Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series)

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  This was a revelation of a part of Elizabeth’s life completely unsuspected by me, and I was intrigued by the new glimpses into her character it gave me.

  “Did Miss Elizabeth visit you regularly?”

  Elizabeth nodded. “As often as she could, whenever she wasn’t working with Mr. Holmes. She was virtually a governess to us both, especially after Mother died.” She pushed the tea cup towards me. “Could you take that to Henry? He is on the roof. You can reach it by going back along the corridor of the room you slept in and climbing the next flight of steps. The landing at the top leads directly to the roof.”

  I took the cup of tea and followed Elizabeth’s directions and in short order found myself on the flat pitch roof of the house.

  As I stepped carefully across the roof, juggling the hot tea, Wiggins’ voice reached me. “Doctor Watson. You’re just in time to relieve me.”

  “Relieve you?” I asked, as I rounded the corner.

  Wiggins sat upon the metal case of a roof vent, made comfortable with the addition of a thin cushion, his legs stretched out in front of him.

  In his hands was an extended brass telescope—a powerful instrument by the size of its lenses, I judged. At that moment it rested along his legs, but it was obvious he had been using it to gaze upon the available view.

  I turned to look at the view myself.

  Spread beneath us, reaching over to the river and expanding up and down its length, was a squalid, crowded urban cesspit. Roofs coated with moss and dirt from the streets presented themselves to my gaze, huddled together in shared misery, concealing the narrow streets that wove between them and concealing, too, the pitiful humanity that lived, worked and died down there.

  And perched at the river’s edge was the equally dismal dockyards of Surrey and the Isle of Dogs.

  “I grew up down there,” Wiggins said off-handedly. Then he must have recognized some expression on my face, for he laughed heartily. “Yes, Doctor, you are right in thinking that the work I did for Mr. Holmes was possibly the only ‘onest money I ever earned.” He stood. “Life ‘as an ‘abit of changing ‘orses on you, which is why it is your turn on the lookout. I’ve got to go to work. Is that my Jenny Lea?”

  We swapped items and as Wiggins sipped his tea, I examined the telescope. It was a beautiful instrument.

  “There’s no sign of any new ships, but that don’t surprise me none,” Wiggins continued. “Any ships under wind power would wait for the tide to ‘elp ‘em up-river.”

  I lifted the telescope and looked out toward the river. It leapt close under the power of the lenses and I examined the clear details of a handful of docked vessels. None were the Andhra, of course.

  “You sound as if you know where Holmes is,” I commented, lowering the telescope.

  “Gone to find out about the ship, of course.”

  “At four o’clock in the morning?”

  “Mr. ‘olmes keeps ‘is own council. I just do as ‘e asks. It’s little enough. ‘e vouched for me when I applied for this position, you see.”

  “And Miss Elizabeth gave you elocution lessons and taught you to read and write.”

  “And my arithmetic,” Wiggins replied, unabashed. “Before that I could steal and spend two bob, but I didn’t ‘ave a clue ‘ow to add them together.” He took another sip of his tea and then spoke with perfect diction, his vowels an eerie echo of Elizabeth’s mellow tones. “Now I have a chance to do something with my life because I conform to the stereotype of a successful businessman. Only this way will I ever beat them at their own game.”

  I looked him up and down. He was dressed in a city business suit and when using his “proper” voice, he did indeed look like a typical young clerk with good prospects. His plans had the hallmarks of Elizabeth’s original mind and mischievous sense of humor.

  “Why did she do it?” I thought, unaware that I had spoken aloud until Wiggins answered, frowning.

  “I don’t know. I occasionally wonder why she bothers at all. Sometimes, when we were being lazy or stubborn, Miss Elizabeth would get so hopping mad at us and lecture us about missed opportunities and the freedom to choose what we wanted to do….”

  “Ah….” I breathed, for the answer had perhaps just registered its presence to me. Elizabeth had given a similar explanation to me, not all that long ago.

