The Star of India

by Carole Bugge

  After dinner I persuaded Holmes to go up to bed, and I myself followed soon after, feeling quite exhausted from the events of the past few days. I dreamed of Miss Violet Merriweather: In my dream we walked together hand in hand through the streets of London, she dressed all in white. As we walked the skies darkened and a torrential rain began to fall. We ran for cover, but as we ran the cobblestones began to transform under our feet—to my horror, they turned into the squares on a chessboard. I looked at Violet—her white dress had become soiled with mud and her hand was suddenly torn from mine—and then I awoke. I sat up in bed, and as I did I smelled the unmistakable aroma of shag tobacco. I put on my robe and crept downstairs.

  I found Holmes sitting in front of a cold fire; the flame had long since burned down to glowing ashes.

  “Holmes?” I said softly.

  For a moment he did not respond, and I thought he hadn’t heard me. Then he sighed, a long, slow exhale of breath like the whispering of wind in the eaves.

  “I couldn’t sleep, Watson,” he said without looking at me. “I have had the same nightmare several nights running now, and I...” his voice trailed off and he stared into the fire.

  “What is it? The nightmare, I mean?” I said.

  “I am at Reichenbach Falls again, locked in combat with Moriarty at the top of the precipice. I am trying to find a firm foothold on the rocks, but they are slippery from the spray of the water, and I can feel my feet sliding out from under me... I struggle to regain my balance, but I can’t. I feel Moriarty begin to go over the edge but I cannot loosen his grip on me, and I fall with him. We fall for what seems like eternity, down, down into the swirling vale of water... and then I wake up.”

  “It isn’t uncommon to relive traumatic past events in one’s dreams,” I said. “In fact, there is a man in Germany—his name is Freud, I believe—who has written some interesting things about the way the mind—”

  “Yes, yes; I am familiar with Freud’s work,” said Holmes impatiently. “I’m sorry, Watson,” he said, sighing again. “I didn’t mean to be rude; it’s just that... I suppose I am somewhat rattled by all of this.”

  “I can understand why,” I said sympathetically. “After all, the stakes are enormous, and you—well, you’re probably the only man in London who can defeat Moriarty.”

  “Can I? I wonder... do you know how I said earlier that in order to defeat him I must learn to think like him?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Well, I have done my best to peer into the abyss which is Moriarty’s soul, and I find that the line between is a thin one... thinner than I had ever let myself imagine. I suppose instinctively I feared that in that way lies madness...”

  I did not reply, but sat down opposite him.

  “Consider, Watson: What causes him to use his enormous talents for evil, whilst I turn mine toward the service of my fellow man?”

  “I don’t know, Holmes.”

  “I didn’t either, Watson, and that’s when I decided that in order to defeat him I must know him. I look into my own soul and I see nothing but an accumulation of habits: I eat, I smoke, I dabble in chemistry and crime-solving, but really, beyond that, what am I? Surely a man must be more than that, more than a collection of... of routines!”

  “Holmes,” I said, fearing where this discourse might lead.

  “Oh, I know, Watson—you think me terribly moody to brood so on the nature of existence while most people are glad just to be alive. Well, locking horns with Moriarty as I have done these past few days has led me to consider the nature of what we call good and evil.”

  “And what conclusions have you reached?”

  “None whatsoever, Watson; that’s the damnable part of it. I’m not sure there are any to be reached. I only know that without much difficulty I can see myself in Moriarty’s place...”

  I wanted to say something, but I could think of nothing.

  “When Flaubert was asked how he could write from the point of view of a woman so successfully, his reply was ‘Madame Bovary, c’est moi.’ You see, his genius allowed him to insinuate himself into the mind of a bored, sexually frustrated, middle-class Parisian housewife—and thus he was able to produce his masterpiece.”

  “And?”

  “Well, Watson, in order to defeat Moriarty I must in a sense become him, to think as he thinks, to feel as he feels. In other words, I must learn to identify with him, just as Flaubert did with Madame Bovary.”

