said, flustered, but I could tell she was pleased.

  When I returned to the sitting room Lestrade was pacing the floor restlessly. “This came for you while you were downstairs,” he said, handing me an elegant, cream-colored envelope. It was addressed to Holmes and bore the letterhead of the Diogenes Club.

  “Isn’t that the name of his brother’s club?” said Lestrade. “You know, that place for strange fellows who go there to avoid talking to one another?”

  “Yes, it is,” I answered, tucking the envelope into my jacket pocket.

  “Right; I thought so. It’s a bit odd, a place like that, if you ask me... but then the more you work at a job like mine the more everything begins to look odd after a while. What’s his brother’s name again?”

  “Mycroft.”

  “Right. What’s he up to these days?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Holmes says he is a creature of habit. He rarely speaks of his brother.”

  “Strange, that, with both of them living here in London, don’t you think?” Lestrade gave a dry little laugh. “But I suppose Mr. Holmes isn’t exactly what you’d call a family man, eh?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  Mrs. Hudson entered with the tea, and Lestrade tucked into the plate of Scottish shortbread with gusto.

  “Not bad, these,” he said, his mouth full of crumbs. “I believe Mr. Holmes once told me his brother was involved in the government in some way.”

  To say that Mycroft Holmes was “involved in the government” was like saying that the ocean was “involved in water.” Sherlock Holmes— not a man given to overstatement—had once told me that Mycroft was the government. According to Holmes, his brother’s capacious mind consolidated and coordinated policies of all the various departments, and that very little happened at a national level without the input of Mycroft Holmes. He was like a giant reasoning machine sitting at the very center of government, which turned slowly round him like a wheel on its axis.