The Star of India

by Carole Bugge

  “You’ll find them in the top drawer, I believe,” Mycroft said to me, and then he turned to his brother. “I think I see where you are heading with this, Sherlock... clever, very clever.”

  I left the two brothers talking in low, urgent tones, their bowed heads almost touching, and headed for the large sitting room I had seen when we first entered the club. My footsteps clattered noisily upon the hard wood floor of the connecting hallway, and I anticipated annoyed looks from the denizens of that stately chamber. However, upon entering it, I was virtually ignored. Except for an old colonel with a weather-lined face who glanced at me over his spectacles, no one paid me any attention.

  I tiptoed across the thick Persian carpet and opened the top drawer of the heavy oak desk which sat along the far wall. The drawer was practically empty save for several dog-eared maps of London. I chose the least dilapidated one and tiptoed back to where Holmes and his brother awaited me.

  “Well done, Watson!” Holmes cried, seizing the map from me as soon as I entered. He spread the map out upon the small low coffee table which sat in front of us. Producing a pen from his pocket, he drew a square around the city. Within the square he drew a grid of crisscrossed lines so that the effect was one of a chessboard superimposed over the city of London.

  “You see: Here is your chessboard!” he cried triumphantly.

  Mycroft Holmes studied the map with interest.

  “So you think he is essentially playing an elaborate game of chess?” I asked.

  “Indeed I do. At first I thought he was just playing with the metaphorical implications, but now... well, you see how the Thames intersects London almost exactly in half? If you regard the northern half of the city as our side, and the southern half as his territory, you have a rough model for a chess game.”

  “Very interesting, Sherlock,” said Mycroft. “I think you have something here.”

  “He made his first move here,” Holmes said, drawing an X behind St. Paul’s Church in Covent Garden, where Wiggins’ perfume shop was located.

  “But what about Mrs. Hudson?” I said. “First he had her kidnapped—”

  “That was merely an exercise; he just wanted to remove us from the board while he made his real first move, which resulted in poor Wiggins’ death. We countered when we got information out of Freddie Stockton,” he continued, drawing another X in the neighborhood of Lambeth. “His next attack was to send his ‘knight’ up to Baker Street to capture the jewel. This morning when I wrung information out of Simpson I was literally counter-attacking.”

  “And that was where?” said Mycroft.

  “Here, in Southwark,” said Holmes, drawing another X over that notorious neighborhood, well known for its criminal slums.

  “Well, I congratulate you, Sherlock,” said his brother, “and I must say, it is most ingenious.”

  “We must endeavor at all times to be at least one or two moves ahead of him. Mycroft, I believe you have some expertise in chess—I recall you displayed a certain gift for the game as a child. Have you kept up your interest?”

  Mycroft shrugged his broad shoulders. “Not entirely. I still play the occasional game, but I am hardly an expert. I found it valuable mostly as a form of mental training. I am not attracted to games in general, and, as you know, you often beat me. However, with some study, I could regain some of my skill in time—”

  “We don’t have any time!” cried Holmes. “That is the one thing we don’t have!”

  “Sherlock, please lower your voice,” said Mycroft, looking over his shoulder into the silent halls. “You have no idea how annoying noise of any kind is to the gentlemen here.”

  Holmes did not reply, and began pacing the room like a caged tiger. Mycroft and I watched in silence for a few moments, and then Holmes abruptly stopped and threw himself into one of the armchairs.

  “Never mind; it will have to do,” he said, his hands twitching upon the armrests, “that is, if you’re game,” he added, looking at his brother sternly.

  Mycroft Holmes sighed. “I don’t see that I have a choice. I just hope it doesn’t involve too much rushing around; you know how I hate to disturb my routine.”

  “Leave the rushing around to me,” said Holmes. “All I require from you is some expertise in the game of chess. Oh, by the way, I may need the assistance of Scotland Yard. How much is safe to tell them?”

  Mycroft shrugged his plump shoulders. “Whatever is necessary to get the help you need. I wouldn’t go around broadcasting information, though—not to those street arabs of yours, at any rate.”

