The Adventure of the Plated Spoon and Other Tales of Sherlock Holmes (24 page)

I had lost count of how many times Sherlock Holmes had paced by the window, stopping for a brief moment at every pass, like he was checking a clock for the time, then moving on. It was quite unlike him to be so impatient, so anxious for the arrival of a potential client.

“You should have a cigarette,” I said, peering over the tabloid that had yet to capture my full attention.

Holmes stopped pacing, looked down his hawklike nose at me, and scowled. “How can you possibly think about a pleasure at a time like this?”

“Perhaps I don't know what time it is.”

“Oh, very well.” He rolled his eyes, marched directly to the window, and stood frozen in wait.

“You're acting very cagey. Is there something I need to know?” A direct question sometimes did the trick, but again Holmes ignored me, so I was left with no alternative but to return to the sordid rag in my hands.

He was not acting himself, so I thought he may have participated in a moment of weakness recently. I had often encouraged him to give up his cocaine habit, but as of yet my advice had fallen on deaf ears. A man of Holmes's dual nature, prone to rising and falling extremes in mood, did not need any additional agitators in my medical opinion. As it was, he seemed like a lit fuse about halfway to the point of explosion. I had a deep suspicion that something had set him off, had sent him to the needle, out of my sight once again. I could only sigh at his silence.

After several minutes, he finally said, “Do you mind, Watson? Really, it is quite impossible to share every detail of my day with you.”

I tossed the tabloid to the table, and stood up. “Then I shall depart.”

“Don't be silly. I need you here.”

“Whatever for?” I demanded.

At that moment, the bell rang and Holmes stiffened. “Ah, have a seat, Watson. I am absolutely positive that you will find this interesting, and glad to have taken the time for.”

Being educated in the ways and manners of Sherlock Holmes, I had no choice but to act as a three-year-old and do as I was told. He wanted me to have a look at something, that was certain. I sat down eagerly, and waited for whatever was to come next.

I had been through the procedure before, more than once, but something was out of order, like the turn of a kaleidoscope had not fallen exactly into place. Holmes confused me and confounded me. That was normal, as was his intensity. But he was acting like a schoolboy waiting for the girl of his dreams. And that was not ordinary, at all.

I heard Mrs. Hudson meet the door, followed by murmured voices, then footsteps echoed up the stairs. I have to say, I was not prepared for what came next, for the sight that entered the door, even with all of Holmes's apparent—and completely founded—excitement.

Mrs. Hudson burst in first, of course, heavy-footed, nearly stomping in with an unnecessary announcement of her Scottish heritage. I almost laughed out loud once when Holmes complimented the landlady, offering that she “fixed a fine breakfast, for a Scottish woman.” He was lucky he wasn't served haggis for every meal for weeks thereafter. It would have served him right, if you ask me.

“A lady to see you, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson offered, dusting flour from her apron. If jealousy had a face, it would have chosen the one Mrs. Hudson was wearing.

I saw the woman's shadow first, tall, slender, sharp-jawed, the perfect outline of Nefertiti. If I had said that out loud, Holmes would have denounced my choices right away with an offer that I was on the completely wrong continent. And, as always, he would have been correct. She was not from Africa at all.

The woman's entrance into the room quite simply took my breath away.

She was black-skinned, not a crease or a wrinkle showing on her perfectly sculpted face, with the most penetrating sunflower-brown eyes I had ever seen. There was no question that she stood six feet tall. Her dress was unusually colorful, patterned with the blooms of big flowers against a white background, with a wrap across her ample breasts of the same red color. Multiple gold hoop earrings dangled from her ears, quite visible because her tightly curled hair was cut short to the scalp, almost like a man's.

It felt as if I were in the presence of royalty, and I stood up immediately. I think my face must have flushed, because I saw Holmes smirk as stealthily as he could.

“Madame Taru, it is a great pleasure finally to meet you in person,” Sherlock Holmes said, rushing across the room with an extended hand.

The woman, who looked to be in her early thirties at the most, was carrying a large red flower that looked like a lily of some kind in her left hand. She met Holmes's handshake firmly, then handed him the flower.