  Wiggins shrugged. “Mostly, I think she likes us. And I know she liked my mother immensely. After she died, Miss Elizabeth more or less adopted little Elizabeth. She intervened with the child welfare officers, I know, although she never told me that, and arranged for us two to stay here together.”

  “Yours sister is named for Miss Elizabeth, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have known Elizabeth that long?”

  “Mr. Holmes brought Elizabeth here after they had returned from the continent, and she stayed with us while he sorted out Moran.” Wiggins drained his cup. “I must dash. I’m supposed to start early today. See y’, Guv.” He grinned cheerfully and strode off across the roof, carrying his teacup, moving back to the roof access door.

  I appropriated the cushion Wiggins had left behind and settled down with the expectation of a long, uneventful vigil. I was pleased to have some solitude with which to puzzle over all I had learnt since arising.

  I basked under the pleasant early morning sunshine, and occasionally scanned the distant docks and incoming ships with the telescope, while I carried out my long-ingrained habit of noting down the facts and events that had occurred since my leaving Baker Street.

  Young Elizabeth appeared an hour or so later, with some sandwiches for my breakfast.

  Wiggins had surmised that the Andhra would wait for the tide, so I relaxed and enjoyed the peacefulness, aware that Holmes’ reappearance would signal the end of inactivity.

  So I was much startled and perturbed when my sweeping examination of the docks revealed a small, old-fashioned sail ship making slow progress upriver, aided by a tug and favorable winds against the almost-slack tide. It was nearly noon and the summer sun was dazzling against the water. I had difficulty in making out the name. It wasn’t until she was tying up at the docks and lowering sail, which conveniently shaded the bows long enough for me to pick out the lettering, that I could confirm that she was, indeed, the Andhra we had been expecting.

  Andhra’s Pride was battered and a fast ship despite her wind-powered limitations. She was also a ship very much in a hurry, for almost immediately the ropes were secured, men scurried over her, beginning the unloading process.

  That haste put me in a quandary. Holmes had not returned and Wiggins was away. What was I to do?

  Troubled, I climbed back down to the lower level of the house, searching for Elizabeth. The kitchen and all the public rooms I peered into were empty. I stood in the hall and listened with straining ears for noise of another occupant. The house was silent about me.

  I tried calling, but it produced nothing.

  Aware that no time must be lost in alerting Holmes, yet sensible to the need for stealth and observation, I frankly dithered—torn by my conflicting duties. Holmes had impressed upon me often enough my affinity for choosing the wrong course of action. Conscious of my procrastination, however, I forced myself to consider the priorities and make a decision.

  Hastily I tore out a page from my notebook and scribbled a somewhat cryptic note that I hoped would be decipherable only to Holmes or young Elizabeth, informing them that Andhra’s Pride had docked, and that I was going to the docks to observe from a closer post and in that way be close enough to take appropriate action should the circumstances dictate it.

  It was the best I thought I could do. No doubt Holmes would disagree, but for the moment I had to work alone. I dropped the note onto the work table in the kitchen, and left the house, closing and latching the door behind me.

  •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•

  Closer inspection proved that the Andhra’s captain was indeed a man in a hurry. Activity in the vicinit
y of the wharf was frantic.

  I found a station from which to observe, behind the inevitable pile of discarded, broken packing crates and debris that seems to litter all docks more or less permanently. During my journey down to the riverside, it appeared nothing more remarkable than cargo unloading had occurred.

  The captain was overseeing the work himself. He stood upon the observation deck and encouraged the workers to better speed with curses, jeers, and sarcasm. He had the dark skin of a coastal Indian, although his clothing was quite westernized and he wore no turban. He was speaking, I guessed, an Indian dialect, for most of the dock workers were ethnic Indians themselves, to judge by the number of turbans and sweat-soaked cotton trousers and shirts. Occasionally the captain interspersed his curses with English variants for the benefit of the handful of non-Indian navvies.

