The Veiled Detective

by David Stuart Davies

  “Morning, Watson!” he cried, pulling off his side whiskers with a theatrical gesture. “How good to see you.”

  I could not help myself: I burst out laughing.

  Holmes grinned and bowed. “Septimus Hitchcock at your service, sir,” he said in a rich Cockney accent.

  I shook my head in wonderment. “What on earth...?”

  “A long story — one which I will have pleasure in recounting over a late breakfast. I do hope you can stay.”

  I nodded.

  “Good man,” he said, in buoyant humour, his demeanour bearing none of the irascible bitterness I experienced during our last encounter. “Call down to Mrs Hudson and order coffee, toast and boiled eggs for two, there’s a good fellow. If I know her, she will already be about the task. By the time I’ve shed my ancient persona, and had a wash and shave, our feast will be ready for us and then I will provide you with the details of my latest escapade.”

  With a gentle pat on my shoulder, he disappeared into his bedroom. I couldn’t be sure at the time, but I thought that he was limping.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting opposite the spruce, clean-shaven and familiar version of Sherlock Holmes. He was encased in one of his dressing-gowns, and he was smoking his old clay pipe. The coffee, toast and eggs lay before him, untouched.

  “Have you heard of the Elephant’s Egg?”

  The phrase echoed down the corridors of my memory. Unusual and amusingly preposterous as it seemed, I had heard of it before — but I could not place it in context. I shook my head in denial.

  “It is one of the biggest — if not the biggest — rubies that the world has ever seen. Hence its fantastical sobriquet. It is the property of the Raja of Kalipaur.”

  “Ah, yes,” I said, the phrase now slotting into place. “He is sending the stone as a gift to the Queen.”

  “Indeed. A tribute to Victoria, Empress of India. The stone is estimated to be worth somewhere in the region of two million pounds.”

  I whistled softly. “A very nice gift indeed.”

  “It has come to my attention that someone intends to steal the Elephant’s Egg as soon as it reaches these shores.”

  At these words I froze. I knew that there could be only one criminal daring and audacious enough to attempt such a robbery: Professor Moriarty. And only Sherlock Holmes was clever and resourceful enough to stop him. So this is why I had been sent: to interfere with Holmes’ investigation, to lead him off the scent.

  To say that I suffered from mixed emotions on hearing Sherlock Holmes, his face wreathed in a beatific smile, refer to the proposed threat of the precious ruby would be a gross understatement. I was delighted that the challenge of such a case had stimulated my friend to such a degree that he was indeed himself again. The Holmes of old, capricious and mischievous — the eager foxhound once more. On the other hand, I realised that in this particular case he was about to challenge the greatest — and more importantly — the most dangerous criminal genius of the age. And I was the creature bound to his will while my true loyalties lay elsewhere. I saw myself as the medieval heretic who is tied to four horses in order to be torn asunder for his treachery. It was at that moment that I knew, whatever the consequences might be, that I had to choose, for my own sanity, for the love of Mary and for the only true friendship I could call my own. Up until now, my loyalty to Holmes had never been tested. True, I had reported back on his detective work but I had never attempted to interfere with it for any reason. Now I knew I couldn’t, and — more importantly — I wouldn’t.

  “How do you know all this?” I said quietly, trying desperately not to reveal my agitation.

  Holmes waved his arms like errant butterflies. “I have my methods,” he replied, leaning backwards, allowing puffs of smoke to spiral to the ceiling. “It is the job of the detective to know many things and to keep abreast with items of current information in the criminal world. Within the last fortnight, two jewellers have met rather sudden ends. A suspicious death and a suicide, which in itself is always a suspicious death.”

  “Two jewellers?”

  “Experts in their field. Not only for judging the quality and price of sparkling stones — but also in the cutting and shaping of such gewgaws.”

  “What has this got to do with the Elephant’s Egg?”

  “Everything! I believe these two men to have been murdered.”

