The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Veiled Detective

Eight

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER

My memory of what occurred immediately following my interview with Professor James Moriarty in the Red Room is somewhat hazy. That is not because I have forgotten, but rather because my mind was in such a ferocious whirl at the time and not really registering details. It was as though I had passed from reality into some dark, fantastic dream and I was unable to wake up.

As I recall, I was given some cash, put up in a private hotel in the Strand and told to wait for a summons. Although I was only ever to see Professor Moriarty once more, many years later, his shadow had now fallen across my life and was destined to remain there for ever.

For the next two days I took very long walks around London, familiarising myself once again with the great city. I did feel pleased to be back on British soil and to be able to wander the streets, anonymous and unnoticed. I had not realised how much I had missed the sights and sounds of England. The rattle of the horse-buses, the bleat of the Cockney costermongers around Covent Garden, the crowds squeezing themselves down the Strand. I was entranced by the grey hubbub of it all, and the simple pleasures such as buying a cup of tea in a small café, or watching children feed the pigeons in Trafalgar Square. In the evening, I went to Wilton’s Music Hall and lost myself in the warm, garish glamour of the show, singing lustily when encouraged by the chairman to join in the chorus of some familiar ditty.

It was on the third day after my meeting with Moriarty that I received my instructions. By then I was really beginning to enjoy myself, having pushed my dark secret to the back of my mind, hoping, I suppose, in some kind of childish way, that if I did not acknowledge it, it would go away. But, of course, that was not to be the case.

On returning from a long walk in St James’s Park, I discovered an envelope waiting for me on my bedside table. It was addressed to John H. Watson. That was the new me. The name in the hotel register. The name on my new bank book. The name by which Moriarty would call me. This is who I had to be for sanity and survival’s sake. As I tore open the envelope, I bid John Walker a final goodbye.

The message inside read simply: “This hotel is but a temporary measure. Remember you are in need of permanent diggings. Help will be forthcoming. Take a lunchtime drink in the Criterion Bar tomorrow. M.”

“How were the rooms?”

Sherlock Holmes was sitting in the cavernous staff canteen of Bart’s Hospital finishing off his breakfast while perusing a copy of The Times, when the voice broke in to his thoughts. He looked up to see the eager face of Henry Stamford looming over him. He had broad, plump features, with large vacant blue eyes seated beneath a dark tumble of unruly, curly hair.

Before Holmes had time to respond, Stamford drew up a chair and joined him at the table.

“I trust you went along to see Mrs Hudson’s place in Baker Street?”

Holmes smiled and folded the newspaper. “Yes, I did, thank you. The place is ideal in many ways, but unfortunately I’m not able to take it.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. What is the problem?”

“The quarters are somewhat large for one person. Despite my books and my chemical equipment, I think I would be rattling around a little in there. However, that is something I could cope with quite easily, but I am afraid Mrs Hudson is looking for two tenants to share, a fact that is reflected in the rent.”

“Too high.”

“For this man’s pocket.”

“Then you’ll just have to find some chap to go halves with you.”

Holmes’ brow furrowed gently. He had not considered that possibility. “Share the rooms, you mean?”

“Yes. It seems to me an ideal situation. You go halves with the rent and there’s company for you, should you require it.”

“I am not one of those who thrives on company. I am rather a solitary creature. Besides, it would be a hardy soul indeed who could put up with my unusual habits and untidiness.”

Stamford laughed, almost too heartily. “You mean you are a bachelor! Great heavens, man, you would have great difficulty in pointing out any unmarried fellow who does not have what you describe as ‘unusual’ habits and is excessively untidy.”

Holmes gave Stamford a bleak, condescending smile. “You might be right.”

“Too damn sure I am right. What you need is a decent fellow to share with you, and Mrs Hudson’s gaff is yours. By Jove, I’d join you myself if I wasn’t so uncommonly comfortable at my place in Chiswick!”

Holmes thanked some deity for small mercies. He knew little of Stamford, but what little he did know convinced him that he was the last person with whom he would wish to share rooms. It was obvious to Holmes that the man was a hopeless gambler. His clothes clearly indicated the state of his fluctuating wealth: an expensive jacket contrasting with shoes that were in desperate need of repair. Also the bitten fingernails and dark shadows under the eyes told of late nights and desperation. However, Stamford had a point. If he could find someone reasonably compatible with whom to share the very pleasant suite of rooms in Baker Street, it would solve his most pressing of problems. He admitted the fact to Stamford.

“Have you any friends who might be prepared to come in with you?” asked Stamford.

