Free The Veiled Detective by David Stuart Davies Page A

floor which had obviously been slipped under the door. His name was on the envelope, written in the crabbed spidery writing he recognised asbelonging 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