The Veiled Detective (6 page)

“Ah, there you are. Been looking for you,” said a voice at my side. I
turned, and to my surprise I saw Reed’s smiling face. He was dressed in an expensive black coat with an astrakhan collar and was wearing an opera hat.

“And I’ve been looking for
you
.” My response was automatic and unreasonably indignant.

Reed ignored my rudeness. “Looks like we’ve both been playing hide-and-seek, then. Well, journey’s end in lovers’ meeting, eh? Now, you’re to leave the boat with me. My friend Scoular will be waiting, and then the three of us can repair to my club for a pork chop or two and discuss the future. What do you say?”

His charm and easy manner quickly dispelled my anger frustration and despair within seconds. I grinned. “I should be delighted to go along with your plans.”

“Good man.”

Out across the city, the melancholy chimes of Big Ben could be heard signalling the hour as though in welcome to the weary travellers about to set foot once more on their native soil.

Accompanied by a raucous cheer from the crowd waiting on the dockside, the gangplanks were lowered. People waved and cried, babies and infants were held aloft, and the air seemed to crackle with the heightened excitement of anticipated reunion. As I gazed down on those eager, smiling faces, I felt a pang of jealousy. There were no hugs, kisses or firm handshakes waiting for me. There was no one waiting to greet and welcome me back home.

“Stick close, old boy,” said Reed, grabbing my sleeve. “There’ll be an almighty rush once they lift the barriers.”

He was right. The crush of passengers desperate to escape the confines of the ship surged forward, squeezing down the narrow lanes of the gangways. It was like being caught up with a fierce river current and being swept away against one’s will. Reed and I were carried along,
tossed and buffeted like driftwood.

“I rate myself a lover of my fellow man,” whispered my companion in my ear as we were jostled nearer the gangway, “but I ain’t so sure I like them
this
close.”

Within five minutes, somewhat breathless and dishevelled, we found ourselves standing on the dockside.

“Well, here we are, Walker. The old country. Breathe in that damp, tainted air. Grand, eh?”

I smiled. Reed seemed to find amusement and enjoyment in most things. Nothing seemed to ruffle his even temperament or throw a cloud across his sanguine outlook on life. I found myself liking and admiring my new acquaintance more and more. I did take in a lungful of air. Tainted as it was with myriad vapours and smells, so different from the dry, dusty air of Afghanistan, it tasted good to me.

We stood for some time on the dockside as passengers scurried past us and porters conveyed large trunks to waiting conveyances. It was dark now, and the area was illuminated by a series of gas lamps that bathed us in a soft yellow glow. Neither of us felt the need to talk: we were just taking time to acknowledge our new reality. After weeks bobbing on the waters in an artificial, enclosed environment, we were now back in England, our home. Back where we belonged. And I felt in my heart that, whatever unknown problems I now had to face, I would much prefer to face them here than anywhere else.

As the crowd dissipated, a tall, imposing figure emerged from the gloom and stood for a moment under one of the gas lamps, watching us. He was well over six feet in height, a height that was exaggerated by the top hat he was wearing. Reed observed him and raised his hand in greeting. This prompted the stranger to approach us. He moved like a cat, with soft sinewy movements, his feet making no sound on the damp paving stones. As he drew closer, I saw that he was a black man, with a
remarkably handsome face. He stopped some little distance from where we were standing and touched the brim of his hat with his silver-topped cane, acknowledging Reed’s greeting.

Reed beamed. “Scoular, my old friend, how good to see you.” He stepped forward, grabbed the man’s hand and gave it a vigourous shake. There was no obvious response: no reciprocal smile or warm words. The fellow’s expression hardly altered. He looked beyond Reed at me, his eyes registering some interest at my presence. Reed noticed this, and his whole body stiffened awkwardly. He threw a nervous smile in my direction.

“Excuse me, Walker, for a moment, while I have some private words with my old chum.”

I nodded, feeling rather like a child left outside the headmaster’s study while one of the masters and the head decide on what punishment to administer.

The two men moved some distance away, whereupon Reed spoke rapidly in an animated fashion. I could not hear what he was saying, but it was clear that he was telling the impassive stranger all about me. From time to time, both men glanced in my direction as though I were some item at an auction which was under discussion by two potential bidders. Obviously Reed had overestimated the welcome and help I would receive from his friends, and he was having to persuade the icy Scoular of my worth. I felt very uncomfortable and was tempted to leave, to walk away. What stopped me was the knowledge that I had nowhere to walk away to. In essence, I was trapped.

When Reed had finished his recital, he waited nervously for Scoular to respond. The gentleman stood impassively for some time, and then he asked a few questions. In the growing quiet, I heard the dark, silky tone of his voice on the night air.

And then suddenly, Scoular moved with the speed of a leopard and before I knew it, he was by my side, his gloved hand extended and a
broad grin on that dark, handsome face of his. “Doctor Walker, I am so pleased to meet you. I am Lincoln Scoular.”

Dumbly I took his hand and shook it. Like a gas mantle being turned down, the smile faded quickly.

“I have a carriage waiting. We shall repair to Reed’s club for drink and refreshment, and to provide you with a night’s accommodation. Over our meal we shall discuss your future. I trust that these arrangements are in accordance with your wishes?”

I nodded. “Indeed,” I said, unsure whether they were or not. I knew that in reality I had no other option. Once again, it was a decision that was to change my life for ever.

“Where is he now?” Professor Moriarty handed his two visitors a glass of brandy each before seating himself behind his large desk.

“At my club, snoring his head off no doubt,” grinned Reed, cradling the brandy glass in both hands. “We made sure he had plenty to eat and drink.”

