“Care for some claret, sir?” George asked.
“Nothing I would like better.” The open bottle was on the table, and he poured some into my glass.
“And the usual, the prime rib roast?”
“Yes. No hurry, though. Let me settle a bit.”
“Certainly.” He nodded graciously and strode silently away.
I sipped the claret and stared at Michelle. “Quite a day. Sorry I’m late.” I told her about the man with the crushed foot, and she asked a few questions. “And what of Alice Bromley? Did your meeting go well?”
Her forehead creased in a characteristic way, even as her mouth tightened. “Yes.”
“That is a curious look. What do you make of her?”
She shook her head. “She is… odd.”
“Did you hit it off?”
“Oh yes. I examined her briefly, and then we went for a stroll. She talked and talked. You were right in your supposition. She had many questions she would only feel comfortable asking another woman.”
“Ah. Such as?”
The corners of Michelle’s mouth rose, and her cheeks flushed ever so slightly. Her skin was very fair, and in summer she always had a few freckles scattered on her nose and cheeks.
“Oh my,” I said, “are you blushing?”
She laughed. “I am.”
“What did she ask you?”
“Well, among other things, she wanted to know how often we have ‘relations.’”
“Relations?”
“Relations. You know.”
“Oh yes. And you told her. What was her response?”
She laughed again. “She did not believe me. She thought I was joking and laughed. When I insisted, she told me she did not think that was possible.”
I frowned. “I did not think we were that prodigal. You told her… two or three times a week, and she thought that impossible?”
“Exactly.”
Michelle’s left hand rested on the table, the blue cuff of her dress vivid against the white tablecloth. Her long fingers and her knuckles were faintly red from contact with carbolic acid and constant washing. I set my hand over hers. “Imagine what she would say if she knew of our most notable day, that time when I returned from a long trip with Sherlock.”
“Oh, Henry.”
“We must try for a repeat performance sometime before we get too old and decrepit.”
“I don’t think there is much chance of that, not with you.”
“And did she say how often she has relations?”
Michelle’s smile vanished. “She doesn’t.”
“What? Never?”
“Not any longer. They did a few times after they were first married, but since then…”
“Good Lord. They both seem young and healthy enough. Is there anything physically wrong or…?”
“She said her husband thought it would not be good for her health, that she was too frail or some such thing for the exertion.”
“How strange. And how does she feel about the situation?”
“She said that, of course, he was right and that he was most considerate, that her nerves would probably not be up to such a trial on a regular basis, but when I probed a little, it seemed clear that she would welcome some renewed overtures on his part.”
“Did she seem to have enjoyed the… relations, or did she find it painful or unpleasant?”
“She was ambivalent and embarrassed, especially initially. She had many questions about what was normal, what was to be expected. She had not thought it would be quite so physical, so overwhelming, and so pleasurable—although she would never use that word. It took some probing and questions to reveal that she had actually rather liked it. I had to reassure her that this was not perverse on her part.”
I sipped at my wine and gave my head a slight shake. “Then perhaps all is not lost.” I stroked her hand lightly.
“Oh, Henry, sometimes I want to throw up my hands in despair. I don’t understand why it all has to be so complicated for so many men and women. It should not be hard, after all.”
“Did you find any signs of an actual physical illness or any problem which might justify Bromley’s concern?”
“No, not really, although she is a perfect example of one of those nervous high-strung women where it is difficult to tell how much is imaginary and how much is real. When I listened to her heart and lungs, they sounded perfectly normal, but she says her heart races at times and other times she can feel it pounding in her chest, especially at night. She also feels sometimes like she can’t catch her breath, and when she stands up she feels dizzy.”
“All of those are common enough, without any sort of underlying pathology.”
“Exactly—it is difficult to say, but there is certainly nothing which would cause a reasonable physician like you or me to prescribe sexual abstinence.”
“Did Dr. Cowen ever weigh in on this?”
