The Veiled Detective (9 page)

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. The 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.

“I will leave,” said Holmes smoothly, retrieving the knife from the floor, “in seven days. But do not be sure that you have seen the last of me. In the mean time, I’ll keep this knife as a souvenir of our encounter.”
With these words he left and returned to his room upstairs.

Jones closed the door and slumped against it. His face was awash with perspiration and his body was shaking. At length he staggered to a cupboard. Producing from it a gin bottle, he took a long, good gulp. His eye caught sight of a small canvas bag slipped in between the bottles. After another slurp of gin, he took the bag and examined its contents: a dozen sovereigns. He smiled. Despite the recent unpleasantness, it had not been a bad day’s work after all.

Buffeted by the blustery March wind, Henry Stamford trudged up the steps to the entrance of St Bart’s Hospital. His eyes ached and his head thumped. Souvenirs of another late-night card game. Always in the bright light of the morning he wondered why on earth he indulged in such a foolish pursuit: he rarely won, and his tiredness was beginning to affect his work. Last night had been disastrous. He had lost over twenty pounds, an amount a junior surgeon could ill afford to lose. How he would survive before his next pay date, he dreaded to think.

He flinched again as the pounding grew louder. He would have to mix a sedative before going on the wards. As he reached the portals of the great hospital, a tall black man stepped from the shadows and approached him.

“If I may have a word, Mr Stamford,” he said softly, the voice silky and persuasive. “It could be to our mutual advantage.”

Stamford noticed that the man held a white bank-note in his gloved hand.

Some hours later, Stamford, now twenty pounds richer, traversed the lower corridors of the hospital
en route
to the dissecting-room. He was in search of Sherlock Holmes. He knew Holmes in a casual manner. He had seen him about the hospital, and had indulged in a few desultory conversations with the man. He was unsure what to make of him. Holmes was not on the staff of the hospital, and yet he was able to use
their facilities. In all likelihood he was engaged in postgraduate studies. Stamford had gleaned that Holmes was well up in anatomy and appeared to be a first-class chemist, but he had no notion of the purpose of his studies. He found Holmes something of a cold fish, approaching his experiments with such extreme objectivity that he failed to take account of the human quotient in such matters. God help us all, thought Stamford, if the man was thinking of taking up medicine as a career. Holmes would quite easily test out the latest serum on a patient in the pursuit of scientific knowledge, without any consideration of the effects it might have on the poor devil who was acting as guinea pig. Stamford gave a wry grin at the thought and was prompted to admit to himself that, to give Holmes some credit, he would probably take the serum himself if he thought the experiment would aid his findings.

As he approached the dissecting-room, Stamford heard strange sounds emanating from within. He stood by the door and listened. There was what sounded like the violent clapping of hands, followed by a gruff cry of exertion.

Swinging the door open, a most bizarre sight met his eyes. There, lying on the table, was a naked cadaver which Sherlock Holmes, jacket off and sleeves rolled up, was beating with a walking-cane.

“What the devil!” cried Stamford. “Have you gone mad?”

Sherlock Holmes paused, the stick raised in the air, and turned to Stamford. His face was flushed and bathed in sweat.

“Stamford,” he said, “I didn’t hear you”’ He dropped the stick on the table by the corpse, and mopped his brow with his shirtsleeve.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing? Have you taken leave of your senses?”

Holmes chuckled. “Far from it. I have to admit that it must look that way, but I assure you I am carrying out a scientific experiment.”

“Scientific experiment? Beating a corpse with a cane?”

Holmes nodded. “In an attempt to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. Such information can be vital in the cases of murder; and this old fellow,” — he slapped the chest of the corpse — “made no objection to assisting me in my studies.”

Stamford shook his head. “Well, it is bizarre in the extreme.”

“Truth rarely comes simply or by normal channels. I am sorry if I disturbed you by my actions.”

“Well, I must admit I was somewhat shaken, but now that you have explained...”

“You still think I’m demented.”

Both men laughed, and the atmosphere eased between them. “Were you wanting to use the room, Stamford?”

“No, I was looking for you actually.”

“For me?”

“Yes, I’ve heard that you are in search of new digs.”

“How did you know that?”

“One of the registrars told me, I think. Isn’t it true?”

