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

These questions did not surprise me. I had been expecting some kind of inquisition, and so I was prepared. Naturally, I had taken great pains to observe Holmes in the few days that we had been living together, and already I was building up a picture of the man. In all fairness, because of my natural curiosity and my penchant for writing from life, I believe I would have done this anyway had I not a reason to do so. There were many aspects of Holmes’ character and behaviour that puzzled me, but one thing I was sure of was that he had no suspicions concerning me. For all his reported brilliance as a detective, I was — and remained — his one blind spot.

There had been three callers at our new address enquiring for Mr Holmes: a young girl, fashionably dressed, who arrived in an agitated fashion and stayed about half an hour; a white-haired gentleman with the air of the cleric about him; and a sallow, rat-faced man who was introduced to me as Mr Lestrade. The latter fellow called twice, and behaved in quite a shifty manner on encountering me on both occasions. When these visitors arrived, Holmes requested the use of the sitting-room for privacy. I agreed and took myself off to my bedroom.

I was intrigued by all these comings and goings, but I knew I had to be patient. Despite some desultory conversations over dinner, Sherlock Holmes had not yet divulged to me what his profession was, and I thought it politic, at this early stage, not to appear too inquisitive. I was sure that in his own good time he would reveal all.

I conveyed all this information to Colonel Moran, who listened in silence until I had finished.

“Capital,” he said at last. “I think you are quite right to stalk your prey at a distance for the time being. A bond of trust and reliance must be established between you, and this can only occur when Holmes feels at complete ease with you. I am a practised hand at tracking tigers in India, Watson. I’m an old shikari, and I know the value of patience and allowing your prey to feel relaxed and confident in its safety.

“You ought to know that Lestrade, the fellow you described as rat-faced, is a Scotland Yard inspector who has been using Holmes for some months. When he gets stuck — which is often — he goes running to our friend for help. I can tell you that the Professor’s organisation would not be half as successful as it is, if there was anyone at Scotland Yard with half a brain. That’s why your fellow lodger is such a threat.”

There followed an uncomfortable pause during which I felt I was expected to comment on Moran’s claim, but I did not know what to say or, rather, what I was expected to say. At length I said awkwardly, “Is that all for now?” I desperately wanted to escape from the dark confines of the cab and the company of this unpleasant man. Such a conversation only reminded me in bleak terms of the reality of my situation, the lie I was living. For the past week I had relaxed and been content, observing my fellow lodger out of a spirit of curiosity rather than with such a degrading ulterior motive as spying on him.

“In essence, Watson. But please do not be so petulant. You are being paid well for your labours. Remember that.”

I leaned forward, anger welling up inside me. I wanted to say that I had been given no choice in the matter. The whole scenario was forced upon me, but as the words came to my lips, they died away. I knew it was useless to complain. I was the proverbial fly caught in the web, and the spider was certainly not going to let me go.

Moran handed me a piece of paper. Glancing at it in the dim light, I noticed that it contained an address in West London. “The Professor would like you to compile regular reports on your activities with Sherlock Holmes. They are to be posted to this address on the first of the month. If there is some urgent business you think the Professor should know about, you are to send a telegram to that same address. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now memorise the address and hand the paper back to me.”

I did as he asked.

Moran tapped the roof of the cab with his cane again and the vehicle drew to a halt.

“This is where you leave us, Watson. We are not far from your lodgings.”

As I rose, Moran offered his hand again. With some reluctance, I took it. “It’s been good to meet you. We expect great things of you, Doctor. Be sure that you do not disappoint us.”

Without responding, I quickly departed the cab, glad to be out in the cold, fresh air once more.

Ten

Revenge was a flame which had burnt with a steady and fierce intensity in the heart of Jefferson Hope for twenty years. Never in all that time had his determination to murder the two men who had ruined his life and brought about the death of his beloved Lucy wavered for one instant. He had dedicated the rest of his days to the task, and once it was complete, he would be happy to meet his maker with a clear conscience. As he looked out of the grimy window of his lodgings at the gathering dusk and the hurrying silhouettes of the passers-by below, he felt good. He knew, at long last, that he was near to reaching his goal. He had finally tracked Drebber and Stangerson to London. He had always believed that it was just a matter of time before he got his hands on them, but now that time was very short. He prayed that his failing health would not let him down at the last moment. Fate could be cruel; indeed, it had been cruel to him, but surely it could not be that cruel — after all this time.

He held up the key against the glow of the gas mantle and examined it as though it were a precious stone, and smiled. It had chanced that, some days before, a passenger in his cab had been engaged in looking over some empty houses in the Brixton Road and had dropped the key to one of them on the floor of the cab. It was claimed the same evening and returned, but not before Hope had arranged for a duplicate to be made. Now he had access to one spot in the whole city where he knew he would be free from interruption to carry out his grisly plan. However, the problem remained of how he could get Drebber there.

That night the dream came again to Jefferson Hope. He was escaping to Carson City with his beloved Lucy and her father. They were fleeing the clutches of the Mormons, crossing the great mountain range that isolated Salt Lake City from the civilised world. In the dream he could feel the scorching power of the sun, and the raging thirst that dries the throat and causes the tongue to swell; and then, as they rose higher in the mountains, reaching nearly 5,000 feet, the air grew bitter and keen, cutting through their clothing with the viciousness of sharp knives. But his concerns were for Lucy, his beloved Lucy. In the dream, as in life, he cursed himself for leaving her. It was their second day of flight and they had run out of provisions. As an experienced hunter, Hope knew there was game to be had in the mountains, and so, choosing a sheltered nook for his loved one and her ailing father, he built a fire for them with a few dried branches, and set off in search of food.

As Hope tossed and turned in his troubled sleep, the vivid dream unfolded steadily, as it had done countless times. After two or three hours’ fruitless search, he began to despair, and then he spied a lone sheep — a bighorn. It did not take him long to despatch the creature, but it was too unwieldy to lift, so with the practised skill of an old hunter he cut away one haunch and part of the flank. Flinging these over his shoulder, he hastened back to the makeshift camp.

As the climax of his dream grew closer, Jefferson Hope began to moan aloud in his tormented slumbers. Scrabbling over the cold dry rocks and slithering down narrow ravines, he eventually reached the spot where he had left Lucy and her father. All he saw was the glowing pile of ashes that had once been the fire. There was no living creature nearby: Lucy, her father and the horses were gone. He stood there in horror as the fierce silence of the mountains pressed in on him.