The Star of India (7 page)

W
e rose early the next morning, and Holmes reluctantly accepted an offer of breakfast. He did it on my behalf, I think. Whatever the reason, I was glad enough to fortify myself with Mrs. Campbell’s excellent Scotch porridge and hot tea before we left for the train station.

“Are you sure we’ll be all right?” said Mrs. Campbell as we waited for the train to London.

“Yes, quite sure,” said Holmes. “Stay in touch by telegram if you should see anything unusual, but I shouldn’t worry if I were you.”

As the train pulled into the station, a thick cloud of black smoke pouring from its smokestack, Mrs. Campbell impetuously hugged us both. I found the gesture touching, but I could tell it made Holmes uncomfortable. Mrs. Hudson and I exchanged a wry glance at the behavior of her sister. Still, Holmes bade both sisters a warm farewell, and the last thing I saw was the two of them, arm in arm, waving to us as the train pulled away.

Holmes settled into our compartment with a copy of the
Telegraph,
which he had purchased at the station. He seemed to be looking for
something, and he evidently found it, because he gave an exclamation and held the paper out to me.

“See, Watson—another message like the one yesterday: here.”

I took the paper and read the entry in the classifieds:

“‘Mr. Fermat to Mr. Shomel: you have thwarted my knight but my pawn captures your pawn. The sword has been pulled from the stone, but at what cost?’”

I handed the paper back to Holmes.

“What does it mean, I wonder?”

“Oh, the meaning is clear enough,” he said grimly. “The sword in the stone is a reference to King Arthur. As for the recipient, the message is evidently intended for me.”

“So the message is for
you
?”

“Watson, surely the crude anagram of ‘Shomel’ did not escape you,” Holmes said impatiently. “That the message is for me I have no doubt. It is who is sending it that has me worried.”

“Who do you think it is?”

“We are being watched, Watson. Our every move is being followed, and I cannot but think that we ourselves are being used as pawns in a much bigger game.”

“Watched? Who is watching us?”

“Watson, you yourself noticed the Swiss ‘tourists’ yesterday, but you failed to notice the most telling thing about them.”

“What was that?”

“Their shoes.”

“Their shoes?”

“Yes. I remarked it at once: Their shoes were brand new.”

“Well, I don’t see how that—”

“Consider, Watson. Any experienced hiker knows that you do not go on a lengthy holiday with a new pair of shoes. You buy your shoes
well ahead of time and wear them in properly, otherwise you end up with blisters. So when I asked myself what self-respecting hikers would go out so foolishly wearing brand-new shoes, I came to the conclusion that they were not hikers at all: in short, that they were impostors.”

“Impostors!”

“Yes, Watson: they were sent there to spy on us.”

“But—why?”

“Why indeed?” Holmes held up the newspaper. “You see our actions have been carefully noted here. If they had wanted to kill Mrs. Hudson, it would have been easy enough, but instead she was captured and we were lured away to save her—which it was possible to do if we read all the signs exactly right.”

I looked at the newspaper again.

“So you are Mr. Shomel—I see that now clearly enough. But who is Mr. Fermat?”

“That is what worries me, Watson. It is impossible, and yet...” He stared out the window at the rolling countryside, the tidy hedgerows and farm fields giving way to villages. “I wonder, do ghosts rise from the dead?”

When we returned to Baker Street, a small, shabby boy was leaning up against the building which housed 221B. I recognized him as Tuthill, Holmes’ most trusted member of the Baker Street Irregulars.

“Mr. Holmes!” he said when he saw us. “I’ve been waiting for you ever so long. I’ve kept an eye on the place for you just as you asked.”

“I appreciated that, Master Tuthill,” Holmes said in a kindly voice. “Why don’t you come upstairs and have something to refresh yourself, and then you can tell us what you’ve seen.”

“‘Ta very much,” Master Tuthill said gratefully, bounding up the stairs after us.

After he had put away the better part of the joint of cold beef, Tuthill sat back in his chair and gazed at us with warm eyes. It was evident from the way he tucked into the meat that he could do with a few more meals like that.

“So, what do you have to tell us?” Holmes said, lighting his pipe.

Tuthill pushed away the lank strands of dirty blond hair which hung over his eyes and wiped some of the smudges from his cheeks with a dirty sleeve. “I don’t know as how it’s important or not, but you told me to always report to you if I sees anything strange like.”

