The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Veiled Detective

Seven

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER

“I cannot understand how you can believe that this wild scheme of yours will ever work. Even if I threw myself into the enterprise with great enthusiasm, I am not an actor. I cannot dissemble to order. If this Sherlock Holmes is such a great detective, as you say he is, he will easily spot me for the impostor that I am. Through my own behaviour, I would give the game away.”

I believed every word I said to Professor Moriarty, but I gave them extra emphasis, hoping that I could persuade him to drop this crazy charade by convincing him of the impractical nature of it. Thus, I would be able to slip from his noose and walk from the room a free man. However, I could see from his unruffled demeanour that my argument had fallen on stony ground. His confidence did not falter for an instant.

“But, my dear doctor, you will not be an impostor,” he replied easily. “Apart from a slight change of name and a certain adjustment to your recent history, you will be the same man who is sitting in front of me now: a penurious ex-army surgeon recently arrived from Afghanistan and looking for cheap lodgings.”

“What ‘adjustment’ to my recent history?”

“Rather than being cashiered, you were badly wounded in the Battle of Maiwand, and while recovering you contracted enteric fever, the curse of our Afghan possessions. As a result, you were invalided out of the army and sent home to England.”

“That is crazy.”

“Fact. A little news item to that effect was inserted into several of the London newspapers this morning, including The Times. My influence reaches into many areas. And as every Englishman knows, whatever appears in The Times must be the absolute truth. And Sherlock Holmes is an avid reader of the press.”

“But it’s a lie.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Colouring the truth. You believe that you were unfairly treated in Afghanistan, do you not?”

I nodded.

“And so I have redressed the balance.”

I threw my head in my hands and groaned. “Oh, my God, I wish I could wake up now. This must be some terrible dream.”

“No dream, Watson, but for you a kind of salvation. It is a wonderful opportunity, and it is about time you opened your mind to the vast possibilities that this arrangement offers to you. And, of course, there is your writing, your adventure stories. What scope there will be for penning mystery yarns while accompanying London’s most brilliant detective on his investigations. You’ll not only make him famous by recording his cases, but also create a name for yourself into the bargain.”

“Not my own name,” I pointed out tersely.

“A minor matter. You quibble too much. I think your brain is now crowded with details, and the newness and audacity of this enterprise is dulling your thoughts. You need time to think things through.”

“What is the point? There is no choice.”

Moriarty grinned. “There is choice, although I grant you, it is rather limited.”

“How am I supposed to meet this man? You say I am to share rooms with him — what if he doesn’t agree to it? There are so many uncertainties.”

“These are not things you need worry your head about. It has all been planned for and arranged. I can assure you that nothing has been left to chance. That is my way.”

What was I to do? Even in my current startled state I realised that, for the time being, I had to accept the situation and throw my hand in with the Professor, otherwise it was unlikely that I would see another sunrise. In surviving for the moment, it was possible that I could then begin to plot my own escape. Maybe I could enlist the help of this Sherlock Holmes to carry out a coup on my new master? I also realised that I must convince Moriarty that I wasn’t entering into the game with any great reluctance, otherwise it would be much harder for me to persuade him that he could trust me and therefore relax his gaze upon me.

“You mentioned remuneration,” I said, sitting forward.

“I did. A very healthy sum of money will be paid in to your new bank account, one in the name of Watson, on the first of every month.”

“A healthy sum...?”

“One hundred pounds every month.”

At this, my mouth really did drop open in surprise. To me, in my impoverished state, that was a king’s ransom. For an unguarded moment, I bathed in the glow of my new-found wealth until a small voice inside reminded me from whence the money came.

“I pay my trusted employees very well, Watson. And in your new position you will be one of the most important and one of the most trusted.” He raised his finger in warning. “So, do make sure that you deserve my trust.”

“I... I will do my best.” The words stuck in my throat and I felt an overwhelming sense of unease take hold of my senses.

“I feel sure your best will be good enough. I am rarely wrong in my judgement of character. So, then, have we an arrangement?”

With as much conviction as possible, I mustered a smile — a dead smile. “Yes”’ I said, “we have an arrangement.”

“Excellent!” cried the Professor, grasping my hand.

