The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Veiled Detective

“Why would they want to do that, Mr Abercrombie? What possible benefit could they gain from killing her?”

Abercrombie looked bewildered and shook his head. “I don’t know. But why abduct her in the first place?”

Sherlock Holmes gave a sigh of impatience. Could clients really be this dim?

“Because, Mr Abercrombie, you are the manager of the Portland Street branch of the City Bank. Therefore, it seems to me most likely that they intend to use your daughter as a bargaining-tool for something in return — something that will bring them a large amount of money.”

Abercrombie appeared genuinely shocked at this analysis. “You mean... they plan to rob the bank.”

Yes, clients could be this dim.

“In a manner of speaking. At the present time, there is a lack of sufficient data to indicate what method they intend to use to extract the money that lodges in your vaults, but I am convinced they are relying on your assistance.”

The banker mopped his brow. “What on earth am I to do?”

“Nothing for the time being. You must be patient and wait until they contact you again. As soon as they do, you must inform me immediately.”

“Nothing? How can I do nothing when they have my daughter?”

“Because I say so. If you do not trust me or my judgement, then pray seek your solace elsewhere!” It was a passionate response — but an unfeeling one. From the very beginning Holmes had trained himself to seal off all emotions when dealing with crime. He must be an automaton. At night sometimes he would hold a candle close to his face and stare into the mirror. The cold mask would stare back at him, a mask devoid of humanity or emotion. Even when he brought the candle flame close to his face so that he could feel the fierce yellow tongue begin to singe his flesh. This pleased him. The precision and objectivity that he deemed as essential in solving crime could only be tainted by emotion.

He knew that, in speaking to Abercrombie as he had done, he was taking a risk. He had to keep this client, but it had to be on his terms, or there was no game.

Abercrombie’s mouth gaped and he fell into silence.

“You sought my advice,” said Holmes, aware now that his cold bait was attractive, “and I am giving it. We wait, and let the villains make the next move. Believe me, they are sailing uncharted waters. They will not do anything rash until they believe that their plan has failed. They want the money, rather than your daughter. Let me know as soon as you hear from them again.”

Abercrombie, defeated and bewildered, nodded.

“And should I need to get in touch with you?”

The question shook the banker as though he were awaking from some terrible dream. “Please contact me at my home address. It might be dangerous to come to the bank.” Hurriedly, he extracted a card from his waistcoat pocket and passed it to the detective, who glanced at it, noting the address near Clapham Common.

“My daughter, Mr Holmes...”

“I am sure she will be safe, as long as you do as you’re told and do not contact the police. Now, sir, for my benefit, in order for me to clarify the matter very clearly in my mind, I would appreciate it if you would describe once again the series of events that brought you to my door. And pray be precise.”

Abercrombie nodded. “I will do my best. I received that accursed note this morning. I found it on the desk in my office at the bank. I don’t know how it got there. I rushed home immediately to see if my daughter, Amelia, was safe. I am widower, and she is my only treasure.” He dabbed at his eyes, which had begun to water.

Holmes nodded. “And on your return you discovered that this treasure was missing.”

“The maid said that Amelia had received a note from me asking her to meet me for lunch, and had gone out straightaway.”

“You do not have that note?”

“No. I suppose she took it with her.”

“Did you often invite her to lunch in this manner?”

“Once or twice a month, yes.”

“So our villains must have been watching you for a while. Where do you take lunch?”

“At Carlo’s, a little restaurant on Marylebone High Street. I went there at once, but of course the staff who know her assured me they hadn’t seen her today.”

“Give me a description of your daughter, please.”

“She is tall, quite thin, has auburn hair, usually fastened in a bun. She is very short-sighted and wears glasses with powerful lenses. Blue eyes. A lovely girl.” Abercrombie turned away and blew heavily into his handkerchief.

“Do you know what clothes she was wearing?”

The banker shrugged. “I think it would be a brown two-piece trimmed with fur, and a little hat with a veil. It is her favourite outfit.”

Holmes sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Well, I think that’s all for now. It is imperative that you return to work and act as normally as you can. You must be patient and resolute, Mr Abercrombie. I am convinced that you will be contacted in due course. It is most probable that the villains will make you stew a little in order to weaken your resistance to whatever demands they intend to make on you. But I am confident that we shall bring this matter to a happy conclusion.”

“I hope so. I will do anything to see the safe return of my little girl.” Abercrombie rose, his eyes now red with tears, and grasped Sherlock Holmes by the hand. “Thank you. Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done without your help and assurance.”

Without another word, he left the room.

Sherlock Holmes smiled and rubbed his hands with glee. “Ah, ah,” he said, in a hoarse whisper. “At last, at last... the game’s afoot.”

As Abercrombie emerged on to the pavement, he also gave himself a self-satisfied smile.

“Irving could not have done better,” he told himself.

The following day, there was an unfortunate incident at the Portland Street branch of the City Bank.

A disreputable-looking fellow in ragged clothes and reeking of alcohol claimed that he wished to open an account with a single sovereign. On being told by the teller that he could not do so with such a small sum of money, he became abusive and then violent. He fell into a drunken rage, throwing papers around, shouting and knocking potted palms to the floor. The manager, who was engaged with an important new client, was summoned, and he, in turn, summoned the police. The recalcitrant drunk was handcuffed and taken away. While all this was happening, no one seemed to take particular notice of an old, sunburned gentleman sitting in the corner by the window, smoking a dark cheroot and reading the Financial Times as though he were at his club.

That same evening, Abercrombie called once again on Sherlock Holmes. He found the young detective curled up in his chair before the meagre fire, smoking a cherrywood pipe. Although Holmes had been anticipating — indeed, hoping for — this visit, his bored expression gave none of his feelings away.

“I’ve heard from them again!” cried the banker, sloughing off his overcoat and joining Holmes by the fire.

“Excellent. Show me the note.”

Holmes almost snatched the envelope from Abercrombie’s fingers. The note was written in the same fluid hand as before, but this time the message was much darker in tone.

“Bring ?10,000 in used bank-notes to Wayland’s Wharf, off the India Dock Road, at midnight. Come alone. If we do not receive the money on time, we shall cut off the girl’s foot,” he read.

“What am I to do? I don’t have ?10,000.”

“No, but your bank has.”

“But it’s not my money. If I took that, I would be committing a crime!”

Holmes puffed gently on his pipe, his face partially obliterated for a moment by a thin cloud of smoke. “On your last visit, you told me that you would do anything to ensure the safe return of your daughter.”

“So I would,” came the sullen reply. “But I had not counted on robbing my own bank. I put my trust in you to save me from such an escapade.”