“Indian stage magic is rather different than what you might see from local talent. For example, they tend to do more with ropes and knots,” Holmes explained. “I have even heard, but not yet seen, something involving stiffening a rope and actually climbing up it.”
“I’d pay to see that,” Harmony said, and I agreed.
“There is cut rope here, debris from his stage tricks,” Holmes said, gesturing toward neatly sliced lengths of thick, twisted rope. “Perhaps the most well-known magician from the land is Mohammed Chhel, who mixes the spiritual with stage craft. He is quite well known for confounding train conductors by making a cascade of tickets seemingly pour from his chin.
“Nayar has apparently been travelling around the country, largely by train. As a result, he has a stack of ticket receipts. He may well have studied under Chhel but left his materials behind in his hurry. This is a benefit to us as we may now correlate these with his appearances. Given how many of these appear to be to or from London, I would conclude he made extra trips to meet with his true employers. Similarly, he received a telegram recently, which is why he cancelled the performance. The wastebasket has the remains of a hastily burned note but there is enough unburned paper to confirm it is the same stock used for telegrams, further proof that contrary to our belief we did not lose our spy back in London. I cannot make out the content of the message, but can presume it was a warning.
“He also left behind his stage costumes and other gadgets, but there are no weapons or items of a personal nature here. It is safe to say he does not intend to return.”
“Where has he gone?” Sergeant Harmony asked, his tone considerably more deferential than before. Now he was hanging on Holmes’s every word.
“Mr. Rose, could you take us to the manager’s office? We need to see Nayar’s complete itinerary.”
Rose nodded and reached into his baggy pockets and withdrew a sizeable key ring with more than a dozen keys of varying size and colour. We followed him to an office and, once the gas had been lit, Holmes began rifling through drawers and cabinets, making quick work of the records of the Theatre Royal. Sergeant Harmony, Mr. Rose and myself remained outside. We loitered in the hall, speaking quietly among ourselves, Harmony still marvelling over Holmes’s observations about his person.
After some time, Holmes came out holding several sheets of paper, all in the same handwriting. At my questioning expression he explained they were travel records. “Confirmation,” he said. “As we suspected, Nayar was engaged to perform here only in the last few months. Previously, he was kept close and available to his masters.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Harmony interrupted Holmes, who was most excited with his discovery.
“Never you mind, Sergeant Harmony,” Holmes assured him. “This case is complex and I have no time to explain all its intricacies. We must hurry now to Jesmond.”
“What the devil is in Jesmond?” Harmony inquired, struggling to keep up with Holmes as he strode back the way we had come, towards the stage door.
“Where the devil is Jesmond?” I inquired, totally at a loss.
“An area of the city, less than two miles from here. According to this receipt—” Holmes flourished a scrap of paper under my nose “—the management made a booking for Nayar in a rooming house there. We must perform a similarly thorough investigation of his lodgings.” Harmony merely nodded at the obvious logic of the demand. I wanted my own lodgings, more precisely my bed therein, but given that it was now firewood and Holmes was bristling with energy, obviously ready to go through the night, I did not think I would be sleeping for quite some time.
We emerged onto Grey Street and the sergeant summoned a cab with a shrill whistle that carried into the quiet evening air. Harmony thanked Mr. Rose for his assistance and then insisted he would come with us to make certain all was done right and the citizens of Newcastle were well protected. My personal suspicion was that he had seen enough of the fire and our investigation promised to be far more interesting than sifting through debris.
Jesmond, a mere fifteen minutes away, was a picturesque area to the north of the city that might once have been its own village but was now in the process of being consumed by urban expansion. It was quiet and the streets were deserted and only a few houses had lights in their windows. I admired what I could discern of the homes; there was an air of wealth to the place that was missing from the city centre.
“We’re in Brandling Village now,” Harmony explained. It was too dark for me to make out much, but I nodded in agreement. Eventually the cab came to a stop at a small house, and Harmony threw open the door for us before the driver could dismount. He asked the driver to wait for us, as we’d be returning within the hour. I hoped he was right.
“Allow me, Mr. Holmes,” Harmony said, taking long strides to the front door and striking it with his large fist three times. A woman of maybe fifty opened the door, a shawl around her shoulders despite the summer warmth, glasses perched on her aquiline nose. She looked astonished to see a uniformed man at her door.
“May I help you?”
“Indeed, ma’am. I’m Sergeant Harmony with the Newcastle upon Tyne Borough Police and I have two gentlemen from London looking for one of your boarders. An Indian, goes by the name of Nayar?”
She recognised the name and shook her head first up and down then to the sides. “Well, officer, he has been staying with us, but his tour ends tomorrow and I gather his travel plans changed because he left with considerable haste earlier this evening.”
“May we see the room?” Holmes inquired.
She looked uncertain at the prospect of allowing her home to be invaded at an inappropriate hour, but then nodded and stepped back. It was a small place, with three bedrooms at the top of the stairs and faded flowered wallpaper. The floors were hardwood with carpeted runners so our heavy footfalls were somewhat muffled. I hoped we did not disturb the other tenants.
