Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series)

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  Finally, Moran had betrayed her, too. He had carefully hidden from her his plans for revenge. Elizabeth’s abduction was explained away as necessary and Moran had promised fervently she would be returned, unharmed, once he had left British waters.

  Now we were back at Baker Street.

  Lestrade, Gregson and Mycroft sat in the sitting room, considering Holmes’ words for a moment.

  “We know she left the hostel,” Holmes continued, from his position by the hearth. “For the room Moran had occupied was quite empty when Watson and I searched it and your investigation and search this afternoon would have uncovered her if they had merely moved her to another room.”

  Gregson spoke up. “My inspectors interviewed Sikmah thoroughly. He swears he doesn’t know where she is. I have to believe him.”

  Holmes nodded. “He wanted Moran to move her out of his hostel. He was very anxious to disassociate himself from the abduction. I think we can believe him. He says Moran removed her early on Thursday evening, in the tea chest. My sentries confirmed that a tea chest left the hostel on the Thursday in the company of an Indian woman in native dress who left from the kitchen door.”

  “Moran in disguise?” Lestrade hazarded.

  “Undoubtedly. News of Watson’s disappearance panicked him completely. He assumed—correctly—that I was on to him and watching him, and took steps to escape undetected, almost as soon as the news filtered through.”

  Mycroft tapped his cane head. “So we know she left the hostel in the chest. We also know she wasn’t brought aboard the ship. Moran’s sister swears in one breath that she is alive and in the next recants and states she is dead. She is of no help. We must find her ourselves.”

  •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•

  When writing up Holmes’ cases for The Strand I would try to pick those that displayed Holmes’ unique, extraordinary powers of detection, or otherwise had strange or novel circumstances. Above all, I attempted to choose cases which came to successful, or at least definite, conclusions. There were exceptions to this habit, but they had overriding merits of their own.

  In putting down the final act of Elizabeth’s story, I am aware that it would serve poorly indeed as material for The Strand. For despite all Holmes’ skills, he could not discover what had become of Elizabeth and the circumstances, far from being strange or novel, were depressingly grim. Too, there is no neat finish to this tale, but then, that is my fault.

  There are only a few, painful incidents left for me to record. The first occurred several weeks after Moran’s death, as an early sign of autumn was whistling up the streets. I called in at Baker Street, as I had been almost daily, for any possible news of Elizabeth.

  I found the house deserted on the lower floor. Upon climbing the stairs and knocking and entering, I discovered why. The tell-tale bottle sat upon the mantelshelf, and the shelf all around it had been cleared. Peppered upon the wall immediately behind the bottle were the gouges and cracks of plaster that showed where bullets had strayed.

  Holmes sat in the far corner, his revolver dangling from a slack grip as he let his forearm fall from the chair.

  I peered closely at the bottle. It was difficult to tell if the level had dropped for plaster dust covered the glass. “Holmes, you disappoint me,” I said, trying for a light tone that would not reveal how deeply disappointed I really was.

  “Look again, Watson. It hasn’t been touched. Yet,” he added dryly.

  I refrained from examining the bottle again and instead attempted to change the direction of the conversation. “Your aim is appalling.” I gestured towards the halo of chipped plaster about the bottle. “Elizabeth would have cracked the seal with one shot.” Then I winced mentally at my ineptitude.

  Holmes looked at me with an expression that was at once exasperated and hurt. Then, without warning, he lifted the revolver and fired—barely without aim. The bottle shattered, sending liquid and glass fragments to the four winds. A fair proportion splattered my sleeve and jacket. Philosophically, I brushed it away.

  Holmes threw himself up and on to his feet with an impatient flex of his knees. He dropped the gun onto the cushion he had vacated, whirled and stalked to the window. There he stood, silent for several long minutes as he observed the progress of traffic upon the street.

  “I am sorry, Holmes….”

  He shrugged, an elegant, barely seen movement.

