The Star of India by Carole Bugge Page B

me it sounds just like idle chattering.” He took another gulp of tea, set his cup down, and put on his coat wearily.
    “Well, thank you for the tea, Dr. Watson, and I’d appreciate it if you’d ask Mr. Holmes to contact me if he has any more information.”
    “I will, Inspector.”
    Lestrade had not been gone long when the door burst open and Holmes entered. His face was cut and bleeding, and he was holding his left arm.
    “Holmes!” I said, rising from my chair.
    “Steady on, Watson; I’m all right,” he said, though he didn’t look it.
    “What happened, Holmes?”
    He walked somewhat unsteadily to the fireplace and sank down in his usual chair.
    “I managed to play the part of the hound but I got a bit stuck in the role of the fox at the end. No matter, though—I found out what I needed to know.”
    “Where have you been?”
    Instead of answering, Holmes glanced at the copy of the Telegraph which still lay open upon the table.
    “Ah, I see you have been doing a bit of sleuthing on your own, Watson—”
    “Never mind about me; what happened to you?”
    “Well, since you evidently have read the entry from Mr. Fermat, I should think you might deduce, Watson.”
    “Holmes, this is no time for games,” I said, fetching my medical kit from the corner. “Would you please just tell me—”
    “Very well,” Holmes said a bit huffily, “if you insist. I supposed that whatever Moriarty had in mind, he was luring me into a trap of some sort; the trick was in sensing it ahead of time and acting accordingly.”
    “You could have at least taken me with you,” I said, hurt at being excluded.
    “There was no time,” Holmes replied. “That can wait, Watson,” he said in response to my attempt to clean his wounds.
    “No, it can’t wait; I will do it now,” I said with unaccustomed force, whereupon Holmes shrugged and submitted to my ministrations. “Whatever it was he had planned, it evidently worked to some degree,” I said as I applied iodine to the cuts and bruises on Holmes’ face.
    “Moriarty’s fatal flaw is his vanity, Watson, his intellectual arrogance. He could have misled me entirely, but he could not resist putting the solution just within my grasp, for the sport of it.” Holmes lifted the newspaper from the table. “You see, in deciphering this message, therewere many potential meanings, for a rook is both a castle and a type of bird.”
    “Yes, so it is.”
    “However, it is also slang for a swindler, or one who cheats at gambling. I happen to know that one of Moriarty’s agents—George Simpson, remember? In all likelihood, it was he who kidnapped Mrs. Hudson—”
    “Yes, I remember. Hold still, please.”
    “Well, this Simpson is an inveterate gambler. In fact, it is his constantly accruing gambling debts which keep him in thrall to Moriarty. In any event, I know that Moriarty does not like to keep anyone in his confidence, but that Simpson comes as close as anybody to being his right-hand man, so to speak. Therefore, I concluded that Simpson is the rook referred to in the cryptic message. So I decided to pay a visit to Mr. Simpson at his favorite gaming establishment.” Holmes winced as the iodine stung his abrasions. “They often gamble through the night, and I arrived just as the game was breaking up.”
    “And what did you hope to find there?”
    “Exactly what I did find, Watson: Moriarty’s next move.”
    “And what is that?”
    “Well, I persuaded Mr. Simpson through the rather crude use of fisticuffs to reveal a key bit of information: The theft of the jewel is part of a larger blackmail plan—”
    “Oh, that reminds me: Inspector Lestrade was here earlier.”
    “Oh, yes; I tipped him off about Stockton being behind Wiggins’ murder.”
    “Oh, and this came for you,” I said a little sheepishly, suddenly remembering the note from the Diogenes Club. I took it from my jacket and handed it to Holmes, who opened it eagerly and read it.
    “So,” he said after a