The Star of India E-Book

Carole Buggé

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Seitenzahl: 299

Beschreibung

Holmes and Watson find themselves caught up in a complex chess board of a problem, involving a clandestine love affair and the disappearance of a priceless sapphire. Professor James Moriarty is back to tease and torment, leading the duo on a chase through the dark and dangerous back streets of London and beyond.

Leseprobe

The further adventures of

SHERLOCK HOLMES

THE STAR OF INDIA

CAROLE BUGGÉ

TITAN BOOKS

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES:

THE STAR OF INDIA

Print edition ISBN: 9780857681218

E-book edition ISBN: 9780857685414

Published by

Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark St

London

SE1 0UP

First edition: August 2011

Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© 1997, 2011 Carole Buggé

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THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES SERIES:

THE ECTOPLASMIC MAN

Daniel Stashower

THE WAR OF THE WORLDS

Manley Wade Wellman & Wade Wellman

THE SCROLL OF THE DEAD

David Stuart Davies

THE STALWART COMPANIONS

H. Paul Jeffers

THE VEILED DETECTIVE

David Stuart Davies

THE MAN FROM HELL

Barrie Roberts

SÉANCE FOR A VAMPIRE

Fred Saberhagen

THE SEVENTH BULLET

Daniel D. Victor

THE WHITECHAPEL HORRORS

Edward B. Hanna

DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HOLMES

Loren D. Estleman

THE GIANT RAT OF SUMATRA

Richard L. Boyer

THE ANGEL OF THE OPERA

Sam Siciliano

THE PEERLESS PEER

Philip José Farmer

COMING SOON:

THE BREATH OF GOD

Guy Adams

THE WEB WEAVER

Sam Siciliano

THE TITANIC TRAGEDY

William Seil

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

One

I have often remarked upon the moody nature of my friend Sherlock Holmes, so it should have come as no surprise that, when I called upon him on a rainy Saturday in October of 1894, I found him in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street, lying on the couch listlessly tossing darts at the initials V.R., which had been spelled into the wall by bullet holes. Since the death of my second wife, I had taken to calling on Holmes on Saturday afternoons, but it had been several weeks since my last visit.

“Come in!” he barked in response to my knock.

“Ah, it’s you, Watson,” he said when I entered.

“I didn’t see Mrs. Hudson anywhere, so I let myself in,” I said, stepping over a pile of newspapers which nearly blocked the door from opening. The thick aroma of Turkish tobacco hung heavily in the air, and a puff of smoke escaped into the hall when I opened the door.

“Well, come in; that is, if you don’t mind being horribly bored. Nothing,” he said, punctuating the word with a toss of a dart, “nothing of interest is taking place in London—no one of note is trying their wits against the forces of law and order.” He sighed and sat up, unfolding his long frame from the sofa. “It is an irony of my profession that when my fellow creatures are enjoying a period of relative peace and quiet, I find myself in the uncomfortable position of wishing that something interesting would happen to spoil it.”

“But surely you don’t wish—” I said, hanging up my cloak and hat.

“Oh, but I do, Watson; that’s the damnable part of it.”

He threw another dart, which landed at the base of the V and stuck in a bullet hole. Holmes sighed and lit a cigarette. He was wearing his old mouse-colored dressing gown and looked as though he hadn’t shaved—always a bad sign in someone usually so meticulous about his appearance. I was also dismayed to see the stack of newspaper clippings in the corner of the room. When unoccupied with cases, Holmes was in the habit of clipping items from the newspapers, and the size of the pile indicated that it had been some time since he had had a crime to solve. The familiar sitting room, though untidy, was by no means in a shambles the way it often was when Holmes was working. The Persian slipper containing his shag tobacco hung from a nail on the hearth; his test tubes and beakers sat unused upon his makeshift laboratory table.

“Do you mind if I open a window?” I said, coughing. My lungs felt heavy; the acrid smell of stale tobacco was so strong I could taste it on my tongue.

Holmes shrugged. “Go ahead. Frankly, Watson, with Moriarty dead and Colonel Moran behind bars, I am afraid I shall die of boredom,” he said, lying back on the couch and blowing a smoke ring into the air. It curled and hung in the lamplight for a moment before dissipating into a thin gray wisp.

