The Star of India (20 page)

“I’m glad you like it, sir. I’ll tell the lads; they’ll be pleased as well.” Morgan stood there for a moment and then he pulled himself to attention. “Right... well, then, I’ll go back to my desk duty, sir, if that’s all.”

“Where is he, by the way?” said Lestrade.

“Who? Oh, you mean the parrot? Oh, I’ve been looking after him, sir, until we found out if you like the cage or not. I’ll bring him right round and then he can get acquainted with his new home. We thought it best for you to introduce him to it, sir.”

“Yes, that seems the best thing.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Thank you, Morgan.”

We followed Lestrade into his office. There was no more mention of parrots or cages, though the handsome brass cage sat behind Lestrade’s desk during our entire visit.

“I have some ideas about how to solve your... problem,” Holmes said softly. He scribbled something on a piece of paper and slid it across Lestrade’s desk. Lestrade read it, his face impassive.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll await your instructions.”

“Right,” said Holmes. “Well, I’m off to do my best to impersonate an opium addict.”

“Oh, right, the Bar of Gold. Do you want me to post a couple of lads outside the place to keep an eye on you?”

Holmes shook his head. “It would just alert them that something is up. It’s best if I go alone.”

“All right, then—good luck.”

“Thank you, Lestrade. Well, Watson, shall we go?”

*     *     *

“Who would have thought Lestrade had a soft spot for birds, of all things?” said Holmes as we left the imposing stone turrets of Scotland Yard behind us. “It just goes to show, Watson, that you never know about people.”

“No, I suppose not.” I thought of Holmes and our long association, and wondered if there were aspects of his personality which would always remain a mystery to me. I looked at him— he was very wan and pale, and I couldn’t help noticing that his hand was pressed to his left side as we walked. “Holmes, I think you should rest a bit before you go rushing around again,” I said.

He sighed. “Watson, I appreciate your concern, but really, I’ll be all right.”

If I had known at the time just how wrong he was I never would have let him walk back out the front door of 221B Baker Street.

When we arrived at Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson greeted us at the door.

“Miss Merriweather is waiting upstairs, Mr. Holmes,” she said, wiping flour from her apron, her face red from the heat of the kitchen. “I didn’t know when you’d return, but I told her she could wait; I hope you don’t mind.”

“Perfectly all right, Mrs. Hudson,” said Holmes, and we went upstairs to see our visitor. The curtains were drawn; a filmy light filtered in through the windows, falling on the graceful head and shoulders of our guest, resting gently on her smooth black hair. She sat looking out the window, and turned toward us as we entered.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes, I hope you don’t mind my waiting for you,” said Violet Merriweather, rising from her chair by the window. With the light behind her I couldn’t see her face; she stood there wrapped in a misty yellow glow. Again I felt the heady fragrance of Golden Nights.
Instead of bothering me, the scent now intoxicated me, and I stood there for a moment drinking it in.

“Not at all, Miss Merriweather,” Holmes replied. “It has become something of a pattern. If you would inform me in advance by telegram that you are coming, you would not be inconvenienced by having to wait.”

Miss Merriweather took a step toward us and lowered her lovely dark eyes. “Oh, I don’t mind,” she said, “and I really don’t have anything in particular to ask of you...” her voice trailed off and she regarded Holmes shyly from under her thick black lashes. However, if Holmes was aware of the import of her gaze, he made no sign of it. He plucked some tobacco from the Persian slipper which hung over the fireplace, and sat down to fill his old clay pipe.

“Please sit down,” he said to Miss Merriweather without looking at her, as though he were entirely absorbed in filling his pipe.

“Thank you,” said she uncertainly, and sat upon the sofa.

“Would you care for some tea?” I said lamely, to fill the empty air.

“Oh, no, thank you—Mrs. Hudson has been plying me with all sorts of delicacies in your absence. She said she didn’t know where you had gone.”

“We just came from Scotland Yard,” I said.

“And is there any news?”

I was about to say that the Star of India was quite safe, but Holmes spoke first.

“I’m afraid not,” he said, “though I believe a parrot of our acquaintance has found a good home there.”

“A parrot?” she said.

“Oh, yes; the chief inspector there has taken a fancy to him, it seems. Do you think he’ll keep the parrot’s name, Watson? Oh, what is it? It’s really very clever; it’s an Indian word meaning ‘friend’.”