  “Why?”

  “You were always good with the questions. That piercing inquisitiveness is one of your more accomplished qualities. Why indeed? The two men — their names are incidental — were experts at cutting up large stones — jewels, agates, rubies — into a series of smaller items. If you were to steal a red blob as large as the Raja’s ruby, you would want it to be cut up into several slivers, glittering babies which collectively would fetch as much as the mother egg. It would be almost impossible to sell the original — but smaller treasures would be an easy sale.’

  The logic was clear, and I was certain Holmes was right.

  “The deaths were clumsy and hurried. The coincidence is too great to ignore. A large precious stone is due to arrive in this country and be placed on display — bait enough for the greediest and sharpest of thieves — and two men who would be capable of... adapting the stone for easy disposal are themselves disposed of.”

  “But why murder, when, if what you say is true, these two jewellers would be useful to the supposed thief?”

  “If they agreed to his demands. There are still some upstanding fellows in our community who would resist the temptation to break the law, whatever the consequences. However, once they had been approached and once they had refused, our master thief could hardly let them go.” Holmes drew his forefinger along the line of his neck.

  I shuddered, not solely because of the graphic image he had presented, but also because I knew he was right. Moriarty would have no compunction in disposing of these recalcitrant jewellers. Moriarty was a man of ice, without warmth or consideration for others. We were all just pawns on his great chessboard, and we could be taken at any time to enhance his game.

  “I investigated these murders. Scotland Yard, blinkered as usual, saw nothing suspicious in the men’s demise, but I collected sufficient evidence to convince myself that I was correct. My next move was to find out how many other jewellers in the city were expert enough to carry out this specialised operation. Surprisingly there are not many — but one name stuck out from the rest: Patrick Graves.”

  The name meant nothing to me.

  “He was involved in a counterfeiting scandal some years ago. A matter concerning a diamond necklace. Not every stone was a fake, and so it was easier to convince the unsuspecting buyers that they were all genuine. He could sell three necklaces for the price of one set of stones. A tidy profit when you are dealing with items of fifty thousand pounds a time. He had aristocratic connections and a good lawyer: he was found not guilty. So much for British justice.”

  “If, as I think you are saying, this Graves fellow has a natural criminal bent, why wasn’t he approached first by... by the...?”

  “Master thief,” added Holmes, as I stumbled over my words.

  I nodded.

  “I’m not sure. Perhaps a thief should not employ a thief. There is no honour among thieves. But after two failures with upright gentlemen, it seemed to me that Graves was the next likely candidate. Two nights ago, I visited his house in Chiswick and I was just in time to witness his abduction — or, to be more precise, I was just in time to prevent his abduction, but I failed. There was only one of me and there were three of them... brawny fellows, too.”

  “I should have been with you!” I blurted the words without thinking, and regretted my utterance instantly.

  Holmes gave me a wry grin. “Perhaps you should. You might have prevented me from receiving a blow to the back of my neck and a nasty stab wound to my leg.”

  “Great heavens! Let me see the wound. How severe is it?”

  “The wound is fairly deep, but it has no
t severed any arteries. I have stitched it myself in an amateur but acceptable fashion. It will heal in time.”

  “Why didn’t you come to me for treatment?”

  Ignoring my question, Holmes rose and crossed to the window and looked out. “These are dangerous times, Watson. I know I am being watched. That’s why you saw me in disguise just now. I never leave the house without assuming some other persona than my own. More than ever I feel that my life is in danger.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, I think you know, my friend,” he said slowly.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  With a wave of his hand, he beckoned me to the window.

  “See that fellow down there? The one in the brown bowler and grey overcoat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Another of Moriarty’s men. On guard to watch over me.”

  “Moriarty’s men...?” I found myself repeating the phrase dumbly as my stomach began to tighten with fear.

  Holmes gave me a sour grin. “Professor James Moriarty, the greatest criminal in London Town. He’s very adept at employing fellows to spy on people, as you well know.”

