The Bombay Gentleman’s Club was a massive stone building that made me feel the weight of the British Empire’s entire history. There was a huge reading room with great leaded windows where white men perused copies of the London Times from the recesses of enormous leather chairs. I handed the doorman my coat and hat and explained the nature of my visit. A gloved hand pointed out the figure who had invited me here. Colonel Babcock sported an impressive mustache as white as the doorman’s glove and a jaunty, pink countenance. He could have passed for a character in a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta. I must have looked so little like a member that he spotted me at once. He stood and waved me over. I felt a bit like a Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s court.

“Jeffries. I say, old man, nice of you to abandon your proclivity for a few moments and accept my invitation,” the mouth somewhere beneath the whiskers said.

“I could hardly refuse a chance to see what colonization looks like from the upper rung,” I answered.

“Come, come. None of your Yankee holier-than-thou claptrap. Your American history is filled with as much conquest as ours.”

“Not something I’m proud of.” I noticed a mural beyond Babcock’s head high above the distant bookshelves. It depicted ancient warriors in a struggle between order and chaos to demonstrate the adage that might makes right, I supposed. The British liked their imperialistic pursuits in illustration.

“Look here, old chum. I didn’t ask you here to debate power or politics,” Babcock was saying. “It is quite a different matter. Let’s adjourn to the bar where it’s a bit cozier.”

Babcock clapped me on the shoulder with a hail-fellow-well-met gesture and led the way. The British also seemed to enjoy naming everything after themselves. Hence, we entered the Queen Victoria Bar. He ordered us drinks from a dark enclave so cut off from the outside world you could pretend you were in jolly old England itself if you chose.

After a few cordialities, he came to the point. “I won’t beat about the bush, Jeffries,” he said. “You see, my daughter was recently presented with an unusual piece of jewelry by one of the local servants. God only knows how the waif came by it, but it does appear to be valuable. At any rate, my daughter, Charlotte, has been told the necklace possesses magical powers.”

Seeing my puzzled expression, Babcock laughed. “It’s all poppycock of course, but I believe someone with your knowledge may help solve the riddle—in her mind anyway.”

“I don’t mean to sound dense, but how so?”

“Why, your background with gemology and metallurgy. The servant has convinced her that it’s a necklace once owned by the goddess Shiva herself.”

“But surely she knows Shiva is a mythological figure?”

“She’s a female of high breeding and intelligence, I can assure you. At least, she was until she came under the spell of this native woman.”

“Sounds like a medical doctor or a reverend might be more suited to the task than I.”

Colonel Babcock took a moment to liberate a West Indies cigar from his vest pocket. He offered it to me, which I declined. He lit the grisly thing with great aplomb and pondered its glowing tip. “Here’s the crux of the matter, good fellow, and it’s a sticky wicket as you will soon see. I believe a man of science might be able to clear Charlotte’s head. If you could meet with her and catalog the origin of the piece, even place a date or name of manufacture, she might give up her foolish notions.”

“What powers does she believe the necklace to possess?”

Babcock took a large drink from his glass and cleared his throat. “When she wears the necklace, she believes she is the goddess of passion and desire. To put it bluntly, she wants to shag the young officers in my company to death.”

Even though I’m a bit of a libertine, I blushed a little in spite of myself. I thought for a moment then couldn’t help but say, “Not such an unusual desire for a healthy young woman away from the trappings of Mother England.”

Babcock harrumphed. “I have a duty to my command and my men, sir. I cannot tolerate my young, yet serene, dignified daughter to suddenly turn into some wild thing that drops her knickers like a common tart and plots rendezvous with my officers incessantly.”

“And her mother? What is her opinion?”

“My wife died from beriberi in the islands when Charlotte was a child. She’s had only servants as companions most of her life. This most recent servant girl and she have become insufferably close,” Babcock stated with a sigh. He finished his drink and waved at the barman for another, his smoldering cigar forgotten. “For the past few nights I’ve remained here at the club or billeted at the barracks on the pretext that a campaign is in the works. Just to keep an eye on my men who might try to slip out and meet up with the headstrong, frolicsome colt my daughter has become.”

“But couldn’t you simply take the necklace from her? Or hide it?” I queried.

“She tells me that if the necklace were to be taken, she should surely die. I tried to pull it from her neck to disavow this nonsense once and for all, but she threatened to take me into the next life in some appalling fashion should I try such a foolish act again—if I should, in fact, betray Shiva.”

“This is a sticky wicket,” I said, to use his term. But what I was thinking was that the woman apparently needed an asylum’s restrictive counsel. I looked into my drink with trepidation.

As if reading my mind, Colonel Babcock said, “The woman sounds to be completely off her tether, I know, but she is a comely woman in all other aspects. I believe that an educated man with a background such as yours, someone outside our social environs, could convince her that her present infatuation with, ah hmm, sexual obsession, has nothing to do with this piece of jewelry and everything to do with a fanciful divergence placed in her mind by the persuasive servant girl.”

“The question remains, why me?”

“Charlotte caught your lecture at the museum. She raved for days about the Yank who was working with the curator in the gemstone department. I’d go so far as to say that your interest in native decorations may have set her on this gullible path.”

“Surely you’re not blaming me for your daughter’s malady, sir?”

Babcock sighed and set his dead cigar in a table tray. “I’m not blaming you. I’m only asking that you speak with her. She seemed so impressed with you that a comment might provide a breakthrough to her delusion.”

“How shall I approach her?”

“She will be home awaiting my return. You will go to our house tomorrow morning and announce that the garden club has requested your attendance at one of their functions for the purpose of speaking about your work here. Charlotte’s name was given to you as one who could arrange it.”

“Just pop in on her?”

“She would be delighted.”

“And what of the necklace? What if—I mean—”

“Everything considered, it’s frightfully clear what her reaction to another man seems to be when wearing the beastly thing in his presence. Not to worry, however. In most ways, Charlotte is a creature of habit. She removes the necklace for her morning bath and doesn’t put it back on until she’s had her late morning eggs and kippers. That is the timeframe in which she’s been willing to behave herself and not be fantasizing about some young buck’s family jewels.”