Holmes’ disgust at suicide is evident in a number of the cases recorded by Watson. In “The Veiled Lodger,” Holmes addresses a suicidal Eugenia Ronder. “Your life is not your own. Keep your hands off it.” He adds, “The example of patient suffering is in itself the most precious of all lessons to an impatient world.”
Back to chapter thirteen
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The original building which housed the Gilsey Hotel and the Silver Dollar Bar still stands in New York, although the once-revolutionary cast-iron facing has been allowed to deteriorate. Recently, a developer announced plans to renovate the structure into an apartment house.
While Holmes seems to boast, here, that his special knowledge and powers which encouraged him to seek complex explanations were an asset, he seems to have some doubts in “The Abbey Grange” when he laments having looked for something more complex when the simpler solution was right before his eyes. How could he, he wonders, overlook something as obvious as the half-empty bottle, the three wine glasses, the curious fact that the lady was tied to a chair, and that she had had Australian origins and associations?
Characteristically, Holmes shuns public praise or notice of his work in preferring a personal memento of the case from Hargreave. That memento appears to have been something quite common for men engaged in arresting criminals – a pair of handcuffs. Holmes proudly showed them off to a man from Scotland Yard a few years after his collaboration with Hargreave.
Back to chapter fourteen
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
One reads of the struggle with villainy on the Brooklyn Bridge with a sense of déjà vu, the mind racing forward eleven years to another precarious perch above swirling black waters – the Reichenbach Falls of Switzerland! There, in 1891, Sherlock Holmes was believed to have plunged to his death after a bitter struggle with “the Napoleon of crime,” Professor Moriarty. Roosevelt must have learned of this apparent tragedy from Watson, who certainly would have informed him of it. Too, Roosevelt would have been ecstatic with joy on learning, in 1894, that Holmes had not been killed and that he had been wandering the world under the name of Sigerson. In the period between 1891 and 1894, Roosevelt followed the adventures of his friend Holmes in the regular appearances in The Strand Magazine of Watson’s shorter accounts of Holmes’ adventures. These publications, as we have seen, prompted Roosevelt to offer “The Adventure of the Stalwart Companions” for publication – only to be discouraged in that endeavour by Holmes himself.
Back to chapter fifteen
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It is hard not to look ahead from the scene in which Holmes and Roosevelt are basking in the afterglow of having completed a difficult case to see Holmes with Watson at his side, “a trusty companion.” In less than a year after his collaboration with Roosevelt, Sherlock Holmes would be introduced to Dr John Watson, one of the most fortuitous and satisfying friendships in history, resulting in that great body of writing by which most of us have come to know Sherlock Holmes. Waxing philosophical with Roosevelt and musing about what strange things they might find if they could peer into the secrets of New York City, Holmes rehearses a speech expressing similar sentiments which he would direct to Watson in “A Case of Identity.” To Watson, Holmes says, “My dear fellow, life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent.”
A man who would always keep his commitments, Holmes, as homesick as he seems to be, shuns the suggestion that he abandon the Sasanoff tour and go home to London. From New York, he went to Baltimore where he solved the awful affair of the Abernetty family, resolving the case on the basis of his observation of the depth to which the parsley, had sunk into the butter. Holmes proved to be a devoted user of the phonograph, not only for his pleasure in listening to recorded music, but in his work. In the motion picture The Voice of Terror, Holmes discerns the existence of a Nazi spy in Britain by carefully calculating the differences in frequencies between a ‘live’ broadcast and a recorded one. It is instructive to note that as early as 1880 Holmes sees the possible usefulness of ‘bugging,’ wiretaps, and other clandestine recording as a police device.
Upon the discovery in this text that Holmes may have made a recording at the Edison laboratory in Menlo Park, B. Alexander ‘Wiggy’ Wiggins was beside himself with enthusiasm:
“My God, think of it! Think of the implications!” he cried, setting aside the last page of the Roosevelt manuscript, his eyes alight, his pudgy hands trembling. “If what Roosevelt wrote here is true, there existed at one point in time, a century ago, a recording of Sherlock Holmes’ voice! Holmes recorded by Edison! The discovery of the century!”
Gently assembling the pages of “The Adventure of the Stalwart Companions,” which we had finished reading in the archives of the New York Police Department, I reminded Wiggy that he had described the finding of the manuscript as the discovery of the century!
“Bah! These papers pale in comparison to an actual recording of Holmes’ voice! I must find that recording!”
“Where are you going?” I asked as he pushed his huge body to its feet.
“Where am I going? Why, to Menlo Park! My search for the recording of Holmes’ voice must start there!”
“But what about these documents?”
“You take care of them. Publish them!”
“But...”
“I have to find that recording.”
“It can’t possibly exist after all this time!”
“As long as there is a chance the recording exists. I have to make an effort to find it,” he exclaimed as he turned and strode away, his huge body jiggling as the moved – far more rapidly than I might have imagined he could. He did not look back.
I have not seen Wiggy since that day, although I have heard of him showing up in the most unlikely locations from Menlo Park to London to Beirut to Shanghai, an improbable knight errant, a true believer in the ‘canon,’ traipsing the world in search of his personal Grail.