I opened the window and inhaled the smells of a London afternoon: the sweat of horses mingled with the aroma of roasting chestnuts, damp clothes, and boiling cabbage. I walked over to the fire which blazed in the grate and rubbed my hands. I had been at my surgery all morning and was cold and tired. It had been an unusually busy week and only now did I realize how exhausted I was. An early influenza epidemic—the first of the season—had forced me to keep long hours. Right now, what I wanted more than anything was a glass of brandy and a good meal.

“My dear fellow—” I began, but Holmes interrupted me.

“Yes, yes, I know!” he said impatiently, springing up from the couch and pacing up and down in front of the hearth. “The sad fact is I often don’t hear about a case until some great harm has already been done... and believe me, I do not relish the suffering of others.”

“Of course you don’t, Holmes—”

“But I must have stimulation!” he cried suddenly, tossing his cigarette into the grate and throwing himself down on his favorite chair in front of the fire. I caught Holmes glancing toward the desk where I knew he kept his cocaine. I felt a chill go through me which even the roaring fire could not warm. I could not bear to see Holmes under the influence of this evil habit, see it destroy his nerves and his health, and yet I knew that he did not take kindly to interference on my part. I decided not to bring up the subject, and tried diversion instead.

“You know, I have some tickets to the concert at the Royal Albert Hall tonight; would you like to come along with me?”

His face brightened slightly. “Sarasate is playing the Saint-Saëns third violin concerto tonight,” he said languidly.

“Shall we go?” I said, trying not to sound anxious.

“Well...” he said, looking out at the bleak, bleary day. “Oh, why not?” he cried suddenly, springing up from his chair. “After all, there’s no point in moping around here.”

With that, he disappeared into his bedroom, and I heard the sound of drawers opening and closing, and the clatter of hangers being flung about. Holmes was a study in contrasts: his moods seemed to range from utterly listless to intensely energetic, with very little in between.

I helped myself to some brandy and sat in my usual chair before the fire while Holmes dressed, listening to the hiss of rain on the street outside. The flames from the fireplace cast a yellow glow about the room, and the brandy was warm on my throat. My eyes fell on the picture of Reichenbach Falls which hung above the mantel, and, once again, a shiver wormed its way up my spine. It was three and a half years since that fateful day in Switzerland when I thought I had lost my friend forever, and yet every detail of that horrid scene remained fresh in my mind: his abandoned walking stick leaning up against the rock, the farewell note so carefully written in Holmes’ firm, clear hand. Indeed, the note did such a good job of deceiving me that I never questioned that my friend had fallen to his death over that awful precipice, along with Professor Moriarty. It was a long three years before I found out that I was mistaken, and the months since had an unreal quality about them. I sometimes felt I was dreaming, and that I would awaken to find Holmes was dead after all.

“Do you need to eat first?” he called out from the bedroom.

I was touched by my friend’s concern, knowing that for him food was often nothing more than a necessary evil. Though he was known to enjoy a feast at Simpson’s, his lean figure attested to his general impatience with the demands of the body. I sometimes thought that one of my functions in our friendship was to keep him from collapsing outright from the extreme demands he often placed upon his constitution.

“Maybe Mrs. Hudson can put a sandwich together for me before we leave,” I said.

“Oh, she’s visiting her sister in the West Country,” he said, appearing from the other room in a starched white shirt and tails.

“That’s better, don’t you think?” he said with a wink. I knew that Holmes was aware of my concerns, and that he did his best not to alarm me unduly.

Trying not to show how pleased I was, I got my coat and hat.

“What about food for you?” said Holmes as we left, pulling the door of the sitting room closed behind us.

“I’m all right,” I answered. “I had a glass of brandy. We can have something afterwards.”

And so, within minutes, we were seated in a hansom cab rattling off toward the Royal Albert Hall. The rain had settled into a steady drizzle, and I sat watching the droplets bounce off the cobblestones, looking out at the parade of humanity which trudged through the streets of London.

“Look at that, Watson. All the world’s a stage, but London... you know, each and every one of those people out there has a story, and most of them will go untold. It’s only the ones who commit acts of greatness—of goodness or villainy—that we will ever hear of, or that posterity will remember. For instance, take that man there,” he said, indicating a thin, stringy-limbed fish vendor hawking his wares at the open-air market. “He had a career in the military, met with some success, was disappointed in love, and now he is a fish vendor.”

