by Carole Bugge
The avenues were beginning to fill up with people celebrating All Hallows’ Eve, and the going became slower as we approached the center of town. Throngs of merrymakers blocked the way. Groups of people were pouring out of pubs in search of merriment and mischief. People dressed as goblins and ghosts were everywhere, carrying candles, flooding the street in a great procession of flickering orange flames. The effect was quite stunning: In the fog, the candles seemed to merge under the gas light into one gigantic fire, a great river of flame moving across the cobblestones. However, we were in no mood to appreciate it.
“This will never do; we’d get there faster on foot,” Holmes muttered. Finally, when we reached the crossroad of Victoria and Cannon Streets, Holmes rapped on the roof to signal the driver.
“We’ll get out here,” he said, giving the man two guineas. “There will be two more for you if you get this girl to 221B Baker Street,” he said, indicating Jenny. “Just tell the landlady that Mr. Sherlock Holmes said so.”
“I want to come with you!” Jenny cried from inside the cab, but Holmes shook his head.
“You’ve had enough excitement for one night,” he said, and nodded to the cab driver, who flicked his whip and turned the cab around in the direction of Baker Street as we set off on foot through the crowded streets. At the intersection where Great Tower feeds into Byward Street, a gigantic bonfire blazed, and a crowd had gathered to watch a huge puppet of a witch being carried through the streets. Made of sticks and papier mâché, she sat upon her broomstick and hovered over the crowd like a giant black bird, her huge cloth hat flapping in the wind like great dark wings.
“Long live the Queen!” shouted a drunken man as she went by. Suddenly Holmes stopped and grabbed my arm.
“Watson, that’s it!” he exclaimed.
“What is?”
“Have you heard the expression in chess, ‘Give the queen her color?’”
“Yes; it means—”
“The Black Queen, Watson! How could I have been so stupid! I know who the Black Queen is!”
“Who is it?” I said, but Holmes was already ahead of me. I was amazed at this burst of energy from someone in his condition, but I had known him long enough to realize what he was capable of in times of crisis. I dashed after him, bumping into revelers as I went, hurtling apologies behind me.
Finally we reached the entrance to the Tower. The policeman standing guard stared at us blankly when Holmes announced that he must be allowed inside, but just then Lestrade appeared from inside the gate.
“What is it, Mr. Holmes?” he said. “What’s going on?”
“There’s no time to explain,” said Holmes breathlessly. Lestrade and I followed as he bounded up the steps to the White Tower. The ceremony was being held in the largest of the domed stone chapels, and Lestrade led us to the rear of the crowd which had gathered. Several policemen were at the back of the room with us, standing stiffly at attention, hands at their sides. Holmes’ eyes searched the crowd, as if looking for someone. I followed his gaze, but I did not know what he hoped to find.
Up at the altar, among various other dignitaries, sat the queen. To her right was the Prince of Wales, and to his right sat a dignified-looking Indian man dressed in brilliant flowing robes whom I took to be Prince Rabarrath. Behind him stood a darkly handsome, distinguished-looking man also dressed in flowing crimson robes. The man looked familiar, but I could not remember where I had seen him. All eyes were upon the Prince of Wales as he rose to speak, addressing his remarks partly to the crowd and partly to Prince Rabarrath.
Holmes continued to peer at the crowd, as though searching for something or someone in particular.
“What’s he looking for?” Lestrade whispered to me, but I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“... and will I hope lead to a renewed sense of commitment between our two great countries,” the Prince was saying, his grave dark eyes scanning the crowd as he spoke.
Suddenly Holmes seemed to find whatever it was he was looking for, for his whole body went tense and he leaned forward like a bird dog on a scent.
“... and so, in hopes of promoting this renewed understanding,” the Prince continued, “I am pleased to accept formally the very great favor bestowed upon me by His Royal Highness Prince Rabarrath on behalf of his people.”
Prince Edward looked back at Prince Rabarrath, who smiled at him. The tall dark man standing behind Rabarrath smiled too, and suddenly I remembered where I had seen him.
