I repeated his words. “Used to be?”
Reed lit his own cigarette and grinned. It was a pleasant grin, which caused his taut sunburned face to splinter with numerous wrinkles. “Same way as you used to be Assistant Surgeon to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.” The smile broadened.
So, Reed was a fellow outcast.
He blew out a stream of smoke, which was caught by the wind and disappeared into the darkness.
“Yes, Walker, old chap, my military masters disapproved of my dealings with the mess funds, I’m afraid. They probably would have been more sanguine about the matter if the blessed horse had won.” This time the smile became a laugh — a laugh so charming that it was infectious, and I found myself laughing along with him.
“That’s the ticket, old fellow. First time I’ve seen you without a grimace or that black cloud you’ve been carrying around with you all the voyage. Oh, yes, I’ve been watching you. I like to keep an eye on kindred spirits. You see, I know what you’re going through and what you’re feeling. And that,” he nodded at the water below us, “is certainly not the answer. I’m living proof that one not only survives such ignominy — but, one can prosper, too.”
I was dumbstruck by this stranger’s revelations, but, at the same time, his words began to rekindle the spirit of hope and defiance that had been all but extinguished within me. He spoke with warmth and kindness, something I had not experienced for six months or more.
“Come to the bar, Walker. Let me buy you a drink. I think I can help you.”
Like the pied piper, he beckoned me and I followed. As we entered the bar, the fat northern businessman came in with his entourage, which included his equally large wife, who was smothered in a voluminous velvet gown that made her look more than faintly ridiculous. My spirits had been so lightened by my new companion, that I gave them an irreverent light-hearted wave.
“The nouveau riche are always so vulgar, Walker, old feller. Give me old money every time,” Reed announced, loud enough to be overheard. The fat businessman scowled at us with bulging eyes, and shepherded his wife to the further end of the bar.
“Now then, a brandy and soda?”
I shook my head. I had vowed never to touch the accursed brandy again as long as I lived. “A seltzer will be fine.”
Reed groaned. “Nonsense. I’m not going to sit here with a fellow officer while he sips a nursery-time drink. You’ve got to shake off the past. Defy it, my boy. You can’t let it drag you down. This is a time for new beginnings.” He turned to the barman. “Two large brandies with just a whisper of soda, there’s a good chap.”
I shrugged my shoulders in defeat. I felt like a schoolboy in the charge of his forceful yet benevolent headmaster. Having obtained the drinks, my new acquaintance led me to a quiet table. He raised his glass and nodded that I should do the same. Again, I obeyed him. I smelled the brandy, the thick, sweet intoxicating smell, and once more I was back at the camp, sitting under that skeletal tree beneath a pale Afghan moon, my body weary and my mind numb. The night breeze ruffled my hair and my hand gripped the neck of the bottle. I closed my eyes momentarily to lose the vision.
I swirled the brandy round in the glass so that it produced a miniature whirlpool. If I cast it aside now; if I threw the drink away and returned to the medical tent; if...
My reverie was broken by Reed whispering in my ear. “There’s no going back, old boy. The only direction left is forward. So, drink up!”
The brandy caught the back of my throat and I spluttered.
Reed laughed. “You’ll soon get used to it again, Watson.”
I wiped my chin awkwardly.
“Walker,” I corrected him gently.
“Yes, I know, but somehow I see you as a Watson. Funny that, isn’t it?”
Sherlock Holmes touched the tender lump on his scalp where he had been clubbed, and winced.
Observing him, Inspector Giles Lestrade could not resist a chuckle. “Big as a quail’s egg, and twice as unpleasant.” He laughed again, this time at his own weak conceit.
It was past midnight and the two men were sitting once more in Lestrade’s office at Scotland Yard. Holmes had dispensed with his disguise, although his face was still smeared with faint traces of make-up.
“Well, Mr Holmes,” added Lestrade, sitting back in his chair, “if you will play dodgy games, you must expect to end up with a few bruises.”
“I am not complaining, Inspector, just trying to establish the extent of the damage.”
“You’ll live. A large headache for a while and a tender pate for a week, and then I reckon you’ll be right as rain.”
“Thank you. I never knew you practised medicine as well as police work.”
Lestrade did not rise to the bait. “We modern officers have many varied talents.”
Holmes allowed himself a thin smile. “Well, apart from my quail’s egg, as you put it, it has been a fairly successful night.”
“Certainly has — but a strange one. And I’m still not sure I understand this business fully.”
“If it is any consolation, I’m not sure I do either... yet. As I have told you before, it is as though someone has been testing me, trying to trick me.”
Lestrade shook his head. He was far from convinced. “Why should anyone want to do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Rare words from you, if I may say so. Still, I must admit it has been a funny carry-on. All this business with the bogus bank manager — we got him, by the way, as he was leaving your digs. Real name: Ernest Brand, a villain with a theatrical flair.”
“Lot of theatricality, little flair,” observed Holmes as he lit a cigarette. “He was working under orders, of course, as were the two characters who produced my cranial appendage.” He touched his lump again. “Whoever planned this business knew a fair bit about me. He knows how my mind works.”
“Blimey,” cried Lestrade in surprise, “he must be a blooming genius then!”
“He was certain that I would arrange to rob the bank for Abercrombie. That was an essential part of the plan.”
“Brand.”
“Yes. Thus, we have the rather nice arrangement where the detective carries out the work of the thieves for them. A wonderful irony. Or at least that was how it would have been if the plan had worked.”
“Ah, but you got the better of them, Mr Holmes.”
“Did I?”
Lestrade frowned. “Of course you did.”
Abstractly, Holmes examined the glowing end of his cigarette. “Some aspects of the scheme were very clever, but there were too many weak elements.”
“Such as?”
“Did they never think I would check if Abercrombie really was the manager of the Portland Street branch of the City Bank, and if he had a daughter called Amelia whom he took to Carlo’s restaurant for lunch? Or that I would visit his supposed address in Clapham?”
“Did you?”
Holmes gave an irritated sigh. “Of course I did. One of the elementary rules of detective work is to check your sources of information to make sure that what you are being told is the truth. I had a very pleasant afternoon at the Portland Street branch of the City Bank, disguised as an old colonial. Not only did I manage to observe the real manager, but, as luck would have it, I also saw how the gang worked it so that they were able to get hold of the keys to the bank.”
Lestrade sat up. “How’s that?”
“Another set of performances was involved. One character pretends to be the rich client intent on opening a very large account. He’s ushered into the manager’s office. It is my experience that bank managers are very obsequious where wealthy men are concerned. The ‘client’ is there long enough to take stock of the chamber and the strongroom. Then there is a commotion in the lobby of the bank, and the manager is called for...”