It was early evening when Sherlock Holmes made his way back to his diggings in Montague Street. His mind was whirling with figures and formulae. He had spent the day working in one of the laboratories at St Bart’s Hospital, attempting to develop a solution which would indicate the presence of bloodstains, however infinitesimal they might be. He wished to create a reagent that was precipitated solely by haemoglobin and thus could provide incontrovertible proof that human blood had been spilt. The old guaiacum test was clumsy and uncertain and therefore could not be relied upon in criminal matters. If he could create an infallible test, one that would work no matter how old the bloodstains were, it would be the most important medico-legal discovery for years, and would certainly boost his reputation in the world of crime detection. He had read of the case of Von Bischoff in Frankfurt the previous year, and was convinced that if such a test had been available then, the fellow would have mounted the gallows. As it was, he was set free.

Holmes believed that he was nearly there. A few more days, further experiments with the various combinations of powders, crystals and quantities. He was confident he would reach his goal, but, as always, he was impatient. These ideas jostled around his brain as he climbed the stairs to his quarters.

On entering his sitting-room, he noticed an envelope on the floor which had obviously been slipped under the door. His name was on the envelope, written in the crabbed spidery writing he recognised as belonging to his landlord, Ambrose Jones. Throwing off his coat and turning on the gas lamps, he dropped into a chair and tore open the envelope. The note inside was terse and to the point.

Dear Mr Holmes,

Please take this communication as notice to vacate your quarters within seven days of today’s date.

Ambrose Jones

Holmes stroked his chin and frowned. What on earth was this all about?

Ambrose Jones was just heating some soup for his evening meal when there was a tap on his door. He moved the soup from the heat of the gas ring, and with some irritation he pulled his ragged old dressing-gown around him and answered the door, opening it a few inches. In the hallway he saw Sherlock Holmes. He was holding his note.

“Yes?” snapped the landlord.

“About this note—”

“What about it? Can’t you read it?”

“Indeed I can, despite your execrable handwriting. The words and the message are clear. You used an HB pencil, and as you wrote just a few words at a time when composing it, you were probably travelling on a horse-bus, as is your wont, and scribbled the words between the stops to avoid being shaken too much by the movement of the vehicle.”

“You saw me!”

Holmes shook his head. “I deduced it.”

Jones was not quite sure what “deduced” meant, so his response was an angry but strangely non-committal “Hah!”

He started to close the door, but Holmes placed his hand against it and held it firmly.

“So, what is your problem?” snapped Jones.

“I want to know why you want me to leave. As far as I am aware, I have caused you no problems and I have paid my rent on time.”

“I don’t have to answer any of your questions. You’re my tenant, and I am within my rights to chuck you out with a week’s notice. And that, Mr Deducer, is what I’m doing.”

Holmes could see that Jones was now very angry, but he was also aware that the anger was a thin veneer covering another more powerful emotion: fear.

“This is all very sudden, Mr Jones. Maybe this action is being forced upon you.”

Jones’s face flushed with frustration. “I do not have to answer to you, or anyone, concerning what I do with my properties. I want you out. There are those who can and will pay more for those rooms.”

“Really? Who?”

Jones stepped back and flung the door open wide while at the same time producing a jack-knife from the pocket of his dressing-gown. He thrust the knife before Holmes’ face, the blade glinting in the dim gaslight.

“Listen, you’ve had your marching orders, Holmes. Don’t test my patience any more or...”

Holmes smiled. “Or?”

Jones brought the knife close to Holmes’ face. “Or your next place of residence will be six feet under.”

Nimbly, Holmes snaked his arm up, taking hold of Jones’s wrist in a powerful grip, and squeezed hard. Jones gave a sharp cry of pain and, dropping the knife, he staggered backwards, clutching his wrist.

“I will leave,” said Holmes smoothly, retrieving the knife from the floor, “in seven days. But do not be sure that you have seen the last of me. In the mean time, I’ll keep this knife as a souvenir of our encounter.” With these words he left and returned to his room upstairs.

Jones closed the door and slumped against it. His face was awash with perspiration and his body was shaking. At length he staggered to a cupboard. Producing from it a gin bottle, he took a long, good gulp. His eye caught sight of a small canvas bag slipped in between the bottles. After another slurp of gin, he took the bag and examined its contents: a dozen sovereigns. He smiled. Despite the recent unpleasantness, it had not been a bad day’s work after all.

