“Their rooms are on the top floor, I suppose?”
“Yes, except for Hodges. He has a small room next to my dressing room.” He gave Holmes a slightly puzzled look, then swept his arm about in the direction of the bookshelves. “I’m not much of a reader compared to Alice. She inherited most of these books from her mother and father. The situation was the same with them—Charlotte was the great reader, not Neville.”
Before a section of bare wall, an elaborately framed painting rested on the floor, a pastoral tableau of sheep and a castle. Normally it must hide the black metal square of the safe with its circular combination dial in the center and to the side, a small silver knob. Bromley gestured with his freckled right hand. “After we were married, I had this put in and attached to the interior beams. You would have to tear the wall out now to remove it, and a stick or two of dynamite would hardly dent it. I didn’t want to lie awake at night worrying about the safety of the Moonstone, and now I sleep quite soundly.”
Holmes nodded. “Most impressive. Mr. Bromley, I must ask for a few minutes alone with the safe.” Bromley looked surprised. “Professional secrets, you know. My examination procedure is unique and must remain confidential.”
“Certainly, Mr. Holmes. As you wish. Take your time. I shall be in the sitting room with Alice. Come along, Sally.” The dog looked up at Holmes and me, her tongue lolling out, her breath coming and going. “Sally—come.” The dog gave us a regretful look, then followed her master. He closed the door behind them.
“Have a seat, Henry. This may take a few minutes. Mr. Bromley has certainly spared no expense when it came to his safe—wisely so. If you are going to have a diamond like the Moonstone, you want to take the obvious precautions.” He leaned closer and began to turn the dial lightly to and fro with his long fingers. “This is massive, massive.”
There were sturdy wooden chairs at the table, but I sat in a comfortable leather armchair and crossed my legs. “I don’t see quite why he wants you to look at it. Isn’t it obvious that breaking into such a safe would be impossible?”
“Perhaps, but he is obviously very cautious in all matters concerning the Moonstone. It is his most prized possession.” He went to the table, pulled out its single drawer, then rummaged about briefly before closing it. Next he picked up the painting and looked carefully at the back.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“Some people have an excellent safe, but are stupid enough to write down the combination and leave the paper close by where it can easily be discovered.” He set down the painting, stroked his chin, then began to take books out of the bookcase and flip through them. “Ah, here is Wilkie Collins’s Armadale, another novel with an interesting heroine—although that is definitely the wrong word for Miss Gwilt! You really should give Collins a try, Henry. No Name would be an interesting place to start.”
“Perhaps I shall. I believe Michelle has a copy of the novel.”
“Curious that Mrs. Bromley would find Magdalen Vanstone so appealing. She would seem to have more in common with the insipid sister. Magdalen was a born actress. A case of opposites attracting, or perhaps…” He shook his head as he returned a book to its shelf. “It would take some time to go through every book. I’ve done the ones close at hand. He might have put the combination in his billfold, which would be equally stupid, but I cannot check his billfold.” He extended his fingers and tapped his hands lightly together. “I think before perusing more books, I shall have a look at the safe. This variety of Withy Grove generally has a combination of four double numbers in a left-right, left-right pattern, with an extra revolution in the middle.”
“Eight numbers in total. How many random combinations does that make for?”
“I would say around half a million, Henry. Given eight digits, if you include the leading zeros, 99,999,999 numbers are possible. However, the dial only has the numbers from zero through fifty, so that means only half the numbers would be possible.”
I laughed. “Not much chance of stumbling across it by luck!”
“No. Not by luck.” He was turning the dial in both directions. “Sometimes people are clever in most respects, but even they can blunder.”
I drummed lightly at the table, closed my eyes for a few seconds, then put my hand over my mouth to stifle a yawn. The dial made intermittent whirring, clicking noises as Holmes turned it to and fro. I could tell he was trying different combinations, then pausing a few seconds in between.
Finally I said, “How long are you going to fiddle with that? I think we agreed that you aren’t going to find the combination by luck.”