  Encouraged, I decided to pursue the issue.

  “Holmes, I crossed paths with Lestrade today—”

  “You waste your time, my friend,” Holmes replied.

  “I do not understand.”

  “I mean you waste your time on a fruitless mission, searching Lestrade out from the midst of those endless corridors at Scotland Yard.”

  “I didn’t say that—”

  “No, not in so many words.” Holmes turned to face me again. “I find your sudden lack of faith in my skills as a detective fascinating. After seventeen years of documenting my cases and publicly applauding my professionalism, you have suddenly taken it into your head that I am wrong. No only am I wrong, but two of the people whose careers I have consistently had to prop up are eminently correct.”

  I could feel my indignation swelling. “It isn’t that at all, Holmes and you know it. I cannot understand your conclusions. Even I am convinced there is a strong possibility Elizabeth is still alive—”

  “Because there is no body,” Holmes replied, his tone acrid.

  “Yes! And the longer you delay your search—”

  “Elizabeth is dead,” Holmes stated emphatically. “In all probability we will never find a body.”

  “You do not know that.”

  “I know!” His face was grim. “I have explained my reasoning to you ad nauseam. I refuse to pander to your imagination any longer, Watson. Do not raise the subject again. Not ever.”

  But I could not leave it alone.

  I found Mycroft at his club the next evening and mentally blessed him for his dependability at this point in time, when it seemed to me that the rest of my world had decayed and was crumbling away.

  He was quite willing to hear me out and listened with the same absorbed concentration that his brother used with clients. He remained silent for long moments after I had finished my hesitant, confused monologue.

  “For a man who has spent nearly twenty years working with my brother, you still remain surprisingly undisciplined in your thinking, Watson. Let me play devil’s advocate and summarize: Elizabeth has disappeared. The evidence shows she is either unable or unwilling to return. If she is unable to return, it is because she is either dead, or physically unable to manage it.

  “Sherlock has determined that she is dead, but you do not believe him. You believe she is still alive and in need of our help.”

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  Mycroft smoked in silence for a second. “Let us discard all the evidence that points towards her death. I am sure Sherlock has demonstrated that proof with exhausting attention to detail.”

  I winced at his description.

  “Yes, I can see that he has. Let us deal, instead, with your hypothesis that she is alive and in need of our help. What proof can you offer?”

  “Very little. That’s why I am here. Sherlock refuses to consider the possibility, and I haven’t his abilities for searching out clues. The major clue is, of course, the lack of a body.”

  “Murderers have been convicted without a body before now,” Mycroft pointed out. “But you have a point. Has there been any sign of her existence since her disappearance?”

  “Beatrice O’Connor swore she was alive.”

  “I believe you must exclude the ravings of vengeful old ladies, Watson. Besides, Beatrice O’Connor was not in a position to know the truth. She was arrested in Scotland and it must have taken her at least twelve hours to get there. Those twelve hours include the vital hours covering Elizabeth’s disappearance.”

  “Well, then, what of the proof that Elizabeth had been in
the tea chest? Why, if Moran had killed her, would he drag proof of her captivity with him onto the ship?”

  “Circular reasoning, Watson. Sherlock argued that it was to fulfill his need for revenge. Moran already knew he’d been seen leaving the hostel and possibly detected. Either she escaped, or he got rid of the body, then took the empty chest along with him to terrorize Sherlock. It doesn’t prove anything else.” Mycroft leaned forward. “And you overlook a fundamental clue, Watson. Elizabeth is clever and resourceful. She has proved on more than one occasion that she can overcome physical pain and discomfort that would immobilize any other man and fight her way back to safety. If, as you fear, she is hurt or injured or otherwise immobilized, why has it taken her so long to solve her problems and reach one of us?”

  I sat, defeated. “Then she is dead.”

  “That is not what I said,” Mycroft replied. “What of the other possibility?”

  “Which other possibility?” I asked dully.

  “That she is unwilling to return.”

