The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Veiled Detective

Twenty-Four

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN H. WATSON

A few days after my visit to see Holmes, Ireceived the urgent message that set in motion a series of events that led to the most dramatic conclusion. The message came from Professor Moriarty. It was terse and to the point: “You have neglected your duties, Doctor! Holmes is interfering in my affairs. You must stop him. Act immediately!”

How was Ito act? Ihad no idea what the Professor expected me to do. But Iwas aware that if Idid not do something, my life, and those of Mary and Sherlock Holmes, would not be worth a pin’s fee.

Without delay, Iengaged myself in a series of subterfuges. By now, through necessity, Ihad become adept at such activities. Iinformed Mary that Holmes was in dire need of my assistance and that Icould not deny his plea for help. Without so much as a frown or a pursed lip, she said that she understood and that Ihad to follow my feelings in the matter. Hurriedly, Iengaged a locum to look after my patients for a few days, spinning some yarn about attending to an elderly aunt in the North who was close to death. Ithen hailed a cab and sped to Baker Street, not knowing what Iwould find there, what reception Iwould receive or how I would explain my arrival.

On entering the sitting-room, I found an old man asleep on the chaise-longue. He was heavily whiskered and had the reddish complexion that one finds in heavy drinkers. His old tweed suit had seen better days, as had his shabby boots, and his hands and nails were thickly begrimed. Despite my appearance, he continued to snore quietly, his chest rising and falling in a regular rhythm.

I looked in vain for my friend. I peered into his bedroom, but the smooth lay of the eiderdown indicated that he had not slept there that night. When I returned to the sitting-room, the old man had awakened and was on his feet. He eyed me with some amusement, and then, just as I was about to challenge him as to his identity, I caught a familiar gleam in the grey eyes. It was Holmes.

“Morning, Watson!” he cried, pulling off his side whiskers with a theatrical gesture. “How good to see you.”

I could not help myself: I burst out laughing.

Holmes grinned and bowed. “Septimus Hitchcock at your service, sir,” he said in a rich Cockney accent.

I shook my head in wonderment. “What on earth...?”

“A long story — one which I will have pleasure in recounting over a late breakfast. I do hope you can stay.”

I nodded.

“Good man,” he said, in buoyant humour, his demeanour bearing none of the irascible bitterness I experienced during our last encounter. “Call down to Mrs Hudson and order coffee, toast and boiled eggs for two, there’s a good fellow. If I know her, she will already be about the task. By the time I’ve shed my ancient persona, and had a wash and shave, our feast will be ready for us and then I will provide you with the details of my latest escapade.”

With a gentle pat on my shoulder, he disappeared into his bedroom. I couldn’t be sure at the time, but I thought that he was limping.

Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting opposite the spruce, clean-shaven and familiar version of Sherlock Holmes. He was encased in one of his dressing-gowns, and he was smoking his old clay pipe. The coffee, toast and eggs lay before him, untouched.

“Have you heard of the Elephant’s Egg?”

The phrase echoed down the corridors of my memory. Unusual and amusingly preposterous as it seemed, I had heard of it before — but I could not place it in context. I shook my head in denial.

“It is one of the biggest — if not the biggest — rubies that the world has ever seen. Hence its fantastical sobriquet. It is the property of the Raja of Kalipaur.”

“Ah, yes,” I said, the phrase now slotting into place. “He is sending the stone as a gift to the Queen.”

“Indeed. A tribute to Victoria, Empress of India. The stone is estimated to be worth somewhere in the region of two million pounds.”

I whistled softly. “A very nice gift indeed.”

“It has come to my attention that someone intends to steal the Elephant’s Egg as soon as it reaches these shores.”

At these words I froze. I knew that there could be only one criminal daring and audacious enough to attempt such a robbery: Professor Moriarty. And only Sherlock Holmes was clever and resourceful enough to stop him. So this is why I had been sent: to interfere with Holmes’ investigation, to lead him off the scent.

