The Star of India (14 page)

“Yes, Morgan; what is it?” said Lestrade.

“Begging pardon, sir, but there is something I think you should know.”

“Well,
out
with it, man; what is it?” Lestrade said impatiently.

Morgan hesitated, glancing at Holmes and myself.

“It’s all right, Morgan; these gentlemen are helping me with my investigation,” said Lestrade wearily.

“Well, sir, it seems that Freddie Stockton has been found—”

“Yes?” Lestrade said, half rising from his chair.

“—floating in the Thames, sir.”

“He’s
dead
? Are you telling me Stockton is
dead
?”

“Well, yes, sir. I mean, it looks that way, sir.”

“Either he’s dead or he’s not; it’s not a question of how he
looks
!” Lestrade bellowed.

“Well, he’s definitely dead, sir. We got a mate of his to identify the body—and that hair of his, sir; it’s quite unusual. It seems he’d been strangled first, sir, and then the body thrown into the river.”

“How could he be
dead
? How can that be?” Lestrade barked, his voice choked with rage.

Startled, Sergeant Morgan took a step backwards. Lestrade sighed deeply.

“Never mind, Sergeant... that will be all, thank you.”

Sergeant Morgan saluted smartly, turned on his heel, and left. Lestrade shook his head.

“That Morgan... still thinks he’s in the military, what with all that bloody saluting,” Lestrade muttered. He rose from his desk and poured himself a glass of water from a pitcher which sat on the windowsill directly behind Bandu. The parrot followed his movements with interest, and when the bird saw the water he opened his mouth and stuck out his odd, sharply pointed black tongue. Lestrade held the glass out to the bird, who drank from it, pointing his face skyward to swallow.

“I think I can explain, Inspector,” said Holmes. “You see, when Dr. Watson and myself interviewed Mr. Stockton he expressed some fear of... reprisal... from his employer if he told us anything. At the very least, it was not good for him to be seen with us.”

“His employer? And who is his employer?” said Lestrade.

Holmes interlocked his fingers and looked directly at Lestrade.

“There is a man, Inspector, who was behind half of what was evil in London, a man who—”

“Yes, yes,” said Lestrade wearily. “I’ve read Dr. Watson’s accounts of the evil Professor Moriarty. Not that I believe a man like that ever existed, mind you,” he added with a wink at me. “Still, it makes good fiction, doesn’t it?”

“I assure you, Inspector, Professor Moriarty is very real—and not only that, he is very much alive,” Holmes replied.

Again Lestrade looked at me, imploringly this time, but I nodded my head.

“I’m afraid Holmes is quite right, Inspector. Moriarty also survived Reichenbach Falls.”

Lestrade’s face went red. “But—but how... I mean, how is it that I don’t know about him?”

Holmes shrugged. “Most people don’t know of his existence. That has always been the secret of his power. However, having returned to London to find his empire in a shambles, he is acting more desperately now to reassert his control. His movements have become more open—and more reckless. His challenge to me has an air of bravado about it, something I would never have expected from him in the past.” Holmes leaned forward, resting his sharp elbows on his knees. “It is this alone which gives me hope that we may actually overcome him. Before he acted out of a cold self-interest; now he is acting from vanity.”

“So he really does exist?” Lestrade said softly, sitting down again.

“I’m afraid so,” Holmes replied. “And I am quite certain that he is responsible for Stockton’s death. He no doubt wished to make an example of Stockton, who, after all, made not one but two mistakes.”

“Two mistakes?” said Lestrade.

“The first one was killing Wiggins,” I said.

“You mean Wiggins was not meant to die?”

“Oh, no,” said Holmes. “Stockton was just sent to get information
out of him, but he died before Stockton got what he came for. He died of strangulation—which was, I believe, how your sergeant said Stockton was killed.”

“Moriarty’s idea of poetic justice,” I said.

“I see,” said Lestrade. “And the second mistake?”

