Free The Veiled Detective by David Stuart Davies Page B

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 usetheir 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.”
    “Truth rarely comes simply or by normal channels. I am sorry if I disturbed you by my actions.”
    “Well, I must admit I was somewhat shaken, but now that you have explained...”
    “You still think I’m demented.”
    Both men laughed, and the atmosphere eased between them. “Were you wanting to use the room, Stamford?”
    “No, I was looking for you actually.”
    “For me?”
    “Yes, I’ve heard that you are in search of new digs.”
    “How did you know that?”
    “One of the