The Veiled Detective (12 page)

Moran handed me a piece of paper. Glancing at it in the dim light, I noticed that it contained an address in West London. “The Professor would like you to compile regular reports on your activities with Sherlock Holmes. They are to be posted to this address on the first of the month. If there is some urgent business you think the Professor should know about, you are to send a telegram to that same address. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now memorise the address and hand the paper back to me.”

I did as he asked.

Moran tapped the roof of the cab with his cane again and the vehicle drew to a halt.

“This is where you leave us, Watson. We are not far from your lodgings.”

As I rose, Moran offered his hand again. With some reluctance, I took it. “It’s been good to meet you. We expect great things of you, Doctor. Be sure that you do not disappoint us.”

Without responding, I quickly departed the cab, glad to be out in the cold, fresh air once more.

R
evenge was a flame which had burnt with a steady and fierce intensity in the heart of Jefferson Hope for twenty years. Never in all that time had his determination to murder the two men who had ruined his life and brought about the death of his beloved Lucy wavered for one instant. He had dedicated the rest of his days to the task, and once it was complete, he would be happy to meet his maker with a clear conscience. As he looked out of the grimy window of his lodgings at the gathering dusk and the hurrying silhouettes of the passers-by below, he felt good. He knew, at long last, that he was near to reaching his goal. He had finally tracked Drebber and Stangerson to London. He had always believed that it was just a matter of time before he got his hands on them, but now that time was very short. He prayed that his failing health would not let him down at the last moment. Fate could be cruel; indeed, it had been cruel to him, but surely it could not be
that
cruel — after all this time.

He held up the key against the glow of the gas mantle and examined it as though it were a precious stone, and smiled. It had chanced that, some days before, a passenger in his cab had been engaged in looking
over some empty houses in the Brixton Road and had dropped the key to one of them on the floor of the cab. It was claimed the same evening and returned, but not before Hope had arranged for a duplicate to be made. Now he had access to one spot in the whole city where he knew he would be free from interruption to carry out his grisly plan. However, the problem remained of how he could get Drebber there.

That night the dream came again to Jefferson Hope. He was escaping to Carson City with his beloved Lucy and her father. They were fleeing the clutches of the Mormons, crossing the great mountain range that isolated Salt Lake City from the civilised world. In the dream he could feel the scorching power of the sun, and the raging thirst that dries the throat and causes the tongue to swell; and then, as they rose higher in the mountains, reaching nearly 5,000 feet, the air grew bitter and keen, cutting through their clothing with the viciousness of sharp knives. But his concerns were for Lucy, his beloved Lucy. In the dream, as in life, he cursed himself for leaving her. It was their second day of flight and they had run out of provisions. As an experienced hunter, Hope knew there was game to be had in the mountains, and so, choosing a sheltered nook for his loved one and her ailing father, he built a fire for them with a few dried branches, and set off in search of food.

As Hope tossed and turned in his troubled sleep, the vivid dream unfolded steadily, as it had done countless times. After two or three hours’ fruitless search, he began to despair, and then he spied a lone sheep — a bighorn. It did not take him long to despatch the creature, but it was too unwieldy to lift, so with the practised skill of an old hunter he cut away one haunch and part of the flank. Flinging these over his shoulder, he hastened back to the makeshift camp.

As the climax of his dream grew closer, Jefferson Hope began to moan aloud in his tormented slumbers. Scrabbling over the cold dry rocks and
slithering down narrow ravines, he eventually reached the spot where he had left Lucy and her father. All he saw was the glowing pile of ashes that had once been the fire. There was no living creature nearby: Lucy, her father and the horses were gone. He stood there in horror as the fierce silence of the mountains pressed in on him.

As he approached the camp, he saw signs of numerous hoofprints, indicating that a large party of men had overtaken the fugitives. No doubt this gang had been led by Drebber and Stangerson, eager to capture the girl, eager to get their greedy hands on her father’s property. A little way off, on the far side of the camp, Hope observed a low mound of reddish earth. There was no mistaking it for anything but a newly dug grave. With faltering steps he walked towards it, his body shuddering with apprehension. He saw a sheet of paper nailed to a crudely made cross placed at the head of the grave. The inscription on the paper was brief:

JOHN FERRIER
FORMERLY OF SALT LAKE CITY

D
IED
A
UGUST
4
TH
, 1860

They had killed the old man. What creed, what religion would allow such an act? Hope felt a prickle of tears — tears of frustration and despair. He looked around wildly to see if there was a second grave. He half hoped that there would be one. One containing his darling Lucy. At least then her pain and torment would be over. He searched in vain. There was no other grave.

It was clear then: Drebber and Stangerson had snatched the girl, and when her father attempted to stop them, they had killed him. Lucy would be well on her way back to Salt Lake City now, to fulfil her original destiny: to become a bride of either Drebber or Stangerson—whomever of the two the Elder favoured — and forced to join one of the accursed
Mormon harems. He knew now that he was powerless to prevent this from happening. He had lost the love of his life. Jefferson Hope sank to his knees and wept.

