The Star of India (3 page)

“That’s the one, that’s the one,” said the parrot behind us. I turned to look at him. He was dancing on his perch, ducking his head up and down and hopping from one foot to the other.

“I told you he’s a fast learner,” said Wiggins, smiling. “Well, Mr. Holmes, your friend—whoever she is—has expensive taste. You were right when you said that this perfume is dear; what you didn’t know is that it is virtually unaffordable for everyone but the wealthiest. It is indeed Eastern—Indian, to be exact. There is indeed a hint of jasmine in it, but the ingredient which makes it so expensive is saffron.” He held the bottle out toward me. “See, Dr. Watson, if you can’t detect the faint aroma of saffron.”

I placed my face above the lid of the bottle, not too close, and inhaled the ineffable sweetness and delicacy of saffron, with its evocation of balmy Indian nights. To my surprise, instead of my earlier allergic reaction, suddenly I was transported for a moment to my younger days as a soldier stationed in the Indian countryside. I had a vision of sitting with my comrades around a table of cards, with a sweet Indian girl at my side, her dark almond eyes smiling into mine as I played cards with my companions.

“Are you quite all right, Watson?” Holmes’ sharp voice jerked me out of my reverie.

“Oh, yes, I’m fine; I just—”

“You were experiencing a memory,” said Wiggins, smiling. “Yes, perfume can do that to you, especially one of this quality, which seems to contain within it all the scents of one’s youth. I believe Mr. Holmes once told me you were stationed in India for a while.”

“Yes, I was.”

“I myself was born in Calcutta.”

“Really?”

“Yes; my father was British, but my mother was Indian.”

“I see.”

“So this scent is as evocative for you as it is for me,” Wiggins said with a lopsided smile.

“Yes; it’s not as musky here as it was in the concert hall. When I first smelled it, I seemed to have quite an allergic reaction, but now it’s quite pleasant.”

“Ah, yes; that is typical of really good perfumes. They merge with the scent of the wearer and take on a different identity with each person.”

“Perhaps it was the woman you were allergic to, Watson,” Holmes said, smiling.

“That’s your department, Holmes,” I shot back, “being allergic to women.”

“Not allergic, Watson—just distrustful,” Holmes corrected me.

“Well, allergies can come and go,” Wiggins said cheerfully. “You must know that, being a medical man, Dr. Watson.”

“Indeed I do; they are most mysterious.”

“Just like women,” added Wiggins, with a wink at Holmes.

I had to agree with Wiggins—and particularly mysterious was the young woman at the concert with the musky scent. I wondered
about her—who she was, what she was doing at the concert, and why Holmes was so interested in her. But Holmes was already moving toward the door.

“Well, I congratulate you, Mr. Wiggins; once again, you have proved invaluable to me,” he said. “What is the name of the scent in question?”

“Golden Nights,” said Wiggins. “Believe me when I tell you it costs a king’s ransom to buy.”

“I would never doubt you, my friend,” said Holmes, grasping the man’s shoulder affectionately. “Take care of yourself. Here is a little contribution to your research,” he added, slipping a few bills into Wiggins’ jacket pocket.

“That really isn’t necessary,” said Wiggins. “It’s always a pleasure to be of service to you, Mr. Holmes.”

“Take it on my account,” Holmes urged. “It will make me feel better.”

“Very well; thank you,” our host said with a simple dignity.

“Oh, just one last question,” said Holmes. “Do any of your clients order this particular scent?”

Wiggins smiled, and again I was struck by the sweetness of the man’s nature.

“I’m afraid most of my ‘clients,’ as you so kindly put it, can’t afford a scent like this one. I haven’t sold any of this particular scent for years. No, I’m afraid I have that one, as I have most of these,” he said, indicating the rows of bottles, “simply for my own amusement. Some I even manufacture myself. Next time you must let me show you my new laboratory equipment.”

“I would be delighted,” said Holmes, and once again we stepped out into the night.

It was a shock to stand once again in the rain-slicked street after the warm gentility of Mr. Wiggins’ shop. We pulled our collars up around our ears and headed back down the alley in search of a cab.

*     *     *

Before long I was snugly ensconced in the sitting room at Baker Street, sipping brandy and watching the storm as it gathered strength outside, while Holmes rummaged around downstairs for something to eat. I watched as the rain swept in sheets across the deserted streets; only the hardiest of souls would venture out on a night like this. Even the usual procession of hansom cabs had disappeared, leaving the bare cobblestones to receive the brunt of the storm’s fury.

Holmes appeared at the door holding a joint of beef in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other.

“Success!” he cried cheerfully. “Good old Mrs. Hudson, reliable to the last.”

“That’s a strange thing to say. You make it sound as if she had died.”

“Hmmm, you’re right. I don’t know why I said that,” he replied, setting the food on the sideboard. “Cornwall may be a form of purgatory, but it isn’t quite death, I suppose. I think you had better stay here tonight,” he added, drawing the curtains on the tempest outside.

“Thank you, I will,” I said, carving myself a large slice of roast beef. As the flu epidemic was finally showing signs of slowing down, I had left my surgery in the care of a colleague for a few days so that I could get some much-needed rest. It was pleasant to be once again in my old digs, sharing brandy with Holmes in front of the fire. His black mood of earlier had lightened and he was in a talkative mood.

“Nature is often a cruel mistress, Watson,” he said meditatively, gazing into his brandy glass as the fire crackled and sparked in the grate.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” said Holmes, “it strikes me as terribly cruel that a prince of a man like Wiggins should have been saddled with such a pathetic and repulsive body, whilst spiritually repulsive men often are blessed with
the handsomest of figures. Take the odious Baron Gruner, for example. Do you remember him?”

