The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Veiled Detective

“Good man,” he said, lighting his pipe and sitting opposite me. “Now, I think I’d better put you fully in the picture. Let me start by telling you how I managed to escape from the bruisers who were abducting Patrick Graves.”

Twenty-Five

Just as Sherlock Holmes scrambled free out on to the ledge, one of his attackers launched himself forward and struck him in the leg. The detective gave a fierce gasp of pain as he wrenched himself free, and then suddenly he found himself falling through darkened space

Blotting the pain of the wound from his mind, Holmes twisted his body, aiming it at the large rhododendron bush below him. He landed spread-eagled atop its leafy branches. It broke his fall, but it was only a temporary resting-place, for the weight of his body was too great to be supported by the bush and he tumbled in an ungainly fashion on to the lawn. At moments like this, Holmes’ ability to think and act quickly was remarkable. He knew that if he stayed where he was, he would be captured or more likely killed by the assailants. If he fled, all his efforts that evening would come to nought. There had to be some centre ground. He scrambled awkwardly to his feet, gritting his teeth as the wound in his leg screamed with pain. He ran as fast as he could to the garden wall, and vaulted over on to the pavement. He crouched low against the bole of a large oak tree by the kerb. On the other side of the street he spied a carriage. The driver appeared to be peering at the house in anticipation.

Two of the assailants appeared in the garden, one swinging a bull’s-eye lantern around wildly.

“He’s scarpered!” cried one fellow.

“Yeah,” replied the other. “Never mind him, let’s get this bleeder away before the whole neighbourhood wakes up.”

The third man appeared at the door with a large burden over his shoulder, wrapped in a grey blanket. The burden was Patrick Graves. The man blew on a silver whistle and the driver brought the carriage to the gate. Graves was bundled inside, followed by two of the men; the other, obviously the leader, jumped up alongside the driver.

“Let’s go,” he croaked, and the carriage set off.

Holmes slipped from his hiding-place and ran after the carriage. With iron determination he blotted from his mind the stabbing pain in his leg, and, clutching hold of one of the metal bars running parallel across the back of the coach, he pulled himself forward and managed to secure a foothold on the back of the vehicle. With amazing dexterity for an injured man, he was able to settle himself into a crouching position to the back of the carriage, hanging on in a precarious fashion as the vehicle gained speed. In this manner, he travelled with the abductors through the dark and winding streets of London.

Despite his limited vision, Holmes’ encyclopedic knowledge of London allowed him to deduce the direction in which they were travelling. All signs told him they were headed towards Rotherhithe. The detective clung on for dear life as the carriage swayed and rattled its way east.

After some twenty minutes, the roads narrowed and darkened — the frequency of gas lamps diminishing. They were now in the vicinity of the West India Docks — an area of warehouses, giant wharves and silent, uninhabited streets. And then the carriage slowed down as it approached the gates of some huge warehouse. He heard one of the men blow hard on a whistle four times, and, peering around the edge of the carriage, Holmes saw the gates begin to open. Now he had to think fast. Decisions had to be made. Should he drop from the vehicle before he became trapped in the warehouse, or should he risk going inside to face the unknown? Once inside the warehouse, he felt certain that he would be able to discover much more concerning Moriarty’s plot to steal the Elephant’s Egg. The danger was, of course, that he would be trapped there, thus rendering the knowledge useless. In such situations as this, with his heart racing and his adrenalin pumping, Sherlock Holmes gave way to the emotional rather than the rational response. He stayed with the carriage.

It rumbled into the vast and apparently empty warehouse, a great industrial cathedral with a high vaulted ceiling which echoed with the rattle of the carriage. In the distance, Holmes spied a group of men, some of whom were carrying lanterns. The welcoming committee. Nimbly, Holmes jumped from his perch and, keeping to the shadows, he scrambled to a stack of discarded packing-cases by the wall, and hid there. And waited. He was inside and safe for the moment. And then the doors of the warehouse closed with an echoing clang. He was inside, but trapped.

Graves was unceremoniously unloaded from the carriage as the group of men, three in all, approached. Holmes recognised one of them — Scoular, one of Moriarty’s lieutenants. He seemed to be in charge.

“You have our prize?” he asked, pointing at Graves.

“We’ve got him. He’s groggy now, but he’s only had a few drops of the old chlory. He’ll be right as rain shortly,” said the leader of the abductors, the one who had hit Holmes from behind.

“Was there any trouble?” asked Scoular, his face a cold mask.

“A little. Some geezer tried to interfere.”

“Yeah,” said another. “Called himself Sherlock Holmes.”

Scoular’s eyes narrowed. “What happened?”

“We gave him what for, and he scarpered.”

“You fools! He should have been silenced.”

“He was a very slippery customer.”

“There were three of you.”

Scoular’s observation hushed the men for a moment, and then the leader piped up again: “But we had Graves to deal with as well, and we got him for you.”

Scoular nodded, and turned to his confederates. “Maxwell, you take care of Mr Graves; and Jenson, pay our friends here and make sure they leave the premises with some speed.” He looked up at the driver of the carriage. “Take them back to the city and drop them somewhere quiet.”

The bigger of the two men took Graves’s limp body and hoisted it over his shoulder, like a roll of carpet. The abductors were paid off, and within minutes the carriage had departed, taking its three passengers with it.

Holding his lantern aloft, Scoular made his way back down towards the far end of the warehouse, accompanied by his two accomplices, one of whom bore the limp frame of Patrick Graves.

Sherlock Holmes followed them at a distance, keeping to the sides of the building and beyond the feeble rays of the lantern.

The men halted, and suddenly a bright shaft of yellow light shot up from the floor of the warehouse, sending a golden glow up into the rafters. Silently, Holmes dropped to the ground. He saw that Scoular had opened a trap- door, and it was from here that the light was emanating. Without a word, the men disappeared from sight and then with the same suddenness of its arrival, the bright beam of illumination vanished as the trap-door slammed shut. The detective was left alone in the Stygian gloom and silence. It was as though he had been witness to a strange shadow-play, and now the show was over. But the show was not over, he determined. This was merely an interval. He had come this far; it would be futile to give up now. He knew that this was the closest he’d ever been to Professor Moriarty, and he intended to get even closer. Somewhere above him a bat, disturbed by the sudden shaft of light, fluttered briefly from one rafter to another and then settled again.

After five minutes, when his eyes had fully acclimatised to the darkness, which was softened only by the moonlight that struggled through the grime on the row of windows placed up the wall near the roof, Sherlock Holmes rose to his feet. His leg still ached and he could feel the wetness of the warm blood seeping through his trouser leg, but he ignored it. He had to ignore it. There were greater concerns at issue here. Slowly he approached the trap-door, and with his heart in his mouth, he gently tugged at the rope-ring which raised it. Again, yellow light escaped into the warehouse. He saw that there was a staircase which led downwards to what appeared to be a narrow corridor. Holmes noted with surprise that this was expensively panelled and carpeted.

Like a man operating underwater, he slipped through the aperture and gently replaced the trap-door. Trap-door, he thought. How appropriate. He was now trapped within the lair of London’s greatest criminal. And he had walked into this trap himself. With a wry grin, he made his way down the staircase.

At the bottom, he listened, straining his ears for any sound. Remarkably, there was none — just a hissing