The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Veiled Detective

Fifteen

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER

As we approached the city, after leaving Rance’s house, Holmes halted the cab.

“Enough brainwork for the moment, Watson,” he beamed, pulling on his gloves. “I feel the need to be soothed. Norman-Neruda is giving a concert this afternoon, and Ipromised myself Iwould see her again. Her attack and bowing are splendid. Iwill see you back at our rooms around six o’clock.” So saying, he gave me a cheery wave, hopped on to the pavement and was gone.

I welcomed the opportunity for some time on my own. It would afford me the opportunity to write up my notes of the mornings events. And after a light lunch, this is what Idid. However, when it came to describing that gruesome dead body in the derelict house in Brixton, Iwas surprised to find that my hand was shaking as Iwrote. The vision of that pale, contorted face triggered off unwelcome memories in my subconscious. Unbidden thoughts and vivid images of my dead and dying comrades at Maiwand seeped into my mind. Iwas suddenly aware that my eyes were misting with tears. However strong the conscious will is, it cannot quell the powerful forces that lie within the psyche. I knew then that, try as I might, I would never succeed in blotting out that dreadful experience. With some effort and, God help me, a tot of brandy, I completed a rough draft of my notes, a version that I could present to Moriarty. I knew that my “romanticised version” would need a little extra effort, to gild both the prose and the detective in order to make both more attractive.

Holmes returned at the hour he stated, but I knew that the concert could not have detained him all that time. He had been at work again. And I needed to know all about it, but I was fairly certain that a direct question would not provide me with an answer. I would have to bide my time. He bustled in, flinging his coat over a chair, humming a snatch of Chopin.

“The concert was magnificent,” he cried. “What an artist! Do you remember what Darwin says about music? The power of producing and appreciating it existed among the human race long before it acquired the power of speech. It speaks to our simple, primitive nature. There are vague memories in our souls of those misty centuries when the world was in its childhood.”

“Well, that’s a rather broad idea,” I remarked.

“One’s ideas must be broad as Nature, if we are to interpret Nature.”

He sat opposite me and suddenly scrutinised my face. “But, Watson, how pale you look. Ah, I see. This Brixton Road affair has upset you.”

I shook my head, but I did not convince my companion, who smiled at my deceit.

“I should have thought of that before I dragged you along to see a dead body. It must have brought back memories of Afghanistan. I apologise.”

“No apologies needed. I ought to be case-hardened now. I was just caught off my guard, that’s all.”

Holmes gave me a cool smile to indicate that he was closing the subject. “Did you get a chance to see the evening paper?”

“No.”

“It gives a fairly good account of the Brixton affair. However, fortunately for us it does not mention the fact that a wedding-ring was found at the scene of the crime. Those dunderheads, Lestrade and Gregson, no doubt haven’t realised how important it is.”

“Why is that fortunate for us?”

“Look at this advertisement. I had one sent to every paper this morning.”

He threw the paper across to me and I glanced at the place indicated. It was the first announcement in the Found column.

“In Brixton Road this morning,” I read aloud, “a plain gold wedding-ring, found in the roadway between the White Hart Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Doctor Watson, 221B, Baker Street between seven and eight this evening.”

“Excuse me using your name,” said Holmes casually. “If I used my own, Lestrade or Gregson would come blundering in here and want to meddle with my plans.”

“That is all right,” I answered, “but what if someone actually applies? I have no ring.”

“Oh yes you have,” he said, grinning as he handed me a shiny gold ring. “This will do as well. It is almost a facsimile.”

“And who do you think will answer this advertisement?”

Holmes held a finger up in admonishment. “You must avoid the habit of asking superfluous questions. Why, the murderer, of course, our florid-faced fellow with square toes. That ring meant a great deal to him. He was prepared to risk capture by returning for it last night. According to my notion, he dropped it while stooping over Drebber’s body, and did not miss it at the time. After leaving the house, he discovered his loss and retraced his steps in the desperate hope of finding the ring. When he reached the empty house, he discovered that the police were already there due to his own folly of leaving the candle burning. He had to pretend to be drunk in order to allay suspicions. Luckily for him he encountered the brilliant Constable Race.” Holmes chuckled.

“And you think that he will look in the paper this evening in the hope that someone has advertised its find.”

“Indeed I do. He will be so overjoyed that the fellow will never suspect a trap.”

“A trap,” I repeated, with some alarm.

“Why, yes. We’ll have him cornered and have the truth out of him in a jiffy.” He opened a drawer and withdrew a pistol. “Have you arms?”

“I have my old service revolver and a few cartridges.”

“You had better clean it and load it. He will be a desperate man; and though I shall take him unawares, it is as well to be ready for anything.”

