The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Veiled Detective

Twenty-Eight

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN H. WATSON

With horror, Iread the report in the newspaper of the fire at Baker Street. It appeared that our old rooms had been gutted, but the fire had not spread to Mrs Hudson’s quarters. Thank goodness the report indicated that “the celebrated private detective, Mr Sherlock Holmes, was absent from the premises when the conflagration took hold.” However, it was clear from the report that all his precious files would have been consumed by the flames. Iprayed that there was nothing essential regarding Moriarty in the room when the fire was started. Surely they would be with Holmes — wherever he was. He would not have left them there, in such a vulnerable location. However, the truth was that Icould not be sure. If his evidence had gone up in smoke, we were lost. As I contemplated this prospect, Ifelt an awful gnawing feeling growing in the pit of my stomach.

I was in no doubt that the fire had been instigated by Professor Moriarty. For all Iknew, he might have been the one to light the match. All niceties had been put to one side now. He was out to get Sherlock Holmes — out to destroy him. And it would not be long before he came after me — my usefulness was over. Within twenty-four hours the landscape of my life had changed, and as such I realised that I had been released from my shackles. The contract had been torn up and my puppet-master had cut the strings. Strangely, I felt elated. Despite the very real threat of death now hanging over me, once again I was my own man. I was free to act independently, and free to be myself.

I was suddenly reminded of that dark, skeletal tree in Afghanistan where I had crouched down and, in a weak moment, with the aid of a brandy bottle, surrendered my liberty to an unforgiving future. That was in the dream-world of yesterday, part of another life. Now, in a strange twist of Fate, I had recovered my freedom, my individuality, once again. There was a difference though, for I was no longer John Walker. He had faded away in the cold desert night. Now I was the creature I had been fashioned into: John H. Watson. I had become the fiction. I was the Watson of my stories — and, more importantly, I was the friend, the biographer and champion of Mr Sherlock Holmes.

This realisation brought a smile to my face, and the gnawing pain in my stomach evaporated. I flung down the paper and hurried from the station. Within minutes I had hailed a cab and was on my way.

A gunshot thundered and reverberated in the burned-out chamber.

Sherlock Holmes braced himself for the pain of a bullet ripping through his flesh. None came. Then he realised that Scoular had not fired his pistol; the shot had come from elsewhere.

With an inarticulate grunt, Scoular took a few paces forward, the expression on his face a mixture of surprise and amusement. He aimed his pistol at Holmes once more, but before he was able to pull the trigger, his knees gave way and he slumped silently to the floor, falling on his face amongst the wet debris. Holmes observed a patch of blood in the centre of his back.

A figure stepped out of the shadows, a smoking gun in his hand. It was Watson.

“For preference, I would not have shot the fellow in the back, but I really had no alternative,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Watson, by all that’s wonderful!” cried Holmes, hardly able to take in the situation.

“It struck me that the fire was a ruse by Moriarty to lure you back to Baker Street, and that therefore he would have someone waiting for you — waiting to kill you. I got here as quickly as I could. Luckily, I was just in time.”

Holmes was lost for words. Not only did he always find it difficult to express his gratitude, but also there was something different about Watson’s behaviour that inhibited him. He seemed more assured, more confident, and somehow a little colder, as though a touch of humanity had seeped out of his soul.

At length, Holmes stepped forward and clasped his friend’s hand warmly. Watson responded in kind.

“I... I cannot thank you enough. You saved my life, you really did,” said Holmes.

“I hope you would have done the same for me,” replied Watson simply.

“So I would.”

For a brief moment the two men stood, still clasping hands, and smiled at each other.

“Well,” said Watson, eventually breaking away and kneeling down by Scoular’s body, “we have certainly burned our bridges now. I’m not sure what the penalty for killing one of the Professor’s trusted servants is, but I am sure that it is not very pleasant and that he will want to exact it to the full as soon as possible.” He turned the body over and gazed at Scoular’s face, which looked back at him with an unnerving glassy stare. “Poor devil,” he said quietly.

“Save your sympathies for us, Watson,” observed Holmes, reverting to his business-like self. “London is now far too dangerous for us. We must get away until Patterson’s force has carried out its work. Within a week, Moriarty’s gang will be no more.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Would you come to the Continent with me? A week in foreign climes will do our health the world of good. There is a train leaving Victoria this evening which will take us to Dover. What do you say?”

“I say yes.”

“Good man. I have already taken the liberty of booking two first class tickets for a private compartment in Carriage B. Spend the rest of the day collecting a piece of luggage and some clothes for the trip. Do not go home on any account.”

Watson nodded.

“We’ll leave by the back entrance. Not a salubrious exit — down the drain pipe and over the garden wall — but far safer than the front door. Then we shall seperate. I will see you in the appointed carriage at six o’clock this evening. Do not be late.”

“I will not.”

Holmes paused, and once more he clasped Watson’s hand. “Thank you again for all your help, Watson. You are the finest fellow one could wish to have with you when in a tight spot. The drama is almost over. The last act is about to commence. We must not lose our nerve now or slacken our vigilance. We both have come a long way. We must not fail at the last.”