Sherlock Holmes And The Other Eye
By Richard Dean Starr and E R Bower
This story first appeared in Sherlock Holmes — The Crossovers Casebook.
Richard Dean Starr has written or edited more than 200 articles, columns, stories, books, comics, screenplays, and graphic novels since the age of seventeen. His original fiction and non-fiction has appeared in magazines and newspapers as varied as Cemetery Dance, Science Fiction Chronicle, The Southeast Georgian, The Camden County Tribune, Suspense Magazine, and Starlog, among others. His licensed media tie-in stories have appeared in anthologies including Hellboy: Odder Jobs, Kolchak: The Night Stalker Casebook, Tales of Zorro, and The Lone Ranger Chronicles, just to name a few. In addition, Starr co-authored Unnaturally Normal, the first Kolchak: The Night Stalker / Dan Shamble: Zombie P.I. team up comic book with New York Times bestselling author Kevin J. Anderson and co-edited the Captain Action comics line with Matthew Baugh. As an industry-leading feature script consultant, Starr has contributed to produced films with multi-million-dollar budgets starring such acclaimed actors as Malcolm McDowell, Tom Sizemore, Amber Tamblyn, Haley Joel Osment, Costas Mandylor, Robert Culp, Richmond Arquette, and Zach Galifianakis, among others.
E.R. Bower began her publishing career as an editorial intern with prominent indie publisher Les Figues Press and went on to become a professionally-published author, editor, and consultant for fiction, non-fiction, motion picture, and poetry projects. Her first professional poetry sale, “James Brown in Springtime,” appeared in Say It Loud: Poems About James Brown, released by Whirlwind Press in 2011. Following that, she co-authored several media tie-in stories and novellas, including “Sherlock Holmes and the Other Eye”, published in Sherlock Holmes: The Crossovers Casebook, edited by the late retro-pulp editor Howard Hopkins, and “The Masque” in The Lone Ranger Chronicles. The latter volume was the first anthology of original Lone Ranger stories in the seventy-nine-year history of the beloved character and included contributions from multiple New York Times and USA Today bestselling authors. In addition to her poetry and fiction work, Bower is also co-editor, with Richard Dean Starr, of The Further Crossovers of Sherlock Holmes, an anthology featuring all-new stories by top writers from the worlds of film, television, and literature.
JR Linton is an unique artist who’s talent spans many mediums. He works in pencils, paint, clay, cameras, digital computer art and even skin. His work embodies the Lowbrow art movement with focus on nerd culture, hot rods and pin-ups. He is an award winning tattoo artist and owns Ink and Pistons tattoo shop and co-owns and curates SlushBox Art Gallery in West Palm Beach.
Artwork size: 11” × 14”
Medium: Acrylic on Board
“We never sleep,” I said, wearily, staring down at the newspaper spread across my lap. The date below the masthead read Tuesday, May the third. Had I been asked what day it was before receiving that morning’s edition of the Times, which I had yet to read, I might have sworn that it was actually Monday the second.
“Try not to be melodramatic, Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes, gazing out through the front window of our sitting room on the second floor of 221B, Baker Street. “While it is true I require less rest than you do, on the whole I would say you sleep quite well, and often.”
“It certainly doesn’t feel that way,” I said. “We have closed not less than three cases over the past two weeks, the last one just this morning, and during that time I have managed to obtain, on average, less than four hours of sleep each night. I think you can agree that is not very much at all, Holmes!”
“And prior to the two weeks in question? How many hours a night did you manage then?”
“About seven. But that is neither here nor there, I must get my rest!”
“Seven hours or four,” said Holmes, idly, tamping some tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. “I see no great advantage in one over the other. I would suggest that you consider taking a cold bath, Watson.”
“A cold bath? You must be joking!”
“In my experience,” said he, lighting the briar-root, “the benefits of submersing oneself in well-chilled water can be substantial.”
He drew in a deep breath, held it for a time, and then exhaled. For a moment his head was encircled by a small cloud of ash-gray smoke and the room quickly filled with the scent of bergamot and sandalwood.
“I daresay a cold bath might also help to nullify your persistent desire for marriage,” he added, tipping his head to study the various pedestrians making their way along Baker Street.
I frowned. “I can’t possibly see how a cold bath would have anything at all to do with my relationship with Mary. Nor do I fathom the connection between chilled water and rest.”
My friend looked up for a moment, and I thought a fleeting smile appeared ever so briefly on his long, angular face. Then I wondered if it was anything other than my fatigued, over-active imagination at work.
“It is hardly a unique insight, Watson,” Holmes said. “It is a well-known fact that prodigious amounts of cold water do have a tendency to ‘wake’ one up, in every sense of the word.”
His tone, which could often be sardonic, was suspiciously lacking in obvious irony. I grimaced. Before I could formulate an appropriate reply, he had already returned his attention to the street below.
“Fascinating,” he said, suddenly. I saw him take an uncommonly quick draw on his briar-root and then exhale it equally quickly. “Most interesting.”
He turned back to me and frowned. “It appears that sleep, let alone reading the paper, will have to elude you for some time to come, Watson. I suspect we are about to have yet another client.”
“This seems a bit soon, Holmes,” I said, earnestly. “Would you not consider it prudent to allow some time to recuperate from our recent endeavors?”
“I think not,” he replied, seemingly unaffected by my momentary distress. “Even if I did wish to grant you the sleep you desire, this person is of . . . particular interest to me.”
I was momentarily taken aback by this declaration. There are very few men or women for whom Sherlock Holmes would express a unique fascination. Among them were the alluring and dangerous Irene Adler, and the nefarious Professor James Moriarity. For various reasons, I knew that the individual in question could not be either one of them.
“How do you know that this person will become a client, Holmes?”
“Elementary,” he said, removing the pipe from his lips and staring thoughtfully into the bowl. “The visitor that Mrs. Hudson is presently receiving is none other than the notorious occultist, Aleister Crowley.”
Holmes pointed to the newspaper in my lap. I looked down and saw that morning’s headline, which in my fatigued state, I had as yet failed to read:
Sir Fallowgrove Dead; Famed Occultist Sought!
Below it was a drawing of the infamous Mr. Crowley, which in its dark and scowling representation, made him appear more than a bit sinister. To the right of the sketch was a second column topped by an equally sensationalistic headline:
Famed ‘Other Eye’ Blue Diamond Missing!
“I find it unlikely,” said Holmes, “that such a man—especially one in what appears to be his present predicament—would seek us out simply for afternoon tea, Watson.”
“Death,” said Aleister Crowley, regally, “is the wish of some, the relief of many, and the end of all.’ And that, Mr. Holmes, is the essence of why I find myself on your doorstep today, for I fear that death may soon be the end of me!”
Sherlock Holmes sat back in his chair, taking long draughts from his briar-root and studying the man who sat on the settee across from him. I was seated to one side, listening intently and watching both men with equal fascination.
Crowley, whom I had read much about in the press, was more impressive than one might have expected from a man of his dubious reputation, and not particularly sinister at all. I noted with some surprise that he was dressed as well as any Mayfair gentleman, in a conservative and well-tailored suit. His dark brown hair was parted high and severely on the left, which served only to emphasize the pale and generally unhealthy pallor of his skin. Most notably, I could not help but observe that his pudgy, round and vaguely aristocratic face bore an expression of unshakeable confidence and conviction. Even when seated, he exuded a strange magnetism not unlike that of Sherlock Holmes himself.
“And was it not Lucius Seneca who also wrote, ‘It is the power of the mind to be unconquerable’?” said Holmes, evenly. “It occurs to me that a man with powers such as those you claim to possess would be immune not only to death, but to the mundane efforts of such entities as Scotland Yard.”
I searched my friend’s expression for any signs of mockery, but his hawk-like features remained as implacable as ever. Crowley’s face darkened for the briefest of moments, and in his keen eyes I saw a quick flash of immense rage. Then it passed so quickly that it might not have been there at all.
“Well, Mr. Holmes,” said he, with a sudden smile that was disconcertingly affable, “you appear to be everything I’ve heard—and undoubtedly more. I hope, then, that you will consider my case. Have you by chance examined this morning’s edition of the Times?”
“I have.”
I was not aware that Holmes had already read the paper, which was now draped face-down over my knee. When I had come through the door that morning it had still been resting on the foyer rug, apparently untouched.
My confusion must have been evident upon my face, for Holmes noticed this and said, “That is why too much sleep leaves a man always a step behind, Watson, and why I counsel so much against it.”
