The Moonstone's Curse

by Sam Siciliano

  “You do delight in your little mysteries. Very well. Until tomorrow.” With a curt nod, Lestrade strode away, the constable following him. Lestrade went ten paces, then suddenly stopped, turned and came back to the porch. “I forgot to tell you. We may indeed have found the maid Amy amongst the files on the bodies pulled from the Thames.”

  Holmes’s brief smile was pained. “Ah. And I suspect she was found sometime in the month of March.”

  Lestrade made a furious sort of snort. “How the hell did you know that!”

  “I shall tell you. I put an advertisement in the agony columns asking if anyone could help determine the whereabouts of a lost woman named Amy who had disappeared within the last six months. I received a response from a boarding house and went to speak with the landlady. Amy Grant had lived there most of February and vanished the first week of March. She had left behind all her clothing and belongings. The implications were all too clear.”

  Lestrade shook his head. “The thieves must have got all the information about the household that they needed, and then she was disposable.” He gave Holmes an inquisitive look.

  Holmes smiled again. “Perhaps.”

  “Again, good day.” The inspector and the constable walked away.

  I stared at Holmes. “You actually have all this ugly business figured out?”

  “Yes, Henry, I believe so. Come, we must make a brief stop at the Bromleys and let them know what happened with the diamond.”

  “That is sure to upset the household. Why be so eager to trouble them?”

  “I have my reasons. Ah, George has waited for us.” He withdrew his watch. “Even though we were over an hour.”

  The hansom with the stout driver up top and the gray horse was parked nearby. Holmes gave him the Bromleys’ address, and we were off again, the horse’s hooves clopping on the wet cobblestones, the misty drizzle still surrounding us. I gave a weary sigh. Alice Bromley might like this sort of weather, but I missed the recent sunny days.

  “Cheer up, Henry. As I told the inspector, I think the end of this case is very near, probably two days at the outside.”

  “And yet you will tell us nothing! It is rather annoying.”

  He shrugged. “Very well, I shall tell you something if it will make you happy. Did you happen to recognize the man with the blond hair holding the revolver?”

  “Recognize him!” I laughed. “I certainly did not recognize him. He was wearing a mask and probably a wig, I suspect.”

  Holmes laughed. “Very good, Henry. But why would he wear a wig?”

  I frowned. “How should I know? Please tell me.”

  Holmes laughed again. “He wanted to hide his ears.”

  “Hide his ears? Why on earth would he want to hide his ears?”

  “Because Watson has made many of my methods known, especially my ability to identify people by the distinctive shapes of their ears.”

  “Then this was someone you know—someone you would have recognized?”

  “Exactly, Henry. Exactly.”

  “Who, then?”

  “You have no idea? His build, his carriage, did not remind you of anyone?”

  I scrunched up my forehead. There had been something about his shape, the broad shoulders, his posture. “Now that you mention it… But I can’t place him.”

  Holmes’s voice was very soft: “Hodges.”

  “Hodges! Yes, that would fit, but how can you be certain? There was a physical resemblance, but his ears, his head, were hidden, and he was wearing battered, nondescript clothes we have not seen before.”

  Holmes nodded. “Yes, yes, he was so careful, so very careful, and yet he forgot one thing—his shoes. I recognized his slightly worn brown boots. Of course, even if he had thought to change his shoes, I would have still been suspicious. He has enormous feet, Henry, a size twelve at least, possibly a thirteen.”

  “Hodges. I cannot believe it. Then he must have been working with Sabine. The servants were behind the whole thing, after all!”

  “That does not necessarily follow.”

  “It doesn’t? Who then?”

  “I have given you one fact. That must suffice for today. It should give you something to digest.”

  We soon arrived at the Bromleys’ house in Kensington, and again Holmes asked the driver to wait. We walked through the light rain to the front door, and Holmes pressed the bell. The maid Susan let us in, curtsied, and went to find the master. She quickly returned. “Mr. Bromley and the mistress will be happy to see you in the sitting room.”