Holmes shook his head. If he were to tell the truth, he would have to confess that he had no friends at all. Friendship was so unscientific, involving as it did emotions and illogical actions, and he shunned it. However, it was also true that at times Sherlock Holmes longed for someone to talk to, to discuss his experiments with or his investigations, someone with whom he could share his thoughts, theories and beliefs.

“Well, I’ll keep an eye out for you. You never know.”

“Indeed”’ said Holmes quietly, picking up the newspaper again to indicate that the conversation was over.

Stamford needed no further prompting. He rose, smiling. “Nil desperandum, Holmes, old chap,” he cried, as he turned and made his way to the exit.

As Stamford disappeared from sight, Holmes lowered his newspaper again and stared off into the middle distance, his sharp penetrating eyes lost in thought.

The Criterion Bar, situated in Piccadilly, was throbbing with noise as Henry Stamford entered just after noon that day. He was later than he intended to be, but his hansom had been caught in the thick flow of traffic around Oxford Circus and so he had decided to walk the rest of the way. He stood by the door, mopping his brow and catching his breath as he peered through the fug of smoke towards the bar. It wasn’t long before he spied the man he was there to see.

“Hello, Doctor!” he cried heartily, approaching one of the men leaning indolently on the bar.

The man he addressed turned abruptly to face him. At first he looked puzzled and then recognition dawned.

“Bless my soul, it’s Stamford!”

“It is indeed, Doctor...”

“Watson,” he came in quickly. “John Watson.” The two men shook hands. “I haven’t seen you in some four years, I should think, since you were a dresser at Bart’s.”

“Still there. Junior doctor now.”

“Congratulations. Let me get you a drink. It’s so good to see a friendly face in this great metropolitan wilderness.”

“A glass of claret would suit.”

While Watson caught the attention of one of the barmen, Stamford scrutinised his old acquaintance. He was certainly thinner than he used to be, and although his skin was tanned, his face was drawn and unhealthy-looking. He looked much older; already grey tints were in evidence at the temples of his black, wiry hair. He thought of the Walker of old — he was Walker then, not Watson — and remembered a robust fellow with a cheery smile and a determined spring in his step. This fellow passing him a glass of red wine was a pale ghost of his past self.

Stamford raised his glass. “To the future.”

Watson nodded shyly, repeated the toast, and then drained his glass. “Look, Stamford, it’s too crowded and noisy in here for a decent conversation. Let’s take lunch at The Holborn; my treat. What d’you say?”

“Oh, I couldn’t....”

“Nonsense. It would be a great pleasure to me to chat about the good old days at Bart’s. You’re the first genuinely friendly face I’ve seen in a long while.”

“Well, I must admit, that would suit me, too. Give me a second to dispose of this undistinguished claret, and The Holborn it is.”

Once ensconced in a cab, Stamford touched Watson on the arm. “I hope you don’t think me rather blunt, old man, but you look as though you’ve been ill. You’re as thin as a lath and appear rather the worse for wear. Whatever have you been doing with yourself?”

“I’ll tell you over lunch.”

Stamford received the amended account of Watson’s experiences in Afghanistan. Watson went into great detail concerning the Battle of Maiwand, but dealt swiftly and sketchily with his injury and his despatch to England after contracting enteric fever. Despite his belief that he had no talent for dissembling, once he had commenced his recital, Watson warmed to the role of story-telling and found himself relishing the task of blending fact with a soupçon of fiction to create an engaging narrative.

“Poor devil,” said Stamford, after he had listened to his friend’s misfortunes. “No wonder you look a little under the weather. Still, that’s all behind you. So, tell me, what are you up to now?”

“Very little! One is somewhat hampered on an army pension of eleven shillings and sixpence a day. My main occupation at present is looking for lodgings. Trying to solve the problem as to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a comfortable price.”

Stamford felt as though he were taking part in some stage play and had just been given his cue. “That’s a strange thing,” he said with enthusiasm. “You are the second man today to use that very same expression to me.”

“And who was the first?”

“A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the hospital. He was bemoaning himself this morning because he could not get someone to go halves with him in some nice rooms which he had found, and which were too much for his purse. A chap called Sherlock Holmes.”

At the mention of the name, Watson felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle. He was immediately reminded that he was still part of a charade and was being moved like a puppet with great finesse inexorably nearer the goal. It had not struck him until the name of Sherlock Holmes was mentioned that Stamford was in on the game also. Watson had been naïve enough to think that their chance meeting had been just that, and not an arranged rendezvous. He wondered how much Stamford knew of the grand scheme. Very little, he concluded. He was a small pawn, acting merely as a catalyst. But he must have been bribed to play the role. No one, it seemed, could be entirely trusted. With a sigh, Watson played on.