“No. She has said nothing of it to him. The mere notion of talking about it with him had her blushing and stammering.”
“Well this certainly justifies my suggestion of a consultation with a woman doctor. I wonder if I should try to talk with Bromley.”
She frowned. “If you do, you mustn’t directly tell him what I have told you. If the opportunity arises, you might broach the subject, and then let him know that his wife is not so fragile as he seems to think.”
I shook my head. “This is a first. Usually it is the other way around, with the wife refusing because she is the one who feels too delicate. I cannot recall a man denying his wife, at least not a man in his twenties. But more generally, what were your impressions of Mrs. Bromley?”
“She is a conundrum, Henry, a strange mixture of the appealing and the repellant, clever and intelligent in some ways, child-like and simple-minded in others. She is one of those flighty women who don’t quite seem to live in the real world.”
George had quietly approached our table. “Are you ready for dinner, sir?”
I glanced at Michelle. “I’m ravenous,” she said.
I smiled, then nodded at George. “Yes, please.” I took a final swallow of claret, then took the bottle and poured more into Michelle’s glass and then my own. “Did you talk about the Moonstone and the curse?”
“Oh yes. And there was the same dichotomy. One moment she was quite rational, quite sane, and then the next she was like some superstitious peasant fearful of someone putting a hex on her. She kept prefacing her remarks with ‘I know it is foolish’ and ‘I know it is impossible.’ However, her fear of the diamond was certainly clear. She hates it and thinks it killed her mother and father.”
“Literally?”
She shrugged. “With her mother, that was her impression: that the jewel drove her to despair and suicide. With her father, it created an anger and a fury that eventually destroyed him. She didn’t say it directly, but her mother’s fate weighs most heavily on her. I think she is afraid that someday the diamond might make her so desperate that she too would kill herself.”
“Lord—it is as bad as that?”
“I don’t think she is suicidal, not now, but she is afraid of what might happen to her over time.”
George pushed a massive cart up to our table, covered with a white cloth. “Here we are, sir.” He lifted a gigantic silver dome off the serving dish, releasing a cloud of steam and the succulent odor of the slab of roasted beef. He took Michelle’s plate, then used a long straight carving knife to slice off the end piece, which he set on the plate. “Here we are, ma’am.”
“Oh thank you, George.”
He took my plate and cut off a slab about half an inch thick. The meat was light gray and very juicy. Michelle and I had had too much experience with human anatomy, blood and wounds to be able to tolerate rare roast beef. He dished out some roasted potatoes and carrots from a silver bowl.
“Thank you,” I said. He put the lid back on and wheeled away the cart. I glanced at Michelle, then took my glass by the stem and raised it high. She
did the same, and we clinked the bowls together, sloshing the wine slightly. “To relations,” I said.
She laughed. “To relations.” She took a swallow. An older man with a bald speckled pate at a nearby table gave us an inquisitive stare.
We were briefly quiet while we had at the beef with our knives and forks. I picked up my napkin and dabbed at my mouth. “And what was your final diagnosis of Mrs. Bromley? Did you have any recommendations?”
“I definitely think she needs to get out more. Fresh air and exercise would do her a world of good. Unfortunately her husband and Dr. Cowen are always telling her how fragile she is and that she must rest.”
“Cowen was not receptive to the idea of exercise when I spoke with him.” I hadn’t really told Michelle about the fiery words between Cowen and myself. I had only said tactfully that the doctor was not receptive to a second opinion, especially from a woman doctor.
“He wouldn’t be. He is rather old school, I’m afraid. It ought to be obvious that a woman like Alice Bromley needs some outlet for all that nervous energy.”
“She is devoted to Dr. Cowen, is she not?”
“Absolutely. She prefaced our conversation by reminding me that you had promised she was not to give him up. She said she would be glad to talk with me, but that she had her own doctor.”
“I suppose such blind loyalty is common enough, inexplicable as it may be. Oh, did you question her about her use of laudanum?”
