“With my help?” I parroted the words back at him.
“The full story, please, Walker. Questions later. Sherlock Holmes is a private detective. He is also a brilliant fellow. He is the greatest mind fighting on behalf of law and order in London today. His intellectual capacity is as great as mine. We are twins, he and I, and we stand like two colossi facing each other across the great divide. He solves crimes, and I commit them. He is younger than I — by some five years — and so I have a march on him at present, but his greatness will come. This delights and also concerns me. His activities, so beautifully crafted and shrewdly conceived, are a delight to perceive, but at the same time he causes me problems. Already, he has ‘interfered’ in a number of my schemes, causing them to fail. The nature of this paradox fascinates me. I could easily dispose of this thorn in my flesh, of course. A word from me and he would soon be shuffling off this mortal coil. However, not only would that be too easy, but it would also remove the challenge and the problem. And they are so stimulating. A nice dilemma, eh, Walker? I have thought long and hard about this situation. I felt sure that I could come to some delicious compromise regarding myself and Mr Sherlock Holmes, who, by the way, I am sure, at present at least, has no notion of my existence or my role whatsoever.
“Well, I have decided to conduct an experiment that will give me both the pleasure of seeing Mr Holmes’ talents develop and his career progress, while at the same time reduce the real danger he poses to me and my organisation. I intend to place him under the microscope, to use a metaphor a writer like yourself will readily appreciate. And this is where you come in. In simple terms, you are to be my spy in his camp. You are to befriend him, share lodgings with him, become his associate, and then report on his dealings to me. You will, while delighting me with tales of his brilliant work, be able to alert me if he is sniffing too close to my territory.”
“You are mad!” I cried. “This is a preposterous scheme.”
Moriarty frowned, and when he responded to my outburst, his voice was full of anger. “I had hoped that, by now, whatever view you have of my moral nature, you would be aware of the thoroughness of my planning, the efficiency of my scheming and the reliability of my visions. Otherwise, sir, you would not be trapped here with me now. A man I have watched and waited for since learning of your disgrace in Afghanistan. A man I have lured into my web by means of my operatives. A man who is now completely at my mercy. Do you call that preposterous?”
As he spoke, he leaned forward, his face thrusting into mine, his roaring voice filling the room. Not for the first time in his company I was lost for words.
“My plan is audacious, it is dangerous, it is unique,” and now he lowered his voice to a harsh whisper, “but it is not preposterous. Even as we speak, action is being taken to bring about all I have conceived.”
“How on earth can this work? If the man is as brilliant as you say, he will discover the trick.”
“Ah, yes, that is part of the fun, the entertainment. There is always a danger. What is life without there being ‘always a danger’? But it will be your job to minimalise that danger. You will be his true friend in all things except your allegiance to me. When the crime has nothing to do with me, you will do all you can to help Holmes bring the perpetrator to justice. When the crime involves my organisation, you will inform me of Holmes’ progress and do all in your power to hinder him. Think of it, my dear Watson — oh, and Watson it will be, near enough to your own name, but not traceable to the scoundrel who got drunk on duty, eh? Reed’s idea. Think of it, Watson, as a wonderful charade.”
“And what if I refuse?”
“The Thames is very cold at this time of year.”
“I see,” I said softly, my eyes misting with fear and frustration. I wanted to rush at the man and knock his brains out, but I was fully aware how futile such a gesture would be.
“My dear Watson, you were not chosen at random. I know you are the man for the job. You have many sterling qualities that are unique. And, of course, you will be rewarded handsomely for your services. Never again will you have to count your small change to ensure that you can pay for a meal or a room for the night. For the first time in your life, you will be self-sufficient.”
“What is there stopping me from telling this Sherlock Holmes or the police about your plan?”
“I doubt if the police would believe you. They lack the mental capacity to conceive of a criminal organisation almost as big as they are. As for Holmes, well, as soon as he finds out, he will be joining you in the morgue. His life is now in your hands.”
“You bastard.”
“Possibly, Doctor Watson — but a very clever and powerful bastard, all the same. I am sure you would agree.”
“Of course, as you well know, I have done little jobs for the Professor in the past—walk-on parts, as I like to think of them — but this seems like a major role.”
“One of the biggest, Kitty, and it is destined to be a long run,” agreed Reed, flashing one of his warm, friendly smiles.
Kitty Hudson matched it. “And here’s me thinking I’d said goodbye to the theatre. You know, the last time I was on a stage must have been over five years ago. They just don’t want scrawny widow-women, especially when they hit the fifty mark.”
“Well, you’re perfect for the part the Professor’s chosen for you to play — and no auditions.”
