7 Rough diamonds and tough cookies

"Come in, come in" Sherlock beamed, and with a very polite, very generous gesture he invited the visitor in, a sturdy, impeccably dressed man, who looked every bit like an over-tired version of Alfred Hitchcock. "May I introduce my friend and colleague, Dr John Watson? John, please meet Mr Malcolm Holmes, from the Foreign Office!"

"A pleasure" John said mechanically as he shook the fat, soft and a bit sweaty hand that was lazily offered to him.

"Yes, isn't it" Sherlock chimed in, and with the words "sit down, old man" he pushed a chair under Malcolm's backside.

The Whitehall Mandarin creaked down on the precariously fragile looking seat with an accusing look on his chubby face. "You didn't mention the stairs!" He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed his brow and glared at Sherlock.

John, who had been fidgeting ever since the, to him, surprising arrival, blurted out: "Fancy a cuppa?"

"I do beg your pardon?" Malcolm said. Quite obviously the expression was a bit too fancy for him.

"You know" John said "tea?"

The visitor dismissed the fanciful notion of having tea with two scoundrels who pretended to be gentlemen with the iron, tale-telling politeness that was, even in Mycroft's modern days, an inbred talent of diplomatic services. His flawless reply "I'm not quite following you" had 'Go and rot somewhere, but please do it quietly' as an unmistakable subtext.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" Watson nonetheless repeated, slowly and carefully, as if the other was suffering from impaired hearing.

Malcolm heaved a silent sigh and decided that there was no better way to get rid of the dimwit. "If it can't be avoided."

"You'll have it in no time. C'me on, Sherlock." And with these words, John pushed a for once completely surprised Sherlock into the part of their flat, which, in the 21st century, would house the kitchen equipment. Unfortunately, in 1898, it housed nothing but a cabinet with some cleaning stuff, buckets and old linen. It was one of the things John frequently tended to forget, so that by now he was quite intimate with Mrs Hudson's brooms and brushes.

"John" Sherlock said, quite reasonably in his own opinion, "there is no tea here. Let go of my arm, and I'll call for our housekeeper. You know we have a housekeeper now, don't you? I told you, remember?"

"Oh, you've told me a lot of things" John spat back, softly but with all the venom he could muster "for example that Mr Malcolm Holmes would never come near us. That he wouldn't come after our hides, so that we are going to vanish in some damp, ugly Victorian prison cell for the rest of our miserable lives!"

"Well" Sherlock drawled "I got that a bit wrong …."

"A BIT?"

"All right, I got that very wrong. What does it matter? He likes me. He's family. Not that he would believe that, obviously. But he is. In a manner of speaking!"

"Sherlock….."

"Look, John. There's nothing to worry. He had me arrested a few days ago…."

"WHAT?"

"And he wanted to arrest you, too, obviously, and so I had…."

"WHAT?"

"Well, it was obvious that I had to…."

"Say 'obvious' one more time, Sherlock Holmes, just one more time, and I ... John hissed through gritted teeth, searching for a really impressive threat.

Sherlock scrutinized his friend briefly, before he stepped back as far as he could without having his arm free, and raised a calming hand. "John…."

"I know my name, damn you. What on earth are we going to do?"

"Find the Raja's jewels, and the thief who stole them, and Malcolm will be on his knees in eternal gratitude. Piece of cake."

"Sherlock….."

"Excuse me, gentlemen" a third voice interrupted whatever Sherlock had thought to reply "but if we are to have our conversation inside this closet, I would like to know." Malcolm's dissatisfied pug face was red and puffy. He was not amused.

"As I was just saying to my dear friend" Sherlock said hastily "we won't find some clean table linen in here!" and he steered the two of them back into the living room, where John recovered enough of his common sense to go down and ask Mrs Hudson for their tea.

On his return to the living room, he found Sherlock and his (what was he, great-great-grandfather or something?) in most amiable conversation over two glasses of brandy, like the very best of pals. Sherlock was just sharing an amusing little anecdote from his soldiering days in Afghanistan, which, but for a few minor details, had the merit of being perfectly true, except for the fact that it had happened to a certain Captain John Watson M. D.

