Sherlock Holmes Edwardian Parodies and Pastiches II

by Bill Peschel

  “I shrank in close to the rock, cowering into a cleft of the wall to shelter myself from the force of the hurricane. My feelings even in that house of agony, due for my broken ribs, and the realisation of the utter hopelessness of my position, were not those of despair. I was face to face with a tremendous revelation of sublime grandeur such as had never been given to man to see.”

  The almost poetical. eloquence with which Moriarty was describing his terrific experiences was a new phase of this wonderful man. How little can we judge of our fellows even though we are lifelong companions, much less when our attention has been confined to one aspect of their existence. Holmes had pursued a criminal and had discovered a poet, he had spoken of a scientist and here was a metaphysician. The longer I listened the more I marvelled at the extraordinary versatility and resource of this strange genius. His pale, lean features were flushed, there was a sparkle of excitement in his eye, his gestures were vivid, his voice rose and fell in an inspired ecstasy of narration. He seemed some weird spirit of the precipice, who had careered triumphantly through the majesty of its waters, and was now seized with a joy of mastery amid such elements of destruction. For a moment or two he paused as though in a reverie, his lips moved without any sound escaping, he was again the bruised fugitive from Death in the cavity behind the fall. Even Holmes was moved, he could hardly keep up the appearance of languid nonchalance; there was a tense ring in his voice when at last he spoke.

  “I can rejoice in my failure since it has given us such a dramatic history. May I congratulate you not less on your presence of mind and your escape than on your eloquent description?”

  “And I, Mr. Holmes, am indebted to you for the vastest pleasure that has ever been granted to the aesthetic side of my nature. Though a mathematician, I have tried to avoid being a mere intellectual barbarian, as so many of my fellow-wranglers have proved. I have found some time for the study of literature, and have even devoted considerable attention to poetry and art. Amid the glorious architecture of the Continental cathedrals I have spent my most exalted moments. Judge, then, of my intense appreciation of the spectacle before me. I, who had exulted in the exquisite grace of Cologne and Milan, now saw the perfection of architecture wedded to beauty in the lofty nave of Reichenbach. Here the vast rock that sprang from the depths was covered by the sculpturing chisel of Nature beyond all that art has ever lavished on capital or corbel, on gargoyle, stylobate, or pilaster. With niche and crevice, column and cornice, garnished and garlanded in stalactite wreaths, mouldings and arabesques, and over all the filmy, changeful veil of foam and spray, it rose in gloomy magnificence from the misty abyss. Higher and higher rose the great wall through successive shades of twilight and shadow to where the broad sunshine glittered through the tremulous downward curve of water that formed half of the high-poised arch. And how can I describe the opposed pillar, a mass of translucent radiance, descending in graceful flutes and spirals, permeated with ever-changing prismatic colours of sunshine blended and transmuted in its fluid substance? As I rested my exhausted body in the cleft, I rejoiced over this energy mingled with beauty, this triumphant progress of colour and sound. All the reverence and mystery of my Celtic blood was aroused. I chanted aloud with my feeble voice, lost in the sonorous tumult. I rioted in the exuberance of my intoxication, and broke into the water dirge from Ossian. ‘The shout of the torrent comes from afar. The waves roar and are scattered in the depths of the rock. Darkness is under me, in mist have I fallen, in the mist of the hill in the centre of storms’.

  “But I am merely boring Dr. Watson by diverging from the mere prosaic narrative of my escape.”

  I protested in vain. Moriarty waved his hand deprecatingly, the colour faded from his face. He became cold and restrained, the mathematician was again pre-eminent as he continued his story.

