The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Veiled Detective

Four

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER

Alexander Reed was the most charming and persuasive of companions, and by the time we were on to our third brandy I had not only told him the story of my life, but also had described in detail the battle of Maiwand and the terrible aftermath which had not only ended my military career, but, as I saw it, had blighted the rest of my life as well. He made little comment as I talked, merely nodding his head sympathetically from time to time and sometimes repeating facts so that he was sure that he understood them. Why he was so interested in my story I had no idea — then — but it was a wonderful tonic for me to be able to unburden myself, to unleash the misery and despair I had kept within me. In medical terms, I suppose it was a kind of therapy. Whatever it was, I felt somehow better when I had finished.

Reed remained silent for a while when I reached the end of my narrative, and stared meditatively into his drink. I wondered if I had made a fool of myself, and was on the brink of excusing myself in order to go to my cabin, when he turned to me with a sigh.

“You’ve certainly had a rough time, and I reckon you have been treated very unfairly. It can be a tough old world at times. Still, nil desperandum, as my old pater used to say when my school was being thrashed at cricket. You see, I think I can help you — or, to put it more precisely, I have friends who may be of assistance to you. Help you get on your feet again.”

“That’s awfully kind, Reed, but I couldn’t possibly accept any handouts.”

Reed laughed. “My, what a noble fellow you are! Your principles would not allow it, eh?”

I nodded sheepishly. “Something like that.”

“Well, then, you’ll be pleased to hear that I was suggesting nothing of the sort. These friends... they may be able to offer you some kind of work.”

“What kind of work? As a doctor?”

My companion shrugged. “I’m not sure. I can’t be certain of anything exactly, but I expect that if I put a good word in for you, they could fix you up with something that would suit the both of you. It’s a probability rather than a possibility, anyway. I do a little recruiting for them from time to time. Are you interested?”

It sounded very mysterious, and under normal circumstances I would have had strong reservations about accepting such a vague offer, but these were not normal circumstances. I had long forgotten what normal circumstances were. I was a drowning man and here was the proverbial straw. I clutched at it.

“I should be delighted if they could help.”

Reed beamed. “Splendid. I’m being met off the boat by one of the friends I have just mentioned, a gentleman named Scoular. I shall introduce you to him and act as your sponsor. Then we shall take it from there, eh?”

“I don’t know how I can thank you enough.”

Reed winked and raised his empty glass. “Well, for a start, you could fill this little blighter up, eh?”

* * *

I slept well that night. The first time in many months. I convinced myself that it wasn’t just the alcohol that lulled me into deep, untroubled sleep, but rather a new feeling of hope that had been engendered within me by meeting Alexander Reed. In a few short hours he had convinced me that my life was not at an end — that somehow I could have a successful and happy future. And not only that, he had held out his hand in friendship in order to help me achieve what previously I had thought was impossible — to seal the past behind me and create a new life. A new life— that phrase bobbed like flotsam on the sea of sleep before it finally engulfed me.

Grey morning brought with it doubts. On reviewing my conversation with Reed in the cold light of day, I felt certain that my revived spirits had more to do with the effects of the brandy than any vague offer that my new acquaintance had made. My doubts increased when I failed to see Reed anywhere on board the ship. I searched all the decks, dining rooms and bars, but to no avail. I even enquired of the purser for his cabin number, but was told there was no one of that name on board the Orontes. I was dumbfounded. Thinking back to the previous evening, I began to see the occasion as possessing a dreamlike quality. Maybe I had imagined it. The whole episode had an element of wish fulfilment about it: I had been given a kind sympathetic ear, friendship and the offer of employment. Perhaps I was going mad.

By early evening we were sailing up the Thames and I was packing my scant possessions in readiness to disembark. The pendulum of my spirits had swung back into the dark zone and I felt thoroughly depressed. Disconsolately, I joined the throng of passengers on deck to view some of the familiar landmarks of London, all silhouettes now, merging into the darkening sky.

“Ah, there you are. Been looking for you,” said a voice at my side. I turned, and to my surprise I saw Reed’s smiling face. He was dressed in an expensive black coat with an astrakhan collar and was wearing an opera hat.

