The Veiled Detective

by David Stuart Davies

  At Euston, he tethered his cab and caught up with the two fugitives on the crowded platform. Here, another argument broke out between the men. Hope moved as close as he could in the bustling throng so that he could overhear their conversation. Drebber was castigating Stangerson for having misread the timetable. They had just missed one boat train, and the next was not to be for nearly two hours.

  “You damned idiot,” Drebber was saying, and, from his blotchy face and slightly slurred speech, it was clear that he had been drinking.

  “It’s only a few hours,” responded Stangerson lamely. “We can take a seat in the waiting-room. The time will soon pass.”

  “The hell it will! You take a seat in the waiting-room and look after the luggage. I have a little business to attend to.”

  “What business? You’re not going back to the boarding-house?”

  “Never you mind. You tend to the luggage.”

  “I don’t like us splitting up like this. It might not be safe.”

  “Stop fussing. You’re like a goddamned mother hen at times.”

  “What if you’re not back in time for the train? It’s the last one tonight.”

  “I’ll be back. But if there is a problem, I’ll meet you at Halliday’s Private Hotel. You know the place.

  Stangerson nodded.

  Without another word, Enoch Drebber turned and walked unsteadily out of the station.

  At last, thought Hope, the moment I have waited for: they are on their own and it is after dark. But the game had been a long and strenuous one, and Hope was not about to spoil things by acting with undue precipitation. He followed Drebber in his cab, and the nature of the business that he wished to attend to soon became clear. Within a five-minute stroll of Euston Station, Drebber went in to an alehouse and stayed there for about an hour. On leaving, he was much the worse for drink.

  Another call at another alehouse secured Drebber’s fate. He was ejected some thirty minutes later by an irate landlord.

  “I didn’t know the girl was your daughter!” he growled, as he landed on the pavement.

  “I don’t want scum like you in my place,” bellowed the landlord. “If I see you in here again, I’ll break your bleedin’ neck.”

  Drebber lay for a moment on the ground as though he was unable to move, and then, with some effort, he gradually pulled himself to his feet and dusted himself down.

  “Bastard,” he muttered to himself. “Merely trying to be friendly to the girl.”

  Once standing, albeit in an unsteady fashion, he consulted his watch. “Blast! Missed the train.”

  “Need a cab, sir?”

  Drebber looked up and saw a hansom cab at the kerb. The driver, a broad fellow with a florid face and large grey beard, stared down at him.

  Drebber thought for a moment. His brain was sluggish with alcohol, and he had to concentrate hard to formulate any simple plan of action.

  “Dammit,” he said, “might as well. Do you know Halliday’s Private Hotel on Little George Street?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. That’s for me.” With some effort, Drebber clambered into the cab and collapsed in the seat. Within seconds of the cab moving off, he had fallen into a drunken slumber.

  The cab headed away from Euston. Away from Little George Street. The cab headed for Brixton. Jefferson Hope smiled with a warmth that had not been in evidence for over twenty years.

  Enoch Drebber was roused from his sleep by being roughly shaken. As he opened his bleary eyes, he saw the face of the cabbie looming over him.

  “It’s time to get out.”

  “All right, Cabbie.” The voice was thick and virtually unintelligible. With assistance from the cabbie, Drebber stepped on to the pavement, but then his legs seemed to give way.

  “Need so’ assistance,” he murmured, leaning heavily on the driver.

  “Certainly, sir,” came the reply.

  Hope hooked his arm under Drebber’s and shepherded him up the path towards the empty house. Unlocking the door, he helped the man inside.

  “It’s infernally dark in here. Halliday’s Private Hotel?” said Drebber, a note of uncertainty introduced into his inebriate tones.

  “We’ll soon have a light,” said Hope, striking a match and lighting the candle that he had brought with him. The room filled with a gloomy ochre light, revealing it to be empty and derelict. At first, Drebber gazed in wonderment, and then fear caught hold of him.

  “What... what the hell’s going on here? Where are we?”

  Hope held the candle to his face and threw off his wide-brimmed hat.

  “Never mind where we are, Enoch Drebber, you answer my question. Who am I?”

  Open-mouthed, Drebber gazed at him with bleary, drunken eyes, and then they widened in horror and convulsed his whole features. He staggered back, his hand to his mouth, gagging the scream.

  “You know me, then?” said Hope steadily.

  For Drebber, it was the bleakest and most fearful of nightmares. Of course he knew the man. It was the man in all the world he most feared meeting. The terror that rippled through his body brought about a remarkably quick sobering effect. Suddenly his brain began to function with icy clarity. He had been abducted and brought to this godforsaken dwelling by his greatest enemy.

  “I have money, lots of money,” he said feebly. “I can give you money.” Jefferson Hope laughed in response.

  “What is it that you want?”

  “Vengeance,” replied Hope simply. “I want vengeance.”

  Twelve

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER

  The morning following Holmes’ emotional revelation concerning his detective aspirations, Ifound him in a far more cheerful and bright-eyed mood. Icame down to breakfast as usual, and to my surprise discovered my fellow lodger swathed in an enormous purple dressing-gown at our dining-table, lingering over a plate of buttered toast. He was already grinning about something as Ientered, and on seeing me his smile broadened.

