The Star of India by Carole Bugge

tonight, so I suggest we both get some rest. If you’d care to stay here tonight, I would feel better about your safety.”
    “Well, I—” I began, but Holmes interrupted me.
    “I do think it would be safer for you not to venture out tonight.”
    I nodded, still feeling terribly guilty. “Very well, if you think so.”
    “I do.”
    I took his advice and went to bed, though I doubt if either of us slept much that night. I tossed and turned fitfully, dreaming of the sound of coach wheels against cobblestone in the night and midnight jewels reflecting in candlelight.

Six

    I awoke to the smell of coffee. I could tell by the height of the pale autumn sun that it was late. Thinking Holmes had no doubt been up for hours, I went downstairs, only to see the table set and Mrs. Hudson pouring coffee.
    “Mrs. Hudson! I thought you were in Cornwall for another week.”
    “I decided to cut my holiday short. Mr. Holmes needs me more than my sister does right now,” she said gruffly, though I knew the affection underlying her words.
    “I can’t argue with that,” I said, sitting at the table. “Where is he, by the way?”
    “He’s gone out,” she replied, pouring me a cup of coffee. “Now, how do you want your eggs?”
    “I’m not very hungry,” I said moodily.
    “Now, Dr. Watson, there’s no need to punish me or yourself for your mistake,” Mrs. Hudson said sternly.
    “Holmes told you, did he?” I said, still feeling sulky.
    “Yes, he did, and it could have happened to anyone. Now, how doyou want your eggs?”
    I suddenly had to laugh. “It’s good to have you back, Mrs. Hudson.”
    “I don’t see what’s so funny about it,” she said, and trundled off to the kitchen.
    After breakfast I rummaged around the room, looking for something which might tell me where Holmes had gone. Sitting on the couch was a copy of that morning’s Telegraph, opened to the classified. I scanned it eagerly for another entry from the ubiquitous Mr. Fermat, and I was soon rewarded. “From Mr. Fermat to Mr. Shomel,” it read. “My knight has gained ground but I have left my rook unprotected.”
    I put down the paper and pondered these words. I could make neither head nor tail of it, though I have no doubt the meaning was clear to Holmes and Moriarty. As I was trying to unravel the meaning, Mrs. Hudson entered the room.
    “Inspector Lestrade to see you, sir. Shall I show him in?”
    “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”
    Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard was a slight man who wore his vanity uneasily, like an ill-fitting suit. The impression was of a man who wasn’t sure whether or not he really believed his own presentation of himself. He was given to huffiness, easily insulted, and more than a little pompous. Like so many people, he was intimidated by Sherlock Holmes’ superior intelligence, and resented the fact that he had so often needed the great detective’s help in solving his cases. Nonetheless, there was something touching about the man, a certain childlike innocence in his ferret-like face.
    He entered the room and when he saw I was alone his face expressed disappointment mingled with unmistakable relief.
    “So Mr. Holmes isn’t here?” he said.
    “No, I’m afraid not. Can I help you, Inspector?”
    Lestrade sat wearily on the couch.
    “I’ll just wait here for Mr. Holmes, if that’s all right with you. What time do you expect him back?”
    “I really can’t say. I don’t even know where he went.”
    Lestrade sighed and twisted his hat in his hands.
    “It’s a bloody nuisance,” he muttered, and I didn’t know if he meant Holmes’ absence or the matter Lestrade had come to see him about. There was a pause and then he said, “I got a message from Mr. Holmes last night regarding the death of that poor deformed chap he knew—”
    “Oh, yes, Wiggins.”
    “Nasty piece of business, that... looks like he was strangled. How was it Mr. Holmes knew about it?”
    I wasn’t sure what Holmes had told