  “You will remember, Dr. Watson, or you can see at a glance from the photograph before us, that the narrow span of the gorge was completely filled from side to side by the descending sheet of water. Although the chief density was in the central column of the fall, yet the rush at either side was sufficient to preclude all escape had there been a foothold leading round the walls of the ravine. Above me was the arching, unscalable roof, half water and half rock. Below was the undesirable whirlpool I had so narrowly escaped. I was situated like one of those toy puppets which can be made to climb up and down a stick but cannot be taken off their limited perch. The one direct communication with the outside air was a considerable distance from the top of the fall. Here a projecting spur of rock cut into the plunging water, and a short distance below the obstruction the dividing sheaves of water united again. To continue my cathedral analogy this narrow slit in the wall of water resembled a narrow clerestory high in the nave. At times even this tiny slit was obscured by spurting spray; at others a momentary glimpse of sky was visible through it. A shaft of light from the sinking sun played through the slit, and glittered on the wet rock far overhead. It struck me that if I could climb higher up the precipice I might possibly get a view of the path through this window. Although escape and communication with my friends seemed impossible, yet this exertion would defer the ultimate despair of rescue.

  “Crannied as the rock was, and with many projections, to a strong man a considerable ascent would have been easy. To me, with broken ribs stabbing my sides with agony, and with wrenched, tired limbs, it was a slow and laborious task. My flask of draught of raw spirit roused my energy anew. Painfully crawling inch by inch upward I reached a shelf where it was possible to remain in some comfort, and by looking up aslant through the splitting of the water, to see a small portion of the path far above my position behind the fall.

  “By this time you, Mr. Holmes, were lying concealed above the rock path, and Dr. Watson was hurrying back from Meiningen with a bevy of assistants. Peiffer had also gone to Meiningen as will subsequently appear. Moran was perched above, where I had left him, waiting until all danger of intruders was past before examining the scene of our struggle. Although I knew Moran’s great capacity for emergencies, and Peiffer’s physical audacity, yet I could not hope that they would expect me to survive that plunge into the chasm. To communicate with them seemed impossible. I was too exhausted to further my escape had a road lain open. Never was more effectual cage devised for any prisoner. I began to calculate how long I could survive hunger and exhaustion; thirst alone was not to be feared. There was still some brandy in my flask, and one small sandwich in my pocket. I had also a small electric torch in my pocket; it would burn for at least an hour before the charge was exhausted, if I needed a light at nightfall. There was also my revolver. The cartridges were damp-proof. It was, indeed, one last hope of escaping a prolonged agony. For a long time I lay utterly exhausted listening to the endless roar, and watching with aching eyes the dizzy onward sweep of the green wall of water. The sun was near its setting, and the gloom gathered thicker in the depths. Occasionally I glanced upward through the rifted water. Hour after hour passed. Dr. Watson had come with his crowd of assistants and was gone. Night fell on me cold, aching, and weary, suspended between earth, air and water on a two-foot deep shelf. My brain reeled, I seemed floating out over a vast pit of darkness, through a thunderous uproar of universal chaos. Pulling myself together I swallowed the last crumbs of my sandwich, drained the flask and pitched it into the depths. I fingered my revolver, it seemed like the clasp of a friend come to relieve my agony.

  “As it chanced, this was the moment when Moran, having dislodged Mr. Holmes, and being rejoined by Peiffer, had descended to the path. Peiffer had brought a further supply of rope, a lantern, and some flares, from Meiningen. They had hoped against hope that I might still live even though seriously mutilated by my fall.

  “I have always impressed one great axiom on my friends, Mr. Holmes, which you seem never to have imparted to Dr. Watson. Never consider any man dead until you have handled his corpse. Moran and Peiffer acted entirely in accordance with my teaching. Neither hoped to see me again, yet they came t
o the scene of my disappearance prepared for all emergencies. Night having come, the darkness of the chasm was profound. Peiffer lighted a blue flare and lowered it down the rock.