“And I’ve been looking for you.” My response was automatic and unreasonably indignant.

Reed ignored my rudeness. “Looks like we’ve both been playing hide-and-seek, then. Well, journey’s end in lovers’ meeting, eh? Now, you’re to leave the boat with me. My friend Scoular will be waiting, and then the three of us can repair to my club for a pork chop or two and discuss the future. What do you say?”

His charm and easy manner quickly dispelled my anger frustration and despair within seconds. I grinned. “I should be delighted to go along with your plans.”

“Good man.”

Out across the city, the melancholy chimes of Big Ben could be heard signalling the hour as though in welcome to the weary travellers about to set foot once more on their native soil.

Accompanied by a raucous cheer from the crowd waiting on the dockside, the gangplanks were lowered. People waved and cried, babies and infants were held aloft, and the air seemed to crackle with the heightened excitement of anticipated reunion. As I gazed down on those eager, smiling faces, I felt a pang of jealousy. There were no hugs, kisses or firm handshakes waiting for me. There was no one waiting to greet and welcome me back home.

“Stick close, old boy,” said Reed, grabbing my sleeve. “There’ll be an almighty rush once they lift the barriers.”

He was right. The crush of passengers desperate to escape the confines of the ship surged forward, squeezing down the narrow lanes of the gangways. It was like being caught up with a fierce river current and being swept away against one’s will. Reed and I were carried along, tossed and buffeted like driftwood.

“I rate myself a lover of my fellow man,” whispered my companion in my ear as we were jostled nearer the gangway, “but I ain’t so sure I like them this close.”

Within five minutes, somewhat breathless and dishevelled, we found ourselves standing on the dockside.

“Well, here we are, Walker. The old country. Breathe in that damp, tainted air. Grand, eh?”

I smiled. Reed seemed to find amusement and enjoyment in most things. Nothing seemed to ruffle his even temperament or throw a cloud across his sanguine outlook on life. I found myself liking and admiring my new acquaintance more and more. I did take in a lungful of air. Tainted as it was with myriad vapours and smells, so different from the dry, dusty air of Afghanistan, it tasted good to me.

We stood for some time on the dockside as passengers scurried past us and porters conveyed large trunks to waiting conveyances. It was dark now, and the area was illuminated by a series of gas lamps that bathed us in a soft yellow glow. Neither of us felt the need to talk: we were just taking time to acknowledge our new reality. After weeks bobbing on the waters in an artificial, enclosed environment, we were now back in England, our home. Back where we belonged. And I felt in my heart that, whatever unknown problems I now had to face, I would much prefer to face them here than anywhere else.

As the crowd dissipated, a tall, imposing figure emerged from the gloom and stood for a moment under one of the gas lamps, watching us. He was well over six feet in height, a height that was exaggerated by the top hat he was wearing. Reed observed him and raised his hand in greeting. This prompted the stranger to approach us. He moved like a cat, with soft sinewy movements, his feet making no sound on the damp paving stones. As he drew closer, I saw that he was a black man, with a remarkably handsome face. He stopped some little distance from where we were standing and touched the brim of his hat with his silver-topped cane, acknowledging Reed’s greeting.

Reed beamed. “Scoular, my old friend, how good to see you.” He stepped forward, grabbed the man’s hand and gave it a vigourous shake. There was no obvious response: no reciprocal smile or warm words. The fellow’s expression hardly altered. He looked beyond Reed at me, his eyes registering some interest at my presence. Reed noticed this, and his whole body stiffened awkwardly. He threw a nervous smile in my direction.

“Excuse me, Walker, for a moment, while I have some private words with my old chum.”

I nodded, feeling rather like a child left outside the headmaster’s study while one of the masters and the head decide on what punishment to administer.

The two men moved some distance away, whereupon Reed spoke rapidly in an animated fashion. I could not hear what he was saying, but it was clear that he was telling the impassive stranger all about me. From time to time, both men glanced in my direction as though I were some item at an auction which was under discussion by two potential bidders. Obviously Reed had overestimated the welcome and help I would receive from his friends, and he was having to persuade the icy Scoular of my worth. I felt very uncomfortable and was tempted to leave, to walk away. What stopped me was the knowledge that I had nowhere to walk away to. In essence, I was trapped.

