Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series)

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  On the very brink of the path Holmes and Moriarty struggled against each other, as Elizabeth watched, frightened. It did not occur to her that the path was now clear and she could make her escape. She was held in place by the power of lethal intentions, waiting for the fatal outcome. She was so close she could reach out and touch them, but knew it would be a purposeless attempt. Yet her helplessness was diluted by the malignance she was watching.

  The test of wills and power came to a sudden end, for Moriarty found a superior grip on his opponent. With a rasping cry of glee he prepared to throw Holmes over the ledge but on the very verge of losing his balance, Holmes twisted and broke free, throwing himself aside.

  Moriarty’s cry changed to a scream of rage as he continued to fall without his prey. Holmes rested on the lip of the cliff, watching Moriarty’s descent.

  Elizabeth moved shakily to his side and looked down. She saw Moriarty’s body strike some rocks and bounce aside, still falling. Then the swirling, floating spray closed over the body and Moriarty was gone.

  Elizabeth closed her eyes, her body shaking with giddy relief.

  Holmes stood, moving slowly. Then he lowered himself gingerly to sit upon a broad rock close by. He delved into his pockets and pulled out a pencil stub and his note book and opened it.

  Elizabeth stared at him. “What in the world are you doing?” she asked, not a little bewildered.

  Holmes was writing rapidly and without hesitation. “I am about to die,” he said.

  Elizabeth felt her jaw drop. “You are?”

  “Moriarty was the leader of a very clever gang of criminals. At least three of his lieutenants are almost as ingenious as he and all of them have as much reason to wish me dead as Moriarty.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “You want them to think you dead so they will not come after you,” she surmised.

  “Yes and not only they. There are other enemies, not connected with Moriarty. It would suit my purposes if they fell to the same erroneous conclusion. If they are truly convinced that I am dead, they will grow lax and careless. They will make mistakes and I can then destroy them.”

  Elizabeth considered the plan. “I am to die, too?” she asked.

  Holmes glanced up from his page. “I am afraid so. You heard Moriarty—he was going to deal with you as he tried to deal with me. If you walked out of this canyon and claimed that Moriarty had killed me and let you live to tell the tale, his men would know without a doubt that it was a bluff.” He looked back down at his page. “Besides, I do not trust your ability to carry the bluff convincingly. You would be cross-examined by some of the shrewdest minds in England and nothing but the truth would be allowed by them.”

  “I see,” Elizabeth said. “How are we to die?”

  “This note to Watson should take care of the details,” Holmes said, tearing out the pages and folding them. He took out his cigarette case and rested the notes beneath it on the rock he had leant his cane against. He pointed to Elizabeth’s feet. “Do not move any further up the path. I want our footsteps down to the end of the path to be perfectly clear and easy to read.”

  Elizabeth stayed where she was. “And how are we to get back up the path to the top?”

  “We don’t,” Holmes replied.

  “There is no other way out…unless you intend to fly?”

  Holmes pointed up the almost sheer cliff face beside him. “If I am right, there is a shadow up there that suggests a small ledge, about twenty feet up.”

  Elizabeth gazed upwards and bit her lip. There was no need to ask Holmes if he seriously intended to scale the cliff. The situation was entirely inappropriate for jest. Instead she told herself firmly that this was something that had to be done and that was that.

  The climb taxed their nerves and sinews, for the cliff was wet and slippery and they strongly felt the urgency to reach cover before my reappearance which did nothing to help their equanimity. Several times either one or the other nearly slipped as grass pulled out by its roots or their footing gave way beneath them. But they persevered and at last made the safety of the minuscule ledge.

  There, laying full length, they watched as I returned with the party I had hastily called up, only to discover, to my dismay, that I was too late and Moriarty had won.

  As the searching party moved out of sight of the Falls, Elizabeth and Holmes relaxed, only to be shocked by a huge rock falling past them from above.