  “I was aroused from my lethargy by the sudden flash of light. The livid glare penetrated the great veil of sweeping water. Giant shadows floated over the abyss among the changing sprays. Looking up I saw the two distant figures, through my window among the waters, bending anxiously over the rock and peering into the misty depths. A sudden desire to let them know where to find my tomb came over me. I was hopeless that they would ever extract me from the grasp of the precipice, and the manacles of the fall. As flare after flare lighted the path vividly for a few seconds, I grasped my revolver and fired two rapid shots almost perpendicularly up through the small slit in the waterfall, aiming at the rock just below the bending figures.”

  When Moriarty mentioned his firing at the rock to attract his friend’s attention, I could not but remember Holmes’ monograph on the reading of bullet traces. This had been suggested by the Stone Farm mystery, where Holmes had conclusively proved from the bullet mark on the ceiling that the shot was fired from outside. It seemed as though my friend’s methods had been turned to account at every point by this sinister mathematician. There was a decided glint of grim humour in Moriarty’s eye as he inclined his head slightly in Holmes’ direction.

  “May I once more acknowledge my obligation, Mr. Holmes, to your excellent methods of reasoning, and to your various monographs upon what the ordinary man regards as matter out of place? I had on many occasions pointed out to my friends that you were to be regarded both as a tutor and an antagonist. Never did this prove more true than when I fired those valedictory shots through the waterfall. The bullets struck the flat rock below the path, and splashed two parallel tracks upward and aslant across the surface. The reports were drowned in the roar of the fall, but the spattering lead immediately attracted Moran’s attention. To an old sportsman, and one versed in your theories on the subject, these traces read like the page of an open book. The shots could only come from below, their path upon the rock indicated that they came from behind the fall. The immediate inference was that I still lived and was concealed behind the great falling column of water. Letting the flares burn out, he then leaned well over the edge, and improvising a signaling apparatus with his lantern and hat, he began to flash a message in the Morse code towards the probable source of the shots. Peiffer, meanwhile, searched for some answering signal with his binoculars. From my refuge on the shelf behind the fall I saw the long and short flashes, now indistinctly playing on the tumbled water, and now through the small interspace I have already mentioned in the descending sheet of water. It seemed hardly possible that, if I replied with flashes of my tiny pocket electric torch, the feeble flicker would be seen at such a height through the mist and water. Pointing it pistol-like at the rift, with my finger on the little button, I began to flash out a reply to the signal from above. Soon Peiffer discovered the tiny spark with his glasses. To my indescribable joy I was able to tell my friends of my condition, and where I was perched out of reach of the cataract. Then Peiffer made a suggestion unparalleled for its courageous audacity. He would make himself into a human pendulum, and swinging from a ledge on the precipitous walls of the ravine, charge the waterfall during the lowest and therefore swiftest part of its course, and carry me off my perch as he rebounded.

  “I cannot but feel that my description of this feat is a bald and insufficient tribute to the courage and devotion of my friend. Not only was there the terrifying, relentless strength of the fall before him, and the great abyss beneath, but the darkness added new dangers to the execution of his project. After having had himself lowered to my level in order to find how much rope would be needed, Peiffer prepared for his attempt. The rope was securely fastened to a bar driven into the crevices of the rock close to the fall itself. The upper end was lapped with other rope to prevent a fatal fraying on the rock. A lighter line was attached to Peiffer’s waist, this was held by Moran in order to steady him when he should have swung back again through the fall. Thus, aided by Moran and the young Swiss, he cautiously clambered along the crevices in the precipice. Several times he failed and swung back over the chasm. At last he got a foothold far down the cliff, and at a sufficient distance from the fall to give himself impetus when he hurled himself on the taut rope at the barrier of falling water.