  “Ah, Watson, the very man. Ihave good news for us both.”

  “Really?” Isaid, with some apprehension, joining him at the table and pouring a cup of coffee.

  He scooped up a sheet of paper and waved it triumphantly before his face. “Brain food, at last. You remember yesterday how down in the dumps Iwas because Ihad no criminal investigation to challenge my mind...?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, here is the answer to my prayers.” He passed the sheet of paper over to me. “Go on, man, read it!” he cried eagerly.

  I did so. The letter ran:

  Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes,

  There has been a bad business during the night at 3 Lauriston Gardens, off the Brixton Road. Our man on the beat saw a light there at about two in the morning, and, as the house was an empty one, he suspected something was amiss. He found the door open, and in the front room, which is bare of furniture, discovered the body of a gentleman, well dressed and having cards in his pocket bearing the name Enoch J. Drebber of Cleveland, Ohio, USA.

  There had been no robbery, nor is there evidence as to how the man met his death. There are marks of blood in the room, but there is no wound on the person. We are at a loss as to how he came into the empty house; indeed the whole affair is a puzzler. If you can come round to the house at any time before twelve today, you will find me there.

  I have left everything in status quo until I hear from you. If you are unable to come, I will call upon you this evening to present you with fuller details of the affair, when I hope you will favour me with your opinion.

  Yours sincerely,

  Tobias Gregson.

  I handed the letter back to Holmes. “It sounds most puzzling,” I said.

  “Yes. No robbery; no obvious cause of death; no wounds on the body, but marks of blood in the room. A fine concoction.”

  “This Gregson...”

  “A policeman. Inspector. Along with Lestrade he is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders.” Holmes wrinkled his nose. “That says little, ho
wever. They are the pick of a bad lot. They are quick and energetic — but conventional and limited in their outlook.”

  It seemed a bitter irony that Holmes shared the same view of the official police as Professor Moriarty.

  “This Gregson is most earnest in his desire that you help them,” I said.

  “He knows I am his superior and acknowledges it to me, but he would bite his tongue off rather than confess it to another soul.” Holmes gave a high-pitched giggle.

  “You intend to help him?”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. This has all the makings of a splendid case. We shall take a cab immediately to Lauriston Gardens.”

  “We?”

  “Oh, yes, you too, Doctor. I insist!” he cried, rising from the table and flapping off his dressing-gown. “I want you to witness my brilliance at first hand. I cannot have you thinking that I am merely capable of party tricks, simple deductions concerning where someone comes from or where they have been. You should see for yourself the very practical nature of my skills. I trust you don’t object to accompanying me?”

  I could not help but grin at his suggestion. It was, of course, just the scenario I had hoped for.

  Within five minutes we were in a cab on our way to Lauriston Gardens, off the Brixton Road, and my first adventure with Sherlock Holmes had begun.

  It was a cold and misty morning, and a grey veil hung over the housetops. My companion was in an excited mood and was forever leaning forward to spy out of the window of the cab to check the progress of our journey, so eager was he to reach our destination.

  “Have you formulated any theories about this strange business?” I asked.

  Holmes shook his head vigorously. “No data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorise before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgement. That is why it is essential that I visit the scene to investigate it for myself; no doubt Gregson will have missed numerous clues which could point the way to the truth. Ah, here were are at last: Lauriston Gardens.”

  Holmes leapt up and instructed the driver to stop immediately. We were some hundred yards from the house in question, and we completed our journey on foot.

  Number 3 Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened and minatory look. It was one of four crumbling dwellings, all unoccupied and each containing a crooked To Let sign by the front door. Dark, begrimed windows stared with an air of vacant melancholy out on to the empty street. The garden of Number 3 was bounded by a three-foot brick wall with a fringe of wooden rails upon the top, and against this wall was leaning a stalwart policeman, surrounded by a little knot of loafers who craned their necks and strained their eyes in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of the proceedings within.

  I had fully expected Sherlock Holmes to bound up the garden path and enter the house in order to study the scene of the crime. This was not the case. With an air of affected nonchalance, he strolled along the pavement, gazing vacantly at the ground, the sky, the houses opposite and the line of railings. I followed some distance behind, feeling uncomfortable and slightly ludicrous.

  After having a brief word with the constable, he beckoned me and we proceeded slowly down the path. Holmes kept his eyes riveted to the ground. There were very many marks of footsteps upon the wet clay soil, a great number no doubt belonging to the policemen who had been coming and going. In my opinion there was nothing that my companion could learn from his scrutiny. And yet he gave this performance — and a performance it was, with his facial tics and mutterings. Twice he stopped and I saw him smile, and I heard him utter an exclamation of satisfaction. I felt sure that such actions were self-conscious ones designed to impress and intrigue me.

  At the door we were met by a flaxen-haired man with a notebook in his hand who, on seeing my friend, rushed forward and shook his hand effusively.

  “It is indeed kind of you to come,” he said, in a rasping voice. “I have left everything untouched.”