To say that I suffered from mixed emotions on hearing Sherlock Holmes, his face wreathed in a beatific smile, refer to the proposed threat of the precious ruby would be a gross understatement. I was delighted that the challenge of such a case had stimulated my friend to such a degree that he was indeed himself again. The Holmes of old, capricious and mischievous — the eager foxhound once more. On the other hand, I realised that in this particular case he was about to challenge the greatest — and more importantly — the most dangerous criminal genius of the age. And I was the creature bound to his will while my true loyalties lay elsewhere. I saw myself as the medieval heretic who is tied to four horses in order to be torn asunder for his treachery. It was at that moment that I knew, whatever the consequences might be, that I had to choose, for my own sanity, for the love of Mary and for the only true friendship I could call my own. Up until now, my loyalty to Holmes had never been tested. True, I had reported back on his detective work but I had never attempted to interfere with it for any reason. Now I knew I couldn’t, and — more importantly — I wouldn’t.

“How do you know all this?” I said quietly, trying desperately not to reveal my agitation.

Holmes waved his arms like errant butterflies. “I have my methods,” he replied, leaning backwards, allowing puffs of smoke to spiral to the ceiling. “It is the job of the detective to know many things and to keep abreast with items of current information in the criminal world. Within the last fortnight, two jewellers have met rather sudden ends. A suspicious death and a suicide, which in itself is always a suspicious death.”

“Two jewellers?”

“Experts in their field. Not only for judging the quality and price of sparkling stones — but also in the cutting and shaping of such gewgaws.”

“What has this got to do with the Elephant’s Egg?”

“Everything! I believe these two men to have been murdered.”

“Why?”

“You were always good with the questions. That piercing inquisitiveness is one of your more accomplished qualities. Why indeed? The two men — their names are incidental — were experts at cutting up large stones — jewels, agates, rubies — into a series of smaller items. If you were to steal a red blob as large as the Raja’s ruby, you would want it to be cut up into several slivers, glittering babies which collectively would fetch as much as the mother egg. It would be almost impossible to sell the original — but smaller treasures would be an easy sale.’

The logic was clear, and I was certain Holmes was right.

“The deaths were clumsy and hurried. The coincidence is too great to ignore. A large precious stone is due to arrive in this country and be placed on display — bait enough for the greediest and sharpest of thieves — and two men who would be capable of... adapting the stone for easy disposal are themselves disposed of.”

“But why murder, when, if what you say is true, these two jewellers would be useful to the supposed thief?”

“If they agreed to his demands. There are still some upstanding fellows in our community who would resist the temptation to break the law, whatever the consequences. However, once they had been approached and once they had refused, our master thief could hardly let them go.” Holmes drew his forefinger along the line of his neck.

I shuddered, not solely because of the graphic image he had presented, but also because I knew he was right. Moriarty would have no compunction in disposing of these recalcitrant jewellers. Moriarty was a man of ice, without warmth or consideration for others. We were all just pawns on his great chessboard, and we could be taken at any time to enhance his game.

“I investigated these murders. Scotland Yard, blinkered as usual, saw nothing suspicious in the men’s demise, but I collected sufficient evidence to convince myself that I was correct. My next move was to find out how many other jewellers in the city were expert enough to carry out this specialised operation. Surprisingly there are not many — but one name stuck out from the rest: Patrick Graves.”

The name meant nothing to me.

“He was involved in a counterfeiting scandal some years ago. A matter concerning a diamond necklace. Not every stone was a fake, and so it was easier to convince the unsuspecting buyers that they were all genuine. He could sell three necklaces for the price of one set of stones. A tidy profit when you are dealing with items of fifty thousand pounds a time. He had aristocratic connections and a good lawyer: he was found not guilty. So much for British justice.”

“If, as I think you are saying, this Graves fellow has a natural criminal bent, why wasn’t he approached first by... by the...?”

“Master thief,” added Holmes, as I stumbled over my words.

I nodded.

“I’m not sure. Perhaps a thief should not employ a thief. There is no honour among thieves. But after two failures with upright gentlemen, it seemed to me that Graves was the next likely candidate. Two nights ago, I visited his house in Chiswick and I was just in time to witness his abduction — or, to be more precise, I was just in time to prevent his abduction, but I failed. There was only one of me and there were three of them... brawny fellows, too.”

“I should have been with you!” I blurted the words without thinking, and regretted my utterance instantly.

Holmes gave me a wry grin. “Perhaps you should. You might have prevented me from receiving a blow to the back of my neck and a nasty stab wound to my leg.”

“Great heavens! Let me see the wound. How severe is it?”

“The wound is fairly deep, but it has not severed any arteries. I have stitched it myself in an amateur but acceptable fashion. It will heal in time.”

“Why didn’t you come to me for treatment?”