  “I see. And have you?”

  “I have. It would be wrong to say that I sympathize with him, exactly, but I can say that I have seen what it is that drives him.”

  “And what do you see?”

  Holmes stared into the empty grate, his eyes hooded. “Pain, Watson—horrible, searing pain, which eats at him just as surely as he preys upon society.” Holmes rose from his chair and poked at the dying embers. “Where the pain comes from I do not know. I have long considered Moriarty the most perfect reasoning machine I have ever known—except for my brother Mycroft—but now I see a much more complicated picture. I understand now what really drives Moriarty, and, as I said before, we are not so different as all that.”

  Holmes rubbed his forehead wearily. I looked at him and considered what deep, buried pain might be driving my friend. It was not the first time the thought had occurred to me, but I had never before thought to compare him to Moriarty.

  “I have come to the conclusion that there is a single need underlying all of his greed, his villainy, his scheming and plotting,” said Holmes.

  “And what is that?”

  “The need for control, Watson: He must have control of the others around him. He has a vast and unquenchable desire to be in complete control of everything he touches—and that, Watson, is what passes for evil in our society.”

  “But surely it is—”

  “Oh, yes, in his case it most assuredly is manifested in evil deeds; of that there can be no doubt. But in my case, Watson...” His voice trailed off and again he stared into the flickering embers. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. My relationship with Holmes had always been based upon an unspoken agreement on my part not to pry too deeply into his emotional life. Indeed, the facade he presented to the world was of a man who had no use for his emotions. And yet here he was, revealing parts of himself I would never have dared to ask about. I too stared into the fire and waited for him to resume speaking.

  “Watson, do you ever ask yourself why you behave the way you do?” he said finally.

  “Well, I suppose that depends on what it is I’ve done.”

  Holmes allowed himself a short, brisk laugh. He put some more wood on the fire and sat down again. “Yes, of course. What I mean is the overall patterns in your life. Do you ever examine them—analyze them, as it were?”

  I thought for a moment. “I suppose I do from time to time, when I’m not too busy...”

  “Interesting you should say that. I’ve been thinking about my aversion to inactivity... an aversion so strong that I resort to using drugs to counteract it.”

  “Yes?” I said, holding my breath. Holmes looked at me, his gray eyes glowing yellow in the fire light.

  “I’m afraid to come face-to-face with myself, Watson. That is what I use drugs to escape—and that is the same thing Moriarty uses crime to escape.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I am certain of it. As I said, I have come to realize that I know what he feels: another problem to solve, another adventure to embark upon, and suddenly one is taken out of one’s self—and the relief, Watson... the relief can hardly be described.” He let his head fall onto the back of the chair, the line of his jaw as sharp as the division between earth and sky.

  “I see,” I said.

  “Do you? I wonder... you see, Watson, one of the conclusions I have reached tonight is that I am in fact more like Moriarty than I am like yourself.”

  “Oh, Holmes, surely you don’t—” I began, but he cut me off.

  “Wait, wait; let me
finish. What I mean is that you are a good fellow, you have always been a good fellow, and you will always be one, whereas I...” His brow darkened and his tone became ominous. “You see, Watson, I think I could have easily followed Moriarty’s path. We are, after all, so much alike: obsessed, driven, uncomfortable men, not at home in our own skins nor among our fellow creatures. We are far too sensitive to the insults of the world, to the dark side of human nature, whereas you—well, you always see the best in other people.”

  “Holmes, you make me sound positively dull.”

  “Oh, no, you are not dull; far from it. In your own way, Watson, you are far wiser than I shall ever be, because you have the gift of knowing how to be happy.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean that you are happy all the time, only that you have the instinct and the drive for it—you are equipped for it, you might say, whereas Moriarty and myself... well, I suppose the closest I ever come is during the rare moments when I lose myself in a piece of music, or am so deeply embedded in a case that I cease to think about myself... that passes for happiness, at any rate.”