Back to chapter sixteen
A Note...
BY THE AUTHOR ON VERACITY
Despite my efforts to demonstrate through independent research and verification the genuineness of this material, it will be alleged that all of the events, the documents, and the manuscript are the work of a clever hoaxer. If so, I am the chief victim. (My publisher has chosen the expedient of putting this book among its fiction list, you note – a decision which I have elected to accept in order to have this important discovery published!) A close friend who read this material while I was preparing it for publication suggested that if it were a hoax it could have been concocted only by a genius with such a thorough knowledge of Holmes as to be the world’s greatest living expert on him. “A man such as your friend Wiggins,” he suggested mischievously.
A hoax or the genuine article?
I believe this material is genuine. I believe my research indicates that it was possible for Holmes and Roosevelt to have known each other and to have collaborated in “The Adventure of the Stalwart Companions.”
The reader, of course, must judge for himself.
I ask only that in reaching that judgment the reader will apply Holmes’ acid test for veracity: when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
Also Available
THE VEILED DETECTIVE
by
DAVID STUART DAVIES
AFGHANISTAN, THE EVENING OF 27 JUNE 1880
The full moon hovered like a spectral observer over the British camp. The faint cries of the dying and wounded were carried by the warm night breeze out into the arid wastes beyond. John Walker staggered out of the hospital tent, his face begrimed with dried blood and sweat. For a moment he threw his head back and stared at the wide expanse of starless sky as if seeking an answer, an explanation. He had just lost another of his comrades. There were now at least six wounded men whom he had failed to save. He was losing count. And, by God, what was the point of counting in such small numbers anyway? Hundreds of Bri
tish soldiers had died that day, slaughtered by the Afghan warriors. They had been outnumbered, outflanked and routed by the forces of Ayub Khan in that fatal battle at Maiwand. These cunning tribesmen had truly rubbed the Union Jack into the desert dust. Nearly a third of the company had fallen. It was only the reluctance of the Afghans to carry out further carnage that had prevented the British troops from being completely annihilated. Ayub Khan had his victory. He had made his point. Let the survivors report the news of his invincibility.
For the British, a ragged retreat was the only option. They withdrew into the desert, to lick their wounds and then to limp back to Candahar. They had had to leave their dead littering the bloody scrubland, soon to be prey to the vultures and vermin.
Walker was too tired, too sick to his stomach to feel anger, pain or frustration. All he knew was that when he trained to be a doctor, it had been for the purpose of saving lives. It was not to watch young men’s pale, bloody faces grimace with pain and their eyes close gradually as life ebbed away from them, while he stood by, helpless, gazing at a gaping wound spilling out intestines.
He needed a drink. Ducking back into the tent, he grabbed his medical bag. There were still three wounded men lying on makeshift beds in there, but no amount of medical treatment could save them from the grim reaper. He felt guilty to be in their presence. He had instructed his orderly to administer large doses of laudanum to help numb the pain until the inevitable overtook them.
As Walker wandered to the edge of the tattered encampment, he encountered no other officer. Of course, there were very few left. Colonel MacDonald, who had been in charge, had been decapitated by an Afghan blade very early in the battle. Captain Alistair Thornton was now in charge of the ragged remnants of the company of the Berkshire regiment, and he was no doubt in his tent nursing his wound. He had been struck in the shoulder by a jezail bullet which had shattered the bone.
Just beyond the perimeter of the camp, Walker slumped down at the base of a skeletal tree, resting his back against the rough bark. Opening his medical bag, he extracted a bottle of brandy. Uncorking it, he sniffed the neck of the bottle, allowing the alcoholic fumes to drift up his nose. And then he hesitated.
Something deep within his conscience made him pause. Little did this tired army surgeon realise that he was facing a decisive moment of Fate. He was about to commit an act that would alter the course of his life for ever. With a frown, he shook the vague dark unformed thoughts from his mind and returned his attention to the bottle.
The tantalising fumes did their work. They promised comfort and oblivion. He lifted the neck of the bottle to his mouth and took a large gulp. Fire spilled down his throat and raced through his senses. Within moments he felt his body ease and relax, the inner tension melting with the warmth of the brandy. He took another gulp, and the effect increased. He had found an escape from the heat, the blood, the cries of pain and the scenes of slaughter. A blessed escape. He took another drink. Within twenty minutes the bottle was empty and John Walker was floating away on a pleasant, drunken dream. He was also floating away from the life he knew. He had cut himself adrift and was now heading for stormy, unchartered waters.
As consciousness slowly returned to him several hours later, he felt a sudden, sharp stabbing pain in his leg. It came again. And again. He forced his eyes open and bright sunlight seared in. Splinters of yellow light pierced his brain. He clamped his eyes shut, embracing the darkness once more. Again he felt the pain in his leg. This time, it was accompanied by a strident voice: “Walker! Wake up, damn you!”
He recognised the voice. It belonged to Captain Thornton. With some effort he opened his eyes again, but this time he did it more slowly, allowing the brightness to seep in gently so as not to blind him. He saw three figures standing before him, each silhouetted against the vivid blue sky of an Afghan dawn. One of them was kicking his leg viciously in an effort to rouse him.