“But why,” I asked, peevishly, “would you put the newspaper back down as if unread?”
“I have observed,” replied Holmes, “that discovering a fresh newspaper each morning is an important part of your daily ritual. In fact, you seem to find it quite energizing. Given your excessive dependency upon sleep, I believe such a small and harmless delusion to be beneficial to your daily vitality.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but upon reflection, found that I could not disagree with him. Reading the newspaper after it had already been paged through by other hands was not nearly as satisfying to me as being the first one to open it.
I was loath to admit this fact out loud to my friend, however. I was also abruptly aware that it was uncommon for us to have such an exchange in the presence of a client, so therefore I elected to remain silent.
“As you may have read,” interjected Crowley, impatiently, “the police have convinced the editors at the Times to help turn the public against me by suggesting that, as the so-called ‘Wickedest Man Alive’, I was somehow involved in the theft of the blue diamond as well as the death of Sir Francis Fallowgrove.”
“More precisely,” said Holmes, “the paper suggests that you performed certain spells which caused the stone to vanish and subsequently led to Fallowgrove’s demise.” He stared intently at our visitor. “Would you consider this to be a true statement of fact, Mr. Crowley?”
Our visitor blinked once. Then he laughed, sardonically. “Oh, most certainly! In fact, you may not be aware of this, Mr. Holmes, but I actually am in the routine habit of casting spells which kill everything from annoying children to the occasional small pet—especially those that bark incessantly.”
He grimaced and shook his head in apparent disgust.
“Come now, I’m astonished that a rational man such as yourself could even consider such an idea. Really!”
“I did not suggest that I believe such a thing to be probable, or even possible,” replied Holmes. “In point of fact, I have no belief or trust in the supernatural whatsoever. However, whether or not you believe that you are capable of such an act, and that certain others might agree, is entirely relevant to the present situation, I think. After all, Mr. Crowley, a man’s actions are most often predicated by his beliefs.”
He stood up and studied his pipe again for a moment, then stared intensely at Crowley. Our infamous visitor attempted to meet his gaze with equal force. However, following the example of my friend, from whom I have learned much of the art of close observation, I immediately took notice of a faint tremble at the corner of Crowley’s mouth. He was, I realized, a man barely in control of some deeper fear.
“Let me be frank, Mr. Crowley,” continued Holmes. “Although the Times implied that you are being sought for questioning, I am certain that Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard has, in fact, ascertained your whereabouts and shall be arriving at my door any moment, fully intending to place you under arrest.”
Crowley’s already pale countenance whitened even more, an effect I would have previously thought impossible, and in the somewhat muted light of the sitting room, his skin seemed momentarily translucent, each vein as clear against his face as the lines on some ancient parchment.
“But Holmes,” I asked, puzzled by his conviction, “how could you possibly be sure of such a thing? And in all of London, why would Inspector Lestrade come here looking for Mr. Crowley?”
“When Mr. Crowley made his appearance,” said Holmes, “I could not help but notice that he had been followed by one of Inspector Lestrade’s sergeants. That very man, wearing a rather plain suit and bowler hat, immediately began skulking about on one of the stoops across the street.”
Crowley started to reply, but before he could utter a single word the pounding of several pairs of boots sounded on the stairs, followed by a powerful and sustained knocking on the door of our apartment.
“And there you have it,” said Sherlock Holmes. “It seems that the good Inspector has indeed arrived.”
The entrance of Inspector Lestrade was uncharacteristically dramatic, something I knew appealed to my friend, although I also knew that he was not likely to openly betray such an emotion.
When Holmes opened the door, the plainclothed Sergeant that he had noticed earlier entered first, followed by a uniformed officer and another, stouter man whom I did not recognize. Then Inspector G. Lestrade made his entry, his penetrating eyes peering out from a narrow face whose skin was nearly as waxy and plain as that of Aleister Crowley. He took in every detail of the room, his rodent-like gaze pausing only for a moment on Crowley before coming to rest on Sherlock Holmes.
“I must confess, Mr. Holmes,” said he, loftily, “I am a bit surprised to find you in the company of such a man. Did you not see this morning’s Times?”
“I did,” said Holmes. “It was, in fact, the events described within it which led Mr. Crowley to this very doorstep.”
Before Lestrade could reply, Crowley stood up, indignantly. “I resent your inference, Inspector,” he announced, imperiously.
The stout man with Lestrade, whose somewhat pudgy face seemed nearly taken up by enormous dueling eyebrows and a thick, well-pronounced moustache, remained silent but studied Crowley with intense focus, as if he might somehow evaporate at any moment.
“Sit down, Mr. Crowley,” said Holmes, firmly. “And unless you wish to make your circumstances direr than they already are, please keep silent until I instruct you otherwise.”
Crowley examined my friend’s steely expression, then returned to his place on the settee, crossed his arms impetuously, and made the prudent decision not to speak. Holmes, disregarding Lestrade’s comment, indicated toward an empty wooden chair beside the window.
“Please have a seat, Inspector,” said he, “and introduce us to your companions.”
Lestrade scowled slightly then lowered his slight frame into the chair, which was bereft of any padding at all. He shifted about somewhat uncomfortably, and I suppressed an impulse to smile knowingly. On certain occasions Holmes would invite a visitor to sit in that very seat when he wished him to be unsettled by the experience. Having sat there myself, I knew that in short order it could become taxing to the spine, not to mention the rest of one’s lower anatomy.
“Of course, of course,” said Lestrade. He gestured toward the plainclothed man in the bowler hat. “Holmes, you undoubtedly recognize Sergeant Litster from the Yard, and my other man here is Constable Powers.” He nodded at the stout mustached man. “And this gentleman is William Pinkerton, here from America at the behest of Sir Francis Fallowgrove.”
“The late Sir Francis,” corrected Pinkerton. “However, since his death, I am now in the employ of Lloyds, which held the policy on the diamond while it was on display.”
He stepped forward and jutted out one large, beefy hand, which my friend seemed to study much the way he would a rare insect or a mysterious crystal which had formed among his experiments during the night. Then, realizing that Pinkerton meant for him to respond in kind, Holmes took hold of the American’s hand, his narrow fingers instantly dwarfed by those of the bigger man.
“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” continued Pinkerton, pumping Holmes’ arm with great enthusiasm. “Lestrade here has told me a great deal about you, and his tales of how you’ve helped him close various cases have piqued my curiosity.”
Holmes studied Lestrade with one quizzically raised eyebrow. The Inspector shifted in the chair and became suddenly fascinated by the cuticles of his slightly ragged, yellow fingernails. Of course, my friend was content to allow Lestrade to take full credit for Holmes’ contributions to their occasional collaborations, preferring instead to remain quietly in the background where his deductive abilities could be best put to use. Nevertheless, I suspected my friend had to be surprised that Lestrade had made such claims so boldly in front of him. Upon reflection, I realized that this said a great deal about the inspector’s regard for the American, William Pinkerton.
“Inspector Lestrade,” said Holmes, gravely, “can be prone to a certain amount of exaggeration when the mood strikes him.”
I nearly laughed out loud at his serious tone, but restrained myself. Lestrade coughed into his hand and stood up. “Since you have read the Times,” said he, quickly, “then you must know why we are here.”
“I can easily deduce it, given the disappearance of the blue diamond being followed so closely by the untimely death of Sir Francis,” answered Holmes. “I can also see that you have come with more men than you would normally require for the detainment of one unarmed prisoner. One, I might add, who seems perfectly sedate, and for the most part, accommodating. However, the more fundamental thing which I cannot discern is the evidence you have that merits the arrest of Mr. Crowley at all.”
“I believe,” said William Pinkerton, stepping forward once again, “that I am the best man to answer that question, Mr. Holmes.”
He removed a small leather-bound notebook from his vest pocket, opened it, and began to flip through its pages.
“We have a witness that claims Mr. Crowley performed some type of heathen ceremony two nights ago. The witness further stated that the purpose of this observance, which involved, and I quote, ‘an aspect of the Hindu Sita’, was to rid the suspect of his enemies, whoever they might be.”
“When we learned of the death of Sir Fallowgrove,” interjected Lestrade, “and examined other facts, which in the interest of justice I am not yet free to reveal, we were able to conclude that Mr. Crowley was a most suitable suspect for both crimes.”