"I say, Dr Watson" Malcolm nasalized, looking much more relaxed than before "I envy you both. Such an adventurous life. At first I wasn't too happy about Sherlock feigning to be my brother, but now I'm glad I've met you. You two are just the men for the job."

"What job?" John asked curtly.

"The trivial odd job you're going to do for me, now and then, because you're so overwhelmed with gratitude for my generosity in letting you go on with your amusing little charade here" Malcolm said with faked joviality. "Instead of having you chained down in some penal colony at the end of the world. Ours is such a vast Empire. Did I make myself clear, Dr Watson?"

"Perfectly" John retorted drily, his gaze drilling into Sherlock's eyes. "What can we do for you, Sir?"

"It's easy enough" Malcolm said, all kindness and complaisance now that he had thrown his weight around like the perfect bully he really was. "His Royal Highness the Crown Prince of Jahaldapour, second son of the Maharaja, has had … let's call it a streak of bad luck. He's presently visiting, by his father's orders, our glorious capital city, and, quite naturally, he wishes to pay tribute to his Empress, our sovereign Queen."

"What's so natural about that?" John asked without thinking, which earned him a dig in the ribs from Sherlock.

Irritably, Malcolm cleared his throat. Obviously he liked being interrupted as much as his distant relative Mycroft would: Not at all. "The Crown of Jahaldapour possesses two sets of matching jewels, each of them worth a King's ransom" he continued. "I would say, the crown 'owns' the jewels, but that would do the rascals too much honour. The way they came by them, two generations back….. , well, never mind that now. Anyway, the Maharaja wishes to present these jewels to our Queen, as a token of his admiration and loyalty…."

"Doubtlessly this wish originates from the constant effort of our colonial services in India on behalf of the British exchequer" John proffered politely, which made Sherlock softly groan by his side.

Malcolm glared at him, murderously, and Sherlock shifted in his chair as if to make ready for a quick jump. However, the civil servant restrained himself, if laboriously. "I say, you do have a peculiar attitude for an officer of one of the British army's most distinguished regiments, Dr Watson. But then, we both know you never joined the British army, did you. So let's say no more about it, shall we, before we say something that you might come to regret. Where was I? Oh yes…."

Alas, again Malcolm had no chance to complete his narrative as there was a knock at the door and in went Mrs Hudson with a huge tea tray full of goodies from her kitchen.

As she was no match for her future self's genius at the baking stove, John sighed silently. With a painful, burning desire he missed his Mrs Hudson's delicacies and personal additions to modern, wholesome British cuisine.

19th century's Baker Street concrete cake and even harder cookies, all much too sweet and heavy, wouldn't do much to lighten the spirit. Neither would the black tea – virtually black like ink, by all appearances – nor the scones with lemon curd as bitter as gall, accompanied by butter salty enough to spice the Baltic Sea. However, one had to admit that the salt valiantly battled the ancient butter's staleness.

"Here you are, gentlemen" she said with a pinched smile that was as much a part of her as the thin grey hair. "Enjoy your meal."

For the next ten minutes or so, John forgot about the whole jewel thing, as he marvelled, virtually mesmerized, at Malcolm enraptured devouring the loathsome vitals. "Dear Lady" the Whitehall man said in the end, between two bites of the older of the two cakes (the desk-jockey, for all his sick, overweight appearances had to have teeth, as healthy and strong as those of a Bengal tiger, John thought), "this is marvellous. Marvellous indeed. Might we presume on your kindness even further and call for you to take that tray away as soon as we are finished here?"

"Oh" she belatedly got the clue. "Of course, Sir. I leave you gentlemen to your business."

"Thank you, my dear. Thank you so much." Malcolm smiled warmly at her.

As soon as she had left, the visitor dropped the cake, pushed the tea cup as far away as possible, and shoved his chair a bit further away from the table. All he kept was his glass of brandy. With much relief John gathered that his knowledge of the human digestion and the stomach's needs was still accurate, even in this accursed century. Whitehall just trained their staff to distraction. Doubtlessly one Mycroft Holmes would one day learn to chew raw ants with the same degree of well-faked adoration his ancestor had just shown.