“Oh, yes,” I said, “it’s—”

“
Dost
?” said Miss Merriweather helpfully.

Holmes looked at her. “No, that’s not right—wait! I have it: it was Bandu. Actually, now that I think of it, I believe our late friend Wiggins told us that it’s a Bengali word.”

“Oh, of course,” she said, smiling. “
Dost
is a Hindu word.”

“You speak the language, Miss Merriweather?”

“Well, I spent some time there as a child. My parents toured quite a bit, and my brother and I were always—”

“Oh, you have a brother?” said Holmes.

“I had a brother, Mr. Holmes. He was killed in an accident when we were children.”

“I see; I am very sorry.”

I for one did not see how Holmes could be failed to be moved by this lovely creature sitting before us, whose life was such a strange combination of tragedy and drama, but he seemed as indifferent as ever, and sat puffing placidly on his pipe.

“Well, I am sorry to have taken up your valuable time,” said Miss Merriweather, rising from the couch and moving toward the door. “It is just that I am so concerned about—well, you understand, Mr. Holmes. I have been given to believe that much is at stake in this affair.”

“Oh, you are quite right, Miss Merriweather,” Holmes said. “There is much at stake indeed, perhaps more than even you know.”

She looked at him curiously and then slid her arm into the sleeve of the coat which I held for her. “If any man can unravel this Gordian knot, I am sure you can, Mr. Holmes,” she said.

“I shall do my best, I can assure you,” said Holmes.

I escorted Miss Merriweather to the door.

“Thank you for your kindness, Dr. Watson,” she said.

“Not at all, Miss Merriweather,” I said, opening the door for her.

“Good-bye, Mr. Holmes.”

“Good-bye,” Holmes called out over his shoulder, his mind already somewhere else.

“Good-bye,” I said, and closed the door after her. A lingering scent of Golden Nights trailed after her. The combination of the perfume and the lack of sleep made me feel quite giddy, and for an instant I thought I might pass out.

“Steady on, Watson,” said Holmes without looking at me.

I walked unsteadily over to my chair and sat down across from Holmes. He sat smoking his pipe, an impenetrable expression on his leonine face.

“Holmes,” I said, “I do believe you don’t trust Miss Merriweather.”

He shrugged. “She is a woman, Watson, and trusting them has always been your department. As for me—well, you know my views on the subject.”

“But, Holmes, can’t you see that she is quite infatuated with you? She likes you; take my word for it.”

Holmes looked at me. “Does she?” he said softly. “I wonder.”

After much effort, I persuaded Holmes to rest that night and visit the Bar of Gold the following day. We dined at Baker Street. At precisely seven o’clock Jenny came into the room, curtsied, and informed us that dinner was ready. Mrs. Hudson had by now entirely taken Jenny under her wing. The frightened, haunted look on the girl’s face was beginning to fade, and her eyes were alive with the healthy curiosity of a normal child.

After dinner I persuaded Holmes to go up to bed, and I myself followed soon after, feeling quite exhausted from the events of the past few days. I dreamed of Miss Violet Merriweather: In my dream we walked together hand in hand through the streets of London, she dressed all in white. As we walked the skies darkened and a torrential
rain began to fall. We ran for cover, but as we ran the cobblestones began to transform under our feet—to my horror, they turned into the squares on a chessboard. I looked at Violet—her white dress had become soiled with mud and her hand was suddenly torn from mine—and then I awoke. I sat up in bed, and as I did I smelled the unmistakable aroma of shag tobacco. I put on my robe and crept downstairs.

I found Holmes sitting in front of a cold fire; the flame had long since burned down to glowing ashes.

“Holmes?” I said softly.

For a moment he did not respond, and I thought he hadn’t heard me. Then he sighed, a long, slow exhale of breath like the whispering of wind in the eaves.

“I couldn’t sleep, Watson,” he said without looking at me. “I have had the same nightmare several nights running now, and I...” his voice trailed off and he stared into the fire.

“What is it? The nightmare, I mean?” I said.