“Is that so,” murmured Holmes. “Well, then, Inspector, am I to assume then that you subscribe to the supernatural as a means to theft and murder?”
Lestrade’s dull face darkened. “Of course not!” he said, peevishly.
“And you, Mr. Pinkerton?” asked Holmes. “Do you believe that a man is capable of summoning the otherworldly in his quest for vengeance, or even greed?”
Pinkerton frowned. “I am sorry to say that I find your question to be . . . offensive, Mr. Holmes. I am a Christian man, and I give no credence to fairies, ghosts, and the like. It is pagan, and against my faith. More directly, I can honestly say that such things are defied by all that I have seen and heard thus far during my life.”
“And yet, here both of you stand,” said Holmes, “each prepared to arrest a man on the basis of claims which you both assert to be false.”
“As I said,” replied Lestrade, testily, “there are things about this case which I cannot speak of, Holmes. For now, we have enough evidence to take Mr. Crowley into custody, and that we are going to do.”
“Please, Holmes!” cried Crowley as Sergeant Litster and Constable Powers took him by the arms and lifted him from the settee. “I am innocent!”
“Fear not,” said Holmes. “Inspector Lestrade is a fair man and you will not be poorly treated in his custody. I shall take your case, Mr. Crowley, for I believe you are innocent.”
“I think you have chosen poorly this time, Holmes,” said Lestrade, even as the still protesting Aleister Crowley was led from the apartment and down the stairs. “And I must say that it will not please me to see you proven wrong.”
“On the contrary,” said Holmes, “should Aleister Crowley be found guilty of the crimes for which you have detained him, I shall be pleased to acknowledge my error, Inspector. It is my hope, too, that in the ‘interest of justice’ you will allow me to be of assistance in whatever form that may take.”
After the police and Pinkerton had gone and the door was once more firmly closed, I turned to Holmes with more questions than answers.
“How can you be so certain that Mr. Crowley is innocent?” I asked.
Holmes picked up the paper and opened it to the second page. There, the front page story continued, stating that the occultist was alleged to have called upon the Hindu goddess, Kali, during the course of his ceremony, with no other details given.
“I believe Mr. Crowley is innocent,” said Holmes, “because of two things. First, when Mr. Pinkerton recounted the statements of his witness, he said that the ceremony in question involved an ‘aspect of the Sita’. However, Mr. Crowley did not object to this characterization.”
“And what is the significance of that, Holmes?”
“As it happens, Watson, in the interest of general knowledge, I have made a study of Hinduism and can say categorically that Kali, the dark goddess known as ‘She Who Destroys’, has nothing whatsoever to do with Sita, a goddess considered to be the daughter of Bhumi Devi, goddess of the Earth.”
“I must confess,” said I, puzzled, “I still do not see the connection.”
“The Times story quotes an anonymous source that associates Mr. Crowley’s activities that evening with Kali,” said Holmes, patiently. “Because Mr. Crowley did not object to the Sita reference, we can thereby conclude that Mr. Crowley believes the goddess Kali to be an aspect of Sita. That belief, as you now know, is incorrect.”
“And the second thing?”
“That is less a question of fact than of personal belief,” replied Holmes. “I am in general agreement with Mr. Pinkerton, in the sense that I have yet to encounter anything which leads me to believe in the supernatural or the spiritual. Furthermore, Watson, I happen to think that if the supernatural does exist, then it most certainly could not be manipulated by a man such as Aleister Crowley!”
It was just past six o’clock the following morning when Sherlock Holmes and I found ourselves delivered by Hansom Cab to the intersection of Cornhill and Threadneedle Streets. At that early hour, the city of London was shrouded by a thick and damp fog, and a bitterly cold wind gusted along Cornhill, whipping our cloaks about our bodies. I pulled mine tighter around my shoulders and glanced at my friend who, as usual, appeared unaffected by either the unfavorable temperature or the miserable dampness.
To our right the enormity of the Royal Exchange building rose into the pervasive dreariness, the columned Romanesque façade partially obscured by tendrils of gray-white fog that curled hazily around the high-peaked roof. Barely visible along the lower frieze of the portico were engraved, in Latin, the letters: Anno XIII. Elizabethæ R. Conditvm; Anno VIII. Victoria R. Restavratvm.
Because it was still quite dark, the coachman removed one of the side-lamps from the cab and held it aloft so that we could better make our way across the open paved courtyard, past the regal statue of the Duke of Wellington, and ascend the portico steps. Once there, we discovered that the gates which protected the enormous entranceway had been opened and secured, but beyond it remained two towering wooden doors, both tightly closed. Each was banded with thick metal and punctuated by a large, iron door knocker, and it was one of these that Sherlock Holmes grasped with his gloved hand and rapped hard against the backplate, causing a great booming sound to echo across the broad arcade.
After a moment we heard a deep rumble as the right door began to grind inward across the stone floor. Then a thin ribbon of light fell through the widening rift, and we saw illuminated in it the sour face of a man who looked none too pleased to be greeting us while it was so dark.
“Who are you?” he said, without preamble, staring at us with squinted eyes that glittered with a black and foul combination of impatience and distrust.
“I am Sherlock Holmes,” replied my friend, “and with me is John Watson. We are here to see Mr. Peter Curtis of Lloyds.”
“So he’s expecting you, then?” asked the man, scowling.
“Without question,” said Holmes. “Please announce our arrival, if you would be so kind.”
“No need,” said a voice from behind the door. “Admit them, Pack, and then lock up again.”
“Yes, sir,” muttered the scowl-faced man, reluctantly.
He stepped back from the opening and held his lamp higher, highlighting the narrow foyer behind him. At the edge of the lamp’s glow stood a tall and exceptionally thin gentleman, expensively dressed in a suit of fine gray wool. His narrow, fox-like face was expressionless, and his eyes, while not as poisoned by the darker emotions as those of the watchman, nevertheless studied us with a level of weighted calculation.
During the course of my years of association with Sherlock Holmes, it was a look I had come to know well, one most often possessed by the cynical such as bankers, stockbrokers or policemen—and all too often, criminals.
“Mr. Curtis, I presume?” queried Holmes, stepping into the foyer.
I followed closely behind him. As soon as we were inside, the watchman slid the door closed behind us with some effort, and the sound of the heavy wood scraping along the stone was greatly magnified within the narrow confines of the space. As we followed Curtis out into the inner courtyard of the Exchange, I could hear the man, Pack, muttering darkly beneath his breath, but could not make our specifically what he was saying.
“Indeed,” said Curtis, coughing into a white handkerchief that had clearly been soiled by repeated episodes of the same. “Welcome to Lloyds, Mr. Holmes.” He glanced at me with quite obvious uninterest, but nevertheless extended his hand with at least a modicum of courtesy. “And again, you sir are . . . ?”
“Watson,” I said, taking his hand and briefly shaking it. “John Watson, M.D.”
“A physician, then?” replied Curtis, raising one eyebrow. “Impressive, sir, impressive, indeed. You must pardon my impertinence, however, but in regards to Sir Fallgrove, it strikes me that the time for a physician has passed. Wouldn’t you agree?”
I felt my face flush with momentary anger. Before I could respond, Holmes said, “Dr. Watson is my friend, but also a valued associate, Mr. Curtis. I think that you will find his input significant as we examine the facts of this case.”
Curtis seemed to consider my friend’s words, then sighed. “Mr. Pinkerton speaks quite well of you, Holmes,” he said. “I can only assume, then, that Dr. Watson is also comprised of much more than he appears. If you would, please follow me.”
The gentlemen, whom I now began to see as slightly emaciated, led us across the courtyard and into the westerly hall of the Exchange, then up a flight of tiered stairs to a broad landing. On each side were numerous offices, some of which overlooked the courtyard below. After leading us through a series of corridors and rooms as bewildering to me as any ancient maze, we found ourselves in a large windowed meeting room. In one corner sat a modest chimney, and within it a fire burned, casting the room in a warm light. At the center of the chamber stood an enormous polished table, its elaborate surface embedded with a variety of rare and beautiful woods. Around this magnificent table sat the American, William Pinkerton, and another, younger bearded man with whom I was unfamiliar. As we entered the room, the two of them stood up to greet us.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Holmes,” said Pinkerton.
“Indeed,” added the second man. “It has been quite a while since we last encountered one another.”
I glanced at my friend with some surprise. Given the extensive time we had spent together over the past years, I thought I had come to know nearly everyone of Holmes’ acquaintances, but this man was a complete stranger to me.