I went to my bedroom and followed his advice, although I dreaded the idea of having to use the weapon. I had thought that I had left those days behind. But, I reasoned, if I was to be a close companion of a private detective, there would no doubt be moments of danger, and it was necessary that I should be prepared. With that thought in mind, I carried out my task with alacrity.

When I returned with my pistol, I found Holmes scraping upon his violin. He ignored me for some moments and then put his instrument aside.

“My fiddle would be much better for new strings,” he remarked. “Put the pistol in your pocket. When the fellow comes, speak to him in a normal fashion. Don’t frighten him by staring at him too much or acting oddly. Then leave the rest to me.”

“It is seven o’clock now,” I said, glancing at my watch.

“Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes. He will want to be certain to be the first to make the claim. Open the door slightly. That will do. Now put the key on the inside. Thank you.”

Holmes had begun speaking in a hushed staccato fashion and his face was slightly flushed. His cool reserve was evaporating as the excitement and potential danger we were about to face began to take hold. Nervously, he snatched a book up from the mantelpiece. ‘This is a queer old tome I picked up at a stall yesterday — De Jure inter Gentes— published in Latin at Liege in the Lowlands in 1642. Charles’s head was still firm on his shoulders when this little brown-backed volume was struck off.”

I nodded politely. I knew he was attempting to divert his mind with idle intellectual conversation, but the tone of his voice clearly indicated that he was failing.

“On the flyleaf, in very faded ink, is written ex libris Gulielmi Whyte. See?”

He held the book out for me to see, and his hand was shaking.

“I wonder who William Whyte was,” he continued, returning the book to the mantelpiece. “Some pragmatical seventeenth-century lawyer, I suppose. His writing has a legal twist about it.”

He was interrupted by a sudden jangling of our doorbell downstairs.

“I’ve instructed Mrs Hudson to send all callers up,” he whispered, moving to the door.

“Does Doctor Watson live here?” asked a clear voice from below.

We heard Mrs Hudson’s injunction to the stranger to come up to our rooms, and then heard his heavy tread upon the stair. Shortly after, there was a knock at our door.

“Come in,” I called.

At my summons, our visitor entered. I had to steel myself from giving a cry of surprise, for here standing before us was the man whom Sherlock Holmes had described to us in detail that morning in Lauriston Gardens. Dressed in the shabby garb of a cab-driver, our visitor was over six feet tall, with a florid visage and wearing scuffed and muddy square-toed boots.

Holmes flashed me a look of triumph.

The stranger glanced between the two of us.

“Which one of you is Watson — the one who found the ring?”

I stepped forward. “I am Doctor Watson.”

The man stepped towards me and shook my hand warmly. “I can’t thank you enough, sir. That ring means the world to me.”

I was somewhat taken aback by his effusion, and momentarily felt lost for words, but Holmes intervened.

“My name is Holmes and I am acting in conjunction with my friend here. And you are...?”

“Hawkins... Edward Hawkins.”

“Really?” said Holmes. “Well, Mr Hawkins, you must realise that we cannot just hand the ring over to any Tom, Dick or Hawkins who comes along to claim that it is his. We must have some proof of ownership.”

Hawkins eyes narrowed. “Proof? And how may I provide that?”

Holmes smiled. “Come, come. We do not doubt you, Mr... Hawkins, but perhaps you could describe the circumstances concerning the loss and to whom the ring really belongs?”

“Really belongs?”

“Well, it is a lady’s wedding-ring, after all... your wife’s?”

Hawkins nodded awkwardly. It was clear that he had not anticipated such an interrogation when retrieving the ring.

“Watson, be so good as to pour our visitor a sherry, and you, sir, take a seat by the fire while you tell us your tale.”

I did as I was bidden while Hawkins, with a shambling reluctance, sat where Holmes had indicated. Holmes passed the sherry to him, which he gulped down in one go.

“Now, sir, how did you come by your loss?”

“I don’t rightly know. I’d been drinking in the White Hart last night, and probably had too much for my own good, and I reckon as I was making my way home it must have fallen out of my pocket.”

“But why were you carrying your wife’s wedding-ring in the first place?” I asked, as Holmes manoeuvred his way behind our visitor’s chair.

Hawkins stared distractedly for a moment and then, heaving a sigh, he began to present his explanation.

“It is a keepsake, gentlemen. My wife is dead this many a year, and that ring is all I have to remind me of her.”

“Very good, very good!” crowed Holmes sarcastically. “Close to the truth — but I am afraid, not close enough.”

Hawkins began to rise from the chair, but Holmes came up behind him and clapped the pistol to the side of his head.

“Sit down, sir,” he said. “Now, let’s do away with all these fairy-stories, shall we? Watson, let me introduce you to Mr Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber.”