  Bromley was dressed in a frock coat and striped trousers, Alice in one of her pale-blue silks, her hair neatly done up. She looked much better than she had on Sunday morning. Sally was on the settee next to her mistress, and she jumped down, then bounded eagerly toward us. Holmes leaned over to scratch at her head with his long fingers.

  “Have you any news for us, Mr. Holmes—good news, perhaps?” Bromley asked eagerly.

  “I fear not. In a way, nothing has changed, but the situation appears more grave.”

  Alice sat up in her chair, her mouth stiffening.

  “What is it?” Bromley asked.

  “The diamond was sent to Mr. Tyabji. Inspector Lestrade and myself were there when he opened the package. However, three thieves with revolvers entered the room. They locked us in the cellar and made off with the diamond. They said they were going to have it cut into pieces.”

  Alice made a kind of snort, then a pained sound that was something between a shriek and a bark of laughter. “They stole it? Oh God, they stole it!” She made a similar sound, this one clearly a laugh. “Oh Lord, I cannot believe it. I am jinxed—or rather the diamond is jinxed, as we knew. It’s cursed, it’s damned, it—” She laughed again, then shuddered, her face very pale.

  I stood up. “Perhaps a swallow of brandy might steady her nerves.”

  Bromley nodded. “Yes, certainly.”

  I went to the sideboard and poured from a decanter. I handed the glass to Alice. “Drink this down.”

  She swallowed it, then half-shivered and coughed. Her cheeks had a bright flush. She moaned once, the kind of sound you make when you have laughed too much. “Well, it’s gone, isn’t it? That’s the point, after all. It is gone. It can no longer torment me. It’s gone. I shall never wear it again. Cutting it into pieces must break the curse, mustn’t it?” The last was as much a plea as a question.

  “Of course it will,” Bromley exclaimed. He gave Holmes a hard look. “How could the diamond have possibly been stolen from you and the police?”

  “We are vulnerable to bullets, sir, and there were two revolvers pointed at us.”

  Bromley shook his head. “Incredible. Well, I suppose this is the last of it. We shan’t see the Moonstone again.”

  Holmes regarded him closely. “You seem rather philosophical about it, sir.”

  “What’s the use of ranting and raving? It will not bring the diamond back. And perhaps…” He set his hand on Alice’s shoulder. “…we shall finally be left in peace.” She laughed at this, and he withdrew his hand.

  “By the way,” Holmes said, “is Hodges about? I wanted to ask him a question about last Saturday evening.”

  “No, he is out, amusing himself and running some errands for me. He should be back later this afternoon.”

  Holmes shrugged. “It was not terribly important. It can wait.” His eyes shifted ever so slightly, catching my own.

  Alice had put her long, thin white fingers across the lower part of her face. Her eyes had filled with tears, and they ran down onto her hand.

  “Alice?” Bromley asked. “Oh, Alice, my dear.”

  Holmes glanced at me. “Perhaps a bit more brandy, Henry. Could you leave us with her just for a moment, Mr. Bromley. We will not be long. We must be off soon.”

  Bromley gave him a disapproving look. “Oh very well.” He strode out of the room, and Sally followed him. I took the glass and poured a little more brandy. Because of the laudanum, I dare not give her too muc
h. I handed her the glass, as well as a handkerchief.

  She wiped her eyes and stared down at the glass. “I hate brandy.”

  “Have a bit,” I said. “It will do you good.”

  She took a small sip, then inhaled resolutely. “Nothing ever turns out the way I expect. I wish… I wish I were dead.”

  “You mustn’t say such things. That is nonsense. It was only a diamond, after all—and you did not even like it.”

  She stared up at me. “The diamond has nothing to do with it. I only…” She lowered her gaze. “My life is empty. It is meaningless. One stupid frightful day after another with never…” In the silence that followed, I became aware of the loud regular ticking of the china clock on the mantel.

  “There are those that love you. There is your husband.”

  “He doesn’t love me,” she murmured.

  “Of course he does.”

  She hardly seemed to hear me. “He never has. I once thought he did. It’s because he says it so often that I know it is not true. I think… Regardless of what they say, when someone truly loves you, you can see it in their eyes. I cannot see it in his eyes.”

