The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Veiled Detective

Spark’.

It was at the Craven Street Theatre, a time that Kitty now remembered as being the best in her life, that romance and tragedy struck again. She formed a relationship with Ted Baldwin, the assistant stage manager, a kind and sensitive man, the exact opposite of her brutish husband, and they set up home together. As Kitty observed at the time, “all seemed pretty in our own little backyard”. Then one night Ted was set about by a gang of drunken roughs, who stole what little money he had about his person and left him with a cracked skull. He died two days later.

For a time Kitty was inconsolable, and eventually she left the Craven. The theatre reminded her too much of her kind and loving Ted. For many years she drifted, taking any kind of job just to keep a roof above her head. When theatrical work was scarce, she drifted into petty crime, which is when she came under the Professor’s purview. He used her in many roles, especially as a lookout, or someone used to detain the foil from returning to his premises which were being robbed. She was very skilful in not letting the foil realise that he was being detained. Kitty relished these jobs because they were “proper acting parts”, and never really considered her activities as unlawful. And so here she was, rattling through the streets of west London in a hansom cab, in the company of Captain Reed, on the brink of being offered her biggest job, her biggest acting role yet.

“Bliss,” she repeated, as the cab drew up outside a three-storey terraced house in a smart residential street.

“Here we are, Kitty. Let’s take a look at your new home.” Reed skipped out of the cab and helped her down from the vehicle. Kitty liked Reed because he always treated her like a lady, as though she was a dowager duchess or someone of that ilk. That, according to Kitty, is what a gentleman does: whether you are a real lady or a fishwife. Pulling a set of keys from his frock coat, he approached the door. Kitty looked up at the building. It was a bit of all right. Never had she seen such nice quarters. She even liked the address: 221B Baker Street.

Seven

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER

“I cannot understand how you can believe that this wild scheme of yours will ever work. Even if I threw myself into the enterprise with great enthusiasm, I am not an actor. I cannot dissemble to order. If this Sherlock Holmes is such a great detective, as you say he is, he will easily spot me for the impostor that I am. Through my own behaviour, I would give the game away.”

I believed every word I said to Professor Moriarty, but I gave them extra emphasis, hoping that I could persuade him to drop this crazy charade by convincing him of the impractical nature of it. Thus, I would be able to slip from his noose and walk from the room a free man. However, I could see from his unruffled demeanour that my argument had fallen on stony ground. His confidence did not falter for an instant.

“But, my dear doctor, you will not be an impostor,” he replied easily. “Apart from a slight change of name and a certain adjustment to your recent history, you will be the same man who is sitting in front of me now: a penurious ex-army surgeon recently arrived from Afghanistan and looking for cheap lodgings.”

“What ‘adjustment’ to my recent history?”

“Rather than being cashiered, you were badly wounded in the Battle of Maiwand, and while recovering you contracted enteric fever, the curse of our Afghan possessions. As a result, you were invalided out of the army and sent home to England.”

“That is crazy.”

“Fact. A little news item to that effect was inserted into several of the London newspapers this morning, including The Times. My influence reaches into many areas. And as every Englishman knows, whatever appears in The Times must be the absolute truth. And Sherlock Holmes is an avid reader of the press.”

“But it’s a lie.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Colouring the truth. You believe that you were unfairly treated in Afghanistan, do you not?”

I nodded.

“And so I have redressed the balance.”

I threw my head in my hands and groaned. “Oh, my God, I wish I could wake up now. This must be some terrible dream.”

“No dream, Watson, but for you a kind of salvation. It is a wonderful opportunity, and it is about time you opened your mind to the vast possibilities that this arrangement offers to you. And, of course, there is your writing, your adventure stories. What scope there will be for penning mystery yarns while accompanying London’s most brilliant detective on his investigations. You’ll not only make him famous by recording his cases, but also create a name for yourself into the bargain.”

“Not my own name,” I pointed out tersely.

“A minor matter. You quibble too much. I think your brain is now crowded with details, and the newness and audacity of this enterprise is dulling your thoughts. You need time to think things through.”

“What is the point? There is no choice.”

Moriarty grinned. “There is choice, although I grant you, it is rather limited.”

“How am I supposed to meet this man? You say I am to share rooms with him — what if he doesn’t agree to it? There are so many uncertainties.”

“These are not things you need worry your head about. It has all been planned for and arranged. I can assure you that nothing has been left to chance. That is my way.”

What was I to do? Even in my current startled state I realised that, for the time being, I had to accept the situation and throw my hand in with the Professor, otherwise it was unlikely that I would see another sunrise. In surviving for the moment, it was possible that I could then begin to plot my own escape. Maybe I could enlist the help of this Sherlock Holmes to carry out a coup on my new master? I also realised that I must convince Moriarty that I wasn’t entering into the game with any great reluctance, otherwise it would be much harder for me to persuade him that he could trust me and therefore relax his gaze upon me.

“You mentioned remuneration,” I said, sitting forward.

“I did. A very healthy sum of money will be paid in to your new bank account, one in the name of Watson, on the first of every month.”

“A healthy sum...?”

“One hundred pounds every month.”

At this, my mouth really did drop open in surprise. To me, in my impoverished state, that was a king’s ransom. For an unguarded moment, I bathed in the glow of my new-found wealth until a small voice inside reminded me from whence the money came.

“I pay my trusted employees very well, Watson. And in your new position you will be one of the most important and one of the most trusted.” He raised his finger in warning. “So, do make sure that you deserve my trust.”

“I... I will do my best.” The words stuck in my throat and I felt an overwhelming sense of unease take hold of my senses.

“I feel sure your best will be good enough. I am rarely wrong in my judgement of character. So, then, have we an arrangement?”

With as much conviction as possible, I mustered a smile — a dead smile. “Yes”’ I said, “we have an arrangement.”

“Excellent!” cried the Professor, grasping my hand.

It was early evening when Sherlock Holmes made his way back to his diggings in Montague Street. His mind was whirling with figures and formulae. He had spent the day working in one of the laboratories at St Bart’s Hospital, attempting to develop a solution which would indicate the presence of bloodstains, however infinitesimal they might be. He wished to create a reagent that was precipitated solely by haemoglobin and thus could provide incontrovertible proof that human blood had been spilt. The old guaiacum test was clumsy and uncertain and therefore could not be relied upon in criminal matters. If he could create an infallible test, one that would work no