I was about to ask Holmes to explain, but not wanting to interrupt his train of thought, I said nothing. Holmes continued. “Does it haunt him, I wonder, that no one is really very curious about his life, and that a hundred years from now no one will even remember that he lived at all? He will be just one of the millions of untold human stories which walk these streets every day.”

“Perhaps his family will remember him,” I said.

“Perhaps, but after a while even their curiosity will wane, and traces of his existence will gradually vanish from the face of the earth. No, Watson,” he said, leaning back in the cab so that his long, lean face was in the shadows, “immortality does not come to those who live commonplace lives; it is the sole province of the doer of extraordinary deeds.”

“People live on in their children,” I said.

“Ah, yes, progeny,” he replied gloomily. “Well, I suppose there must be some reward for having children, otherwise people wouldn’t do it at all.”

I smiled; the remark was so typical of Holmes. Though we never spoke of it, I had often wondered if Holmes regretted not having children. My own regrets on the subject sometimes hit me with a sharpness which surprised me.

“I mean, family is all well and fine, if that’s what you want,” Holmes continued. “But for the majority of mankind, greatness alone results in true immortality. Therefore you have your Caesars, your Napoleons, your Alexanders... do you know they say that Alexander wept when he realized that there were no more worlds to conquer?”

“Yes, I think I heard that,” I said drily, not sure I wanted to encourage this train of thought. Holmes closed his eyes, but the muscles on his face were taut as ever, and I imagined him as a young conqueror, astride his horse, weeping because there were no more worlds left to conquer.

The cab arrived at the Royal Albert Hall; we alighted and paid the driver. The rain was falling more heavily now, and a sea of black umbrellas greeted us as we made our way up the front steps. (Holmes hated umbrellas, and in spite of the inclement London weather, rarely carried one.) We ducked and wound our way through the crowd of people, arriving at our seats just as the first strains of Bach drifted up to the balcony.

Holmes sat throughout the entire concert with his eyes closed, fingertips pressed together, in an attitude of complete concentration. I tried to listen to the music, each phrase twisting and turning around itself like the spinning of a web, but I was somewhat distracted. The attractive young woman in front of us was wearing a musky perfume which, for some reason, made my throat constrict, and I spent much of the first half of the concert stifling coughs. Holmes didn’t seem to notice, and sat serenely until intermission. Fortunately for me, the young woman did not return to her seat after intermission, and I was able to enjoy the second half of the concert.

On the ride home, Holmes was silent for a long time, and then he said, “It was a true test of friendship, your suffering through that concert, Watson.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you were evidently having an allergic reaction—to the perfume, I should think; it was rather overwhelming. I myself found it somewhat difficult to breathe until I began practicing a breathing technique which I learned from the Dalai Lama during my sojourn with him.”

I laughed. I should have known better than to suppose that anything went unnoticed by Holmes.

“And our little jaunt has had the effect you intended, though not for the reason you might suppose.”

“What do you mean?” I said, confused.

“Oh, Watson, do you suppose that I didn’t notice your concern over my state of mind? Your suggestion that we take in this concert was such a transparent attempt to divert me! I agreed to go because I was so touched at your concern.”

“Well, I’m glad you found it so flattering,” I said, feeling a little put out by his superior tone. “But what did you mean when you said that it had the effect I wanted, but not—”

“Ah,” he replied. “Well, let me ask you this: did you notice that the young lady with the perfume was not in her seat during the second half of the concert?”

“Of course,” I said sulkily. “I was able to breathe during the second half.”

“Yes, yes, so you were,” he said. “But do you know why she was not present?”

“I suppose because she was bored by the music,” I said. “Does it matter?”

“Oh, it matters a great deal,” said Holmes. “She did not return during the second half because she was unable to do what she had come there to do.”

“Oh?” I said, still feeling annoyed at Holmes. “And what was that?”

“To deliver a message.”

“A message? What kind of message?”

“One that evidently had some urgency, but that had to be delivered secretly.”

I was silent; I tried to remember what I had seen at intermission, and had a vague memory of noticing the young lady in question among the crowd in the lobby at one point, but nothing stuck in my mind. I stared moodily out the window of our cab at the wet, huddled throngs of fellow Londoners slogging through the cobblestone streets. Finally, Holmes broke the silence.

“Didn’t it strike you as odd that such an attractive young lady would attend a concert alone?”

“Well, perhaps—”

“And furthermore, that, even though the concert featured a very popular performer, the seat next to her was unoccupied?”

The woman had indeed sat alone, and the aisle seat next to her had remained empty for the duration of the concert.