  I shook my head. “More nonsense.”

  “Mrs. Bromley,” Holmes said. She raised her faded blue eyes to stare at him. Her blond-white eyebrows barely stood out against her pale skin. Her thin face recalled some street waif, but it also showed an intelligence absent from many women. “You must not give up hope, not yet. Your life may yet change for the better.”

  “Can that possibly be true?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you will but trust your husband,” I said.

  Her mouth pulled back in dismay, and Holmes gave me a reproachful look. “Be patient a little longer, madam.”

  She drew in her breath slowly and nodded.

  “What is going on here?” Cowen strode into the room, his imperious and customary frown contorting his thick black eyebrows. His frock coat and black beard were damp, and he held his silk hat in one hand, his medical bag in the other.

  “Have you heard the news about the diamond, Dr. Cowen?” Holmes asked.

  The question made Cowen’s frown waver. “Mr. Bromley told me. So the diamond went to Tyabji and was purportedly stolen from him. No doubt a clever charade to deflect suspicion from the actual thieves. Alice, what is wrong? Are you ill?” His gentleness with her was in striking contrast to his ill temper with us.

  “I feel so odd,” she whispered. “So strange.”

  “I think you had best lie down for a while. No further disturbances.” His glare swept round at us like the beam from some lighthouse. “You did not…?” He shrugged. “She has had so many shocks lately. Little wonder that what she says often makes little sense. You must not take any of her remarks too seriously.”

  I nodded. “I think not.”

  “Well, we shall leave her in your excellent hands, Dr. Cowen,” Holmes said. “Good afternoon.”

  His eyes watched us suspiciously as we departed. Bromley was waiting for us in the hallway. “Is she all right? I tell you, it is one blow after another. I do worry so about her! I sometimes fear…” He shook his head. “Never mind what I fear. Is there any hope, Mr. Holmes, any spark of hope?”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Bromley. Oh yes. I expect certain developments within the next twenty-four hours.”

  Bromley gave him a curious look. “Really? Are you at liberty to explain yourself?”

  “I fear not.”

  Bromley ran his fingers back through his curly brown hair. “Well, I hope next time you will have good news for us.”

  “Count on it, sir. I shall see you tomorrow, I promise.”

  Bromley still seemed faintly puzzled. “Good day.”

  We stepped out onto the front porch. Holmes smiled at me. “A useful visit, Henry. I am certain now.”

  “About Hodges?”

  “About everything.”

  Eleven

  Holmes had asked me to join him for breakfast at Baker Street the next day. I arrived shortly after eight to find him at the small table with two covered silver dishes and a coffee pitcher. “Ah, there you are, Henry.” He had a cup of coffee before him, and he took up the pitcher and poured some into another of the blue-and-white cups. “I believe you drink yours black. Now then, Mrs. Hudson has prepared ham and eggs, and curried fowl. Which would you prefer?”

  “Ham and eggs. I cannot face curried fowl first thing in the morning.”

  “No? I enjoy the bite of spice early in the day. It does help wake one.” He lifted a dome, revealing a heap of yellow-and-white scrambled eggs with the pink cubes of ham. “Here you are. Help yourself.”

  I used the silver spoon to heap some onto my plate, and I took a slice of buttered toast. Holmes had dished out some boiled rice, and he topped it with the steaming, brilliant yellow-orange-coated chopped chicken. The smell alone was enough to turn my stomach. He took a spoonful, put it in his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. “Ah yes, deliciously sharp and pungent.” He sat back and took another sip of coffee. He had on a white shirt and collar, a black cravat and waistcoat, but over them wore his battered purple dressing gown. “We must fortify ourselves for the day’s activities. It will be a busy one.”

  I took a big swallow of ham and eggs. “Exactly what are we doing?”

  “The sequence of events, if all goes according to plan, will be a visit to Dr. Cowen, a stop at the chemist’s, then a visit to, first, Mrs. Bromley, and last, Mr. Bromley.”

