The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Veiled Detective

Twenty-Three

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN H. WATSON

And so Islipped easily and contentedly into married life and my medical practice. Iwas so happy that for most of the time Iwas able to keep at bay the realisation that Iwas still a controlled puppet in an artificial situation. My relationship with Mary and my love for her were real, and they, along with ministering to my patients, formed the true anchor in my life. The medical practice had been neglected by the previous incumbent, and Iwas aware that it would take time and a great deal of work to build it up to create a reasonable living. Gradually, more out of curiosity, it seemed, than any other reason, Ibegan to attract a number of new patients, but Iknew that this was a long road Ihad to travel. Isuspected that the scarcity of patients was exactly why Moriarty had chosen this particular practice. He didn’t want me to be too busy so that Iwould neglect my duties to him. But neglect them Idid in the first three months or so.

I did not visit Holmes once during this time, and he did not communicate with me. Of course, Idid not expect him to. It would only be in the hour of need that he would turn to me. Ipictured him in his Baker Street lodgings — lodgings which he was now able to afford without the necessity of a fellow lodger — buried amongst his books and files, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. However, his fame as a detective continued to spread. Occasionally, I read of some of his activities in the newspapers, particularly his summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murders, and it seemed clear to me that he had completely recovered from the idea of not having a colleague to accompany him on his sleuthing quests.

I did feel a little guilty about not visiting him, not for Moriarty’s part, but because I regarded Sherlock Holmes as my friend. However, I suppressed this guilt until one evening nearly four months after my marriage, when I was returning from a journey to a patient and my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed that well-remembered door, I was seized with a keen desire to see my friend again. On the instant, I rang the bell and Mrs Hudson admitted me. She was effusive in her greeting and gave me a welcoming hug.

“It’s grand to see you back in the old place,” she said. “Things haven’t been the same since you left. At least you could keep him in order.”

“Has he been difficult?” I asked, nodding my head towards the staircase that led to Holmes’ quarters.

“You could say that. Moods! I’ve never met a man who has such moods. And how can I plan my housekeeping when I never know when he’ll be in? Sometimes he disappears for three days at a time without a word or warning — or explanation, when he finally turns up, demanding ham and eggs because he’s starving.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle at Mrs Hudson’s dilemma.

In response, she chuckled too. “What a man, eh?”

I nodded.

“Can’t you come back and put some routine and sense into his life, Doctor Watson?”

“I’m a married man now, Mrs Hudson. My main responsibilities lie elsewhere.”

“Of course you are. What can I have been thinking? And you look well on it. I can see your good lady is looking after you well.”

“Almost as well as you,” I said.

Mrs Hudson patted my arm and smiled.

“Is he in?”

“Yes, Doctor, and I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”

I was not quite so sure. On opening the door, Sherlock Holmes gave me a brief smile and bid me enter. The room looked as though a whirlwind had rampaged through the chamber minutes earlier. There were papers strewn everywhere.

Holmes cast aside a sheaf from my old chair and bade me sit down.

“You catch me in mid-search,” he said casually, indicating the papers. “There’s a particular piece of information I need, and I am having trouble locating it.”

“Your filing system used to be so accurate.”

“So it seemed. I cannot understand it.” His eyes had that dreamy, faraway look that told me that he was under the influence of drugs. He lit his pipe, the hand wavering unsteadily as he applied the match to the bowl.

“You don’t look well, Holmes. You are ill-using yourself.”

“Probably,” he nodded. “I get down in the dumps now and then, especially when there are no cases on hand, but that is my way.”

I caught the hard, cold inflection of that last comment, which was telling me to mind my own business. I knew it was useless to pursue the subject. There was an awkward silence while I struggled and failed to find something to say.

“Wedlock obviously suits you,” he remarked at last. “I think that you have put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you.”

“Seven,” I answered.

Holmes raised his brow in dispute. “Really? I should have said a little more. Just a trifle more, I fancy, marital contentment is to blame, no doubt. And in practice again, I observe. You did not tell me that you intended to go back into harness.”

“Then how can you be so sure?”