“By Jove!” he cried. “If he really wants someone to share the rooms and the expense, I am the very man for him. I should prefer a partner to living alone.”

“You don’t know Sherlock Holmes?”

Watson shook his head. “Is there anything against him?”

“As far as I know, he is a decent enough fellow. But he is a little strange in his ideas — an enthusiast in some branches of science.”

“A medical student, I suppose?”

“No — to be honest, I have no idea what his calling is. He is well up on anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist; but as far as I am aware he has never taken out any systematic medical classes. His studies are very desultory and eccentric, but he has amassed a great deal of out-of-the-way knowledge which would astonish the professors.”

“Did you never ask him what he was going in for?”

“No; he is not an easy man to draw out, though he can be communicative enough when the fancy seizes him.”

“He sounds fascinating. If I am to lodge with anyone, I would prefer it to be with a fellow who was interesting, rather than a dullard. How can I meet this friend of yours?”

“He is sure to be at the laboratory now. He either avoids the place for weeks or else he works there from morning till night. If you like we could drive round together after luncheon.”

“Admirable,” beamed Watson.

Following their meal at The Holborn, the two men hailed a cab and made their way to Bart’s Hospital. Fuelled by the wine he had consumed over lunch, Stamford suddenly felt the need to tell Watson more about Sherlock Holmes. He felt a sentimental kinship to this troubled and rather weary doctor, and in giving him sufficient warning about Holmes, he believed that he wasn’t breaking faith with the black man who had engaged him to bring about a meeting between the two men. He hadn’t been told to ensure that they liked each other — just to make sure they met over the matter of lodgings in Baker Street.

Stamford lolled back in the cab and said, “You mustn’t blame me if you don’t get on with him — this Holmes character. I know nothing more of him than I have learned from meeting him occasionally about the hospital. Remember, you proposed this arrangement, so don’t hold me responsible.”

“If we don’t get on, it will be easy to part company. But tell me, it seems to me, Stamford, that you have some reason for washing your hands of the matter. Is this fellow’s temper so formidable, or what is it? Don’t be mealy-mouthed about it.”

“It’s not all that easy to express the inexpressible.” Stamford’s speech was now slightly slurred, and his eyelids flickered erratically. He gave a little laugh before continuing. “It’s just that Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes. Cold-blooded... like a lizard. I could imagine him giving a friend a little pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid, not out of malevolence, you understand — oh, no — but simply out of a spirit of enquiry in order to have an accurate idea of the effects. However, to do Holmes justice, I believe that he would take the stuff himself with the same readiness.”

“He appears to have a passion for definite and exact knowledge.”

“Quite right, Watson, but...” Stamford pulled himself forward, and leaning close to Watson’s face, lowered his voice to a whisper “... but it may be pushed to excess. When it comes to beating the subjects in the dissecting-room with a stick, his thirst for knowledge takes a rather bizarre route.”

“Beating the subjects?”

“Yes. Supposedly, to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Very strange.”

“Still, you must make up your own mind, Watson. I just thought you should know... Ah, here we are: good old Bart’s.”

Stamford led Watson through the labyrinthine passageways of the great hospital to the chemical laboratory where he felt sure Holmes would be working. It was familiar ground to Watson, and he really needed no guiding, but nevertheless he dutifully walked several paces behind his companion.

At last they came upon a long corridor with a vista of whitewashed walls and dun-coloured doors. Near the far end, a low-arched passageway branched away from it and led to the chemical laboratory. This was a lofty chamber, lined and littered with countless bottles, each containing a rainbow hue of coloured liquids. Broad, low tables were scattered about, which bristled with retorts, test tubes and little Bunsen lamps with their blue flickering flames.

There was only one occupant of the room, a tall young man who was bending over a bench, absorbed in his work. At the sound of their steps, he glanced round, and recognising Stamford he sprang to his feet with a cry of pleasure.

“I’ve found it!” he cried, his high-pitched reedy voice filling the chamber. He ran towards us with a test tube in his hand. “I’ve found, it, Stamford. I have discovered a reagent that is precipitated by haemoglobin and nothing else.”

Undeterred by this news, Stamford set about the business of his visit. He took a step back and held his arms out to each of us.

“Gentlemen,” he said, with comic formality, “Doctor Watson, Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

Somewhere across the city, Professor James Moriarty was sitting, staring at a large chessboard. With a smile, he reached forward and made his move, lifting one of the pieces in the process.

“Rook takes knight,” he said. “My game.”