Holmes gave a sharp nod. He glanced at me.
“Are you certain that was not a dream?” I asked.
She shook her head. “It was no dream. The Moonstone has always been a bane on our family, and I would be happy to be rid of it. I believe…” Her eyes filled with tears, and she lowered her gaze.
“Yes?” Holmes asked softly.
She did not look up. “If not for the Moonstone, my mother would still be alive.” She bit her lip and fought to hold back the tears. “Oh how I wish… I would give it away in an instant if it were mine to give!”
“To Mr. Tyabji?”
“Yes.”
“Your husband proposes to lock it away in a bank vault. Won’t that make you feel better?”
She shrugged. “I suppose. A little, perhaps. But a curse is a curse, Mr. Holmes.” She stared into his eyes. “It is there regardless of where you put the diamond. It does not go away.”
One corner of Holmes’s mouth rose, but not with amusement. “What is a curse, Mrs. Bromley?”
“What do you mean?”
“Explain to me exactly what a curse is.”
Her eyes were still fixed on his. “It means bad luck and misfortune. It means suffering. It means death.”
He shook his head. “All of that. Little wonder you want it gone.”
Her eyes still glistened. “You are mocking me.”
“I am not. I promise you that I am not. So you believe some supernatural force is behind this curse, some non-human agency?”
She nodded once. Against the pure white of her silk dress with its lacy collar, you could see the subtle changes in skin color: her face had grown paler still.
“I do not believe in supernatural forces, Mrs. Bromley. But…”
“But what?”
“Human evil is sufficiently malevolent. It can hardly be outdone by ghosts or demons. Your husband, I think, does not share your views.”
“No.”
“But he is not so stern as your father?”
“Oh no. He never raises his voice to me. And he is going to lock the diamond away. That is… better than nothing.” Her eyes turned downward, and she murmured, “One last time.”
Holmes stared at her. “One last time?”
“I have to wear it one last time, and then I shall be done. After the dinner party next week, it will be over with. Just one last time—after all these years, certainly I can manage… one last time.” She bit her lower lip.
Holmes looked at me, his concern obvious. “I do not like to distress you, but there is another subject we must discuss. Your husband said you have seen a face at the window, an Indian, you thought, in a white turban.”
Her face stiffened slightly, even as she sat more upright in the chair. “I do not like to think about that.”
Holmes, wisely, did not want to give her time to reflect. “When did you first see this Indian?”
“About six months ago. At our library window.” She had begun to rub one hand against the other, her long white fingers moving rhythmically.
“And how many times have you seen him?”
“Three. The last was a month ago. Now I keep the curtains closed and try to remember never to look at the window.” Her mouth pulled into a pained smile. “Charles thinks I imagined it, that I must have been dreaming or that it was only an idle fancy.”
“And what do you think?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I just don’t know. It does not seem to make much sense. The jewel has been in the family for over ninety years. Why would the Indians reappear now? Surely after so much time—this is what I try to tell myself—they must have lost interest.”
“Why do you say ‘reappear’?”
“Because some Indians were supposed to be after the jewel when my grandmother first obtained it from her uncle around 1840. That was fifty years ago! And yet, Mr. Tyabji says the jewel’s absence is still felt in his part of India. If it is felt, then perhaps…” Her voice shook.
“Besides the white turban, what distinguished this person as an Indian?”
“His skin was dark brown. And he had thick black eyebrows. And his upper lip… there was something odd about it.” A slight note of hysteria had crept into her voice.
“Did he have any particular facial expression?”
“He smiled at me.” She shuddered, then her shoulders stiffened even as her mouth twitched. “I screamed, of course. Rather loudly. I can really scream when I want to.”
“I’m sure you can. And you are certain it was the same man each time?”
“Yes, I think so. I hadn’t thought that it might be a different man.”
“And what time of day was this?”
“It was in the morning the first time, and in the early evening the other two times.”
“But not at night—or after you had been dozing?”
“No, not even the first time. I had been awake and out of bed for a few minutes.”
“And other than this Indian, have you ever seen other strange faces at the window?”
“No.”
“I see.” He glanced at me. “This does not seem exactly like a hallucination to me.”
I shook my head. “No.” Granted Mrs. Bromley was excitable, anxious and overwrought, but she did not seem truly insane.
She let out her breath slowly. “I don’t know if I should feel relieved or not. If I am not simply mad…”
I laughed. “There is no such thing as simply mad—madness, insanity, is complicated. There is often nothing simple about it.”
“Charles seemed so sure, although Dr. Cowen was puzzled. If I simply made it up, then I would be safe, but if the Indian were real, then he would probably be dangerous. He might come back. He might be out there watching and waiting to strike. All the same, if I made it up, my safety would still be relative—I mean to say, I would obviously not be safe from my imagination, would I now?—and my imagination can be very frightening indeed.”
“Regardless,” said Holmes, “we need not automatically assume the worst. Your husband said that lurking Indians is the stuff of melodrama, and I tend to agree.”
“But if the Indian was not interested in the diamond, why would he come to my window?”
