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

Late that afternoon, Jefferson Hope rested his weary bones in The Turk’s Head while he sipped a tankard of ale and perused the newspaper in a lazy fashion. He was waiting for the night, the thick darkness when he could complete his mission. As his eyes ran over the small print, one advertisement in the Found column sent his pulse racing:

In Brixton Road this morning, a plain gold wedding-ring, found in the roadway between the White Hart Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Doctor Watson, 221B, Baker Street between seven and eight this evening.

Hope took a gulp of beer. This was his ring. Without a doubt. The one he risked all to retrieve the previous night. His grin faded a little as he considered the times stated. By eight o’clock it would be dark and Stangerson might well be making a move. Could he risk going to Baker Street before returning to Halliday’s Hotel? If he didn’t, he might lose the ring. Some chancer might convince this Doctor Watson that it was his. Surely Stangerson would wait until the streets were quiet before making his escape? He glanced once more at the advertisement. It was a risk he would have to take.

Fifteen

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER

As we approached the city, after leaving Rance’s house, Holmes halted the cab.

“Enough brainwork for the moment, Watson,” he beamed, pulling on his gloves. “I feel the need to be soothed. Norman-Neruda is giving a concert this afternoon, and Ipromised myself Iwould see her again. Her attack and bowing are splendid. Iwill see you back at our rooms around six o’clock.” So saying, he gave me a cheery wave, hopped on to the pavement and was gone.

I welcomed the opportunity for some time on my own. It would afford me the opportunity to write up my notes of the mornings events. And after a light lunch, this is what Idid. However, when it came to describing that gruesome dead body in the derelict house in Brixton, Iwas surprised to find that my hand was shaking as Iwrote. The vision of that pale, contorted face triggered off unwelcome memories in my subconscious. Unbidden thoughts and vivid images of my dead and dying comrades at Maiwand seeped into my mind. Iwas suddenly aware that my eyes were misting with tears. However strong the conscious will is, it cannot quell the powerful forces that lie within the psyche. I knew then that, try as I might, I would never succeed in blotting out that dreadful experience. With some effort and, God help me, a tot of brandy, I completed a rough draft of my notes, a version that I could present to Moriarty. I knew that my “romanticised version” would need a little extra effort, to gild both the prose and the detective in order to make both more attractive.

Holmes returned at the hour he stated, but I knew that the concert could not have detained him all that time. He had been at work again. And I needed to know all about it, but I was fairly certain that a direct question would not provide me with an answer. I would have to bide my time. He bustled in, flinging his coat over a chair, humming a snatch of Chopin.

“The concert was magnificent,” he cried. “What an artist! Do you remember what Darwin says about music? The power of producing and appreciating it existed among the human race long before it acquired the power of speech. It speaks to our simple, primitive nature. There are vague memories in our souls of those misty centuries when the world was in its childhood.”

“Well, that’s a rather broad idea,” I remarked.

“One’s ideas must be broad as Nature, if we are to interpret Nature.”

He sat opposite me and suddenly scrutinised my face. “But, Watson, how pale you look. Ah, I see. This Brixton Road affair has upset you.”

I shook my head, but I did not convince my companion, who smiled at my deceit.

“I should have thought of that before I dragged you along to see a dead body. It must have brought back memories of Afghanistan. I apologise.”

“No apologies needed. I ought to be case-hardened now. I was just caught off my guard, that’s all.”

Holmes gave me a cool smile to indicate that he was closing the subject. “Did you get a chance to see the evening paper?”

“No.”

“It gives a fairly good account of the Brixton affair. However, fortunately for us it does not mention the fact that a wedding-ring was found at the scene of the crime. Those dunderheads, Lestrade and Gregson, no doubt haven’t realised how important it is.”

“Why is that fortunate for us?”

“Look at this advertisement. I had one sent to every paper this morning.”

He threw the paper across to me and I glanced at the place indicated. It was the first announcement in the Found column.

“In Brixton Road this morning,” I read aloud, “a plain gold wedding-ring, found in the roadway between the White Hart Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Doctor Watson, 221B, Baker Street between seven and eight this evening.”

“Excuse me using your name,” said Holmes casually. “If I used my own, Lestrade or Gregson would come blundering in here and want to meddle with my plans.”

“That is all right,” I answered, “but what if someone actually applies? I have no ring.”

“Oh yes you have,” he said, grinning as he handed me a shiny gold ring. “This will do as well. It is almost a facsimile.”

“And who do you think will answer this advertisement?”

Holmes held a finger up in admonishment. “You must avoid the habit of asking superfluous questions. Why, the murderer, of course, our florid-faced fellow with square toes. That ring meant a great deal to him. He was prepared to risk capture by returning for it last night. According to my notion, he dropped it while stooping over Drebber’s body, and did not miss it at the time. After leaving the house, he discovered his loss and retraced his steps in the desperate hope of finding the ring. When he reached the empty house, he discovered that the police were already there due to his own folly of leaving the candle burning. He had to pretend to be drunk in order to allay suspicions. Luckily for him he encountered the brilliant Constable Race.” Holmes chuckled.

“And you think that he will look in the paper this evening in the hope that someone has advertised its find.”

“Indeed I do. He will be so overjoyed that the fellow will never suspect a trap.”

“A trap,” I repeated, with some alarm.

“Why, yes. We’ll have him cornered and have the truth out of him in a jiffy.” He opened a drawer and withdrew a pistol. “Have you arms?”

“I have my old service revolver and a few cartridges.”

“You had better clean it and load it. He will be a desperate man; and though I shall take him unawares, it is as well to be ready for anything.”

I went to my bedroom and followed his advice, although I dreaded the idea of having to use the weapon. I had thought that I had left those days behind. But, I reasoned, if I was to be a close companion of a private detective, there would no doubt be moments of danger, and it was necessary that I should be prepared. With that thought in mind, I carried out my task with alacrity.

When I returned with my pistol, I found Holmes scraping upon his violin. He ignored me for some moments and then put his instrument aside.

“My fiddle would be much better for new strings,” he remarked. “Put the pistol in your pocket. When the fellow comes, speak to him in a normal fashion. Don’t frighten him by staring at him too much or acting oddly. Then leave the rest to me.”

“It is seven o’clock now,” I said, glancing at my watch.

“Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes. He will want to be certain to be the first to make the claim. Open the door slightly. That will do. Now put the key on the inside. Thank you.”