The Veiled Detective

by David Stuart Davies

  Arthur Sims and Badger Johnson stared in dumbfounded amazement as the young man took a silver whistle from his jacket pocket and blew on it three times. The shrill sound reverberated in their ears.

  Inspector Giles Lestrade of Scotland Yard cradled a tin mug of hot, sweet tea in his hands and smiled contentedly. “I reckon that was a pretty good night’s work.”

  It was an hour later, after the arrest of Badger Johnson and Arthur Sims, and the inspector was ensconced in his cramped office back at the Yard.

  The young man sitting opposite him, wearing a disreputable checked suit which had seen better days, did not respond. His silence took the smile from Lestrade’s face and replaced it with a furrowed brow.

  “You don’t agree, Mr Holmes?”

  The young man pursed his lips for a moment before replying. “In a manner of speaking, it has been a successful venture. You have two of the niftiest felons under lock and key, and saved the firm of Meredith and Co. the loss of a considerable amount of cash.”

  “Exactly.” The smile returned.

  “But there are still questions left unanswered.”

  “Such as?”

  “How did our two friends come into the possession of the key to the building, to the office where the safe was housed — and the five all-important keys to the safe itself?”

  “Does that really matter?”

  “Indeed it does. It is vital that these questions are answered in order to clear up this matter fully. There was obviously an accomplice involved who obtained the keys and was responsible for drugging the night-watchman. Badger Johnson intimated as much when he engaged my services as lookout, but when I pressed him for further information, he clammed up like a zealous oyster.”

  Lestrade took a drink of the tea. “Now, you don’t bother your head about such inconsequentialities. If there was another bloke involved, he certainly made himself scarce this evening and so it would be nigh on impossible to pin anything on him. No, we are very happy to have caught two of the sharpest petermen in London, thanks to your help, Mr Holmes. From now on, however, it is a job for the professionals.”

  The young man gave a gracious nod of the head as though in some vague acquiescence to the wisdom of the Scotland Yarder. In reality he thought that, while Lestrade was not quite a fool, he was blinkered to the ramifications of the attempted robbery, and too easily pleased at landing a couple of medium-size fish in his net, while the really big catch swam free. Crime was never quite as cut and dried as Lestrade and his fellow professionals seemed to think. That was why this young man knew that he could never work within the constraints of the organised force as a detective. While at present he was reasonably content to be a help to the police, his ambitions lay elsewhere.

  For his own part, Lestrade was unsure what to make of this lean youth with piercing grey eyes and gaunt, hawk-like features that revealed little of what he was thinking. There was something cold and impenetrable about his personality that made the inspector feel uncomfortable. In the last six months, Holmes had brought several cases to the attention of the Yard which he or his fellow officer, Inspector Gregson, had followed up, and a number of arrests had resulted. What Sherlock Holmes achieved from his activities, apart from the satisfaction every good citizen would feel at either preventing or solving a crime, Lestrade could not fathom. Holmes never spoke of personal matters, and the inspector was never tempted to ask.

  At the same time as this conversation was taking place in Scotland Yard, in another part of the city the Professor was being informed of the failure of that night’s operation at Meredith and Co. by his number two, Colonel Sebastian Moran.

  The Professor rose from his chaise-longue, cast aside the mathematical tome he had been studying and walked to the window. Pulling back the curtains, he gazed out on the river below him, its murky surface reflecting the silver of the moon.

  “In itself, the matter is of little consequence,” he said, in a dark, even voice. “Merely a flea-bite on the body of our organisation. But there have been rather too many of these flea-bites of late. They are now beginning to irritate me.” He turned sharply, his eyes flashing with anger. “Where lies the incompetence?”

  Moran was initially taken aback by so sudden a change in the Professor’s demeanour. “I am not entirely sure,” he stuttered.

  The Professor’s cruelly handsome face darkened with rage. “Well, you should be, Moran. You should be sure. It is your job to know. That is what you are paid for.”