“Bliss.” Kitty Hudson closed her eyes to emphasise the emotion. Since she had been a child she had been fascinated by the theatre, by the whole process of dressing-up, putting on a performance and becoming someone else. It was an escape route, to leave drab reality behind. As a young girl, Kitty had joined the chorus in the music hall in her native Edinburgh and then progressed to being a member of a travelling troupe, Harry Saville’s Revels, which put on sketches and melodramas in the small provincial theatres around the country. It was while she was appearing in Liverpool that she met Frank Hudson, a burly good-looking sailor who was a steward on the Liverpool-Dublin Steam Packet Company. For a while the magic of romance and marriage lured her away from the stage, but after her baby was stillborn, and Frank took to drinking and knocking her about, she escaped once more to the fantasy life behind the footlights. She left Liverpool and Frank Hudson, and eventually found herself in London acting as comic feed to Stanley Dawkins, “The Lambeth Layabout”, at the Craven Street Theatre. She was quite a success. Her comic timing was natural, and she became a favourite with the regulars. When in a good mood, Dawkins would let her have her own solo spot where she would sing a novelty song, ‘I’m Looking for the Vital Spark’.
It was at the Craven Street Theatre, a time that Kitty now remembered as being the best in her life, that romance and tragedy struck again. She formed a relationship with Ted Baldwin, the assistant stage manager, a kind and sensitive man, the exact opposite of her brutish husband, and they set up home together. As Kitty observed at the time, “all seemed pretty in our own little backyard”. Then one night Ted was set about by a gang of drunken roughs, who stole what little money he had about his person and left him with a cracked skull. He died two days later.
For a time Kitty was inconsolable, and eventually she left the Craven. The theatre reminded her too much of her kind and loving Ted. For many years she drifted, taking any kind of job just to keep a roof above her head. When theatrical work was scarce, she drifted into petty crime, which is when she came under the Professor’s purview. He used her in many roles, especially as a lookout, or someone used to detain the foil from returning to his premises which were being robbed. She was very skilful in not letting the foil realise that he was being detained. Kitty relished these jobs because they were “proper acting parts”, and never really considered her activities as unlawful. And so here she was, rattling through the streets of west London in a hansom cab, in the company of Captain Reed, on the brink of being offered her biggest job, her biggest acting role yet.
“Bliss,” she repeated, as the cab drew up outside a three-storey terr
aced house in a smart residential street.
“Here we are, Kitty. Let’s take a look at your new home.” Reed skipped out of the cab and helped her down from the vehicle. Kitty liked Reed because he always treated her like a lady, as though she was a dowager duchess or someone of that ilk. That, according to Kitty, is what a gentleman does: whether you are a real lady or a fishwife. Pulling a set of keys from his frock coat, he approached the door. Kitty looked up at the building. It was a bit of all right. Never had she seen such nice quarters. She even liked the address: 221B Baker Street.
Seven
FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER
“I cannot understand how you can believe that this wild scheme of yours will ever work. Even if I threw myself into the enterprise with great enthusiasm, I am not an actor. I cannot dissemble to order. If this Sherlock Holmes is such a great detective, as you say he is, he will easily spot me for the impostor that I am. Through my own behaviour, I would give the game away.”
I believed every word I said to Professor Moriarty, but I gave them extra emphasis, hoping that I could persuade him to drop this crazy charade by convincing him of the impractical nature of it. Thus, I would be able to slip from his noose and walk from the room a free man. However, I could see from his unruffled demeanour that my argument had fallen on stony ground. His confidence did not falter for an instant.
“But, my dear doctor, you will not be an impostor,” he replied easily. “Apart from a slight change of name and a certain adjustment to your recent history, you will be the same man who is sitting in front of me now: a penurious ex-army surgeon recently arrived from Afghanistan and looking for cheap lodgings.”
“What ‘adjustment’ to my recent history?”
“Rather than being cashiered, you were badly wounded in the Battle of Maiwand, and while recovering you contracted enteric fever, the curse of our Afghan possessions. As a result, you were invalided out of the army and sent home to England.”
“That is crazy.”
“Fact. A little news item to that effect was inserted into several of the London newspapers this morning, including The Times. My influence reaches into many areas. And as every Englishman knows, whatever appears in The Times must be the absolute truth. And Sherlock Holmes is an avid reader of the press.”
“But it’s a lie.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Colouring the truth. You believe that you were unfairly treated in Afghanistan, do you not?”
I nodded.
“And so I have redressed the balance.”
I threw my head in my hands and groaned. “Oh, my God, I wish I could wake up now. This must be some terrible dream.”
“No dream, Watson, but for you a kind of salvation. It is a wonderful opportunity, and it is about time you opened your mind to the vast possibilities that this arrangement offers to you. And, of course, there is your writing, your adventure stories. What scope there will be for penning mystery yarns while accompanying London’s most brilliant detective on his investigations. You’ll not only make him famous by recording his cases, but also create a name for yourself into the bargain.”
“Not my own name,” I pointed out tersely.
“A minor matter. You quibble too much. I think your brain is now crowded with details, and the newness and audacity of this enterprise is dulling your thoughts. You need time to think things through.”
“What is the point? There is no choice.”
Moriarty grinned. “There is choice, although I grant you, it is rather limited.”
“How am I supposed to meet this man? You say I am to share rooms with him — what if he doesn’t agree to it? There are so many uncertainties.”
“These are not things you need worry your head about. It has all been planned for and arranged. I can assure you that nothing has been left to chance. That is my way.”