Harmony deferred to Holmes, swinging the door open for my companion and holding a lantern high so its pale light could illuminate the space beyond, while Holmes stood framed in the doorway. When I was allowed a glimpse, I saw a small, unmade bed, a narrow chest of drawers and a short rack to hang clothing. There was a washbasin atop a thin-legged table, a stiff-looking sitting chair and little else. I did not spot a single scrap of paper, hunk of rope, or other potential piece of evidence save a pair of dark trousers and a white shirt, both thoroughly unremarkable.
Eventually Holmes entered the room and moved carefully around its perimeter, holding his lantern low, letting the light play along the baseboards, wainscoting, and cracking paint. After one circuit, he walked it a second time, this time holding the light higher and examining the upper reaches of the furniture. He pulled open the drawers, one at a time, peering closely then returning them to their closed position. He finally stood over the bed and examined the pillow, withdrew the blanket and felt along the surface of the mattress. He held the lantern out in my direction, a silent command to hold it so as to free his other hand, which I did. With practised ease, he ran his fingers under the mattress and finally hefted it up. I leaned close, letting the light reach underneath.
We both gasped at the same moment. Holmes swiftly plucked an object out from under the mattress and held it up before his face, where it glittered in the light.
“Is that a diamond?” Harmony asked in a loud, incredulous voice. He had remained in the doorway, the room being too small for three grown men to go prowling about.
“Indeed,” Holmes confirmed, holding it between his thumb and forefinger as he examined it closely. “I would venture to say it is approximately a quarter carat in size, but we will need an expert to determine that for us.”
“There’s no chance he was paid in diamonds for stage mummery,” Harmony said.
“I quite agree. It is more likely his true masters paid him in diamonds, easier to transport back home to India,” Holmes declared. “Our man is not long gone, but at this late stage hours might as well be week
s; we will not find him here. I daresay he has left little to indicate the direction of his flight, either. Watson, we go back to London tomorrow and hope the trail has not run cold.”
He pocketed the diamond.
Twelve
Mining in Pretoria
I was never more thankful of climbing into bed as I was that evening. Thankfully, Sergeant Harmony knew of another inn where we might lodge for the remainder of the night without raising suspicion or risking the wrath of our pyromaniac fakir. I slept deeply, but not long. We were up and ready for the earliest departure back home. In part our venture north had been the most futile of excursions—we had not caught up with Nayar, as had been our intent. But we had been subjected to two attacks, which were clues in themselves. And perhaps the diamond would prove to be the missing piece of evidence we needed to link all the parts of our investigation together? But I was fretful it would be a case of third time lucky. And I was sure I would not be able to sleep a wink on the train.
Holmes was determined to return to London with all haste having abandoned the notion we might intercept Nayar trying to flee the country. Now he was focused on the diamond, intending to have it analysed by a contact in Hatton Garden.
He was in the most foul of moods when we met for breakfast, a hasty affair of soggy toast and runny eggs, made by someone clearly unfamiliar with proper cooking. It made me miss Mrs. Hudson. Holmes glowered at the local paper, exasperated that nothing about last night’s fire had made the deadline. It would no doubt be picked up in the evening edition. Although he had asked Sergeant Harmony to keep him informed, there had been no word from the policeman. No doubt he was still asleep in bed, which is where I would have been given the choice.
“It may be just as well,” Holmes finally admitted. “He will almost certainly have nothing new to offer, and it would only prove to be a distraction from what must be our primary course.”
* * *
We entered Newcastle Central Station through the grander of the two entrances, and I confess were on the lookout for Indians though we did not see any. Starlings nested in the ironworks above us, adding a constant rustle of movement to the other sounds of the station. We purchased one-way tickets to London and boarded a train, pleased to see that it was due to leave on schedule.
We settled into our seats having carefully scoured the faces of the other passengers and seen none with either a threatening or remarkable appearance. Nor did we see Holmes’s villainous compatriot Bennett, which was perfectly fine with me.
For the first portion of the ride down as far as York, I wrote in my journal, noting the most recent developments to make certain I recorded the facts while they were fresh in my mind. Holmes, for his part, seemed to brood in silence, refusing to engage in any semblance of conversation.
His silence was finally broken when the train paused its passage for our half-hour luncheon. There, he uttered a single word, “Tea”, and resumed his thinking. Now that we were deep into the case, I knew his consumption would shrink to almost nil, conserving his blood for brain activity in favour of digestion. I ate my fill while his drink went untouched. Once back aboard the train, Holmes continued his silent meditations while I felt myself beginning to nod off, but I could not allow myself the luxury of additional sleep, so instead I took out the notebook I had been using during my interviews with Miss Burdett and the Dido engineer Raskill, and began to pen something entirely different to my usual case notes: a draft of a letter to Mrs. Wynter, detailing all we had discovered about her son thus far. It took time, each word needing to be weighed carefully, because each one would truly count when finally read by the person they were intended for. I wanted the letter to be perfect but even after several hours at it I was not content.
