Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series)

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  “You appeared to be giving Holmes worthy opposition,” I observed.

  Elizabeth laughed. “Never. I don’t have his reach, to start.”

  Holmes took the foil from her and after pushing the sofa back into place, threw both foils beneath. “She could have been a champion if she had started young enough and been a man.”

  “Well, there you are,” Elizabeth said simply.

  I tossed a copy of The Strand I had brought with me over to Holmes, who caught it deftly.

  “The celebration of your return to Baker Street,” I told him.

  Holmes sank into a chair with his sleeves still rolled up and began to read the story.

  Elizabeth exchanged a glance with me. “Excuse me,” she murmured and left quietly. She returned, the men’s attire swapped for more elegant skirts and turned her back to me. “Would you mind? I can never reach the top button.”

  Holmes closed the magazine and rolled it. “Catch!” he said abruptly and threw it to Elizabeth. She shot out her left hand and caught it neatly and Holmes nodded approvingly. He sprang out of the chair. “You have not lost your habit of wringing the drama from every fact,” he told me.

  “I have discovered I have a formerly unsuspected creative talent, too,” I told him. “I am beginning to consider a work of fiction.”

  Holmes glanced at Elizabeth, who was already absorbed in my article.

  “It is best this way,” he said softly. “No one would ever try to subdue you, Watson, for your reputation is well known and respected.” He laughed suddenly. “Though I pity the person who ever mistakes Elizabeth for a helpless woman.”

  Later Elizabeth gave me her opinion on my story. “To me, I can feel you are holding something back. There is a reservation, a distancing, that was not there in your earlier works. But that’s the price I believe you must pay for not telling the whole truth.”

  • Chapter Four •

  _________________________

  •ï¡÷¡ï•

  AS ELIZABETH PREDICTED, our old familiar partnership returned. I believe Holmes was secretly relieved I knew the truth of their relationship, for neither of us had to guard our tongues. Even so, I found I never referred to their relationship directly, taking Holmes’ reticence as my example. Usually I had no need to speak of it. Elizabeth was always there with us in spirit and sometimes in person.

  Which recalls to my mind one brief night’s work down by the Thames, in which Elizabeth accompanied us. I had been instructed by Holmes on precisely where I was to meet him and I had arrived on time, to find the spot empty and the cold fog unrevealing. I stood for a few minutes, peering about and wondering what to do.

  “Good of you to come, Watson,” Holmes said from behind me, making me start. I turned to see his tall shadow defined briefly in the dark swirls of fog.

  “I wouldn’t dream of missing this.”

  “It could be dangerous, you understand?”

  “Perfectly.” I turned slightly at the sound of a boot step and held my breath as a shadowy muffled figure approached. I lifted up my lantern to identify the newcomer, but Holmes grasped my arm and pushed the lantern aside. I had, however, caught a brief glimpse of high cheekbones and green eyes under a low brim.

  “Good evening, John, “ Elizabeth greeted me, in a low voice so quiet I barely heard it.

  I looked at Holmes, and he answered my thoughts as he so often did. “I foresee I may need a third pair of capable hands tonight and completely trustworthy assistants are hard to come by.”

  Elizabeth was studying me gravely, but there was amusement in her eyes. I understood that sparkle perfectly. Holmes had forgotten for a moment that the subject of his statement was a woman, one of the despised untrustworthy creatures of his contempt. It was a measure of his respect for Elizabeth that he did not notice the illogical sense of his assessment.

  This double standard of Holmes’ fascinated me, as did every aspect of his personality. Before he had met Elizabeth, I would have supposed Holmes would remain unattached forever. His attitude toward women gave them very little chance to impress him with their better qualities, and his career brought him in contact with the worst of human kind, man and woman both, and that constant reminder did not help improve his opinion.

  Curiously, his attitude did not change even after Elizabeth became part of his life. To Holmes, Elizabeth was utterly unique and completely above normal womanhood. I had direct proof of this double standard one day.

