Free The Empress of India by Michael Kurland

said, pulling on his overcoat and clapping his hat firmly on his head. “I’ll pack. It’s good to have you on board.”
    “I’ve been meaning to go to India for some time,” Moriarty remarked, rising and walking Colonel Moran to the door. “I understand that the records of the Indian astrologers go back many centuries, and there are written observations which comment on the supernova which appeared suddenly in the constellation of Taurus in 1054. I’d like a chance to peruse some of their sky charts from that time which might show the exact location of the star.”
    Moran stared at Moriarty for a second, afraid that he was being made the butt of some obscure joke. But he decided the professor was serious. “Whatever it takes, Professor,” he said, tipping his hat. “Whatever it takes!”

FIVE
     

THE ENIGMATIC
DR. PIN DOK LOW
     
    Fate sits on these dark battlements and frowns,
And as the portal opens to receive me,
A voice in hollow murmurs through the courts
Tells of a nameless deed.

—Ann Radcliffe
     
    T he boy’s long nose and protruding teeth were set in a face as white as whey, and his large ears protruded abruptly from the sides of his head. He was called Rodent by everyone who knew him, except his employer and mentor, Dr. Pin Dok Low. Dr. Pin called him “Charles.” It was a name that had been given him by Dr. Pin, no more his real name than was “Rodent,” but then neither he nor anybody else knew whether he had actually had a birth name, or what it might be. He was also necessarily vague as to his age and his birthday. He thought he might be fourteen, but he looked younger. Most children of the London slums, through malnutrition, lack of exercise,and a paucity of sunlight, looked younger than their age until, suddenly, they looked much older.
    He had been called Rodent for as long as he could remember. “Hit’s not as hif I minds the name,” he told Dr. Pin. “I don’t—not weally.” And indeed, among his comrades, Gimpy, Spits, Fingers, Warty, and the others, his name was not remarkable.
    A short while after Rodent and his friends had entered Pin Dok Low’s employment, Dr. Pin had taken him aside and regarded him thoughtfully. “From now on,” Pin decided, “you will regard ‘Charles’ as your given name.”
    “My given name?”
    “Yes, because, you see, I gave it to you.”
    “Ah, I see,” Charles said, although he didn’t—not really.
    “If you want others to respect you,” Pin told him patiently, “you must respect yourself. ‘Rodent’ is not a name to engender respect. And”—Dr. Pin Dok Low prodded the boy’s chest with a long forefinger—“you will be much more useful to me if others trust and respect you.”
    “Yessir,” Charles said doubtfully.
    Pin sighed a patient sigh. “We have a long way to go before we reach that particular sunny upland plateau.”
    Charles was meeting with Dr. Pin in the small warehouse on Bank End Wharf where Pin maintained a—what? Residence? There was no sign that Pin actually lived there. Hideout? But everyone who mattered knew that this was where Pin was to be found. Office? If Pin conducted any business out of the warehouse, it was not evident. It was, Charles supposed, Dr. Pin’s place, his spot. Everyone had to have a place, and this was Pin Dok Low’s.
    The Rodent—Charles—was the leader of a group of street urchins called the Limehouse Coneys, who made a precarious living snatching blows, rozzers, and skins—handkerchiefs, pocket watches, andwallets—from such gentlemen as passed through their neighborhood who were well off enough to possess such fineries. He and his associates had recently accepted another sort of employment from Dr. Pin. “They are my eyes and ears throughout London,” as Pin had explained to the Artful Codger.
    “They’re nothing more than a bunch of dirty young hooligans,” Codger had responded.
    “Exactly!” Dr. Pin had smiled his crafty smile. “And as such they can go anywhere and