  “The signal was given from the path that I was to be ready. Several blue flames were burning, the vast gulf filled with mist and the black glistening walls seemed like a huge cauldron full of livid vapour. Peiffer bore downwards on the rope and sprang with all his force towards the fall. He met the shock of the water feet foremost in the manner of a cliff climber fending himself off a rock. He had calculated his spring with great precision, piercing the watery stream like an arrow, and swinging in close to my ledge. The resistance of the water had checked his momentum sufficiently to save him from smashing himself upon the rock. Blinded by his passage he could not see me, but I jumped to meet him. My arms clasped round his body, and I felt his powerful grasp close upon my broken ribs with a shooting pang of agony. It was the work of an instant, the sudden bursting through the fall, my leap then, the swift backward rush as Peiffer’s strong legs spurned the rock and aided our outward swing. A tremendous, stinging, icy blow of many waters buffeting and trying to tear us from the rope; then the void of the chasm; and everywhere the livid, ghastly steam rising around us saturated with the glare of the lights from above. Overcome at last by exhaustion, pain and cold, together with the joy of rescue, I fainted in Peiffer’s arms. The rest of my story may be contained in a sentence. Moran and the Swiss were successful in checking our swing, we were drawn up in safety, and I spent the next month very agreeably in Peiffer’s chalet recovering from my injuries.”

  Moriarty took several meditative pulls at his cigar, and sipped his whisky and soda. None of us seemed to be inclined for comment at the moment. It seemed like some marvellous fairy tale to hear this slim, elderly professor describing his terrible entrance to the chasm, and his still more astounding exit from that pit of death. His cigar had gone out, he reached across for the grotesque matchbox on Holmes’ smoking table; there was some trickery in the way it opened, but he apparently knew the secret and got his light without difficulty.

  Holmes seemed to have subsided more and more into his chair. His right arm hung limply across the arm next the coal scuttle, his long slim fingers dangled almost among its contents. He was the first to speak, and his manner had a suggestion of indolent aggressiveness.

  “I think I can supply the further details which have caused the somewhat hasty return of Prof. Moriarty to England a month ago.”

  Moriarty turned sharply round towards Holmes, the angry glitter reappearing in his eyes, there was a passing anger in his voice.

  “So, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you have been taking an impertinent interest in my movements again.”

  “On the contrary, I know nothing beyond what you yourself have told me during your interesting narrative, and several little details, which I have deduced from your person and manner. You went to the East, like myself, after the Reichenbach incident, but while I diverged to Thibet you went on to Japan. The modern party in that country have derived very considerable benefit from the active exercise of your intellectual forces during recent years. It is regrettable that Prof. Moriarty could not sufficiently control his latent criminal instinct when tempted to convey certain secrets connected with the military ambitions of his employers to remunerative Russian sources. It must have been highly inconvenient to leave your adopted country so hurriedly that all your personal effects remained behind. Your month in London has not been wholly inactive, yet I am convinced, that had our mutual friend Moran, or some others we know of, been at large, you would have made a more complete sweep over the Glockstein affair.”

  Moriarty’s gaunt form trembled with passion. He rose from his chair, his lean neck quivered from side to side. H
is lips parted in a snarling grin.

  “So, Mr. Holmes, you continue to taunt me. I have warned you for the last time. Hands up, Sherlock Holmes.”

  Simultaneously it seemed, so swift did the facts I am writing down occur, Moriarty’s hand flashed from his pocket holding a revolver pointed at Holmes. Holmes’ arm seemed to jerk spasmodically up from its limp attitude over the coal scuttle. His body collapsed suddenly and slid sideways to the floor over the opposite side of his chair. A smashing sound at the window. Moriarty’s shot, followed closely by two others. Some heavy object that struck me full in the face as I attempted to spring upon Moriarty. Then a sinking into utter blankness amid a general struggle of bodies and smashing of furniture.

  * * * * *

  When I became once more conscious of my surroundings, I found myself in bed. The morning sun was playing brightly on the carpet, and Holmes was tilted back on the hind legs of a chair scanning the paper. There was a bandage round my head, and as I moved on my pillow I felt the soreness of a bruise upon my forehead. Holmes looked up with a slight smile.

  “Good morning, Watson, I regret that I have been so unfortunate in my use of a weapon.”