  Holmes dismissed the last remark with an impatient wave of his hand. “Just because you have an aversion to children, Mycroft, is no reason to cast aspersions on my associates. I can assure you Master Tuthill and his friends are of great use to me.”

  It was Mycroft’s turn to be impatient, and I was amused to see him use the exact same gesture as his brother: a backwards wave of the hand, as if swatting away flies.

  “There is only one thing that concerns me,” Mycroft said. “When Moriarty strikes, he doesn’t hesitate to actually remove your players from the board, as in the case of poor Mr. Wiggins... I wonder, are you prepared to do the same?”

  Holmes looked out the window onto the bustling streets of Pall Mall, his face grim in the dull gray light.

  “I don’t know,” he said softly. “I suppose I’ll do whatever I have to do...” He then shuddered and shook himself as if to rid himself of the black mood which threatened to settle over all of us.

  “Well, I shall do my best, though I can’t guarantee anything,” said Mycroft, rising from the depths of his armchair like a whale rising from the depths of the sea. “I’ll tell you one thing, though, Sherlock: One way or another he must be stopped. The world is not safe with him about and operating freely.”

  “Yes,” said Holmes, looking at his brother, “no one knows that better than I do.”

  Eight

  We accepted Mycroft Holmes’ invitation to join him in a light late supper at his club.

  “The chef isn’t bad—he’s Belgian, you know, which is almost as good as being French,” he whispered as we were shown to a quiet table in the corner, next to a French window covered by heavy crimson brocade drapes. The smells coming from the kitchen were inviting; I could detect the aroma of roasting meat and fresh butter. The dining room was nearly deserted, and the waiters came and went quietly, making scarcely any noise at all. I suspected that one of the qualifications for employment at the Diogenes Club was the ability to be silent, and imagined the manager enjoining his staff to tiptoe about so as not to disturb the peculiar clientele.

  However, talking was not forbidden in the dining room, and Holmes spent the entire meal talking about the game of chess with his brother. I listened as the brothers discussed various common attack strategies, as well as a few not quite so well known. Holmes sat, his eyes transfixed upon the graph of a chessboard which Mycroft had sketched upon a piece of paper. I barely said a dozen words myself during the entire meal, preferring instead to play the part of the child who sits quietly in the corner while his elders discuss the affairs of the world. Indeed, I felt like hardly more than a child in the presence of these two brothers with their magnificent brains. While it is true that my own mental gifts included a modest ability to spin a narrative or turn a phrase, I felt distinctly inferior to these two intellectual titans, and was content to sit and listen to their exchange.

  “I can’t say that I see any conventional patterns in Moriarty’s strategy as yet,” said Mycroft Holmes as he helped himself to more salmon en croûte. “Several things are clear, though: For example, the man who took the Star of India from Dr. Watson is evidently moving as a knight—”

  “—because he ‘jumped over’ Watson in order to make his move, I presume,” said Holmes.

  “Precisely. The knight is the most curious traveler of all, particularly in his ability to jump over other players in order to make a capture.”

  I didn’t much like
the idea of being “jumped over” by anyone—much less one of Moriarty’s confederates—but I said nothing.

  “However,” Mycroft continued, cutting himself a thick slice of pâté de campagne, “there is one thing which is absolutely essential to remember: A careful player always studies his opponent’s moves as thoroughly as his own. Not to do so is to invite disaster. A brilliant attack will sometimes succeed before either side has lost many men, but most evenly matched games are won by an accumulation of small successes which weaken the enemy. Even if one is on the defensive, it is better to have a definite plan of attack... the next move is his, I believe, is it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must try to anticipate what that might be; in other words, you must endeavor to think like your enemy.”

  Holmes nodded, his gray eyes ablaze with an inner fire.

  “I have already come to the same conclusion. The only way to defeat such an antagonist is to put yourself in his place. I shall have to train myself to think like Moriarty.”