“So we did. Ah.” Something clicked. He took the silver knob next to the combination dial, turned it, and swung open the safe door.
“My God.” I stood up to look inside. The black velvet case rested on the metal shelf.
Holmes gave me a conspiratorial smile. “Shall we have a quick look?” He hesitated, drawing back like an artist regarding his canvas, then he took the square case and opened it. The room was dim, muted and shadowy, but the diamond glowed faintly like some transparent sea creature, dormant but beautiful. Holmes closed the lid, then set the case back in exactly the same position. He swung shut the door, turned the knob, then spun the combination dial. “Very good.”
I stared at him. “I never knew you were a cracksman!”
He gave a sharp laugh. “I am not.”
“Then how did you do that? It was not luck.”
“No. Our clever Mr. Bromley made one mistake.”
“Which was?”
“He had the combination set to his birthday: the year, the month and the day. Thus he need not ever worry about remembering the combination.” He laughed, then swept his hand round in a great arc. “A good thing I did not try to examine every one of these books!”
“But… how did you know the date of his birth?”
“The day is the same as for Mrs. Bromley, July second—remember? He told us. And the year came from Debrett’s.”
“I would have never thought of such a thing. You must tell him. He can have the combination changed.”
Holmes’s smile disappeared. “I think not, Henry. Not yet, at any rate.”
“But should someone steal the diamond…”
“I do not believe the safe is in imminent danger from thieves. Besides, your common robber or cracksman prefers brute force and is incapable of deduction. We shall wait for a while.”
I let out my breath. “I suppose you know best.”
“You must not say a word of this. For now, we must let Mr. Bromley continue to sleep soundly at night.” He began to hum something softly, even as he stepped around the table. “You might re-join the Bromleys while I have a look at the back of the house.”
“Perhaps I shall.”
A light rap sounded at the door, just as Holmes reached it. “Yes?”
The door swung open, revealing Hodges. His broad freckled hands rested lightly at his sides, and his forehead was slightly creased. “Mr. Bromley wondered, sir, if you were finished. He’s engaged, but he thought you’d like me to show you round the back terrace and the stables.”
“Indeed I would. You have arrived at exactly the right moment.” The big man half turned, but Holmes did not move. “Tell me, Hodges, that revolver you had in your coat pocket yesterday at Baker Street, do you know how to use it?”
Hodges did not move for a few seconds, then turned back toward us. In the dim light of the hallway his pupils were swollen black spots. Although he was not particularly tall, he had an enormously thick neck, mostly muscle. The wingtip white collar with its points folded down, must be the largest size available. His chin, on the other hand, did not amount to much. His big hand came up, briefly touched either side of his jaw, then fell again.
“Yes.”
“I suppose being armed is a wise precaution when one is carrying a valuable jewel like the Moonstone.”
Hodges nodded. “Exactly, sir.”
“And have you any o
ther hidden talents?”
“No. Not particularly.”
Holmes smiled faintly at me. “I shan’t be long, Henry.”
I returned to the sitting room. The Bromleys had been joined by two other women. They all stood, and Bromley introduced me to Lady Jane Alexander and to his sister-in-law Lady Norah Bartram.
I would have never taken the two women for sisters. Norah was barely over five feet tall, plump rather than slender, bosomy, with chestnut hair bound up tightly. The firm set of her small mouth and the imperious glint in her brown eyes showed a self-assurance completely absent in her sister. Jane I had met before when she had come to see Michelle. A tall woman, almost brawny, a brunette with formidable black eyebrows, she always seemed self-confident to the point of haughtiness. Norah wore an elaborate striped green silk, while Jane had on a purple silk with the fashionable mutton sleeves tapering in at the forearms. The two women were each attractive in their own way and knew it. Pale Alice in her ivory dress resembled some dreamy wood nymph caught between two buxom Amazon warriors, a tall one and a short one, in their colorful battle garb.
Norah shook her head at Bromley. “So you actually went to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes? You have dragged him into this nonsense of Alice’s?”
Jane’s smile was faintly bitter. “Charles is always very thorough in his own way.”
