The Veiled Detective (25 page)

“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 not 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.”

J
ust 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 winding 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.

“You have our prize?” he asked, pointing at Graves.

“We’ve got him. He’s groggy now, but he’s only had a few drops of the old chlory. He’ll be right as rain shortly,” said the leader of the abductors, the one who had hit Holmes from behind.

“Was there any trouble?” asked Scoular, his face a cold mask.

“A little. Some geezer tried to interfere.”

“Yeah,” said another. “Called himself Sherlock Holmes.”

Scoular’s eyes narrowed. “What happened?”

“We gave him what for, and he scarpered.”

“You fools! He should have been silenced.”

“He was a very slippery customer.”

“There were three of you.”

Scoular’s observation hushed the men for a moment, and then the leader piped up again: “But we had Graves to deal with as well, and we got him for you.”

Scoular nodded, and turned to his confederates. “Maxwell, you take care of Mr Graves; and Jenson, pay our friends here and make sure they leave the premises with some speed.” He looked up at the driver of the carriage. “Take them back to the city and drop them somewhere quiet.”

The bigger of the two men took Graves’s limp body and hoisted it over his shoulder, like a roll of carpet. The abductors were paid off, and within minutes the carriage had departed, taking its three passengers with it.

Holding his lantern aloft, Scoular made his way back down towards the far end of the warehouse, accompanied by his two accomplices, one of whom bore the limp frame of Patrick Graves.

Sherlock Holmes followed them at a distance, keeping to the sides of the building and beyond the feeble rays of the lantern.

The men halted, and suddenly a bright shaft of yellow light shot up from the floor of the warehouse, sending a golden glow up into the rafters. Silently, Holmes dropped to the ground. He saw that Scoular had opened a trap-door, and it was from here that the light was emanating. Without a word, the men disappeared from sight and then with the same suddenness of its arrival, the bright beam of illumination vanished as the trap-door slammed shut. The detective was left alone in the Stygian gloom and silence. It was as though he had been witness to a strange shadow-play, and now the show was over. But the show was not over, he determined. This was merely an interval. He had come this far; it would be futile to give up now. He knew that this was the closest he’d ever been to Professor Moriarty, and he intended to get even closer. Somewhere
above him a bat, disturbed by the sudden shaft of light, fluttered briefly from one rafter to another and then settled again.