  Mycroft Holmes and I exchanged glances; we both knew the threat such a challenge could pose to his brother’s physical and mental health. Even now the strain on his nerves was beginning to show; his face looked haggard and drawn, and his fingers twitched incessantly upon the white tablecloth.

  As we left the Diogenes Club, Mycroft Holmes pulled me aside.

  “Look after him, Dr. Watson,” he said in a low voice. “The danger to all of us is great, but it is greatest to him.”

  “You can rely upon me,” I said, though my voice expressed a confidence I did not feel.

  Holmes was unusually quiet on the way back to Baker Street. Upon entering his rooms he went directly to the shelf containing his reference books and pulled out a volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica.

  “Let us see what they have to say about the game of chess,” he said, leafing through the pages. “This is curious,” he said after he had read for some moments. “Did you know that the game was invented in the Far East, most probably India?”

  “I believe I once heard something to that effect. It is centuries old, is it not?”

  “Yes, just like the Star of India... curious, how all roads in this affair seem to lead to India.”

  “It could be just coincidence. After all, it is a rich and ancient culture.”

  “Coincidence, Watson, is often just a lazy man’s view of a pattern. Listen to this: The word chess is supposedly derived from shah—the Persian word for king—and checkmate from shah mat, meaning ‘the king is dead.’” He looked up at me. “You realize, of course, what that means?”

  I nodded. “The Prince himself may be in danger.”

  “I am afraid so. The possibility certainly exists, and we must proceed accordingly... I wonder, does he really intend to try something so outrageous, and if so, what does he hope to gain?”

  “I don’t know, Holmes,” I said, looking at my watch, “but it’s late, and you can’t have gotten very much sleep last night. I know I didn’t—”

  “You go on ahead to bed, Watson, and I’ll follow later,” he said, selecting a meerschaum pipe from the pipe rack over the mantel. “I have a few things to ponder.”

  “Very well, Holmes, but don’t be up too late—it isn’t good for you, you know.”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” he said, but already I could tell his mind had turned to other things. He sat in his usual armchair, his legs tucked up under him, filling his pipe with shag tobacco, a pensive look on his face. I sighed and trudged up the stairs to bed; he would no doubt be up for hours. Holmes would always be Holmes, and there was nothing I could do to change that.

  I slept somewhat more soundly that night, though I was awakened by a cold dawn which pressed through my window shades and fell, bleak and cheerless, upon the bedroom carpet, draining it of all its color. There are few things as dreary as a London dawn in October, and I watched the gathering gray light for a while, then slipped off into a fitful sleep, until I was awakened by the smell of coffee.

  “Well, Watson, I was beginning to wonder if we would number you among the living today,” Holmes said cheerfully as I stumbled down the stairs, rubbing my eyes. “I trust you slept well?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I replied, annoyed at his superior attitude. He looked hale enough, though the dark circles around his eyes suggested that his own rest had been minimal. I was pleased to see that he was attacking his breakfast with gusto, and I followed suit, tucking into Mrs. Hudson’s kippers with a keen appetite.

  “As soon as you’ve finished I thought we would go over to Scotland Yard,” said Holmes.

  “Oh?”

  “That is, I would be pleased to have you accompany me if you can spare the time. There are one or two little matters I need to see Lestrade about.”

  I nodded, my mouth full of kippers. “Of course; I’ll just stop by my surgery to see how McKinney is getting along. He’s been filling in for me the past few days.”

  “Yes, so you said.”

  “Then I’ll come along and meet you there, if that’s all right.”

  “Perfectly. The good inspector may have one or two questions that you may be able to answer better than I—matters involving poor Wiggins’ death and the like.”

  We agreed to meet in an hour or so at the Yard, and I went along to my surgery to see how McKinney was doing. He was a competent young chap, not long out of medical school at Edinburgh. He had filled in for me before, and I had every confidence that he could handle things in my absence.

