The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Veiled Detective

syringe dangled precariously from his limp hand. At the sound of my entrance, his eyes opened slowly and his head lolled in my direction.

“The good doctor has returned somewhat early,” he mumbled, attempting to sit up, but not succeeding.

I strode over to him and took the syringe from his hand before it fell to the floor.

“You did not confess to me that you ill used yourself in this fashion, when we were in the business of discussing our failings.”

“Confess. Ill use. Failings. Such emotional language, Watson.”

“What is it?” I asked. “Cocaine? Morphine?”

He screwed up his face. “Morphine. Pa! It is cocaine, my dear Watson. A wonderfully soothing preparation — a seven per cent solution. Just enough to stimulate the imagination and relieve the boredom, without deadening the faculties.”

“I would have thought you required neither,” said I, shaking my wet raincoat and hanging it on the stand.

Holmes gave a cry of annoyance and this time managed to pull himself up into a sitting position.

“What on earth do you know about such things? My life is devoted to the avoidance of boredom and, oh, how easily I am bored.”

I sat opposite him, realising that in this state he might well reveal more about himself than he would do under normal circumstances.

“Why is that? Why are you so easily bored?”

He smiled dreamily. “Because I rarely get the brain food I need. My mind rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most cunning murder, and then I am alive and have no need for artificial stimulants.”

“Murder?”

“Yes, murder or robbery or forgery. You see, Watson, I am a detective. That is my profession. I am the only unofficial consulting detective in London. Here in London there are lots of government detectives, and a fair number of private ones, and when these fellows go astray, they come to me for advice.”

“They come in their droves,” I observed sarcastically.

“No, they do not come in their droves. Not yet. That is my problem. But they will when I have established myself. At present, I have no cases on hand and my brain is lying idle. But when I am famous, I will be able to take my pick of the cases.”

The lethargic Holmes had now disappeared: here again was the bright-eyed enthusiast, engaged upon his favourite topic.

“You see,” he continued, “I possess a great deal of special knowledge, and I have trained myself to see and deduce from what I observe. This is what makes me unique. You do not seem convinced.”

“It is an audacious statement.”

“Proof, eh? You need a demonstration of my powers. That is easy. I remember that you appeared surprised when I told you on our first meeting that you had just recently come from Afghanistan.”

“You were told, no doubt.”

Holmes dismissed my comment with an irritated wave of his hand. “Nothing of the sort. I knew, I knew you came from Afghanistan. From a long habit, the train of thoughts ran so swiftly through my mind that I arrived at the conclusion without being conscious of the process. To me it is akin to tying one’s bootlaces in the morning. The procedure is carried out automatically, without any thought as to what one is doing. It is second nature.”

“So, how did you know about Afghanistan?”

“My train of reasoning ran thus: here is a gentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a military man. Clearly an army doctor, then. He has just come from the tropics, for his face is dark, but that is not the natural tint of his skin, for his wrists are fair. He has undergone great hardship and probably sickness. Where, currently, in the tropics would an English army doctor be pressed into service that would cause such hardship? Why Afghanistan, of course. The whole train of reasoning did not take a second.”

I listened with amazement to this analysis.

“Why, that is brilliant!” I said, with genuine admiration.

“Elementary.”

“As explained by you, the process seems simple enough, but I doubt if I or anyone I know could perform such a diagnosis.”

“That is because I have trained myself to perform such a diagnosis, as you put it. I perhaps ought to add that I had read in The Times of an army officer called Watson who had been invalided out of the army and had just arrived back from Afghanistan. Information that merely confirmed my deductions.”

Such a revelation removed much of the magic from his previous claim, and it was the first hint I was to obtain that sometimes Sherlock Holmes pretended to be more brilliant than he actually was. My expression must have revealed my thoughts.

“The end result is the same. In solving crime, one must use every facility at one’s command to reach a satisfactory conclusion. The press is a valuable source of information. I scour the papers every day. Luckily I am blessed with a photographic memory, and I can remember the most obscure and outre pieces of information and store them in my brain attic until I should require them. I am sure that in the days to come there will be ample opportunity for me to demonstrate my detective powers in order to convince you of my abilities and to prove that I am no charlatan. However, for now, let me add that this morning you visited Regent’s Park, sheltered under a tree when it came on to rain and then caught a cab back here.”

I opened my mouth in astonishment.

“Adhering to the soles of your shoes are traces of mud and grass which indicate that you have been walking in one of the parks. As Regent’s Park is the nearest, it is fairly safe to assume that to be the one. Also, there is a fragment of an oak leaf caught in the left turn up of your trousers. As it came on to rain heavily and suddenly, it is most likely that you took shelter under one of the giant oaks in the park. It is still raining heavily, but your raincoat is damp rather than soaking wet, so you obviously did not walk back to Baker Street. Observation and deduction, Doctor Watson.”

With these words, he slumped back down in his chair and closed his eyes, shutting me and the real world out of his drug-induced slumbers.

Working as a cab-driver in London, Jefferson Hope had been able to trail Stangerson and Drebber wherever they went. He took satisfaction in dogging their heels, knowing that they were ignorant of his presence. On some occasions, he had even driven the men in his cab. With his full beard and hat pulled low over his brow, he had no fear of being recognised. It was twenty years since they had set eyes upon him, and, he reckoned, no one really looks at cab-drivers in any case. In a strange perverted way, he wished they had recognised him. He could not wait to see the look of shock and horror on their faces when they realised that their nemesis was at hand. That day would come, but it would come when he had planned for it — not before.

Hope had traced Drebber and Stangerson half-way across the world, from St Petersburg, to Paris and then on to Copenhagen. Somehow, they sensed that they were being followed, and their restless sojourning was a clear sign of their guilt. Finally catching up with them in London, Hope had discovered them living in a boarding house in Camberwell. The two men never went out alone, and rarely after dark. This was a stumbling-block for Hope. He knew that he could not tackle both of them at once. He had to wait to catch each one on his own.

However, now he knew he could wait no longer. He could not risk his heart giving out on him — not now that he was so close to his dream. He resolved that today had to be the day. Desperate measures were needed. But then luck was on his side. It was late afternoon as he drove down Torquay Terrace, the street in which the two men were living, when he saw a cab draw up to their door. Presently, luggage was brought out, and after a time Drebber and Stangerson appeared. They stood on the pavement, engaged in a heated conversation. As always, on seeing the two men, Hope’s pulse quickened. They were the devils responsible for the death of John Ferrier and his darling Lucy, and twenty years had done nothing to dispel the deep hatred he felt for them.

Drebber was the taller of the two. He walked with a swagger, and his slicked-back hair and thin moustache enhanced his air of arrogance. In contrast, Stangerson was short, with stooped shoulders, and bore a constant furtive expression.

As they talked, a red-faced young man in shirtsleeves rushed down the path towards them. He was shouting