The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Veiled Detective

Holmes stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps I can. Certainly it would be very dangerous for you to go to Wayland’s Wharf on your own...”

“But if I don’t, who knows what harm might come to Amelia?”

“Oh, someone should go — but it does not necessarily have to be you.”

Abercrombie shook his head in some bewilderment. “I don’t understand. Who...?”

Holmes gave him a smug grin. “Me, of course. I could easily go in your place. I am quite adept at disguise. It is one of the necessary talents of the modern detective. A little padding, your overcoat and hat and some judicious make-up, and I am sure that I could pass for you in a darkened street.”

“This is madness. What if they take you somewhere and you are detected? I will have lost my daughter and the money.”

Holmes rose from his chair and turned his back on his visitor. “Either you trust me or not. There is still time to contact Scotland Yard.”

“I am not sure.”

Holmes turned round and leaned on the back of his chair so that the light from the grate threw his features into bas-relief. “Do you really have an alternative?”

Abercrombie hesitated, his pale face a mask of pained indecision. “Very well,” he said at length, the words emerging in a hoarse, emotional whisper.

“Then it is settled.”

“But what about the money?”

“No doubt the safe at the bank will hold ?10,000 pounds?”

Abercrombie nodded.

“Then I shall have to steal it.”

“You?”

“If I am to deliver the cash, I might as well be the one to extract it, don’t you think? No doubt you have the appropriate keys that will gain me access to the bank and to the safe?”

“Well, yes, but...”

“Good. I suggest you hand those over to me. Then you can draw me a map detailing the layout of the bank. I think you had better book yourself into a hotel for the night. You must not go home, in case the place is being watched.”

Abercrombie shook his head. “This is all going too fast for me.”

“There is no need for you to understand every turn of the cog. Just draw me the map and then off you go to some hotel for the night. In the morning I shall have both your daughter and the money.”

“It would be a miracle if it were true.”

Holmes grimaced. “Miracles are the work of God. I function at a more practical level.”

Some hours later, Sherlock Holmes, disguised as Abercrombie, let himself in to the side entrance of the Portland Street branch of the City Bank, using the key provided by his client. It was unusually warm for a late October evening, and in the heavy coat and the padding, Holmes was already beginning to perspire. His nerves tingled with excitement as he made his way noiselessly through the darkened premises towards the bank’s strongroom safe. A wicked thought crossed his mind. Why not give up the ambition to be a private detective and just steal the money? Just take it and walk away. ?10,000 could secure a very comfortable way of life for many years. Within twenty-four hours he could easily lose himself on the Continent. Europe was full of nooks and crannies where a man of wealth could live an anonymous and contented life. He grinned at this unbidden fancy. He was pleased with the surprising duality of his nature at times. Certainly, the ability to think like a criminal was an essential facility for a specialist in crime detection.

He paused by the strongroom door and opened the large carpet-bag he had brought with him. He consulted his watch. It was just before eleven o’clock. He had better set to work.

Twenty minutes later, the dark, muffled figure of a man turned the corner of Portland Street carrying a bulging carpet bag. He seemed in a hurry and rather nervous. It was a misty night, and fragile grey tendrils clung to the figure as he moved swiftly down the street, his footfall like a sharp, rhythmic tattoo on the wet pavement.

On turning into Water Street, he espied a lonely cab meandering its way back to the depot. He hailed it, persuading the driver to take one last fare for the night. With an inarticulate grunt and a nod, the cabbie agreed and the man climbed aboard. But as he did so, two other figures materialised out of the shadows and also leapt into the cab.

“Hello, Mr Holmes,” said one of the men, his voice guttural and ill-educated. “We believe you have a little bag for us.”

Holmes attempted to struggle, but he felt the barrel of a revolver thrust against his ribs.

“No amount of paddin’ will stop one of these little beauties, if yer force me to pull the trigger, Mr Holmes. Now, our orders are not to hurt yer, unless you become uncooperative, like. So, just do as you’re told and hand over the bag.”

The detective could not see the face of either of his assailants, but he was convinced the threat was a very real one. He released his grip on the carpet bag.

“Good boy. And good night!”

A bright light filled his vision as his brain exploded with a sudden sharp pain. His body turned to jelly and he flopped forward, unconscious, to the floor of the cab.

“Sweet dreams, Mr Holmes,” gurgled one of the assailants as they both pushed the detective’s inert body from the cab, where it rolled into the gutter.

“Right, Harry,” one of the men called to the driver, “mission accomplished. Set sail for the Professor’s place!”

Three

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER

I was despatched from India on the steamship Orontes in the January of 1881. My journey home was wretched. Although by now I was a “civilian” and supposedly a “free man”, I carried with me the taint of my court martial. There had been reports in the newspapers, and it seemed to me that every face on board averted their gaze from mine. Their expressions told me that they knew who I was and what I had done. No doubt the heinous nature of my crime had grown in the telling and the retelling. I was a pariah dog: an outcast amongst my fellow countrymen.

I spent many long hours alone in my cramped cabin or leaning over the ship’s rail staring at the dark turbulent waters below me, feeling wretched and very sorry for myself. More than once I contemplated how easy it would be to let myself slip over the side into that cold watery embrace and thus escape the painful reality of my situation. Soon I would land in London, that great cesspool into which all the idlers and loungers of the Empire are irresistibly drained. There would be no friends or family waiting on the quayside waving in welcome. No one to help and cherish me; and with only my meagre savings for financial security, the future looked very bleak indeed. On the occasions when my grip eased on the handrail, as the heaving swell of the water beckoned enticingly, some instinct, some little voice within, pulled me back from acting upon these desperate thoughts.

However, one evening when we were just two days away from England, the prospect of watery oblivion was more than usually attractive. I had been snubbed in the dining room by a fat northern businessman who told me in a loud, grating voice that he “was not afraid to be blunt, sir” and that “we don’t want the likes of you attending our table.” This was the first time someone had actually voiced their feelings to me — and it was done in such a cruel and public way that I was speechless. I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came. I found the blood draining from my face as I beat a hasty retreat from the dining room. Gasping for air, I leaned over the rail, feeling myself close to tears.

“You don’t want to take any notice of that pompous windbag.”

I looked up and saw a tall, thin, handsome middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed moustache which was tinged with grey, as was the hair at his temples. He was dressed immaculately in a dinner suit which boasted several medals across the breast. He proffered an open silver cigarette case.

“Have a smoke, old man, and you’ll feel better.”