The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Veiled Detective

Eleven

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER

As is sometimes the way, Fate stepped in to help break down Sherlock Holmes’ reserve regarding his chosen profession. It was last Tuesday. As usual, Holmes had left our lodgings before Ibreakfasted, and so, having nothing better to do, Itook myself to Regent’s Park to observe the effects of the burgeoning spring upon the gardens there. Seeing such new life budding forth was such a contrast to the hot and arid wastes of Afghanistan. However, half-way through the morning, the skies clouded over and Iwas caught in a heavy shower. Isheltered for some time under a large oak tree, but when the dark grey clouds had completely obliterated any trace of blue, Irealised that the rain was set in for some time. Iran to the street, hailed a cab and returned to Baker Street, arriving shortly before noon.

The sight that met me as Ientered our shared sitting-room made me gasp. Sherlock Holmes was slumped in the basket-chair, his feet sprawled out across the hearth rug. His left sleeve was rolled up, and a hypodermic syringe dangled precariously from his limp hand. At the sound of my entrance, his eyes opened slowly and his head lolled in my direction.

“The good doctor has returned somewhat early,” he mumbled, attempting to sit up, but not succeeding.

I strode over to him and took the syringe from his hand before it fell to the floor.

“You did not confess to me that you ill used yourself in this fashion, when we were in the business of discussing our failings.”

“Confess. Ill use. Failings. Such emotional language, Watson.”

“What is it?” I asked. “Cocaine? Morphine?”

He screwed up his face. “Morphine. Pa! It is cocaine, my dear Watson. A wonderfully soothing preparation — a seven per cent solution. Just enough to stimulate the imagination and relieve the boredom, without deadening the faculties.”

“I would have thought you required neither,” said I, shaking my wet raincoat and hanging it on the stand.

Holmes gave a cry of annoyance and this time managed to pull himself up into a sitting position.

“What on earth do you know about such things? My life is devoted to the avoidance of boredom and, oh, how easily I am bored.”

I sat opposite him, realising that in this state he might well reveal more about himself than he would do under normal circumstances.

“Why is that? Why are you so easily bored?”

He smiled dreamily. “Because I rarely get the brain food I need. My mind rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most cunning murder, and then I am alive and have no need for artificial stimulants.”

“Murder?”

“Yes, murder or robbery or forgery. You see, Watson, I am a detective. That is my profession. I am the only unofficial consulting detective in London. Here in London there are lots of government detectives, and a fair number of private ones, and when these fellows go astray, they come to me for advice.”

“They come in their droves,” I observed sarcastically.

“No, they do not come in their droves. Not yet. That is my problem. But they will when I have established myself. At present, I have no cases on hand and my brain is lying idle. But when I am famous, I will be able to take my pick of the cases.”

The lethargic Holmes had now disappeared: here again was the bright-eyed enthusiast, engaged upon his favourite topic.

“You see,” he continued, “I possess a great deal of special knowledge, and I have trained myself to see and deduce from what I observe. This is what makes me unique. You do not seem convinced.”

“It is an audacious statement.”

“Proof, eh? You need a demonstration of my powers. That is easy. I remember that you appeared surprised when I told you on our first meeting that you had just recently come from Afghanistan.”

“You were told, no doubt.”

Holmes dismissed my comment with an irritated wave of his hand. “Nothing of the sort. I knew, I knew you came from Afghanistan. From a long habit, the train of thoughts ran so swiftly through my mind that I arrived at the conclusion without being conscious of the process. To me it is akin to tying one’s bootlaces in the morning. The procedure is carried out automatically, without any thought as to what one is doing. It is second nature.”

“So, how did you know about Afghanistan?”

“My train of reasoning ran thus: here is a gentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a military man. Clearly an army doctor, then. He has just come from the tropics, for his face is dark, but that is not the natural tint of his skin, for his wrists are fair. He has undergone great hardship and probably sickness. Where, currently, in the tropics would an English army doctor be pressed into service that would cause such hardship? Why Afghanistan, of course. The whole train of reasoning did not take a second.”

I listened with amazement to this analysis.

“Why, that is brilliant!” I said, with genuine admiration.

“Elementary.”

“As explained by you, the process seems simple enough, but I doubt if I or anyone I know could perform such a diagnosis.”

“That is because I have trained myself to perform such a diagnosis, as you put it. I perhaps ought to add that I had read in The Times of an army officer called Watson who had been invalided out of the army and had just arrived back from Afghanistan. Information that merely confirmed my deductions.”