“When we last met, Ian, I believe you were a laboratory assistant,” said Holmes. “It was mentioned to me last year that you had been taken on as a surgeon with Scotland Yard. I would say that congratulations are in order.”
The man inclined his head, which was largely bereft of hair, and smiled, faintly, from beneath his generous facial hair. “After a great deal of education and altogether too much poverty, I must say that my station in life has, indeed, greatly improved.”
“I do not believe I have made your acquaintance,” I said, impatiently. “Would you care to introduce us, Holmes?”
“Of course,” said Holmes, blithely. “Forgive me. Dr. Watson, allow me to present Dr. Ian Gallagher, formerly of the Royal College of Physicians and the London Hospital, now of Scotland Yard.”
“I gathered that much,” I replied, a bit irritably. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“Likewise,” said Gallagher, unsmilingly. “I must say, it would have been better to have met for the first time under more favorable circumstances, Dr. Watson.”
“Unfortunately, in our profession it is too often that colleagues meet at similar, melancholy junctures,” I replied. “You are involved in the Sir Fallowgrove case, then?”
“Alas, replied Dr. Gallagher, “it was my sad duty to undertake Sir Fallowgrove’s post-mortem examination.”
Each of us took a seat around the table, and after a moment a servant entered the room carrying a tray bearing a silver tea service and a small plate of biscuits. He placed them at the center of the table and then backed silently from the room, leaving us to discuss the events at hand.
“Tell me,” said Holmes, helping himself to a cup of tea, “what did you discover during your examination?”
“Although all indications were of a heart attack, Inspector Lestrade instructed me to search for any signs of foul play,” recited Dr. Gallagher, his tone altogether clinical. “This would have included any marks indicative of violence, such as shiv wounds and the like. However, I found nothing of the sort.” He shrugged. “In addition, I examined Sir Francis for any manifestations of toxic poisoning, including needle injection marks and so on. However, there was nothing at all detectable, no punctures of any kind, nor any chemical traces apparent in the stomach or in the tissue samples I examined.”
“Thank you, doctor,” said Holmes, “for your thorough examination and for sharing your findings with me. I must admit, I do find your profession fascinating. However, as I am hardly an expert in your field, perhaps you would be willing to enlighten me as to the procedural limits of such an examination?”
Dr. Gallagher looked perplexed. “I’m not sure what you mean, Holmes.”
“For example,” said Holmes, “was there anything else which caught your attention? Anything at all, no matter how trivial?”
Gallagher seemed to consider Holmes’ question, then frowned. “There were two somewhat unusual things, but I’m sure they were unrelated to his passing.”
“Perhaps so,” said Holmes. “But please continue, if you would.”
“Very well. The first were a number of small rashes evident on the palm of Sir Francis’s left hand, as well as the Antebrachial surface of his right arm. However, I attributed them to his hobby of gathering woodland plants for his garden. In this case, the rashes were most likely caused by exposure to Toxicodendron radicans.”
“Excuse me,” said Pinkerton, irritably, raising his great, bushy eyebrows. “If you wouldn’t mind speaking English, sir, I’d be quite grateful. Unfortunately, you have exceeded my rather limited grasp of Latin.”
“Toxicondendron radicans,” explained Holmes, patiently, “is more commonly referred to as Poison Ivy, while Antebrachial is the anatomical term which refers to the lower portion of the human arm.”
“The forearm, as it is commonly called,” I added, helpfully.
“Rashes,” said Holmes. “Very interesting. Tell me, Doctor Gallagher, was Sir Fallowgrove frequently exposed to toxic plants?”
“Nothing that could be directly confirmed by anyone in his household,” replied Gallagher, “but it did seem logical to me, as Sir Francis was a collector of certain wild plants, especially those located in the depths of the forest. On occasion he would even collect specimens nocturnally, which obviously would heighten the chances for accidental exposure.”
“I see,” said Holmes. “And what was the second unusual characteristic that you noticed?”
“An internal one, actually,” replied Gallagher. “During the surgical autopsy I discovered that Sir Fallowgrove’s lungs displayed a number of fresh scars.”
“And to what cause did you attribute them?”
“When I interviewed his staff, they related to me that Sir Fallowgrove had been visiting friends in the countryside a few weeks past. Apparently, at some time during the journey he found himself assisting a fire brigade in suppressing a burning coach house. As such, I determined that the scarring had most likely been caused by excessive heat or by smoke inhalation.”
“Very good. Thank you.” Holmes turned to Pinkerton. “Tell me, sir,” said he, “what are your thoughts thus far?”
“When I originally arrived in London,” said Pinkerton, “I was in pursuit of the master thief, Adam Worth, a rogue you may be familiar with, as his exploits have been reported extensively throughout the press on both sides of the Atlantic.”
“I am familiar with the name,” said Holmes. “I believe the press calls him America’s own ‘Napoleon of Crime’.”
Pinkerton winced as if the characterization pained him. “Worth has been called that by some yellow journalists, yes. And I’m sorry to say that, to date, he has eluded my agents at every turn. Even now they continue to scour the countryside for any sign of him.”
“And how, if I may ask, did your pursuit of Mr. Worth lead to your involvement with Sir Fallowgrove and the blue diamond known as the Other Eye?”
“I believe I am the best one to answer that question,” said Curtis, self-importantly. “But first, I should acquaint you with a brief history of the Other Eye and what is perhaps more relevant to this discussion: the alleged ‘curse’ rumored to accompany it.”
For a moment there was a long and awkward silence around the table, and then the American, Pinkerton, leaned back in his chair and waved his hand dismissively.
“Absolute poppycock,” he said. “As Holmes and I agreed upon yesterday, there is most certainly a mystery here but I am entirely convinced it is not at all supernatural in nature!”
“And I will reiterate,” said Holmes, “that I quite agree with Mr. Pinkerton. However, the accusations against Mr. Crowley are already gaining credence amongst members of the public, as well as the press. I think it is in the best interests of justice to examine every aspect of the case no matter what our personal convictions may be.”
“Do as you will,” said Pinkerton, with a grunt. “But it seems a waste of time to me.”
“Pray continue, Mr. Curtis,” said Holmes.
Curtis steepled his fingers beneath his chin, seeming to consider carefully what he was about to say.
“When Sir Fallowgrove first made the decision to display the blue diamond at his home,” he said, “he approached Lloyds to act as the insuring agent. We were, in a word, skeptical, as the tale he told of how he acquired the jewel in question seemed too fantastic to be believed.”
“Did he happen upon it while playing a game of Loo?” I asked, innocently. “I must confess I never excelled at it myself.”
“This hardly seems the time for humor, Watson,” admonished Holmes, staring at me disapprovingly.
“Actually,” said Curtis, gazing balefully from eyes sunken into a face that now appeared to me to be quite emaciated, “that is not too far from being accurate. In point of fact, Sir Fallowgrove claimed to have won the stone in a legal settlement against the owner of a small West Indian shipping company. Not a card game, precisely, Dr. Watson, but I imagine one could assume such an arrangement would provide better odds than most of them.”
“Quite so,” said Holmes, absently.
I noticed then that he was paying particular attention to Curtis’s right hand, which was still positioned beneath his chin. I saw immediately what my friend was looking at: a burn mark on the leading edge of Curtis’s palm, small but easily visible if one happened to be looking for it.
“That appears to be a rather painful burn you have there, Mr. Curtis,” I said, indicating toward his hand.
“The perils of tea, Dr. Watson,” said Curtis, lightly, “or to be more precise, the preparation of the hot water used to steep the leaves. I carelessly placed my hand too near the fire some days ago, you see, and received this for my inattention.”
“I’d be inattentive, too,” said Pinkerton, dryly, “if I began every day well before the dawn, as you seem to.”
“Please continue with your recollection, Mr. Curtis,” said Holmes, with some impatience. “I am especially interested in the curse that you mentioned.”
“Of course, of course,” said Curtis. “According to Sir Fallowgrove, the blue diamond, which he coined the ‘Other Eye’, was originally discovered more than one-hundred years ago by a grave robber in a temple somewhere along India’s Coleroon River, and only recently resurfaced in the possession of the shipping company owner from which he received it.”
“That story is familiar to me,” said Holmes, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Are you suggesting, Mr. Curtis, that the Times is correct, and that the diamond in Sir Fallowgrove’s possession actually is the lost companion to the famous Tavernier Blue?”
