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

“There were three of you.”

Scoular’s observation hushed the men for a moment, and then the leader piped up again: “But we had Graves to deal with as well, and we got him for you.”

Scoular nodded, and turned to his confederates. “Maxwell, you take care of Mr Graves; and Jenson, pay our friends here and make sure they leave the premises with some speed.” He looked up at the driver of the carriage. “Take them back to the city and drop them somewhere quiet.”

The bigger of the two men took Graves’s limp body and hoisted it over his shoulder, like a roll of carpet. The abductors were paid off, and within minutes the carriage had departed, taking its three passengers with it.

Holding his lantern aloft, Scoular made his way back down towards the far end of the warehouse, accompanied by his two accomplices, one of whom bore the limp frame of Patrick Graves.

Sherlock Holmes followed them at a distance, keeping to the sides of the building and beyond the feeble rays of the lantern.

The men halted, and suddenly a bright shaft of yellow light shot up from the floor of the warehouse, sending a golden glow up into the rafters. Silently, Holmes dropped to the ground. He saw that Scoular had opened a trap-door, and it was from here that the light was emanating. Without a word, the men disappeared from sight and then with the same suddenness of its arrival, the bright beam of illumination vanished as the trap-door slammed shut. The detective was left alone in the Stygian gloom and silence. It was as though he had been witness to a strange shadow-play, and now the show was over. But the show was not over, he determined. This was merely an interval. He had come this far; it would be futile to give up now. He knew that this was the closest he’d ever been to Professor Moriarty, and he intended to get even closer. Somewhere above him a bat, disturbed by the sudden shaft of light, fluttered briefly from one rafter to another and then settled again.

After five minutes, when his eyes had fully acclimatised to the darkness, which was softened only by the moonlight that struggled through the grime on the row of windows placed up the wall near the roof, Sherlock Holmes rose to his feet. His leg still ached and he could feel the wetness of the warm blood seeping through his trouser leg, but he ignored it. He had to ignore it. There were greater concerns at issue here. Slowly he approached the trap-door, and with his heart in his mouth, he gently tugged at the rope-ring which raised it. Again, yellow light escaped into the warehouse. He saw that there was a staircase which led downwards to what appeared to be a narrow corridor. Holmes noted with surprise that this was expensively panelled and carpeted.

Like a man operating underwater, he slipped through the aperture and gently replaced the trap-door. Trap-door , he thought. How appropriate. He was now trapped within the lair of London’s greatest criminal. And he had walked into this trap himself. With a wry grin, he made his way down the staircase.

At the bottom, he listened, straining his ears for any sound. Remarkably, there was none — just a hissing silence. He moved along the corridor and soon came upon two doors: one straight ahead of him and the other to his right, which was twice the size of the first. Gingerly pulling the large door ajar, he discovered that it led to to a lift. A metal cage was in readiness to propel the occupant downwards to who knew where. Reckless as he might have been to come this far, he certainly was not going to risk taking a ride in a lift, especially in Moriarty’s domain.

He tried the other door, which led to another short passage — almost an anteroom—and a further door. As soon as he began to open this, he heard voices. He stopped and peered through the crack that he had created. He gazed down upon a magnificent high chamber, wonderfully furnished and illuminated by electricity. As far as he could determine, the door was situated on a minstrel gallery above the chamber. The gallery ran round the four walls, made up of shelves which housed a vast quantity of books. Down below, two men were in quiet conversation. Crouching low, Holmes slipped through the door and lay on the floor, edging forward enough to survey the scene below him.

From his vantage point, Holmes had an excellent view of the room and its occupants. He recognised one of the men straight away. It was Colonel Sebastian Moran, Moriarty’s second in command. Holmes observed the other man closely. He was a tall fellow, with finely chiselled, sardonic features and a hard cruel mouth and a mop of dark unruly hair. He had about him an air of power and authority. It was clear to Sherlock Holmes that this was Professor James Moriarty, the Napoleon of Crime. He was in his presence at last. A thrill of excitement rippled through his body. Here was his dark doppelganger , a man as passionate about committing crime as Holmes was about solving it. Excitement transmuted to nervousness and uncertainty. It was as though he had only just realised the precariousness of his position. Oh, he had been clever to trace the devil to his lair, but he would have to be much cleverer to leave without being discovered. He pushed these thoughts from his mind; bridges to be crossed later. Moving even further to the edge of the gallery, he strained his ears to catch what the two men were saying.

Moriarty leaned in a nonchalant fashion on the edge of the mantelpiece while Moran paced up and down in front of him.

“I’m not at all happy about Holmes’ appearance tonight,” Moran was saying.

“Neither am I,” replied the Professor, in silky tones. “But I will take steps to prevent his further involvement in my plans. We must utilise Watson again, and if that fails. I shall simply have to rid myself of this nuisance once and for all.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to do that straight away?”

“Possibly, but my mind is filled with the Elephant’s Egg operation at present, and I’d rather not be distracted by having to devise a suitable finale for Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

Moran nodded. He knew better than to attempt to persuade his master otherwise.

“Everything is in place at the Indian end,” continued Moriarty, as though he were speaking his thoughts aloud. “Our man is ready to take the place of the Maharaja’s envoy on the sea voyage. It is a substitution which has been worked out with the greatest precision. Reed is overseeing this. So when the ship docks in England, not only will the envoy be a fake but the ruby also. No one will dare to examine it that closely. It would be most impolite to scrutinise such a gift. No one will realise that it is merely a very convincing piece of red glass. It will be presented to the Queen in a special ceremony at Windsor Castle, after which it will be lodged in the vaults there, with all the other trinkets she has acquired during her reign. It is unlikely that it will be seen again — or at least for some time. Meanwhile, we shall have the pleasure of profiting from this most bountiful of eggs.” Moriarty allowed himself a brief smile.

“That’s if Graves is prepared to co-operate.”

“He will, Moran, he will. We have wasted too much time on these reluctant jewellers. He’ll do as I ask... even if I have to use force.”

As though on cue, a door opened and Scoular entered, accompanied by a groggy-looking Patrick Graves. Scoular shepherded the jeweller to the sofa by the fire.

“Our man is coming round,” he declared.

Moriarty grinned. “Good. Moran, be so kind as to give our visitor a reviving brandy.”

Moran did as he was ordered. Graves took the brandy glass and greedily downed the drink in one gulp, which brought on a coughing fit. The other three men waited patiently like statues until he had finished.