“Why, talking to us, of course. We made no secret of the fact that we were looking for Freddie Stockton. During the course of our search, we must have been seen by half the criminal population of London,” said Holmes. “He didn’t really tell us anything we didn’t already know, but he did confirm my suspicion that Moriarty was alive and in London.” He then described our interview with the late Freddie Stockton, including our visits to the various places of debauchery. While he talked, Lestrade idly stroked Bandu’s feathers, and the parrot responded by rubbing its beak against his shoulder.

“Well,” he said when Holmes had finished, “if this is what he does to his own men, he is even worse than I thought.”

Holmes smiled grimly. “Oh, he is worse than anyone can possibly imagine, and I hope for your sake that you never come up against him face-to-face, Lestrade.”

These words cut Lestrade’s vanity, and he bristled. “I am sure I shall be equal to the task, should the time arrive, Mr. Holmes,” he said stiffly.

“Of course, of course,” Holmes replied genially. “Still, it is a ruthless player who eliminates his own man, and I can’t help but wonder what he has in mind next.”

“Oh! That reminds me—I have something to show you,” I said, fishing around in my pocket for the slip of paper I had shoved in it before I left my office. “Here, what do you make of this?” I said, handing it to Holmes.

He studied it for a moment and then gave it to Lestrade.

“It is simplicity itself; don’t you agree, Lestrade?”

Lestrade looked up from the paper. “Why, it’s some sort of code, I suppose,” he said.

“You are correct there,” said Holmes. “It is a chess move.”

“A what?” Lestrade studied the paper.

“It’s written in the shorthand which chess players use to indicate a move. ‘K.Kt.-B4’ means that the king’s knight—which is of course the knight closer to the king—moves to the square known as Bishop Four; in other words, four squares in front of the bishop.”

“Oh, right; of course,” Lestrade said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

“Where did you get this, Watson?”

“It was in with my mail.”

“What was the postmark?”

“There was none, and no return address either... but the man who delivered it matched the description of the strange little fellow who gave me the newspaper in the train station. McKinney said he had muttonchop whiskers; and he came and went without a word.”

Holmes’ eyes narrowed. “Ah! As there was no message in today’s
Telegraph
, I expect that this is his next move, then.” He studied the paper. “This could mean so many things; it all depends on proper interpretation.”

“I don’t understand,” said Lestrade. “What do you mean by ‘his next move’?”

Holmes proceeded to explain the affair of the missing jewel, stressing that it was a matter of great national importance. Lestrade’s eyes widened with each detail, and when Holmes finished he gulped.

“Well, I’ll be,” he said softly, pouring himself another glass of water from the pitcher behind his desk.

“You see,” Holmes continued, “Wiggins’ death was one of the moves in... a kind of chess game.”

Lestrade received this information with some skepticism but agreed to follow Holmes’ lead in the matter.

“That part sounds a bit far-fetched to me,” he said a bit sullenly, “but if you think that’s what he’s up to, I suppose it can’t hurt to go along with it...”

“I do, and my brother Mycroft agrees with me,” said Holmes.

“Oh, he’s in this, too, is he?” said Lestrade. “He’s a smart one, is Mr. Mycroft Holmes, but... well, if you don’t mind saying so, a bit odd. That club of his...” Lestrade shook his head. “And why is it this Moriarty fellow is tipping you off to what he’s up to?”

Holmes leaned forward, resting his arms on the front of Lestrade’s desk.

“I believe he feels the need to establish his superiority once again amongst his lieutenants in order to exert the same kind of control he had before he was injured. You see, he has been out of circulation now for over three years, and a lot has changed in London since then. He is playing such a dangerous game to show that he is still the mastermind criminal he once was. But beyond that, there is his arrogance. In fact, his sense of intellectual superiority is the closest thing he has to an Achilles heel. It may be his only weakness, Lestrade, but we must take advantage of it if we are to defeat him.”

“What do you think he means by this, then?” said Lestrade, holding up the paper containing the chess move.