“What’s that again, Holmes?” I asked, puzzled. “I’m not familiar with that particular gemstone.”
“I am not surprised,” my friend replied. “You would know it better by its current and much more familiar name, the Hope Diamond.”
“But that’s impossible!” I said. “There is only one such stone and at present it is in the possession of Lord Francis Hope.”
“Had you found the time to examine yesterday’s paper, Watson,” said Holmes, “you would have stumbled across a brief history of the Hope Diamond contained therein.”
He took one of the biscuits from the silver tray and bit into it with surprising delicacy, then took a moment to flick the fallen crumbs from his waistcoat. I opened my mouth to protest, but before I could speak he continued on, ignoring me.
“And had you kept reading,” he said, “you would have discovered that the Tavernier Blue, as it was then known, was originally a much rougher stone and theorized to be one of two ‘eyes’, both stolen from the inveterate remains of a pagan god. Or the statue of one, at least.”
“Quite right! Very good, Mr. Holmes,” said Curtis, admiringly. “Of course, this brings us to the curse I mentioned. You see, gentlemen, the Hope Diamond has long borne the reputation of delivering upon its recipients all manner of bad luck—and under certain circumstances, even death.”
“Which, if one grants credibility to such stories, would begin with Jean Baptiste Tavernier,” said Holmes, reaching for a second biscuit. “He is, of course, the gentleman who allegedly removed the stone from the temple. Apparently, sometime after selling it, Mr. Tavernier journeyed to Russia, and while there on holiday was promptly torn apart by a pack of wild dogs. A thoroughly charming story, yes?”
“Not especially,” I muttered, gazing sadly at the plate with its few remaining biscuits. I had been considering sampling one of them, but now my appetite seemed to have abruptly forsaken me.
“Quite the entertaining story, Holmes,” said Pinkerton, irritably. “But it can be just as easily explained by coincidence. As I told you yesterday, I’m a Christian man and have no use for such ideas. Besides, I fail to see how these fairy tales bring us any closer to solving the murder of Sir Fallowgrove, or to recovering the stolen diamond!”
“If you would,” said Holmes, “I would like to beg your indulgence for just a while longer, Mr. Pinkerton. As a consulting detective yourself, I am certain you will acknowledge that the best way to determine the facts of a case is to observe everything that is available to be seen—or in this case, unseen.”
Holmes turned his attention to Curtis. “You mentioned that Lloyds was initially reluctant to insure the Other Eye because of the account Sir Fallowgrove related about how he came to possess the stone. What about its provenance provoked your doubts?”
Curtis shrugged. “We simply felt that his story was too convenient, as it were. Sir Fallowgrove cited privacy reasons and would not say how many pounds were at stake in his settlement with the shipping company owner. This made it impossible for us to determine the plausibility of the diamond being used as a settlement for that debt, especially given its high value. Of course, while that omission alone was not proof of any nefarious dealings on the part of Sir Fallowgrove, it still piqued our curiosity.”
“I see,” said Holmes. “And yet you ultimately chose to insure the stone anyway?”
“Yes. After examining it thoroughly—a task which I personally undertook along with two expert gemologists—the board agreed that the stone was legitimate and that Lloyds would insure it for the stated value of sixty-thousand pounds. Simply put, Mr. Holmes, we could proffer no reasonable explanation as to why we would not be willing to do so, as the contract promised to be quite profitable for us.”
“And that,” said Pinkerton, gruffly, “is where I had the bad luck to come into all this. When Mr. Curtis learned I was in London, he approached me at my temporary office with a proposal to provide security for Sir Fallowgrove. With every lead in the Worth case gone cold, it seemed a simple matter to provide the necessary security.”
“It must have also been apparent to you as well,” said Holmes, casually, “that your involvement with Sir Fallowgrove and the Other Eye would result in a great deal of positive press coverage for the Pinkerton Agency.”
The American’s face reddened. Before he could speak, Curtis said, “What makes it particularly embarrassing, Mr. Holmes, is that the Pinkerton men were on guard the entire night. It strikes me that this illustrious ‘agency’ has been made a mockery of by Aleister Crowley, a man who is little more than a degenerate murderer and thief.”
“And that is why,” said Pinkerton, fiercely, “I am determined to resolve this case as expeditiously as possible, one way or the other. To that end I will accept all the help that I can muster, even if it happens to come from the man working on behalf of the villain in question.”
“Actually, you are mistaken,” said Holmes, evenly. “While it is true that I have agreed to take up the case of Aleister Crowley, I do so not out of any special concern for his well-being, but as I have said more than once, in the greater interest of justice.”
Shrugging, Pinkerton sat back in his chair and stroked his moustache absently. “Whatever your reasons, I’m quite content to allow them to remain just that—yours. What concerns me now is the reputation of my firm in London, not to mention the rest of Europe.”
“Your concerns, Mr. Pinkerton, are duly noted,” said Holmes. “I must admit, however, that one aspect of this case is particularly puzzling to me. It is my understanding that when the Other Eye was discovered missing, the display was nonetheless still locked and sealed. Is that correct?”
“Indeed,” said Pinkerton, glumly. “It was as if the stone simply evaporated into the air.” He shook his head sadly. “As much as it pains me to do so, I find that I agree with Curtis here. The Pinkertons are not accustomed to appearing as fools, but this case has become a public relations catastrophe for us!”
“Perhaps,” said Holmes, calmly, “dire would be a more apt word. I do not believe that a catastrophe—a word with much more . . . permanent connotations—is a certainty at this point in time. One thing that is certain, however, is that the death of Sir Fallowgrove and the disappearance of the Other Eye cannot be attributed to the supernatural.”
“Perhaps not in the usual sense,” said I, sensing an opportunity to contribute something of use.
“However, I am aware of numerous instances where those who profess a belief in the supernatural have displayed severe psychosomatic symptoms after being ‘cursed’ by another person.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed Pinkerton.
“Not at all,” I said. “In point of fact, on certain occasions the subject of a so-called curse has died, ostensibly from his own conviction that death was now a foregone conclusion.”
“I have read of such cases myself, actually,” said Dr. Gallagher. “It is quite true that the human mind is capable of remarkable—and sometimes horrifying—acts upon the very body which serves to protect it.”
“Assuming that you are correct,” said Pinkerton, “then there may be an explanation here that makes some degree of sense.”
He removed a slender notebook from his coat pocket and flipped through the pages, finally stopping in the middle of the book.
“Ah, yes, here it is. Apparently, Crowley has quite the reputation as a skilled hypnotist; perhaps he was able to employ some kind of power of suggestion to kill Sir Francis. What do you think of that, Holmes?”
My friend seemed to consider the proposition for some moments. “I think not,” he said, at last. “I, too, have some skill and experience in that arena and have studied the field for many years. I can tell you with absolute certainty that the human mind possesses great power over the body, but that it is, at the same time, ruled by a tremendous prohibition against self-harm. While it is true that some unstable individuals can on occasion cause themselves injury, it is my considered opinion that a man of good mental health could not be hypnotized to cause himself significant harm. Based upon what I have learned thus far, I have no reason to doubt that Sir Fallowgrove was of sound mind.”
Pinkerton frowned. “I see your point, Holmes. So what do you suggest, then? This seems to lead us back to where we began.”
“Not entirely,” said Holmes. “I think that it is time for us to visit the scene of the crime. Most significantly, we must summon the witnesses to Aleister Crowley’s pagan ceremony, as well as Inspector Lestrade and Mr. Crowley himself, so that we may put all of the facts of this case in their proper perspective.”
He looked into my eyes and I saw his pupils shining with a familiar anticipation that I had come to know well over the many years of our friendship.
“Come, gentlemen,” said he, addressing the entire room, his voice betraying none of the excitement that I knew now gripped his imagination. “The game, as they say, is afoot.”
Within the hour, Peter Curtis and his man, Pack, had dispatched a messenger to Inspector Lestrade as well as arranged for several hansom cabs, operated by a gaggle of street Arabs who had risen early and were available for the commission, to convey the five of us to the home of the late Sir Francis Fallowgrove. We were barely settled into our respective conveyances, each with its capacity of two passengers, when the crack of multiple whips echoed in the fading darkness, nearly in unison, and we plunged off down Threadneedle Street, the six sets of wheels and the horse’s hooves making a terrible clatter in the relative quiet of the early, fog-shrouded morn.
