The Star of India (12 page)

“If you would wait here just a moment, I shall return,” he said in a whisper.

I nodded and sat myself upon a large Turkish cushion which covered the window seat. Apart from the noise coming from the street, the only sound I could hear was the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the lobby. The place had a mummified air, as though time did not exist inside its thick stone walls. I could almost believe that the inhabitants themselves did not age so long as they sat in their stuffed armchairs, immobile and silent except for the occasional crackle of a page turning.

Holmes returned with his brother Mycroft. He was exactly as I had remembered him, only perhaps a little thicker around his considerable girth. He extended his hand to me, and his gray eyes crinkled warmly.

“Dr. Watson, so nice to see you again. I would say the same to you, Sherlock, but I must say you look as though you’ve just emerged from a brawl,” he added, looking at Holmes’ bruised face.

Holmes dismissed the comment with an impatient wave of his hand.

“The fact is it’s a delicate matter, a piece of tricky business,” Mycroft continued. “A matter of international relations, you might say.” He cleared his throat and looked around the room, as though he were afraid of being overheard. There was no sound of any kind coming from the hollow stone corridors, but he lowered his voice all the same.

“It seems that a particular Indian prince was in possession of a jewel which was supposed to confer great favor upon its owner.

“The Star of India,” said Holmes. Mycroft regarded him through narrowed eyes. “So you’re involved already,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Holmes shrugged. “I’m telling you now.”

“Well, never mind. Let me tell you what I know first. This same Indian prince gives the Star of India to the Prince of Wales as a gesture of friendship. And now this Indian prince is coming to London next week, and he’s made it clear that he expects to see his gift displayed among the Crown jewels—which is fine until the jewel goes missing. It’s gone, and no one knows who took it.”

Mycroft extracted a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to Holmes.

“This morning the Minister of Foreign Affairs received this message. That is when they contacted me. If the jewel is not recovered it’s likely to touch off an international situation.”

I looked over Holmes’ shoulder at the paper, trying to employ my friend’s methods in analyzing it. The message was handwritten in block letters on plain parchment which was a dark shade of ivory. When I looked at the watermark I saw that it was a common one available in most stationery stores. The ink was black, and I would have said the lettering belonged to a person of great force of personality.

“The Star of India is in my keeping,” it read, “until such time as my demands can be met by the government. I will send you my first demand within twenty-four hours.”

“This is not good, Sherlock—not good at all,” Mycroft Holmes said, frowning.

“No,” answered Holmes. “What is the name of this Indian prince, by the way?”

“Prince Chandan Tagore Rabarrath. You see, Prince Rabarrath represents a significant segment of his people, and they are on the verge of declaring warfare on another group within India. Prince Rabarrath has considerable influence; he currently has the largest following of any leader in India. Unfortunately, there are a number of extremist elements among his followers, and it is very important that we maintain
a good relationship with him. The political unrest in that country is considerable; not only are there groups agitating for the removal of English rule, but there is also the threat of civil and religious warfare within India.”

“I see,” said Holmes, and began telling Mycroft everything that had happened to us in the past few days. When he came to the part about the stone conferring good fortune upon its owner, Mycroft interrupted.

“Upon its
rightful
owner,” he said, smiling. “Like most superstitious beliefs, there is a dark side to this one: unworthy or unlawful owners of the stone are supposedly cursed—and we believe that certain sects within Prince Rabarrath’s people would feel compelled to commit certain violent acts to make sure that the curse is borne out.”

“This is very serious indeed,” said Holmes.

“Yes, it is. I’m glad that you are involved, Sherlock.”

“Thank you for your confidence, Mycroft, but I feel I must tell you that—”

“—that
he
has returned?”

Holmes stared at his brother.

“How did you know?”

Mycroft waved the question away with a hand so fat that it was more like the flipper of a seal. “Really, Sherlock, you do me some insult by looking so astonished. It is true that I am not so energetic as yourself, but like you I do not merely see, I
observe.
In fact, I am quite certain we have come to the same conclusion: that
he
is behind all of this in some way. Am I right?”