Moriarty nodded and turned to his other visitor. “Impressions?”

Scoular pursed his lips. “There is steel and fire in his nature, I am sure. At present he is demoralised, but, given time, the phoenix will rise.”

“With our help, eh, Professor?” Reed raised his glass in a mock toast.

The Professor did not seem amused. “You are rarely wrong in finding the organisation effective recruits, Reed, but this time I must be absolutely certain about this man. I have a particular project in mind for him — if he is the right man.”

“There is no doubt that all the biographical details are true. I read all about his case in the local press in Candahar and thought then that he might make a suitable candidate for recruitment. When I learned that he would be sailing on the same boat back here, I made it my business to find out all about him.”

Now Moriarty did smile. “Your thoroughness is commendable — but facts do not always reveal the man.”

“Ah,” said Reed, warming with the compliment, “but I watched him closely on the voyage and I spent several hours in conversation with him. He has all the qualities we look for in a recruit: nobility, courage, but a life damaged and a nature simmering with bitterness. He is ready, I am sure.”

“I believe Reed is right,” agreed Scoular softly. “In his present state of mind, Walker is rather like a dog that has been rescued from being destroyed. He will give obedience and loyalty to anyone who shows him any form of kindness and generosity.”

Moriarty sipped his brandy, trapping the mouthful until it began to burn his tongue before releasing it. “I am encouraged by your words, gentlemen. If what you say is accurate, it is so very opportune that this remarkable individual has been washed up on our beach at this particular time. He seems to have all the qualities needed for the job I have in mind.”

“May I ask what job that is?” enquired Reed.

Moriarty grinned. “Of course you may. However, you should not expect an answer. Not yet, at least.”

Reed looked nervously away and took a large gulp of brandy.

The room fell into silence, a silence both visitors knew it would be inappropriate to break. The Professor was thinking, and he would be the one to speak first. Scoular and Reed sat impassively as the silence settled on the room, accentuating the crackle of the coals in the grate and the soft tick of the clock on the mantel. At length the Professor began tapping his fingers in a staccato rhythm on the desk, and then at last he spoke.

“You are excellent lieutenants, and I trust your word and your judgement implicitly. However, on this occasion, I need to judge for myself before we go any further with this matter. Reed, I shall call round to your club tomorrow at noon. Make sure there is a private room
available where I may have a meeting with Doctor John H. Walker.”

“It shall be done.”

“Very good. Now, gentlemen, I do not think I need keep you any more from your beds or what other pursuits you have in mind at this late hour. Therefore, I bid you goodnight.”

After the two men had gone, Moriarty picked up a copy of the
Temple Bar
magazine, which Reed had brought him that evening. It was dated 1878. He flipped it open to the page that Reed had marked: ‘The Missing Dagger’ — a mystery story by John H. Walker. Professor James Moriarty settled down in his chair and began to read.

I
only met Professor James Moriarty twice. The first time was in a small dark room at Reed’s club, the morning following my arrival back in England.

The previous evening I had dined with Reed and Scoular, who, although maintaining a veneer of affability, spent the whole time quizzing me about my life, my politics, my family and my views on a whole range of subjects. I realised that they were, in fact, assembling my autobiography as a kind of screening process. I didn’t mind. It was good to feel free to talk about myself again without the fear of censure, and I knew that every firm or organisation of quality has its own method of gauging the worth of a prospective employee. The only aspect of the matter that puzzled me was the exact nature of the position they had in mind for me. But I was prepared to be patient. There were no other demands upon my time or company.

The following morning, I discovered a letter on the breakfast tray that was brought to my room. I had spent the night at the club and slept late, enjoying the luxury of a proper bed after months on straw and
sacking in the army prison, and weeks in a cramped bed onboard ship, and was surprised to find that it was after ten o’clock.

The letter was from Reed.

My dear Walker,

I trust you slept well. I have to be about my business. Being out of the country for a few months, there is now much for me to attend to. I am not sure when we shall meet again. However, the principal of the establishment that I represent will be calling on you at the club at noon, and I believe he will be offering you a lucrative role in our organisation. Your appointment is in the Red Room on the second floor. I advise you to be prompt.

 Allow me to take this opportunity to wish you the best of luck.

In all sincerity,

A. Reed, Capt. (Retd.)

The tone of the letter suggested that I should not be seeing my newly made acquaintance again. It was as though his part in the strange process of recruitment was over and it was time for him to step out of the picture. Where all this was leading, I could not begin to discern, but I comforted myself that by the time noon had arrived, along with my important visitor, I should be much the wiser.

At the appointed hour, a lackey showed me in to the Red Room, a small book-lined apartment with scarlet furnishings. Two large armchairs were placed on either side of the fireplace, which contained a meagre fire that had only recently been lit and was still struggling for life. On being left alone, I began perusing the shelves. Then a voice addressed me.

“I suspect you will find little to interest you, Doctor. It is just a second-rate collection of outdated tomes. No adventure stories at all.”

I whipped around and found that the voice belonged to a saturnine young man who was sitting in one of the chairs, which had its back to me. He rose and we shook hands.

“I know of your penchant for adventure stories,” he continued, his lips spreading into a wide smile. “I spent an enjoyable hour reading your ‘Mystery of the Missing Dagger’ last night.”

“Really?” I stuttered, in some amazement. “I wrote that some time ago when I was in general medical practice. The long intervals between patients—”

The smile broadened. “I am Professor James Moriarty and I am very pleased to meet you, Doctor John H. Walker. Do sit down.”