The Veiled Detective (28 page)

W
ith 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.

A figure stepped out of the shadows, a smoking gun in his hand. It was Watson.

“For preference, I would not have shot the fellow in the back, but I really had no alternative,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Watson, by all that’s wonderful!” cried Holmes, hardly able to take in the situation.

“It struck me that the fire was a ruse by Moriarty to lure you back to Baker Street, and that therefore he would have someone waiting for you — waiting to kill you. I got here as quickly as I could. Luckily, I was just in time.”

Holmes was lost for words. Not only did he always find it difficult to express his gratitude, but also there was something different about Watson’s behaviour that inhibited him. He seemed more assured, more confident, and somehow a little colder, as though a touch of humanity had seeped out of his soul.

At length, Holmes stepped forward and clasped his friend’s hand warmly. Watson responded in kind.

“I... I cannot thank you enough. You saved my life, you really did,” said Holmes.

“I hope you would have done the same for me,” replied Watson simply.

“So I would.”

For a brief moment the two men stood, still clasping hands, and smiled at each other.

“Well,” said Watson, eventually breaking away and kneeling down by Scoular’s body, “we have certainly burned our bridges now. I’m not sure what the penalty for killing one of the Professor’s trusted servants is, but I am sure that it is not very pleasant and that he will want to exact it to the full as soon as possible.” He turned the body over and gazed at Scoular’s face, which looked back at him with an unnerving glassy stare. “Poor devil,” he said quietly.

“Save your sympathies for us, Watson,” observed Holmes, reverting to his business-like self. “London is now far too dangerous for us. We must get away until Patterson’s force has carried out its work. Within a week, Moriarty’s gang will be no more.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Would you come to the Continent with me? A week in foreign climes will do our health the world of good. There is a train leaving Victoria this evening which will take us to Dover. What do you say?”

“I say yes.”

“Good man. I have already taken the liberty of booking two first class tickets for a private compartment in Carriage B. Spend the rest of the day collecting a piece of luggage and some clothes for the trip. Do not go home on any account.”

Watson nodded.

“We’ll leave by the back entrance. Not a salubrious exit — down the drain pipe and over the garden wall — but far safer than the front door. Then we shall seperate. I will see you in the appointed carriage at six o’clock this evening. Do not be late.”

“I will not.”

Holmes paused, and once more he clasped Watson’s hand. “Thank you again for all your help, Watson. You are the finest fellow one could wish to have with you when in a tight spot. The drama is almost over. The last act is about to commence. We must not lose our nerve now or slacken our vigilance. We both have come a long way. We must not fail at the last.”

C
arrying my new suitcase filled with freshly purchased clothes that Ihoped would be sufficient for our sojourn to the Continent, I made my way down platform three of Victoria Station, heading for Carriage Bof the Dover train, as Ihad been instructed by Sherlock Holmes. My heart sank when Iobserved that the carriage was already occupied by a venerable Italian priest. He gave me a brief greeting as Ientered, and then returned to his contemplation of a book of prayer.

Stowing my luggage in the overhead rack, Istepped back out on to the platform, eager to catch a glimpse of my friend. In vain Isearched among the group of travellers for the lithe figure of Sherlock Holmes. There was no sign of him. Achill of fear came over me, as Iperceived that his absence could mean only one thing: some blow had befallen him during the day; Moriarty had caught up with him.

The porters were slamming all the doors in readiness for departure and the guard was ready with his whistle to send the engine on its way. Reluctantly, Iclambered inside the carriage and slumped down in my seat.

“Don’t look so glum, Watson. Everything is going according to plan.”

I turned in uncontrollable astonishment. The aged ecclesiastic had turned his face towards me. For an instant the wrinkles disappeared, the nose drew away from the chin, the lower lip ceased to protrude, and the mouth to mumble, the dull eyes regained their fire, and the drooping figure expanded. The next moment, the whole frame collapsed again and Holmes was gone as quickly as he had come.

“Great heavens!” I cried. “How you startled me!”

Holmes grinned. “Every precaution is still necessary. I have reason to believe they are hot upon our trail.” He rose from his seat and peered from the window. “As I thought. See, Watson, see?”