“You despicable swine, Walker!” cried the middle figure, whose left arm was held in a blood-splattered sling. It was Thornton, his commanding officer.
Walker tried to get to his feet, but his body, still under the thrall of the alcohol, refused to co-operate.
“Get him up,” said Thornton.
The two soldiers grabbed Walker and hauled him to his feet. With his good hand, Thornton thrust the empty brandy bottle before his face. For a moment, he thought the captain was going to hit him with it.
“Drunk on duty, Walker. No, by God, worse than that. Drunk while your fellow soldiers were in desperate need of your attention. You left them... left them to die while you... you went to get drunk. I should have you shot for this – but shooting is too good for you. I want you to live... to live with your guilt.” Thornton spoke in tortured bursts, so great was his fury.
“There was nothing I could do for them,” Walker tried to explain, but his words escaped in a thick and slurred manner. “Nothing I could–”
Thornton threw the bottle down into the sand. “You disgust me, Walker. You realise that this is a court martial offence, and believe me I shall make it my personal duty to see that you are disgraced and kicked out of the army.”
Words failed Walker, but it began to sink in to his foggy mind that he had made a very big mistake – a life-changing mistake.
London, 4 October 1880
“Are you sure he can be trusted?” Arthur Sims sniffed and nodded towards the silhouetted figure at the end of the alleyway, standing under a flickering gas lamp.
Badger Johnson, so called because of the vivid white streak that ran through the centre of his dark thatch of hair, nodded and grinned.
“Yeah. He’s a bit simple, but he’ll be fine for what we want him for. And if he’s any trouble...” He paused to retrieve a cut-throat razor from his inside pocket. The blade snapped open, and it swished through the air. “I’ll just have to give him a bloody throat, won’t I?”
Arthur Sims was not amused. “Where d’you find him?”
“Where d’you think? In The Black Swan. Don’t you worry. I’ve seen him in there before – and I seen him do a bit of dipping. Very nifty he was, an’ all. And he’s done time. In Wandsworth. He’s happy to be our crow for just five sovereigns.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Hardly anything. What d’you take me for? Just said we were cracking a little crib in Hanson Lane and we needed a lookout. He’s done the work before.”
Sims sniffed again. “I’m not sure. You know as well as I do he ought to be vetted by the Man himself before we use him. If something goes wrong, we’ll all have bloody throats... or worse.”
Badger gurgled with merriment. “You scared, are you?”
“Cautious, that’s all. This is a big job for us.”
“And the pickin’s will be very tasty, an’ all, don’t you worry. If it’s cautious you’re being, then you know it’s in our best interest that we have a little crow keeping his beady eyes wide open. Never mind how much the Man has planned this little jaunt, we’re the ones putting our heads in the noose.”
Sims shuddered at the thought. “All right, you made your point. What’s his name?”
“Jordan. Harry Jordan.” Badger slipped his razor back into its special pocket and flipped out his watch. “Time to make our move.” Badger giggled as the key slipped neatly into the lock. “It’s hardly criminal work if one can just walk in.”
Arthur Sims gave his partner a shove. “Come on, get in,” he whispered, and then he turned to the shadowy figure standing nearby. “OK, Jordan, you know the business.”
Harry Jordan gave a mock salute.
Once inside the building, Badger lit the bull’s-eye lantern and consulted the map. “The safe is in the office on the second floor at the far end, up a spiral staircase.” He muttered the information, which he knew by heart anyway, as if to reassure himself now that theory had turned into practice.
The two men made their way through the silent premises, the thin yellow beam of the lamp carving a way through the darkne
ss ahead of them. As the spidery metal of the staircase flashed into view, they spied an obstacle on the floor directly below it. The inert body of a bald-headed man.
Arthur Sims knelt by him. “Night watchman. Out like a light. Very special tea he’s drunk tonight” Delicately, he lifted the man’s eyelids to reveal the whites of his eyes. “He’ll not bother us now, Badger. I reckon he’ll wake up with a thundering headache around breakfast-time.”
Badger giggled. It was all going according to plan.
Once up the staircase, the two men approached the room containing the safe. Again Badger produced the keyring from his pocket and slipped a key into the lock. The door swung open with ease. The bull’s-eye soon located the imposing Smith-Anderson safe, a huge impenetrable iron contraption that stood defiantly in the far corner of the room. It was as tall as a man and weighed somewhere around three tons. The men knew from experience that the only way to get into this peter was by using the key – or rather the keys. There were five in all required. Certainly it would take a small army to move the giant safe, and God knows how much dynamite would be needed to blow it open, an act that would create enough noise to reach Scotland Yard itself.
Badger passed the bull’s-eye to his confederate, who held the beam steady, centred on the great iron sarcophagus and the five locks. With another gurgle of pleasure, Badger dug deep into his trouser pocket and pulled out a brass ring containing five keys, all cut in a different manner. Scratched into the head of each key was a number – one that corresponded with the arrangement of locks on the safe.
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