“Remember him!” I exclaimed. “How could I forget him; his henchmen nearly beat you to death. I’ll never forget the day I saw the newspaper which carried the report of the attack on you; I thought my heart had stopped—”

Holmes dismissed the memory with a wave of his hand.

“That was a mere trifle compared to the way the baron treated women. A truly venomous snake, that one—and yet Nature gave him the face and figure of a god.”

“Well, he got what was coming to him; he was horribly disfigured by the acid which Kitty threw in his face. There was a strange justice in his fate after all.”

“True, but by the hand of a woman, not Nature.”

I laughed. “Holmes, you know nothing about women if you separate them from Nature—”

Holmes chuckled. “Perhaps you’re right... I just regret that a man like Wiggins has to spend his life in such a body. He doesn’t deserve such a fate.”

“I think I have read of a case such as his in my medical textbooks. A certain John Merrick had a similar disease, and became quite famous after he became the special patient of a London physician.”

“Yes, yes; Wiggins has often spoken of Merrick, or the Elephant Man, as he was called, and wished he could meet him. Wiggins himself has had quite a life. I shall tell you about him one day—I count him as one of the many treasures London has to offer the curious adventurer.”

“Who are his clients?”

Holmes smiled. “Mostly ‘fancy women,’ as they are so delicately called. They go to Wiggins for their ounce or two of cologne, because he gives them a good price. More importantly, he treats them with respect.”

“I see.”

“Oh, Watson, don’t look so scandalized! The women themselves aren’t evil—the real evil lies in society. It’s shameful that conditions are such that a woman has to trade her virtue for a few coins and then be vilified in the process.”

I got up and put some more wood on the fire. The log was damp, and smoked and popped when I lowered it onto the flames. I picked up the poker and jabbed at it a bit. Finally, however, I could contain myself no longer.

“Well, Holmes, are you going to tell me about the young woman at the Albert Hall now, or am I going to have to remain in ignorance until you are quite ready to divulge your secrets?”

Holmes laughed. “Secrets? I have no secrets from you, Watson. There are only plain facts, which you yourself could have deduced if you had bothered to observe what I did.”

“And exactly what did you observe?”

“Let’s start with what you observed, Watson. You noticed the young lady, the empty seat, and the strong perfume, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Anything else?”

I tried hard to remember what I had noticed at the concert, but everything was already becoming faint in my mind, blunted by the brandy, the fire, and the lateness of the hour.

“All right, Watson, I’ll help. First, the young lady. What did you make of her?”

I never saw her face clearly, only from a side angle, but I had a vague memory of what she wore, a burgundy brocade dress—fashionable enough, but not of the most expensive cut.

“Well, she was well dressed, but not richly dressed.”

“Excellent. So now we may surmise she did not buy herself the
very expensive perfume which she wore, but that it was given to her as a gift.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s a reasonable conclusion.”

“Was she married?”

“Uh... no, I shouldn’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Well, she was alone—”

“Oh, come, Watson; there is no mystery to this one! She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.”

I was tired of Holmes’ attempt to educate me; I found his use of the Socratic method on this occasion irritating.

“Look, Holmes,” I said, “you might as well face that you won’t turn me into a reasoning machine such as yourself.”

“Very well,” he said, shrugging. “Her agitated state of mind was clear to me when I saw her standing by her seat, craning her neck to look around, as though she were expecting to see someone. She remained standing until the moment the lights went down, and then she took her seat for the first half of the concert, leaving, as we both noticed, during the interval.

She left so hastily, in fact, that she left these.” And with that Holmes produced from his pocket a pair of cream-colored kid gloves.

“She left without her gloves? Why would she do that, I wonder?” I said, examining them. They were of good quality, quite new, and exuded a faint odour of Golden Nights.

“She left without them because she had other more important things to think about,” said Holmes, lighting his pipe, “and I can’t help wondering what they were.”

“Well, I for one am going to bed,” I said. “It’s late.”

“Go ahead, Watson; I’ll follow later.”

Holmes evidently saw me glance at the desk drawer which contained the dreaded needle, because he smiled. “Don’t worry,
Watson; I promise you I shall take nothing stronger than shag tobacco tonight.”

I waved my hand at the blue mist of smoke which hung in the air.

“You might cut down a bit on that as well, you know.”

Holmes shook his head.

“One vice at a time, Watson.”

I went upstairs. I was so tired that I fell upon the bed immediately, only to wake up shivering in the middle of the night. I crept downstairs to see if Holmes had retired. He had not, and was sitting in the same position in which I had left him, his head wreathed in smoke, gazing out the window. Not wanting him to see me, I said nothing and tiptoed back upstairs. The last image in my mind as I fell asleep was of Holmes, seated in his chair, his sharp profile surrounded in smoke which dispersed the yellow lamplight around his head like a halo.

I
slept like the dead that night, dreaming of rows and rows of shelves covered with mysterious bottles. I was looking for something in the bottles, but I could not find whatever it was I wanted. I kept dropping bottles to the floor and breaking them. Instead of perfume, they contained acid—like the acid which had so horribly disfigured Baron Gruner’s face. Each time a bottle dropped to the floor, it ate a little more of the floorboards away, until finally I was standing on a tiny piece of wood. I awoke, covered in sweat, with that strange sense of relief one always has when a bad dream proves not to be real after all.

When I finally came down to breakfast, it was late and Holmes was already seated at the table. It was evident from his red-rimmed eyes and haggard face that he had not slept, and yet he greeted me cheerfully.

“Ah, Watson, you’re just in time to try my own recreation of Mrs. Hudson’s famed Scotch eggs,” he said, lifting the lid of a silver chafing dish.

I peered dubiously into the dish, expecting untold horrors, but to my surprise the contents did look amazingly like Mrs. Hudson’s admirable
version of the Scottish delicacy. I spooned some onto my plate.