“If he were interested, why would he appear at your library window? Thereby alerting you to a conspiracy. What could he possibly learn from peeking in your window? Besides, I am not at all convinced he was an Indian. Brown make-up and a turban are easily obtained.”
She tilted her head slightly, her brow furrowing. “I had not thought of that. But why would someone—a white man—do such a thing?”
“It is too early to speculate.” Holmes’s thin lips formed an ironic smile. “But that is what I intend to find out, madam. Another question or two, and we can leave the painful subject of the Moonstone behind. Your husband has a dog, does he not?”
“Oh yes—Sally. Dogs often make me nervous, especially big barky dogs—my sister’s husband has mastiffs, great slobbering beasts—but Sally is tolerable. She is very good-natured, and after all she is female, too.”
“Did your husband think to turn the dog loose after the Indian appeared?”
Mrs. Bromley stared at him, frowned, then her brow cleared and she smiled. She had a slight gap between her upper front teeth, a minor imperfection that I found appealing. “The curious incident of the dog in the night-time, Mr. Holmes!”
Holmes gave a great sigh, then laughed once. “Touché, madam! You do know Watson’s stories. And what happened with Sally?”
“Well, it was only the third time that Charles thought to let Sally loose. Nothing happened, but Charles didn’t think to do it immediately, so the man probably had time to get away. Besides, I’m afraid Sally isn’t much of a guard dog. Her barking is not consistent at all. Sometimes she barks just for the fun of it, other times, while James is running wildly about and shouting—James is my two-year-old nephew—Sally sits there, perfectly calm. She is not a young dog. She is perhaps five years old. She…”
“Oh yes, he…” She frowned and shook her head. “I know what you must be thinking—shame on you! Charles was not the Indian—certainly not. He was in the nearby sitting room, and he was there in an instant, within seconds.”
Holmes shrugged. “It was necessary to be certain.”
“Don’t you trust anyone, Mr. Holmes?”
“If I have learned one thing in my profession, it is that trust must be earned and never given blindly. One must assume nothing.”
“Yes, I suppose you have to suspect everyone. Still, wherever do you stop, then? If you question everything, then life is all a maze, and one soon becomes lost in one’s doubts.”
“You have a point, madam, but let us now drop all further philosophical discussions. We want to avoid becoming like a dog chasing its tail.” He turned to me. “Henry, do you have any questions for Mrs. Bromley?”
We had agreed beforehand I would talk to her last to try to determine if a consultation with Michelle would be beneficial. “Your husband says Dr. Cowen has been your physician for many years.”
She looked puzzled. “So he has. Since I was a girl of about twelve. He was also my mother and father’s doctor. Do you know Dr. Cowen?”
“I do, and I respect his abilities.” That made her smile. “All the same, sometimes another opinion can be valuable.” This made her smile vanish.
“Charles has put you up to this, hasn’t he? He’s always asking me to see someone else—I know he doesn’t like Dr. Cowen and wants me to give him up. But I will not—I will not.” Given her flightiness, her resolution surprised me.
“It is not a question of giving him up—not at all. I would only suggest that you might see another doctor and…”
“I am sure you are quite competent, Dr. Vernier—otherwise Mr. Holmes would not have you as a friend. All the same…”
I laughed. “I am not talking about myself—I am talking about my wife.”
“Your wife?” She was absolutely incredulous.
“She is a doctor, too, Dr. Michelle Doudet Vernier, and I believe your friend Lady Alexander is her patient.”
Her brow had furrowed. “Jane has told me about her doctor, recommended her, even. All the same…”
“Many women find it very relieving to speak with a doctor of their own sex. They have certain questions or symptoms they could simply never discuss with a male doctor.”
Mrs. Bromley opened her mouth, then closed it. For the first time, she seemed at a loss for words.
“Perhaps you have some such questions. It would not be giving up Dr. Cowen, not at all. She would merely meet with you and then discuss your condition with him. What harm could there be in a visit, testing the waters, so to speak? Some people actually have two doctors, you know, a regular doctor, and a specialist to deal with certain maladies. I am certain you would like Michelle.”
She smiled faintly. “Would I?”
“I would let Dr. Cowen know before Michelle visits you. It would be done with his knowledge.” I almost added “and with his consent”, but reflected that was best not assumed.
She ran her tongue across her lips, then drew in her breath. “Very well. But only one trial visit—and I am not giving Dr. Cowen up.”
“Certainly not.”
Holmes nodded. “Excellent. I am glad that is resolved. I may have further questions for you later, Mrs. Bromley, but you have had enough unpleasantness for one day.”
“Now might I ask a question or two of you, Mr. Holmes? It is only fair, after all.”
He smiled. “Very well. I suppose you have earned the right.”
Her right hand rested on top of her left, stroked it lightly. Michelle had big hands, too, but not so slender and thin as hers. “So often in the stories it seems that you meet people with a very dark secret in their past which comes back to haunt them. They are not so respectable as they seem.”
“Certain of Watson’s stories are fairly accurate, but often, probably to satisfy the public demand, he repeated them with slight variations. Many people have unpleasant secrets of one variety or another in their past, but rarely have they been convicts once transported to Australia.”
