The Star of India
Page 19
“Oh, but that was a last resort,” said Mycroft Holmes. “And even so, it had to look like a political act, not the revenge of a spurned lover.”
“Something else bothers me,” said Lestrade. “Why did she give Mr. Holmes the Star of India?”
“Part of Moriarty’s plan was to draw my brother in and then destroy him,” said Mycroft. “He probably had three or four plans for getting the jewel back. If Miss Merriweather herself surrendered the jewel, who would think to suspect her? And then she stayed in close contact, hoping to gather information as to how things were proceeding from our side. However, she failed to reckon with my brother’s notorious distrust of women—didn’t she, Sherlock?”
Holmes waved his hand as if dismissing the thought. “I should have mistrusted anybody under the circumstances, I think, though I did think she played the part of the female in distress rather heavily.”
“Well, she took me in, and I’m not ashamed to admit it,” I said.
Holmes smiled. “Well, I have always said the ladies were your department, Watson, but you made the mistake of letting your heart override your head.”
I felt my face redden as Lestrade and Mycroft looked at me. It was a weakness in my character, perhaps, but I was still unable to reconcile Miss Merriweather’s actions with her beautiful face and figure. That a woman could look like such an angel and be so devious was difficult to comprehend. I wondered if even her attraction to Holmes had been an act to throw him off the scent, but somehow I didn’t think so; she was clever enough to know of his famous distrust of women. No, I believed still that her reaction to him may have been the one real thing about her.
“Never mind, Dr. Watson,” Lestrade said. “We all have our momentary lapses of judgment.”
“Speaking of which, have you plugged your leak yet, Lestrade?” said Holmes.
Lestrade looked down at the floor and rubbed his hands together nervously. “Yes, I did, Mr. Holmes.”
“It was Morgan?”
Lestrade nodded. “Yes. You were right; he had been spying on me using the parrot. When I was out he’d write down whatever the bird said and then give it to Moriarty. We caught him red-handed, though, once you told me what to look for.” Lestrade walked over to the window and looked out onto the street below, where the sound of horses’ hooves on cobblestone mingled with the patter of rain on the windowpanes. “I suppose I’ll have to get rid of Ban—get rid of the bird now,” he said in a tight voice.
“Oh, I don’t see why you shouldn’t keep him, Lestrade,” I said. “You can always take him home.”
“Yeah, I guess I could at that,” Lestrade said, brightening. “The thing is... well, he’s sort of gotten used to life around the Yard—I mean, I think he likes it there.”
Mycroft Holmes rolled his eyes and rose from his chair. He stood with his broad back to the fire, rocking back and forth on his heels.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something, Lestrade,” I said kindly.
“Right; of course,” Lestrade said, suddenly aware that we were all looking at him. “Well, I suppose I’ll be on my way,” he said, rising from his chair just as Mrs. Hudson entered with a tray of tea. Jenny followed behind her with a plate of sandwiches and butterscotch biscuits.
“Don’t leave yet, Inspector,” she said, “I’ve just made tea.”
Both Mycroft Holmes and Lestrade looked considerably more cheerful at the sight of the food, and I had to admit I was rather famished myself.
It was late before everyone left, and only then would Holmes allow me to attend to his injuries.
“Human nature is really beyond all comprehension,” he said as I applied iodine to his forehead. “Four men dead, the prince nearly shot—and over what? A rock. Corundum, a mineral with a six-sided crystalline structure. And for this men plot and fight and kill each other...” He sighed and shook his head.
“Hold still, please,” I said. “This was about more than just the Star of India, you know, Holmes,” I added as I wound a dressing round his head.
“Oh, yes, no doubt the future of India is important... and there are certainly changes coming, perhaps not in our lifetime, but soon enough. Still, Watson, why must people continually grasp and grab and harm one another, when life is so short?”
“So that you have something to do,” I said, “to keep you from dying of boredom or overdosing on cocaine.”
Holmes looked at me and frowned.
“Really, Watson, that is unworthy of you. Is that really what you think of me?”
I shrugged. “I am afraid it is what you think of yourself.”
“Well, perhaps you are right,” he said thoughtfully, and then he smiled. “I wonder what your friend Mr. Freud would have to say on the matter?”
