“The man is dead,” he said.
“Stangerson?”
“Stangerson.”
“But how...?”
Holmes held Jefferson Hope’s pill-box in the flat of his hand. “The Higher Court decreed it.”
“You mean you administered poison to the man?”
Holmes shook his head. “I gave him the same choice that Hope had given Drebber.”
I shook my head in puzzlement and ran my fingers through my hair. “I don’t understand. Why on earth did you go to such an extreme?”
“Because—” he snapped, and then broke off. His voice was strident and angry, but there was emotional turmoil mirrored in his moist eyes. He paused before starting again. “Because I saw that it was the right thing to do. How was it fair or just that such a man should escape justice? He was a murderer and a coward. He was partly responsible for ruining three lives. I was wrong to stop Hope tonight. I should have allowed him to carry out the final part of his revenge. It was a righteous revenge.”
“But you yourself have now become party to murder.”
Holmes rattled the pill-box. “I let him choose.”
“What would you have done if he’d chosen the harmless pill?”
Holmes gave me a look that chilled me. “I only offered him the box containing the poisoned pills.”
“So it was murder.”
“Some would say so. And I am sure it will weigh on my conscience for a while — but not for long, for the man deserved to die.”
“It is not for you to make such a decision. You talked of a higher court. That was nonsense. You decided his fate. You intervened.”
“Yes, I did, in the name of true justice. While on earth we must strive for the best justice that this paltry existence can supply. There can be no doubt of the nature of guilt in the great crime of murder. The taking of another’s life for purely selfish reasons is the most terrible offence a man can commit — and it must be punished.”
“An eye for an eye? Surely that is too barbaric and simplistic?”
“I agree. Such rhetoric needs to be tempered to the occasion. Each case must be judged on its own merits. But often an offence cannot be dealt with fairly by the ephemeral nature of institutionalised justice. 500 years ago, if I had been caught stealing a sheep, the lord of the manor would have been within his rights to have me killed. Not so today. He would have to answer to the local magistrate, and I would probably end up with a few months in some damp prison establishment. The crime is the same — but the law is different. That is because society’s attitudes have changed. But what redress does the sheep-stealer from the Middle Ages have? Man’s law is ephemeral and arbitrary. It shifts and alters on the tide of changing perceptions of society. Believe me, Watson, it is no measure by which to judge. True, refined, objective justice is timeless.”
“I still believe that you should have let the law deal with Joseph Stangerson.”
“The law had twenty years in which to deal with both Drebber and Stangerson, and it failed. Believe me, I am not easy within myself at what I did tonight. See, my hand is still shaking. My nerves are jangling. But up here, up here where it really counts,” he tapped his temple vigorously with his forefinger, “I am calm. I am secure. The rational part of my being knows that I acted wisely, justly and in keeping with my moral beliefs. And soon its strength will subdue my errant emotions. I am a stronger man after what I have done tonight. My path is even clearer than it was before, and believe me, Doctor, the world is a better place without the likes of Enoch Drebber and Joseph Stangerson in it.”
“I see that you are passionate about the matter and have convinced yourself that you have done no wrong.”
“Yes, and I have to convince you also, if you are to be an associate of mine.”
I shook my head in some confusion. “I’m not sure. In whatever way you dress up this business, you have taken a man’s life tonight. In the eyes of the law, that is murder. The premise goes against all the teachings of my youth. I’m really not sure.”
Surprisingly, Sherlock Holmes smiled. “Uncertainty will do for now. It is a large concept to swallow whole at the first encounter. I shall wear away at you. I know you are a good man, and that makes us brothers. You will see the light.”
“And in the mean time...”
“In the mean time, I must ask for your support. I must ask you to lie for me.”
“I thought as much.”
“Shrewdness is another of your sterling qualities. We must let the Yard know about poor Hope here, and lead them to believe he came here after he had sneaked into Halliday’s Hotel and carried out his deed. It would be as the man wanted, I am sure: to be seen as the avenging angel visiting both of his tormentors.”
I thought for a while. At that moment, I believed that Sherlock Holmes had made a great mistake, a blunder. He had taken his role of detective beyond the pale. And yet I realised that if he had not had the ingenuity to lure Jefferson Hope to our lodgings, Stangerson would most likely have suffered the same fate. While I pondered these things, Holmes threw off his outer clothes and poured himself a brandy. The smell of the alcohol brought to my mind that night under the Afghan stars, leaning against the old tree and drinking brandy... How I had suffered for that action! Holmes was not a monster, was not really a murderer, and if he had transgressed it was for the best possible reasons. I could not now elevate myself to be his judge.
“Very well,” I said at length. “I will corroborate your story and we shall not speak of this matter again. But do not at any time in the future put my loyalty to such a test again. This is the one and only time that I support such an action.”
How wrong I was.
Holmes struck my knee. “Good man. I knew I could rely on you — otherwise I would not have told you the truth.” He smiled briefly and then drained his glass. “Now, Watson, be a good fellow and arrange for a telegram to be sent to the Yard.”
Within the hour, both Lestrade and Gregson came round to Baker Street, along with a mortuary wagon. Holmes and I presented a doctored version of the night’s events, which was swallowed completely by the gullible policemen.
