She nodded and moved toward the chair. She had the feline grace of a tigress.
“There is a decanter of port, and one of whiskey there on the sideboard; please feel free to help yourself.”
“Thank you, but I don’t indulge in those kinds of spirits.”
He smiled. Sometimes they made it almost criminally easy for him.
This was a test of his abilities, of course, and save for the sneaking in and skulking in the shadows, not that unusual. He had grown accustomed to such small adventures. They happened with more frequency since Watson’s cataloging of his cases, and he had to confess to himself—even if he would never let Watson know it—that he enjoyed these little challenges.
Wits, like a razor, needed to be honed to stay sharp. The pity was there were so few people who could serve as proper strops for a mind such as his. Mycroft was never around when he needed him. The woman was hardly a threat, and had he felt any worry on that score, he had at hand a Webley revolver, one of several Watson owned, tucked into the pocket of his smoking jacket. This was America, after all.
Holmes took yet another draft of the pipe’s nicely scented mix. They did have good tobacco here, he had to admit.
Now to the business at hand.
“Let me see. You are . . . a priestess of an exotic faith, and you have come here from far away. The tropics, I’d say—the Spice Islands—on a mission of great importance. To recover a lost—no, a stolen item. This item is not in and of itself extremely valuable, though it is certainly not a trifle, but instead has great religious worth, and is necessary for some important ritual. You were chosen for this role because you are an adept in physical and mental disciplines, and you wish my help in recovering the lost treasure. There is some danger in this quest, and while danger per se does not frighten you, you are being cautious because you know a misstep can be fatal.”
That amused smile shined brightly in her face again, even in the dim light. He suppressed his own smile. He knew that such offhand and confident recitations always impressed those who sought to test him. He inclined his head in a short military bow, acknowledging her smile. They always asked at this point, and this would be his moment to give her a clever, if elementary, reconstruction of the clues that had provided his deductive reasoning.
He drew breath to speak, but she surprised him: “Well-spoken, sir, but not really that impressive, is it?”
The pipe threatened to go out. Holmes frowned, tamped the tobacco again, drew more air through it, brightening the glow in the bowl.
“I can offer two trains of thought that would explain how you know these things,” she continued. “First, my appearance. Even though I am dressed as a local woman, it is obvious from my complexion and features that I am of Indian and not European or African descent. My English, while quite good, carries a trace of my native accent, and a man such as yourself would surely be familiar with the Malay tongue, so it is no great stretch to hazard a broad guess at my place of origin. The Spice Islands cover a long swath of ocean, Mr. Holmes. Would you care to localize it a bit more?”
Holmes considered it a moment. “Bali,” he said. He allowed his face to reveal nothing.
“Indeed, that is so. But again, not that difficult a deduction, is it? The Balinese accent is detectable to a trained ear. Although that is not the only reason you called it thus.”
He nodded, growing even more intrigued. “Go on.”
“You watched me walk to the chair, and from a place where I had been concealed for some time before you noticed me—despite your pretense to have known I was there all along—so you realize I have some training in physicality and matters of . . . stealth.”
He nodded again. She was fascinating. “Please—continue, continue.”
“Since ninety percent of the civilized residents of the Spice Islands are of the Islamic faith, and women are not traditionally counted among Muslim clerical circles, then it would be likely that with such training I would be from some other religion, one that allows women adepts. Bali still admits to more followers of the Buddhist and the Hindu persuasion than Java, not to mention some pockets of animism here and there.”
He sucked in more smoke. He was much enjoying this conversation. What a magnificent creature she was!
“And the easiest part, of course, is the reason that I am here. Why else would I approach the renowned Sherlock Holmes if not to garner his help regarding some matter only he could solve? It would involve some criminal behavior, a missing person or thing, and were it merely misplaced, it would hardly have made its way halfway around the world, would it? And if I were seeking a person of my persuasion, such as would be likely, a man or woman of the Indian race would certainly stand out and be more readily identifiable in the United States than in most other countries—in which case, why would I need a great detective? Thus, I must be seeking some harder-to-find item, and one stolen.”
“You, madam, are a woman after my own heart,” he said, realizing it was true.
She inclined her head, still smiling. “Such parlor games are amusing, but prove little.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Indeed, madam, ah—?”
“Sita Yogalimari,” she said. At his questioning look, she added, “My grandparents were Javanese.”
“Ah.” She had known he would recognize that the names were not Balinese. What a wondrous creature to realize he would immediately comprehend that! She had his full attention in a way no woman, with the possible exception of Irene Adler, ever had. Mycroft would love her. Perhaps it was best if he never mentioned her to his brother for that very reason . . .
“Can you tell me anything more, Mr. Holmes?”
“The final test, Miss Yogalimari?” He looked into the pipe’s bowl. Gone out. He turned it over, knocked the dottle into the ashtray, set the briar precisely in its stand. He knew what she wanted, and, of course, he knew more than he let on. “You have a rather large knife hidden under your clothes.” He considered it for a moment, then could not resist: “A . . . kris, I believe.”
Again, the flash of perfect teeth. She reached behind her back and did something to the hem of her skirt. When her hand returned to view, she held gripped in it a knife in an intricately carved wooden scabbard with a silver tube covering much of the more than foot-long length. The top portion of the weapon and carved sheath looked somewhat like a high-prowed boat.
She arose, stepped across the short distance, and offered it to him.
Holmes took the weapon, careful to collect it with both hands. He withdrew the blade, a wavy affair, and raised it to touch it against his forehead lightly, the majority of the asymmetrical steel crosspiece above the pistol-shaped grip pointed to his right side. The scent of sandalwood oil rose from the metal, pungent and sharp.
“Interesting, Mr. Holmes. One would not expect an Englishman to know the proper ritual salute when drawing and inspecting a keris.”
He shrugged. “A simple thing, Miss Yogalimari, for anyone who reads even a little Dutch. They have written extensively about these things. Even Governor Raffles mentioned them in his excellent history of the islands.” He looked at the blade. The steel was “watered,” stained a dark black, with a Damascus pattern of shiny nickel threads twisted and running aslant through the iron. “Pamor,” he said. “Is that not what they call the pattern in the steel?”
“Yes.”
“And the dark color comes from a wash made of lemon juice and arsenic.”
“Dried under the tropical sun. The nickel does not take the stain, hence the patterns. Your knowledge is indeed formidable, Mr. Holmes. There are hundreds of pamor patterns, each imbued with its own special magic. This one, of the twisted variety, is called buntel mayit—the ‘death shroud.’ Very powerful.”