  “Well... it seems that someone is tipping the police off in advance.”

  The Professor gave a derisory laugh. “Brilliant deduction, Moran. Your public-school education has stood you in good stead. Unfortunately, it does not take a genius to arrive at that rather obvious conclusion. I had a visit from Scoular earlier this evening, thank goodness there is one smart man on whom I can rely.”

  At the mention of Scoular’s name, Moran blanched. Scoular was cunning, very sharp and very ambitious. This upstart was gradually worming his way into the Professor’s confidence, assuming the role of court favourite; consequently, Moran felt his own position in jeopardy. He knew there was no demotion in the organisation. If you lost favour, you lost your life also.

  “What did he want?”

  “He wanted nothing other than to give me information regarding our irritant flea. Apparently, he has been using the persona of Harry Jordan. He’s been working out of some of the East End alehouses, The Black Swan in particular, where he latches on to our more gullible agents, like Johnson and Sims, and then narks to the police.”

  “What’s his angle?”

  Moriarty shrugged. “I don’t know — or at least Scoular doesn’t know. We need to find out, don’t we? Put Hawkins on to the matter. He’s a bright spark and will know what to do. Apprise him of the situation and see what he can come up with. I’ve no doubt Mr Jordan will return to his lucrative nest at The Black Swan within the next few days. I want information only. This Jordan character must not be harmed. I just want to know all about him before I take any action. Do you think you can organise that without any slip-ups?”

  Moran clenched his fists with anger and frustration. He shouldn’t be spoken to in such a manner — like an inefficient corporal with muddy boots. He would dearly have liked to wipe that sarcastic smirk off the Professor’s face, but he knew that such a rash action would be the ultimate folly.

  “I’ll get on to it immediately,” he said briskly, and left the room.

  The Professor chuckled to himself and turned back to the window. His own reflection stared back at him from the night-darkened pane. He was a tall man, with luxuriant black hair and angular features that would have been very attractive were it not for the cruel mouth and the cold, merciless grey eyes.

  “Mr Jordan,” he said, softly addressing his own reflection, “I am very intrigued by you. I hope it will not be too long before I welcome you into my parlour.”

  Dawn was just breaking as Sherlock Holmes made his weary way past the British Museum and into Montague Street, where he lodged. He was no longer dressed in the cheap suit that he had used in his persona as Harry Jordan, but while his own clothes were less ostentatious, they were no less shabby. Helping the police as he did was certainly broadening his experience of detective work, but it did not put bread and cheese on the table or pay the rent on his two cramped rooms. He longed for his own private investigation — one of real quality. Since coming to London from university to make his way in the world as a consulting detective, he had managed to attract some clients, but they had been few and far between, and the nature of the cases — an absent husband, the theft of a brooch, a disputed will, and such like — had all been mundane. But, tired as he was, and somewhat dismayed at the short-sightedness of his professional colleagues at Scotland Yard, he did not waver in his belief that one day he would reach his goal and have a solvent and successful detective practice. And it needed to be happening soon. He could not keep borrowing money from his brother, Mycroft, in order to
fund his activities.

  He entered 14 Montague Street and made his way up the three flights of stairs to his humble quarters. Once inside, with some urgency he threw off his jacket and rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. Crossing to the mantelpiece, he retrieved a small bottle and a hypodermic syringe from a morocco leather case. Breathing heavily with anticipation, he adjusted the delicate needle before thrusting the sharp point home into his sinewy forearm, which was already dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture marks. His long, white, nervous fingers depressed the piston, and he gave a cry of ecstasy as he flopped down in a battered armchair, a broad, vacant smile lighting upon his tired features.