“We’ll get some men round to Halliday’s Hotel right away,” said Gregson. “A sad but tidy end to a baffling mystery.”
“Indeed,” agreed Lestrade. “A nice bit of work on your part, Mr Holmes. But you were very lucky not to be more severely injured by this Hope fellow. You really should leave all that heroic stuff to us professionals. If you’d have told us about it in the first place, we could have nabbed him before he set foot in the room.”
“And spoil my night’s entertainment?”
The policemen smiled, and each shook his head in bewilderment at my friend’s definition of entertainment. They bade us goodnight and departed.
Holmes and I said nothing for a while, and then Holmes rose and stretched.
“I am for my bed,” he said. As he reached the door, he turned to face me. “Thank you,” he said quietly, before leaving the room.
It was now my turn to pour a brandy nightcap. I cradled the glass in my hands as I leaned forward in my chair and stared into the dying embers of the fire. I knew that I could not reveal the truth of what happened that evening in my report to Moriarty. If I did so, I would be offering my new friend up as a sacrifice to the Professor. He would have a stranglehold on him for the rest of his life. No, Moriarty had to receive the official version of Hope and Stangerson’s death, the one that we had relayed to the police. I sighed with weariness and sadness at the delicate layers of duplicity that were surrounding my life.
I was also aware that, from the point of a fictionalised account of my first case with Holmes, it was too simplistic and short. If I were to turn the Brixton Road affair into a popular piece of literature, I would have to weave further threads into the mystery, to embellish the plot, while retaining the essential details of the true story.
One thing I was sure of was the nature of my burgeoning friendship with Sherlock Holmes, tha
t strange creature to whom I had been invisibly shackled. The form and course of our relationship had changed that night. We shared a dark secret which inevitably drew us closer together. The more I saw of Holmes and listened to him, the more I liked and admired the man. I knew there and then that I was going to protect him, protect him from Moriarty and, more importantly, protect him from himself.
Nineteen
Although Sherlock Holmes’ involvement in the Brixton Road murder was mentioned only fleetingly in the press reports of the case, with Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson receiving the bulk of the credit for clearing up the mystery, somehow news of Holmes’ detective brilliance began to circulate and be disseminated across the great city. A few more successes with private cases further enhanced the detective’s reputation, and within six months there was a steady flow of clients calling at 221B Baker Street.
Holmes now relied upon Watson to accompany him on most of the investigations. He enjoyed the comforting presence of an intelligent man who not only had the great gift of silence at the appropriate moment, but also was an excellent sounding-board when he needed to discuss his ideas and theories. For his part, Watson — and now John Walker saw himself as such, his previous identity having been swallowed up by the mists of time and self-induced amnesia — was pleased with the arrangement. The experience he had shared with Holmes during the Hope investigation had in some mystical or spiritual way transmuted John Walker into John Watson. It was only his obligatory monthly reports to Professor Moriarty that reminded him of his duplicitous role. Otherwise, he enjoyed Holmes’ company and thrilled to the excitement of the chase, the puzzle of the unsolved crime and those moments of danger which are an integral part of a consulting detective’s career. He continued to keep a private record of the investigations, altering them in various degrees in order to make them entertaining mysteries for the reading public. He was determined that one day he would offer these to a publisher, but at present he realised that the time was not right.
And, of course, there was Professor Moriarty. Although it was indeed Moriarty who had originally suggested that Watson write about Holmes, he knew that he would have to obtain his permission before taking action. As time went on, the monthly reports to the Professor became slimmer and less detailed as Watson surmised that Moriarty was losing interest in the situation. Holmes now was fully occupied with private cases and never strayed into Moriarty’s territory, and thus did not pose a threat to his organisation’s machinations. Holmes was no longer an irritant to him, but the Professor knew there was always a danger that one day...
And so the lives of Holmes and Watson seemed to be settled, and their relationship flourished, until one day a woman came into their lives and disturbed the placid waters.
FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN H. WATSON
I am in love with Mary Morstan. And I do not know what to do about it. I have no idea if she has any feelings for me — but even if she had, it would be an impossible match, for she is due to inherit a fortune.
Mary is a client of Sherlock Holmes’. She came seeking his help to unravel a mystery concerning her missing father, Captain Morstan, who had disappeared some ten years earlier. For the past six years, on the same annual date, she had been receiving through the post the anonymous gift of a single pearl. Accompanying the pearl on the most recent occasion was a note inviting her to meet her unknown benefactor, who pledged to do her a justice which she had been denied. She was concerned as to what action she should take, and so sought the advice of my companion.
As Mary told us her story in our sitting-room that dull September morning, I hardly heard a word she said, so captivated was I by the beauty of the woman. I say beauty, for to me she had that wondrous arrangement of features and a gentle but forthright manner which conjures up my ideal woman. And, if I accept it, she reminded me of my first love, Lauren, who was taken by influenza in her eighteenth year. Mary had the same large blue eyes and placid, spiritual expression when her features were in repose. As I was introduced to her, I felt a tingle as I shook her hand. She was blonde and dainty, with a quiet but precise way of speaking, and I can say that I have never looked upon a face that gave a clearer promise of a refined and sensitive nature. I admit that the objective observer might describe her features as being plain, but to me, who saw beyond the veil, she was beautiful.