“My God, it’s the count!” I muttered, turning to Holmes, but he had disappeared, so my remark was addressed to Lestrade instead.
“What?” said Lestrade.
“It’s him—the man who stole the Star of India from us!” I said. Now there was no question in my mind that the man standing behind Prince Rabarrath was indeed the same man who had come to Baker Street disguised as the Earl of Huntingdon on that fateful night. I craned my neck to see where Holmes had gone, and was about to make my way through the crowd to look for him. But just then, my eyes were riveted to the stage when I saw what the Prince of Wales held in his hand.
“And now, may I present... the Star of India!” And with that he held up the glittering sapphire so that we could all see it.
“How on earth did he—” I began, but I was interrupted by a commotion in the front of the crowd. I saw the gleam of metal in the light at the same moment I heard the shot. Several people screamed, and others instinctively ducked or began to run for cover. The policemen who had been standing in the back rushed up front to protect the Royal Family and the other dignitaries. Within seconds the queen was surrounded by a phalanx of blue uniforms and whisked offstage. No one appeared to have been hit; the people on the podium looked shaken, but the shot had missed its target. The Prince of Wales stood staring into the crowd. I followed his gaze, and now could see clearly through the crowd who was responsible for the gunshot. Holmes stood, a revolver in one hand, and Miss Violet Merriweather’s wrist in the other. Lestrade and I sprang to his assistance.
“I think you’ll find the powder marks on her right hand consistent with a recently discharged gun, Inspector,” Holmes said as he handed Miss Merriweather over to Lestrade.
“Long live His Majesty Prince Bowdrinth! Down with all traitors to India!” she cried, struggling to free herself.
“Right—thank you, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade. “Come along, miss; we’ve got some questions to ask you. Don’t worry—everything’s under control,” he said as he escorted her through the frightened crowd. Holmes and I watched them go and then I looked back at the Prince of Wales. He still stood rooted to the spot, his eyes following Miss Merriweather’s retreat. I suddenly saw him not as a prince but as a man deceived in love, and I felt sorry for him as one feels sorry for any man who finds himself betrayed by one he trusted.
Then I remembered the man I had seen standing behind Prince Rabarrath, but both he and the Indian prince had vanished.
“Holmes!” I cried. “Prince Rabarrath’s aide—he’s not what he appears to be!”
“What do you mean?” said Holmes.
“He’s the same man who took the Star of India from me! I’m afraid the prince may be in danger!”
We rushed toward the altar. The room was rapidly clearing as the police escorted people out, trying to maintain as much order as possible.
“There!” cried Holmes, pointing, and I looked just in time to see a flash of crimson disappear through the back entrance.
“Quickly, Watson, after him!” cried Holmes, and set off through what remained of the crowd.
We pushed open a heavy oak door with a tiny barred window; a sign on the door read DANGER—DO NOT OPEN. We found ourselves upon the parapet of the White Tower, where a strong wind was blowing. A gust of wind slammed the heavy door shut behind us as though it were made of paper. The force of the gale nearly took my breath away. I looked at Holmes, who staggered under the powerful blast of air.
“Holmes, look—there!” I cried, shouting to be heard ov
er the wind. There, standing close to edge of the rampart, was our “count.” Held close to him was Prince Rabarrath, who struggled to free himself. The wind whipped at their hair and clothing, their robes flying like brightly colored wings around them. Both men saw us at the same moment we saw them, and the prince called out to us in English.
“Help! He’s going to kill me!”
“Don’t come any closer,” said the count, “or I shall be forced to throw him over the edge.”
“Don’t be foolish,” said Holmes. “Give yourself up. There’s no escape from here.”
The count dragged Prince Rabarrath closer to the edge. Rabarrath was a small man, no match for the tall, athletic count. I took a step forward, but Holmes laid a hand on my arm.
“Wait, Watson! Let us see if we can reason with him,” he muttered.
“This will solve nothing, you know,” Holmes called to the man.
