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

“Mr Graves,” said Moriarty, approaching the sofa, “I have something for you, an offer that can make you a substantial amount of money or one that could result in you losing at least one of your limbs.”

Graves, who was already pale, blanched at the harshness of these words.

“Do I have a choice?” he asked at length, in a halting fashion, his voice no more than a dry whisper.

“Indeed you do.”

Graves grinned slyly. “Then I’d rather take the money option.”

Moriarty chuckled in a theatrical manner while his two companions gazed on Graves with stony stares. “A man after my own heart.”

“Another brandy, perhaps?” Graves held out his glass like a beggar.

“Give our friend another snifter, Moran, and Scoular, you see he gets a good night’s rest. We can discuss details in the morning. I don’t think we have any need to worry. I’m sure Mr Graves will be as co-operative as we wish.”

“Certainly will, gentlemen,” agreed Graves, before taking another gulp of brandy from his refreshed glass.

Sherlock Holmes, positioned high above this drama, concluded that he had learned as much as he needed for the time being, and that it would be prudent to make his escape. With infinite care he retraced his steps back through the two doors and along the panelled passage and up the wooden staircase. Below the trap-door, he paused and strained his ears for any noise, any sound of movement. He could hear none. He pushed up the trap-door sufficiently for him to survey the warehouse. It appeared as empty and deserted as when he had left it. His heart pounding with pleasure, he scrambled through.

As soon as he was on his feet, he felt an arm grasp him around the neck. A gruff voice snarled in his ear, “And what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Holmes swivelled his head to catch a glimpse of his assailant. It was the coach-driver, back from his travels. With great speed and dexterity, Holmes grabbed the man’s arms and, placing all his weight on his good leg, he heaved him over his shoulder. It was a practised Baritsu move. The man rose as though he were a rag-doll, and landed with an unhealthy thud on his back some three feet away from the detective. He gave a cry of pain, and before he was able to lift himself from the ground, Holmes straddled his body and administered a powerful right hook to his chin. The driver’s head fell backwards, his eyes tight shut and his mouth agape. Holmes could not help but smile with pleasure at his own strength and ability. He then carried out a search of the man’s clothing until he found what he was looking for: the keys to the warehouse door.

Within five minutes, Sherlock Holmes, limping badly now, was three streets away from Moriarty’s warehouse. After half an hour, he was in a cab on his way back to Baker Street.

Twenty-Six

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN H. WATSON

Ilistened with increasing horror to Holmes’ narrative. Iknew that he cared little for the danger in which he placed himself by continuing with his plan to outsmart Moriarty and to bring him and his organisation down, but Iwondered how much he realised that, in doing so, he was placing me and my wife in great danger also.

My fears must have been mirrored in my glum expression, for Holmes leaned over and patted me on the shoulder.

“Have no fear,” he said, with a steely glint in his eye. “Moriarty will not win; you have my word on that.”

It was meant as a comforting gesture, but it did not comfort. Iknew at first hand the power and extent of Moriarty’s vast organisation — how far his tendrils extended over this great city. There was no dark corner or crevice to which his agents did not have access. He was the puppet-master supreme; he controlled many who were at his beck and call at every hour of the day or night. Holmes had no such organisation. Essentially, he was one man—a David challenging this terrible Goliath. No matter how brilliant my friend was, the odds were heavily stacked against him.

“What do you intend to do now?” I asked.

“There’s a fellow at the Yard with whom I’ve been working on the Moriarty case — Inspector Patterson. He’s the only one I can trust, and even then I have kept certain details from him. However, I shall inform him of Moriarty’s scheme to switch both the Maharaja’s envoy and the stone itself. The envoy is due here at the end of next week. He must be protected. With the co-operation of the Indian police, it should be easy to pick up your louche friend Reed, now that we know of his intentions. Moriarty’s scheme will be scuppered before the boat docks in England. If it is not too late, I will suggest that the stone be transported secretly to this country by another route, to ensure its safety. It is more than likely that the Professor has contingency plans up his sleeve. We cannot be too careful.”

“And then what?”

“I shall disappear. Baker Street is too hot for me now. I’ll not disclose my whereabouts to anyone, including your good self, and so you can say with all honesty that you don’t know where I am. And I suggest that you arrange for your wife to take a trip out of town for a few weeks. Is there some relative or friend who lives in the country?”

“I suppose so...” I hated the idea of sending Mary away, but I knew it was for the best.

“Good. Things will be a little tricky for the next week or so, but after that London will be a healthier and safer place to live in.”

“And what do you want me to do in the mean time?”

“Nothing. Nothing yet. Nothing until I contact you — which I will, in due course. For now, we need to add some touches to give authenticity to the story of my disappearance.”

Some five minutes later, I stood on the threshold of my old room, ready to leave. Sherlock Holmes and I shook hands.

“Do take care, old friend,” he said.

“I fear less for my safety than your own.”

He grinned and closed the door.

I decided to walk back to Paddington. It was a bright spring day and I felt in need of fresh air. I wanted to sort things out in my mind, to try and gain a clearer perspective on matters. As I was passing the gates by Hyde Park Corner, lost in thought, I suddenly became aware that a tall figure had fallen into step with me and was walking by my side. It was Scoular.

“How are you, Doctor? Well, I trust,” he said. The words were pleasant enough, but they were delivered without warmth or friendliness.

“I am well,” I responded in kind.

“And Mr Sherlock Holmes, is he well? How is his leg? You visited him this morning.”

I nodded. “I went to Baker Street to see him. He wasn’t there.” Scoular’s eyes narrowed as he repeated my words. “He wasn’t there?”

“He’s gone away.”

“Where to?”

“I don’t know. There was this note waiting for me.” I handed him an envelope that Holmes had given me.

Scoular took it roughly and extracted a note, which he read out loud: Watson: matters are too hot for me in London at present, so I’ve decided to move away for an indefinite period. You shall not see me for some time. Regards to Mrs Watson. I remain yours, Sherlock Holmes.

Scoular emitted a cry of disgust and almost screwed the note up. “This is some kind of trick,” he said.

I shook my head in ignorance. “Ever since my marriage, Holmes has confided in me less and less. I can only take this message at face value. I have no idea where he is or what his plans are.”

“Very well. I will keep this note. The Professor will no doubt find the contents most interesting. Remember, Watson, where your allegiance lies and on whom your life depends. If Sherlock Holmes gets in touch with you for any reason, you must contact us immediately. Is that understood?”