"As I said" Malcolm resumed his much harassed report "the Crown Prince is supposed to deliver the jewels, come tomorrow's audience. Unfortunately, he has no chance to do that, as they have been stolen from him, almost a week ago. I can delay the Buckingham Palace audience by a day or two, not longer. At first, I was confident that Scotland Yard would bring the loot back in no time, especially as Inspector Gregson had assured me on that, most persuasively."

Here, for the very first time since Malcolm had begun talking, Sherlock made a sound, aside from groaning, chewing, or pouring tea. As had to be expected, he huffed sarcastically at the mentioning of the Yard's gross incompetence.

"So the police are clueless as to what has happened to the jewels?" John made sure that he had heard correctly.

"Quite clueless, yes" Malcolm confirmed angrily.

"How were they stolen in the first place?"

"His Highness is accompanied by his sister, the Princess Ashwarija. I'm made to understand that Her Highness has been … somewhat foolish."

"They do have a lot of fools in that family then?" John jested where he should have been quiet. Astonished, he noticed that Malcolm's ears were burning red already and the stupid joke made the veins on the man's neck swell in a most unhealthy manner.

"The Princess has led …. a rather sheltered life so far" the Whitehall man spoke louder and harsher than before "and the temptations of urban decadence ….. a brother isn't a substitute for a mother's watchful eye. Or a suitable chaperon."

"Are you telling me that the girl took a lover to her London flat, and the gigolo stole the jewels after the fun?" John blurted out in complete disbelief.

Sherlock covered his face with his hand, but even so John heard the barely stifled mad chuckle. Malcolm, a gruesomely mortified Malcolm, looked everywhere but at the brute who'd made the indelicate remark.

John, quite unaware of the scandal he was causing, whistled noiselessly. "Oh ho-ho… the Lady has guts. If her father finds out ….."

"The Lady's guts aren't the issue here, Dr Watson" Malcolm hollered. "Nor are her ….." At once, he controlled himself. "But you are right on all other points. The handsome young man with whom she was seen earlier that fateful night must have persuaded her to show him the safe in her brother's study; even to open it, to parade the priceless jewels before him, thereby, stupidly if involuntarily, giving away the safe's combination. Naturally she denies every word of it, or so I'm told. But there is no other way the jewels could have been stolen. The safe was unharmed, and only the royal siblings knew the combination."

"Could not the brother be the thief?"

"Why should the Prince steal his own jewels? One day not too far in the future, the whole treasure of Jahaldapour will be at his disposal."

"Poor wretched girl" John muttered.

"Pity me, Dr Watson" Malcolm said acidly "and the British Foreign Office. If her father does find out what his daughter has been up to, in London, under our care and protection…. It doesn't bare thinking about. The girl is engaged to be married to the son of another Raja. You can't imagine the political and diplomatic consequences of her foolishness."

"I can, believe me" John said, now utterly sobered. "Three years in Afghanistan, remember? The women there have to live up to some very high moral standards, too, if you follow my drift."

"So you see my dilemma" Malcolm said. "The jewels must be found during the next 24 hours, returned to the Prince with no one the wiser, so that he can present them to Buckingham Palace as planned, and his sister to her husband-to-be in three months' time, as if nothing has happened. Or I'll swing for it."

"You mean …. surely that's exaggerated…." John stammered, who, when it came to 19th century justice, always imagined the worst.

"He means professionally, John" Sherlock said. "It's just a figure of speech. His career will be ruined. As, come to think of it, will the wretched girl be in any case. Doubtlessly her husband will find out."

"If he or her brother twists the trollop's neck for her lack of decency and parade, it would be no more than she deserves" Malcolm barked. "As long as it does not happen here, and has no connection to the British government, they can do with her whatever they want. All I have to do is to retrieve the jewels."

"Charming" Sherlock smiled. "It's quite the civilized, humane attitude I would have expected from our Foreign Office, by all my personal experience. I do not doubt that I …. - that is, WE – can find and return your precious baubles."