  “Except that!” Holmes responded, with some heat, indicating the pathway. “If a herd of buffaloes had passed along there, there could be no greater mess. No doubt, however, you had drawn your own conclusions, Gregson, before you permitted this.”

  The policeman flushed. “I have had so much to do in the house... It is in there that the heart of the mystery lies. My colleague, Mr Lestrade, is here also. I had relied on him to look after this.”

  Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically. “Well, with two such fellows as yourself and Lestrade upon the case, there will not be much for a third party to find out,” he said smoothly.

  “We have done all we can, but I am not sure we have uncovered all that is possible. It’s a queer case, and I know of your taste for such things.”

  Holmes leaned close to me and whispered in my ear, “What did I tell you? They are stumped.”

  “Would you care to look at the room?” said Lestrade.

  “Yes, but first — you did not come in a cab?”

  Gregson shook his head.

  “Nor Lestrade?”

  Another shake of the head.

  “You arrived together in a police wagon?”

  “Why, yes.”

  “I thought so. I recognised the wide spread of the wheels, so much broader than those of a hansom. Good, that’s one thing settled. Very well, lay on, Macduff.”

  With these words he strode into the house, followed by Gregson, whose features expressed his blank astonishment.

  A short passage, bare-planked and dusty, led to the kitchen and other downstairs rooms. Two doors opened out of it, to the left and to the right. One of these had obviously been closed for many weeks. The other belonged to the dining-room, where the body had been found. Holmes walked in, and I followed him with that subdued feeling in my heart which the presence of death inspires.

  It was a large square room, looking all the larger for the absence of any furniture. A vulgar flaring-paper adorned the walls, but it was blotched in places with mildew, and here and there great strips had become detached and hung down, exposing the crumbling plaster beneath. Opposite the door was the fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece of imitation white marble. On one corner of this was the stump of a red candle.

  The solitary window was so thick with dirt that the light which filtered into the room touched everything with a grey bloom that was intensified by the layer of dust which coated the whole apartment.

  All these details I noted down afterwards. On entering the room, my immediate attention was captured by the motionless figure that lay stretched out upon the floorboards, with vacant sightless eyes staring at the discoloured ceiling. The figure was that of a man in his early forties, middle-sized, with dark shiny hair which was swept back from his face, and a neatly clipped moustache. He was dressed in a heavy broadcloth frock-coat and waistcoat, with light-coloured trousers, and immaculate collar and cuffs. A top hat was placed on the floor beside him. His hands were clenched, but his arms were spread wide as though the death struggle had been a fierce one. His rigid face bore an expression of horror.

  On seeing the man, I felt faint. A sudden searing light flashed before my eyes, blinding me, and for a brief moment I was back in Afghanistan in the heat of the infirmary tent, looking down at a dead colleague. His eyes held the same terror and disbelief, and the body was contorted with agony in a similar fashion.

  I stumbled and reached for the wall to steady myself. I shook my head and took a deep intake of breath in an effort to banish this vision from my mind. Thankfully, the others in the room were too absorbed in their preoccupations to notice me.

  The man I recognised as Lestrade was standing by the corpse, jotting things down in a notebook. He was lean and ferret-like, with bright beady restless eyes.

  “This case will cause us problems, I am sure,” he remarked, addressing Holmes. “It beats anything I have seen.”

  “There are no clues,” said Gregson.

  “None at all,” agreed Lestrade.

  “We shall see, we shall see,” said Holmes, w
ith no attempt to disguise the arrogance of the remark. He approached the body and, kneeling down, examined it intently. “You are sure there is no wound?” he asked, pointing to the numerous splashes of blood on the floor around the corpse.

  “Positive!” cried the two detectives in unison, as though they were part of a music hall sketch.

  “Then this blood belongs to a second individual — presumably the murderer, if indeed murder has been committed. It reminds me of the circumstances attendant on the death of Van Jansen, in Utrecht, in the year ’34. Do you remember the case, Gregson?”

  “No, Mr Holmes.”

  “Read it up — you really should. There is nothing new under the sun. It has all been done before.”

  As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there and everywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining. Despite the swiftness of the examination, it was clear to me that it was carried out with an enviable thoroughness. Finally Holmes leaned over the dead man and sniffed his lips, and then glanced at the soles of his patent leather boots.

  As he rose to face us, his expression gave away nothing of his thoughts or conclusions.

  “You can take him to the mortuary now. There is nothing more to be learned.”

  Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand. At his call they entered the room, scooped up the body, covered it with a dark blanket and carried it away. As they did so, a ring tinkled down and rolled across the floor.

  Lestrade grabbed it and held it up to the light.

  “There has been a woman here!” he cried. “It’s a woman’s wedding ring.”

  He held it out as he spoke, and we all gathered round and gazed at it. There could be no doubt that this plain gold band had once adorned the finger of a bride.

  Gregson frowned and scratched his head. “This complicates matters,” he said. “Heaven knows they were complicated enough before.”

  “My dear Gregson, there is nothing very complicated about this affair. Come, come, you will not find the key to the mystery by staring at the damned ring,” snapped Holmes, with a swagger, which I felt was manufactured deliberately to impress me as to the way he dealt with the Scotland Yard dunderheads. “What did you find in his pockets?”