The Star of India Read Online Free

sold any of this particular scent for years. No, I’m afraid I have that one, as I have most of these,” he said, indicating the rows of bottles, “simply for my own amusement. Some I even manufacture myself. Next time you must let me show you my new laboratory equipment.”
    “I would be delighted,” said Holmes, and once again we stepped out into the night.
    It was a shock to stand once again in the rain-slicked street after the warm gentility of Mr. Wiggins’ shop. We pulled our collars up around our ears and headed back down the alley in search of a cab.
    *     *     *
    Before long I was snugly ensconced in the sitting room at Baker Street, sipping brandy and watching the storm as it gathered strength outside, while Holmes rummaged around downstairs for something to eat. I watched as the rain swept in sheets across the deserted streets; only the hardiest of souls would venture out on a night like this. Even the usual procession of hansom cabs had disappeared, leaving the bare cobblestones to receive the brunt of the storm’s fury.
    Holmes appeared at the door holding a joint of beef in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other.
    “Success!” he cried cheerfully. “Good old Mrs. Hudson, reliable to the last.”
    “That’s a strange thing to say. You make it sound as if she had died.”
    “Hmmm, you’re right. I don’t know why I said that,” he replied, setting the food on the sideboard. “Cornwall may be a form of purgatory, but it isn’t quite death, I suppose. I think you had better stay here tonight,” he added, drawing the curtains on the tempest outside.
    “Thank you, I will,” I said, carving myself a large slice of roast beef. As the flu epidemic was finally showing signs of slowing down, I had left my surgery in the care of a colleague for a few days so that I could get some much-needed rest. It was pleasant to be once again in my old digs, sharing brandy with Holmes in front of the fire. His black mood of earlier had lightened and he was in a talkative mood.
    “Nature is often a cruel mistress, Watson,” he said meditatively, gazing into his brandy glass as the fire crackled and sparked in the grate.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Well,” said Holmes, “it strikes me as terribly cruel that a prince of a man like Wiggins should have been saddled with such a pathetic and repulsive body, whilst spiritually repulsive men often are blessed withthe handsomest of figures. Take the odious Baron Gruner, for example. Do you remember him?”
    “Remember him!” I exclaimed. “How could I forget him; his henchmen nearly beat you to death. I’ll never forget the day I saw the newspaper which carried the report of the attack on you; I thought my heart had stopped—”
    Holmes dismissed the memory with a wave of his hand.
    “That was a mere trifle compared to the way the baron treated women. A truly venomous snake, that one—and yet Nature gave him the face and figure of a god.”
    “Well, he got what was coming to him; he was horribly disfigured by the acid which Kitty threw in his face. There was a strange justice in his fate after all.”
    “True, but by the hand of a woman, not Nature.”
    I laughed. “Holmes, you know nothing about women if you separate them from Nature—”
    Holmes chuckled. “Perhaps you’re right... I just regret that a man like Wiggins has to spend his life in such a body. He doesn’t deserve such a fate.”
    “I think I have read of a case such as his in my medical textbooks. A certain John Merrick had a similar disease, and became quite famous after he became the special patient of a London physician.”
    “Yes, yes; Wiggins has often spoken of Merrick, or the Elephant Man, as he was called, and wished he could meet him. Wiggins himself has had quite a life. I shall tell you about him one day—I count him as one of the many treasures London has to offer the curious adventurer.”
    “Who are his clients?”
    Holmes smiled. “Mostly ‘fancy women,’