Ignoring my question, Holmes rose and crossed to the window and looked out. “These are dangerous times, Watson. I know I am being watched. That’s why you saw me in disguise just now. I never leave the house without assuming some other persona than my own. More than ever I feel that my life is in danger.”

“In what way?”

“Well, I think you know, my friend,” he said slowly.

I shook my head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

With a wave of his hand, he beckoned me to the window.

“See that fellow down there? The one in the brown bowler and grey overcoat?”

“Yes.”

“Another of Moriarty’s men. On guard to watch over me.”

“Moriarty’s men...?” I found myself repeating the phrase dumbly as my stomach began to tighten with fear.

Holmes gave me a sour grin. “Professor James Moriarty, the greatest criminal in London Town. He’s very adept at employing fellows to spy on people, as you well know.”

The words had hardly left his lips before I saw his fist coming towards me. The action was so sudden and so surprising that I remained rooted to the spot. His knuckles smashed against my chin with great force, and my head exploded with sharp pain and bright dazzling lights. Staggering backwards, my knees gave way and I found myself sinking to the floor.

When my vision cleared, I observed Holmes standing over me with a strange expression on his face. He gave a wry chuckle and then, leaning forward, he held out his hand to pull me to my feet.

“That was very satisfying. I have been wanting to do that for a long time,” he declared.

Dazed by the blow and bewildered by Holmes’ behaviour, I dropped into the chair by the fire, rubbing my chin. It was then that the full significance of his actions sank in.

“My God,” I said. “You know!”

“Yes, Watson, I know. I probably know everything. I know that your real name is Walker. I know that you were drummed out of the army for drunkenness, and I know that you have been a paid employee of Professor James Moriarty since arriving back into this country. My dear fellow, I certainly wasn’t going to set up home with someone about whom I knew absolutely nothing. I did a little digging, and soon discovered your real identity. That wasn’t very difficult. I have been building up a dossier on Moriarty for some time, as, no doubt, he has on me. When I discovered that you had been in his company just before we were introduced, it was a simple deduction. Obviously, you were to be his spy in the camp.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “And yet you still went ahead with the arrangement?”

“I was flattered that I warranted so much attention.” He chuckled. “And I liked you. You seemed a decent enough fellow, and I thought it would be fun playing cat and mouse with the two of you.”

“So, you’ve known all this time.”

“Of course I have. What sort of detective would I be if I could not detect that the man with whom I shared lodgings was in the employ of the most powerful criminal in the city?”

“Then you must know that I had no choice in the matter.”

“Very few have, where the Professor is concerned. Yes, I knew. I could not have tolerated your existence if I thought you had entered into the contract willingly.”

“Why are you telling me all this now?”

“Because we have come to the final chapter of our saga, Watson. It is time to destroy Professor James Moriarty and his organisation, once and for all.”

“He is too powerful. It’s not possible.”

“All things are possible, with careful plotting and planning. I am offering you the opportunity to join forces with me now to end this man’s grip on London — and, indeed, upon your own life.”

My heart pounded at the prospect that Holmes described. It was like a mirage, a fantastic illusion that would fade if one reached out to touch it. To be free, really free, of the dark threat that had hung over me since that fateful meeting in Reed’s club seemed like a happy dream beyond the grasp of daytime reality.

“How could you trust me?”

“All I would need is your word.”

I grinned. “I don’t need time to think. I will help you. You have my word. But I believe that we shall lose the battle. As I said, Moriarty is very powerful, and he has eyes and ears everywhere.”

“I am fully aware of that, and that is why we must trust no one — and I mean no one. Not even Scotland Yarders like Lestrade and Gregson; not even your Mary. We cannot be sure who is free from the taint of Moriarty.”

“But Mary...”

“No doubt she would protest the same about you, and she would be wrong, wouldn’t she?”

I nodded dumbly. It was a hateful thought, but I realised that it was a possibility.

“When we have our case, there is one fellow at the Yard who will help to bring the matter to a head, but for the moment we can only trust each other. Is that understood?”

“Yes.” I mumbled, my mind in a frantic whirl.

“Don’t fret, Watson; I would not engage upon this very dangerous game unless I was sure of a safe outcome. You must trust me, and your actions must not waver — or we are all lost.”

I nodded and managed a half-smile.

“Good man,” he said, lighting his pipe and sitting opposite me. “Now, I think I’d better put you fully in the picture. Let me start by telling you how I managed to escape from the bruisers who were abducting Patrick Graves.”