Barnett looked curiously at the slender, dapper Indian gentleman, who turned and extended his hand to him as Moriarty introduced them. "Mr. Singh," Moriarty explained, "has come to arrange for the transportation of the treasure. It is being returned to those from whom it was stolen — spiritually, if not actually."
"Ah, Mr. Barnett," Singh said, taking his hand and shaking it briskly, "it is a pleasure to meet you. Allow me to commend you on how well you perform under stress."
"Thank you," Barnett said. "I am grateful for any compliment, but to what occasion are you referring?"
"The incident of the loading of the treasure train," Singh explained. "Your little bit of misdirection was masterfully done!"
"Well, thank you again," Barnett said, smiling. "Were you there?"
"Ah, yes," Singh said. "You would not recognize me, of course, clad, as I was, in a dhoti and busily loading treasure chests. I was but scenery — a donkey laborer."
Barnett pointed a finger at him. "You—"
"Indeed," the Indian agreed. "Such is life."
Mr. Maws appeared at the study door. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes is here, and would speak with you," he informed the professor.
"Ah, yes, Holmes. He is expected," Moriarty said. "Send him in."
Holmes stalked through the door and up to Moriarty's desk without acknowledging the presence of anyone else in the room. "I have you now, Professor Moriarty!" he exclaimed. "Professor of thieves!"
Moriarty smiled. "Mr. Holmes," he said. "Allow me to introduce—"
"Your friends?" Holmes chuckled. "I shall shortly introduce you to a judge — and a good British jury. You have gone too far!"
"Of what do we speak?" Moriarty inquired mildly. "Have you a purpose behind this tirade, or is it merely something you've eaten that disagrees with you?"
"That statuette," Holmes said. "That bauble. A bronze statuette of the goddess Uma, one of Shiva's consorts. Worth thousands, according to Lord East. It is one of two identical pieces, over a thousand years old." Holmes consulted a scrap of paper he carried. "One belonged to Lord East, and the other to the Maharaja of Rajasthan." He looked up and glared at Moriarty. "And just how did one of these priceless pieces come into your hands?" He smiled and folded his arms across his chest.
"Allow me to introduce you," Moriarty said, indicating Singh, "to the Maharaja of Rajasthan. Your Highness, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. A bit impolite, but a good solid investigator. When his reach does not exceed his grasp."
The Indian extended his hand. "My pleasure, Mr. Holmes," he said. "I have, of course, heard of you."
Holmes glared at the Maharaja, and then back at Moriarty. He sighed, and a look of resignation crossed his face. "You have, I'm sure, some means of identifying yourself?" he asked the Maharaja.
"But of course," the Maharaja agreed, pulling out a passport. "If there is any doubt, I am known to Lord Pindhurst, her majesty's Minister of Imperial Affairs, as well as to her majesty, Queen Victoria. Indeed, I had lunch with her today."
"I am sure you did," Holmes said, handing the document back to the Maharaja. "And I am sure that you gave the statuette to Professor Moriarty. I won't even ask you what service the professor performed in return, your highness. It is a pleasure to meet you, despite the, ah, circumstances." He turned back to Moriarty. "There is a certain inevitability about this moment, Professor. I should have expected it, but I am ever the optimist."
"I am sorry to disappoint you," Moriarty murmured.
"I have not had a chance to properly thank you for coming to my assistance in that hellhouse," Holmes said. "It was very sporting of you."
"Think nothing of it," Moriarty said. "Whatever were you doing there, Holmes? It was an unexpected pleasure."
"You don't suppose you're the only one who reads the agony columns, do you?" Holmes asked. "I — borrowed — one of those pretty medals from someone who would not need it for a while, left him lying peacefully in a bush, and entered. By the by, Professor— that fellow Chardino; he was the killer, was he not?"
"He was," Moriarty agreed.
"I see." Holmes looked thoughtful for a moment. "One cannot justify murder under any circumstances, but there are some that come closer than others. Is there anything we should do — about his demise, I mean?"
"I am having a headstone erected for him next to his daughter's grave," Moriarty said. "You may contribute."
"What will it say?" Holmes asked.
"I think, 'A Loving Father,' " Moriarty answered.
"I will subscribe," Holmes said. "He certainly was that."
"A bit of news that you might want to pass on to your friends at the Yard," Moriarty said. "One of those Hellfire devils escaped the blast."
"Oh?" Holmes said.
"Yes. Colonel Moran saw him picking his way out of the rubble and recognized him, but he escaped in the confusion."
"Who was it?"
"Lord Crecy Darby. Colonel Moran knew him years ago in India."
"Plantagenet!" Holmes said.
"That's the chap," Moriarty agreed. "Colonel Moran calls him the most dangerous man he's ever known. Likes to cut up prostitutes. I would suggest you make an effort to find him, or we'll be hearing from him in a way we won't like."
"I shall pass the word on," Holmes said. "Well, adieu, gentlemen." He clapped his hat on his head and turned to leave.
"Do come back and entertain us again sometime," Moriarty said. "Au revoir, Holmes."
"Beg pardon, sir," Mr. Maws said, as Holmes stalked by him. "A district messenger has just come with this." He held up an envelope. "It is addressed to Mr. Barnett."
Barnett grabbed it out of Mr. Maws's hand. It looked like — it was certain'y Cecily's handwriting. He ripped it open.
One word only on the stiff paper inside: Yes.
"Catch him, someone!" Moriarty called. "Help him to a chair. Mr. Maws, bring the brandy. I think the poor man needs a drink!"