I stared at the primitive wooden box resting on the silver tray, the green river-slime emitting a foul, marshy stench that completely overpowered the sweet fragrance of the burning sea-coal. Mary’s hand remained frozen in mine, her pulse fluttering against my palm like a trapped sparrow.
"Jane," I said, keeping my voice deliberately calm to soothe the terrified housemaid. "You may return to the kitchen. Secure the back scullery door, and ensure the window latches are fastened."
Once the girl had retreated, I fetched a pair of surgical forceps and a clean linen towel from my medical bag. With the utmost care, I snipped the tarred hemp twine, freeing the sapphire-blue goose feather.
"John," Mary whispered, her eyes wide as she stared at the box. "The feather... it is an open mockery of Mr. Holmes's famous Christmas case. But the handwriting on the note belongs to none other than Jonathan Small. How can it be? He was sentenced to lifelong penal servitude."
"Small is securely locked behind the granite walls of Dartmoor, my dear," I replied, though my mind raced with terrifying alternatives. "Yet, he was not the only man who survived the Andaman Islands. There were warders, convicts, and treacherous guards who knew the secret of the Agra treasure suite."
Using the forceps, I pried open the rusted iron clasp of the box. The wooden lid creaked open with a sharp, splitting sound. Inside, resting upon a bed of damp, black river-mud, was an object that defied all logical explanation.
It was a small, exquisitely carved ivory figurine of an elephant, its harness studded with tiny, glinting blue stones. I recognized it instantly. It was a companion piece to the very curiosities Mary had received every year from her anonymous benefactor, Major Sholto, before we ever met. But this figurine was broken; its ivory torso was severed cleanly in two, and a heavy iron nail had been driven straight through the heart of the carving.
"It is a warning," Mary said, her voice dropping to a terrified whisper. She rose from her chair and walked toward the window, parting the heavy velvet curtains to peer out into the yellow gloom of the Paddington street. "They are not seeking the gold that Jonathan Small scattered into the Thames. They believe that my father, Captain Morstan, kept a private ledger—a record of the international fences who helped convert the early portions of the Andaman prize."
"And did he?" I asked, joining her by the window pane.
"If he did, John, it was never found among his effects at the Langham Hotel," she replied, staring into the swirling fog. Suddenly, she stiffened, her fingers gripping the fabric of the curtain. "John, look there. Beneath the gas lamp across the street."
I followed her gaze through the murky yellow haze. Standing beneath the flickering street lamp was a tall, skeletal figure wrapped in a tattered pilot coat. His face was entirely hidden by the brim of a dripping oilskin hat, but as I watched, he raised a single, wooden crutch and pointed it directly at our parlor window.
Before I could reach for my service revolver, the phantom figure melted back into the suffocating blanket of the London fog, leaving only the ominous, rhythmic thump-tap of his wooden leg echoing down the empty, frozen street.
