The Veiled Detective (20 page)

Of course there was one other reason which barred me from declaring my feelings for Mary: Professor Moriarty. I was his slave. His puppet. What would he say if I told him that I was in love and intended to marry? Such an act would inevitably take me away from Baker Street and away from Sherlock Holmes. Such an act would be seen as treachery.

My heart weighed like lead when we reached our destination. The servants had retired hours ago, but Mrs Forrester had sat up awaiting Mary’s return. She opened the door herself, a middle-aged, graceful woman with a caring nature, and it gave me joy to see how tenderly her arm stole round the other’s waist, and how motherly was the tone of the voice with which she greeted Mary.

I was introduced, and Mrs Forrester earnestly implored me to step in and tell her our adventures. I knew Holmes was waiting for me to start the next stage of our investigation, and so reluctantly I had to refuse the offer.

As my cab drove away, I stole a glance back, and as I write this I can still see in my mind’s eye the two ladies on the step, two graceful clinging figures, and the half-opened door, the hall light shining through the stained glass, the barometer and the bright stair-rods. It was soothing to catch even that passing glimpse of a tranquil English home in the midst of the dark business which had absorbed us. It was like a mirage to me, the essence of quiet domestic bliss, which I believed at the time would elude me forever.

However, perhaps I more than most should not be surprised at the unpredictable and fickle way in which Fate plays with our lives. It is as the poet has it — our fate is “Lock’t up from the mortal eye/In shady
leaves of destiny.” It was my destiny to be with Mary. I see that now, but then, as the carriage rumbled through the darkened streets and the little tableau of Mary with Mrs Forrester slipped from sight, I felt sick at heart.

Sherlock Holmes, ignorant of the emotional strains I was experiencing, carried on the investigation with relentless vigour. He was in search of the great Agra Treasure, which had been stolen some ten years before by Mary’s father and his co-conspirators, Colonel John Sholto and Jonathan Small. Small, the only survivor of the thieves, had recently arrived in London after escaping from imprisonment on the Andaman Islands, in search of what he considered to be his rightful inheritance. If the truth be known, many of the details of this case escaped me, as most of my thoughts were full of Mary. The published version of this investigation, the novella called
The Sign of the Four
, had perhaps more inaccurate passages and invented moments than nearly any other bearing my name. I know how my heart soared when we discovered that the treasure was lost and that Mary would not become an heiress after all. However, in my naïvety, I never considered two important things: that in law, the treasure was not Mary’s to keep anyway, and that she was of such a noble character that she would not contemplate calling any part of it her own.

I had arrived at Mrs Forrester’s with the treasure chest to find Mary waiting for me in the sitting-room. With the aid of the poker, I wrenched open the chest — to discover that it was empty.

“Thank God!” I cried out loud, my heart soaring, when I realised that the treasure was now no longer a barrier to our union. How could it be? There was no treasure.

Mary looked at me with a quick, questioning smile.

“Why do you say that?” she asked, but from her tone and expression I was aware that she knew the answer already.

“Because now you are within my reach,” I said, taking her hand. She
did not withdraw it. “Because I love you, Mary, as truly as ever a man loved a woman. And the treasure, the possible wealth that it would bestow on you, sealed my lips. I could not as much as give you a hint of my true feelings while there was a possibility that you would become a rich woman. Now there is no threat. That stumbling-block has gone and I can confess that I love you.”

She drew close and smiled. “And that is why you said, ‘Thank God!’”

I nodded.

She kissed my cheek. “And then I say thank God, too.”

For a moment we stared into each other’s eyes, and then I pulled her to me and we kissed.

The elation I felt as I left Mary Morstan on the step of Mrs Forrester’s that night soon dissipated when I remembered that I still faced a greater and more insurmountable hurdle, in the dark shape of Professor Moriarty.

How could I marry Mary and stay true to my accursed bargain with him? But I was not about to give up my romantic dream without a fight. At the earliest opportunity, I wrote to the Professor requesting an interview, and then I waited. Once again, this creature of the underworld held my life and happiness in his hands.

I
t was two nights after the denouement of the Agra Treasure affair. Ihad dined with Mary, and we had talked at great length about our feelings and our possible future together. Of course, Ihad said nothing about my role in the life of Sherlock Holmes or even breathed the name of Professor James Moriarty. It pained me to begin our close relationship while still concealing those important elements of my existence, but Iknew that Icould never share those truths with her. However, the sheer joy of being able to be with this wonderful woman blotted out most of my concerns. After seeing her home, Icalled at The Butcher’s Arms, an inn on Marylebone High Street, for a brandy nightcap. Iassumed that Holmes would be waiting up at Baker Street, and Iwanted to savour a quiet drink on my own and enjoy the happiness Ifelt in loving and being loved by that darling girl.

As Isat in a private compartment, smoking a cigar, watching in quiet contentment the floating tendrils of smoke ease their way towards the ceiling, a rough-looking fellow with rosy cheeks and dark beady eyes put his head round the corner and grinned at me.

“Beggin’ your pardon, but it is Doctor John H. Watson whom I have the pleasure of addressin,’ ain’t it?”

“Why, yes,” I said, with some surprise.

“That’s good,” continued the fellow, sidling up to my table, “‘cause I got a personal note for you here.”

He pulled out a long cream envelope with my name scrawled on the front.

“I was told to pass this on to you, Doctor Watson.” He handed me the envelope. “My pleasure.” He grinned once more, exposing a row of irregular and yellowing teeth, raised an imaginary hat in a parting gesture, and disappeared from view.