As we rattled along, I noted that Sherlock Holmes was gazing out into the drifting fog, seemingly far away from the moment and deep in some thought, the meaning of which I could not readily discern. Ordinarily I was loathe to disturb my friend during such moments of introspection, but today I found myself disturbed by thoughts of the resurgent supernatural aspects which seemed to plaque the case at hand.
“Tell me, Holmes,” said I. “Do you truly believe we’ll discover some mysterious meaning to all of this at the home of Sir Fallowgrove?”
“Undoubtedly not,” said my companion, gravely, turning his gaze upon me. “You know all too well my philosophy on matters such as these.” He waved one gloved hand in the general direction of the dark and torturously narrow side streets and alleyways which comprise so much of the city of London. “Mankind strives to find deeper meaning in all things, Watson, but he does so in deliberate avoidance of the prosaic reality which so slowly and inexorably consumes him. To put it more simply, the human soul is a darker and far more convoluted labyrinth than any city, and one need not look to the supernatural to understand that.”
“How can you be so certain, Holmes?” I asked. “As complex as the human soul undoubtedly is, the world is also a large and intricate place, and there is much we do not yet understand. Why, just last month I was reading in the Strand Magazine an article which stated that the explorer, Sir Randolph Ceasley, recently discovered no less than three varied species of frog in the jungles of South America, all previously unknown to science.”
“Unknown,” said Holmes, dryly, “but hardly supernatural, Watson. Please alert me the very first time that a frog performs a verifiably magical act, and I will be suitably impressed.”
I grimaced, but could think of nothing immediate to say, so I looked instead to the now fading darkness, which remained filled with a multitude of passing buildings and passageways, all of which I was utterly unfamiliar with.
“Is it my imagination, Holmes,” I asked, suddenly, “or do the structures here seem . . . tidier than most?”
“It is not your imagination,” said Holmes. “We are entering the district of Belgravia. I am sure you are familiar with it?”
“Of course,” I said. “It’s among the most fashionable districts in London!”
“Indeed,” said Holmes, absently, as our coach began to slow. “Would you expect a man of Sir Fallowgrove’s apparent wealth to reside anywhere else, Watson?”
At last, our cab came to a stop before a long row of adjoining four-story homes, all constructed of white alabaster, each with its own columned portico topped by a small, wrought-iron balcony overlooking the street. At this early hour most of the windows remained dark; however, a single gas lamp mounted beneath one of the porticos was lit, and I deduced, without much effort, that this must be the residence of the late Sir Francis Fallowgrove.
As we stood on the pathway in front of the house, two carriages approached from the opposite end of the street and pulled to a stop. A number of individuals stepped from each one, and as they hurried across the road toward us, I immediately recognized the thin, pale form of Inspector Lestrade as well as the broad, yet slightly stooped figure of Aleister Crowley, among the group.
“How do you do, Holmes,” said Lestrade, irritably.
My friend merely nodded toward the other people who accompanied the Inspector, the curiosity in their faces clear in the ashen twilight. “Can I assume that these are the witnesses to Mr. Crowley’s ceremony, Inspector?”
“Indeed,” said Lestrade, “and they’re none too happy to have been dragged out here before the sun’s come up. Same goes for me, as a matter of fact. I hope you have a bloody good reason for calling us out this early, Holmes.”
“Have patience, Inspector,” my friend replied. “I believe you will find that all will be made clear in the next hour or so.”
“I, for one, would much rather be warm in my bed,” said Crowley, his pale, moon-like countenance creased by a sour pout that made him, in the moment, appear more boy than man. “And at home, mind you, not in some hideous cell at Lewes prison!”
“Shut up, you,” said Lestrade, blithely. “You’ll be lucky not to be hanged from the neck before this year is done, Crowley, so you’d best be silent for now.”
The officer beside Crowley placed one hand on his shoulder, and I immediately recognized Sergeant Litster of Scotland Yard, whom Holmes and I had first met in our apartment on Baker Street just the day before. He nodded toward me in the cordial yet guarded manner so common to the members of London’s police force, and I nodded politely back to him.
“So what now, Mr. Holmes?” asked Peter Curtis. He pushed his hands deeper into the pockets of the heavy, dark gray overcoat he now wore over his lighter gray suit. “I believe I speak for everyone when I state that frankly, I’m fascinated to see what you’ve come up with.”
“And so you shall,” said Holmes as he turned to climb the three short steps to the front door of Sir Fallowgrove’s former home and then knocked upon it. After a moment, the door was flung open by a plump, matronly housekeeper dressed in a plain but well-made skirt and jacket, her hair neatly covered by a pretty lace cap. Her face appeared sorrowful, as if she had spent some time collapsed in tears, and I found this indication of loyalty to the late Sir Francis Fallowgrove to be quite touching.
“Oh!” said she, clearly startled to see the group of people standing on her porch so early in the morning. “You’ve arrived much sooner than I expected.”
“My apologies,” said Lestrade, gruffly, “but Holmes here felt it was necessary that we visit the scene of the crime at once.”
“Quite so,” said Holmes. “It is always advisable to pursue the facts of a case as close to the actual commission of the offense as possible so as to ensure that the recollections of all involved are suitably fresh, as it were.”
“Old or new memories,” said Pinkerton, “it strikes me that people will remember whatever they will, as they desire to.”
“Possibly,” said Holmes, cryptically, as we followed him into the home. “Or possibly not. I have found that the recollections of witnesses have something critically important in common with the physical location of a crime: it is best to preserve both, in their original state. And that is why I requested that Mr. Pinkerton keep the two original guards on duty, even going so far as to have them sleep here, so that the integrity of the crime scene would remain intact and unbroken until our arrival.”
The housekeeper, whose name was Mrs. Georgina Rusnak, had been in the service of Sir Fallowgrove for more than ten years. She led us with assuredness to the large parlor where the Other Eye had been displayed, and where the empty case still remained, flanked by the two Pinkerton men whom Holmes had just mentioned. As we entered the parlor, the witnesses crowded in behind us. The two Pinkerton agents on duty immediately saluted their American supervisor in a fashion which seemed decidedly military, and which I greatly approved of.
“Nothing has been disturbed over the past forty-eight hours?” asked Pinkerton, without preamble.
The two men replied that nothing had, and that the room and the empty case remained undisturbed.
“Very well, then,” said Pinkerton, “good work, men. Holmes, it’s now in your hands. Take it away, then, as they say.”
My friend studied the room, and then the empty case, pausing to rub his chin in that most considered of ways of which I knew so well. As for myself, I could see nothing special about the solid pedestal and the small pillow upon which the stone had rested before its disappearance; likewise the four panes of thick glass which surrounded it. Only the locked, copper lid was particularly unique, shaped as it was to resemble a diminutive Hindu temple.
Holmes turned back to the guards. “Tell me what you saw the night that the Other Eye disappeared, and leave out no detail, no matter how trivial you may believe it to be.”
The two men glanced at each other, and I saw not guilt in their expressions, but embarrassment. They seemed to fidget for a moment, and then the taller of the two stared defiantly at my friend. “Truth be told, we hain’t seen nor heard a thing,” he said, “not two days ago, and not last night, either.”
“’Tis true what he says!” exclaimed the shorter guard, whom I could see was greatly vexed. “Mr. Pinkerton pays us well to do our duty, and do it we did. Hain’t nothing moved nor made a sound here since we come on duty!”
Holmes nodded but did not immediately speak. Leaning closer to the case, he took a short, deep breath through his nose, but did not reach out to touch the glass or the copper lid.
“Tell me,” he said at last, “you men have—if you will pardon the unavoidable pun—touched upon two of the five human senses: sight and sound. In this instance I do not believe that the third sense, taste, is pertinent to the facts of the case. However, the fourth sense, touch, could very well be a different matter. During the night the diamond disappeared, did either of you men touch anything in this room?”
Both men declared that they had not, upon the specific orders of Sir Francis Fallowgrove. “He told us ’tain’t no one to touch the case,” said the taller guard. “On his command we weren’t to allow anyone within three feet of it, and weren’t no reason for us to put our hands on anything else in here.”
“Very good,” said Holmes. “Continue guarding the case and do not allow anyone but myself, Mr. Curtis, or Mr. Pinkerton to touch it.”
“There is one other sense,” said I, “which you did not mention.”
“Ah, yes,” said he, “the sense of smell. Very good, Watson, I was just about to address that.”
“How,” said I, “will an examination of the olfactory provide you with any insight into this case, Holmes?”
