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

“When I think of the cases where this test would have been invaluable. There was Von Bischoff in Frankfurt last year. Then there was Mason of Bradford, and the notorious Muller, and Lefevre of Montpellier, and Samson of New Orleans. Oh, I could name a number of cases in which it would have been decisive.”

“You seem to be a walking calendar of crime,” said Stamford glibly, with a laugh. “You ought to start up a paper on those lines. Call it Police News of the Past .”

“Very interesting reading it would make, too,” replied Sherlock Holmes, sticking a small plaster over the wound on his finger. “I have to be careful,” he explained, turning to me with a smile, “for I dabble with poisons a good deal.” He held out his hand as he spoke, and I observed that it was mottled over with similar pieces of plaster, and discoloured with strong acids. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and I also noticed the evidence of pinpricks and small scars on the insides of his white arms. These were the tell-tale marks of a hypodermic needle. I glanced again at those animated features and vibrant eyes, and realised that at least part of his exuberance came from artificial stimulants.

“We came here on business,” said Stamford, perching on a high three-legged stool and pushing another one in my direction with his foot. “As I intimated this morning, I said I would keep my eye out for you in the matter of living-quarters.”

Sherlock Holmes raised a quizzical brow.

“My friend Watson here is in need of digs, and is very amenable to the notion of sharing, so I thought that I had better bring you two together.”

Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the thought of my sharing rooms with him, which surprised me. Perhaps his all-seeing eye, which had told him that I had recently come from Afghanistan, had gleaned sufficient information about me to allow him to be at ease with such a situation.

“I have my eye on a suite of rooms in Baker Street,” he said, washing his hands, “which would suit us down to the ground. You don’t mind the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?”

“I always smoke ship’s myself,” I answered.

He nodded approvingly. “That’s good. I usually have chemicals about, and occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you?”

“By no means.”

“Let me see — what are my other shortcomings...?”

As Holmes confessed his bouts of moodiness and his sulks, I hardly heard him for I was tingling with the realisation that it really was going to happen. It had come to pass as Moriarty had planned and promised. I would be sharing rooms with this strange and brilliant young man with the piercing eyes and strange enthusiasms — and I would begin my life as a spy. The enormity of this reality almost took my breath away.

“What have you to confess, Watson?” Holmes was saying. “It’s just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before they begin to live together.”

I laughed at this cross-examination. It seemed to have a farcical aspect in relation to the truth of the situation. I noticed also that in Holmes’ catalogue of his supposed failings, he did not mention that he was a user of drugs, possibly an addict.

“I am fairly easygoing, I would say,” I responded, “but I do object to rows, because my nerves are still somewhat shaken. I get up at ungodly hours and I am extremely lazy. I have another set of vices when I’m well, but those are the principal ones at present.”

“Do you include violin-playing in your category of rows?” he asked, with some concern.

“It depends on the player,” I answered. “A well-played violin is a treat for the gods — a badly played one...”

“Oh, that’s all right then,” he murmured smugly. “I think, my dear doctor, that we may consider the thing settled — that is, if the rooms are acceptable to you.”

I realised that I must not appear too eager. I knew that from now on all my actions must be guarded and calculated. “When can we see them?”

“Call for me here at noon tomorrow, and we’ll go together and settle things up.”

“All right — noon exactly,” said I, shaking his hand.

Stamford and I left him scribbling his findings in a large notebook. On leaving the hospital, we walked for some time in the direction of my hotel.

“By the way,” I said suddenly, stopping and turning to Stamford, “you didn’t tell him that I had just returned from Afghanistan, did you?”

“Of course not. How could I?”

“Then how the deuce did he know?”

My companion smiled an enigmatic smile. “That’s just his little peculiarity,” he said. “A good many people have wanted to know how he finds things out.”

“Oh, it’s a mystery, is it?”

“If you want to unravel it, Watson, you must study the man. You’ll find him a knotty problem. I’ll wager he learns more about you than you about him.”

“I sincerely hope not. I wish my skeletons to remain firmly in their cupboard.” I spoke jokingly, but I was deadly serious.

Stamford and I parted company at Piccadilly, and I strolled back to my hotel, replaying in my mind my first encounter with Sherlock Holmes in a desperate attempt to learn more about the man. It wasn’t a particularly fruitful exercise.

Sherlock Holmes and I met the following day as arranged and we inspected the rooms. It really was a perfunctory exercise on both our parts. He was very keen to seal the arrangement, and I had no choice in the matter anyway.

However, I found the lodgings at 221B Baker Street ideal. They consisted of a couple of comfortable bedrooms, a bathroom and a single large, airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished and illuminated by two broad windows.

Our landlady, Mrs Kitty Hudson, a widow, a small tidy woman with tightly curled blonde hair rapidly fading to grey, seemed pleasant and gracious, and was delighted at the prospect of “two young gentlemen of respectable character” coming to live under her roof. Her terms were moderate when divided between the two of us, and so the bargain was concluded upon the spot.

That very evening I moved what few things I had from the hotel, and on the following morning Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes and a portmanteau. For a day, he unpacked and we spent the time laying out our property to the best advantage. That done, we gradually began to settle down and to accustom ourselves to our new surroundings.

The seeming normality of this arrangement, compared with the past six months of my life, was so welcoming to me, that I actually began to enjoy living at 221B. Sherlock Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to share with. He was quiet in his ways, and his habits were regular. Frequently he would have breakfasted and gone out before I rose, and he was very often in bed by ten at night, while I regularly stayed up until after midnight, reading, smoking and enjoying a brandy nightcap.

It was about a week after I had taken up residence in Baker Street that I received my first summons. It came through the post. The message just gave a date and time and location: “Today, 12 March. 11.30 a.m., the corner of Wigmore Street and Duke Street.” Making a mental note of the details, I threw the note on the fire and watched it burn until it turned into fine black ash.

At the appointed hour, I stood at the corner of Wigmore Street, when a hansom drew up and a voice from within beckoned me to join him.

“It is good to meet you, Doctor Watson,” said the shadowy figure, once I was seated. “I am Colonel Sebastian Moran, the chief of staff for Professor Moriarty.”

He took my limp hand and shook it. “Shall we go for a little ride?” He tapped the roof of the cab with his cane, and we set off at a steady trot.

“The purpose of this meeting, as I am sure you are aware, is merely to receive a progress report on the arrangements regarding Mr Sherlock Holmes. How are things between you? Have you settled in quite amicably? And more importantly, do you think that Mr Holmes has any idea of your... how shall I put this... your ulterior motives?”