“I believe that they are at some kind of impasse,” Mr. Darcy noted.
I recalled the time that Moriarty had come to the flat on Baker Street. How he had guessed everything that Mr. Holmes was going to say, and how Mr. Holmes had then known everything that Moriarty was going to say.
They were two geniuses of equal intellect, locked in a stalemate, neither able to best the other. How frustrating that had to be for the both of them, to be, for the first time, unable to truly beat their opponent, to be finally confronted with a problem that they seemingly could not solve.
Then—I saw Moriarty’s hands shoot out. She grabbed Mr. Holmes.
I think I cried out, but I could not truly recall later on whether I had or not. I still felt quite frozen, but I was filled with distress.
They struggled, Mr. Holmes grabbed Moriarty back, and I saw her clearly trying to push him over the falls—
It was Moriarty who slipped, her foot going off the edge. I could be sure of that, at least, although later on, I was not sure of many other things. She fell backwards, her hands still clinging tightly to Mr. Holmes’ coat and his hands still grasping at her…
And then, the wisest and best man that I had ever known went tumbling over the falls.
Chapter Ten:
End of the Line
At first, I did not quite believe what I saw. Mr. Darcy recognized it for what it was at once and proceeded back down the path. His aim was to try to reach the bottom and see if anything could be recovered of the two figures, perhaps to organize a party from those at the lodge so that a search might be launched for the bodies.
To my shame, I gave myself over to sentimentality. I did not wish for the man who had become my closest friend to be gone. I stared at the spot alone for quite some time. I kept expecting there to be some sort of movement once more. That Mr. Holmes would climb back up, or appear out of the mist of the waterfall, and announce to me in his calm manner how it had all been accomplished. How he had defeated Moriarty and survived.
Alas, there was no one.
It was quite some time later, although I was not aware of how much time passed, that Mr. Darcy returned and escorted me down to the lodge. I was a bit resistant in my heart, but I did not put up a fight. It was not his fault, after all, that these events had transpired as they did.
Even once we were at the lodge, I kept searching, my gaze roaming over the faces of the people around me in the hopes that one of them might turn out to be Mr. Holmes in disguise. It would not be the first time that such a scheme had been perpetrated by the man. He was quite fond of his disguises and also rather fond of gently showing me up so that my observational powers might further be tested.
He was not at the lodge, however. Nor was he anywhere else on our journey home.
Mr. Darcy pointed out to me that it was still a triumph for the man. He had ended Moriarty and the entire criminal empire and goodness knew whatever else had been lurking in the recesses of that twisted genius. I knew that Mr. Holmes himself would consider it a victory. Yet, I could not see it as such. How could I rejoice when my friend was gone?
“I suppose that I shall have to deal with his personal effects,” I admitted at last. We were in the carriage on the final leg of our journey back to London, where Mary anxiously awaited us for news. “Mrs. Hudson will wish to let the flat out to someone else and we cannot have his detritus lying about for much longer.”
My heart was heavy, and not only for Mr. Holmes and the loss of him, but for myself. Now that he was gone, how was I to continue with my detecting work? My mother would certainly leap at the chance to draw me back towards the more genteel side of life and society. I could feel a bitterness rising in me at the thought of the loss of the independence to which I had grown so accustomed.
Mr. Darcy fixed me with a look. “Why should you not keep the place?”
“Well, what use should I possibly have for it?”
“You were schooled by Holmes in his methods of detection. You solved at least one case on your own and were his valuable agent in speaking to witnesses and gathering information. I should even venture to say, Miss Bennet, that you were better at handling many of his clients than he was. Holmes was a man of great intelligence and he did have in his heart a spot of softness for the downtrodden, but he was not always the best, shall we say, at juggling the emotional needs of his clients.”
I shook my head. “My parents should never allow it. My father is indulgent towards me, but I suspect that even he wishes that I should settle myself at last.” Not to mention, there was the unavoidable fact that with Kitty and Lydia now engaged, only myself and Mary remained without prospects for marriage. A dangerous game to play, still, even as I knew women were finding ways to remain independent and alone in society.
“Without Mr. Holmes to act as my mentor, sir, I do fear that there will be little standing in between myself and ridicule. When I was but his assistant who could provide a gentler touch for the lady clients, there was a sort of air of indulgence about the entire thing. I know that Mr. Holmes saw me as an equal, but we both allowed our clients to think what they wanted in order to prevent too much scandal attached to my name.
“Now, without him there, how am I to possibly continue? There are not many people who will consult with a lady detective.”
“Perhaps just any lady detective, no. But a lady detective who has been the partner of the greatest detective known to our society, and who has a strong financial backer who might, perchance, be willing to pay for her office flat on Baker Street…”
I saw the gleam in his eye and my breath caught in my throat. “Do you mean to say that you would be my backer?”
“I have mentioned before to you that I thought you had the strength and wit to carry a business on your own. I meant it then and I stand by my word now. If you are interested, it would give me great pleasure to assist you in continuing the work that Holmes started.” Mr. Darcy paused, as if it had only just occurred to him to add, “Of course, this is only if you wish to continue. I would understand if the associations are now too painful for you. I know that the two of you were quite close.”