  There was a silence and I could hear the crackle of the logs in the fireplace. The tart smell of burning pine mingled with the aroma of Holmes’ Turkish tobacco.

  “Holmes, I don’t know what to say,” I said after a minute. “I shall always regard you as the best and wisest of men.”

  Holmes smiled. “You really should try to avoid quoting yourself, Watson—it gives the impression you’ve run dry of ideas.”

  I laughed. “I didn’t think you read my stories.”

  “Oh, I read them, I just don’t always agree with them.”

  We both laughed.

  “I’m just tweaking you, of course. I appreciate your literary gifts, even though my own interest lean more toward fact than fiction.”

  There was another silence, this time the comfortable silence which exists between two intimate friends. It struck me that whatever else Holmes and I were to each other, we were also two men who know that come what may, the other will always be there.

  “Well,” said Holmes after a while, “I think I will go up to bed now.”

  “I’ll do the same,” I said.

  Holmes rose, stretched his long frame, and yawned. “I rather think I shall sleep soundly now,” he said. “Good night, Watson.”

  It was some time before I did actually go up to bed, however. I had some thinking of my own to do. I put some more wood on the fire and sat staring at the flames for some time. I had always admired my friend, but now I felt an emotion I had never felt before—not quite pity, but something akin to it. I was not sure I liked the feeling, but I had no choice in the matter: By opening himself up to me, Holmes had redefined our relationship. There is within every man a secret soul, a self which he hides from the world’s prying eyes, and it is this which he protects as a mother might protect a child. Holmes had always guarded his even more tightly than most men, but now he had given me a glimpse into Holmes the man, with all his vulnerabilities. For my part, I felt a new responsibility to protect him as best I could.

  I sat for some time staring out the window as a yellow fog slid along the street and wrapped itself around the lampposts. Somewhere, out in that gathering fog, Moriarty waited.

  Twelve

  The next morning nothing was said of the conversation from the night before. Holmes was still determined to visit the Bar of Gold opium den and retired to his bedroom immediately after breakfast to dress for the occasion.

  I have in the past remarked that the stage lost a fine actor when Holmes decided to become a professional consulting detective, but I have never been more sure of it than that day. An hour or so after lunch Holmes emerged from his bedroom. He was all but unrecognizable: His skin was a papery yellow, and his hair somehow looked thinner and disheveled beyond imagining. His cheeks were even more sunken than usual, and his eyes shone out of hollow sockets with the fevered gaze of the opium addict.

  “Good heavens, Holmes!” I said when I saw him. “I doubt your own mother would recognize you—I certainly wouldn’t, if I saw you on the street!”

  “That is just as well, Watson,” he said. “Where I am going, I must rely on not being recognized, for if I am...” his voice trailed off, and I shuddered.

  “Do you really think this wise, Holmes? I mean, surely there are other ways...”

  “There are no quicker ways, Watson! Do I need to remind you that we only have two days now before the appointed visit? No, I see no other way at present,” he muttered, adjusting the filthy rags which covered his back. The movement caused him to wince and clutch his side.

  “Holmes,” I said, but he waved me off.

  “Look after things for me, Watson,” he said. “This investigation may take some time, but you should hear from me shortly.”

  And with that, he was gone.

  I did not hear from him, not that day or the next. I became very worried, and on the morning of the third day I contacted Lestrade, who sent an agent to the Bar of Gold to try to find Holmes. The agent returned unharmed but with nothing to report, and even Mycroft Holmes was at a loss to explain what might have happened to his brother. I was on the verge of going to the Bar of Gold myself to find out what had happened, but Mycroft urged me to wait, in case I should spoil some plan which his brother had set in motion.

  “Prince Rabarrath arrives in London today, and there is to be a ceremony at the Tower tonight to welcome him,” said Mycroft as we sat in the Visitors’ Room at the Diogenes Club. “I advised against it, considering the circumstances, but the Prince of Wales was adamant that the ceremony would take place. It is certainly ill-advised, and I fear that even with increased police presence something dreadful will happen.”