During the course of the investigation, I felt us growing closer. She turned to me rather than Holmes for reassurance. On one occasion, I escorted her home. She was living with a friend, Mrs Forrester, who had been an early client of Holmes’. It was in the early hours of the morning, and Mary and I sat close together in the cab. Her hands sought mine, and I whispered some words of comfort concerning the case. She could not know of the violent struggle within my breast, or the effort of self-restraint which held me back from taking her in my arms and kissing her. Yet there were two thoughts prominent in my mind which sealed the words of affection on my lips and held back my arms from embracing her. She was weak and helpless, shaken in mind and spirit. It would be callous and calculated to take advantage of her by professing my love at this time. Worse still, she was rich. If Holmes’ investigations were successful — and I had every reason to believe that they would be — she would inherit a fortune. It was unthinkable that a fellow like myself should aspire to such a match, and indeed any approach I made would seem like the vulgar attentions of a fortune-seeker.
Of course there was one other reason which barred me from declaring my feelings for Mary: Professor Moriarty. I was his slave. His puppet. What would he say if I told him that I was in love and intended to marry? Such an act would inevitably take me away from Baker Street and away from Sherlock Holmes. Such an act would be seen as treachery.
My heart weighed like lead when we reached our destination. The servants had retired hours ago, but Mrs Forrester had sat up awaiting Mary’s return. She opened the door herself, a middle-aged, graceful woman with a caring nature, and it gave me joy to see how tenderly her arm stole round the other’s waist, and how motherly was the tone of the voice with which she greeted Mary.
I was introduced, and Mrs Forrester earnestly implored me to step in and tell her our adventures. I knew Holmes was waiting for me to start the next stage of our investigation, and so reluctantly I had to refuse the offer.
As my cab drove away, I stole a glance back, and as I write this I can still see in my mind’s eye the two ladies on the step, two graceful clinging figures, and the half-opened door, the hall light shining through the stained glass, the barometer and the bright stair-rods. It was soothing to catch even that passing glimpse of a tranquil English home in the midst of the dark business which had absorbed us. It was like a mirage to me, the essence of quiet domestic bliss, which I believed at the time would elude me forever.
However, perhaps I more than most should not be surprised at the unpredictable and fickle way in which Fate plays with our lives. It is as the poet has it — our fate is “Lock’t up from the mortal eye/In shady leaves of destiny.” It was my destiny to be with Mary. I see that now, but then, as the carriage rumbled through the darkened streets and the little tableau of Mary with Mrs Forrester slipped from sight, I felt sick at heart.
Sherlock Holmes, ignorant of the emotional strains I was experiencing, carried on the investigation with relentless vigour. He was in search of the great Agra Treasure, which had been stolen some ten years before by Mary’s father and his co-conspirators, Colonel John Sholto and Jonathan Small. Small, the only survivor of the thieves, had recently arrived in London after escaping from imprisonment on the Andaman Islands, in search of what he considered to be his rightful inheritance. If the truth be known, many of the details of this case escaped me, as most of my thoughts were full of Mary. The published version of this investigation, the novella called The Sign of the Four, had perhaps more inaccurate passages and invented moments than nearly any other bearing my name. I know how my heart soared when we discovered that the treasure was lost and that Mary would not become an heir
ess after all. However, in my naïvety, I never considered two important things: that in law, the treasure was not Mary’s to keep anyway, and that she was of such a noble character that she would not contemplate calling any part of it her own.
I had arrived at Mrs Forrester’s with the treasure chest to find Mary waiting for me in the sitting-room. With the aid of the poker, I wrenched open the chest — to discover that it was empty.
“Thank God!” I cried out loud, my heart soaring, when I realised that the treasure was now no longer a barrier to our union. How could it be? There was no treasure.
Mary looked at me with a quick, questioning smile.
“Why do you say that?” she asked, but from her tone and expression I was aware that she knew the answer already.
“Because now you are within my reach,” I said, taking her hand. She did not withdraw it. “Because I love you, Mary, as truly as ever a man loved a woman. And the treasure, the possible wealth that it would bestow on you, sealed my lips. I could not as much as give you a hint of my true feelings while there was a possibility that you would become a rich woman. Now there is no threat. That stumbling-block has gone and I can confess that I love you.”
She drew close and smiled. “And that is why you said, ‘Thank God!’”
I nodded.
She kissed my cheek. “And then I say thank God, too.”
For a moment we stared into each other’s eyes, and then I pulled her to me and we kissed.
The elation I felt as I left Mary Morstan on the step of Mrs Forrester’s that night soon dissipated when I remembered that I still faced a greater and more insurmountable hurdle, in the dark shape of Professor Moriarty.
How could I marry Mary and stay true to my accursed bargain with him? But I was not about to give up my romantic dream without a fight. At the earliest opportunity, I wrote to the Professor requesting an interview, and then I waited. Once again, this creature of the underworld held my life and happiness in his hands.
The Veiled Detective Page 14