  Holmes looked up and ducked as another large rock bounded by barely a foot from his head. Elizabeth flinched against the cliff face, in relative safety. He looked again and his face remained expressionless as he identified the figure. “Moran.”

  The name meant nothing to Elizabeth, but there was no doubt in her mind that Moran was dangerous, for Holmes immediately set about descending the cliff face again. The hail of deadly missiles continued and Elizabeth threw herself forward and began to climb down. They slipped, slithered and scrambled down the cliff face, tearing skin, shredding knuckles, elbows and knees and ripping fingernails, as speed took the better part of their caution in their race for the sanctuary of the footpath. Halfway down, Holmes fell and landed heavily on the footpath below. He picked himself up and reached up to assist Elizabeth down onto the path.

  They took to their heels, the beginning of a long race across the countryside, attempting to lose Moran from their tails.

  It was almost fully dark now. Their footing was unsure and their speed retarded. Constantly they stumbled and sometimes fell, yet Holmes kept up a punishing pace, pushing forward into the darkness.

  They were also climbing steadily for despite their exertions, Elizabeth felt a chill settle into her bones and she was breathless beyond what her hurried gait demanded—the altitude was robbing her of oxygen.

  It seemed many hours of exacting ceaseless effort had passed when Holmes slowed and began to look about him. A bulky shadow defined itself from out of the night, nearby on their right and Holmes led her toward it. Its square angle bespoke man-made shelter and the lack of light its emptiness. As they drew closer, details became apparent and Elizabeth recognized it as an Alpine hut, one of those dotted about the lower and middle slopes of the mountains designed to serve as shelters for anyone caught out in the harsh winter weather. There would be wood and water and a stove for warmth.

  Holmes explored the hut’s perimeter, then opened the door and inspected the inside, before drawing her in. “Rest,” he told her. “We’ve succeeded in losing him, I think.”

  Elizabeth lowered herself wearily onto the hard wooden bench next to the door.

  Holmes opened a small chest next to the rotund stove in the corner and pulled out a small wooden barrel. “Water.” He put it on the table and inspected the stove. “We can risk a fire, I believe.” He discarded his jacket and set about making a fire of the wood stacked on the other side of the stove.

  Soon the fire was burning cheerfully and they had supped inadequately on the contents of the barrel. At least refreshed, they sat back to consider their situation.

  Elizabeth was the first to speak.

  “Moran is, I assume, one of Moriarty’s lieutenants of whom you spoke?”

  “The most dangerous one.” Holmes frowned. “I confess I was surprised by his appearance but I should have foreseen Moriarty would take steps to ensure he had some assistance. I suspect Moriarty contrived to have Moran released from prison very shortly after he was taken.”

  “Just Moran, or would he attempt to release all his lieutenants?” Elizabeth asked. “Do we have to deal with more than one?”

  Holmes weighed the facts. “I know Moriarty lacked time. That is why I hadn’t planned on Moran’s presence. Consider this: Moriarty was following us, avoiding the police at the same time, attempting to warn his gang of criminals of the imminent trouble I had brewing and yet he still managed to have his head henchman released from gaol.” Holmes frowned. “If he could manage that, he could manage it twice. But not, I think, more than twice.” He thought silently for a moment, then nodded.
“Yes, that is what I would do in the same circumstances. Free two of my men to assist me.”

  Elizabeth, following this fragmented answer, said: “Moran is one. Who is the other?”

  “In all probability, Mr. Straker. He is as capable of working on his own as Moran. Also, he works well with Moran.”

  “What does he look like? How will I know him, if I see him?”

  “Straker is very easy to identify.” Holmes held up his hand. “His hand is missing. Straker was once a failed thief in on the east coast of the Mediterranean.”

  “Failed?”

  “In that part of the world, a thief who is caught loses his hand. The first time.”

  “And the second time he is caught?”

  “The other hand,” Holmes replied. “I do not know what the punishment is for a third offence. I doubt a third offence often occurs.”