“Because I am Sherlock Holmes. Have you forgotten, Watson? I see. I deduce. You used to know that.” He sighed with irritation. “If a gentleman walks into my room smelling of iodoform, with a black mark of nitrate upon his right forefinger, and a bulge on the side of his top hat where he has secreted his stethoscope, I would be dull indeed if I could not pronounce him to be an active member of the medical profession. Satisfied?”

I nodded and smiled weakly. “Sharp as ever.”

“You are too kind. And now, Doctor, what reason do you have for calling upon me this evening, having dragged yourself away from your cosy hearth and adoring wife?”

There was no mistaking the disdain in his voice and my hackles began to rise at the rude and insulting way in which my friend — or my former friend, as I was now beginning to see him — was treating me.

“I came out of friendship to see how you were.”

“And here was I thinking that you were just passing and acted upon a whim. After all these months I would have thought you harboured scant concern for my welfare.”

Holmes’ words wounded me, not only because they were harsh, but also because they contained within them a germ of the truth.

I rose stiffly. “I can see that you are busy and that I am intruding. I merely wished to... to—”

“Wished to...?” Holmes echoed my words. “I don’t think, Watson, you really know what you wished. Yes, I am busy, and no doubt Mary has arranged a hot meal for your return.”

A flame of anger flared within me, and at that moment I could have struck Holmes down, but I contained myself. My reason told me that it was partly the drugs talking and partly the bitterness Holmes felt towards me for deserting him for over three months.

I hurried to the door and bade him goodnight.

When I reached the foot of the stairs, I could hear the strident melancholy strains of Holmes’ violin piercing the silence.

As I stepped into the night, my eyes were moist with frustrated anger. I was angry with Holmes and I was angry with myself. I had neglected my friend, I knew, but most men would have understood. Of course, Holmes was not most men, and his own selfish streak blinded him to the feelings and sensitivities of others. He was being unreasonable, but I had behaved badly. If only I had gone to see him after my marriage — just to renew contact. But in cutting myself off from him for nearly four months, I had carelessly severed the link between myself and the only man whom: I regarded as a good and close friend.

It was with a heavy heart that I returned to my new home. A lamp was burning in the sitting-room. A decanter of brandy and a glass were placed in the centre of the table by the fire, which still glowed with life. A note was propped up against the decanter: “Enjoy a nightcap, my darling, after your heavy day. You deserve it. Come to bed quietly. Mary.”

I could not help but smile at this loving gesture, and my heart warmed in appreciation and gratitude. I might have lost Holmes, but I had my beloved Mary, and she was worth all the male friendships in the world. For a moment, my hand hovered over the brandy decanter, and then, with a sigh, I put it to one side. Whatever discomforts I felt in the world, brandy would not help them. This I knew from experience.

A week later, Professor Moriarty was having a meeting with his chief of staff concerning a matter of great importance. Moran leaned over the plans laid out on Moriarty’s desk and scrutinised them carefully. Flakes of ash dropped from the end of his cigar and he wafted them away.

“I really think it could work,” he said at length.

“It will work,” came the sharp response from the Professor, who was some feet away from him, staring out at the river below, which was dark and turbulent in the purple dusk. He turned suddenly and joined Moran by his desk. “I do not allow for margins of doubt or error, Moran. I would have thought you would have known that by now.”

“Of course,” Moran replied softly.

“In some ways the project is a double-edged sword. I shall have the pleasure of committing the most fabulous crime and benefiting richly from it; while on the other hand my genius and daring will go unrecognised, unnoticed because no one will know that a crime has been committed.”

“Now, that it the brilliance of the scheme.”

Moriarty nodded gently. “Yes.” He paused, lost in thought for a moment, and then rubbed his hands in a business-like manner. “But we get ahead of ourselves; there are certain procedures, certain contingents to set into place first, and time is running out. The stone is due here in another ten days. After our signal failure with Mellors and Bentham, we shall have to make a move on to Graves.”

“That is being attended to as we speak, Professor. By morning, he should be at the warehouse.”

“Should?” Moriarty raised his brow.

“Will,” affirmed Moran.

“Let us hope so... for all our sakes.”