  The cargo being unloaded appeared to be mostly tea. The unmistakable tea chests were being manhandled without benefit of crane or tackle, which was already in use barely twenty yards away, where the new cargo sat. It was an untidy mountain of rough pine boxes of an odd assortment of sizes and dimensions. There were no commercial markings that I could discern through my two inch wide view of the activities. The block and tackle was being used to unload what was possibly the last wagon load of the cargo, two or three large and seemingly heavy crates.

  The captain was using his own crew exclusively to handle the new cargo, for none of the local workers were allowed near it. I saw two fellows with initiative turned back when they approached with offers of help. It seemed an inefficient use of resources to me, especially if the Captain was as pressed for time as he appeared to be. With the help of the dock workers they could have the new cargo loaded in half the time.

  Nearly two hours later, an officer—probably the Captains’ second, if the number of strips on his sleeve was a truthful guide—arrived. He was a tall fellow, but thin as a rake, white and weedy. He was accompanied by another of the infinite number of tea chests, this one perched on a trolley being pushed by one of the crew. I judged the chest was the second officer’s version of a sea chest, for I saw no other sign of baggage.

  He was greeted with a hail from the captain, who hurried down onto the deck to greet the officer as he reached the top of the gangplank. They shook hands, speaking quietly, while the tea chest was bumped up on board, when the captain gave directions to the crewman, who disappeared below with it.

  Both turned to view the cargo handling. Progress was apparently not to the second officer’s satisfaction either, for a scowl rapidly settled on his features, under the shadow of his peaked cap. He discussed it with the Captain.

  Shortly the captain gave a shouted command and several of the senior crew members working on the new cargo rounded up a number of the dock workers—who had just begun to slow their pace as the last of the tea chests were unloaded—and took them over to the new cargo.

  In a short time, the eclectic pile of crates began to disappear up the plank and into the ship.

  I had very vague and general ideas about cargo handling gleaned from my short time travelling whilst in the army, but I had a feeling that the speed at which this ship had been unloaded and shortly would be fully loaded again was nothing short of miraculous. The dock workers must have been recruited with the promise of very generous bonuses to extract such efficient work from them.

  The speed was deepening my predicament. If Holmes did not appear, or I had some other sign of impending action before the cargo was fully loaded, I would be forced to act on my own to stop the ship from leaving. Just how I would go about managing that, I had no idea at the time. I had some vague notion, I recall, of marching up the gangplank and pulling out my pistol and holding the captain at bay until help arrived.

  Another problem was gnawing at my mind. Where was Moran? This was the ship upon which he was going to make his escape from England and it had every appearance of casting off and leaving as soon as the cargo was below decks. Would Moran, like Holmes, miss its departure? Or was he already below decks, having stolen aboard whilst I was making my way to the waterside?

  And where was Holmes?

  My vigil was disturbed by footsteps crunching in the dry grass that lay between me and the warehouses behind me. Startled, I turned, expecting to find either Holmes or Wiggins, or perhaps Gregson or Lestrade had arrived. Instead, the captain and two hefty-looking crew members moved to surround me where I perched on an upturned crate.

  “Would you be so good as to accompany me aboard, good sir?” the captain asked, in adequate English.

  Dismay flooded me. In my preoccupation over Holmes’ absence, I had lost concentration and missed seeing the captain had left his deck, and now I was truly in a bind.

  I raised my hand to my forehead to shield my eyes against the lengthening sun. “What on earth for?” I asked, pretending bewilderment and a little belligerence. The thought occurred to me that perhaps my discovery would delay the ship’s departure a little, whilst the captain attempted to deal with me. It would lengthen matters if I were as uncooperative as possible.

  “You have been spying on my ship, sir, for most of the afternoon. I wish to invite you aboard to discuss your reasons for this conduct.”

  “Spying? Me? Now look, sir, that is preposterous. Why on earth would I wish to spy on a little boat?”

  “That is what I and my second officer would like to know,” the captain replied quietly, not at all moved by my bluster.