* * *
As it was too late to call upon the jewellers once the train returned us to King’s Cross, we returned to 221B Baker Street without any obvious persons following behind us, for which I was most grateful. Mrs. Hudson was all too glad to see us, offering us both a cold supper. Holmes went right up to our rooms with nary a word and was no doubt asleep in minutes. I elected to stay in our landlady’s warm kitchen, enjoying some chicken and soup. She knew better than to ask for details of an ongoing case, though she did offer up a running commentary that was a mixture of gossip and local news, none of which I found very interesting, but I admit after the relative silence of the train journey I enjoyed the simple pleasure of human company with actual conversation. She also had a message for me, which had arrived during our sojourn in Newcastle. It was from one of the contacts given to me by Miss Burdett: Lieutenant Louis Dodge, a comrade of Norbert Wynter aboard the Dido, inviting me to pay him a visit. Given the nature of our case, which appeared to have quickened, I hoped I would have the time.
* * *
The following morning, Holmes and I were better rested, and in better moods. Holmes was done with silent contemplation. Indeed, he was quite the mockingbird that morning, expanding on the subject of diamonds and how often his past cases had involved the expensive baubles. When the clock struck ten, he declared it was time we were on our way. Within minutes we were on the street corner, Holmes flagging down a cab to have us on our way to Hatton Garden.
Antoine Pintard & Sons was a small operation, tucked in between a gold seller and another of the countless jewellers who operated within the old garden, which had become a centre for gold, silver, jewels, and other finery. The shop had a two-tiered display case in its narrow window to the right of the door. Signs proclaiming they sold only the finest of diamonds straight from the Pretoria mines caught my attention: another connection to the Boer conflict.
Within stood a man of about seventy years, grey hair ringing a bald scalp, side whiskers in need of a trim, and a pair of bifocals resting upon his large nose. His attire was modest in black and white, a splash of red around his neck. His eyes met Holmes’s and his grim countenance brightened considerably.
“Sherlock,” he exclaimed, clearly delighted.
“Good morning, Antoine,” Holmes replied. “I trust you are well.”
“I cannot complain, especially with someone in my shop, making me look prosperous.” The man’s eyes twinkled like the diamonds he traded in.
“This is my associate, Dr. Watson,” said Holmes. Pintard reached out and we shook hands.
I took in my surroundings, noting the displays: rings, brooches, earrings, and necklaces, most set with diamonds, but some with rubies, emeralds, and topaz. There was more wealth in this small shop than I could have hoped to acquire in a lifetime’s honest toil. That realisation only served to help me appreciate their breadth, variety and beauty all the more.
“So, what brings you to my door? Something for a lady this time? Hmm?”
I detected the traces of a French accent in the man’s voice and no doubt Holmes would have used that to tell me everything I could possibly need to know about Pintard and more, but the jeweller’s English was excellent and that told me enough.
“Not today, thank you, Antoine. No, I have a diamond I need identified.”
“Identified? Hmm.” Pintard withdrew a loupe from a cubby in the worktable behind the counter, placed a small black velvet mat on the latter, and waited for my companion to produce the gem. Holmes reached into his waistcoat pocket and the small, glittering stone appeared, shining in the well-lit establishment.
“There is no setting, so what do you expect from me?”
“As before, Antoine, I will take all you can glean from the diamond itself,” Holmes said, and gave him an encouraging smile. “I do not expect miracles, only your expertise.”
Pintard nodded then fell silent and grew entirely focused on the diamond. He took out a small measuring stick and jotted down some numbers, then he placed it on a scale and noted its weight. With practised elegance, he examined it from all angles and at some length. I did note that contrary to the sign out front, there was no son to be seen nor were there any other customers to wait upon. No wonder he appreciated the appearance o
f business.
After a considerable period, Pintard put down his loupe, consulting his scrawled figures and looked first at me then Holmes, who had silently observed the jeweller at work. “Do you know a lot about diamonds, Doctor?”
“Can’t say that I do,” I admitted.
“Diamonds are mined and then hand cut to shape for sale. We often receive rough-cut stones that we handcraft into whatever we desire. But, to sell them, we need to establish their size and weight along with other characteristics. For example, this diamond weighs just less than two one-thousandth ounce avoirdupois, which would make it approximately a quarter carat in size.”
Holmes, as ever, proved himself right.
“Price obviously increases with the carat. This tiny gemstone would be a considerable possession for most people, but certainly not worth much to the wealthier mercantile and upper classes of this city. Then we look at the gem’s clarity. That means the size and number of these little inclusions.”
He handed me the diamond and his loupe, offering me a chance to better see and understand what he was referring to. Under the magnifying eyepiece the gem was beautiful, crystalline with facets and reflections that mesmerised me.
“Each inclusion is a blemish, the fewer the better, and this specimen, you will note, has quite a few. Therefore this diamond is worth something, but not as much as you would think. As in most walks of life, there is a price for beauty and if something is considered flawless people are willing to pay great sums of money for that perfection.” I nodded my understanding. “Then you have what we call colour, which is the most subjective element in the entire transaction. Some stones have a yellow or pink cast to them and some women in certain circles currently find that appealing. This one is a tad muddy, tinged slightly brown.” I nodded again, seeing it. “But, generally, especially in a shop like mine where our clientele has more… affordable tastes, the less colour to the gem the better.”
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