“Maybe not, but we will accept tyranny no longer!” cried the count. Just at that moment, Prince Rabarrath made a mighty effort and violently pushed his adversary from him—and in the direction of the parapet. As he did so, the count tripped on his own robe and lost his balance. For a moment he teetered on the ledge, his crimson robes blowing in the wind like the feathers of an exotic bird—and then, as we watched in horror, he fell from his perch. His bloodcurdling cry sent shivers up my spine and I turned away. When the sound of his voice died out there was nothing left but the rushing of the wind in our ears. Prince Rabarrath remained seated upon the ground where he had fallen after freeing himself. I walked over to him and offered my hand. Without a word he accepted it, and without a word the three of us left the battlement through the same door we had come out.
Back inside, Prince Rabarrath was immediately surrounded by a group of concerned aides; his absence had caused a momentary panic. They spirited him away, but not before they did he shook our hands warmly.
“Thank you,” he said. “I hope I shall have a chance to thank you more formally later.” His voice was low and mellow, and his English was excellent, with just a hint of an Eastern flavor in his ‘r’s.
I turned to Holmes, who was as white as a sheet. He looked as if he were about to collapse. The rush of energy which had filled him earlier had now left, leaving him on the verge of utter prostration. He did not protest when I took him by the arm.
“Come on, Holmes,” I said. “Let’s go home.”
Fourteen
When we arrived at Baker Street, Mycroft was waiting for us in the sitting room.
“Well, Sherlock, so you pulled it off,” said Mycroft as we entered. “Good heavens,” he exclaimed, rising from his chair, “what has happened to you?”
“It doesn’t take a brilliant deduction to figure that out, surely,” I muttered as I helped Holmes to the sofa.
“You were quite right, of course; Moriarty rushed in to capture the king, and that proved to be his fatal error,” said Mycroft, settling his bulk back into the chair. “You might even say he was castled.”
“What does that mean?” I said.
“It is a chess move in which the rook changes places with the king. It is subject to certain restrictions, and certain conditions must be met, but it can be quite useful,” answered Mycroft.
“And who is the rook in this case?” I said.
“Why, Sherlock, of course.” Mycroft smiled. “And the Black Queen?”
“Miss Merriweather,” Holmes said from the sofa.
Mycroft nodded.
“I had my suspicions. What finally gave her away?”
“She used a Hindu word for friend—dost—instead of the Bengali word bandu, which made me suspicious. I knew many of Rabarrath’s enemies are Hindus.”
“But how did you know she was to be the assassin?”
“She lived in Blackheath, Mycroft. I had the realization when I saw the figure of a black witch being carried about on the street—and I suddenly remembered the day I escorted Miss Merriweather home to Blackheath.”
Mycroft smiled and folded his fat hands over his stomach. “Ah, yes: give the queen her color. Well, where else would the Black Queen come from except Blackheath?”
“Precisely,” answered Holmes. “There were of course other things as well. I knew she was lying about her father early on when she claimed he was an Italian opera singer but didn’t know the meaning of the Italian word face, which is widely used in the opera world to denote the type of voice a singer has. She then claimed her father was a tenor, but when I asked if he had sung the role of Rigoletto she assured me that it was one of his favorites. The role of Rigoletto—surely one of the most famous in the operatic repertoire—is a baritone role.”
“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” I said. “How did the prince come by the Star of India if only Holmes knew where it was?”
Mycroft Holmes smiled. “Because he wasn’t the only one who knew.”
“You knew, then?”
“Yes, indeed. I even suggested it to him.”
“Well, where was it, then?”
“Why, with the Crown jewels, of course. I suggested hiding it in the last place Moriarty would ever think of looking for it, and the Tower of London seemed to fit the bill. I used my authorization within the government and placed it there myself.” Mycroft chuckled. “You should have seen the reaction of the Tower Guard when I told them I was to have access to the Crown jewels... they didn’t know what to make of it, but I had a paper with the Royal Seal, so they had to obey.”
“I see,” I said. “So when it was time for the ceremony—”
“Well, it was a simple matter for the Star to be retrieved; it never had to leave the Tower.”
