The Veiled Detective (3 page)

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.

C
aptain 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.

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?”

“At Carlo’s, a little restaurant on Marylebone High Street. I went there at once, but of course the staff who know her assured me they hadn’t seen her today.”

“Give me a description of your daughter, please.”

“She is tall, quite thin, has auburn hair, usually fastened in a bun. She is very short-sighted and wears glasses with powerful lenses. Blue eyes. A lovely girl.” Abercrombie turned away and blew heavily into his handkerchief.

“Do you know what clothes she was wearing?”

The banker shrugged. “I think it would be a brown two-piece trimmed with fur, and a little hat with a veil. It is her favourite outfit.”

Holmes sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Well, I think that’s all for now. It is imperative that you return to work and act as normally as you can. You must be patient and resolute, Mr Abercrombie. I am convinced that you will be contacted in due course. It is most
probable that the villains will make you stew a little in order to weaken your resistance to whatever demands they intend to make on you. But I am confident that we shall bring this matter to a happy conclusion.”

“I hope so. I will do anything to see the safe return of my little girl.” Abercrombie rose, his eyes now red with tears, and grasped Sherlock Holmes by the hand. “Thank you. Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done without your help and assurance.”

Without another word, he left the room.

Sherlock Holmes smiled and rubbed his hands with glee. “Ah, ah,” he said, in a hoarse whisper. “At last, at last... the game’s afoot.”

As Abercrombie emerged on to the pavement, he also gave himself a self-satisfied smile.

“Irving could not have done better,” he told himself.

The following day, there was an unfortunate incident at the Portland Street branch of the City Bank.

A disreputable-looking fellow in ragged clothes and reeking of alcohol claimed that he wished to open an account with a single sovereign. On being told by the teller that he could not do so with such a small sum of money, he became abusive and then violent. He fell into a drunken rage, throwing papers around, shouting and knocking potted palms to the floor. The manager, who was engaged with an important new client, was summoned, and he, in turn, summoned the police. The recalcitrant drunk was handcuffed and taken away. While all this was happening, no one seemed to take particular notice of an old, sunburned gentleman sitting in the corner by the window, smoking a dark cheroot and reading the
Financial Times
as though he were at his club.

That same evening, Abercrombie called once again on Sherlock Holmes. He found the young detective curled up in his chair before the meagre fire, smoking a cherrywood pipe. Although Holmes had been
anticipating — indeed, hoping for — this visit, his bored expression gave none of his feelings away.