Such a revelation removed much of the magic from his previous claim, and it was the first hint I was to obtain that sometimes Sherlock Holmes pretended to be more brilliant than he actually was. My expression must have revealed my thoughts.

“The end result is the same. In solving crime, one must use every facility at one’s command to reach a satisfactory conclusion. The press is a valuable source of information. I scour the papers every day. Luckily I am blessed with a photographic memory, and I can remember the most obscure and outré pieces of information and store them in my brain attic until I should require them. I am sure that in the days to come there will be ample opportunity for me to demonstrate my detective powers in order to convince you of my abilities and to prove that I am no charlatan. However, for now, let me add that this morning you visited Regent’s Park, sheltered under a tree when it came on to rain and then caught a cab back here.”

I opened my mouth in astonishment.

“Adhering to the soles of your shoes are traces of mud and grass which indicate that you have been walking in one of the parks. As Regent’s Park is the nearest, it is fairly safe to assume that to be the one. Also, there is a fragment of an oak leaf caught in the left turn up of your trousers. As it came on to rain heavily and suddenly, it is most likely that you took shelter under one of the giant oaks in the park. It is still raining heavily, but your raincoat is damp rather than soaking wet, so you obviously did not walk back to Baker Street. Observation and deduction, Doctor Watson.”

With these words, he slumped back down in his chair and closed his eyes, shutting me and the real world out of his drug-induced slumbers.

Working as a cab-driver in London, Jefferson Hope had been able to trail Stangerson and Drebber wherever they went. He took satisfaction in dogging their heels, knowing that they were ignorant of his presence. On some occasions, he had even driven the men in his cab. With his full beard and hat pulled low over his brow, he had no fear of being recognised. It was twenty years since they had set eyes upon him, and, he reckoned, no one really looks at cab-drivers in any case. In a strange perverted way, he wished they had recognised him. He could not wait to see the look of shock and horror on their faces when they realised that their nemesis was at hand. That day would come, but it would come when he had planned for it — not before.

Hope had traced Drebber and Stangerson half-way across the world, from St Petersburg, to Paris and then on to Copenhagen. Somehow, they sensed that they were being followed, and their restless sojourning was a clear sign of their guilt. Finally catching up with them in London, Hope had discovered them living in a boarding house in Camberwell. The two men never went out alone, and rarely after dark. This was a stumbling-block for Hope. He knew that he could not tackle both of them at once. He had to wait to catch each one on his own.

However, now he knew he could wait no longer. He could not risk his heart giving out on him — not now that he was so close to his dream. He resolved that today had to be the day. Desperate measures were needed. But then luck was on his side. It was late afternoon as he drove down Torquay Terrace, the street in which the two men were living, when he saw a cab draw up to their door. Presently, luggage was brought out, and after a time Drebber and Stangerson appeared. They stood on the pavement, engaged in a heated conversation. As always, on seeing the two men, Hope’s pulse quickened. They were the devils responsible for the death of John Ferrier and his darling Lucy, and twenty years had done nothing to dispel the deep hatred he felt for them.

Drebber was the taller of the two. He walked with a swagger, and his slicked-back hair and thin moustache enhanced his air of arrogance. In contrast, Stangerson was short, with stooped shoulders, and bore a constant furtive expression.

As they talked, a red-faced young man in shirtsleeves rushed down the path towards them. He was shouting in a threatening manner at Drebber, who responded by shaking his fist at him. Further angry words were exchanged, and within seconds the two men were locked in a vicious embrace. Hope was too far away to catch the nature of the argument, but both men were hot in temper and threw punches at each other in a wild fashion.

With some effort, Stangerson dragged the two of them apart and pushed his colleague into the cab. With further harsh words hurled at Drebber, the young man returned reluctantly to the boarding-house.

It looked to Hope as though the pair had been evicted from their lodgings for some misdemeanour perpetrated by the arrogant Drebber, and now they were on their travels again. He gave a groan of dismay when he heard Drebber give the driver instructions to take them to Euston Station. No doubt that meant they were planning to take the boat train and leave for the Continent. Once there, he might easily lose them again. With a gnawing feeling of despair in the pit of his stomach, Hope followed them at a safe distance.

At Euston, he tethered his cab and caught up with the two fugitives on the crowded platform. Here, another argument broke out between the men. Hope moved as close as he could in the bustling throng so that he could overhear their conversation. Drebber was castigating Stangerson for having misread the timetable. They had just missed one boat train, and the next was not to be for nearly two hours.