"Let me get that clear one more time, dear 'brother' Sherlock" Malcolm coldly interrupted him. "You humour me on this one, and on some other occasions that might come up in the future, discreetly and efficiently, and I will pay you and your friend here a handsome, regular fee as well as a bonus for every specific service rendered. I will let you keep my family name, I will even give you some documents to prove, if necessary, that you two are who you claim to be. But let me down, just once, and I crush you. I make a solemn promise that neither of you will ever see freedom again for the very short duration of your lives. Understood?"

"Quite" Sherlock said, unruffled. "That was the deal we already agreed upon. Now, if you would answer a few questions….."

"A moment, please" John interjected. "As this deal includes me, shouldn't you have asked me first?"

"A simple choice, John" Sherlock retorted lazily. "Either you shut up now, or he is going to shut us both up later on, and for good. Is that concise enough for you?"

Watson folded both arms before his chest, threw himself back in his chair, and glared at Sherlock in no uncertain way. As far as he was concerned, this Whitehall bigwig was an even less adorable member of the Holmes family than the 'British Government" he knew. If Mycroft appeared cold hearted at times, this guy was from the Arctic. Another Iceman, indeed.

"Who saw the Princess with that 'handsome young man' as you called him, on the night of the theft?" Sherlock meanwhile asked Malcolm.

"A member of the Prince's household, his gentleman secretary, Gupta-Rao."

"And he didn't think of mentioning it to his master at the time?"

"The Prince wasn't at home. Besides, Gupta feared for his job. His word against that of a royal princess."

"Still the word of a man against that of a woman" Sherlock said drily. "It all depends. Is there anything you can tell me about the siblings' relationship to each other or to their parents?"

"Where would we be if the British administration would meddle with the Maharaja's family affairs?" Malcolm said stiffly, but he shrugged immediately afterwards. "There are rumours, of course… there always are. The Maharaja, 69 years of age, is a proud man, an independent and free spirit you might say, especially on behalf of his sovereign rule in his kingdom. His first born son was his favourite, the apple of his eye. But Prince Arjun died in a riding accident some 14 months ago. Since then, the Maharaja has not been his old self. He's ill, by all accounts, very ill. There's talk that his second son, Harinder, isn't all what his father would want him to be, but as to the reasons behind that …." Malcolm shrugged again. "Beats me, I must say. I find Prince Harinder amiable, good-mannered – educated in England of course – intelligent and quite pro-British."

"Is he indeed" Sherlock said. "And the princess?"

"17 years of age, a beauty by all accounts, but naturally I couldn't say. I met her once, on their arrival at their family's house in London, and only for a minute or two. She lives in purdah, her family has a rather extreme view on that, so she was veiled. And it was below her to address me directly, her brother spoke for her. A bit tall-ish for all I could see, but with long and slender legs. She left us, and that was that."

"By whose accounts is she a beauty then?" Sherlock asked with a frown he kept in special reserve for illogical tittle-tattle.

"There are English Ladies of quality in India" Malcolm said indignantly "who've met her, while her mother still lived, who died some years ago. And they sang praises of the girl's beauty. And bright as a bee. Good at conversation, too, not in the least shy. An ideal Hindu miniature, that was what one of the Ladies said."

"Well, I can imagine" John muttered acidly under his breath. He had his own nasty experiences with white people talking about coloured people and coloured people talking about white people, and neither way the talking had been any pleasant.

"And the Princess was what by then, 12? 13?" Sherlock insisted.

"Closer to 14" Malcolm said. "Quite the little woman, I was made to understand."

"Was her and Prince Harinder's mother in the habit of showing her children off to strangers?"

Malcolm - almost - rolled his eyes. "Isn't any mother in that habit?" he asked rhetorically. "And it was the girl's and Prince Arjun's mother. Maharajas, even the best of them, value their own weird life-style. Prince Harinder's mother, originally the Maharaja's concubine" (here Malcom's ears reddened again) "happens to be alive."

"Are there any British servants in the house?"

"A fifty-two year old, married butler, his wife, and two elderly spinster maids. When in London the Indian nobility is expected to entertain. Not all the guests are Indian. For English guests you would, as a considerate host, of course want to keep up some minimal British standards. But these servants do not sleep in the main house. They've got their quarters in an adjourning building, bought for that explicit purpose."

