David Davies - The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - The Veiled Detective

I rose from my chair, anger boiling within me. “I thank you for that, sir,” I snapped, “but why on earth you feel the need to convey this information to me, I do not know, and furthermore, I do not want to know. However, let me state clearly lest there should be some misunderstanding in the matter, if you hold any notions of involving me in your... activities , let me disabuse you of such ideas now.”

Moriarty did not reply; his features remained passive, but I detected a trace of amusement in his eyes.

“So,” I continued, “having established that, I believe there is no further purpose to this interview, and therefore if you will excuse me...”

I moved towards the door.

“Stop where you are, Doctor.” His voice was brittle and harsh, like the crack of a whip. “You will appreciate that the knowledge you now possess concerning me and my ‘activities’, as you referred to them so decorously, places you in rather a privileged and, I am afraid, very precarious position. You have now become a threat to my anonymity and safety. I assure you, Doctor, if you leave this room now, you will be dead within the hour. Another fatality floating in the Thames.”

“ What? ” My blood ran cold at these words. Whatever nightmarish charade I had found myself party to, I was convinced by Moriarty’s demeanour that he meant every word of his warning.

“Trust me. It is not an idle threat. Now, do please sit down, Doctor, and try not to look quite so outraged. You have made the mistake of not listening to the full story — a mistake I had not expected either a doctor or a writer to make.”

I felt trapped, caught in some diabolical web of intrigue which I could not explain. Numbed by fear and with my mind reeling, I slumped down into the chair. What on earth had I let myself in for? There was something about this man — his presence, and the fierce aura that seemed to surround him — that convinced me that all he told me was true, and that indeed my life was in his hands.

“It is not to any stranger that I divulge the secrets of my calling, but of course in one sense you are not quite any stranger. Thanks to my colleagues, Captain Reed and Mr Scoular, I know a great deal about you.”

Until Reed’s name was mentioned, my befuddled mind had not connected him with the creature before me, but then suddenly so many little pieces seemed to float together in my mind to create a very disturbing picture. Reed and the mess funds. Once a thief, always a thief, keeping the company of thieves. And he saw me as being bitter and demoralised enough to turn my hand to crime and join his filthy band. Anger rose within me again. If Reed had been present, I would have knocked the scoundrel to the ground.

“Rest assured, Doctor,” Moriarty continued, breaking into my thoughts, “I have no intention of placing a jemmy in your hand, slipping a black mask over your face and asking you to carry out a burglary. I have something far more sophisticated and essentially law-abiding in mind for you. Something more suited to your talents than cracking a crib.” He laughed.

I opened my mouth to respond, but he held up his gloved hand to silence me.

“The full story, Walker, the full story before you make any more rash statements. Allow me to furnish you with all the facts, and then we can discuss the matter like gentlemen.”

Ambrose Jones was thirsty. And, he thought, so he should be, after traversing the city all morning visiting the various establishments he owned to collect the rent. “Establishments” is how Jones thought of them, but in reality most of them were ramshackle doss-houses in the poorest parts of the city — Houndsditch, Whitechapel and Bethnal Green. Rats, mice and other vermin shared the premises with the poorest families in these damp and depressing dwellings. To Ambrose Jones’ mind, it was a pity that he could not charge the rats and mice rent in addition to his wretched tenants.

There was one property which was in reasonable condition, in the heart of the metropolis, the one where Jones dwelt himself, letting out the two upper floors to “his young gentlemen”, as he referred to them. That was to be his last port of call, but, consulting his watch and noting that it was just past midday, he decided, as he’d had a good morning — no defaulters and only one threatened eviction — that he would treat himself to a glass of ale and some vittals at his favourite inn, The Sparrow’s Nest in Holborn. The inn was situated down a narrow lane off the main thoroughfare. As Jones turned down the lane, a hansom cab drew up beside him at the kerb and the passenger leaned out to address him. He was well made, of muscular build, and dressed as far as Jones could see like so many of the City businessmen that scurry around like ants near St Paul’s.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the stranger. “I wonder if you could help me.”

Jones’s eagle eye noted that the man held a coin in his hand. Grinning, and raising his greasy Homburg, Jones stepped forward. “I should be happy to, if I can, sir.”

The stout man returned the grin and opened the door of the cab. “My query is of a rather delicate nature,” he said, lowering his voice. He beckoned Jones to come near, which the greedy landlord duly did. He now observed that there was another passenger in the cab, his features veiled by shadow.

“What is the query, then?” Jones asked.

Before he knew what was happening, the stranger whipped his arm out and grasped Jones by the neck and pulled him forward. It was an expert move, for not only did it take the landlord by surprise, but also the pressure on his windpipe prevented him from calling out.

“Come gently now,” murmured his assailant, and with a further tug he lifted Jones off the ground and hauled him inside the cab.

The door shut. The blind came down and the cab set off. Jones lay sprawled on the floor of the vehicle, panting for breath and wondering if his world was coming to an end. He was conscious of the cash stowed in his money-belt, his takings from the morning, but in a rare moment he thought more about the possibility of losing his life to these ruffians than losing his ill-gotten gains.

“Take the money,” he croaked, “but don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me.”

“It’s not your money we are after, Mr Jones,” came a voice from the darkness. It was not the voice of his assailant. It had a strange dark timbre to it and sounded somehow foreign.

Rather than calming him, this statement made him panic. If they didn’t want his money, then they wanted to kill him. He tried to struggle to his feet while at the same time crying out at the top of his voice, “Help! Murder!”

He felt a blow to the side of the head. Something heavy, like the butt of a revolver, connected with his temple. Further cries for help died in his throat and he slumped back to the floor, dazed and gasping for breath.

Briefly, light flared in the cab as one of the men lit a cigarette, and through bleary eyes Jones saw his abductors. There was the stout man who had first approached him and who had just hit him, judging by the gun he held in his hand. The other man, who reclined in the corner of the cab with his cigarette, was a good-looking black man.

“Relax, Mr Jones, we mean you no harm.”

“Like the devil, you do! You’ve just nearly knocked my brains out!”

“A simple matter of restraint. We have a favour to ask of you, one for which we will gladly pay you.”

At the mention of money, Ambrose Jones’ pulse quickened all the more.

“Favour? What favour? Why not come to see me in my office in Montague Street? Why abduct me, if all you want to do is ask me a favour?”

“We have our methods, Mr Jones,” the voice purred in the darkness. “This way, you know what to expect if you do not agree to our offer.”