The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Veiled Detective

“His face — his dress — didn’t you notice them?” Holmes broke in impatiently.

“I should think I did notice them, seeing that I had to prop him up. He was a long chap, with a red face, the lower part was muffled round—”

“That will do!” cried Holmes. “What became of him?”

“We’d enough to do without looking after him,” the policeman said, in an aggrieved voice. “I’ll wager he found his way home eventually.”

“How was he dressed?”

“A brown overcoat.”

“Had he a whip in his hand?”

“A whip — no.”

“He must have left it behind,” muttered my companion. “You didn’t happen to see or hear a cab after that?”

“No.”

“There’s half a sovereign for you,” said Holmes with a sigh, standing up and taking his hat. “I am afraid, Rance, that you will never rise in the force. That head of yours should be for use as well as ornament. You might have gained your sergeant’s stripes last night, if you’d had your wits about you. The man you dismissed as an innocent drunkard is the man who holds the key to this mystery. The man we are seeking.”

“You mean the murderer?”

“The same. Come along, Doctor.”

We started off for the cab together, leaving our informant incredulous, but obviously uncomfortable.

“The blundering fool!” Holmes exclaimed bitterly, as we drove back to our lodgings.

I was still a little puzzled. I knew that the drunken man tallied with Holmes’ description of the murderer, but why had he returned to the house after committing his crime? My companion read my thoughts.

“It was to get the ring, of course. That was why our man came back. It obviously has great significance for him. So much so that he was prepared to risk capture to regain it. And it is by the ring we shall catch him.”

“How?”

“By using it as bait. You shall see.” And then he laughed at my mystified expression. “But, Doctor,” he added, patting my arm, a smile lighting his gaunt features, “I am so glad you came with me to share this business. It’s the finest study I ever came across: a study in scarlet, eh? Why not use a little art jargon? There’s a scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every inch of it.”

Late that afternoon, Jefferson Hope rested his weary bones in The Turk’s Head while he sipped a tankard of ale and perused the newspaper in a lazy fashion. He was waiting for the night, the thick darkness when he could complete his mission. As his eyes ran over the small print, one advertisement in the Found column sent his pulse racing:

In Brixton Road this morning, a plain gold wedding-ring, found in the roadway between the White Hart Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Doctor Watson, 221B, Baker Street between seven and eight this evening.

Hope took a gulp of beer. This was his ring. Without a doubt. The one he risked all to retrieve the previous night. His grin faded a little as he considered the times stated. By eight o’clock it would be dark and Stangerson might well be making a move. Could he risk going to Baker Street before returning to Halliday’s Hotel? If he didn’t, he might lose the ring. Some chancer might convince this Doctor Watson that it was his. Surely Stangerson would wait until the streets were quiet before making his escape? He glanced once more at the advertisement. It was a risk he would have to take.

Fifteen

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN WALKER

As we approached the city, after leaving Rance’s house, Holmes halted the cab.

“Enough brainwork for the moment, Watson,” he beamed, pulling on his gloves. “I feel the need to be soothed. Norman-Neruda is giving a concert this afternoon, and Ipromised myself Iwould see her again. Her attack and bowing are splendid. Iwill see you back at our rooms around six o’clock.” So saying, he gave me a cheery wave, hopped on to the pavement and was gone.

I welcomed the opportunity for some time on my own. It would afford me the opportunity to write up my notes of the mornings events. And after a light lunch, this is what Idid. However, when it came to describing that gruesome dead body in the derelict house in Brixton, Iwas surprised to find that my hand was shaking as Iwrote. The vision of that pale, contorted face triggered off unwelcome memories in my subconscious. Unbidden thoughts and vivid images of my dead and dying comrades at Maiwand seeped into my mind. Iwas suddenly aware that my eyes were misting with tears. However strong the conscious will is, it cannot quell the powerful forces that lie within the psyche. I knew then that, try as I might, I would never succeed in blotting out that dreadful experience. With some effort and, God help me, a tot of brandy, I completed a rough draft of my notes, a version that I could present to Moriarty. I knew that my “romanticised version” would need a little extra effort, to gild both the prose and the detective in order to make both more attractive.

Holmes returned at the hour he stated, but I knew that the concert could not have detained him all that time. He had been at work again. And I needed to know all about it, but I was fairly certain that a direct question would not provide me with an answer. I would have to bide my time. He bustled in, flinging his coat over a chair, humming a snatch of Chopin.

“The concert was magnificent,” he cried. “What an artist! Do you remember what Darwin says about music? The power of producing and appreciating it existed among the human race long before it acquired the power of speech. It speaks to our simple, primitive nature. There are vague memories in our souls of those misty centuries when the world was in its childhood.”

“Well, that’s a rather broad idea,” I remarked.

“One’s ideas must be broad as Nature, if we are to interpret Nature.”

He sat opposite me and suddenly scrutinised my face. “But, Watson, how pale you look. Ah, I see. This Brixton Road affair has upset you.”

I shook my head, but I did not convince my companion, who smiled at my deceit.

“I should have thought of that before I dragged you along to see a dead body. It must have brought back memories of Afghanistan. I apologise.”

“No apologies needed. I ought to be case-hardened now. I was just caught off my guard, that’s all.”

Holmes gave me a cool smile to indicate that he was closing the subject. “Did you get a chance to see the evening paper?”

“No.”

“It gives a fairly good account of the Brixton affair. However, fortunately for us it does not mention the fact that a wedding-ring was found at the scene of the crime. Those dunderheads, Lestrade and Gregson, no doubt haven’t realised how important it is.”

“Why is that fortunate for us?”

“Look at this advertisement. I had one sent to every paper this morning.”

He threw the paper across to me and I glanced at the place indicated. It was the first announcement in the Found column.

“In Brixton Road this morning,” I read aloud, “a plain gold wedding-ring, found in the roadway between the White Hart Tavern and Holland Grove. Apply Doctor Watson, 221B, Baker Street between seven and eight this evening.”

“Excuse me using your name,” said Holmes casually. “If I used my own, Lestrade or Gregson would come blundering in here and want to meddle with my plans.”

“That is all right,” I answered, “but what if someone actually applies? I have no ring.”

“Oh yes you have,” he said, grinning as he handed me a shiny gold ring. “This will do as well. It is almost a facsimile.”

“And who do you think will answer this advertisement?”

Holmes held a finger up in admonishment. “You must avoid the habit of asking superfluous questions. Why,