  When I arrived, McKinney was seeing a patient, so I sat in the waiting room and looked through my mail. A plain envelope with no return address and no postage caught my eye, and when I opened it I found inside a single sheet of paper; upon it was written simply “K.Kt.-B4,” in large block letters. I was pondering the meaning of this cryptic message when Dr. McKinney came in from the office to greet me. He was a tall, handsome Scot with a long Celtic face and stiff, curly hair the color of toasted straw.

  “This envelope—when did it arrive?” I said.

  “Oh, funny you should ask,” McKinney replied. “It was delivered by a strange little fellow with ginger muttonchops just a few minutes ago. He didn’t speak at all, just handed it to me and left.”

  I was struck immediately by the thought that this was the same little man who had thrust the newspaper into my hands at Waterloo Station. I now had the uncomfortable sensation that I was being followed. I said nothing to McKinney, however, but shoved the paper into my pocket. We talked for a quarter of an hour about various matters concerning my practice, patients, bills, and the like, during which time I completely forgot about the paper in my pocket. I went over several of the cases with Dr. McKinney and then left my surgery, heading straight for Scotland Yard.

  When I arrived I was shown to Lestrade’s office, and the door was opened by none other than Sherlock Holmes himself.

  “Come in, Watson! You’re just in time to help me recount to Lestrade here the events surrounding Wiggins’ murder.”

  I entered the office, and saw immediately that the room had another occupant apart from those of the human variety: Above Lestrade’s chair, on a makeshift perch, sat Bandu the parrot.

  “Come in, Watson!” he chirped in his strange, unearthly voice.

  Holmes smiled. “You see, Watson—that bird really does like you.”

  “What’s he doing here?” I said, surprised to see poor Wiggins’ pet in the offices of Scotland Yard.

  Lestrade rose from his chair. “The bird is temporarily in custody.” He coughed and glanced at Holmes. “I, uh, thought it might have some information still to impart,” he said gruffly, his face reddening. “I understand the bird was useful to you in discovering who killed Mr. Wiggins,” he said to me.

  “Quite right,” said Holmes, gracefully ignoring Lestrade’s embarrassment. If ever a man understood the desire not to appear softhearted, it was Holmes.

  “So there’s still no sign of Freddie Stockton?” said Holmes.

&nb
sp; “No, but I have a few lads out looking for Mr. Stockton as we speak,” Lestrade replied. “I fancy it won’t be too long before he is brought to justice.”

  “Did Holmes tell you about—” I began, but Holmes cut me off.

  “I was just getting to that, Watson,” he said, giving me a significant look. I nodded and sat in the wooden captain’s chair across from Lestrade’s desk.

  “—getting to that, Watson,” said Bandu, bobbing up and down on his perch. Lestrade glanced at the bird with an annoyed expression and then turned back to us.

  “Yes, what was it you were about to tell me when Dr. Watson entered?”

  But just then we were interrupted by a knock on the door. “Yes?” said Lestrade.

  The door opened and a stocky young sergeant entered. He had close-cropped blond hair and a military bearing, and when he saw Lestrade he saluted smartly.

  “Yes, Morgan; what is it?” said Lestrade.

  “Begging pardon, sir, but there is something I think you should know.”

  “Well, out with it, man; what is it?” Lestrade said impatiently.

  Morgan hesitated, glancing at Holmes and myself.

  “It’s all right, Morgan; these gentlemen are helping me with my investigation,” said Lestrade wearily.

  “Well, sir, it seems that Freddie Stockton has been found—”

  “Yes?” Lestrade said, half rising from his chair.

  “—floating in the Thames, sir.”

  “He’s dead? Are you telling me Stockton is dead?”

  “Well, yes, sir. I mean, it looks that way, sir.”

  “Either he’s dead or he’s not; it’s not a question of how he looks!” Lestrade bellowed.

  “Well, he’s definitely dead, sir. We got a mate of his to identify the body—and that hair of his, sir; it’s quite unusual. It seems he’d been strangled first, sir, and then the body thrown into the river.”

  “How could he be dead? How can that be?” Lestrade barked, his voice choked with rage.

  Startled, Sergeant Morgan took a step backwards. Lestrade sighed deeply.