  I had walked over the park to Baker Street late one night, for we were expecting a client after supper. I was a little early, a habit I had developed because I liked to catch Holmes and Elizabeth alone. Mrs. Hudson was just taking a supper tray up the stairs, and I stood back after tapping on Holmes’ door and opened it for her.

  She entered the smoke filled room, stepping over the newspapers and files scattered about the sofa and I followed her in.

  Holmes had his head buried in the latest scandal sheet, lying across the length of the sofa, his pipe jutting out. Elizabeth lounged in the opposite corner; her arms hugged about her drawn-up knees. She was watching the fire. At Mrs. Hudson’s appearance she scrambled upwards.

  “Let me take that for you,” she said, taking the tray. “Hello, John,” she told me with a smile.

  Mrs. Hudson nodded and puffed. “Thanks, deary.” She moved toward the table and paused when she saw it was covered with papers.

  “Don’t worry,” Elizabeth told her. “I can see to it. They are all in order, anyway.”

  Mrs. Hudson nodded and left the room, after a quick glance at Holmes, who’d not moved from his comfortable position. Elizabeth began clearing the table.

  “Hello, Watson. You’re early,” Holmes said from the depths of his paper. He lifted his head and looked at Elizabeth over the top of the broadsheet. “There’s absolutely no need for you to help her.”

  “She’s getting old,” Elizabeth pointed out.

  Holmes lowered the paper and considered the novel idea. “Yes, I believe you’re right. I hadn’t noticed.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. Anything not directly related to one of your cases gets overlooked. As for the female sex, you’re positively absent-minded.” She looked at me. “Would you like another late supper, John? Sit down.”

  I sat at the table, hiding my amusement. Elizabeth’s assessment was absolutely correct.

  Holmes stood and stretched. “Women as a breed are tiresome, superficial leeches that batten onto men with their clinging self-centered wiles and suck them dry.” He dropped his paper to the floor and moved to the table. “This looks to be up to Mrs. Hudson’s usual standards.”

  Elizabeth sat in front of one of the plates. “Perhaps I should start taking in washing,” she remarked lightly.

  “My dear Elizabeth, you know perfectly well I do not include you in that general category of women.” Holmes buttered his bread. “I am sure that if my end was premature you would take over my job with your usual skill and efficiency and probably do it better.” He pointed his knife at her. “Despite your enforced silences during an investigation I know you observe and deduce as much as I do. You haven’t been simply watching me as Watson does. You have also been learning.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “I could never emulate you. I do not have the foundation knowledge, such as your training in chemistry.”

  “But you make up for that lack with what I am beginning to understand is a woman’s intuition.”

  “Are you suggesting that sometimes I am of help to you during an investigation?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Yes. You keep women from bothering me.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “Then my contribution is a worthy one.”

  Naturally I wondered how Elizabeth had managed to slide under his armor and claim such a very unique place in his heart.

  I don’t suppose I would ever have heard the story and thus gained my answer, if I hadn’t developed a fever one autumn. It took me a long while to be rid of it and my recovery was slow. I cannot remember now
whose suggestion it was that I recuperate at Baker Street, but it struck all of us as a sensible solution and I was duly installed in my old room. Elizabeth became my temporary nurse.

  With such an arrangement, Holmes’ domestic affairs were wide open to my scrutiny and as I lay in bed day after day, I found my observations both educational and entertaining. I had supposed myself a man of the world, well versed in the habits and ways of women in their homes, but I was soon to discover that I knew very little indeed.

  Elizabeth was an excellent nurse. Always helpful and kind and deft in her ways, she never became overbearingly cheerful or solicitous. Doctors can make the very worst convalescents, I know, but I did try my best to remain patient.

  Elizabeth would spend long hours curled up in the armchair by my bed, telling me stories of their journey about the remote corners of the world, or otherwise entertaining me in the comfortable way she had. Indeed I often found myself relating events that I considered unfit for a lady’s ears and not only would Elizabeth appreciate the tale, she could usually better it.