"Anything else that might be of value to my investigation?"

"Frankly, I do not see what the Maharaja's family business has to do with the theft" Malcolm said angrily. "Seems to me you're as clueless as Scotland Yard!"

John waited for Sherlock's inevitable vicious repartee, which would doubtlessly land them both in jail, and he was crushed when he saw his friend smile quite amicably. "Everything is connected to anything" Sherlock said politely. "Almost everywhere. But be that as it may. Naturally I would have to meet Their Highnesses in their London home."

"Impossible" Malcolm said spontaneously.

"Dear Mr Holmes, I took you for a man who makes the impossible possible" Sherlock said silkily.

"And I took you for a man who understands his options, Sherlock, my dear" Malcolm retorted with narrowed eyes. "If this investigation leads to nothing, it will land you and your friend in the worst predicament I can think of."

"As it will land you, dear Malcolm, out of your precious office. I wonder who is going to have the better of the bargain. Aren't you?"

Malcolm leaned back in his chair and scrutinized Sherlock, who, if possible, smiled even more angelically than before. "Perhaps" the Whitehall Mandarin reluctantly said "I could introduce you and your friend to Prince Harinder as my assistants."

"Indeed" Sherlock said dreamingly. "Did I ever tell you that I have an elder brother who would have loved seeing me delve into foreign affairs? Good old Mycroft, this would do him proud, I'm just like this Consulting Expert of yours, this ….."

"Well, no need to keep you any longer" Malcolm said hastily, already rising from his chair. "I'll let you know the time of your audience with Harinder as soon as possible. Good day, Sherlock. Dr Watson…"

John brought their visitor to the door and secretly relished in the man's haunted appearance. Whatever Sherlock's last unfinished remark had been about, it had sure rattled the supercilious official.

It had clearly made the Detective's day too. He sat there, his hands forming the usual pyramid in front of his face, and from time to time he chuckled softly.

Mrs Hudson came and went, the sun began to set, and still Sherlock had not stirred.

Finally, John lost his nerves, as he always did, no matter how resolved he was to appear as uncaring and detached as his all-knowing friend. "Well? What do you make of it? Don't sit there like the proverbial sphinx, our lives hang in the balance."

"Indeed" Sherlock replied without looking at the doctor. "By the way, did I tell you that it is gone?"

"That what is gone?"

"The machine. The time machine. A while ago I sneaked into the factory for a quick peep, just to make sure, and it was gone."

John felt as if someone had kicked his legs away underneath him. His breathing stopped, and he had to sit down, very quickly. He wanted to say something, but couldn't.

"I say again" Sherlock mused on, ignoring the other's shock and awe "isn't it marvellous sometimes how things are connected?"

All of a sudden, certainly abruptly enough to startle an already dumbfounded Watson into almost total shock, Sherlock jumped to his feet and grabbed his coat. "Come on, John, we're late as it is!"

"What? How? Where? And why? Sherlock …"

But Holmes was already half way down the stairs, and, for lack of any other chance to get more information, Watson followed him, still yelling "for God's sake, won't you tell me what this is all about?"

"We're going to meet the creator of our immortal fame and glory at the pub around the corner" Sherlock shouted back.

"Who?"

"Dr Doyle" Sherlock yelled over his shoulder. "Dr Arthur Conan Doyle! From Edinburgh!"

A/N: Forgive me, folks, I know I've taken the liberty of mistiming Arthur Conan Doyle's participation in this plot. He published his first Sherlock Holmes novel in 1883 (I've just looked it up again in Wikipedia), and in 1898 Sherlock Holmes was already a veritable and venerable celebrity. Alas, I failed to look it up before I started this story, so now it has to be 1898 instead of 1883, that Arthur Conan Doyle is just 23 years old, eager to flex his literary muscles by writing detective stories. And he's come to London from Edinburgh roughly 18 months ago, before he meets our friends Sherlock and John in this story. I hope you can cope if you get my sincerest apology for the bad timing.