“Yes, perhaps, but...”

“You see, Watson; you look, but you do not observe. If the first observable facts about our young lady had not raised my interest, the perfume certainly would have.”

“The perfume?”

“Yes, the perfume that you yourself noticed because it caused an allergic reaction in your respiratory system.”

“What about it?” I said, but instead of answering, Holmes rapped on the roof of the cab to signal to the driver. The man’s ruddy face appeared upside down in the window, rain dripping from his cap.

“Yes, sir?”

“Take a right here, please, driver.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said, and the face disappeared.

We were in the outskirts of Covent Garden, that part of London where costermongers mingled with street hawkers of all sorts: piemen, eel vendors, Irish apple women, and flower girls with bunches of violets.

“Do you think you can put off your dinner just a while longer, Watson?” said Holmes suddenly.

“Certainly. Why?”

“I’m curious about that exotic perfume.”

I, too, was curious, and was about to ask Holmes what he had in mind, when he rapped on the roof of the cab again. Once more the driver’s sodden face appeared in the window.

“Here, sir?”

“Yes, thank you, this will do.”

We disembarked and paid the driver, and Holmes led me through the crowded streets, past baked-potato sellers and greengrocers in blue aprons. The cries of vendors filled the air:

“Fine firm apples! Care to try one, sir?”

“Eels—hot pickled eels!”

“Violets, penny a bunch!”

I wanted to ask Holmes where we were going, but he walked briskly in front of me, his head bent over like a bird dog on a scent. I had no choice but to follow, stepping over cobblestones littered with walnut shells, cabbage leaves, and squashed oranges. We turned onto a little street in the shadow of St. Paul’s Church, and then down a narrow alley, leaving the noise and clatter of the market behind us. Holmes stopped in front of a shop which had all the appearance of being boarded up. He rapped sharply on the door with his walking stick, and the sound reverberated through the narrow twisted street. We stood there, rain dripping from our top hats—in my excitement I had left my umbrella in the cab—until a voice called out from deep within the shop.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s Sherlock Holmes.”

There was the sound of something being dragged across a wooden floor, and then the door opened. I had seen many a strange character on my numerous adventures with Holmes, but I was unprepared for the sight which greeted us at the door.

The man’s age was impossible to tell; he could have been thirty or eighty. His nose didn’t resemble a nose so much as it did a swollen gourd: purple, bumpy, and distended, it dominated a face which, even without it, would have been grotesque. His one good eye was blue—strikingly blue, the color of turquoise—and his other eye was covered by a lump of flesh which protruded from his forehead. His entire face was so misshapen that his mouth was pulled upward in a sort of lopsided grin. His skull was comprised of uneven layers of bumps and lumps; his head was altogether massive and sat upon his spindly body like a pumpkin teetering upon a post. His limbs were underdeveloped, and his spine was so twisted that it was impossible for him to stand up straight. He held the doorjamb with his right hand in order to keep his balance.

I tried my best not to stare at him, but, in spite of my medical training and my experiences with wounded men in the war, I am afraid I did not succeed. Holmes, however, greeted the man with a friendly familiarity.

“Good evening, Mr. Wiggins,” he said. “You will forgive me, I hope, for calling at this hour?”

To my surprise the man’s voice was as beautiful as his body was hideous.

“Not at all, Mr. Holmes,” he said in a smooth, cultivated baritone with just a trace of a foreign accent. “Come right in.”

He opened the door wider to admit us into the room. I had another surprise when I saw the interior of his shop, for it bore no resemblance to its crumbling exterior. The place was immaculate: the carefully sanded and swept wooden floors were covered by richly hued handwoven Persian carpets. More amazing to me was the fact that the entire room was taken up by floor-to-ceiling shelves, which were stocked with the most amazing assortment of bottles I had ever seen—all sizes, shapes, and colors imaginable. The heady mixture of scents in the room at once advertised the fact that the bottles contained perfumes. The combination of so many aromas was intoxicating, and I felt absolutely lightheaded as I walked about the room, taking in his collection with open-mouthed admiration.

“May I present my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson,” said Holmes. “Watson, this is Jeremiah Wiggins, perfumer extraordinaire.”

“Is there any kind of perfume you don’t carry?” I finally said to our host, swept away by such a dazzling array of bottles.