Buffeted by the blustery March wind, Henry Stamford trudged up the steps to the entrance of St Bart’s Hospital. His eyes ached and his head thumped. Souvenirs of another late-night card game. Always in the bright light of the morning he wondered why on earth he indulged in such a foolish pursuit: he rarely won, and his tiredness was beginning to affect his work. Last night had been disastrous. He had lost over twenty pounds, an amount a junior surgeon could ill afford to lose. How he would survive before his next pay date, he dreaded to think.

He flinched again as the pounding grew louder. He would have to mix a sedative before going on the wards. As he reached the portals of the great hospital, a tall black man stepped from the shadows and approached him.

“If I may have a word, Mr Stamford,” he said softly, the voice silky and persuasive. “It could be to our mutual advantage.”

Stamford noticed that the man held a white bank-note in his gloved hand.

Some hours later, Stamford, now twenty pounds richer, traversed the lower corridors of the hospital en route to the dissecting-room. He was in search of Sherlock Holmes. He knew Holmes in a casual manner. He had seen him about the hospital, and had indulged in a few desultory conversations with the man. He was unsure what to make of him. Holmes was not on the staff of the hospital, and yet he was able to use their facilities. In all likelihood he was engaged in postgraduate studies. Stamford had gleaned that Holmes was well up in anatomy and appeared to be a first-class chemist, but he had no notion of the purpose of his studies. He found Holmes something of a cold fish, approaching his experiments with such extreme objectivity that he failed to take account of the human quotient in such matters. God help us all, thought Stamford, if the man was thinking of taking up medicine as a career. Holmes would quite easily test out the latest serum on a patient in the pursuit of scientific knowledge, without any consideration of the effects it might have on the poor devil who was acting as guinea pig. Stamford gave a wry grin at the thought and was prompted to admit to himself that, to give Holmes some credit, he would probably take the serum himself if he thought the experiment would aid his findings.

As he approached the dissecting-room, Stamford heard strange sounds emanating from within. He stood by the door and listened. There was what sounded like the violent clapping of hands, followed by a gruff cry of exertion.

Swinging the door open, a most bizarre sight met his eyes. There, lying on the table, was a naked cadaver which Sherlock Holmes, jacket off and sleeves rolled up, was beating with a walking-cane.

“What the devil!” cried Stamford. “Have you gone mad?”

Sherlock Holmes paused, the stick raised in the air, and turned to Stamford. His face was flushed and bathed in sweat.

“Stamford,” he said, “I didn’t hear you”’ He dropped the stick on the table by the corpse, and mopped his brow with his shirtsleeve.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing? Have you taken leave of your senses?”

Holmes chuckled. “Far from it. I have to admit that it must look that way, but I assure you I am carrying out a scientific experiment.”

“Scientific experiment? Beating a corpse with a cane?”

Holmes nodded. “In an attempt to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. Such information can be vital in the cases of murder; and this old fellow,” — he slapped the chest of the corpse — “made no objection to assisting me in my studies.”

Stamford shook his head. “Well, it is bizarre in the extreme.”

“Truth rarely comes simply or by normal channels. I am sorry if I disturbed you by my actions.”

“Well, I must admit I was somewhat shaken, but now that you have explained...”

“You still think I’m demented.”

Both men laughed, and the atmosphere eased between them. “Were you wanting to use the room, Stamford?”

“No, I was looking for you actually.”

“For me?”

“Yes, I’ve heard that you are in search of new digs.”

“How did you know that?”

“One of the registrars told me, I think. Isn’t it true?”

“Oh, yes, it’s true. I have to be out of my current quarters by the weekend.”

“Ah, well, I might be able to help you. I’ve got wind of a nice suite of rooms going begging in Baker Street.”

“Suite of rooms? That sounds rather too expensive for my meagre purse.”

“Still worth a visit, eh? Especially if you are getting desperate.”

“Desperate? Yes, I suppose I am. I really should be trudging the streets now, looking for a new place to lay my head at night, rather than be here, but I was so keen to work out a hypothesis on bruises.”

“Well, why don’t you trudge round to Baker Street now and maybe all your worries will be over? Here, I’ve got the address on a piece of paper: 221B Baker Street. Landlady by the name of Mrs Hudson.”