  The words had hardly left his lips before I saw his fist coming towards me. The action was so sudden and so surprising that I remained rooted to the spot. His knuckles smashed against my chin with great force, and my head exploded with sharp pain and bright dazzling lights. Staggering backwards, my knees gave way and I found myself sinking to the floor.

  When my vision cleared, I observed Holmes standing over me with a strange expression on his face. He gave a wry chuckle and then, leaning forward, he held out his hand to pull me to my feet.

  “That was very satisfying. I have been wanting to do that for a long time,” he declared.

  Dazed by the blow and bewildered by Holmes’ behaviour, I dropped into the chair by the fire, rubbing my chin. It was then that the full significance of his actions sank in.

  “My God,” I said. “You know!”

  “Yes, Watson, I know. I probably know everything. I know that your real name is Walker. I know that you were drummed out of the army for drunkenness, and I know that you have been a paid employee of Professor James Moriarty since arriving back into this country. My dear fellow, I certainly wasn’t going to set up home with someone about whom I knew absolutely nothing. I did a little digging, and soon discovered your real identity. That wasn’t very difficult. I have been building up a dossier on Moriarty for some time, as, no doubt, he has on me. When I discovered that you had been in his company just before we were introduced, it was a simple deduction. Obviously, you were to be his spy in the camp.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “And yet you still went ahead with the arrangement?”

  “I was flattered that I warranted so much attention.” He chuckled. “And I liked you. You seemed a decent enough fellow, and I thought it would be fun playing cat and mouse with the two of you.”

  “So, you’ve known all this time.”

  “Of course I have. What sort of detective would I be if I could not detect that the man with whom I shared lodgings was in the employ of the most powerful criminal in the city?”

  “Then you must know that I had no choice in the matter.”

  “Very few have, where the Professor is concerned. Yes, I knew. I could not have tolerated your existence if I thought you had entered into the contract willingly.”

  “Why are you telling me all this now?”

  “Because we have come to the final chapter of our saga, Watson. It is time to destroy Professor James Moriarty and his organisation, once and for all.”

  “He is too powerful. It’s not possible.”

  “All things are possible, with careful plotting and planning. I am offering you the opportunity to join forces with me now to end this man’s grip on London — and, indeed, upon your own life.”

  My heart pounded at the prospect that Holmes described. It was like a mirage, a fantastic illusion that would fade if one reached out to touch it. To be free, really free, of the dark threat that had hung over me since that fateful meeting in Reed’s club seemed like a happy dream beyond the grasp of daytime reality.

  “How could you trust me?”

  “All I would need is your word.”

  I grinned. “I don’t need time to think. I will help you. You have my word. But I believe that we shall lose the battle. As I said, Moriarty is very powerful, and he has eyes and ears everywhere.”

  “I am fully aware of that, and that is why we must trust no one — and I mean no one. Not even Scotland Yarders like Lestrade and Gregson; not even your Mary. We cannot be sure who is free from the taint of Moriarty.”

  “But Mary...”

  “No doubt she would protest the same about you, and she would be wrong, wouldn’t she?”

  I nodded dumbly. It was a hateful thought, but I realised that it was a possibility.

  “When we have our case, there is one fellow at the Yard who will help to bring the matter to a head, but for the moment we can only trust each other. Is that understood?”

  “Yes.” I mumbled, my mind in a frantic whirl.

  “Don’t fret, Watson; I would not engage upon this very dangerous game unless I was sure of a safe outcome. You must trust me, and your actions must not waver — or we are all lost.”

  I nodded and managed a half-smile.

  “Good man,” he said, lighting his pipe and sitting opposite me. “Now, I think I’d better put you fully in the picture. Let me start by telling you how I managed to escape from the bruisers who were abducting Patrick Graves.”