  “But what on earth for? We have already seen these people many times. Except the chemist—what do we need a chemist for?”

  Holmes had eagerly laid into the curried fowl, obviously relishing each bite. “Henry, you studied chemistry as part of your education, did you not?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me right. Chemistry—you studied it?”

  “Yes, certainly. It is required for a medical degree.”

  “As you know, I have a fascination with chemistry.” He gestured with the fingers of his right hand toward the corner of the room where several flasks, beakers and tubes sat on a scarred table. “There is such an agreeable precision and rigor to the science. When you combine certain ingredients in the right amounts, the same reaction always occurs. I particularly enjoyed the challenge of trying to determine the nature of a chemical ‘unknown.’ Some solution was given to us students, and through a process of trial and error, various experiments, we were to determine the exact composition of the unknown. As you might well imagine, I excelled at this sort of problem.

  “Well, in our case of the Moonstone, we are dealing with a variety of unknowns, of mysterious components. Some of our personalities are obviously gaseous and volatile—Mrs. Bromley, for example. Dr. Cowen, on the other hand, is unstable and prone to explosive reactions. Today we are going to determine the exact nature of all these unknowns, and, as with chemistry, the endeavor is somewhat hazardous. Combining certain compounds may bring disastrous results—toxic gases or uncontrolled flare-ups. Of course, my analogy only goes so far. I actually think I have figured out the nature of these unknowns, so it is more corroboration which I seek.”

  “And what have you figured out?”

  He laughed, then dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “Come now, you can hardly expect me to give it all away! You know I have a taste for the dramatic. Besides, you have all the facts at hand.”

  “Yes, but as usual, I can do nothing with them.”

  “If I tell you too much, it will also prejudice your reactions. You may give things away.”

  I shrugged. “I am not good at concealing my feelings, it is true.”

  We both ate silently for a while, and the coffee began to have its desired effect. Holmes took another helping of the curried fowl. “Mrs. Hudson has outdone herself this morning. You’re sure you won’t try some? A pity.”

  He soon finished his second portion, dabbed at his mouth, then sat back contentedly in his chair. “Henry, I should warn you that today you will undoubtedly
hear things which will astonish and perplex you, but when we are in company, you absolutely must not question me or say anything to contradict me. Try not to appear too astonished. There will be time enough for questions later, when we are alone. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” With a flourish he threw his napkin onto the table and stood, raising one arm. “Let our revels now begin!”

  The two of us were soon in George’s cab on our way to Cowen’s residence off Harley Street. The clouds and rain were gone, and the day looked to be a fine one, the freshly washed streets of London all aglow with reflected sunlight. We stepped out of the hansom, went up the steps, and the page let us in and led us to the well-furnished waiting room. An old man with mutton-chop sideburns, a fashion long out of style, sat with The Times open before him, while a well-dressed woman sat on the sofa with a small, pale child who was clearly terrified.

  Holmes and I found adjoining chairs, and five minutes later, a door opened and Dr. Cowen himself stepped into the room. Clearly irritated, he scowled darkly at us. His full black beard gave his visage a certain sinister air. The child nearby whimpered softly. As usual, Cowen was impeccably dressed in the standard black frock coat, waistcoat and striped trousers, his golden Albert chain forming two arcs from the waistcoat button to the pockets on either side.

  “What do you want now?” he asked.

  “We need to talk to you,” Holmes said.

  “Well, I have nothing more to say to you, Mr. Holmes. I am done with your questions and your probing and your impudence.”

  “Are you, indeed? This is an important matter, one which has to do with the health and well-being of your patient, Mrs. Bromley. You are concerned about her welfare, are you not?”

  Cowen stared at him a long while. “You know that I am.”

  “Then grant us a few more minutes of your valuable time.”

  He drew in his breath, then released it in a great sigh. “Oh very well—but only a few minutes.” He turned to the woman on the sofa. “We shan’t be long, Mrs. Bartlett.” We followed him into his office, and I closed the door. Again he sat back against the edge of the massive mahogany desk, folding his arms. “Yes?”