The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Veiled Detective

Six

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER

“I am easily bored, Doctor Walker. You see, I am very successful at what I do, and with success comes a certain security, which is tedious. I abhor the dull routine of existence. Sometimes I long for the excitement and frustration of failure, so that I can rise to the challenge of overcoming it. For a man of my intellectual capacity, I am in constant need of such challenges, something to stimulate me, to strive for. Give me danger, give me risks, give me a puzzle, and I am in my element.’

Professor Moriarty leaned back in his chair and stared into the fire. Although he was talking to me, his expression and demeanour indicated that he was in essence merely using my presence to express thoughts that had been bound up within him for some time. Much of what he was telling me was a kind of confession, and who better to confess to than a stranger whose very existence you hold in your power? Strangely, I began to feel sorry for this man, trapped, as he seemed to believe, atop his own unique, rarefied ivory tower.

“Please do not think me arrogant when I refer to my intellectual capacity. I speak merely the truth. As I mentioned earlier, I am a strong advocate of the truth in the appropriate circumstances. That I have a refined intelligence is not a brag or boast; it is fact. I am not one of those who rate modesty amongst the virtues.”

He paused again and then suddenly his eyes narrowed, focused, and lost their dreamlike quality. He took a cigarette-case from his pocket and offered it to me. I declined with a shake of the head.

“Pity. They are a special Ukrainian blend. An excellent smoke.” He lit the cigarette and took a deep breath, and then allowed the grey tendrils to drift slowly from his mouth.

“So, you see, Walker,” he said at length, “my life is a continual search for stimulation, that sense of danger, that unique entertainment. Something to keep me from going mad. After all, madness is akin to genius. That lack of fear for the consequences that allows one to dare — and then do. Certainly, that is part of my genius.”

Moriarty drew on the cigarette again and smiled a secret smile to himself. “Something to keep me from going mad,” he repeated softly. “And do you know, I think I have found that stimulation. You will not have heard of a young man called Sherlock Holmes?”

I shook my head again.

“No, of course not. Very few people have — yet. But they will, I am sure, with your help.”

“With my help?” I parroted the words back at him.

“The full story, please, Walker. Questions later. Sherlock Holmes is a private detective. He is also a brilliant fellow. He is the greatest mind fighting on behalf of law and order in London today. His intellectual capacity is as great as mine. We are twins, he and I, and we stand like two colossi facing each other across the great divide. He solves crimes, and I commit them. He is younger than I — by some five years — and so I have a march on him at present, but his greatness will come. This delights and also concerns me. His activities, so beautifully crafted and shrewdly conceived, are a delight to perceive, but at the same time he causes me problems. Already, he has ‘interfered’ in a number of my schemes, causing them to fail. The nature of this paradox fascinates me. I could easily dispose of this thorn in my flesh, of course. A word from me and he would soon be shuffling off this mortal coil. However, not only would that be too easy, but it would also remove the challenge and the problem. And they are so stimulating. A nice dilemma, eh, Walker? I have thought long and hard about this situation. I felt sure that I could come to some delicious compromise regarding myself and Mr Sherlock Holmes, who, by the way, I am sure, at present at least, has no notion of my existence or my role whatsoever.

“Well, I have decided to conduct an experiment that will give me both the pleasure of seeing Mr Holmes’ talents develop and his career progress, while at the same time reduce the real danger he poses to me and my organisation. I intend to place him under the microscope, to use a metaphor a writer like yourself will readily appreciate. And this is where you come in. In simple terms, you are to be my spy in his camp. You are to befriend him, share lodgings with him, become his associate, and then report on his dealings to me. You will, while delighting me with tales of his brilliant work, be able to alert me if he is sniffing too close to my territory.”

“You are mad!” I cried. “This is a preposterous scheme.”

Moriarty frowned, and when he responded to my outburst, his voice was full of anger. “I had hoped that, by now, whatever view you have of my moral nature, you would be aware of the thoroughness of my planning, the efficiency of my scheming and the reliability of my visions. Otherwise, sir, you would not be trapped here with me now. A man I have watched and waited for since learning of your disgrace in Afghanistan. A man I have lured into my web by means of my operatives. A man who is now completely at my mercy. Do you call that preposterous?”

As he spoke, he leaned forward, his face thrusting into mine, his roaring voice filling the room. Not for the first time in his company I was lost for words.

“My plan is audacious, it is dangerous, it is unique,” and now he lowered his voice to a harsh whisper, “but it is not preposterous. Even as we speak, action is being taken to bring about all I have conceived.”

“How on earth can this work? If the man is as brilliant as you say, he will discover the trick.”