“Oh, yes, it’s true. I have to be out of my current quarters by the weekend.”

“Ah, well, I might be able to help you. I’ve got wind of a nice suite of rooms going begging in Baker Street.”

“Suite of rooms? That sounds rather too expensive for my meagre purse.”

“Still worth a visit, eh? Especially if you are getting desperate.”

“Desperate? Yes, I suppose I am. I really should be trudging the streets now, looking for a new place to lay my head at night, rather than be here, but I was so keen to work out a hypothesis on bruises.”

“Well, why don’t you trudge round to Baker Street now and maybe all your worries will be over? Here, I’ve got the address on a piece of paper: 221B Baker Street. Landlady by the name of Mrs Hudson.”

M
y memory of what occurred immediately following my interview with Professor James Moriarty in the Red Room is somewhat hazy. That is not because I have forgotten, but rather because my mind was in such a ferocious whirl at the time and not really registering details. It was as though I had passed from reality into some dark, fantastic dream and I was unable to wake up.

As I recall, I was given some cash, put up in a private hotel in the Strand and told to wait for a summons. Although I was only ever to see Professor Moriarty once more, many years later, his shadow had now fallen across my life and was destined to remain there for ever.

For the next two days I took very long walks around London, familiarising myself once again with the great city. I did feel pleased to be back on British soil and to be able to wander the streets, anonymous and unnoticed. I had not realised how much I had missed the sights and sounds of England. The rattle of the horse-buses, the bleat of the Cockney costermongers around Covent Garden, the crowds squeezing themselves down the Strand. I was entranced by the grey hubbub of it all,
and the simple pleasures such as buying a cup of tea in a small café, or watching children feed the pigeons in Trafalgar Square. In the evening, I went to Wilton’s Music Hall and lost myself in the warm, garish glamour of the show, singing lustily when encouraged by the chairman to join in the chorus of some familiar ditty.

It was on the third day after my meeting with Moriarty that I received my instructions. By then I was really beginning to enjoy myself, having pushed my dark secret to the back of my mind, hoping, I suppose, in some kind of childish way, that if I did not acknowledge it, it would go away. But, of course, that was not to be the case.

On returning from a long walk in St James’s Park, I discovered an envelope waiting for me on my bedside table. It was addressed to John H. Watson. That was the new me. The name in the hotel register. The name on my new bank book. The name by which Moriarty would call me. This is who I had to be for sanity and survival’s sake. As I tore open the envelope, I bid John Walker a final goodbye.

The message inside read simply: “This hotel is but a temporary measure. Remember you are in need of permanent diggings. Help will be forthcoming. Take a lunchtime drink in the Criterion Bar tomorrow. M.”

“How were the rooms?”

Sherlock Holmes was sitting in the cavernous staff canteen of Bart’s Hospital finishing off his breakfast while perusing a copy of
The Times
, when the voice broke in to his thoughts. He looked up to see the eager face of Henry Stamford looming over him. He had broad, plump features, with large vacant blue eyes seated beneath a dark tumble of unruly, curly hair.

Before Holmes had time to respond, Stamford drew up a chair and joined him at the table.

“I trust you went along to see Mrs Hudson’s place in Baker Street?”

Holmes smiled and folded the newspaper. “Yes, I did, thank you. The place is ideal in many ways, but unfortunately I’m not able to take it.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. What is the problem?”

“The quarters are somewhat large for one person. Despite my books and my chemical equipment, I think I would be rattling around a little in there. However, that is something I could cope with quite easily, but I am afraid Mrs Hudson is looking for two tenants to share, a fact that is reflected in the rent.”

“Too high.”

“For this man’s pocket.”

“Then you’ll just have to find some chap to go halves with you.”

Holmes’ brow furrowed gently. He had not considered that possibility. “Share the rooms, you mean?”

“Yes. It seems to me an ideal situation. You go halves with the rent and there’s company for you, should you require it.”

“I am not one of those who thrives on company. I am rather a solitary creature. Besides, it would be a hardy soul indeed who could put up with my unusual habits and untidiness.”

Stamford laughed, almost too heartily. “You mean you are a bachelor! Great heavens, man, you would have great difficulty in pointing out any unmarried fellow who does not have what you describe as ‘unusual’ habits and is excessively untidy.”