“I really am more interested at the moment on what Mrs. Hudson has for us in the kitchen,” I said, closing up my doctor’s kit. “I’m starving.” It had been hours since our tea and sandwiches.
“Why don’t you go find out?”
And so I did—I tiptoed downstairs so as not to wake Mrs. Hudson or Jenny, and to my delight there was a cold rack of lamb and some pudding in the icebox. I made a tray up and brought it upstairs.
“Look, Holmes, what I found!” I said, opening the door to the sitting room, but there was no reply—he was already asleep. I stood over him for a few moments and watched him sleep. I could only hope he was, for a time at least, safe from the nightmares which haunted him.
Epilogue
“Well Watson,” Holmes said some nights later, as we sat down to the roast which Mrs. Hudson had prepared for our dinner, “how are you going to write this one up?”
“I don’t know,” I said, pouring myself a glass of Bordeaux. “Now that I look back on everything that happened, I can’t help wondering if anyone would believe it. Besides, I fear your reputation might suffer if it became known that you were saved by a ten-year-old girl.”
Holmes smiled. “How thoughtful of you. How is Jenny getting along in Cornwall, by the way?”
“Oh, famously. She has become quite a pet of the village, it seems. Mrs. Hudson says she wants to come to London for a visit soon.”
Jenny had gone to live with Flora Campbell, Mrs. Hudson’s sister. Both of the sisters doted on her, and she, in turn, was flourishing in the healthy country air of the seaside.
“Oh, by the way, I received this by messenger today. I thought you might like to see it,” he said, and handed me a cream-colored envelope across the table. When I saw the coat of arms emblazoned on the envelope I looked at Holmes.
“Read it,” he said.
I removed the card from its envelope with trembling hands. The writing, elegant if a little unsteady with age, read, “We are most grateful for your services. Your country owes you its gratitude.—V.R.”
I put the card down and stared at Holmes, who was unable to contain his amusement at my reaction.
“Not bad, eh, Watson?”
“Perhaps I am a stodgy old traditionalist, but really, Holmes, even you must be a little impressed. A handwritten note from—”
“From the White Queen, Watson... and so her kingdom has been preserved—for a time.” He rose from the table and looked out onto the kaleidoscope of life just outside our window. “But I wonder, Watson, I wonder... change is the only constant in this little world of ours, and there are changes coming, changes which any one man will be unable to prevent.”
He stood there for a moment, his sharp profile silhouetted in the gaslight, and then he turned back to me. “Well, Watson, what do you say to a trip to the Royal Albert? I see that Wilma Norman-Neruda is playing Mozart. We have just enough time to purchase tickets.”
“Very well,” I replied, “but you must promise me that we won’t buy a seat next to any mysterious young women.”
“Oh, come, Watson, where’s your sense of adventure?”
“I’ve had enough adventure for a while—and so have you.”
“Perhaps you’re right... maybe it’s time to retire fro
m this hazardous line of work. Perhaps from now on I shall stick to reading your accounts of my exploits from the safety of my armchair. After all, what is fame, Watson? I think it’s about time that I retire into a grateful obscurity.”
I looked out of the window at the gathering twilight which wrapped itself around the lampposts like a shroud. Moriarty still lived; London would always be London, and Sherlock Holmes... well, suffice it to say that some things never change. I have no great opinion of my literary gifts, and yet even I dare to hope that so long as cab wheels clatter upon cobblestones, so long as yellow fogs settle early upon rain-slicked streets; in short, as long as the yearning for adventure throbs in the hearts of men, somewhere there will always be someone to thrill to the words: “Watson, come quickly—the game is afoot!”
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, deepest gratitude to my friend and colleague Marvin Kaye, without whom this book never would have been written. Thanks also to my editor at St Martin’s, Keith Kahla, whose unerring eye was invaluable during the rewriting process; to Susan Ginsburg and John Hodgman at Writers House for all their hard work; to Anthony Moore for his support in discussions over endless cups of tea; to Robert Murphy for lending me his guidebooks of London; to Chris Buggé for introducing me to the wonders of the Cornish coastline, and to Latif Kahn and the rest of my friends at Royal India Cuisine for keeping my spirits up with a continuous supply of both information and chicken tandoori. Finally, thanks to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, whose immortal creation has fired the imaginations of so many who came after him; I am honored to tread in his footsteps.
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