  “That’s damned silly. I have just been sitting here, minding my own business and enjoying the sunshine. This isn’t a private dock. I am free to come and go as I please.”

  “Yes, I am aware that this is a public dock,” the captain said. His tone suggested that the fact was most inconvenient to him. “However, it is quite obvious that you have been watching my ship very carefully. You were sighted not long after we arrived and have been monitored all this afternoon. For a member of the general public you have a singularly deep interest in my ‘little boat’. Please, come aboard and let us talk about it.”

  “I can’t, I am afraid. I have, in fact, an appointment elsewhere.” I pulled out my watch. “In fact I am already late—fell asleep in the sun—stupid of me, I know.”

  The captain remained entirely unmoved by my reply. Stoically he repeated; “Please accompanying me on board, sir.”

  “No.”

  He sighed and waved a hand toward the crewman who stood closest to me. “Then, I am afraid my man here will have to shoot you.”

  • Chapter Fourteen •

  _________________________

  •ï¡÷¡ï•

  FORCED BY THE threat of bodily harm, I left my perch on the packing crate, and allowed myself to be led across the dock and up the gangplank of the ship, the captain and his armed crewman close behind me.

  The second officer was on the main deck, watching the loading. He turned as we approached and his face sagged when he saw me. He let out a curse.

  “A stranger, you said, Sarawan!” he snarled at the captain.

  The voice told me what my eyes had not seen. Ten years in prison had not smoothed Moran’s tones. It had only deprived him of the flesh of easy living and sucked the mark of an outdoors-man from his skin. The excess skin lay in folds and creases about his frame, prematurely aging him. But the eyes were unchanged. They held the same hatred and venom I’d last seen in the empty house over a decade earlier.

  The captain was puzzled. “So he is.”

  “He is only Sherlock Holmes’ right hand man, by Christ!” Moran snarled. He looked at me. “The years have treated you kindly, Dr. Watson. As you can see, they have done very little for me.”

  “One of the side benefits of being a criminal, I would suppose,” I remarked.

  “Where is Sherlock Holmes?” he asked abruptly.

  “I don’t know,” I replied, truthfully and without hesitation.

  Moran chuckled. “Yes, I expected that answer, or one similar. You’re not going to force me to apply the tedious proces
s of torture and question, are you Doctor?”

  “That’s not necessary. I am telling the truth. I don’t know.”

  Sarawan, the captain, spoke up. “He may not, Colonel. He’s been here all afternoon, alone.”

  “It will be easy enough to find out,” Moran murmured, studying me. “It is not very complex information I am looking for, so I do not have to be careful how I go about extracting it. I can apply whatever messy and expendable process I believe will give me the answer soonest.”

  “My answer would remain the same.”

  “I beg to disagree, Doctor. With your medical knowledge, you should know the physiological effects sudden and overwhelming pain can have on a body. Now, if we were to apply mental pressure at the same time….” He looked me up and down thoughtfully. “As a doctor, you depend upon the use of your hands as an aid to diagnosis, and also as a writer of your damnable chronicles, too. What if we were, say, to cut off your right index finger and thumb? Or are you left handed? We could cut off both, perhaps. Have you ever tried to cope without that opposable digit, doctor? It is simply impossible to lift anything. Imagine going through life trying to cope without being able to pick things up. Your clothes, your food, your pen….”

  The grisly discussion was quite disturbing in that scurrying, mercantile atmosphere. I controlled the shiver it gave me and tried to maintain my steady gaze. I remained silent. Moran would never believe I truly did not know where Holmes was, and it possibly would delay the ship’s departure even longer if I could let him think he might get a different answer with a little more effort.

  But Sarawan was more concerned about his ship.

  “Colonel, the cargo,” he interrupted quietly. “We cannot afford to delay.”

  “This is more important, Sarawan. Take the doctor to my cabin.”

  “But the arms!”

  “Damn it, Sarawan, if Sherlock Holmes has plans to stop me leaving on this ship, then your revolution is going to go without its guns, too. Think on that. And take Watson below.”