“Ah, yes, that is part of the fun, the entertainment. There is always a danger. What is life without there being ‘always a danger’? But it will be your job to minimalise that danger. You will be his true friend in all things except your allegiance to me. When the crime has nothing to do with me, you will do all you can to help Holmes bring the perpetrator to justice. When the crime involves my organisation, you will inform me of Holmes’ progress and do all in your power to hinder him. Think of it, my dear Watson — oh, and Watson it will be, near enough to your own name, but not traceable to the scoundrel who got drunk on duty, eh? Reed’s idea. Think of it, Watson, as a wonderful charade.”

“And what if I refuse?”

“The Thames is very cold at this time of year.”

“I see,” I said softly, my eyes misting with fear and frustration. I wanted to rush at the man and knock his brains out, but I was fully aware how futile such a gesture would be.

“My dear Watson, you were not chosen at random. I know you are the man for the job. You have many sterling qualities that are unique. And, of course, you will be rewarded handsomely for your services. Never again will you have to count your small change to ensure that you can pay for a meal or a room for the night. For the first time in your life, you will be self-sufficient.”

“What is there stopping me from telling this Sherlock Holmes or the police about your plan?”

“I doubt if the police would believe you. They lack the mental capacity to conceive of a criminal organisation almost as big as they are. As for Holmes, well, as soon as he finds out, he will be joining you in the morgue. His life is now in your hands.”

“You bastard.”

“Possibly, Doctor Watson — but a very clever and powerful bastard, all the same. I am sure you would agree.”

“Of course, as you well know, I have done little jobs for the Professor in the past—walk-on parts, as I like to think of them — but this seems like a major role.”

“One of the biggest, Kitty, and it is destined to be a long run,” agreed Reed, flashing one of his warm, friendly smiles.

Kitty Hudson matched it. “And here’s me thinking I’d said goodbye to the theatre. You know, the last time I was on a stage must have been over five years ago. They just don’t want scrawny widow-women, especially when they hit the fifty mark.”

“Well, you’re perfect for the part the Professor’s chosen for you to play — and no auditions.”

“Bliss.” Kitty Hudson closed her eyes to emphasise the emotion. Since she had been a child she had been fascinated by the theatre, by the whole process of dressing-up, putting on a performance and becoming someone else. It was an escape route, to leave drab reality behind. As a young girl, Kitty had joined the chorus in the music hall in her native Edinburgh and then progressed to being a member of a travelling troupe, Harry Saville’s Revels, which put on sketches and melodramas in the small provincial theatres around the country. It was while she was appearing in Liverpool that she met Frank Hudson, a burly good-looking sailor who was a steward on the Liverpool-Dublin Steam Packet Company. For a while the magic of romance and marriage lured her away from the stage, but after her baby was stillborn, and Frank took to drinking and knocking her about, she escaped once more to the fantasy life behind the footlights. She left Liverpool and Frank Hudson, and eventually found herself in London acting as comic feed to Stanley Dawkins, “The Lambeth Layabout”, at the Craven Street Theatre. She was quite a success. Her comic timing was natural, and she became a favourite with the regulars. When in a good mood, Dawkins would let her have her own solo spot where she would sing a novelty song, ‘I’m Looking for the Vital Spark’.

It was at the Craven Street Theatre, a time that Kitty now remembered as being the best in her life, that romance and tragedy struck again. She formed a relationship with Ted Baldwin, the assistant stage manager, a kind and sensitive man, the exact opposite of her brutish husband, and they set up home together. As Kitty observed at the time, “all seemed pretty in our own little backyard”. Then one night Ted was set about by a gang of drunken roughs, who stole what little money he had about his person and left him with a cracked skull. He died two days later.

For a time Kitty was inconsolable, and eventually she left the Craven. The theatre reminded her too much of her kind and loving Ted. For many years she drifted, taking any kind of job just to keep a roof above her head. When theatrical work was scarce, she drifted into petty crime, which is when she came under the Professor’s purview. He used her in many roles, especially as a lookout, or someone used to detain the foil from returning to his premises which were being robbed. She was very skilful in not letting the foil realise that he was being detained. Kitty relished these jobs because they were “proper acting parts”, and never really considered her activities as unlawful. And so here she was, rattling through the streets of west London in a hansom cab, in the company of Captain Reed, on the brink of being offered her biggest job, her biggest acting role yet.

“Bliss,” she repeated, as the cab drew up outside a three-storey terraced house in a smart residential street.

“Here we are, Kitty. Let’s take a look at your new home.” Reed skipped out of the cab and helped her down from the vehicle. Kitty liked Reed because he always treated her like a lady, as though she was a dowager duchess or someone of that ilk. That, according to Kitty, is what a gentleman does: whether you are a real lady or a fishwife. Pulling a set of keys from his frock coat, he approached the door. Kitty looked up at the building. It was a bit of all right. Never had she seen such nice quarters. She even liked the address: 221B Baker Street.