“I am at Reichenbach Falls again, locked in combat with Moriarty at the top of the precipice. I am trying to find a firm foothold on the rocks, but they are slippery from the spray of the water, and I can feel my feet sliding out from under me... I struggle to regain my balance, but I can’t. I feel Moriarty begin to go over the edge but I cannot loosen his grip on me, and I fall with him. We fall for what seems like eternity, down, down into the swirling vale of water... and then I wake up.”

“It isn’t uncommon to relive traumatic past events in one’s dreams,” I said. “In fact, there is a man in Germany—his name is Freud, I believe—who has written some interesting things about the way the mind—”

“Yes, yes; I am familiar with Freud’s work,” said Holmes impatiently. “I’m sorry, Watson,” he said, sighing again. “I didn’t mean to be rude; it’s just that... I suppose I am somewhat rattled by all of this.”

“I can understand why,” I said sympathetically. “After all, the stakes
are enormous, and you—well, you’re probably the only man in London who can defeat Moriarty.”

“Can I? I wonder... do you know how I said earlier that in order to defeat him I must learn to think like him?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Well, I have done my best to peer into the abyss which is Moriarty’s soul, and I find that the line between is a thin one... thinner than I had ever let myself imagine. I suppose instinctively I feared that in that way lies madness...”

I did not reply, but sat down opposite him.

“Consider, Watson: What causes him to use his enormous talents for evil, whilst I turn mine toward the service of my fellow man?”

“I don’t know, Holmes.”

“I didn’t either, Watson, and that’s when I decided that in order to defeat him I must
know
him. I look into my own soul and I see nothing but an accumulation of habits: I eat, I smoke, I dabble in chemistry and crime-solving, but really, beyond that, what am I? Surely a man must be more than that, more than a collection of... of routines!”

“Holmes,” I said, fearing where this discourse might lead.

“Oh, I know, Watson—you think me terribly moody to brood so on the nature of existence while most people are glad just to be alive. Well, locking horns with Moriarty as I have done these past few days has led me to consider the nature of what we call good and evil.”

“And what conclusions have you reached?”

“None whatsoever, Watson; that’s the damnable part of it. I’m not sure there
are
any to be reached. I only know that without much difficulty I can see myself in Moriarty’s place...”

I wanted to say something, but I could think of nothing.

“When Flaubert was asked how he could write from the point of view of a woman so successfully, his reply was ‘
Madame Bovary, c’est moi
.’
You see, his genius allowed him to insinuate himself into the mind of a bored, sexually frustrated, middle-class Parisian housewife—and thus he was able to produce his masterpiece.”

“And?”

“Well, Watson, in order to defeat Moriarty I must in a sense
become
him, to think as he thinks, to feel as he feels. In other words, I must learn to identify with him, just as Flaubert did with Madame Bovary.”

“I see. And have you?”

“I have. It would be wrong to say that I sympathize with him, exactly, but I can say that I have seen what it is that drives him.”

“And what do you see?”

Holmes stared into the empty grate, his eyes hooded. “Pain, Watson—horrible, searing pain, which eats at him just as surely as he preys upon society.” Holmes rose from his chair and poked at the dying embers. “Where the pain comes from I do not know. I have long considered Moriarty the most perfect reasoning machine I have ever known—except for my brother Mycroft—but now I see a much more complicated picture. I understand now what really drives Moriarty, and, as I said before, we are not so different as all that.”

Holmes rubbed his forehead wearily. I looked at him and considered what deep, buried pain might be driving my friend. It was not the first time the thought had occurred to me, but I had never before thought to compare him to Moriarty.

“I have come to the conclusion that there is a single need underlying all of his greed, his villainy, his scheming and plotting,” said Holmes.

“And what is that?”

“The need for control, Watson: He must have control of the others around him. He has a vast and unquenchable desire to be in complete control of everything he touches—and that, Watson, is what passes for evil in our society.”

“But surely it is—”

“Oh, yes, in his case it most assuredly is manifested in evil deeds; of that there can be no doubt. But in my case, Watson...” His voice trailed off and again he stared into the flickering embers. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. My relationship with Holmes had always been based upon an unspoken agreement on my part not to pry too deeply into his emotional life. Indeed, the facade he presented to the world was of a man who had no use for his emotions. And yet here he was, revealing parts of himself I would never have dared to ask about. I too stared into the fire and waited for him to resume speaking.