What was I to do? Even in my current startled state I realised that, for the time being, I had to accept the situation and throw my hand in with the Professor, otherwise it was unlikely that I would see another sunrise. In surviving for the moment, it was possible that I could then begin to plot my own escape. Maybe I could enlist the help of this Sherlock Holmes to carry out a coup on my new master? I also realised that I must convince Moriarty that I wasn’t entering into the game with any great reluctance, otherwise it would be much harder for me to persuade him that he could trust me and therefore relax his gaze upon me.
“You mentioned remuneration,” I said, sitting forward.
“I did. A very healthy sum of money will be paid in to your new bank account, one in the name of Watson, on the first of every month.”
“A healthy sum...?”
“One hundred pounds every month.”
At this, my mouth really did drop open in surprise. To me, in my impoverished state, that was a king’s ransom. For an unguarded moment, I bathed in the glow of my new-found wealth until a small voice inside reminded me from whence the money came.
“I pay my trusted employees very well, Watson. And in your new position you will be one of the most important and one of the most trusted.” He raised his finger in warning. “So, do make sure that you deserve my trust.”
“I... I will do my best.” The words stuck in my throat and I felt an overwhelming sense of unease take hold of my senses.
“I feel sure your best will be good enough. I am rarely wrong in my judgement of character. So, then, have we an arrangement?”
With as much conviction as possible, I mustered a smile — a dead smile. “Yes”’ I said, “we have an arrangement.”
“Excellent!” cried the Professor, grasping my hand.
It was early evening when Sherlock Holmes made his way back to his diggings in Montague Street. His mind was whirling with figures and formulae. He had spent the day working in one of the laboratories at St Bart’s Hospital, attempting to develop a solution which would indicate the presence of bloodstains, however infinitesimal they might be. He wished to create a reagent that was precipitated solely by haemoglobin and thus could provide incontrovertible proof that human blood had been spilt. The old guaiacum test was clumsy and uncertain and therefore could not be relied upon in criminal matters. If he could create an infallible test, one that would work no matter how old the bloodstains were, it would be the most important medico-legal discovery for years, and would certainly boost his reputation in the world of crime detection. He had read of the case of Von Bischoff in Frankfurt the previous year, and was convinced that if such a test had been available then, the fellow would have mounted the gallows. As it was, he was set free.
Holmes believed that he was nearly there. A few more days, further experiments with the various combinations of powders, crystals and quantities. He was confident he would reach his goal, but, as always, he was impatient. These ideas jostled around his brain as he climbed the stairs to his quarters.
On entering his sitting-room, he noticed an envelope on the floor which had obviously been slipped under the door. His name was on the envelope, written in the crabbed spidery writing he recognised as belonging to his landlord, Ambrose Jones. Throwing off his coat and turning on the gas lamps, he dropped into a chair and tore open the envelope. The note inside was terse and to the point.
Dear Mr Holmes,
Please take this communication as notice to vacate your quarters within seven days of today’s date.
Ambrose Jones
Holmes stroked his chin and frowned. What on earth was this all about?
Ambrose Jones was just heating some soup for his evening meal when there was a tap on his door. He moved the soup from the heat of the gas ring, and with some irritation he pulled his ragged old dressing-gown around him and answered the door, opening it a few inches. In the hallway he saw Sherlock Holmes. He was holding his note.
“Yes?” snapped the landlord.
“About this note—”
“What about it? Can’t you read it?”
“Indeed I can, despite your execrable handwriting. Th
e words and the message are clear. You used an HB pencil, and as you wrote just a few words at a time when composing it, you were probably travelling on a horse-bus, as is your wont, and scribbled the words between the stops to avoid being shaken too much by the movement of the vehicle.”
“You saw me!”
Holmes shook his head. “I deduced it.”
Jones was not quite sure what “deduced” meant, so his response was an angry but strangely non-committal “Hah!”
He started to close the door, but Holmes placed his hand against it and held it firmly.
“So, what is your problem?” snapped Jones.
“I want to know why you want me to leave. As far as I am aware, I have caused you no problems and I have paid my rent on time.”
“I don’t have to answer any of your questions. You’re my tenant, and I am within my rights to chuck you out with a week’s notice. And that, Mr Deducer, is what I’m doing.”
Holmes could see that Jones was now very angry, but he was also aware that the anger was a thin veneer covering another more powerful emotion: fear.
“This is all very sudden, Mr Jones. Maybe this action is being forced upon you.”
Jones’s face flushed with frustration. “I do not have to answer to you, or anyone, concerning what I do with my properties. I want you out. There are those who can and will pay more for those rooms.”
“Really? Who?”
Jones stepped back and flung the door open wide while at the same time producing a jack-knife from the pocket of his dressing-gown. He thrust the knife before Holmes’ face, the blade glinting in the dim gaslight.
“Listen, you’ve had your marching orders, Holmes. Don’t test my patience any more or...”
Holmes smiled. “Or?”
Jones brought the knife close to Holmes’ face. “Or your next place of residence will be six feet under.”
Nimbly, Holmes snaked his arm up, taking hold of Jones’s wrist in a powerful grip, and squeezed hard. Jones gave a sharp cry of pain and, dropping the knife, he staggered backwards, clutching his wrist.
The Veiled Detective Page 6
