The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Veiled Detective

Three

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER

I was despatched from India on the steamship Orontes in the January of 1881. My journey home was wretched. Although by now I was a “civilian” and supposedly a “free man”, I carried with me the taint of my court martial. There had been reports in the newspapers, and it seemed to me that every face on board averted their gaze from mine. Their expressions told me that they knew who I was and what I had done. No doubt the heinous nature of my crime had grown in the telling and the retelling. I was a pariah dog: an outcast amongst my fellow countrymen.

I spent many long hours alone in my cramped cabin or leaning over the ship’s rail staring at the dark turbulent waters below me, feeling wretched and very sorry for myself. More than once I contemplated how easy it would be to let myself slip over the side into that cold watery embrace and thus escape the painful reality of my situation. Soon I would land in London, that great cesspool into which all the idlers and loungers of the Empire are irresistibly drained. There would be no friends or family waiting on the quayside waving in welcome. No one to help and cherish me; and with only my meagre savings for financial security, the future looked very bleak indeed. On the occasions when my grip eased on the handrail, as the heaving swell of the water beckoned enticingly, some instinct, some little voice within, pulled me back from acting upon these desperate thoughts.

However, one evening when we were just two days away from England, the prospect of watery oblivion was more than usually attractive. I had been snubbed in the dining room by a fat northern businessman who told me in a loud, grating voice that he “was not afraid to be blunt, sir” and that “we don’t want the likes of you attending our table.” This was the first time someone had actually voiced their feelings to me — and it was done in such a cruel and public way that I was speechless. I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came. I found the blood draining from my face as I beat a hasty retreat from the dining room. Gasping for air, I leaned over the rail, feeling myself close to tears.

“You don’t want to take any notice of that pompous windbag.”

I looked up and saw a tall, thin, handsome middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed moustache which was tinged with grey, as was the hair at his temples. He was dressed immaculately in a dinner suit which boasted several medals across the breast. He proffered an open silver cigarette case.

“Have a smoke, old man, and you’ll feel better.”

This time I really had to fight back the tears. My emotions were unfettered on a wild see-saw. After such harsh cruelty from the fat businessman, here now was the first gesture of kindness I had received for many months — and it came from someone who was obviously an officer and a gentleman.

Gingerly, I took a cigarette and gave a nod of thanks.

“That’s the ticket. Watson, isn’t it?”

“Walker. John Walker.”

“Of course.”

The “of course” told me instantly that he knew all about me. “Pleased to meet you.” He shook my limp hand. “I’m Reed. Alexander Reed. Used to be Captain Reed. Once upon a time.”

I repeated his words. “Used to be?”

Reed lit his own cigarette and grinned. It was a pleasant grin, which caused his taut sunburned face to splinter with numerous wrinkles. “Same way as you used to be Assistant Surgeon to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.” The smile broadened.

So, Reed was a fellow outcast.

He blew out a stream of smoke, which was caught by the wind and disappeared into the darkness.

“Yes, Walker, old chap, my military masters disapproved of my dealings with the mess funds, I’m afraid. They probably would have been more sanguine about the matter if the blessed horse had won.” This time the smile became a laugh — a laugh so charming that it was infectious, and I found myself laughing along with him.

“That’s the ticket, old fellow. First time I’ve seen you without a grimace or that black cloud you’ve been carrying around with you all the voyage. Oh, yes, I’ve been watching you. I like to keep an eye on kindred spirits. You see, I know what you’re going through and what you’re feeling. And that,” he nodded at the water below us, “is certainly not the answer. I’m living proof that one not only survives such ignominy — but, one can prosper, too.”

I was dumbstruck by this stranger’s revelations, but, at the same time, his words began to rekindle the spirit of hope and defiance that had been all but extinguished within me. He spoke with warmth and kindness, something I had not experienced for six months or more.

“Come to the bar, Walker. Let me buy you a drink. I think I can help you.”

Like the pied piper, he beckoned me and I followed. As we entered the bar, the fat northern businessman came in with his entourage, which included his equally large wife, who was smothered in a voluminous velvet gown that made her look more than faintly ridiculous. My spirits had been so lightened by my new companion, that I gave them an irreverent light-hearted wave.

“The nouveau riche are always so vulgar, Walker, old feller. Give me old money every time,” Reed announced, loud enough to be overheard. The fat businessman scowled at us with bulging eyes, and shepherded his wife to the further end of the bar.