There, some way down the platform, were two men running in a vain attempt to catch the moving train. I recognised them both: Colonel Sebastian Moran and Professor James Moriarty. Reaching the end of the platform, reluctantly they accepted the futility of their pursuit. They came to a halt and stood stern-faced, watching the train as it sped away.

“By the skin of our teeth, Watson. By the skin of our teeth. Despite all our precautions, you see we have cut it fine,” said Holmes, laughing. Throwing off the black cassock and hat which had formed his disguise, he packed them away in his luggage.

“But we made it,” I replied, my heart lightening at the thought. “And as this is an express train, and the boat runs in conjunction with it, I should think we have shaken them off very effectively.”

Holmes lit his pipe before responding. “My dear Watson, you do not imagine that if I were the pursuer I should allow myself to be beaten by such a slight obstacle as this?”

I shook my head.

“And neither will the Professor. This man is on the same intellectual plane as myself and has as much dogged determination in his pursuits as I have in mine.”

“What will he do?”

“Exactly what I should do.”

“Which is...?”

“Engage a Special.”

“But that would take time.”

“Not too much time, with Moriarty’s contacts, money and powers of persuasion. And our train stops for a while at Canterbury and there is always a delay at the boat. I am sure he will catch up with us there.”

“What can we do?”

“We shall get out at Canterbury.”

“And then?”

“Well, we must make a cross-country journey to Newhaven, and so over to Dieppe. Moriarty will again do what I should do. He will travel on to Paris, track down our luggage and wait two days at the depot. In the mean time, we shall treat ourselves to a couple of carpet-bags and make our way at leisure to Switzerland, via Luxemburg and Basle.”

“You had this contingency all planned,” I smiled.

“Of course,” he said, sending a cloud of smoke spiralling to the luggage rack.

At Canterbury we alighted, only to find we had to wait an hour before we could get a train to Newhaven.

I was still gazing ruefully at the rapidly disappearing luggage van containing my brand new leather valise containing my brand new wardrobe, purchased earlier that day, when Holmes tugged at my sleeve and pointed up the line.

“Already, you see?” said he.

Far away, from among the Kentish woods, there rose a thin spray of smoke. A minute later, a carriage and an engine could be seen flying along the open curve which led to the station. We had hardly time to hide behind a pile of luggage abandoned on the platform before the Special
passed with a rattle and a roar, beating a blast of hot air in our faces.

“There he goes,” said Holmes, as we watched the carriage swing and rock over the points. “It seems that the Professor has underestimated me. It would have been a fine
coup-de-maître
if he had deduced how I would act once I was aware that he was on my track. But he didn’t. It reveals a very satisfying weakness in his strategy. However, the vital question now is whether we take our dinner in the buffet here, or run the chance of starving before we reach Newhaven.”

We made our way to Brussels that night, and spent two days there, moving on our third day as far as Strasburg. On the Monday morning, Holmes telegraphed Inspector Patterson, and in the evening we found a reply waiting for us in our hotel. On opening it, Holmes swore vehemently, tore up the telegram and hurled it into the grate.

“I might have known it. Damned incompetence!”

I had rarely seen Holmes this angry. His normally pale features were suffused with the glow of anger.

“What is it?” I asked.

“He has escaped!”

“Moriarty?”

“They have secured the whole gang, with exception of its leader. He has given them the slip. Of course, when I left the country, there was no one intellectually competent to deal with him. But I did think I had put the whole game in Patterson’s hands. That certainly alters cases. I think it best if you return to England now.”

“What on earth for?”

“Because you will find me an extremely dangerous companion now. The Professor’s occupation is gone. He is extremely vulnerable if he returns to London. If I read his character right, he will devote the whole of his considerable energies to revenging himself on me. My demise will
be his
raison d’être
. I certainly recommend you return to your wife and your practice at once.”

We sat in a Strasburg
salle-à-manger
, arguing the question for half an hour. I was hardly going to desert my friend now. Indirectly he had been responsible for cutting the bonds that bound me to Moriarty and granting me freedom. I also realised that, while the villain lived, isolated though he might be now, he still posed a threat to both Holmes and me. If Holmes was correct — as I believe he was — that Moriarty’s sole desire now was to destroy Holmes, then it would not be too long before their paths crossed. I wanted to be there when that happened. Eventually, I convinced Holmes that I was going to stay to the bitter end.