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

Holmes had met many villains in his time, and he knew when they were bluffing or not. This man was deadly serious. He retrieved his hand from his coat pocket, leaving the revolver in situ , and did as he was told.

The figure stepped from the shadows. A shaft of morning light from the window fell across his face. The detective recognised the man immediately. He was Scoular, one of the Professor’s more ruthless lieutenants. He was grinning, his gun trained on Holmes.

“I knew that you would come,” Scoular said, the grin broadening. “I knew that you couldn’t resist coming back here to check the damage and see what you could salvage from your records. And you didn’t disappoint me.”

“So this is your handiwork, is it?”

“It is. And I am quite proud of my efforts. I can assure you that there is not one sheet of paper left in a legible form in the whole place. I searched thoroughly before setting fire to it. Any documents referring to the Professor were taken away and destroyed separately.”

“How very thorough.”

“Oh, we are, Mr Holmes. We are. You should know that.” The smile faded. “For a man of your intelligence and skills, you have been rather stupid. Headstrong. You should have known that if you intended to meddle in the affairs of the Professor, you would get more than your fingers burned. You should have known that you would lose your life.”

“I was aware of that possibility, but nothing ventured, nothing gained,” said Holmes urbanely, but his eyes were focused on Scoular’s revolver, which was aimed at his heart.

“You should have been dealt with a long time ago. I urged it, but the Professor preferred to play his little game of cat and mouse with you. But that is over now. This time, you have gone too far.”

“Ah, you mean the affair of the Elephant’s Egg? Reed has been captured and the ruby is safe, eh?”

“You should have dropped it, Mr Holmes, you really should.”

“It is not in my nature to give up. It has been a long crusade, but one which will have a successful conclusion.”

Scoular took a step forwards and cocked the pistol. “Not for you, Mr Holmes.”

“Killing me will not alter the outcome now, I’m afraid. Assured as I am of the eventual destruction of Moriarty’s organisation, and the capture of its leading figures, including yourself and the Professor, of course, I am happy to sacrifice my life. I am pleased to think that I have been able to free society from any further effects of his presence. In any case, with this matter my career has reached a crisis, and I realised from the start that it might end with my death.”

“Then you are more foolish than I first thought. To throw away your life in the feeble belief that you could beat the Professor.”

“You do not understand, Scoular. You are so warped with your own criminal machinations that you cannot see the dark shadow that you and your kind throw over this city. How corrupt and filthy you are. How your evil doings destroy the goodness and the hope in the teeming masses that fill our streets, attempting to live good and simple lives. Your robberies, your forgeries, your murders, your greed — they diminish us all. Injustice tarnishes everything it touches. You, Moriarty and his kind are carriers of a disease, a plague of evil. How could I rest, how could I care one jot about my own life, while this plague remains unchecked?”

“Well, you are correct about one thing; I do not understand your point of view. But I do know that you will never beat the Professor.”

“Oh, how tired I am of this conversation, Scoular. If you have a task to perform, pray carry it out now before I die of boredom.”

Scoular frowned. He could not believe how resigned Holmes seemed, considering that he was moments away from death. He was either very brave or very foolish. The fact that he could not tell which unnerved him.

In truth, Holmes was relaxed because he saw no way out of his dilemma. What he had said to Scoular was the truth. He was prepared to sacrifice his own life to secure the destruction of Moriarty’s empire. One did not fear the inevitable, one accepted it. He had taken the main incriminating documents from Baker Street the previous day and left them in a safe place that only Inspector Patterson knew about. Once these were safely in the hands of Scotland Yard, the operation would be set up to arrest Moriarty and dismantle his organisation. Holmes knew that he might not have many minutes to live, but Moriarty had but a few days before his game was up also.

“I hear that you are not a religious man, Mr Holmes. You have no prayers?”

“I have no prayers.”

Scoular shrugged and held the gun at arm’s length. “Goodbye then, Mr Holmes.”

A gunshot thundered and reverberated in the burned-out chamber.

Twenty-Eight

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN H. WATSON

With horror, Iread the report in the newspaper of the fire at Baker Street. It appeared that our old rooms had been gutted, but the fire had not spread to Mrs Hudson’s quarters. Thank goodness the report indicated that “the celebrated private detective, Mr Sherlock Holmes, was absent from the premises when the conflagration took hold.” However, it was clear from the report that all his precious files would have been consumed by the flames. Iprayed that there was nothing essential regarding Moriarty in the room when the fire was started. Surely they would be with Holmes — wherever he was. He would not have left them there, in such a vulnerable location. However, the truth was that Icould not be sure. If his evidence had gone up in smoke, we were lost. As I contemplated this prospect, Ifelt an awful gnawing feeling growing in the pit of my stomach.

I was in no doubt that the fire had been instigated by Professor Moriarty. For all Iknew, he might have been the one to light the match. All niceties had been put to one side now. He was out to get Sherlock Holmes — out to destroy him. And it would not be long before he came after me — my usefulness was over. Within twenty-four hours the landscape of my life had changed, and as such I realised that I had been released from my shackles. The contract had been torn up and my puppet-master had cut the strings. Strangely, I felt elated. Despite the very real threat of death now hanging over me, once again I was my own man. I was free to act independently, and free to be myself.

I was suddenly reminded of that dark, skeletal tree in Afghanistan where I had crouched down and, in a weak moment, with the aid of a brandy bottle, surrendered my liberty to an unforgiving future. That was in the dream-world of yesterday, part of another life. Now, in a strange twist of Fate, I had recovered my freedom, my individuality, once again. There was a difference though, for I was no longer John Walker. He had faded away in the cold desert night. Now I was the creature I had been fashioned into: John H. Watson. I had become the fiction. I was the Watson of my stories — and, more importantly, I was the friend, the biographer and champion of Mr Sherlock Holmes.

This realisation brought a smile to my face, and the gnawing pain in my stomach evaporated. I flung down the paper and hurried from the station. Within minutes I had hailed a cab and was on my way.

A gunshot thundered and reverberated in the burned-out chamber.

Sherlock Holmes braced himself for the pain of a bullet ripping through his flesh. None came. Then he realised that Scoular had not fired his pistol; the shot had come from elsewhere.

With an inarticulate grunt, Scoular took a few paces forward, the expression on his face a mixture of surprise and amusement. He aimed his pistol at Holmes once more, but before he was able to pull the trigger, his knees gave way and he slumped silently to the floor, falling on his face amongst the wet debris. Holmes observed a patch of blood in the centre of his back.