“You damned idiot,” Drebber was saying, and, from his blotchy face and slightly slurred speech, it was clear that he had been drinking.

“It’s only a few hours,” responded Stangerson lamely. “We can take a seat in the waiting-room. The time will soon pass.”

“The hell it will! You take a seat in the waiting-room and look after the luggage. I have a little business to attend to.”

“What business? You’re not going back to the boarding-house?”

“Never you mind. You tend to the luggage.”

“I don’t like us splitting up like this. It might not be safe.”

“Stop fussing. You’re like a goddamned mother hen at times.”

“What if you’re not back in time for the train? It’s the last one tonight.”

“I’ll be back. But if there is a problem, I’ll meet you at Halliday’s Private Hotel. You know the place.

Stangerson nodded.

Without another word, Enoch Drebber turned and walked unsteadily out of the station.

At last, thought Hope, the moment I have waited for: they are on their own and it is after dark. But the game had been a long and strenuous one, and Hope was not about to spoil things by acting with undue precipitation. He followed Drebber in his cab, and the nature of the business that he wished to attend to soon became clear. Within a five-minute stroll of Euston Station, Drebber went in to an alehouse and stayed there for about an hour. On leaving, he was much the worse for drink.

Another call at another alehouse secured Drebber’s fate. He was ejected some thirty minutes later by an irate landlord.

“I didn’t know the girl was your daughter!” he growled, as he landed on the pavement.

“I don’t want scum like you in my place,” bellowed the landlord. “If I see you in here again, I’ll break your bleedin’ neck.”

Drebber lay for a moment on the ground as though he was unable to move, and then, with some effort, he gradually pulled himself to his feet and dusted himself down.

“Bastard,” he muttered to himself. “Merely trying to be friendly to the girl.”

Once standing, albeit in an unsteady fashion, he consulted his watch. “Blast! Missed the train.”

“Need a cab, sir?”

Drebber looked up and saw a hansom cab at the kerb. The driver, a broad fellow with a florid face and large grey beard, stared down at him.

Drebber thought for a moment. His brain was sluggish with alcohol, and he had to concentrate hard to formulate any simple plan of action.

“Dammit,” he said, “might as well. Do you know Halliday’s Private Hotel on Little George Street?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. That’s for me.” With some effort, Drebber clambered into the cab and collapsed in the seat. Within seconds of the cab moving off, he had fallen into a drunken slumber.

The cab headed away from Euston. Away from Little George Street. The cab headed for Brixton. Jefferson Hope smiled with a warmth that had not been in evidence for over twenty years.

Enoch Drebber was roused from his sleep by being roughly shaken. As he opened his bleary eyes, he saw the face of the cabbie looming over him.

“It’s time to get out.”

“All right, Cabbie.” The voice was thick and virtually unintelligible. With assistance from the cabbie, Drebber stepped on to the pavement, but then his legs seemed to give way.

“Need so’ assistance,” he murmured, leaning heavily on the driver.

“Certainly, sir,” came the reply.

Hope hooked his arm under Drebber’s and shepherded him up the path towards the empty house. Unlocking the door, he helped the man inside.

“It’s infernally dark in here. Halliday’s Private Hotel?” said Drebber, a note of uncertainty introduced into his inebriate tones.

“We’ll soon have a light,” said Hope, striking a match and lighting the candle that he had brought with him. The room filled with a gloomy ochre light, revealing it to be empty and derelict. At first, Drebber gazed in wonderment, and then fear caught hold of him.

“What... what the hell’s going on here? Where are we?”

Hope held the candle to his face and threw off his wide-brimmed hat.

“Never mind where we are, Enoch Drebber, you answer my question. Who am I?”

Open-mouthed, Drebber gazed at him with bleary, drunken eyes, and then they widened in horror and convulsed his whole features. He staggered back, his hand to his mouth, gagging the scream.

“You know me, then?” said Hope steadily.

For Drebber, it was the bleakest and most fearful of nightmares. Of course he knew the man. It was the man in all the world he most feared meeting. The terror that rippled through his body brought about a remarkably quick sobering effect. Suddenly his brain began to function with icy clarity. He had been abducted and brought to this godforsaken dwelling by his greatest enemy.

“I have money, lots of money,” he said feebly. “I can give you money.” Jefferson Hope laughed in response.

“What is it that you want?”

“Vengeance,” replied Hope simply. “I want vengeance.”