When Reed had finished his recital, he waited nervously for Scoular to respond. The gentleman stood impassively for some time, and then he asked a few questions. In the growing quiet, I heard the dark, silky tone of his voice on the night air.

And then suddenly, Scoular moved with the speed of a leopard and before I knew it, he was by my side, his gloved hand extended and a broad grin on that dark, handsome face of his. “Doctor Walker, I am so pleased to meet you. I am Lincoln Scoular.”

Dumbly I took his hand and shook it. Like a gas mantle being turned down, the smile faded quickly.

“I have a carriage waiting. We shall repair to Reed’s club for drink and refreshment, and to provide you with a night’s accommodation. Over our meal we shall discuss your future. I trust that these arrangements are in accordance with your wishes?”

I nodded. “Indeed,” I said, unsure whether they were or not. I knew that in reality I had no other option. Once again, it was a decision that was to change my life for ever.

“Where is he now?” Professor Moriarty handed his two visitors a glass of brandy each before seating himself behind his large desk.

“At my club, snoring his head off no doubt,” grinned Reed, cradling the brandy glass in both hands. “We made sure he had plenty to eat and drink.”

Moriarty nodded and turned to his other visitor. “Impressions?”

Scoular pursed his lips. “There is steel and fire in his nature, I am sure. At present he is demoralised, but, given time, the phoenix will rise.”

“With our help, eh, Professor?” Reed raised his glass in a mock toast.

The Professor did not seem amused. “You are rarely wrong in finding the organisation effective recruits, Reed, but this time I must be absolutely certain about this man. I have a particular project in mind for him — if he is the right man.”

“There is no doubt that all the biographical details are true. I read all about his case in the local press in Candahar and thought then that he might make a suitable candidate for recruitment. When I learned that he would be sailing on the same boat back here, I made it my business to find out all about him.”

Now Moriarty did smile. “Your thoroughness is commendable — but facts do not always reveal the man.”

“Ah,” said Reed, warming with the compliment, “but I watched him closely on the voyage and I spent several hours in conversation with him. He has all the qualities we look for in a recruit: nobility, courage, but a life damaged and a nature simmering with bitterness. He is ready, I am sure.”

“I believe Reed is right,” agreed Scoular softly. “In his present state of mind, Walker is rather like a dog that has been rescued from being destroyed. He will give obedience and loyalty to anyone who shows him any form of kindness and generosity.”

Moriarty sipped his brandy, trapping the mouthful until it began to burn his tongue before releasing it. “I am encouraged by your words, gentlemen. If what you say is accurate, it is so very opportune that this remarkable individual has been washed up on our beach at this particular time. He seems to have all the qualities needed for the job I have in mind.”

“May I ask what job that is?” enquired Reed.

Moriarty grinned. “Of course you may. However, you should not expect an answer. Not yet, at least.”

Reed looked nervously away and took a large gulp of brandy.

The room fell into silence, a silence both visitors knew it would be inappropriate to break. The Professor was thinking, and he would be the one to speak first. Scoular and Reed sat impassively as the silence settled on the room, accentuating the crackle of the coals in the grate and the soft tick of the clock on the mantel. At length the Professor began tapping his fingers in a staccato rhythm on the desk, and then at last he spoke.

“You are excellent lieutenants, and I trust your word and your judgement implicitly. However, on this occasion, I need to judge for myself before we go any further with this matter. Reed, I shall call round to your club tomorrow at noon. Make sure there is a private room available where I may have a meeting with Doctor John H. Walker.”

“It shall be done.”

“Very good. Now, gentlemen, I do not think I need keep you any more from your beds or what other pursuits you have in mind at this late hour. Therefore, I bid you goodnight.”

After the two men had gone, Moriarty picked up a copy of the Temple Bar magazine, which Reed had brought him that evening. It was dated 1878. He flipped it open to the page that Reed had marked: ‘The Missing Dagger’ — a mystery story by John H. Walker. Professor James Moriarty settled down in his chair and began to read.