A chill ran down my spine. I recognised the type of enveloped and the handwriting. What unnerved me was not the message from Moriarty, but the nature by which it had come to me. Until fifteen minutes earlier, I had no notion myself that I would be taking a drink at this particular inn — and yet one of the Professor’s minions had found me here. How closely was I being watched? Was there
any
privacy in my life?

With nervous fingers, I tore open the envelope and read the message within:

Dear me, Watson, I knew you had a romantic imagination—but this! It smacks to me of breaking your contract. That will never do. However, I am not an unreasonable man. I shall give this matter some thought and make certain enquiries. I shall contact you in due course. M.

So he knew. Without my telling him, he knew of my affections for Mary Morstan. There was nothing I could do without my actions being reported back to Moriarty. Some nervous instinct made me swing round in my seat, expecting to see the fellow there. I downed the brandy quickly
and left, feeling far from the relaxed romantic fellow I had been a short time before.

As I walked back to my Baker Street lodgings, the full implications of Moriarty’s message sank in. “Certain enquiries” could mean only one thing. I cursed myself for ever entertaining the possibility of a happy future with Mary. Through my stupidity, I had drawn this innocent girl into the thrall of Moriarty’s web. However, despite my dark dismay at the way things were turning out, I knew that there was nothing I could do now but wait, hope and pray.

When I returned, Holmes was still up. He was sitting by the fire, poring over a thick volume that had arrived in the afternoon post. It was in French and pertained to the work of Alphonse Bertillon, a French criminologist who had developed a system for the identification of criminals which consisted of a series of anthropometrical measurements of the body, especially the bones. As I took a seat opposite him, he closed the book with a noisy thud.

“It is interesting, and Monsieur Bertillon has been most thorough in his cataloguing of criminal types, but overall I fear he is too prescriptive and makes no allowances for deviations and anomalies. This is a weakness which, in the end, will undermine his system.” He broke off and stared at me. It was clear to me that I had been unable to disguise my troubled emotions with a stoical expression.

“You understand what I refer to?” he said, holding up the book.

“Yes, yes, of course.”

He smiled a smile one might give to a naughty child who has just apologised for his misdemeanours. “I thought as much, but hoped against it.”

I frowned. “Hoped against what?”

“Romance. Love. Affections of the heart. Whatever trite description you wish to use. You have fallen under the spell of Miss Mary Morstan and are in the process of taking on the characteristics of a sentimental mooncalf.”

I was momentarily stunned by the cruelty of Holmes’ outburst.

“I can see it in your eyes, in your manner and in your voice,” he continued. “Saccharine emotions are eating away at your reason.”

“How dare you talk to me like that!” I cried, trembling with anger.

He responded with a wry, condescending smile.

Something snapped within me. I jumped up and grabbed Sherlock Holmes by the lapels of his dressing-gown and shook him.

“Whatever I do or do not feel for Miss Morstan, it is not a topic for you to sneer at, or about which to denigrate my feelings and emotions.”

Holmes was genuinely shocked by the vehemence of my attack. His features paled and he tried to pull away from me.

“I apologise, my dear Watson, unreservedly. I had no idea that you would be so sensitive upon the subject. Please forgive my light-hearted remarks.”

“Light-hearted? Your remarks were unfeeling and pompous and intended to wound,” I snapped, releasing my grip on him. I realised that my ill temper was only partly fuelled by Holmes’ comments. The untenable situation in which I found myself was causing frustrated anger to build up inside me.

“I may be thoughtless and I may at times be pompous,” said Holmes evenly, “but I never say things intended to wound you, my dear Watson. I hold you in too high a regard for that.”

“I apologise also. I behaved like a schoolyard bully,” I responded, sinking back in my chair.

“Let’s mend fences with a nightcap. Allow me.”

He poured us a brandy and soda apiece, and we clinked glasses, each of us bearing a wary smile.

“I have sublimated all such emotions as love in order to pursue my detective career, and I forget how powerful and overwhelming an emotion it can be. I assume that I was right and that you are in love with
Miss Mary Morstan?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I feared as much. Now, Watson, before you grab me by the throat again, hear me out. The inevitable result of love is matrimony, which would in turn mean that I would lose a most companionable lodger, my investigating associate and the keeper of my casebook. I have never taken it upon myself to make friends. Indeed, our relationship fell out so easily that I cannot say I made any effort with you, either. It just came about naturally. And now you are going to up sticks and leave me for domestic bliss in the suburbs. Is it any wonder I said I feared as much?”

“Put like that...”

“If the truth be known, Watson, I do not really approve of love. It is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgement.”

“I trust my judgement may survive the ordeal.”

Holmes chuckled. “I fear it will.”

“But you pre-empt issues. Miss Morstan and I have only just started walking out. As yet she does not know the depth of my passion for her,” I lied. “And I have no notion how she will react when I pluck up the courage to tell her.”

“Ah, so I will have you around for a few months yet.”

I thought of Moriarty. “A few months at least.”

“Ah, well, that is some comfort.”

I looked across at my friend, his lean features dappled by the firelight. He looked content and at peace with himself. How I envied him.

“Have you never loved?” I found myself asking him.

“What is the definition of love, I wonder? A palpitating heart and the sense of total self-sacrifice to another party? If so, no, I don’t think I have. I loved my parents. And I loved the rough little terrier we had when I was a
lad, but that’s not the sort of thing you refer to, is it? Romantic love: closeness, passion, sex.”

I was shocked by this base definition.