  Elizabeth shuddered. “And Moran?”

  “Colonel Sebastian Moran, formerly of the First Bengalore Pioneers. It is unfortunate we have him stalking us. Moran is one of the best hunters in Europe—he has written books on the subject. He is a good practical soldier and a superb gamesman and strategist.”

  “He sounds formidable.”

  “He is. But he has flaws. One of those is a vile temper that he cannot quite control and which distorts his judgment at times when speed of thought and reaction is necessary. It is that which has put him in trouble throughout most of his career.”

  Holmes reached for his cigarette case, then remembered where he had left it. Instead he delved into a pocket and brought out a single crumpled cigarette. He lit it before continuing with his lecture.

  “Despite that, Moran will be the leader no matter who the other man is. It is Moran whom we should now consider our opponent.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke. “We should deem ourselves lucky on one point, however. Moran didn’t have time or opportunity to retrieve his airgun.”

  Holmes went on to explain to Elizabeth the power and stealth of this remarkable weapon and the danger it represented when wielded in Moran’s hands.

  “The man is a crack shot and if he’d had with him his airgun this evening, he could have easily picked us off one by one whilst we lay on that ledge and saved himself considerable effort and frustration. I am glad we do not have to contend with it for Moran will not abandon the chase to go back for it. If we run into him in the future we must be cautious.”

  “And the immediate future?” Elizabeth asked.

  Holmes waved toward the bunk. “Sleep for you, rest for me. In the morning we must continue across country. Beyond that, I will have to decide. For now, we must play hare and outwit the most dangerous hound in Europe.”

  • Chapter Five •

  _________________________

  •ï¡÷¡ï•

  THEY SPENT THE next week racing across the rugged Alpine country of southern Switzerland. Elizabeth would always remember it as an encapsulated period of time with a distinct beginning and end—but in between, time grew flexible. Sometimes it seemed to pass quickly and at other times it was drawn out immeasurably.

  The constants were the countryside, the veiled pursuit and Sherlock Holmes.

  Holmes was her often silent companion and guide. His stride was tireless and his strength of purpose unwavering. His concentration never waned and her respect for Moran’s hunting skills grew as she witnessed Holmes’ unceasing caution. He never stopped planning or devising new strategies. Whether they were sheltering on the lee side of a tree through a shower of rain, or standing on the edge of a cliff or river bank, Holmes was scanning their surroundings, trying to outguess and outmaneuver the man he now called the most dangerous man in Europe.

  Elizabeth had woken on that first morning in the hut and found herself stiff, sore and still weary. Her sleep had not been an easy one.

  Holmes had reached several decisions during his night vigil and he shared them with her as they prepared to continue their march.

  “I intended that you would return to England once the deception had been established, but Moran knows we are both alive so I cannot send you back. You are now inextricably involved and as long as Moran roams the earth you are in danger.

  “We must continue. I have decided we should head for Italy. Last night we covered nearly ten miles and that was in a southerly direction, so we are moving toward the Italian border already. I am almost sure Moran will expect us to go west, toward England and the familiarity of France.” He stood, and looked at her. “Are you ready to leave?”

  They moved fairly rapidly across the countryside, for neither was burdened with any sort of luggage. Holmes avoided any population centers larger than the smallest of villages, working his way around sizeable towns with painstaking caution.

  It was necessary to enter some of the small villages to plumb the local knowledge of the terrain, for Holmes was attempting to navigate across the shoulders of the Alps without a guide and it was essential they know which were the safest mountain passes to use.

  On the occasions when they were in need of food, Holmes would leave Elizabeth safely hidden and approach isolated farmhouses and chalets and purchase their requirements with the last of the funds he carried with him.

  Shelter was whatever derelict building, empty barn or ruin they found toward sunset. Once, it was the lee side of a ravine, high up on a lonely mountain pass, with the calling of wolves for fellowship.

