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

“Have you any friends who might be prepared to come in with you?” asked Stamford.

Holmes shook his head. If he were to tell the truth, he would have to confess that he had no friends at all. Friendship was so unscientific, involving as it did emotions and illogical actions, and he shunned it. However, it was also true that at times Sherlock Holmes longed for someone to talk to, to discuss his experiments with or his investigations, someone with whom he could share his thoughts, theories and beliefs.

“Well, I’ll keep an eye out for you. You never know.”

“Indeed”’ said Holmes quietly, picking up the newspaper again to indicate that the conversation was over.

Stamford needed no further prompting. He rose, smiling. “Nil desperandum , Holmes, old chap,” he cried, as he turned and made his way to the exit.

As Stamford disappeared from sight, Holmes lowered his newspaper again and stared off into the middle distance, his sharp penetrating eyes lost in thought.

The Criterion Bar, situated in Piccadilly, was throbbing with noise as Henry Stamford entered just after noon that day. He was later than he intended to be, but his hansom had been caught in the thick flow of traffic around Oxford Circus and so he had decided to walk the rest of the way. He stood by the door, mopping his brow and catching his breath as he peered through the fug of smoke towards the bar. It wasn’t long before he spied the man he was there to see.

“Hello, Doctor!” he cried heartily, approaching one of the men leaning indolently on the bar.

The man he addressed turned abruptly to face him. At first he looked puzzled and then recognition dawned.

“Bless my soul, it’s Stamford!”

“It is indeed, Doctor...”

“Watson,” he came in quickly. “John Watson.” The two men shook hands. “I haven’t seen you in some four years, I should think, since you were a dresser at Bart’s.”

“Still there. Junior doctor now.”

“Congratulations. Let me get you a drink. It’s so good to see a friendly face in this great metropolitan wilderness.”

“A glass of claret would suit.”

While Watson caught the attention of one of the barmen, Stamford scrutinised his old acquaintance. He was certainly thinner than he used to be, and although his skin was tanned, his face was drawn and unhealthy-looking. He looked much older; already grey tints were in evidence at the temples of his black, wiry hair. He thought of the Walker of old — he was Walker then, not Watson — and remembered a robust fellow with a cheery smile and a determined spring in his step. This fellow passing him a glass of red wine was a pale ghost of his past self.

Stamford raised his glass. “To the future.”

Watson nodded shyly, repeated the toast, and then drained his glass. “Look, Stamford, it’s too crowded and noisy in here for a decent conversation. Let’s take lunch at The Holborn; my treat. What d’you say?”

“Oh, I couldn’t....”

“Nonsense. It would be a great pleasure to me to chat about the good old days at Bart’s. You’re the first genuinely friendly face I’ve seen in a long while.”

“Well, I must admit, that would suit me, too. Give me a second to dispose of this undistinguished claret, and The Holborn it is.”

Once ensconced in a cab, Stamford touched Watson on the arm. “I hope you don’t think me rather blunt, old man, but you look as though you’ve been ill. You’re as thin as a lath and appear rather the worse for wear. Whatever have you been doing with yourself?”

“I’ll tell you over lunch.”

Stamford received the amended account of Watson’s experiences in Afghanistan. Watson went into great detail concerning the Battle of Maiwand, but dealt swiftly and sketchily with his injury and his despatch to England after contracting enteric fever. Despite his belief that he had no talent for dissembling, once he had commenced his recital, Watson warmed to the role of story-telling and found himself relishing the task of blending fact with a soupçon of fiction to create an engaging narrative.

“Poor devil,” said Stamford, after he had listened to his friend’s misfortunes. “No wonder you look a little under the weather. Still, that’s all behind you. So, tell me, what are you up to now?”

“Very little! One is somewhat hampered on an army pension of eleven shillings and sixpence a day. My main occupation at present is looking for lodgings. Trying to solve the problem as to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a comfortable price.”

Stamford felt as though he were taking part in some stage play and had just been given his cue. “That’s a strange thing,” he said with enthusiasm. “You are the second man today to use that very same expression to me.”

“And who was the first?”

“A fellow who is working at the chemical laboratory up at the hospital. He was bemoaning himself this morning because he could not get someone to go halves with him in some nice rooms which he had found, and which were too much for his purse. A chap called Sherlock Holmes.”

At the mention of the name, Watson felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle. He was immediately reminded that he was still part of a charade and was being moved like a puppet with great finesse inexorably nearer the goal. It had not struck him until the name of Sherlock Holmes was mentioned that Stamford was in on the game also. Watson had been naïve enough to think that their chance meeting had been just that, and not an arranged rendezvous. He wondered how much Stamford knew of the grand scheme. Very little, he concluded. He was a small pawn, acting merely as a catalyst. But he must have been bribed to play the role. No one, it seemed, could be entirely trusted. With a sigh, Watson played on.

“By Jove!” he cried. “If he really wants someone to share the rooms and the expense, I am the very man for him. I should prefer a partner to living alone.”

“You don’t know Sherlock Holmes?”

Watson shook his head. “Is there anything against him?”

“As far as I know, he is a decent enough fellow. But he is a little strange in his ideas — an enthusiast in some branches of science.”

“A medical student, I suppose?”

“No — to be honest, I have no idea what his calling is. He is well up on anatomy, and he is a first-class chemist; but as far as I am aware he has never taken out any systematic medical classes. His studies are very desultory and eccentric, but he has amassed a great deal of out-of-the-way knowledge which would astonish the professors.”

“Did you never ask him what he was going in for?”

“No; he is not an easy man to draw out, though he can be communicative enough when the fancy seizes him.”

“He sounds fascinating. If I am to lodge with anyone, I would prefer it to be with a fellow who was interesting, rather than a dullard. How can I meet this friend of yours?”

“He is sure to be at the laboratory now. He either avoids the place for weeks or else he works there from morning till night. If you like we could drive round together after luncheon.”

“Admirable,” beamed Watson.

Following their meal at The Holborn, the two men hailed a cab and made their way to Bart’s Hospital. Fuelled by the wine he had consumed over lunch, Stamford suddenly felt the need to tell Watson more about Sherlock Holmes. He felt a sentimental kinship to this troubled and rather weary doctor, and in giving him sufficient warning about Holmes, he believed that he wasn’t breaking faith with the black man who had engaged him to bring about a meeting between the two men. He hadn’t been told to ensure that they liked each other — just to make sure they met over the matter of lodgings in Baker Street.