“You are,” said Holmes in a low voice. “But why didn’t you tell me?”

“For the simple reason that, like yourself, I had only suspicions—until now, that is. There are aspects of this case which are so clearly the work of his hand that one can really come to no other conclusion.”

“Yes, exactly what I thought.”

Mycroft sighed and took another paper from his breast pocket; without a word he handed it to his brother. Holmes read it and gave it back.

“So this is his game,” he said grimly.

“What is it?” I said, feeling somewhat of a third wheel between the two brilliant brothers.

“A demand for money from the Exchequer in exchange for the Star of India.”

“Good heavens.”

“Well, if he is playing a game of such stakes you would expect him to ask such a reward; if you play a high-risk game you expect the odds to pay off.”

Holmes sank into his chair and stared out the window which overlooked Pall Mall. Well-dressed men and women came and went, part of the endless procession of humanity which is London. “It is all a game to him on some level,” Holmes said moodily, “just a game...” Suddenly he sat bolt upright in his chair. “That’s it—a game! We must not neglect that aspect, for therein lies the key!”

“What are you talking about, Sherlock?” said Mycroft Holmes.

“Chess, my dear Mycroft—the board game of warfare.”

“What’s that got to do with Moriarty?”

“I was about to tell you when you interrupted me earlier,” Holmes replied. He then told Mycroft about the chess references which Moriarty had been placing in the
Telegraph.

“If I am not mistaken—” began Holmes.

“—and you seldom are—” Mycroft interjected dryly.

“—I believe the term
exchequer
is from the Latin
saccarium,
or chessboard.”

“You are correct,” said Mycroft. “Roman accounts of revenue were kept on a squared board, much like a chessboard; hence the derivation.”

“There is something here,” said Holmes, rising from his chair and pacing about the room. “It only needs figuring out.”

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, stop that infernal pacing; you are making me quite nervous.”

Holmes stopped and looked at his corpulent older brother, so unlike himself physically and yet so similar mentally. His expression was something close to affection, though if I had remarked upon it he would have promptly denied it.

“You never could stand excess movement of any kind, could you, Mycroft?” he said.

Mycroft shrugged his massive shoulders. “I dislike waste of any kind, Sherlock, either mental or physical; excessive expenditure of energy has always seemed to me to be an abuse of Nature.”

Holmes smiled and sat down again, but his long fingers twitched nervously upon the arms of his chair.

“There is a woman involved, of course,” Mycroft said.

I stared at him. “How did you know that?”

He chuckled, a deep rumbling sound which came from the folds of flesh at his throat.

“My dear Dr. Watson, there is
always
a woman involved, sooner or later—especially when priceless jewels are at stake. In fact, I have people checking on her background as we speak.”

“And what have they found?” said Holmes.

“Nothing, as yet. She has been at her present address for only a few months, and so far the post office hasn’t come up with any previous listings for her. We’re somewhat hampered by the need to make our inquiries discreetly, of course, so it is proceeding slowly.”

“Do you suspect her, then?” I said, my heart sinking.

Mycroft shrugged and twisted the gold signet ring he wore on his right hand. “I would suspect her were she Caesar’s wife herself.”

“I’m afraid my brother shares my jaundiced view of the ‘weaker sex,’ as they are so mistakenly called,” said Holmes.

“The more his loss,” I muttered.

“Oh come now, Watson, don’t sulk,” said Holmes. “Just because you are a bit taken with the young lady in question, there’s no reason to get moody.”

I could feel my face redden.

“I am not—”

Holmes put a hand on my shoulder.

“Forgive me; I didn’t mean to embarrass you. It wasn’t a criticism— she is a most attractive young lady.”

“I didn’t think you noticed these things about women,” I said.

Mycroft laughed. “Oh, that is what he has always pretended. He notices everything, as I do; it’s simply a question of whether one acts upon it or not. I myself seldom act on anything.”

“True,” said his brother. “I was reading an extraordinary tale the other day, by Herman Melville—”

“—the American writer?”

