The Veiled Detective

by David Stuart Davies

  Mrs Hudson nodded. She knew this was an order, and it dismayed her. She had grown very fond of her eccentric and unpredictable lodger, and she didn’t want any harm to come to him. But she had no choice in the matter: he didn’t pay her wages.

  “Good,” said Scoular, pulling on his gloves. “I will visit you again this evening after dark and search Holmes’ quarters, and then I’m afraid I shall be forced to start a little fire.”

  “Oh, mercy me, no! You’re not going to burn down my lovely home?”

  “Nothing as extravagant as that, I assure you. Merely a small conflagration in Holmes’ rooms which will destroy his files and records and render the place uninhabitable. Your quarters will be safe.”

  “How can you be sure of that?” Mrs Hudson asked with asperity.

  Scoular smiled for the first time since he had arrived. “I can’t.”

  It took a great deal of persistence to persuade Mary to make a surprise visit to her aunt in Exeter. Instinctively, she knew something was wrong and that the matter was connected with Sherlock Holmes.

  “Are you in any danger?” she asked, fixing me with her blue eyes.

  After years of dissembling, lies came easily to me — but not when dealing with Mary. I hated telling her an untruth — but I had to. I don’t think she believed me when I told her there was nothing to worry about, but at the same time I felt she knew that what I had asked her to do was in her best interests.

  That evening she packed, and I sent a telegram to Exeter to give Mary’s aunt notice of her arrival. Very early the following morning, I saw Mary off at Paddington Station. Not since my stay in the stinking cell in Candahar had I felt as miserable and alone as when the train chugged its noisy way out of the station, with Mary leaning out of a carriage window, waving goodbye. With Holmes in hiding and Mary gone, I had no one to turn to.

  As I made my way back up the platform, a voice whispered in my ear.

  “Going on a trip then, is she, the good lady wife?”

  I turned to see a thin, rat-faced fellow in a loud brown-checked suit grinning back at me. With mock politeness, he raised his brown bowler.

  “The Professor sends his compliments. No news of Mr Holmes, I presume?”

  I shook my head. “No news,” is all I could find to say.

  “And the wife?”

  “Mary has gone to visit her aunt, who has not been well.”

  “Left you all alone, has she? Well, never mind, Doctor Watson. We’re never far from your side. Do keep in touch.”

  With an infuriating smirk, he raised his hat again and walked away. I stood rooted to the spot. I gazed unnervingly at the throng that passed by me. How many of them were the Professor’s men? What could I do? How could I act if I were under that fiend’s microscope all the time? Rather dejectedly, I continued on my way up the platform, brooding on what I considered to be a very dismal future.

  It was then that I saw the newspaper billboard by the news kiosk. The headline ran: FIRE AT SHERLOCK HOLMES’ ROOMS.

  Twenty-Seven

  With practiced ease, Sherlock Holmes shinned up the drainpipe at the rear of 221B Baker Street, as he had done many times in the last month. Despite his wounded leg, he was still very agile, and without any trouble he was soon level with the window of his bedroom. Slipping up the sash, he managed to scramble inside. Immediately, acrid fumes assailed his nostrils and caught the back of his throat, causing him to stifle a cough.

  The walls of the room, scorched by flames, were blackened by smoke, and the bed and mattress had been reduced to a heap of sooty debris. The floor was damp and slimy. Holmes had read in the papers how the fire brigade had arrived in time to arrest the spread of the fire and that there had only been internal damage to the upper floor. However, whatever the flames had failed to destroy, the water had completed the task.

  Slowly Holmes moved into the sitting-room, and the sight before him made him gasp. This darkened shell was barely recognisable as his cosy old quarters. The furniture had been reduced to charred flakes, and no doubt his books, files and case-notes were those piles of damp ashes swept to the side of the room. Sherlock Holmes was a stranger to sentiment, but at this moment he felt an overpowering wave of sadness sweep over him. It wasn’t just the loss of the material things — his files and notes — that upset him; it was the destruction of what had been his own closeted world, and, if he was honest with himself, the warm memories created here, particularly those he shared with Watson.

  An errant breeze, finding entry through the smashed windows, stirred up a swarm of minuscule charred remnants which permeated the atmosphere like a cloud of tiny insects, and once again Holmes found himself holding his handkerchief to his mouth in order to prevent a fit of coughing. And then, suddenly, his nerves tingled and his senses quickened. Without proof, without deduction, he knew that he was not alone. There was some other presence in the room with him. Instinctively he reached inside his coat for his revolver, but before his fingers could take hold of the butt, a voice spoke to him from the shadows by the door.

  “Leave your gun where it is, Sherlock Holmes.”

  Holmes did not move.

  “I am not playing games,” came the voice again. “Take your hand away from your gun and put your arms by your side, or I will blow your head off.”

  Holmes had met many villains in his time, and he knew when they were bluffing or not. This man was deadly serious. He retrieved his hand from his coat pocket, leaving the revolver in situ, and did as he was told.

  The figure stepped from the shadows. A shaft of morning light from the window fell across his face. The detective recognised the man immediately. He was Scoular, one of the Professor’s more ruthless lieutenants. He was grinning, his gun trained on Holmes.

  “I knew that you would come,” Scoular said, the grin broadening. “I knew that you couldn’t resist coming back here to check the damage and see what you could salvage from your records. And you didn’t disappoint me.”