“Yes. She said she did not know how she could exist without it. That was not a promising start. I tried to tell her as gently as possible of the risks of dependency and that it would be well to try to wean herself off the drug. She was noncommittal, but said that after the diamond was gone, perhaps she might think of it.”
“Gone? Oh, I suppose she meant once it is locked away.”
“She is dreading that dinner party. She wasn’t exactly glad to hear I was coming. ‘There are too many people,’ she said. ‘Far too many.’ But then she bolstered her resolve by saying, ‘One last time.’”
I set down my fork and took my wine glass. “She said the same thing to Holmes and me. How did things end between you? Do you think you will see her again?”
“Yes, but not exactly as doctor and patient. She seemed to enjoy our stroll together and was forlorn at the idea of parting, so I suggested a regular walk might do us both good. She was delighted at the suggestion. I think she needs a friend. She certainly needs someone to talk to. She said as much. Jane Alexander and she have little in common. No one she knows reads books the way she does. When we got on the subject of novels, Wilkie Collins came up, and she became more enthusiastic and animated than I had hereto seen. We talked about Miss Gwilt in Armadale and Magdalen Vanstone in No Name. The two are opposites in some ways, alike in others.”
“I suppose I should give Collins a try. Which book would you recommend?”
“Start with No Name. I think it is the better of the two, especially for a romantic like you.”
“And do you think you can work these regular walks into your schedule?”
“I can find the time, and I also need more exercise to release my own nervous energy.”
I smiled. “You always had a soft heart, especially for stray cats and dogs.”
Michelle shook her head. “If only she had some real occupation, something worthwhile to do in life. One of the old maxims I believe in, is that an idle mind is the devil’s workshop. It is not good for an intelligent, sensitive young woman like her to sit about brooding and noticing every minute change in her pulse or respiration.”
“Did you also meet Mr. Bromley?”
“Yes, coming and going. He was very cordial, quite charming, almost excessively so. He is a handsome man.” She smiled at me. “But not so handsome as my husband.”
I smiled back, but then my smile faded away. “I wonder…”
“Yes?”
“I wonder if she really loves him.”
Michelle’s forehead creased. She picked up her napkin and dabbed at her lips. “She kept saying how good he was to her, how well he treated her, and yet… it was almost as if she needed to convince herself.”
“He seems amiable enough. All the same…”
“Yes?”
“You’d have to truly be half dead before I could ever keep my hands off of you.”
She smiled, set down her fork and leaned forward to grasp my hand with hers. “I feel the same way.”
I raised her hand and kissed her fingertips. “Good.”
* * *
Holmes had sent me a telegram asking me to stop by around ten on Tuesday morning. Unlike the day before, I had little to do, so I arrived exactly on time. Mrs. Hudson went up the stairs with me, her hand resting on the railing. “He seems in a fine mood the last few days, Dr. Vernier. You can always tell when he has an interesting case. It does his spirits a world of good.”
“Yes, nothing like a good robbery, a mysterious poisoning or a corpse hauled from the Thames to cheer him up.”
She gave me a conspiratorial smile. “What a wicked thing to say!” Every so often she showed unexpected flashes of irony given her conventional appearance as an elderly, respectable landlady.
I stepped into the flat, but no one was there. “Holmes?” I called.
“Give me a moment or two, Henry,” came a voice from the bedroom. “Have a seat, and I shall join you soon.”
I wandered over to the bow window and stared down at Baker Street. Nearby on Holmes’s cluttered desk was a neat stack of papers. The title page had “History of the Moonstone Diamond” and “prepared for the Thakur Sahib Bhagwatsimhji Sagramsimhji by his servant Ahmad Tyabji.” I found it difficult to imagine a typewriter in the midst of some exotic Indian palace, but it had obviously been typed.
