The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Veiled Detective

Twenty-Six

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN H. WATSON

I listened with increasing horror to Holmes’ narrative. Iknew that he cared little for the danger in which he placed himself by continuing with his plan to outsmart Moriarty and to bring him and his organisation down, but Iwondered how much he realised that, in doing so, he was placing me and my wife in great danger also.

My fears must have been mirrored in my glum expression, for Holmes leaned over and patted me on the shoulder.

“Have no fear,” he said, with a steely glint in his eye. “Moriarty will not win; you have my word on that.”

It was meant as a comforting gesture, but it did not comfort. Iknew at first hand the power and extent of Moriarty’s vast organisation — how far his tendrils extended over this great city. There was no dark corner or crevice to which his agents did not have access. He was the puppet-master supreme; he controlled many who were at his beck and call at every hour of the day or night. Holmes had no such organisation. Essentially, he was one man—a David challenging this terrible Goliath. No matter how brilliant my friend was, the odds were heavily stacked against him.

“What do you intend to do now?” I asked.

“There’s a fellow at the Yard with whom I’ve been working on the Moriarty case — Inspector Patterson. He’s the only one I can trust, and even then I have kept certain details from him. However, I shall inform him of Moriarty’s scheme to switch both the Maharaja’s envoy and the stone itself. The envoy is due here at the end of next week. He must be protected. With the co-operation of the Indian police, it should be easy to pick up your louche friend Reed, now that we know of his intentions. Moriarty’s scheme will be scuppered before the boat docks in England. If it is not too late, I will suggest that the stone be transported secretly to this country by another route, to ensure its safety. It is more than likely that the Professor has contingency plans up his sleeve. We cannot be too careful.”

“And then what?”

“I shall disappear. Baker Street is too hot for me now. I’ll not disclose my whereabouts to anyone, including your good self, and so you can say with all honesty that you don’t know where I am. And I suggest that you arrange for your wife to take a trip out of town for a few weeks. Is there some relative or friend who lives in the country?”

“I suppose so...” I hated the idea of sending Mary away, but I knew it was for the best.

“Good. Things will be a little tricky for the next week or so, but after that London will be a healthier and safer place to live in.”

“And what do you want me to do in the mean time?”

“Nothing. Nothing yet. Nothing until I contact you — which I will, in due course. For now, we need to add some touches to give authenticity to the story of my disappearance.”

Some five minutes later, I stood on the threshold of my old room, ready to leave. Sherlock Holmes and I shook hands.

“Do take care, old friend,” he said.

“I fear less for my safety than your own.”

He grinned and closed the door.

I decided to walk back to Paddington. It was a bright spring day and I felt in need of fresh air. I wanted to sort things out in my mind, to try and gain a clearer perspective on matters. As I was passing the gates by Hyde Park Corner, lost in thought, I suddenly became aware that a tall figure had fallen into step with me and was walking by my side. It was Scoular.

“How are you, Doctor? Well, I trust,” he said. The words were pleasant enough, but they were delivered without warmth or friendliness.

“I am well,” I responded in kind.

“And Mr Sherlock Holmes, is he well? How is his leg? You visited him this morning.”

I nodded. “I went to Baker Street to see him. He wasn’t there.” Scoular’s eyes narrowed as he repeated my words. “He wasn’t there?”

“He’s gone away.”

“Where to?”

“I don’t know. There was this note waiting for me.” I handed him an envelope that Holmes had given me.

Scoular took it roughly and extracted a note, which he read out loud: Watson: matters are too hot for me in London at present, so I’ve decided to move away for an indefinite period. You shall not see me for some time. Regards to Mrs Watson. I remain yours, Sherlock Holmes.

Scoular emitted a cry of disgust and almost screwed the note up. “This is some kind of trick,” he said.

I shook my head in ignorance. “Ever since my marriage, Holmes has confided in me less and less. I can only take this message at face value. I have no idea where he is or what his plans are.”

“Very well. I will keep this note. The Professor will no doubt find the contents most interesting. Remember, Watson, where your allegiance lies and on whom your life depends. If Sherlock Holmes gets in touch with you for any reason, you must contact us immediately. Is that understood?”

“Of course.”

“Good,” he said softly, and then stepped back, merging with the crowd of pedestrians on the pavement. Within seconds, he was lost from sight.