  “You do not seriously consider….” I trailed off, confounded.

  “There is considerably more evidence in support of that than your theory, Watson. Take, for example, my argument a moment ago that she is resourceful and clever. She is as capable as Sherlock of seizing an opportunity and shaping it to her purposes. Elizabeth has had practical experience and example from Sherlock himself of how to feign one’s death and assume another identity.”

  “Why did she leave the clue of the ship’s name for us to find then?”

  “Because escape was not a possibility then. Death at Moran’s hand was more likely. Also, she probably wanted to show Sherlock where to find Moran.”

  “And there is no body,” I added, bitterly.

  Mycroft nodded. “And there is one more overwhelming piece of evidence in support of this theory. Sherlock is adamant she is dead. Unyielding to the point of obsession.”

  “How is that proof?”

  “My brother is not altogether witless, Watson. He would have considered this hypothesis himself. Given its validity, one is next forced to consider why Elizabeth might not wish to return. Given the range of possible answers, is it any wonder Sherlock has insisted so stubbornly that she is dead?”

  •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•

  There is no fool like an old fool. My reaction to Mycroft’s theories was, I suspect, similar to Sherlock’s. After that initial period of blank rejection, however, I realized that he had not actually disagreed with me that Elizabeth was alive, but had merely offered another, more feasible explanation for her absence.

  Yet I, the fool, could not leave it there. I unconsciously found myself avoiding Baker Street, while I worried this mystery. Like a dog with a bone and a sore tooth, I was snappy, irritable and barely human.

  I was jolted out of my mood by an entirely unexpected letter from Persia. Sullah’s daughter, Tayisha, now twenty-one and graduated from college, was to be married in London the next spring. Sullah would not be making the journey. Would I, as his representative, give the bride away?

  I grasped at the ideas Sullah’s letter had given me, exactly like a drowning man would grasp at straws, and drew myself out of the morass with the aid of newborn hope.

  I couldn’t leave London without at least notifying Sherlock Holmes, no matter how strained the friendship had become…or that is what I told myself. Accordingly, I found myself at Baker Street one evening.

  Holmes appeared to be completely unmoved by the news of my plans. I had hoped that the reminder of his travels would have stirred him. “Go,” he said irritably. “Go if you must.”

  “I must,” I said firmly. “I know it will upset a number of plans, but I must go. Will you be good enough to notify The Strand for me, Holmes?”

  He sat up a little straighter. “Why?”

  “There are two stories due….” I began to explain, but Holmes waved a languid hand of dismissal.

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” he said. “I will write them.”

  “You?” My voice must have been thick with disbelief, for the look Holmes sent me was hard, yet I thought I saw a glimmer of humor in it, too.

  “Yes, me. What is so extraordinary about that? I’ve always disliked the way you flood the tales with drama, so I will relieve you of the burden and write them as they should be written—as a proper treatise on scientific deduction.”

  “In that case, I bid you goodnight,” I said coolly, picking up my hat and overcoat.

  “Good night,” Holmes answered absently, already turning back to the fire and his pipe.

  That was the last time I ever saw Holmes in the old Baker Street rooms and I was never again to write up any of Holmes’ adventures for The Strand.

  Recklessly, I withdrew all my liquid funds and undertook the long, expensive journey to Mashhad with the minimum of preparation or delay. I was buoyed up by my hopes and delay would have been unbearable. I even forgot to warn Sullah I was coming and was forced to dash off a telegram from Teheran with the time of my arrival in Mashhad. Here I was delayed, somewhat, by the lag of modern technology. I was forced to hire a guide and horses to travel with me to Mashhad, for neither train nor carriage was to be had. I was acquainted with a small portion of my foolishness within five minutes of sitting in the saddle…I hadn’t sat upon a horse since my army days.

  Nevertheless, I persevered, consoled by the thought of comfort upon my arrival.