At last I sat in Holmes’s comfortable basket chair, crossed my legs and closed my eyes. After a while, I heard the door open. Before me stood an Indian in tan garments similar to Murthwaite’s, but he wore a white turban. He was tall and thin, dark-skinned, with an odd nose. His upper lip also protruded strangely; he must have buck teeth. He raised two brown hands, put them together and bowed slightly. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” His voice was quite high, with the characteristic distinct and clipped speech of an Indian.
“He is in his bedroom. I’m just waiting for him.”
“Perhaps I too shall wait for him.”
I frowned. “Does this have something to do with the Moonstone?”
He lowered his gaze. “The Moonstone—I want nothing to do with it! Truly it has the curse of Kali upon it. Woe unto he who even views the wretched thing!” He spoke with great feeling.
“You do know about the Moonstone! Holmes will want to hear all about it.”
He bowed to me again. “And so he shall, sahib. Pardon me for a moment.” He went to the door to Holmes’s bedroom and grasped the doorknob.
“What? Where do you think you are going? You cannot just walk into his bedroom!” I stood up at once and followed him. The Indian stood just before the bed, but no one else was there. “Wherever can he have gone? Sherlock… Sherlock, where are you?” I glanced at the wardrobe.
“No need to shout,” the tall Indian said. The voice was transformed and completely unmistakable. The pitch had dropped, and the Indian accent was gone.
“I hate it when you do this! You know I am the least discerning of men. You could put on a funny hat and a clown wig and fool me. What did you do? Creep out while I had my eyes closed, then open the other door and pretend to enter?”
“Exactly.”
“All right, but why are you disguised that way?”
“We need to visit Bromley’s jeweler friend this morning, and I have had some dealings with him in the past. I don’t want him to recognize me. However, the Bromley case—and Mr. Murthwaite—inspired me. This is an interesting addition to my repertoire, I think.”
“You’ve done something to your nose. And your mouth. What’s the matter with your lip?”
“It’s
theatrical putty. Nothing distorts the face like a wad of it under the upper lip. Remember that Mrs. Bromley said the Indian had an odd-looking lip? Probably the same technique. Well, should we be off?”
Mrs. Hudson was taking some air before the front door. “Good day, Dr. Vernier.” She smiled. “And Mr. Holmes.”
We both nodded. I shook my head. “No fooling her, I see.”
“She is a most observant lady, and she has seen me in many different guises.”
“Not so dense as me, is what you mean.”
“Now, now, Henry, you mustn’t take offense over a triviality. A fine day for a stroll. We have perhaps a half-hour walk before us.”
We went through the busy London streets to a neighborhood that had gone downhill over the years. On our way several people gave Holmes and me odd looks. One little boy in particular opened his eyes very wide. Clearly he had never seen an Indian in a turban before. Holmes put his hands together and gave him a slight bow. His mother looked startled and grasped the child’s hand tightly. We passed a wooden cart that stank of rancid fried fish. The vendor in his battered brown jacket and bowler frowned at us. We stopped before the corner building. Overhead was a large sign: MESSRS HARTER & BENJAMIN, JEWELERS.
“Are we seeing Mr. Harter or Mr. Benjamin?” I asked.
“Harter. Benjamin has been dead a good many years, but Harter never had the sign changed. I shall be questioning Mr. Harter about diamond rings. When I ask you who sent us, I want you to say ‘Charles Bromley,’ but no word of him until then.”
“Perhaps I might look at something for Michelle while we are here.”
He shrugged slightly. “As you wish, but don’t commit to any purchase until we have talked afterwards.” He pressed a buzzer.
The door was a massive oaken slab with a solid front and a small peephole, and as it swung open, it showed itself a good two inches thick. A very broad man in a blue uniform, something akin to a policeman’s with a row of brass buttons, stood before us. The jacket had a belt, and from it hung a thick black truncheon. His hands were at least six inches across, his fingers thick as sausages. His red-brown hair was thin on top, his nose slightly flattened with an enormous mustache sprouting below and hiding his upper lip. He frowned slightly at the sight of Holmes in his Indian garb. “Yes?”
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