  Two

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER

  Captain Thornton was as good as his word in wanting to make me suffer. Once the remnants of the bloody company limped through the gates of the garrison at Candahar, I was thrown in gaol and, it seemed, forgotten about. I languished there for three months and, despite my daily protests to my native gaolers, no officer came to see me. I was kept in isolation in a cell that measured eight feet by eight feet. Some two feet above my head there was a grilled window which allowed only the faintest glimmers of daylight to filter through. My days were spent in a permanent twilight. I was being punished even before I came to trial.

  I cannot tell how many times I relived the experience of that fateful night. It came to me unbidden in vivid scenes, as though I were an observer in my own downfall. There I was, leaving the hospital tent, the smell of blood and death clinging to me like an invisible miasma. The scene then shifted to the leafless tree under which I crouched and took my first taste of the brandy. My dry throat ached to taste that warm liquid again and experience the beauteous oblivion it brought. But I knew now that it brought ignominy and disgrace also. Was I really a coward? Was I really a deserter? Had I really neglected the men under my charge? The questions rattled and repeated in my brain like some awful machine. There is no inquisition more painful than that of your own making. Certainly I had been weak and lost some kind of faith that night. I had seen men, young men with smooth carefree faces, men who had not quite tasted life, mown down. The less fortunate, injured beyond help, were brought to me. And I had tried to mend the horrifically unmendable. Never had the futility of medicine in the face of cruel physical damage been made as clear and as painful to me as on that damnable night.

  And then one day in late September, Thornton visited me in my cell. He looked fit and well and, apart from exhibiting a certain stiffness in his left arm, there was no indication that he had been injured at all. However, although he treated me with cold civility, the intervening months had done nothing to lessen his anger towards me. He informed me of the date of my court martial and advised me that my best course of action — “the gentleman’s way” was to offer up no defence. “That way the matter can be dealt with swiftly, and you can be on your way home — and we in the British Army can be rid of you for good.”

  I had no stomach left for a fight, and I was fully aware that whatever plea I put forward, and however convincing my defence, I was already branded guilty. I agreed to all his suggestions. Anything to say goodbye to the grey walls and isolation of the last three months. In my naïvety, I believed that once I had escaped from India, I would be able to pick up the pieces of my shattered life. Little did I realise at the time that the taint and the stench I carried with me because of my offence would follow me all the way to England.

  London, October 1880

  Sherlock Holmes moved to the window and scrutinised the piece of paper by daylight with his magnifying glass. His fingers trembled with excitement. Here, he realised, he held in his hand the key to a real mystery at last. It was a terse, emotional cryptogram. And he was the only person capable of dealing with it. I have the genius, he told himself, which, as yet, has not really been put to the test. Maybe the time has come.

  He suppressed the grin that was waiting to break through and, turning to face the bearer of the note, he offered his opinion.

  “The message was written by a left-handed man — the curl of the L’s clearly indicates this — and although the paper is of cheap manufacture, the author was using a fountain pen, which is not usually found in the possession of those from the lower orders. The author wears a large ring on the fourth finger of his left hand: it has made tiny scratches on the surface of the paper.” He held the note to his nose and sniffed. “There is a strong indication that whoever wrote this was in the habit of taking snuff — Moroccan in origin, I believe. I am afraid my knowledge of the types of snuff is still quite limited.”

  With a theatrical flourish, he placed the note on the table by his chair and sat opposite the visitor, who, to his disappointment, did not seem impressed by his analysis.

  “That’s all very well, Mr Holmes,” came the querulous voice, “but what about the message itself? What am I to do?” The speaker, who had introduced himself as Jonas Abercrombie, was a plump, middle-aged man, dressed in a smart city suit which boasted a carnation in the lapel. His face was pale with worry, and he continued to turn the brim of his hat around in his hands in a nervous, agitated fashion. He desperately needed help, not conjuring tricks. How could his dilemma be eased by the knowledge that the writer of that accursed note enjoyed taking snuff and was left-handed?