“Ah, a
Bougainvillea glabra
,” Holmes said, gladly taking the blooming gift.

He turned to me, and offered the big red flower. “Don't mistake the leaves for flowers, Watson. The flower itself is white, if you pay close attention to the tiny blooms in the center. Most people call it the Paper Flower.”

I forced a smile, noticed the small blooms, then handed off the Paper Flower to Mrs. Hudson, who seemed far more curious about it than I was. She smiled, then hurried out of the room with it, presumably to put the beauty in a vase somewhere.

“Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Holmes,” Madame Taru said. Her voice had an island lilt to it, like an easy, rolling wave that never crashed ashore, just spread out onto the sand, then eased back into the ocean from which it came. “It is a matter of great importance that we speak in person.” She cast an uncertain glance my way.

“This is John Watson, medical doctor, my Boswell, if you will, veteran of Afghanistan, and as discreet a man as you will ever meet.” The authority in Holmes's voice was unquestionable, and Madame Taru's shoulders seemed to relax immediately at the pronouncement of his trust in me.

I offered my hand, and she returned in kind, placing her silky palm in mine. Her flesh was warm, like she had soaked in the sun before arriving—even though the London sky was a typical grey, with the promise of freezing rain. Her grip was as powerful as any man's that I had ever encountered. I was completely intrigued, and slightly smitten, though I would have never admitted such a thing out loud.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, as well, Dr. Watson,” the woman said.

“Please, please,” Holmes offered with a sweep of his hand toward a simple chair reserved for clients, “have a seat.”

Madame Taru smiled, and the beauty of her ivory teeth brought some much-needed light into the room. She sat demurely, on the edge of the cushion, looking all about the room in a comfortable manner.

“Would you care for some tea?” I asked.

“Oh, no, thank you. I must be here for only a moment. Perhaps some other time, kind sir.”

“That would be lovely,” I said. I was tempted to ask her about the weather on her island, or her journey to Baker Street, just so I could hear her speak again, but I felt the hard glare of Holmes's insistence that I retreat on the back of my neck, so I restrained myself.

“The governor sends his regards, Mr. Holmes,” Madame Taru said.

“I am pleased to hear that. I'm fond of Governor Parker's attempt at office, though I understand he longs for the craggy shores of Nova Scotia over the sandy beaches of your home country.”

“There is nothing worse than a man stricken with homesickness,” she said.

“But that is not the purpose of your visit, is it?” asked Holmes.

I stood in my place, waiting for the reason for my presence to show itself. Of course, there was nowhere else I would have rather been at that moment—well, perhaps a little closer to Madame Taru than I was, but that was out of the question. There was obvious business at hand.

“No, I am afraid not, sir. The cure for such a thing as homesickness requires something more than a consulting detective.”

“But theft usually does require a service like mine,” Holmes said.

“Yes. You are most perspicacious, as I expected that you would be. A fine trait for a man in your line of lift and toil.” The last word bounced off the walls like a song, reverberating in my ear. The word
toil
had never sounded so pleasant, so void of labor.

“Oh, trust me, Madame Taru, it is not work that I conduct here. It is an adventure in curiosity. Isn't that right, Watson?”

“What? Oh, yes,” I said. I must have been staring at the woman. I was totally enamoured by her very being, and my obsession had obviously annoyed Holmes past the point of a glare. It wasn't the first time that had happened. “My friend here is a specialist in observation. Or in the observation of trifles, as he likes to say.”

Holmes looked right through me. “How is it that this theft concerns the governor, Madame Taru?”

She reached inside her dress to a hidden pocket and produced a newly printed photograph, then handed it to Holmes. “This is the piece that has disappeared from the residence. It is only a faux piece of art, as I am sure you can tell.”

“Quite,” Holmes said. “It is not original, but cast of a mold, meaning there are more like it.”

“Yes, the piece has been replaced,” the woman said. “So no one will be the wiser of the theft of the rounded ocelot. Even if they were, the contents would be unknown to them.”