“Patience, Watson,” he replied. “As it happens, the sense of smell may very well provide the final clue necessary to bring clarity to this case.” He turned to the guards once again. “Tell me, did either one of you notice any odd scents in this room during the night?”
“Not me,” said the taller guard. “We stood separate watches, so there was only one of us on duty at a time, but I can tell you I hain’t smelled nothing strange.”
The other guard grimaced. “There was something,” said he, “two nights past. For an hour or two I smelled something powerful strange, but it seemed to come and go. I di’nt think no more of it once it was gone for good. Figured it was from the sewers or somethin’ like that.”
“Strange smells, no one in sight, and a diamond missing from a locked case,” said I, annoyed. “Once again, I find myself no closer to unraveling all of this than I was a day ago. Tell me, Holmes, what do you make of it all?”
“As I said, patience, Watson,” repeated he, a bit sharply. “I assure you that all will be made clear.” He turned to the witnesses, all of whom stood together along the parlor’s back wall. “I understand that each of you attended Mr. Crowley’s ritual where he claimed to have summoned Kali, the Hindu goddess? Is that correct?”
One of the witnesses, a young man perhaps twenty years of age, stepped forward, his jaw thrust out in defiance. “We all saw the Master perform the consecrated ritual, and we beheld the goddess, Kali, as she was sent forth to exact her revenge for the theft of the sacred stone!” When he spoke, his voice quavered slightly, yet I could see in his eyes that he was clearly a true and passionate believer in the teachings of Aleister Crowley.
“It’s true!” cried a plump, older woman standing just behind the younger man. “Sir Fallowgrove brought the vengeance of Kali upon himself! He was given the choice to return the stone to the place from which it was stolen, but he refused and has now paid the price for his arrogance!”
Holmes raised one eyebrow and studied the woman thoughtfully. “Refused?” he said. “If you would be so kind, please explain what you mean.”
“On the first night that the stone was displayed,” replied she, much excited, “we accompanied the Master here, each to bear witness to his warning. The Master foretold that the stone must be returned to India, and to its rightful place in the lost Temple of Sita.”
“I do recall them, Mr. Holmes,” said the smaller guard, peevishly. “They came the first day the diamond was on display, but Sir Fallowgrove would have none of it. He ordered us to throw Crowley right out the door.” He nodded at the woman and the other witnesses. “And meaning no disrespect, but we threw these ones out right along with him.”
Holmes glanced at Aleister Crowley, who appeared to have become rather puffed up from witnessing the devotion so evident in his followers. “I would not be so pleased with yourself, Mr. Crowley,” said he, sharply. “Such theatrics may play well before an ignorant crowd, desperate to believe in nonsense, but it will be of no help to you in a trial. In fact, your success may become the end of you, as you so capably predicted yesterday.”
Crowley’s face flushed with anger. Then, just as it had in our apartment on Baker Street, it resolved back to the contented and vaguely arrogant expression which I had come to believe was his de facto condition, as it were.
“I will risk my fate with any jury,” declared Crowley, imperiously, “for I command powers much more potent than the law, and considerably greater than the judgment of any man!”
“Quite,” said Holmes, dryly. “But while you may win the battle of credibility with your followers, Mr. Crowley, your statements may, at the same time, cost you the war for your very survival. My counsel is as it was a day ago, sir: remain quiet so that I may, if possible, move to save your life!”
“So what shall we do now?” I said. “This all seems rather a condemnation of Mr. Crowley, Holmes, as circumstantial as the case against him may be.”
“That would appear to be true,” said Holmes. “However, I believe that we must seek further information before allowing the Inspector here to send Mr. Crowley to the gallows, Watson.”
Mr. Lestrade opened his mouth to respond, but Pinkerton waved him off. “If he was, indeed, responsible for the theft of the diamond,” commented Pinkerton, “not to mention the murder of Sir Fallowgrove, it strikes me that it would serve him right, Mr. Holmes.”
“Once again, you assume guilt on his part,” replied Holmes, calmly. “As I stated to Inspector Lestrade, I do not believe Mr. Crowley to be guilty of the crimes for which he is charged.”
Lestrade laughed, sarcastically. “How can you be so sure, Holmes?” he asked. “There is no information pertinent to clearing Mr. Crowley of suspicion which you do not already possess.”
“That is not entirely true,” said Holmes. “When you arrived at 221B, Baker Street to arrest Mr. Crowley, you stated that there were additional facts of the case which you were not free to disclose at that time. I would suggest that now is the time to reveal them, or you risk sending an innocent man to his death.”
Lestrade glanced at Pinkerton, who shrugged indifferently.
“Very well,” said Lestrade, “but I am convinced that this information would be of no assistance to you, Holmes. In point of fact, the information actually helps to condemn your client, rather than help him.”
“Your indulgence, please,” said Holmes, pleasantly. “If you would, tell me what you know, Inspector.”
“On Monday, the day after the diamond disappeared,” said Lestrade, “Sir Fallowgrove sought out Mr. Crowley and openly accused him of stealing it. The altercation took place in a public restaurant, with many witnesses, several of whom recounted that the two men nearly came to blows. Mr. Crowley was ordered to leave the premises, and as he did so, was heard to utter several threats against Sir Fallowgrove.”
“Pretty damning, eh, Holmes?” asked Pinkerton, rhetorically. “When you take that confrontation into consideration, it seems that we have quite the case against Mr. Crowley here.”
“I would not be so sure,” said Holmes, cryptically.
He stared intently at Peter Curtis, who had remained silent since entering Fallowgrove’s parlor.
“Mr. Curtis, please confirm for me,” said Holmes, “that the case has not been opened since the Other Eye was first placed within it.”
“We’ve recounted to you all of the facts, Mr. Holmes,” said Curtis, angrily. “Once again, the case has not been opened, and the Pinkertons have attested to that.”
“Indeed,” said Pinkerton. “If you’d like, Holmes, we’re more than happy to open it for you now.”
He took two steps toward the case, reaching his arms out toward the elaborate Hindu lid, when Sherlock Holmes took two great steps across the room and placed his hand upon Pinkerton’s arm, interrupting the act.
“I would advise against that, Mr. Pinkerton,” said he, gravely. “However, one of us must, and therefore I think that perhaps Mr. Curtis is the best one to assist us with this task.”
I glanced at Curtis, and to my great surprise, noted that his skin had paled to such a degree that it resembled the unhealthy shade of spoilt milk.
“I . . . I would be honored,” said Curtis, haltingly.
He removed a pair of gloves from his overcoat pocket and slipped them on. Holmes studied them curiously, and sensing the question unasked, Curtis proceeded to explain.
“At Sir Fallowgrove’s request, no one is to touch the case without gloves,” said he. “More specifically the lid, which is quite ancient and valuable.”
For a moment, I thought Holmes might smile, and then his eyes appeared to darken in that ineffable manner which had so characterized the many cases we had worked on together. I now knew that my friend was near to revealing all, and I found myself thrilling in anticipation of this last, final bit of the game.
“By all means, then,” said Holmes, “wear your gloves. But please be brief, Mr. Curtis, as the day is now wearing upon us.”
Curtis stepped up to the case. I saw him lick his lips, nervously, and then reach for the lid and lift it, with some effort, from its resting place atop the glass. Almost immediately a pungent odor flooded the room, and Curtis hurriedly turned his head away and moved back from the open case, setting the lid down upon the floor.
“What is that wretched odor?” said Pinkerton, grimacing. “I’ve never smelled anything quite like it.”
To my great astonishment, I realized that I recognized the odor, which had quickly dissipated, almost immediately. I opened my mouth to speak, but Sherlock Holmes held up his hand in warning, and so I remained silent.
“Now that the case has been opened,” said Holmes, “I would request that you remove your gloves, Mr. Curtis, and examine the inside; more specifically, the area around the pillow which held the diamond.”
“Whatever for?” cried Curtis, his forehead shining with sudden perspiration. “This is a complete waste of time, gentleman! Look for yourselves; it is clear that the diamond is no longer there!”
“Ah, but it is still inside the case,” said Holmes, “I can assure you of that. Please remove your gloves, Mr. Curtis, and do as I ask. Simply touching the cushion will reveal the diamond’s location, I promise you.”
Curtis pulled off his leather gloves, and all who were in the room could clearly see that his hands were trembling. He reached for the case, hesitated, and then burst into tears, shaking his head violently. After a moment he retreated to the nearest wall where he stood alone, shuddering and sobbing uncontrollably, as the occupants of the room looked on in shocked surprise.