“Better safe than sorry,” Bromley said. “We want to make sure the diamond remains secure and within the family.”
Norah shook her head. “So you lock it in a bank vault where no one ever has the pleasure of seeing it again!” Norah said. “That’s just lunacy. You know what I’ve always said: if you don’t want the diamond, I’ll be happy to take it off your hands. I’m not afraid of one of the most beautiful jewels in all of England. Give it to me.”
“You know I cannot do that,” Alice said.
Norah smiled sarcastically. “Because you care for me?”
“Yes. I would not wish its curse on anyone! Especially not my own sister.”
“I’ll be happy to take it, curse and all.”
Alice had forced herself to smile, but her expression was pained. “Must you always joke about it?”
“What else am I supposed to do? Be terrified all the time like you? Afraid of every shadow?” She gave her head another fierce shake. “I would not live that way for anything.”
“Come now, Norah.” Jane’s forehead was creased, and her lips pulled briefly outward and up. “Let your sister be. You know you will not change her. We are what we are. And where is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Vernier?”
“Outside. He should be joining us momentarily.”
“Excellent! I’ve always wanted to meet him. In the meantime, I must finish my story.” She looked at Alice and Norah, her ironic smile returning even as she raised her large white hands. “You will not believe what Rose Chadwell did next.”
Bromley looked at me and rolled his eyes upward.
Three
A light drizzle fell on Friday afternoon as Holmes and I took a hansom over Vauxhall Bridge to south London for a visit to Mr. Tyabji. Holmes had arranged to meet him around one o’clock. This was a rather ugly part of London, row after row of newly constructed plain brick homes as the metropolis threw its tendrils ever outward.
We went to the door, and Holmes rang the bell. A short Indian man neatly dressed in a black morning coat opened the door. “Mr. Tyabji?” Holmes said.
“No, sir. He is waiting for you. May I take your hats? This way please.”
He led us down a dim hallway to a doorway that opened upon an oriental fantasyland. I drew in my breath in disbelief. Large tapestries of Indian scenes—men in turbans, exotic women in saris, elephants and tigers—hung on the walls, and a many-colored carpet from the Arabian Nights covered the wooden floor. In the corner a huge elaborate hookah of red glass with two long hoses gave off the smell of fragrant tobacco. Two men who appeared Indian stood up from amidst a pile of pillows with tassels and elaborate patchwork designs in red, yellow, green, azure or darker blue silk. One man was quite tall and wore a black waistcoat and black-and-gray trousers, the golden U of his watch chain showing. Upon a nearby chair lay a black coat. The smaller man wore light tan garments, a red turban and a red sash. He was obviously older with a thin brown face and a hooked nose.
Holmes looked between the two, then said to the man in the turban, “Mr. Tyabji?”
He laughed. “Sorry, old boy. Murthwaite is the name.” His speech clearly established that he was English despite his dress.
The taller man took a step forward and extended his hand. “I am Geoffrey Tyabji, Mr. Holmes. It is a great pleasure to meet you.” His English was almost perfect, with only a slight lilt. He was a very handsome young man with the straight nose and full lips of a classical Greek statue. Although he had the brown eyes and dark skin of an Indian, his curly hair was light brown, almost gold.
“The pleasure is mine, sir. This is my cousin and friend, Dr. Henry Vernier.”
“Not Watson?” the two men said.
This required the usual tiresome explanation. The other man introduced himself as Jack Murthwaite, and we all took turns shaking hands. “Jack is my dearest English friend,” Tyabji said, “and perhaps he should remain if you wish to discuss the Moonstone. He knows all about the jewel, and he has long been acquainted with the Blake family.”
Murthwaite nodded, smiling. His white teeth stood out against his brown skin. He had a pair of dark brown eyes which went with his swarthy visage. “I have known Alice since she was a little girl. I used to entertain her with stories about my adventures in India. I’m afraid I stretched the truth a bit, especially when it came to tigers. My father knew the older Blakes well. He was at the birthday dinner where Rachel Verinder—soon to be Rachel Blake—first wore the diamond.”