Holmes leaned back in his chair. “I’m not certain, but I have several theories. We can’t cover all the possibilities, but we must try to do our best. The first thing you could do is to alert all of your men that a move is expected.”

“What exactly is... expected?”

“It’s difficult to tell. It all depends upon interpreting this move correctly. You have already no doubt given orders to inspect any
suspicious ships or other conveyances leaving London.”

“Uh, yes; I was just about to do that,” Lestrade said. “I’ll, uh, tell Morgan to get on it right away.” Lestrade went to the door and opened it. “Morgan,” he called, “come in here.”

A moment later Morgan’s ruddy face appeared in the doorway.

“Yes, sir?”

“See that an extra man is posted around all governmental buildings and other places which might be a security risk. And put a couple of extra men at 221 Baker Street, will you?” Lestrade turned to Holmes. “Now that
he
knows you are on the case, so to speak, it can’t hurt to have some extra protection.”

Holmes nodded. “That’s very good of you, if you can spare the men.”

“I can. Have you got that, Morgan?”

“Yes, sir.” Morgan turned to leave.

“And Morgan—”

“Yes, sir?”

“See that the—the earlier orders regarding the ship inspections are carried out.”

Morgan looked puzzled. “What orders, sir?”

Lestrade looked at us and rolled his eyes. “The order I gave you earlier about inspecting all suspicious-looking vehicles leaving London.”

“Oh,
those
orders! Yes, sir—right away, sir.” The young sergeant saluted smartly and withdrew. Lestrade closed the door and sat down at his desk.

“Morgan will be the death of me,” he said.

I looked at him with what I hoped was a sympathetic expression. I couldn’t be sure, but I think Holmes was suppressing a smile.

“All right, what next?” Lestrade asked.

“Now we wait,” replied Holmes. “Or rather, you wait, as I have a few matters to attend to. Shall we go, Watson?” he said, rising from
his chair. Lestrade followed us to the door, a wistful expression on his ferret-like face.

“I’ll be in touch,” he said. Just then Bandu left his perch and, with a great flapping of wings, settled on Lestrade’s shoulder. Lestrade looked both pleased and embarrassed by the bird’s behavior.

“Well, Lestrade,” said Holmes as we left, “I do believe that bird’s taken a fancy to you.”

“Oh, that’s nonsense,” said Lestrade.

“Nonsense,” Bandu echoed, “that’s nonsense.”

W
hen we returned to Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson met us at the door. I have often described her as long-suffering, which is true, but equally true is that her hardy Scottish nature revels in the constant aura of adventure which surrounds her famous tenant. In short, though she might not admit it, Mrs. Hudson has often displayed a certain exhilaration in her proximity to Holmes—even when the dangers to herself are as real as her recent kidnapping. Now she met us in the hallway, her face animated with unspoken questions.

“There’s a young woman upstairs waiting to see you,” she said with a conspiratorial nod to me.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes said, ignoring any implication that he reveal anything more to her. When it came to women— excepting of course the much-admired Irene Adler—Holmes tended to be old-fashioned. Women aroused in him a protective instinct, and he did not relish the idea of exposing them to the perils which his profession occasioned. This attitude was not entirely confined to women; he sometimes expressed a regret that my association with him
exposed me to dangers—dangers which I risked gladly but which he felt responsible for.

When we opened the door to the sitting room, Violet Merriweather rose from her chair by the fire to greet us. As she did, the aroma of Golden Nights wafted up from her rustling skirts. The smell of it made me quite dizzy, and I stood there transfixed for a moment.

“Mr. Holmes, I hope you don’t mind—” she said, looking flustered. Holmes smiled and closed the door behind him.

“Not at all, Miss Merriweather; I am sorry if we have detained you.”

“Oh, I didn’t have to wait very long.”

“Long enough to smoke two cigarettes and take a nap.”

Our visitor blushed, and again I was struck by what an agreeable change it made in her complexion.

“But h-how did you—?” she stammered.