“The White Tower, eh, Sherlock?” Mycroft chuckled. “How very appropriate. That was, of course, the final piece of the puzzle.”
Holmes shrugged. “Certainly. Moriarty’s instinct for theatricality is second only to mine.”
There was a knock on the door and Mrs. Hudson entered. When she saw Holmes she threw her arms up in the air. “Thank God you’re safe, sir!” she said. “You don’t look so well, though.”
“I shall recover, Mrs. Hudson, don’t worry,” said Holmes.
“Well, at least let me bring you some hot broth.” She bustled out of the room, and we all turned to see a small figure standing in the doorway: It was Jenny.
“Come in, Jenny,” I said, and she took a few timid steps into the room.
“Ah, here is the real White Queen,” said Holmes from where he lay on the sofa.
“Not only that, but she was the Lady in the Lake,” I said, rather pleased with myself.
“So she was,” said Holmes, “quite right. Do you know what this child did, Mycroft?”
Mycroft shook his head. Jenny stood there shyly while Holmes and I told him of our capture and rescue. When we were finished, Jenny tiptoed over to Holmes and kissed him on the forehead.
“What was that for?” he asked, embarrassed.
“Mrs. Hudson said it would make you get better faster,” she answered. Mycroft and I laughed.
“And if that doesn’t do it, this will,” said Mrs. Hudson from the doorway where she stood with a steaming bowl of hot soup. Just then Inspector Lestrade appeared behind Mrs. Hudson, who turned and saw him.
“Oh, begging your pardon, Inspector,” she said; “I was just about to tell Mr. Holmes you were here.” She placed the soup on the coffee table and turned to me. “Now you be sure that he has some of that, Dr. Watson,” she said. “Come along, dearie, let’s go make some tea for the gentlemen,” she said to Jenny, who got up obediently and followed her out of the room.
“Please come in, inspector,” I said, rising from my chair.
“Thank you,” said Lestrade, entering the room.
“Please sit down,” I said, pulling up a chair for him.
“’Ta very much. Good evening, Mr. Holmes,” he said to Mycroft.
“Good evening, Inspector. I understand it’s been a busy one for you.”
“You migh
t say that, although thanks to Mr. Holmes here I think we’ve got the situation under control for now. You were right,” he said to Holmes. “Miss Merriweather, as she called herself, was a member of Prince Bowdrinth’s gang ever since her brother was killed in a skirmish by one of Rabarrath’s people. Her real name is Sree Malthi; she was working for Bowdrinth’s people all along, feeding them information, and then when it looked like their scheme was going to fail, they sent her to kill the Prince.”
“So was Moriarty involved in the assassination plot?” I said.
Lestrade shrugged. “No one knows—he’s disappeared. I have sent some lads out to round up some of his men, but they have a habit of disappearing too, it seems.”
Mycroft got up and sat in Holmes’ chair by the fire. “Oh, he was involved—I would bet money on it. And, as my brother can tell you, I am not a gambling man.”
Holmes turned over onto his side and grimaced. “He will probably drop out of sight for a while until things cool down, but you will hear from him again, Inspector—mark my words.”
Lestrade nodded. “I’ve no doubt you’re right, Mr. Holmes.”
“Speaking of dropping out of sight, Sherlock, what did happen at the Bar of Gold opium den?” said Mycroft.
“I learned several interesting things before my identity was discovered. Your man Hazelton was betrayed, Lestrade. I found that out for certain at the Bar of Gold—though I had suspected as much. Then I was discovered, captured, and taken to Moriarty, who hoped he could persuade me to give up the location of the jewel.”
“And he very nearly succeeded,” I said. “And the count— who was he?”
“Oh, the one who fell from the Tower? Nasty affair, that,” said Lestrade.
“He was undoubtedly one of Bowdrinth’s people too,” said Mycroft. “Moriarty’ s web stretches farther than we’ll probably ever know. Even I haven’t yet fathomed the extent of his influence.”
“Wait, there’s something I don’t understand,” I interjected. “Miss Merriweather presumably could have killed Prince Edward at any time while she was his mistress—”