I removed my hat and with my handkerchief mopped my brow. Moriarty was clever enough to know that the note was a blind. He knew that Holmes would not desert the city at this crucial time. The Professor would set his hounds on my friend. Never had Sherlock Holmes been more vulnerable.

“You’ll take tea with me, Mr Scoular, won’t you?” Mrs Hudson placed the kettle on the gas ring in readiness, but her visitor shook his head.

“On some other occasion, maybe,” he said politely, but without warmth. “I just need to know — the Professor needs to know where Sherlock Holmes is.”

Mrs Hudson, wiping her hands on her apron, sat down in her favourite chair by the hearth and smiled. “I don’t know. As you know, he rarely confided in me in the old days, but just recently I reckon he could give a clam a few lessons or two.” She chuckled at her own conceit, but Scoular’s disapproving glance cut her merriment short.

“When did you last see him?”

“I can’t be sure, and that’s the truth. He’s taken to wearing an assortment of wigs, false noses and all kinds of costumes, so I’m never sure whether it’s him in disguise or one of his visitors. I haven’t served him any meals now for over a week.”

Scoular gave a sigh of impatience.

“Doctor Watson came round this morning,” she continued, “so I assumed he was home then, but Watson popped in to see me on his way out and said that he’d waited for his friend in vain. There was a note saying he’d gone away for a few weeks — but it didn’t say where to.”

“I’ve seen the note,” said Scoular. “Rather too convenient to be real, and most probably a dupe to make us think he has run away.”

Mrs Hudson shook her head. She didn’t know what Scoular meant. “You’re welcome to go up and look in his rooms, if you want.”

“I know that,” he rasped with impatience. “And I shall do so presently. In the mean time, if you see any trace of Holmes or anyone who might be Holmes, you must inform the Professor immediately. Immediately, is that clear?”

Mrs Hudson nodded. She knew this was an order, and it dismayed her. She had grown very fond of her eccentric and unpredictable lodger, and she didn’t want any harm to come to him. But she had no choice in the matter: he didn’t pay her wages.

“Good,” said Scoular, pulling on his gloves. “I will visit you again this evening after dark and search Holmes’ quarters, and then I’m afraid I shall be forced to start a little fire.”

“Oh, mercy me, no! You’re not going to burn down my lovely home?”

“Nothing as extravagant as that, I assure you. Merely a small conflagration in Holmes’ rooms which will destroy his files and records and render the place uninhabitable. Your quarters will be safe.”

“How can you be sure of that?” Mrs Hudson asked with asperity.

Scoular smiled for the first time since he had arrived. “I can’t.”

It took a great deal of persistence to persuade Mary to make a surprise visit to her aunt in Exeter. Instinctively, she knew something was wrong and that the matter was connected with Sherlock Holmes.

“Are you in any danger?” she asked, fixing me with her blue eyes.

After years of dissembling, lies came easily to me — but not when dealing with Mary. I hated telling her an untruth — but I had to. I don’t think she believed me when I told her there was nothing to worry about, but at the same time I felt she knew that what I had asked her to do was in her best interests.

That evening she packed, and I sent a telegram to Exeter to give Mary’s aunt notice of her arrival. Very early the following morning, I saw Mary off at Paddington Station. Not since my stay in the stinking cell in Candahar had I felt as miserable and alone as when the train chugged its noisy way out of the station, with Mary leaning out of a carriage window, waving goodbye. With Holmes in hiding and Mary gone, I had no one to turn to.

As I made my way back up the platform, a voice whispered in my ear.

“Going on a trip then, is she, the good lady wife?”

I turned to see a thin, rat-faced fellow in a loud brown-checked suit grinning back at me. With mock politeness, he raised his brown bowler.

“The Professor sends his compliments. No news of Mr Holmes, I presume?”

I shook my head. “No news,” is all I could find to say.

“And the wife?”

“Mary has gone to visit her aunt, who has not been well.”

“Left you all alone, has she? Well, never mind, Doctor Watson. We’re never far from your side. Do keep in touch.”

With an infuriating smirk, he raised his hat again and walked away. I stood rooted to the spot. I gazed unnervingly at the throng that passed by me. How many of them were the Professor’s men? What could I do? How could I act if I were under that fiend’s microscope all the time? Rather dejectedly, I continued on my way up the platform, brooding on what I considered to be a very dismal future.

It was then that I saw the newspaper billboard by the news kiosk. The headline ran: FIRE AT SHERLOCK HOLMES’ ROOMS.