  I had the feeling all during our conversation that Holmes was privy to information which I did not have, which wounded my pride; but it was a small matter compared to the fear I felt for Holmes’ safety.

  As for me, I had nothing better to do than worry. I had given my practice over to my colleague Dr. McKinney indefinitely and I was now more or less living at Baker Street, in hopes of hearing something from Holmes. Mrs. Hudson and I had taken to eating our meals together—because we both missed him, I suppose, and we took some comfort in each other’s company. Jenny had become a fixture at Baker Street. Both Mrs. Hudson and I were loath to part with her, and neither of us could bear the thought of sending her to an orphanage.

  Monday was All Hallow’s Eve, and that afternoon the three of us sat glumly before the fire eating a late lunch. Anyone observing us would have thought we made a strange little family grouping.

  “Do you think he’s...” Mrs. Hudson said as we finished the last of the mutton chops.

  “Still alive?” I said.

  She shuddered. “Oh, don’t say that, please! No, I was going to ask if you thought he was all right.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know, Mrs. Hudson. I’m as worried as you are, but there’s no telling... I can’t say for certain. All I know is that if ever there was a man who could take care of himself, it is Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Aye, mostly that’s true,” she said, “but the evil one he’s dealing with now... Mr. Holmes has said he’s a match for himself.”

  I nodded. “I know, I know; but all I can hope is that there’s a reason Moriarty would not want to kill Holmes outright. I can’t help but think that if he had wanted to, he would have done it before this.”

  Jenny had finished her lunch and sat quietly by the fire playing with one of the dolls Mrs. Hudson had given her. She looked up from where she sat. “Is he going to die like me mum did?” she said.

  “No, dearie, he’s not going to die,” said Mrs. Hudson, and then she addressed me in a low voice. “Is Scotland Yard doing everything they can?”

  “I was thinking of going over and talking to Inspector Lestrade about it again,” I replied, looking outside. It was a blustery day, but dry enough—although in London the
re was a saying that it was always either raining, about to rain, just finished raining, or thinking about raining. I sighed. “Thank you for that excellent meal, Mrs. Hudson,” I said, rising and putting on my coat.

  Mrs. Hudson rose and began clearing the table. “I’m glad you liked it. I wasn’t able to taste a single bite myself, I’m so worried about Mr. Holmes.”

  I noticed that even if this were true she had certainly done justice to her cooking by eating at least as much as I had.

  I stood by the door, holding it open. “Well, I’m off to Scotland Yard.”

  “Good luck, Dr. Watson. I hope you find out something. Wake me up when you come in if there’s any news.”

  “I will. Good night, Mrs. Hudson.”

  “Good night.”

  I stood for a moment, looking around the familiar sitting room, thinking how empty it looked without its most dynamic occupant. His pipe lay on the writing desk; the Persian slipper full of shag tobacco sat untouched in the corner. I even missed his untidiness, wishing that he were there to litter the room with his papers, clippings, and files as he had on so many evenings while we sat together by the fire. I sighed and closed the door behind me. As I descended the stairs to the ground floor, I realized that I was also feeling another kind of fear: fear for my own safety. I was going out alone and unarmed, with Moriarty’s agents everywhere. If they had Holmes, why not take me too? I thought about taking along my service revolver, but my anxiety to find out about the fate of my friend was greater than my fear for myself. I hailed the first cab and told the driver to take me to Scotland Yard.

  I needn’t have hurried, for as soon as I saw Lestrade’s haggard face I knew there was no news. Lestrade was standing at his desk talking to Sergeant Morgan, and when he saw me he nodded wearily.

  “Hello, Doctor—I’m sorry to say we have no leads at all at the present time. He’s covered his tracks well, this time—Moriarty, I mean.” Lestrade paused and scratched his head. “Oh, that’s all; you can go now, Morgan,” he said to the sergeant, who had been standing expectantly awaiting further instructions. The man saluted and went off, saluting me as he went by. Lestrade looked after him and shook his head.