“Now then, a brandy and soda?”

I shook my head. I had vowed never to touch the accursed brandy again as long as I lived. “A seltzer will be fine.”

Reed groaned. “Nonsense. I’m not going to sit here with a fellow officer while he sips a nursery-time drink. You’ve got to shake off the past. Defy it, my boy. You can’t let it drag you down. This is a time for new beginnings.” He turned to the barman. “Two large brandies with just a whisper of soda, there’s a good chap.”

I shrugged my shoulders in defeat. I felt like a schoolboy in the charge of his forceful yet benevolent headmaster. Having obtained the drinks, my new acquaintance led me to a quiet table. He raised his glass and nodded that I should do the same. Again, I obeyed him. I smelled the brandy, the thick, sweet intoxicating smell, and once more I was back at the camp, sitting under that skeletal tree beneath a pale Afghan moon, my body weary and my mind numb. The night breeze ruffled my hair and my hand gripped the neck of the bottle. I closed my eyes momentarily to lose the vision.

I swirled the brandy round in the glass so that it produced a miniature whirlpool. If I cast it aside now; if I threw the drink away and returned to the medical tent; if...

My reverie was broken by Reed whispering in my ear. “There’s no going back, old boy. The only direction left is forward. So, drink up!”

The brandy caught the back of my throat and I spluttered.

Reed laughed. “You’ll soon get used to it again, Watson.”

I wiped my chin awkwardly.

“Walker,” I corrected him gently.

“Yes, I know, but somehow I see you as a Watson. Funny that, isn’t it?”

Sherlock Holmes touched the tender lump on his scalp where he had been clubbed, and winced.

Observing him, Inspector Giles Lestrade could not resist a chuckle. “Big as a quail’s egg, and twice as unpleasant.” He laughed again, this time at his own weak conceit.

It was past midnight and the two men were sitting once more in Lestrade’s office at Scotland Yard. Holmes had dispensed with his disguise, although his face was still smeared with faint traces of make-up.

“Well, Mr Holmes,” added Lestrade, sitting back in his chair, “if you will play dodgy games, you must expect to end up with a few bruises.”

“I am not complaining, Inspector, just trying to establish the extent of the damage.”

“You’ll live. A large headache for a while and a tender pate for a week, and then I reckon you’ll be right as rain.”

“Thank you. I never knew you practised medicine as well as police work.”

Lestrade did not rise to the bait. “We modern officers have many varied talents.”

Holmes allowed himself a thin smile. “Well, apart from my quail’s egg, as you put it, it has been a fairly successful night.”

“Certainly has — but a strange one. And I’m still not sure I understand this business fully.”

“If it is any consolation, I’m not sure I do either... yet. As I have told you before, it is as though someone has been testing me, trying to trick me.”

Lestrade shook his head. He was far from convinced. “Why should anyone want to do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Rare words from you, if I may say so. Still, I must admit it has been a funny carry-on. All this business with the bogus bank manager — we got him, by the way, as he was leaving your digs. Real name: Ernest Brand, a villain with a theatrical flair.”

“Lot of theatricality, little flair,” observed Holmes as he lit a cigarette. “He was working under orders, of course, as were the two characters who produced my cranial appendage.” He touched his lump again. “Whoever planned this business knew a fair bit about me. He knows how my mind works.”

“Blimey,” cried Lestrade in surprise, “he must be a blooming genius then!”

“He was certain that I would arrange to rob the bank for Abercrombie. That was an essential part of the plan.”

“Brand.”

“Yes. Thus, we have the rather nice arrangement where the detective carries out the work of the thieves for them. A wonderful irony. Or at least that was how it would have been if the plan had worked.”

“Ah, but you got the better of them, Mr Holmes.”

“Did I?”

Lestrade frowned. “Of course you did.”

Abstractly, Holmes examined the glowing end of his cigarette. “Some aspects of the scheme were very clever, but there were too many weak elements.”

“Such as?”

“Did they never think I would check if Abercrombie really was the manager of the Portland Street branch of the City Bank, and if he had a daughter called Amelia whom he took to Carlo’s restaurant for lunch? Or that I would visit his supposed address in Clapham?”

“Did you?”