He woke with a start — as he always did when he reached that part of the dream — his body bathed in sweat and his hands clenched tightly by his side. He lay there, taking large gulps of air, desperately trying to calm his rapidly beating heart. The doctor had warned him that any abnormal strain could be the end of him. The aortic aneurysm from which he had suffered since the loss of Lucy had worsened drastically in the last few months, to such an extent that he knew he had little time left. Indeed, the doctor had warned him only the week before that he was living on borrowed time.

At length, he rose and stared out of his window, gazing at the rooftops which were slowly taking form and detail in the early morning light. He could not wait any longer. Another night, another dream, and he might not survive. He had to act now. He had to act that very day. Leaning his damp forehead against the cold window-pane, he smiled. His torment was nearly at an end.

A
s is sometimes the way, Fate stepped in to help break down Sherlock Holmes’ reserve regarding his chosen profession. It was last Tuesday. As usual, Holmes had left our lodgings before Ibreakfasted, and so, having nothing better to do, Itook myself to Regent’s Park to observe the effects of the burgeoning spring upon the gardens there. Seeing such new life budding forth was such a contrast to the hot and arid wastes of Afghanistan. However, half-way through the morning, the skies clouded over and Iwas caught in a heavy shower. Isheltered for some time under a large oak tree, but when the dark grey clouds had completely obliterated any trace of blue, Irealised that the rain was set in for some time. Iran to the street, hailed a cab and returned to Baker Street, arriving shortly before noon.

The sight that met me as Ientered our shared sitting-room made me gasp. Sherlock Holmes was slumped in the basket-chair, his feet sprawled out across the hearth rug. His left sleeve was rolled up, and a hypodermic syringe dangled precariously from his limp hand. At the sound of my entrance, his eyes opened slowly and his head lolled in
my direction.

“The good doctor has returned somewhat early,” he mumbled, attempting to sit up, but not succeeding.

I strode over to him and took the syringe from his hand before it fell to the floor.

“You did not confess to me that you ill used yourself in this fashion, when we were in the business of discussing our failings.”

“Confess. Ill use. Failings. Such emotional language, Watson.”

“What is it?” I asked. “Cocaine? Morphine?”

He screwed up his face. “Morphine. Pa! It is cocaine, my dear Watson. A wonderfully soothing preparation — a seven per cent solution. Just enough to stimulate the imagination and relieve the boredom, without deadening the faculties.”

“I would have thought you required neither,” said I, shaking my wet raincoat and hanging it on the stand.

Holmes gave a cry of annoyance and this time managed to pull himself up into a sitting position.

“What on earth do
you
know about such things? My life is devoted to the avoidance of boredom and, oh, how easily I am bored.”

I sat opposite him, realising that in this state he might well reveal more about himself than he would do under normal circumstances.

“Why is that? Why are you so easily bored?”

He smiled dreamily. “Because I rarely get the brain food I need. My mind rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most cunning murder, and then I am alive and have no need for artificial stimulants.”

“Murder?”

“Yes, murder or robbery or forgery. You see, Watson, I am a detective. That is my profession. I am the only unofficial consulting detective in London. Here in London there are lots of government detectives, and a
fair number of private ones, and when these fellows go astray, they come to me for advice.”

“They come in their droves,” I observed sarcastically.

“No, they do not come in their droves. Not yet. That is my problem. But they
will
when I have established myself. At present, I have no cases on hand and my brain is lying idle. But when I am famous, I will be able to take my pick of the cases.”

The lethargic Holmes had now disappeared: here again was the bright-eyed enthusiast, engaged upon his favourite topic.

“You see,” he continued, “I possess a great deal of special knowledge, and I have trained myself to see and deduce from what I observe. This is what makes me unique. You do not seem convinced.”

“It is an audacious statement.”

“Proof, eh? You need a demonstration of my powers. That is easy. I remember that you appeared surprised when I told you on our first meeting that you had just recently come from Afghanistan.”

“You were told, no doubt.”

Holmes dismissed my comment with an irritated wave of his hand. “Nothing of the sort. I knew,
I knew
you came from Afghanistan. From a long habit, the train of thoughts ran so swiftly through my mind that I arrived at the conclusion without being conscious of the process. To me it is akin to tying one’s bootlaces in the morning. The procedure is carried out automatically, without any thought as to what one is doing. It is second nature.”

“So, how
did
you know about Afghanistan?”

“My train of reasoning ran thus: here is a gentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a military man. Clearly an army doctor, then. He has just come from the tropics, for his face is dark, but that is not the natural tint of his skin, for his wrists are fair. He has undergone great hardship and probably sickness. Where, currently, in the tropics would an English army doctor be pressed into service that would cause such hardship? Why
Afghanistan, of course. The whole train of reasoning did not take a second.”

I listened with amazement to this analysis.

“Why, that is brilliant!” I said, with genuine admiration.

“Elementary.”

“As explained by you, the process seems simple enough, but I doubt if I or anyone I know could perform such a diagnosis.”