  “So this is your handiwork, is it?”

  “It is. And I am quite proud of my efforts. I can assure you that there is not one sheet of paper left in a legible form in the whole place. I searched thoroughly before setting fire to it. Any documents referring to the Professor were taken away and destroyed separately.”

  “How very thorough.”

  “Oh, we are, Mr Holmes. We are. You should know that.” The smile faded. “For a man of your intelligence and skills, you have been rather stupid. Headstrong. You should have known that if you intended to meddle in the affairs of the Professor, you would get more than your fingers burned. You should have known that you would lose your life.”

  “I was aware of that possibility, but nothing ventured, nothing gained,” said Holmes urbanely, but his eyes were focused on Scoular’s revolver, which was aimed at his heart.

  “You should have been dealt with a long time ago. I urged it, but the Professor preferred to play his little game of cat and mouse with you. But that is over now. This time, you have gone too far.”

  “Ah, you mean the affair of the Elephant’s Egg? Reed has been captured and the ruby is safe, eh?”

  “You should have dropped it, Mr Holmes, you really should.”

  “It is not in my nature to give up. It has been a long crusade, but one which will have a successful conclusion.”

  Scoular took a step forwards and cocked the pistol. “Not for you, Mr Holmes.”

  “Killing me will not alter the outcome now, I’m afraid. Assured as I am of the eventual destruction of Moriarty’s organisation, and the capture of its leading figures, including yourself and the Professor, of course, I am happy to sacrifice my life. I am pleased to think that I have been able to free society from any further effects of his presence. In any case, with this matter my career has reached a crisis, and I realised from the start that it might end with my death.”

  “Then you are more foolish than I first thought. To throw away your life in the feeble belief that you could beat the Professor.�
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  “You do not understand, Scoular. You are so warped with your own criminal machinations that you cannot see the dark shadow that you and your kind throw over this city. How corrupt and filthy you are. How your evil doings destroy the goodness and the hope in the teeming masses that fill our streets, attempting to live good and simple lives. Your robberies, your forgeries, your murders, your greed — they diminish us all. Injustice tarnishes everything it touches. You, Moriarty and his kind are carriers of a disease, a plague of evil. How could I rest, how could I care one jot about my own life, while this plague remains unchecked?”

  “Well, you are correct about one thing; I do not understand your point of view. But I do know that you will never beat the Professor.”

  “Oh, how tired I am of this conversation, Scoular. If you have a task to perform, pray carry it out now before I die of boredom.”

  Scoular frowned. He could not believe how resigned Holmes seemed, considering that he was moments away from death. He was either very brave or very foolish. The fact that he could not tell which unnerved him.

  In truth, Holmes was relaxed because he saw no way out of his dilemma. What he had said to Scoular was the truth. He was prepared to sacrifice his own life to secure the destruction of Moriarty’s empire. One did not fear the inevitable, one accepted it. He had taken the main incriminating documents from Baker Street the previous day and left them in a safe place that only Inspector Patterson knew about. Once these were safely in the hands of Scotland Yard, the operation would be set up to arrest Moriarty and dismantle his organisation. Holmes knew that he might not have many minutes to live, but Moriarty had but a few days before his game was up also.

  “I hear that you are not a religious man, Mr Holmes. You have no prayers?”

  “I have no prayers.”

  Scoular shrugged and held the gun at arm’s length. “Goodbye then, Mr Holmes.”

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

  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.”

  Twenty-Nine
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  FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN H. WATSON

  Carrying my new suitcase filled with freshly purchased clothes that Ihoped would be sufficient for our sojourn to the Continent, I made my way down platform three of Victoria Station, heading for Carriage Bof the Dover train, as Ihad been instructed by Sherlock Holmes. My heart sank when Iobserved that the carriage was already occupied by a venerable Italian priest. He gave me a brief greeting as Ientered, and then returned to his contemplation of a book of prayer.

  Stowing my luggage in the overhead rack, Istepped back out on to the platform, eager to catch a glimpse of my friend. In vain Isearched among the group of travellers for the lithe figure of Sherlock Holmes. There was no sign of him. Achill of fear came over me, as Iperceived that his absence could mean only one thing: some blow had befallen him during the day; Moriarty had caught up with him.

  The porters were slamming all the doors in readiness for departure and the guard was ready with his whistle to send the engine on its way. Reluctantly, Iclambered inside the carriage and slumped down in my seat.

  “Don’t look so glum, Watson. Everything is going according to plan.”

  I turned in uncontrollable astonishment. The aged ecclesiastic had turned his face towards me. For an instant the wrinkles disappeared, the nose drew away from the chin, the lower lip ceased to protrude, and the mouth to mumble, the dull eyes regained their fire, and the drooping figure expanded. The next moment, the whole frame collapsed again and Holmes was gone as quickly as he had come.

  “Great heavens!” I cried. “How you startled me!”

  Holmes grinned. “Every precaution is still necessary. I have reason to believe they are hot upon our trail.” He rose from his seat and peered from the window. “As I thought. See, Watson, see?”

  There, some way down the platform, were two men running in a vain attempt to catch the moving train. I recognised them both: Colonel Sebastian Moran and Professor James Moriarty. Reaching the end of the platform, reluctantly they accepted the futility of their pursuit. They came to a halt and stood stern-faced, watching the train as it sped away.