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

I tossed and turned for most of the night as my brain sought a solution to my dilemmas. The grey light of dawn was creeping into the room before exhaustion allowed a shallow sleep to overtake me, my problems still intact and apparently insurmountable.

Twenty-One

The same evening that John Watson had discussed his romance with Sherlock Holmes, Professor Moriarty was entertaining a guest to dinner in his sanctum. The occasion was a business one, concerning forged documents and Bank of England plates. The matter was dealt with successfully. After the meal, the two men retired to the library to smoke, take port and relax.

“How is the business with Sherlock progressing?” asked the portly guest casually, as he prepared to take a pinch of snuff, delicately balanced on the back of his hand.

“I am rather bored with it now. It is true that your brother has developed into a crime-fighter without pareil, as we both suspected, and that with a little nudging from our man Watson he now follows the paths of crime which lie in a different direction from my endeavours. Paradoxically, that is part of my dilemma: the plan has been successful, and so there is no excitement in the case.”

Mycroft Holmes brushed away the errant grains of snuff from his waistcoat and peered over his pince-nez.

“Ah, well, the lion may only be sleeping. There may come a time when Sherlock will pose a serious threat to you,” he said.

“I would almost welcome the challenge. However, I suspect that now Holmes has a successful detective practice, the broad strokes of my crimes will no longer interest him. He is a connoisseur, and prefers rather bizarre miniatures to the simple, clean masterpieces that I create.”

“He always had a love of the unusual and the recherché.”

“There you are, then,” said Moriarty, leaning forward and pouring more port into Mycroft’s empty glass. “And now Watson is wanting to leave.”

“What on earth for?”

Moriarty curled his lip. “He has fallen in love.”

“Ah, he has, has he? Man of the world, this Watson, eh? No doubt it is with that young woman involved in the Agra Treasure investigation.”

“The same. He wants to marry her and most likely carry her off to suburban bliss away from Baker Street.”

“And you will allow him to go?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it is time to let the fellow slip his leash. He hasn’t put a foot wrong since he moved in with your brother, and now perhaps he is not needed any more. I would welcome your thoughts on the matter.”

Mycroft beamed and relaxed, his body slipping down comfortably into the depths of the chair, while his legs stretched forward until they almost touched the hearth.

“Well, it would leave you a little exposed again, although you have Mrs Hudson on hand. It might spice up the game.”

“It might,” agreed the Professor.

“I’ve never met this Watson, but from his reports to you and what you have told me about him, I gain the impression that he is a reliable fellow and that if he left he would remain true to you, or rather to his unwritten contract with you, especially if some threat were placed over his head to ensure his loyalty.”

“The girl...”

Mycroft beamed again. “Indeed. Love makes a man very malleable. Moreover, is it not likely that once having tasted the exciting fruits of detective work, Watson will never be able to keep away from the tree? After a few months enduring the monotony of domestic life, he’ll be banging on the door of Baker Street, begging for Sherlock to allow him to accompany him on some case or another.”

“I like the scenario. To facilitate this arrangement, it would mean moving pieces on the board in a radical fashion, but they have been static too long.” Moriarty drained his glass. “I appreciate your counsel, Mycroft. Wise words.”

“Informed words to some extent, at least. The man is my brother, after all.”

Moriarty chuckled. ‘That has always fascinated me. Two men from the same stable as it were, but both so different.’

“Not as different as all that. Oh, I know physically I would make two of Sherlock — that is my love of good food, good wine, good living.” He raised his glass and took a drink to illustrate his point before continuing. “But our brains are of a similar intellectual quality. It is just that we use them for different purposes. We both enjoy the thrill of intrigue, legerdemain on a grand scale... It’s just that we have taken diverse paths.”

Moriarty looked at the large man opposite him. His face was massive, but there was a keenness about the features that clearly denoted the man’s intellectual brilliance. His eyes, partly shielded by the golden rims of his pince-nez, were as sharp as knives. Despite the smooth words of explanation, Moriarty did not understand Mycroft Holmes, and this worried him. Of all the individuals who worked closely with him in his organisation, Mycroft remained the only dark horse. The Professor knew that in the world of crime one could not afford the luxury of close attachments — he himself had none — and yet Sherlock Holmes was this man’s brother, a dissoluble blood-tie. Mycroft had a shining intellect and therefore would be acutely aware that if his brother became a real threat to the organisation, Moriarty would have no compunction in sweeping him away, crushing him like a fly; and yet Mycroft revealed no concern or real interest in this possibility.

“The old adage is wrong. Chemically, blood is thicker than water, but in the metaphorical sense the idea is nonsense. I do not hate my brother, but on the other hand I have no special affection for him, either. We are two individuals making our own way in a cruel world. We each must face our own destiny.” Mycroft’s face creased into a smile. “Sorry, Professor, I’ve been reading your mind again.”

“In certain circumstances, that could be a dangerous occupation.”

“Then, sir, I shall have to ensure that those circumstances do not arise.”

There was a moment’s silence, when the air crackled with intensity between the two men, and then they exchanged knowing smiles.

“This Watson business intrigues me,” said Mycroft Holmes some moments later, when they had lit their cigars. “I have until now kept out of your dealings with Sherlock, but I do think it is time I introduced myself to his friend Watson. I’m sure you’d welcome my views on him and this marriage business.”

“Well, I don’t suppose it would do any harm,” observed Moriarty, non-committally. “I know that I can rely on your discretion .”

“Implicitly. Now, as it happens I have a little business I can put Sherlock’s way. A fellow called Melas, a Greek interpreter, who lodges on the floor above me, has become involved in some intrigue and came to me for help. I think I see the matter clearly, but playing detectives is not a game in which I’m interested. I could throw this morsel Sherlock’s way and thus create an opportunity to meet Watson.”

Moriarty chuckled. “Oh, my dear Mycroft, you had it all worked out before you arrived this evening: a fait accompli .”

Mycroft returned the chuckle. “Touché , Professor. Now you are reading my mind.”

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN H. WATSON

After a virtually sleepless night, I came down to breakfast the following morning somewhat bleary-eyed. There was no sign from the friendly demeanour of Sherlock Holmes that we had exchanged heated words the night before. He had an enviable facility for isolating moods and arguments, invoking a kind of emotional amnesia that forbade him the need to dwell on past upsets and allowed him to get on with his life.