The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Veiled Detective

matter how old the bloodstains were, it would be the most important medico-legal discovery for years, and would certainly boost his reputation in the world of crime detection. He had read of the case of Von Bischoff in Frankfurt the previous year, and was convinced that if such a test had been available then, the fellow would have mounted the gallows. As it was, he was set free.

Holmes believed that he was nearly there. A few more days, further experiments with the various combinations of powders, crystals and quantities. He was confident he would reach his goal, but, as always, he was impatient. These ideas jostled around his brain as he climbed the stairs to his quarters.

On entering his sitting-room, he noticed an envelope on the floor which had obviously been slipped under the door. His name was on the envelope, written in the crabbed spidery writing he recognised as belonging to his landlord, Ambrose Jones. Throwing off his coat and turning on the gas lamps, he dropped into a chair and tore open the envelope. The note inside was terse and to the point.

Dear Mr Holmes,

Please take this communication as notice to vacate your quarters within seven days of today’s date.

Ambrose Jones

Holmes stroked his chin and frowned. What on earth was this all about?

Ambrose Jones was just heating some soup for his evening meal when there was a tap on his door. He moved the soup from the heat of the gas ring, and with some irritation he pulled his ragged old dressing-gown around him and answered the door, opening it a few inches. In the hallway he saw Sherlock Holmes. He was holding his note.

“Yes?” snapped the landlord.

“About this note—”

“What about it? Can’t you read it?”

“Indeed I can, despite your execrable handwriting. The words and the message are clear. You used an HB pencil, and as you wrote just a few words at a time when composing it, you were probably travelling on a horse- bus, as is your wont, and scribbled the words between the stops to avoid being shaken too much by the movement of the vehicle.”

“You saw me!”

Holmes shook his head. “I deduced it.”

Jones was not quite sure what “deduced” meant, so his response was an angry but strangely non-committal “Hah!”

He started to close the door, but Holmes placed his hand against it and held it firmly.

“So, what is your problem?” snapped Jones.

“I want to know why you want me to leave. As far as I am aware, I have caused you no problems and I have paid my rent on time.”

“I don’t have to answer any of your questions. You’re my tenant, and I am within my rights to chuck you out with a week’s notice. And that, Mr Deducer, is what I’m doing.”

Holmes could see that Jones was now very angry, but he was also aware that the anger was a thin veneer covering another more powerful emotion: fear.

“This is all very sudden, Mr Jones. Maybe this action is being forced upon you.”

Jones’s face flushed with frustration. “I do not have to answer to you, or anyone, concerning what I do with my properties. I want you out. There are those who can and will pay more for those rooms.”

“Really? Who?”

Jones stepped back and flung the door open wide while at the same time producing a jack-knife from the pocket of his dressing-gown. He thrust the knife before Holmes’ face, the blade glinting in the dim gaslight.

“Listen, you’ve had your marching orders, Holmes. Don’t test my patience any more or...”

Holmes smiled. “Or?”

Jones brought the knife close to Holmes’ face. “Or your next place of residence will be six feet under.”

Nimbly, Holmes snaked his arm up, taking hold of Jones’s wrist in a powerful grip, and squeezed hard. Jones gave a sharp cry of pain and, dropping the knife, he staggered backwards, clutching his wrist.

“I will leave,” said Holmes smoothly, retrieving the knife from the floor, “in seven days. But do not be sure that you have seen the last of me. In the mean time, I’ll keep this knife as a souvenir of our encounter.” With these words he left and returned to his room upstairs.

Jones closed the door and slumped against it. His face was awash with perspiration and his body was shaking. At length he staggered to a cupboard. Producing from it a gin bottle, he took a long, good gulp. His eye caught sight of a small canvas bag slipped in between the bottles. After another slurp of gin, he took the bag and examined its contents: a dozen sovereigns. He smiled. Despite the recent unpleasantness, it had not been a bad day’s work after all.

Buffeted by the blustery March wind, Henry Stamford trudged up the steps to the entrance of St Bart’s Hospital. His eyes ached and his head thumped. Souvenirs of another late-night card game. Always in the bright light of the morning he wondered why on earth he indulged in such a foolish pursuit: he rarely won, and his tiredness was beginning to affect his work. Last night had been disastrous. He had lost over twenty pounds, an amount a junior surgeon could ill afford to lose. How he would survive before his next pay date, he dreaded to think.

He flinched again as the pounding grew louder. He would have to mix a sedative before going on the wards. As he reached the portals of the great hospital, a tall black man stepped from the shadows and approached him.

“If I may have a word, Mr Stamford,” he said softly, the voice silky and persuasive. “It could be to our mutual advantage.”

Stamford noticed that the man held a white bank-note in his gloved hand.

Some hours later, Stamford, now twenty pounds richer, traversed the lower corridors of the hospital en route to the dissecting-room. He was in search of Sherlock Holmes. He knew Holmes in a casual manner. He had seen him about the hospital, and had indulged in a few desultory conversations with the man. He was unsure what to make of him. Holmes was not on the staff of the hospital, and yet he was able to use their facilities. In all likelihood he was engaged in postgraduate studies. Stamford had gleaned that Holmes was well up in anatomy and appeared to be a first-class chemist, but he had no notion of the purpose of his studies. He found Holmes something of a cold fish, approaching his experiments with such extreme objectivity that he failed to take account of the human quotient in such matters. God help us all, thought Stamford, if the man was thinking of taking up medicine as a career. Holmes would quite easily test out the latest serum on a patient in the pursuit of scientific knowledge, without any consideration of the effects it might have on the poor devil who was acting as guinea pig. Stamford gave a wry grin at the thought and was prompted to admit to himself that, to give Holmes some credit, he would probably take the serum himself if he thought the experiment would aid his findings.

As he approached the dissecting-room, Stamford heard strange sounds emanating from within. He stood by the door and listened. There was what sounded like the violent clapping of hands, followed by a gruff cry of exertion.

Swinging the door open, a most bizarre sight met his eyes. There, lying on the table, was a naked cadaver which Sherlock Holmes, jacket off and sleeves rolled up, was beating with a walking-cane.

“What the devil!” cried Stamford. “Have you gone mad?”

Sherlock Holmes paused, the stick raised in the air, and turned to Stamford. His face was flushed and bathed in sweat.

“Stamford,” he said, “I didn’t hear you”’ He dropped the stick on the table by the corpse, and mopped his brow with his shirtsleeve.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing? Have you taken leave of your senses?”

Holmes chuckled. “Far from it. I have to admit that it must look that way, but I assure you I am carrying out a scientific experiment.”

“Scientific experiment? Beating a corpse with a cane?”

Holmes nodded. “In an attempt to verify how far bruises may be produced after death. Such information can be vital in the cases of murder; and this old fellow,” — he slapped the chest of the corpse — “made no objection to assisting me in my studies.”

Stamford shook his head. “Well, it is bizarre in the extreme.”