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

“And spoil my night’s entertainment?”

The policemen smiled, and each shook his head in bewilderment at my friend’s definition of entertainment. They bade us goodnight and departed.

Holmes and I said nothing for a while, and then Holmes rose and stretched.

“I am for my bed,” he said. As he reached the door, he turned to face me. “Thank you,” he said quietly, before leaving the room.

It was now my turn to pour a brandy nightcap. I cradled the glass in my hands as I leaned forward in my chair and stared into the dying embers of the fire. I knew that I could not reveal the truth of what happened that evening in my report to Moriarty. If I did so, I would be offering my new friend up as a sacrifice to the Professor. He would have a stranglehold on him for the rest of his life. No, Moriarty had to receive the official version of Hope and Stangerson’s death, the one that we had relayed to the police. I sighed with weariness and sadness at the delicate layers of duplicity that were surrounding my life.

I was also aware that, from the point of a fictionalised account of my first case with Holmes, it was too simplistic and short. If I were to turn the Brixton Road affair into a popular piece of literature, I would have to weave further threads into the mystery, to embellish the plot, while retaining the essential details of the true story.

One thing I was sure of was the nature of my burgeoning friendship with Sherlock Holmes, that strange creature to whom I had been invisibly shackled. The form and course of our relationship had changed that night. We shared a dark secret which inevitably drew us closer together. The more I saw of Holmes and listened to him, the more I liked and admired the man. I knew there and then that I was going to protect him, protect him from Moriarty and, more importantly, protect him from himself.

Nineteen

Although Sherlock Holmes’ involvement in the Brixton Road murder was mentioned only fleetingly in the press reports of the case, with Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson receiving the bulk of the credit for clearing up the mystery, somehow news of Holmes’ detective brilliance began to circulate and be disseminated across the great city. A few more successes with private cases further enhanced the detective’s reputation, and within six months there was a steady flow of clients calling at 221B Baker Street.

Holmes now relied upon Watson to accompany him on most of the investigations. He enjoyed the comforting presence of an intelligent man who not only had the great gift of silence at the appropriate moment, but also was an excellent sounding-board when he needed to discuss his ideas and theories. For his part, Watson — and now John Walker saw himself as such, his previous identity having been swallowed up by the mists of time and self-induced amnesia — was pleased with the arrangement. The experience he had shared with Holmes during the Hope investigation had in some mystical or spiritual way transmuted John Walker into John Watson. It was only his obligatory monthly reports to Professor Moriarty that reminded him of his duplicitous role. Otherwise, he enjoyed Holmes’ company and thrilled to the excitement of the chase, the puzzle of the unsolved crime and those moments of danger which are an integral part of a consulting detective’s career. He continued to keep a private record of the investigations, altering them in various degrees in order to make them entertaining mysteries for the reading public. He was determined that one day he would offer these to a publisher, but at present he realised that the time was not right.

And, of course, there was Professor Moriarty. Although it was indeed Moriarty who had originally suggested that Watson write about Holmes, he knew that he would have to obtain his permission before taking action. As time went on, the monthly reports to the Professor became slimmer and less detailed as Watson surmised that Moriarty was losing interest in the situation. Holmes now was fully occupied with private cases and never strayed into Moriarty’s territory, and thus did not pose a threat to his organisation’s machinations. Holmes was no longer an irritant to him, but the Professor knew there was always a danger that one day...

And so the lives of Holmes and Watson seemed to be settled, and their relationship flourished, until one day a woman came into their lives and disturbed the placid waters.

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN H. WATSON

I am in love with Mary Morstan. And I do not know what to do about it. I have no idea if she has any feelings for me — but even if she had, it would be an impossible match, for she is due to inherit a fortune.

Mary is a client of Sherlock Holmes’. She came seeking his help to unravel a mystery concerning her missing father, Captain Morstan, who had disappeared some ten years earlier. For the past six years, on the same annual date, she had been receiving through the post the anonymous gift of a single pearl. Accompanying the pearl on the most recent occasion was a note inviting her to meet her unknown benefactor, who pledged to do her a justice which she had been denied. She was concerned as to what action she should take, and so sought the advice of my companion.

As Mary told us her story in our sitting-room that dull September morning, I hardly heard a word she said, so captivated was I by the beauty of the woman. I say beauty, for to me she had that wondrous arrangement of features and a gentle but forthright manner which conjures up my ideal woman. And, if I accept it, she reminded me of my first love, Lauren, who was taken by influenza in her eighteenth year. Mary had the same large blue eyes and placid, spiritual expression when her features were in repose. As I was introduced to her, I felt a tingle as I shook her hand. She was blonde and dainty, with a quiet but precise way of speaking, and I can say that I have never looked upon a face that gave a clearer promise of a refined and sensitive nature. I admit that the objective observer might describe her features as being plain, but to me, who saw beyond the veil, she was beautiful.

During the course of the investigation, I felt us growing closer. She turned to me rather than Holmes for reassurance. On one occasion, I escorted her home. She was living with a friend, Mrs Forrester, who had been an early client of Holmes’. It was in the early hours of the morning, and Mary and I sat close together in the cab. Her hands sought mine, and I whispered some words of comfort concerning the case. She could not know of the violent struggle within my breast, or the effort of self-restraint which held me back from taking her in my arms and kissing her. Yet there were two thoughts prominent in my mind which sealed the words of affection on my lips and held back my arms from embracing her. She was weak and helpless, shaken in mind and spirit. It would be callous and calculated to take advantage of her by professing my love at this time. Worse still, she was rich. If Holmes’ investigations were successful — and I had every reason to believe that they would be — she would inherit a fortune. It was unthinkable that a fellow like myself should aspire to such a match, and indeed any approach I made would seem like the vulgar attentions of a fortune-seeker.

Of course there was one other reason which barred me from declaring my feelings for Mary: Professor Moriarty. I was his slave. His puppet. What would he say if I told him that I was in love and intended to marry? Such an act would inevitably take me away from Baker Street and away from Sherlock Holmes. Such an act would be seen as treachery.

My heart weighed like lead when we reached our destination. The servants had retired hours ago, but Mrs Forrester had sat up awaiting Mary’s return. She opened the door herself, a middle-aged, graceful woman with a caring nature, and it gave me joy to see how tenderly her arm stole round the other’s waist, and how motherly was the tone of the voice with which she greeted Mary.