Holmes smiled, as if he’d seen an old friend, and thumbed the surface of his with familiarity. I held mine up to the light. It was a rude piece of jewellery, with touches of black enamel in the silver and an almost invisible latch on one side, which opened to reveal a small twist of soft rice paper around a hard centre. I unfurled this cautiously, set aside the tiny chip of turquoise it contained, and examined the paper. It had been stamped with an inscription, its ink bleeding into the fibres; the script was unknown to me.

“What does the writing say?” I asked Nesbit.

“It’s a standard Buddhist benediction, for protection on the road. The usefulness of the charm lies in catching the eye of another who holds one. And since such objects can be stolen, the phrase that accompanies it is paramount.” He told us the phrase, in Hindi, and had us repeat it twice so he could be sure we had the proper and essential emphasis on the fourth word.

Holmes dropped his over his neck, working it inside his collar, then murmured, “The three men found dead and tortured. Were they, too, ‘Sons of the Charm’?”

“They were. And yes, the charms each wore are missing.”

I thought to myself that it might be time to replace this style of charm with something less widely circulated, but at least we were forewarned. Holmes slid the oilskin document case into his inner pocket, and stood up.

We shook Nesbit’s hand, and he locked the safe and walked us to the door. We paused on the verandah, listening to the sound of an approaching motor. As it pulled up before the house, Nesbit turned his head slightly and said, “It might be best to commit as much of the file as possible to memory, and burn the rest. I’ve also given you three methods of reaching me in an emergency. If there’s anything at all I can do, any time . . .”

“We shall be in touch,” Holmes told him. Hari stepped out of the motorcar to hold its door for us, then climbed behind the wheel and drove us back into the city.

Chapter Eight

Somewhat to my surprise, we did not instantly pack our bags and dash from the hotel into hiding, taking refuge in some Oriental equivalent of Holmes’ London bolt-holes. Rather, he poured the contents of the leather case out onto the floor and set about reading them.

“I thought you and Nesbit agreed that we might be in some danger here,” I said, with what I considered admirable patience.

He looked up with a frown at the distraction. “Oh, no more than usual. We shall be away before any rifles can sight down on our necks.”

“Good to hear,” I muttered, and picked up a page from the file.