Holmes gave an irritated sigh. “Of course I did. One of the elementary rules of detective work is to check your sources of information to make sure that what you are being told is the truth. I had a very pleasant afternoon at the Portland Street branch of the City Bank, disguised as an old colonial. Not only did I manage to observe the real manager, but, as luck would have it, I also saw how the gang worked it so that they were able to get hold of the keys to the bank.”

Lestrade sat up. “How’s that?”

“Another set of performances was involved. One character pretends to be the rich client intent on opening a very large account. He’s ushered into the manager’s office. It is my experience that bank managers are very obsequious where wealthy men are concerned. The ‘client’ is there long enough to take stock of the chamber and the strongroom. Then there is a commotion in the lobby of the bank, and the manager is called for...”

“Leaving our fellow behind in his office.”

“Precisely. Long enough for him to take all the details he needs and maybe even make some wax impressions of keys left behind by the flustered manager. Left alone for a short time, any experienced cracksman could easily acquire all the necessaries to carry out a job.”

“Very clever indeed.”

“Yes, and that’s what leads me to my dilemma. What I cannot understand is how the brain who conceived that part of the plan allowed the other loopholes to exist. They were stupid weaknesses which could easily have been remedied. Of course, such elements also muddied the waters somewhat. So, as I say, it is as though I was being put through some test to see how clever I am.”

“Well, if that is the case, you passed with flying colours.”

“Not quite. Two of the accomplices escaped, and I have a rather nasty trophy.” He indicated his wound.

“Sometimes, Mr Holmes, you appear to me to be more baffling than the crimes you investigate. It seems to me as a humble, practical, professional policeman, you have managed to scupper a very clever bank robbery where you, being used as a dupe, were supposed to do the job for the thieves. The rest is some weird concoction of your own making. I ask you seriously, Mr Holmes, who on earth would want to test you, as you call it, and give you a sort of exam to see how good a ’tec you are?”

“That is what I would really like to know.”

Professor James Moriarty stared at the carpet bag, a faint smile touching his lips.

“I’m disappointed in Mr Sherlock Holmes,” he said softly. “I never thought he’d let us get our hands on this.”

“He was bright enough to see through Brand’s performance,” observed Colonel Sebastian Moran.

Moriarty gave a derisive chuckle. “So, he has the talents of a second-rate drama critic. No, no, my dear Moran, I expected so much more of Mr Holmes. I expected incandescence. Still, it has been an interesting exercise.”

“Forgive me, Professor, but I cannot understand your interest in this man.”

“Of course not,” he sneered. “You wouldn’t. It’s to do with the brain, Moran. There are individuals who, for one reason or another, are trapped in isolation in their lives. The poet, the pauper and the thinker — the genius, if you like. I am not being immodest when I think of myself as a genius — after all, I am someone who has a supreme talent to conceive and organise a vast criminal establishment. I have the special intellectual abilities for this most refined and specialised of callings. There is no one like me. But it is a lonely position — when there is no one equal to you. No one on the same intellectual plane.” Moriarty turned to face Moran. “That is no insult to you, my dear fellow. Insults are emotional barbs. What I am talking about here are cold facts. Imagine, then, when I perceived in this fellow Sherlock Holmes not only someone who was potentially on the same intellectual level as myself, but also someone whose pursuit was diametrically opposed to mine. How delicious! He was an opponent on a grand chessboard of law and order. What stimulating times I could have, working out plans and stratagems to challenge, confuse and beat this man. It would raise the game and give me that much-needed frisson that so often seems lacking in my life.”

“But he failed your first test.”

Moriarty threw his arm out towards the carpet bag. “Indeed, he did. He let us have the spoils.”

“Well, at least all your efforts were not in vain. We have t£10,000.”

The Professor did not respond. Moran would never understand. What was a paltry £10,000 against the opportunity to indulge in a battle of wits with an equal?

Moran opened the bag and dug his hand inside. “Wait a minute!” he cried, his voice full of alarm and apprehension.

The Professor’s eyes sparked with interest. “What is it?”

Quickly, without a word, Moran turned the bag upside-down, tipping the contents on to the Professor’s desk. Sheets of blank white paper spilled out — blank, that is, except for a single sheet that appeared to have writing on it. Deftly, Moriarty extracted this from the pile. Holding it close to the lamp on his desk, he read the sheet out loud: “Sorry. SH.”

The Professor folded the sheet neatly and burst out laughing.