  On the last day out from Mashhad, we were approached by a number of horsemen and my guide muttered uneasily in his native tongue. “Be cautious,” he added to me.

  I nodded. As was the custom in those parts, we halted and waited for the larger party to pass by. But it slowed as it approached, sending alarm through me. The lead horses were only ten yards away when a shout went up. “Watson! Hello!”

  It was Sullah.

  They had been on the road two days, hoping to intercept me and save me the difficulties of negotiating transit from Mashhad to Sullah’s home. Having found us, the small party of men stopped where they were and set up a fire to boil water for tea. I had developed a liking for the strong minty beverage and I was more than happy to alight and sit for a while.

  All my delight at meeting Sullah faded, however, as I watched him dismount, helped by two strong men. He negotiated his way to the camp stool they had set up for him by my side, his walking sticks taking most of his weight.

  I had failed to hide my dismay.

  “It happens to all of us, eventually, doctor. You should understand that better than I,” Sullah chided me, seating himself slowly and carefully.

  “Yes, but it still affects me when I see it in old friends, especially those I expected to outlast me.”

  Sullah laughed and it was still the same belly-shaking roar.

  “So why have you come so far and at such haste?” he asked.

  “I am replying to your letter in person,” I replied. An appalling consideration had struck me. Did Sullah know about Elizabeth’s disappearance? It was not the sort of news one gave within seconds of greeting the other.

  But Sullah was examining me with his perceptive, wise eyes. So I fell to a half truth. “I needed a holiday, too.”

  •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•

  We were at Sullah’s home before I found the privacy and the moment to break the news, if news it was, to Sullah. He had not mentioned either Holmes or Elizabeth throughout our short journey and I wondered if that was because the majority of his household still believed Holmes was a Norwegian called Sigerson.

  So I held my tongue. On the first day after our arrival, however, I got my chance.

  Sullah found me at sunset, sitting on a flat rock, facing east. “Holmes used to sit there contemplating Tibet from afar.”

  I nodded. “I guessed it was this one.”

  Sullah gathered his sticks in one hand and lowered himself to the rock. “You’re troubled.”

  “I came to talk to you of Elizabeth, Sulla
h. But I do not know how to break the news.”

  He sighed. “There is no need. I know. Tayisha wrote to me.”

  “Is that why you have avoided mentioning their names for two days?”

  “Partly. And I sense, old friend, that they are very much on your mind. If you are truly here for rest, then it would be an unkindness for me to stir the memories.” But I heard a note of query in his tone.

  I had come thousands of miles to explain myself and ask the question that Sullah was giving me the opportunity to ask. Yet it took all my self-will to state it aloud. I hesitated. Finally I jumped in with both feet and bad grammar, letting it tumble out how it would, from the beginning; Beatrice O’Connor, Moran, the child Elizabeth and Wiggins, Elizabeth’s tutelage and admonition of lost opportunities, Holmes’ failure. And finally, my new hopes:

  “She was happiest here—where she had perfect freedom. It was important to her. I suspect, in the end, more important than Holmes was to her. I thought…if she were still alive, she would return here.”

  After a long moment, Sullah said softly; “Perhaps. If she were alive.”

  “Then she hasn’t.”

  Sullah remained silent.

  I studied him. “Your first loyalty is to Elizabeth, of course,” I said slowly.

  “Someone must watch out for her.”

  “I thought I was.”

  Sullah gazed at the ground for a long moment. Finally he spoke softly and with pure kindness. “I believed your loyalty was to Holmes.”

  “It was. It is.”

  “Then why are you here, my friend? Holmes believes her dead. Have his skills deteriorated to the point where you no longer trust him as you once did?”

  I could find no answer to this.

  “What if he needs you? You are here, on a mission which could only bring hurt to both of you, no matter what its outcome. A friend does not do this thing.”

  •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•

  I searched out Sullah tonight after evening prayers and gave him a copy of this chronicle. “You can consider it yours, Sullah,” I explained. “But if ever….”