“We spoke before of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Do you believe such a duality exists in everyone, good and evil counterbalanced, a raging beast lurking within the best of us?”
Holmes smiled faintly. “That, I think, is an exaggeration. The dark side of most people is more selfishness and unpleasantness than true wickedness. The boor is more typical than the fiend. And with the truly evil, it is not dualism—it is deceit, evil masquerading as good. It is men who may appear respectable and beneficent like Dr. Jekyll, but that is only a façade. Their private lives are dedicated to vice and crime.”
Her slender face paled again, then her mouth pulled upward on one side in an ironic half-smile. “Like the Moonstone. It appears beautiful, radiant, but beneath its shining surface lies evil and darkness.”
“Madam, such thoughts are hardly helpful. Try to strive for some objectivity. Try to look at the diamond as an attractive lump of valuable mineral dug up from the earth, and nothing more.”
She sighed. “I shall try.” She stroked her chin lightly. “But these deceitful persons who are villains inside… Beautiful outside, rotten within—is this common?”
“No. Most respectable-seeming people are indeed respectable, especially men when they reach a certain age and set aside the excesses of youth such as drinking, gambling and debauchery, excesses which are, by the way, the most common secrets we spoke of earlier. Yes, most are genuinely respectable. Boring perhaps, but respectable.”
She laughed. “I probably fall into that category.”
“Not at all—you are capable of an intelligent conversation. That puts you in the top tier of your sex.”
I smiled. “You had better not say such a thing before Michelle.”
He shrugged. “It is equally true of men.”
“Ah yes,” I said. “You can always argue that the misanthrope does not discriminate between the sexes.” I looked at Mrs. Bromley. “Are you an avid reader, Mrs. Bromley?”
“Oh, I am! It is my one great avocation and consolation. It lets me forget my wearisome life and all my afflictions.”
I stared curiously at her. She was young, attractive in a delicate sort of way, well off, and married to a man who loved her. Still, I had seen cases enough where a crippling mental pain tormented those who seemed to have everything. “Well, I hope you read other things than ghost stories or dark tales like the one about Dr. Jekyll.”
“Oh, generally I avoid ghost stories and the like. I do enjoy novels of mystery and adventure. I have read much of Walter Scott, Robert Louis Stevenson, the Brontës and all of Dickens. Wilkie Collins is a particular favorite. I’m especially fond of his No Name. The character Magdalen Vanstone is a wronged young woman determined to have her revenge, to turn the tables, upon her oppressors. One cannot possibly condone her conduct, nor should one admire her, but I do! She is so strong and determined, so full of life, so clever. I wish I had an iota of her fortitude. Have you read the novel, Dr. Vernier?”
I shook my head.
“I have,” Holmes said. “Collins’s early novels are favorites of mine as well.”
A black dog with curly fur walked into the room, leaped up onto the sofa between Holmes and Mrs. Bromley, then curled up neatly beside the woman, draping its black paws over the edge of the velvet cushion. The large pink tongue hung out, and the dog panted lightly.
“Sally—there you are, girl.” Mrs. Bromley stroked the dog’s head, ruffled the fur slightly, then raised one large black ear and let it drop. “Such a good dog. Such a sweetheart.” She stroked its head again, and Sally’s brown eyes gave her that look of absolute canine adoration.
“Am I interrupting?” Bromley had appeared in the doorway. Gone was his re
d dressing grown, replaced with a dark tweed jacket.
“We were just finishing,” Holmes said. “I was about to send for you.”
“Ready for a look at the safe, then?”
“Certainly.” Holmes stood. He nodded at Mrs. Bromley. “It has been a pleasure, madam.”
She beamed and stood. “The pleasure is mine. If anyone can help us with the wretched Moonstone, it would be you, Mr. Holmes.”
Bromley smiled slightly, then set his hand on his wife’s shoulder. They almost seemed posed for a family portrait. “Now, now, Alice, you mustn’t be always thinking the worst of the jewel.”
I had also stood. “We shall arrange a time for Michelle to visit you.”
She smiled. “I look forward to it.”
Bromley gave her shoulder a final squeeze, then started for the doorway. Sally jumped down from the sofa and followed. He led us down a hallway. “It’s just in the library.”
We went through the doorway. Walnut bookcases hid most of the walls, a table of the same dark wood was in the center, and at the far wall was a pair of tall windows.
“So this is the room where Mrs. Bromley thought she saw a face at the window?” Holmes asked. “Before I leave, I shall want to examine the back of the house.”
“Certainly, Mr. Holmes. There is a terrace, then the empty stables.”
“You do not keep a horse and carriage?”
“For us they are not worth the considerable expense.” Sally had followed us into the library, and she stood beside her master.
“How many servants do you have, Mr. Bromley? We have met Hodges, Mrs. Carlson, Sabine and a housemaid.
“Not many, I’m afraid. The housemaid was Susan. There is another named Matilda, and the cook, Mrs. Bateson.”
“Do they all live here with you?”
“Except for Mrs. Bateson. She lives close by.”
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