  Mrs. Hudson, much to my surprise, was one of the mainstays of the household. I had thought her an outsider to Holmes’ affair, but it seemed she was not only familiar with all that went on in Holmes’ life, she staunchly supported every aspect of it. It was quite plain she adored Elizabeth and could not do enough for her. She was discretion itself and I believe she found much delight in Holmes’ descent from the pedestal to common man.

  I began to suspect that everyone but me was familiar with that story. So, one afternoon when Elizabeth was reading to me, I reached out to close the book and requested the story from her.

  She put the book on the floor. “Holmes would never tell you,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t dare to ask,” I admitted. “But I feel I have been handed a fait accompli. Holmes meets you, you both disappear for three years and when you reappear, it is all over and done with.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “I do believe there’s a romantic hiding under that exterior of yours. Yet you spend so much time writing about Holmes’ feats of logic and deduction.”

  “Emotions and logic are like oil and water,” I said. “The two do not mix.”

  “Oh, but they do. Very well,” and Elizabeth laughed at my discomfort. “My dearest John, you have requested a story that will embarrass you, I know it. I cannot relate it without using unpolished truth and details. Do you still want your answer?”

  “Yes, as everyone seems to have the answer except me,” I said just a little petulantly.

  Again she laughed. “Mrs. Hudson received a much diluted version of the events. She is dedicated to Holmes, but I do not believe even her dedication could have withstood the full impact of the true circumstances.” She looked at me fondly for a moment. “You’re curious because Holmes presents such a cold exterior to the world, aren’t you?”

  I admitted I was.

  “I believe you think it was me that threw myself at Holmes,” she said, with her mischievous smile. I knew she was testing my resolve to accept the blunt facts.

  I smiled back. “It is difficult to imagine it happening any other way.”

  “You would have the end of the story before you have the beginning. No, if you insist on the tale, you must start at the beginning and wait for the end, or the story teller’s art is lost.” She lifted her feet and tucked them under her, getting herself comfortable for the telling.

  “Holmes didn’t wish to leave you believing he was dead. I argued that it was safer that way. I suppose he omitted to tell you that?” she asked.

  Much surprised, I nodded.

  “Yes, he is over-protective of me,” she said half to herself. “Perhaps I should start there.”

  I will use Elizabeth’s words as my own, for the story is lengthy and complicated….

  •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•

  In response to the fraudulent plea for my medical help back at Meiringen, I left Holmes and Elizabeth paused on the path that led to the steep drop down into the heart of the Reichenbach Falls. Holmes was smoking a cigarette in quiet contemplation whilst Elizabeth watched my departure. She actually waved goodbye to me when I turned for my one last look before scrambling over the hill and out of sight.

  I didn’t know it then, but that image of Holmes and Elizabeth quietly waiting on the footpath was to be my last sight of them for three years. Compared to what was to happen in the next few minutes, it was a composed, tranquil scene.

  Holmes continued to smoke his cigarette in silence for a few moments, then glanced at Elizabeth. “Perhaps it would be as well for you to follow Watson. They may need some nursing assistance from an English woman.”

  Elizabeth considered the idea for a short second, then felt her blood run cold as she fathomed Holmes’ true intentions.

  Constantly throughout that week we had heard Holmes maintain he would consider his life’s work complete if he could only rid the world of Moriarty. I had quoted verbatim to Elizabeth Holmes’ breakfast-time conversation with that evil man, including Holmes’ acceptance of death, if death was necessary to achieve his aims. These facts coupled up in her mind and she stared at Holmes, horrified.

  “The note. It was a forgery!”

  Holmes shook his head irritably. “You saw the note. It was signed by Steiler. Why would I send Watson on such a long goose chase, with his poor leg, if I even suspected it was false?”

  But Elizabeth’s quick mind had already leapt past the question and reached the answer. She looked around the jagged horizon, feeling very much trapped in a corner. “You wanted him out of the way. Now you’re trying to do the same to me.”

  “Really, Elizabeth, paranoia suits you ill. However, I do think you must return to the hotel.” He spoke quite firmly.