“Yes, yes, quite right, Tuthill,” said Holmes. “What is it that you saw?”

“Well, you know how you told me to keep an eye on that poor crippled fellow, Mr. Wiggins?”

“Yes?”

“Well, Billy Kimball’s been watchin’ him regular like, only yesterday he gets no answer when he knocks.”

“And—?”

“That’s all. I just thought I should tell you.”

“Did Billy see anyone suspicious lurking around Mr. Wiggins’ place?”

“No, sir. I asked ’im that myself, and ’e says ’e didn’t see nobody.”

“Thank you, Master Tuthill; you have done well to report this to me.”

“I—I hope there’s nothing the matter, sir. Mr. Wiggins, ’e’s a nice man—all the fellows think so, sir.”

“Don’t worry; I shall look into the matter myself.”

“Yes, sir.” Tuthill stood and straightened his ragged clothes. Though he was old enough to wear long pants, his well-worn breeches barely covered his thin knees. “Thank you for the beef, sir.”

“You’re quite welcome, Tuthill. Why don’t you take some with you when you go?”

“Oh, I couldn’t, sir...”

“Go ahead. We won’t eat it all.”

Tuthill managed to stuff an amazing amount of roast beef into his pockets, along with a couple of thick slices of bread, and then he left. Holmes closed the door after him with a sigh.

“There are thousands of street urchins like him out there, Watson. The problem grows larger every day, and yet society doesn’t seem to think it important enough to do anything about it. I’ll tell you one thing: The Tuthills of this world are headed for a life of crime unless someone steps in between them and the hard life they’ve been forced to live.”

“Someone like you?” I said with a smile. I had always wondered if the Irregulars were Holmes’ own secret charity case, one he could indulge in without exposing his sentiments, on the pretext that the ragged boys and girls he sponsored helped him solve his cases. That they occasionally did help him, I had no doubt. But the coins he regularly distributed among them were far out of proportion to the services he required of them. Holmes was already putting on his coat.

“Come, Watson,” he said. “I am disturbed by what Tuthill has told us.”

I quickly fetched my own coat and hat.

“You don’t think...?”

“I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”

There was no sign of the storm which had blown so bitterly in Cornwall. In fact, London was being visited by a rare period of bright sunshine. It was not hard to find a cab in such weather, and within minutes we were on our way once again to Mr. Wiggins’ extraordinary establishment under the shadow of St. Paul’s Church.

The same narrow street did not look so threatening in broad daylight, and, as we stood in front of Wiggins’ door, I looked about me and saw that some of the other establishments on the street were quite respectable: Facing onto the alley were the back entrances of a cobbler’s
shop, a saddler, and a silversmith. We stepped over a small pile of rotting vegetables and knocked on the door. There was no answer to our knocks, however, and when Holmes pushed lightly on the door it opened. Holmes looked at me, his face grim.

“Be careful, Watson,” he said. “I don’t know what we’ll find inside.”

Upon entering the shop I felt at once that something was horribly wrong. We were greeted by a piteous, high-pitched keening, much like the wailing of a small child. The sound came from Bandu the parrot, who was at his usual place behind the counter. However, as soon as we closed the door behind us, the noise abruptly ceased. The silence was as startling as the wailing had been. The perfume bottles sat upon their shelves, their rich colors reflecting in the gas light, and Bandu sat upon his perch, gazing at us with his bright orange eyes, but there was no sign of Wiggins.

Holmes turned to me, his face rigid.

“There has been foul play here, Watson, foul play indeed.”

I followed Holmes through an ocher brocade curtain that separated the front room from a narrow hallway which led to the rear of the building: Wiggins’ laboratory. As we walked down the hallway I inhaled the smell of a hundred different scents, some sharp and clear as a mountain stream, some musky, others flowery and sweet. I felt quite dizzy by the time we entered the room.

When we entered the laboratory, we found the pitiful sight which we so dreaded. Wiggins was seated at his laboratory desk, clad in a white lab coat, his body slumped over in the chair. It was immediately clear to me that he was dead.

Holmes stood for several moments, still as a statue, then he turned to me. His normally impassive face was suffused with such fury that I took a step backwards, startled in spite of myself.