“He became my closest friend,” I admitted. I had never said such a thing aloud. It had felt like a silent and mutual understanding between Mr. Holmes and myself. We did not ever say it, but it was known that we were each other’s friend. Sometimes, despite the number of grateful clients that Mr. Holmes had, I thought that I might be his only true friend in the world.
Still, as much as my grief engulfed me, I could not refuse Mr. Darcy’s offer. I would be able to continue the work that had so fulfilled me these past months and could train Mary, as well, which was what I knew she longed for. And Mr. Holmes, I think, would have liked to have me continue in his stead, so that his work and strides in detecting should not be completely lost to the annals of time.
“If you are serious in your offer,” I told Mr. Darcy, “then I should be eager to take you up on it.”
He graced me with one of his rare smiles, and I could not have said whether the warmth in me came from the knowledge that I could now continue detecting, or from that smile itself.
There was much to be done. I had to reorganize the flat in Baker Street and make it more presentable. Mr. Holmes might have been content to live in a mess of odds and ends, but I was not. I would continue to live with my sister and brother-in-law for now, I eventually decided, but should they ever feel that the place had become too crowded, there was always Baker Street. In the meantime, it served well as a meeting place for clients and an escape from London’s higher echelons of society.
Kitty’s and Lydia’s engagements took up much of my time. Mother, as one can well imagine, was in near-hysterics at the knowledge of her two favorite daughters being well married off. To men of such rank! To men as fine in breeding and wealth as Mr. Bingley! Oh, she had never even dared to hope! And so on and so forth.
I did not fail to miss the little jabs that were made at m
e as to why I should not also be married by now. I ignored them. I was certain that, as a lady detective, they would not be the last that I was to ever hear. I should endure them as they came and show them up through my actions rather than allowing my pride to be pricked.
And so it was that I came to record the final adventure of my dear friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, even as my own adventure continued. There was still so much in my life to see and do, and I liked to think that Mr. Holmes would have been pleased with my choices.
I was not unaware of Mr. Darcy’s growing regard for me, nor could I say that I was entirely without regard for him. Perhaps marriage was indeed in my future, after all. Perhaps it was not.
I should continue detecting no matter what.
It was just as I was finishing my account of the entire thing that Mary entered the room with a letter for me. “It is from the opera singer, Lizzie,” she told me, handing it over.
“Irene!” I took the letter eagerly. “It has been an age since I have heard from her. Thank you, Mary.”
I opened the letter. Inside was both a note and two tickets to an opera being performed next Friday in London. Irene had, by necessity, stayed away from Europe for some time, but it seemed that she was now confident enough in her former lover’s willingness to move on to return.
Then, I read her note.
My dear Elizabeth,
I have much to tell you about my life and travels in the Americas. You would not believe some of the adventures that I have had! Or perhaps you would believe them, for I am certain that you are having quite a few adventures yourself.
As instructed, I have sent you two tickets to my performance. They should arrive only a few days before, but I am certain that you will clear your schedule for an old friend. I rather look forward to seeing you both afterwards. Do come to my dressing room when the curtain goes down and we’ll have a proper reunion.
With all my affection,
Irene
I stared at the letter. As instructed? By whom? And what did she mean by seeing us both? Of course, if she sent me two tickets, she would expect me to bring someone with me, but, surely, she would not then assume that I should bring them backstage with me. No, the phrasing made it seem as though she knew who I was bringing, and that she was already acquainted with them.
But who could have possibly instructed her…
My heart hammered in my throat and my skin seemed to fairly buzz in anticipation. After my faith had finally dwindled away, after I had at last given up hope and had determined to move on…
Even the phrase that I would be willing to clear my schedule for an “old friend” seemed suddenly to have another meaning. Perhaps I was reading too much into things. I had hoped for so long that my friend should turn out to be alive. That he had one last trick up his sleeve. That the man who had seemed to me to be for so long impervious, a pillar that could not be toppled, should prove to have once again gotten the upper hand against his foe.
My logical mind rebelled against it. I was not a fanciful girl and never had been. Facts, cold and hard, where what I could rely upon. That was what Mr. Holmes had taught me: to rely upon what I could observe rather than on what others told me or on what I liked to imagine.
The facts said that it was impossible. Surely it must be impossible. But then, I had seen many seemingly impossible or improbable things in my life. I had witnessed women running businesses, men murdered in locked rooms, a criminal mastermind who blackmailed the royals of Europe, a woman who successfully lived as a man for years. I had even seen my bothersome sister Lydia turn into a woman with whom I was proud to be associated, and I had once thought that pigs should fly sooner than that.
And what had I seen, truly, that evening in the mist? Could either Mr. Darcy or I say that we had seen everything with perfect clarity? That we could not be somehow mistaken, that there was not something that might have been missed at so great a distance away and with the waterfall roaring and sending up spray as it did?
And if anyone could find a way to cheat death and then be so casually arrogant as to hide it from his closest friend for months, only to reveal it in the most dramatic fashion possible…
Well, it was most certainly Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
THE END
About the Author
Amelia works as a librarian and lives in an idyllic Cotswold village in England with Darcy, her Persian cat. She has been a Jane Austen fan since childhood but only in later life did she discover the glory and gory of a cozy mystery book. She has drafted many different cases for Holmes and Bennet to solve together.
Visit www.amelialittlewood.com for more details
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