“I don’t understand any of this,” said Pinkerton. “Why will he not reach into the case? The diamond is gone, so what harm could it do?”
“As I said,” replied Holmes, “the Other Eye is still there to be seen, if one only knows how to look for it.”
“I’m not following your explanation, Holmes,” said Lestrade, with a frustrated grimace, “for even I can see that the case is empty.”
“All of these events,” said Holmes, “have at their source the most prosaic of explanations. During our ride here, I actually spoke with Dr. Watson about the manner in which most human beings are absorbed by what they believe to be profound or important ideas, which nonetheless mask the more mundane aspects of their lives. For some, greed is as complex an idea, and a purpose as important, as any others one might imagine. This particular case is a clear example of what can happen when the basest of desires becomes the central focus of one’s existence.”
“Which means what?” I asked.
“Nothing more than that this case is about greed,” said Holmes, “and little more. I will endeavor to provide all of you with the order of events as clearly as I can. Watson, please do not hesitate to add anything which I may have overlooked, which you feel is relevant.”
“Very well,” said I.
“First,” continued Holmes, “please tell us what the strange odor was that briefly filled the room, Watson, if you would be so kind.”
“Of course. It is hydrofluoric acid, an unusual and quite deadly chemical commonly used by etchers. I became familiar with it while purchasing a gift for my dear Mary, which I wished to have engraved with her name.”
“Most excellent, Watson,” said Holmes. “When the case was opened, I saw upon your face the realization of what was happening, but the time was not yet right to reveal that information.”
“It would explain why Curtis would not reach inside the case,” I said. “To do so would without a doubt have meant certain death. Even the fumes are poisonous enough to kill a man.”
Several of the occupants in the room shifted nervously, but Holmes set them immediately at ease.
“There is nothing to be concerned about,” said he, confidently. “Most of the chemical in question has already evaporated, and the stench of what remains is relatively mild and will not be harmful to us. The cushion inside, however, is a different matter altogether.”
“Very much so,” I said, peering at the cushion through one of the glass panes. “This stuff is quite difficult to work with, and in fluid form, is rapidly absorbed by the skin—or a cushion. For so much of it to be detectable after several days, it is reasonable to conclude that liquid hydrofluoric acid was utilized in this instance.”
“Precisely,” said Holmes. “If you would, Mr. Pinkerton, please have your men remove Mr. Curtis’s coat and suit jacket, and then roll up his sleeves so that we may examine his hands and arms.”
The two guards moved toward Curtis, who offered little resistance, and they were able to quickly strip away his coats and pull up his shirtsleeves.
“There, you see,” said Holmes, “there are burn marks visible on his arms, in addition to the one on his hand which we took note of at the Lloyd’s offices. As Dr. Gallagher indicated, similar marks were discovered upon the body of Sir Fallowgrove, and in addition, there were recent signs of scarring to his lungs. One can deduce that both men came into contact not with poison plants, as Dr. Gallagher had surmised, but the liquid form of hydrofluoric acid.”
“Which, as I already mentioned, when absorbed the skin can have deadly consequences,” said I. “As it happens, when this type of acid interacts with blood calcium it is known to cause heart failure.”
“And that,” said Holmes, “is what I believe occurred here. Clearly, Sir Fallowgrove inhaled more of the fumes than did Mr. Curtis, which resulted in his rapid demise.”
“But to what point, Holmes?” asked Lestrade. “Why would the two of them take such risks? I fail to see how this acid plays a significant role in the disappearance of the Other Eye.”
“That is perhaps the most ingenious aspect of their plot,” replied Holmes. “Please have your men turn over the lid of the case. Carefully, now, Inspector, and please ensure that their skin does not come into direct contact with the metal at any time.”
Two of Lestrade’s policemen moved over to the lid and bent down beside it. Both men were wearing gloves, but they still moved carefully as they turned it over, revealing the bottom.
“If you examine the inside of the lid,” said Holmes, “you will see that there are the remnants of a small, glass capsule attached there.”
“Well I’ll be damned,” said Pinkerton, “he’s right!”
“Ah, but this time, Holmes,” said Lestrade, smugly, “you’ve hurried out the facts of the case without considering all of the ramifications. Even this rare acid cannot dissolve a diamond. Everyone knows that.”
“You are correct, Inspector,” said Holmes, and Lestrade’s eyes widened in surprise. “The strength of a diamond could not be compromised in any significant way by this acid, most especially one of this size.”
“You see,” said Lestrade, “even the finest of investigators can overlook a critical fact, Holmes. I would not feel too bad about it.”
“Again, you are correct, Inspector,” said Holmes. By this time Lestrade fairly beamed with anticipated victory over the great Sherlock Holmes, but alas, my friend had not yet finished with him. “There is one thing you did not consider, however, and that is that the diamond never existed at all.”
Lestrade’s mouth fell open, but thankfully, he stayed silent this time.
“It is my belief,” said Holmes, “that Sir Fallowgrove and Mr. Curtis conspired together to create a fake diamond. Based upon the faint stains which I detected upon my examination of the cushion inside the case, I believe it was mostly likely constructed from jeweler’s paste.” He pointed to the lid. “The glass fragments there are all that is left of a vial which contained a substantial amount of hydrofluoric acid, which, among its many properties, is capable of eating through glass. Once that occurred, the acid dropped slowly down upon the false diamond, eventually dissolving it and leaving nothing behind but a slight odor and the most minimal of stains. I detected both when I first examined the case, and as you can see, the evidence which has now been revealed confirms my theory.”
“And how did Curtis play into this?” asked Crowley, suddenly, from across the room. “I’d like to know, as he very nearly cost me my life!”
“Elementary, Mr. Crowley,” said Holmes. “Sir Fallowgrove required the cooperation of Mr. Curtis in order to authenticate his fake diamond, as well as to facilitate the insuring of it by Lloyds of London. Undoubtedly, Mr. Curtis bribed his ‘experts’ to confirm his findings about the Other Eye, and this final act set in motion the events which followed.”
“Unfortunately, he’s not directly responsible for the death of Sir Fallowgrove,” declared Pinkerton, “or we’d hang him, sure as the day is young.”
“I believe you would have no need to do so,” said Holmes, dispassionately. “Curtis has been exposed to the acid as well, and while it may take him some time longer for his life to end, I have no doubt that a premature death will ultimately be his fate.”
“And so it goes,” said I, “for those who seek to unlawfully acquire the possessions of others.”
“As Sir Walter Scott so aptly wrote in his memorable poem, Marmion,” said Holmes, “’Oh! What a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive!’ Sir Fallowgrove and Mr. Curtis have no one to blame but themselves, Watson, and in the end they will have both paid dearly for their actions.”
“I must say, Mr. Holmes,” said Pinkerton, “that I am greatly impressed. Very much so!” He reached into his vest pocket and removed a flat metal object and thrust it toward my friend. “Please take this as a token of our appreciation and respect, sir, and by all means, feel free to call upon us should the need arise.”
Holmes took the item, which I now recognized as a Pinkerton National Detective Agency badge, and slipped it into his coat pocket.
“Thank you, Mr. Pinkerton,” said Holmes. “I shall bear that in mind.”
“Please do,” replied Pinkerton. “As it turns out, bringing you on board was the best decision I could have made.” He turned toward Inspector Lestrade, who had suddenly become quite busy herding the witnesses from the parlor. “Had I left it up to the police, the Pinkertons might very well have been left with a highly visible black eye!”
“I am pleased to have been of service,” said Holmes, “but now the sun is well up and I believe it is time we considered breakfast. Would you not agree, Watson?”
“At the risk of being rude, I would very much like to join you, Mr. Holmes,” said Pinkerton. “Given your success with this case, I’m quite curious to hear your thoughts on our pursuit of Adam Worth.”
“Perhaps another day, Holmes?” I asked, pleadingly. “I am ready for a nap, and a full breakfast will only compound my desire for rest.”
“Remember, Doctor,” said Pinkerton, with a thin smile, “there is no rest for the wicked. And because of that, a Pinkerton never sleeps!”
“You make an excellent point,” said Holmes, thoughtfully. “I must confess, I find Mr. Worth’s activities to be of substantial interest. Please, do join us for breakfast.”
“A Pinkerton never sleeps,” said I, wearily, “and so it appears, neither do we.”