Sherlock Holmes crouched in the shrubbery, waiting. He had seen his man return home alone an hour earlier. He had glimpsed him through the net curtains of the sitting-room, reading the daily paper and then writing some letters before retiring upstairs. Now the house was in darkness, apart from a dull glow emanating from the front bedroom. The detective glanced at his watch. It was difficult to see in the darkness, but he could make out that it was now past eleven o’clock. It would not be long before they would strike. There was nothing he could do until they put in their appearance. His conversation with Harry Drysdale, his friendly nark in The Lord Nelson, had led him to believe that there would possibly be three men involved, but he could not be certain.

“They’re keepin’ this one tight to their chests, they are, an’ all,” Drysdale had said, grinning, before downing his pint of ale.

Two or three — not good odds. That is why Holmes had brought his pistol with him. He had been tempted to contact Watson to see if he would be free for an evening’s adventure, but Holmes felt guilty at the rough and antagonistic way he had treated his friend on their last meeting, and he reasoned that it was unfair to put such pressure on him. There was certainly danger in this nocturnal endeavour, which he felt he had no right to ask Watson to share.

As Big Ben struck midnight, the light went out in the bedroom. The occupant was at last seeking the refuge of sleep. Not, surmised Holmes, that he would get much that night. After a five-minute interval, he saw two shadowy figures steal up the pathway to the porch. There was a brief flash of a lantern as one of the men dealt with the lock. They were professionals all right, thought Holmes, for with the minimum of time, effort and noise, they had gained entry to the house, closing the door behind them.

Now he had to make a decision. Did he go into the house and catch the intruders red-handed, or wait until they emerged with their trophy? Both strategies had their drawbacks. Entering the darkened house, he was placing himself at risk, especially with two men moving in the shadows. But they might quite easily leave by a back entrance while he was left waiting at the front.

Taking a firm hold of his pistol, he approached the front door. As yet, there were no sounds emanating from the house. He entered, and holding his breath he listened intently. Suddenly, he saw a flash of light on the landing and heard a man cry out.

Without hesitation, Holmes rushed up the stairs. The front bedroom door was ajar, and he could see inside the room clearly. A bedside lamp had been lit, providing harsh illumination which projected the figures of the two men into giant dancing shadows on the wall. One of the intruders was holding a cloth over the face of the man in bed. It was obviously doused in chloroform to subdue the victim. His arms were flailing in protest, but gradually as the chloroform took its effect, his body grew limp and his arms dropped to his side.

“That’s it,” said one of the men, with a rasping guffaw. “Time for a big nap.”

“Right, let’s get Rip Van Winkle out of here,” said the other.

“I don’t think you are going anywhere,” announced Sherlock Holmes, striding into the room, pistol in hand.

The two men froze at the sight of the gun.

“Who the hell are you?” asked one of the men.

“I am Sherlock Holmes.”

There was something in the expression on the man’s face that alerted Holmes to his danger. Instinctively he turned round, while stepping to the side, but he was not quick enough. He received a savage blow to the side of his head, and for a moment an explosion of bright light filled his vision. He staggered backwards, his gun going off, the bullet embedding itself in the ceiling. His attacker, the third man, who had come up behind him, kicked the weapon from the detective’s hands.

Sherlock Holmes knew he was now in serious trouble. His only hope of survival was to escape. As the three men advanced on him, he scuttled like a crab towards the window. Snatching up a chair, he jabbed it at the pane, creating a jagged aperture large enough for him to clamber through. By now, one of the men had retrieved the gun and fired at Holmes, but the bullet whistled past the detective’s head. Holmes knew the next shot would be more accurate. Without hesitation he launched himself through the window, catching his jacket on the jagged glass as he did so. He felt a sharp stab of pain as the glass pierced his skin. He was now more than half way out of the window, and he spied a rhododendron bush in the garden below which he hoped would break his fall. Just as he scrambled out on to the ledge, one of his attackers launched himself forward and stabbed Holmes in the leg. The detective gave a fierce gasp of pain, but he would not be stopped now. With a Herculean effort, he wrenched himself free of his attacker and then suddenly found himself spiralling through darkened space.