  Their companionship wrought changes on them both. Holmes began as taciturn and reserved as Elizabeth had grown to expect. Her womanhood was a barrier. However, he was helped by Elizabeth’s male attire and her determination not to allow her assumed weaknesses headway. At night they would talk spasmodically of inconsequential things. They explored each other’s tastes in music, philosophy, fiction and other trivial matters. Once or twice she actually managed to make Holmes laugh and she was pleased.

  On the third day it occurred to her that despite the pursuit and the hardships they were suffering, Holmes was enjoying himself. They had paused at the crest of a long climb and stared out across the breathtaking vista spread beneath them, while Holmes considered their direction anew. Elizabeth recovered her breath, for they had been maintaining a fast pace for several hours. She watched Holmes casting about, looking across the valleys toward the horizon and studying the countryside. His manner was alert and relaxed and his eyes were keen. The chase was stirring his blood. She recalled my words, then, and understood them.

  On the fifth day, as they traversed another high mountain pass, Holmes put his hands on his hips and took a deep breath. “I believe we will actually make it, now.”

  “You speak as if we’ve achieved some sort of goal,” Elizabeth remarked.

  “We have. We’ve just crossed the Italian border. Moran will be hard pressed to track us here. We’ve seen no sign of him for four days and we’re well out of his grasp now.” He glanced at Elizabeth’s rumpled attire. “I think we can safely allow you to revert back to a lady and I need to contact Mycroft. He can wire me some money….” He paused. “I won’t make too many plans. If we can reach the outskirts of Varzo tonight, I will be content.”

  Two days later they reached Florence.

  •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•

  Mr. and Mrs. Sigerson, Holmes wrote with a flourish. Elizabeth read it over his shoulder and surreptitiously slid her left hand back into the glove Holmes had purchased for her.

  The porter picked up their single piece of luggage and led them up the sweeping stairs to the best suite in the house. Holmes tipped the porter and inspected the room. “I am going to cable Watson.”

  Elizabeth looked up from her inspection of the contents of the bureau. “Why?” Her voice was a little sharp.

  A faint puzzlement crossed Holmes’ features. “To tell him we’re alive, of course.”

  Elizabeth closed the drawer and moved across to face him. “You can’t, Holmes.”

  “‘Can’t’? Why not?” He looked a little astonished at this dissension.r />
  Elizabeth explained. “You have just spent a week tirelessly establishing to the world at large that you are undoubtedly dead. You brought me along to help the illusion, as you insisted I could not maintain the fabrication had I been left behind. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Holmes, if you do not trust my ability to carry the hoax, how much more can you rely on Watson not to give the game away? He plays cards badly and lying is not part of his nature.” She shook her head a little. “It is entirely possible that his joy in learning you are alive after all may cause some sort of indiscretion which will be your undoing.

  “They will be watching him. Moran knows you are alive somewhere on the continent. Having lost you this time around he will hurry back to London and watch your rooms and keep a very careful eye on Watson so he may learn your location as soon as Watson does. What of those others who wish you dead? Is it not possible that they, too, will watch Watson once the story of your death becomes public to see if it really is true?”

  Holmes looked away and Elizabeth knew she had made her point. She was content with that and let the matter drop. It was never mentioned again and neither of them acknowledged that Holmes had nearly made a bad tactical blunder. His concern for me was implicit and understood and no further discussion was needed, or welcome.

  •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•

  The hour before dinner that evening they spent in the lounge, reading week old newspapers that the ferret-faced desk clerk had rummaged out from underneath the desk after some monetary persuasion from Holmes.

  The story of Holmes’ death had been reported in the major European papers barely two days after the fact and in England the day after that. They read all the accounts available to them with some curiosity and concern.

  “So much for murdering me,” Elizabeth said. “It appears I never existed in the first place.”

  Holmes looked amused. “There does appear to have been a remarkable oversight. I sense Watson’s hand in this.”