“Why would the governor use this as a container for his personal papers? Does he not have a better place for safekeeping, out of sight?” Holmes handed me the photograph. “Notice the shadow underneath, Watson. It sits up slightly on an opening.”

Madame Taru stood up then, taking my attention away from the piece of art that was her quarry.

“You are exactly the right man for the job. Will you take it, kind sir?” she asked.

“Of course,” Holmes said. “But the art has yet to leave the island, and there is only one way I will able to retrieve it.”

“And how is that, Mr. Holmes?” the woman asked.

“I must journey to the Bahamas myself, for at the moment, I have no clue where it might be stowed away.”

The last bag was loaded onto the carriage, and the driver seemed in a hurry to depart. But Sherlock Holmes had lost his impatience from the day before, and had replaced it with a slow qualification that every item packed for the trip be in the exact order that he wanted it in. He fussed over the last trunk, making sure the buckles were especially tight, then stood back and pronounced, “Well, Watson, that should do it. Are you ready to sail?”

Traveling by sea evoked complicated and painful memories for me. Long before I had met Sherlock Holmes, I served as a surgeon in the army, where, ultimately, I ended up attached to the Berkshires, and was injured in the second Afghan war. I was shot in the shoulder, the bone shattered and the artery grazed. It was a very painful experience that removed me from the battlefield and put me on a trip home aboard the HMS
Orontes
, a three-hundred-foot troopship less suited for battle than the larger
Euphrates
class of troopships, armed with only three 4-pounder guns. Thankfully, there was no need for the guns on that voyage. I saw little of the deck of Ol' Ste, as I was confined to my bed with a rollicking case of seasickness. Beyond the pain and delirium of my wound, I jerked and hurled back and forth, thanks to an aggressive set of waves brought on by a petulant storm that followed us all the way to Portsmouth.

I had never informed Holmes of my lack of tolerance for the rocking of a ship. I could only hope that we encountered good weather, and my previous misfortune had been brought on by the severity of my wound. Only time would tell.

“Yes, of course, I'm absolutely ready for a change of scenery,” I answered.

Holmes looked at me curiously, but said nothing. I feared he knew of my weakness for waves, but he was too much a gentleman, when he was in his most lucid state, to chide me about it.

We both made our way into the carriage, and before long we were clacking toward the docks.

It was a nice enough day, the sky calm with very few clouds to show for weather. The rain from the previous day had not fallen, and it had not frozen, either; a promise left unfulfilled, for the moment. I hoped the sea was just as calm as the sky, a perfect reflection of what was overhead.

“If I do say so, Watson, you're looking a little green around the gills at the prospect of this journey. Perhaps some sun will do you good.”

I looked at Holmes oddly. His concern for my health was a surprise. “Perhaps it will,” I said, settling back into the plush red velvet seat for the rest of the ride.

Holmes only smiled, and stared back out the window.

It didn't take long to get to the docks, a constantly vibrating, forever moving scene that had always fascinated me, but did little to assuage the dread of the impending forty-three-hundred-mile journey.

There had been no explanation from Holmes as to the important nature of the trip. All I knew was that it pertained to a theft, a governor, and a beautiful island woman with the most radiant smile I had ever seen. He had taken cases that seemed less interesting, but there was rarely as lengthy a journey involved as there was with this case. Even more perplexing was that Sherlock Holmes appeared to be giddy about the prospect of getting out of London.

Our accommodations were first class aboard the White Star steamship
Gothic
, a four-hundred-and-ninety-three-foot cargo liner that made its way to New Zealand via the Caribbean.

I tried not to show my lack of enthusiasm as the steward, a short little French gent with a thin mustache perched on his lip that looked more like a blackbird's feather than facial hair, fussed about us, getting us settled into our prospective accommodations.

Holmes's cabin was next to mine. Both were functional with a thin bed, chair, and porthole. The steward—Pierre, of course—directed us to the facilities that would serve us for the trip, at the bow of the ship.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” the steward asked, studying me from head to toe. “Other than bring you a deep pail to keep close?”