“What are you looking for?” said a voice behind me, but it wasn’t Wiggins—in fact, it wasn’t a human voice at all. I turned around: behind the counter which held the cash register, an enormous blue and yellow parrot sat on a perch. The parrot regarded me through one bright orange eye, his head cocked sideways.

“What are you looking for?” he repeated, bobbing up and down on his perch.

“He likes you, Watson,” said Holmes, laughing the peculiar dry laugh of his.

“How can you tell?” I said, not sure whether it was a compliment or not.

“See the way he’s bobbing up and down?” said Mr. Wiggins. “That means he’s excited. Sometimes he bobs like that when he just wants attention or is agitated about something.”

“What is he?” I said, “I mean, what kind?”

“He’s originally from South America,” said Mr. Wiggins, “though I got him from an Indian gentleman of my acquaintance, one of my clients. His name is Bandu, which is Bengali for ‘friend.’”

This revelation caused me to wonder even more about our friend’s refined manners. He was evidently well educated; was it also possible that he had traveled widely?

Wiggins hobbled over to the parrot and held out a skinny arm to the bird. The parrot hopped from his perch onto Wiggins’ hand.

“Peck on the cheek, Bandu,” said Wiggins, and the parrot repeated the words after him.

“Peck on the cheek, peck on the cheek,” said the bird, and then rubbed the blunt top of his beak against Wiggins’ poor deformed cheek.

“He’s a great talker,” said Wiggins, “and a very fast learner. Bandu gets bored with his old phrases and is always adding new ones. He’ll probably be imitating you after you’ve gone.” He stroked the bird’s bright feathers. “He’s very affectionate, as you can see. He even cries when I leave—which, fortunately for both of us, is not often.”

I thought of Wiggins alone in his little shop, surrounded by his perfume bottles and his bird, safe from the curious stares of his fellow creatures; to the bird, he was no different from anyone else.

“I don’t know how old he was when I got him, but he may very well outlive me,” Wiggins said as he placed the bird back on its perch.

“Yes, they live a long time, don’t they?” said Holmes.

I looked at Holmes; he was standing in front of the shelves, studying the bottles. It occurred to me that he was being unusually patient. Exchanging small talk was never his forte, and yet he stood there in Wiggins’ shop as though he had all the time in the world. I came to the conclusion that he either felt sorry for the man or simply liked him. As though reading my mind, Wiggins turned to Holmes.

“So, Mr. Holmes, what can I do for you today?” he said, sitting on an intricately carved little stool which sat in front of his counter.

“Well, I’ve come across a scent that I can’t quite identify, and I need your help.”

Wiggins smiled, or at least his mouth twisted into its own version of a smile. To my surprise, I found the expression rather charming instead of horrifying. Somehow the man’s gentle, refined nature shone through the hideous exterior that a cruel trick of Nature had given him.

“What, Mr. Holmes,” he said, crossing his thin arms. “Do you mean to tell me that there exists a scent in London that you can’t identify?”

Holmes smiled in response. Now I was certain that rather than feeling sorry for Wiggins, he liked and admired the man.

“I’m afraid so, although I would appreciate it if you didn’t broadcast the fact. After all, I do have my reputation to think about.”

Wiggins laughed, a deep, gurgling chortle, and rose from the stool. With the help of an elegant ebony cane, he moved to the shelf closest to him.

“Tell me as much as you can,” he said.

“Definitely foreign, probably Eastern; musky, with a hint of jasmine—and very expensive.”

“Expensive, eh?” said Wiggins. “Well, that narrows it down considerably. Let’s see...” he said, and his eyes—or rather, his eye—scanned the shelves in front of him. “I think I can narrow it down to three,” he said, reaching for a small, opaque green bottle in front of him. “This is one,” he said, placing it on the counter behind him. He returned to the shelves and selected a second bottle, this one larger, with a pale blue color. He placed that one on the counter and then turned to Holmes.

“The third is rather high up,” he said with no hint of embarrassment or self-pity, “and I believe you’re somewhat taller than I—”

“Certainly,” said Holmes, and reached for the bottle indicated. This one was even more striking than the others: It was long and thin, and of a deep ruby-red tint that I had never seen in glass before. Our host uncorked each bottle one by one, with the solemn air of a priest conducting an initiation rite. Holmes sniffed each one in turn with equal seriousness, shaking his head at the first two, but when he came to the elegant ruby-red vial, he cried, “That’s it—that’s the one!”

“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.”