“By God, Watson, whoever did this to Wiggins will pay! I swear to
you I will avenge his death with my own hands!” he hissed through clenched teeth.

I said nothing, afraid to interrupt Holmes in this mood. I looked around the room: It was a well-stocked laboratory, with shining modern equipment set out upon two large tables. Another set of specially constructed shelves held small vials of fragrance samples as well as spare equipment: beakers, test tubes, pipettes, and Petri dishes. Wiggins had been justifiably proud of his laboratory, and I remembered sadly his promise to show it to us upon our next visit. I turned to Holmes, who was examining Wiggins’ body.

“What do you make of this, Watson?” he said.

I examined Wiggins’ body. There were no visible wounds, but redness around the neck area and the purplish cast to his face indicated strangulation. I told Holmes this, and he nodded grimly.

“Damn that storm! We never should have stayed in Cornwall last night,” he said bitterly. “I was right when I suspected they wanted me out of London.”

“Yes, but even if you were in London, I doubt that you would have prevented this,” I said gently.

“Perhaps not, but now the trail is cold.”

“It wouldn’t have been difficult to kill him, you know. The condition he suffers from frequently makes it difficult for the sufferer to breathe normally anyway...” I looked at his poor, pathetic form. If ever a man had not deserved what fate had dealt him, it was Wiggins. “But who would want Wiggins dead?” I wondered out loud.

“That is precisely what I intend to find out,” Holmes replied, his face set, jaw clenched.

“We shall have to inform the police, you know,” I said.

“Yes, yes, but first we must see what clues we can find before they come along and spoil everything,” Holmes replied impatiently,
inspecting the floor around Wiggins’ desk. “Here’s a little something,” he said, picking it up and examining it under the lamp.

“What is it?”

“A hair, Watson.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, but not one of Wiggins’ hairs; perhaps it is the hair of the murderer. In any case, it is very light—almost white—and very coarse.”

I tried to imagine an old, white-haired man killing the unfortunate Wiggins, but it didn’t seem likely.

“Very well,” said Holmes after inspecting the crime scene thoroughly. “I shall leave the rest for Scotland Yard. Come, Watson, let us see if they have left clues for us anywhere else.”

I followed Holmes back through the cramped hallway into the front room of the shop. Bandu appeared very excited to see us, bouncing up and down on his perch.

“B-b-be quiet!” he said loudly. “B-b-be quiet, y-y-you idiot!”

Holmes stopped where he was and looked at the parrot.

“Did you hear that, Watson?” he said.

“Yes, he said ‘Be quiet, you—’ “

“I
know
what he said!” Holmes hissed impatiently. “It’s
how he said it
that matters!”

As if to oblige, the parrot repeated his comment.

“B-b-be quiet, y-y-you idiot!”

“That’s it—do you see, Watson?” said Holmes.

“You mean, he’s stuttering?” I said.

“Yes!” said Holmes. “Wiggins never stuttered.”

“Maybe one of his clients—”

“Do you remember what Wiggins said about this parrot? That he liked to pick up new sayings, and that he was always changing his latest phrases?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Don’t you
see
, Watson: there were two men here, not one, and the parrot is repeating what one of the men said to the other!”

“Good God—you’re right, Holmes!”

He removed the hair from his pocket and looked at it under the light. His face darkened and he put the hair back in his pocket.

“I think it’s time to pay a visit to Freddie Stockton.”

Of all the nasty fellows Holmes and I had dealt with over the years, there were few nastier than Freddie Stockton. I had first come across him during The Strange Case of the Tongue-Tied Tenor, during his employment by Professor Moriarty before the fall at Reichenbach cut short his illustrious criminal career. After Moriarty’s death, Stockton worked for Colonel Moran for a while, and then, after that gentleman was jailed through Holmes’ efforts, Stockton turned to various pursuits: blackmail, theft, and the occasional beating. Holmes had once told me that even among London criminal society it was said of Freddie Stockton that he would strangle his own grandmother for the price of a pint. Physically, Stockton was distinguished by two striking characteristics: his profuse whitish blond hair and a pronounced stutter.

Now Holmes and I were in search of this princely character. After procuring a hansom cab Holmes gave the driver instructions to take us to the East End, where the mix of poverty and predators created a dangerous and squalid environment.