“Yes, the same. The main character reminded me of you in some ways. His name was Bartleby.”

Mycroft Holmes smiled. “I have read it. He more or less starves to death, I believe. There is no fear of that where I am concerned,” he said, patting his substantial middle. “On the other hand, you are looking a bit thin, Sherlock,” he said, studying his brother’s lean form. “Has he been eating, Dr. Watson?”

“Well, I doubt that he ate much while Mrs. Hudson was away, but now she’s returned.”

“Good. I doubt Moriarty has any further use for her. He certainly is planning his moves ahead, exactly as you might on a chessboard...”

Holmes sprang from his chair.

“I have it!” he cried. “It isn’t the Exchequer which is his chessboard! Mycroft, is there a map of London anywhere in this building?”

“I believe there are some maps in the large oak desk in the reading room.”

“Watson, would you be so kind as to fetch it for me?” said Holmes.

“Yes, certainly,” I said, intrigued.

“You’ll find them in the top drawer, I believe,” Mycroft said to me, and then he turned to his brother. “I think I see where you are heading with this, Sherlock... clever, very clever.”

I left the two brothers talking in low, urgent tones, their bowed heads almost touching, and headed for the large sitting room I had seen when we first entered the club. My footsteps clattered noisily upon the hard wood floor of the connecting hallway, and I anticipated annoyed looks from the denizens of that stately chamber. However, upon entering it, I was virtually ignored. Except for an old colonel with a weather-lined face who glanced at me over his spectacles, no one paid me any attention.

I tiptoed across the thick Persian carpet and opened the top drawer of the heavy oak desk which sat along the far wall. The drawer was practically empty save for several dog-eared maps of London. I chose the least dilapidated one and tiptoed back to where Holmes and his brother awaited me.

“Well done, Watson!” Holmes cried, seizing the map from me as soon as I entered. He spread the map out upon the small low coffee table which sat in front of us. Producing a pen from his pocket, he drew a square around the city. Within the square he drew a grid of crisscrossed lines so that the effect was one of a chessboard superimposed over the city of London.

“You see: Here is your chessboard!” he cried triumphantly.

Mycroft Holmes studied the map with interest.

“So you think he is essentially playing an elaborate game of chess?” I asked.

“Indeed I do. At first I thought he was just playing with the metaphorical implications, but now... well, you see how the Thames intersects London almost exactly in half? If you regard the northern half of the city as our side, and the southern half as his territory, you have a rough model for a chess game.”

“Very interesting, Sherlock,” said Mycroft. “I think you have something here.”

“He made his first move here,” Holmes said, drawing an X behind St. Paul’s Church in Covent Garden, where Wiggins’ perfume shop was located.

“But what about Mrs. Hudson?” I said. “First he had her kidnapped—”

“That was merely an exercise; he just wanted to remove us from the board while he made his real first move, which resulted in poor Wiggins’ death. We countered when we got information out of Freddie Stockton,” he continued, drawing another X in the neighborhood of Lambeth. “His next attack was to send his ‘knight’ up to Baker Street to capture the jewel. This morning when I wrung information out of Simpson I was literally counter-attacking.”

“And that was where?” said Mycroft.

“Here, in Southwark,” said Holmes, drawing another X over that notorious neighborhood, well known for its criminal slums.

“Well, I congratulate you, Sherlock,” said his brother, “and I must say, it is most ingenious.”

“We must endeavor at all times to be at least one or two moves ahead of him. Mycroft, I believe you have some expertise in chess—I recall you displayed a certain gift for the game as a child. Have you kept up your interest?”

Mycroft shrugged his broad shoulders. “Not entirely. I still play the
occasional game, but I am hardly an expert. I found it valuable mostly as a form of mental training. I am not attracted to games in general, and, as you know, you often beat me. However, with some study, I could regain some of my skill in time—”

“We don’t
have
any time!” cried Holmes. “That is the one thing we
don’t
have!”

“Sherlock, please lower your voice,” said Mycroft, looking over his shoulder into the silent halls. “You have no idea how annoying noise of any kind is to the gentlemen here.”