  Elizabeth ceased her search of the close horizon and studied Holmes instead. “The message was a fabrication. You knew it was the minute you read it. You knew Moriarty wrote it. He is setting up a trap.”

  Holmes merely returned her look.

  “‘Death is on the agenda’, you said. Now you are calmly waiting for it to arrive.”

  “I also said that bystanders would be hurt. You must return, Elizabeth.”

  An artificial calm descended upon her at Holmes’ indirect confirmation of her guesses. The panic left her as she comprehended that the final confrontation was mere minutes away. She had a promise to live up to.

  “I am not leaving you alone,” she replied.

  “You must. For your own sake.”

  Elizabeth held out her hand. “Give me the gun.”

  “The gun will serve no useful purpose.”

  Elizabeth stared at him, dismayed and vexed. It was not part of her nature to accept the inescapable with Holmes’ fatalism and she knew no way of jarring him out of the mood short of direct action. Alert to the seconds ticking away, she used this dramatic alternative.

  With a swift, dexterous movement, she lunged and delved into Holmes’ coat pocket, the one she knew carried the loaded revolver. She moved very fast—quickly enough to catch Holmes off his guard. She succeeded in getting a grip on the gun and half-withdrawing it from the pocket, before Holmes’ iron grasp snared her wrist. She looked up at him.

  “If you won’t help yourself, I must,” she said.

  “And you will be killed alongside me,” he said firmly. He lifted her wrist and her hand was held steady, the gun between her tingling fingers. She could feel her grip loosening. “Go back,” he told her and reached for the gun.

  It dropped from her numbed fingers and fell through Holmes’ as he stretched to catch it. With a solid thump it hit the spray-drenched rocks at their feet and gave a little bounce up, over the edge and down, irretrievably, into the mists hiding the foaming water beneath them.

  They both looked over the edge, Elizabeth with a wordless cry of dismay. She wrenched her hand from his loosened grasp, grabbed his lapels and shook him.

  “Damn it, Holmes, do something! Don’t just stand there. Th
ink of a plan, work out a strategy. He can be beaten!”

  Holmes looked down at this extraordinary woman. He had not had a finger laid on him since boyhood and he certainly hadn’t been shaken. Her vexation was beginning to communicate itself to him. Firmly he pulled her hands away. “I have been building strategies and laying plans for a whole year and it all leads to this.” He in his turn shook her a little, for emphasis. “Go back to the hotel, Elizabeth. Now. I insist.”

  The sound of loose falling rocks alerted them and they looked up toward the top of the cliff path. The hunched, crooked figure outlined in the last of the evening sun was unmistakable. Moriarty had arrived.

  Elizabeth didn’t need confirmation of Moriarty’s identity, for Holmes’ quick, exhaled breath was all the verification she required. She rubbed her wrists as Holmes let them go.

  “Too late,” he breathed.

  Elizabeth looked back at the figure slowly making its way down the path that ended where they stood. There was no way out.

  Holmes pushed her gently to one side. “Now I must win,” he said. “Or you will die, too.” He stepped in front of her and faced Moriarty as he approached.

  Moriarty halted a few paces from them and glanced at Elizabeth before returning his steady gaze upon Holmes. “Foolish. You should have got her out of the way, Holmes.” The words were innocent enough, but Elizabeth realized with a jolt that her death sentence had been pronounced. The grim surety behind the casual verdict made her shudder.

  Holmes remained silent, seemingly relaxed, yet Elizabeth could sense his whole body was tense and waiting.

  Elizabeth expected Moriarty to continue, to give some twisted justification for what he was intending to do, but the man fell silent and simply watched Holmes. There was no need to declare himself, she perceived, for everything that could be said had already been spoken. The entire year’s convoluted strategies and complicated actions led to this moment.

  Suddenly Moriarty sprang and threw himself at Holmes. They grappled and Moriarty’s weight carried them back toward the edge of the path. Elizabeth flattened herself against the cliff face, stifling a gasp as Moriarty leapt past her.