  While Holmes was aware of the man’s obvious distress, he was far more interested in the recherché elements of the case — by the mysteries locked up in the note. He was not conscious of his own naïvety or lack of sympathy in interviewing his client. And even if he had been, he would have regarded them as irrelevant. What was paramount was the thought that, at last, here was a real challenge for his talents.

  Holmes picked up the note again and read it aloud: “We have your daughter. To ensure her safe return, we require a favour from you. We shall be in touch shortly. Do not go to the police.”

  “I’m sure they mean to kill her. Oh, my God!”

  “Why would they want to do that, Mr Abercrombie? What possible benefit could they gain from killing her?”

  Abercrombie looked bewildered and shook his head. “I don’t know. But why abduct her in the first place?”

  Sherlock Holmes gave a sigh of impatience. Could clients really be this dim?

  “Because, Mr Abercrombie, you are the manager of the Portland Street branch of the City Bank. Therefore, it seems to me most likely that they intend to use your daughter as a bargaining-tool for something in return — something that will bring them a large amount of money.”

  Abercrombie appeared genuinely shocked at this analysis. “You mean... they plan to rob the bank.”

  Yes, clients could be this dim.

  “In a manner of speaking. At the present time, there is a lack of sufficient data to indicate what method they intend to use to extract the money that lodges in your vaults, but I am convinced they are relying on your assistance.”

  The banker mopped his brow. “What on earth am I to do?”

  “Nothing for the time being. You must be patient and wait until they contact you again. As soon as they do, you must inform me immediately.”

  “Nothing? How can I do nothing when they have my daughter?”

  “Because I say so. If you do not trust me or my judgement, then pray seek your solace elsewhere!” It was a passionate response — but an unfeeling one. From the very beginning Holmes had trained himself to seal off all emotions when dealing with crime. He must be an automaton. At night sometimes he would hold a candle close to his face and stare into the mirror. The cold mask would stare back at him, a mask devoid of humanity or emotion. Even when he brought the candle flame close to his face so that he could feel the fierce yellow tongue begin to singe his flesh. This pleased him. The precision and objectivity that he deemed as essential in solving crime could only be tainted by emotion.

  He knew that, in speaking to Abercrombie as he had done, he was taking a risk. He had to keep this client, but it had to be on his terms, or there was no game.

&nb
sp; Abercrombie’s mouth gaped and he fell into silence.

  “You sought my advice,” said Holmes, aware now that his cold bait was attractive, “and I am giving it. We wait, and let the villains make the next move. Believe me, they are sailing uncharted waters. They will not do anything rash until they believe that their plan has failed. They want the money, rather than your daughter. Let me know as soon as you hear from them again.”

  Abercrombie, defeated and bewildered, nodded.

  “And should I need to get in touch with you?”

  The question shook the banker as though he were awaking from some terrible dream. “Please contact me at my home address. It might be dangerous to come to the bank.” Hurriedly, he extracted a card from his waistcoat pocket and passed it to the detective, who glanced at it, noting the address near Clapham Common.

  “My daughter, Mr Holmes...”

  “I am sure she will be safe, as long as you do as you’re told and do not contact the police. Now, sir, for my benefit, in order for me to clarify the matter very clearly in my mind, I would appreciate it if you would describe once again the series of events that brought you to my door. And pray be precise.”

  Abercrombie nodded. “I will do my best. I received that accursed note this morning. I found it on the desk in my office at the bank. I don’t know how it got there. I rushed home immediately to see if my daughter, Amelia, was safe. I am widower, and she is my only treasure.” He dabbed at his eyes, which had begun to water.

  Holmes nodded. “And on your return you discovered that this treasure was missing.”

  “The maid said that Amelia had received a note from me asking her to meet me for lunch, and had gone out straightaway.”

  “You do not have that note?”

  “No. I suppose she took it with her.”

  “Did you often invite her to lunch in this manner?”

  “Once or twice a month, yes.”

  “So our villains must have been watching you for a while. Where do you take lunch?”