“Indeed?” Holmes said. “Yes, by all means, please stay.”
“Very good,” Tyabji nodded, then gestured about him. “Would you mind removing your shoes, gentlemen, and then take either a chair or some pillows on the floor, as you prefer.”
Holmes and I both took off our shoes, and then I sat in a comfortable brown leather armchair. Holmes removed his coat and draped it over a chair, then drew together some cushions and sat cross-legged on them. Murthwaite was reclining, his chin propped upon his left hand, while Tyabji sat upright.
Tyabji leaned over and took one of the hoses from the hookah. “Would you mind if we smoke?” We shook our heads. Tyabji drew in deeply, making the charcoal atop the brass bowl glow, then released a cloud of fragrant smoke. Murthwaite sat up, took the other hose, then reclined again, even as he took in the water-cooled smoke. “I suppose you must have heard about my offer to the Bromleys,” Tyabji said.
“So I have,” Holmes said, “but before we discuss that, I am at a disadvantage. You and your friend know me from Watson’s stories and my general reputation, but I know little about you. Tell me something about yourselves and your connection with the Moonstone.”
Tyabji began. “I was born in the Indian state of Gujarat. My father, a Muslim, is now first minister and secretary to the Maharajah of Gondal, a Hindu. However, some twenty-four years ago my father married an Englishwoman. I am the only child of that union. My mother was the daughter of Christian missionaries. Her parents were horrified at her marriage. Her father disinherited her and refuses to speak with her. My grandmother was more forgiving. I was raised in India, but my mother always spoke English with me, and I attended an English boarding school in Delhi. I came to England at the age of eighteen to pursue my education at Oxford. In my youth I was taught the rudiments of both the Christian and the Muslim faiths by my mother and my father. Theirs was a more tolerant variety than usual. Also, living where I did, the Hindus with their bewildering plethora of different gods and goddesses were everywhere around me. I learned to speak Gujarati and Hindi, as well as some Arabic.
“Recently the maharajah has begun plans for renovating the temple at Somanatha which was dedicated to the moon g
od Chandra. It was first home to the Moonstone centuries ago before it began its long exile and many journeys. The maharajah believes that the temple and its grand statue of Chandra will never be truly complete without the jewel. He gave my father the task of tracing the Moonstone’s history since it was taken from the temple in the eleventh century. That is a long, complicated tale. I must let friend Jack have his turn.”
Murthwaite released a cloud of smoke, then turned to Holmes, the hose end in hand. “Would you care for a draw, Mr. Holmes? It’s an excellent tobacco; Indian, of course.” He sat up and took the end of his shirt and wiped the tip vigorously. He wore no stockings, and his feet and toes were long and bony, the tendons pronounced.
Holmes smiled faintly. “Perhaps I shall.” He took the mouthpiece, drew in a long slow breath even as his forehead creased in concentration, then eased out the smoke. “It is very good.” He made to hand it back to Murthwaite, who shook his head.
“Take your time. No hurry. Can’t really smoke and talk at the same time, can I? My name’s Jack Murthwaite, and I’ll have five decades under my belt come September. Most of them I’ve spent in India. My father Robert Murthwaite was an explorer who spent much of his life in the East—India, Afghanistan and Tibet. He took an English wife late in life, and I was born soon after. I grew up listening to his tales, and there was never any doubt in my mind that I’d follow in his footsteps. I’m afraid I was a rather wild youth, always fighting and getting in trouble at boarding school.
“Luckily I had a knack for languages, which was to serve me in good stead and make up for bad behavior. I threw myself into Greek because I wanted to read the Iliad and the Odyssey, and into Latin for the Aeneid and Caesar’s commentaries. How I longed to become a wanderer like Odysseus! My father gave me a Hindi grammar and dictionary on my tenth birthday, and I perused it as if it were a novel. I practiced regularly with him, and every time I saw an Indian on the street, I would address him in Hindi. Often a conversation would ensue. Invariably the men were flabbergasted to meet an English boy who tried to speak their language.
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