  Twenty-Five

  Just as Sherlock Holmes scrambled free out on to the ledge, one of his attackers launched himself forward and struck him in the leg. The detective gave a fierce gasp of pain as he wrenched himself free, and then suddenly he found himself falling through darkened space

  Blotting the pain of the wound from his mind, Holmes twisted his body, aiming it at the large rhododendron bush below him. He landed spread-eagled atop its leafy branches. It broke his fall, but it was only a temporary resting-place, for the weight of his body was too great to be supported by the bush and he tumbled in an ungainly fashion on to the lawn. At moments like this, Holmes’ ability to think and act quickly was remarkable. He knew that if he stayed where he was, he would be captured or more likely killed by the assailants. If he fled, all his efforts that evening would come to nought. There had to be some centre ground. He scrambled awkwardly to his feet, gritting his teeth as the wound in his leg screamed with pain. He ran as fast as he could to the garden wall, and vaulted over on to the pavement. He crouched low against the bole of a large oak tree by the kerb. On the other side of the street he spied a carriage. The driver appeared to be peering at the house in anticipation.

  Two of the assailants appeared in the garden, one swinging a bull’s-eye lantern around wildly.

  “He’s scarpered!” cried one fellow.

  “Yeah,” replied the other. “Never mind him, let’s get this bleeder away before the whole neighbourhood wakes up.”

  The third man appeared at the door with a large burden over his shoulder, wrapped in a grey blanket. The burden was Patrick Graves. The man blew on a silver whistle and the driver brought the carriage to the gate. Graves was bundled inside, followed by two of the men; the other, obviously the leader, jumped up alongside the driver.

  “Let’s go,” he croaked, and the carriage set off.

  Holmes slipped from his hiding-place and ran after the carriage. With iron determination he blotted from his mind the stabbing pain in his leg, and, clutching hold of one of the metal bars running parallel across the back of the coach, he pulled himself forward and managed to secure a foothold on the back of the vehicle. With amazing dexterity for an injured man, he was able to settle himself into a crouching position to the back of the carriage, hanging on in a precarious fashion as the vehicle gained speed. In this manner, he travelled with the abductors through the dark and w
inding streets of London.

  Despite his limited vision, Holmes’ encyclopedic knowledge of London allowed him to deduce the direction in which they were travelling. All signs told him they were headed towards Rotherhithe. The detective clung on for dear life as the carriage swayed and rattled its way east.

  After some twenty minutes, the roads narrowed and darkened — the frequency of gas lamps diminishing. They were now in the vicinity of the West India Docks — an area of warehouses, giant wharves and silent, uninhabited streets. And then the carriage slowed down as it approached the gates of some huge warehouse. He heard one of the men blow hard on a whistle four times, and, peering around the edge of the carriage, Holmes saw the gates begin to open. Now he had to think fast. Decisions had to be made. Should he drop from the vehicle before he became trapped in the warehouse, or should he risk going inside to face the unknown? Once inside the warehouse, he felt certain that he would be able to discover much more concerning Moriarty’s plot to steal the Elephant’s Egg. The danger was, of course, that he would be trapped there, thus rendering the knowledge useless. In such situations as this, with his heart racing and his adrenalin pumping, Sherlock Holmes gave way to the emotional rather than the rational response. He stayed with the carriage.

  It rumbled into the vast and apparently empty warehouse, a great industrial cathedral with a high vaulted ceiling which echoed with the rattle of the carriage. In the distance, Holmes spied a group of men, some of whom were carrying lanterns. The welcoming committee. Nimbly, Holmes jumped from his perch and, keeping to the shadows, he scrambled to a stack of discarded packing-cases by the wall, and hid there. And waited. He was inside and safe for the moment. And then the doors of the warehouse closed with an echoing clang. He was inside, but trapped.

  Graves was unceremoniously unloaded from the carriage as the group of men, three in all, approached. Holmes recognised one of them — Scoular, one of Moriarty’s lieutenants. He seemed to be in charge.