Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series) Page 3

  Moriarty and Holmes exchanged words that held the form of politeness, but they were really taking the measure of each other as part of their preparations for the final combat due in three days’ time. From my observations I deduced that I was right to be as uneasy as Moriarty made me feel. Menace radiated from him even though he spoke civilly.

  I also omitted Moriarty’s very last parting words from my account. For he turned at the door and looked back. “There is one other thing we share, Holmes.”

  “Oh?” Holmes replied coolly.

  “Our taste in redheads. She is very beautiful.” He laughed and slipped out the door.

  Holmes’ face held a momentary shock, then his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. I fell back into my chair. “I didn’t believe we would come out of that alive,” I confessed.

  Holmes threw off his dressing gown and reached for his jacket, dropping the revolver into the pocket.

  “Quick, Watson! We haven’t a moment to lose.” He grabbed his coat and rushed out the back door, where he hailed a passing hansom. He rattled out the address as he climbed in and I recognized it immediately;

  “Why, that’s Miss Sigerson’s address!”

  “Exactly,” Holmes agreed. He remained silent for the remainder of the short trip and sprang to the pavement as the cab slowed. “Pay the driver to wait, Watson!” he called over his shoulder.

  I hurriedly dispensed coins and instructions and followed Holmes up the steps into the house. It contained an extraordinary amount of activity for the time of morning. Holmes was asking rapid questions of a matron in dressing gown and night cap, and her answers were shrill.

  “Screaming, hysterical screams and thumps and yells and deep voices,” she was saying. “Then heavy bootsteps on the stairs and muffled noises. I just froze to my bed.”

  Holmes turned to me. “Get the police, Watson, if someone hasn’t already.” He turned toward the stairs and climbed rapidly.

  I in turn looked at the matron.

  “We have already sent for the police,” she said primly.

  I followed Holmes up the staircase. On the first floor a door stood ajar. Holmes had placed himself in the middle of the room it served and was carefully observing the furniture.

  “We’re too late, Watson,” he said softly.

  “I don’t understand, Holmes. Miss Sigerson said she was no longer in trouble.”

  “Moriarty,” Holmes replied shortly. He straightened from his examination of the bed and picked up an envelope on the bureau. It was addressed to him. Rapidly opening and reading it, he gave a snort of disgust, crumpled the note up and threw it on the floor. I picked it up and smoothed it out.

  I doubt this note is necessary, but I will trouble myself with explaining the obvious to ensure the situation is perfectly clear. If you insist on continuing with your plans, Miss Sigerson will be delivered to your door—one piece at a time.

  Moriarty

  • Chapter Two •

  _________________________

  •ï¡÷¡ï•

  I READ THE note once more, appalled. “Holmes, we’ve got to get her from him.”

  “Possibly,” Holmes said absently, examining the carpet.

  I felt myself spluttering indignantly. “We must!”

  Holmes straightened and placed his lens back in his pocket. “There is no point rushing in heroically until we have established that Miss Sigerson needs saving.”

  I was still puzzled and he added patiently, “It could be a bluff, Watson.”

  “You mean, she is a part of Moriarty’s gang?”

  “It would certainly explain some of the mystery surrounding her, wouldn’t it?”

  I considered the matter. “I find it hard to believe,” I admitted.

  “That is because you have been charmed by her looks.” Holmes glanced around the room once more, then closed and locked the door. “I could be wrong about her. I will put the Baker Street Irregulars onto it. I certainly cannot move about the city freely and they will soon discover where she is.”

  Our return to Baker Street was uneventful and the wait long and tedious. As Holmes had pointed out, there was little he could actively do. He had put in motion the only avenues of inquiry open to him and any public movement by him would threaten both his life and Elizabeth’s.

  “I cannot jeopardize the plans, Watson. Three more days is all I need.”

  Finally, about two o’clock that afternoon, one of the leaders of Holmes’ squad of street urchins appeared in our doorway. He tipped his hat at Holmes. “Guv.” He handed Holmes a scrap of paper and Holmes dug into his pocket and extracted several coins. The boy accepted them and scampered from the room.

  I pushed my notes aside as Holmes read the scrap.

  “A warehouse, dockside. Appropriate enough,” he said briefly. “The boys were attracted by a woman’s screams for help.”

  I felt the beginnings of horror. “Holmes, surely that must tell you she is innocent.”

  “I refuse to speculate where Moriarty is concerned. I will accept only facts. Let us go and observe.”

  Forty minutes later we found ourselves scaling a large expanse of roof shingles. Our object was a skylight that Holmes had spied on his first inspection of the front of the warehouse we had been directed to. His initial intention was to scout the top floor of the building the skylight served and if unoccupied, to enter, and use this indirect approach to the warehouse next door.

  I lagged somewhat behind on account of my leg and Holmes reached the skylight and peered through the glass before me. He pulled back instantly as though the glass had been hot and waved me to silence and caution. I approached him over the final feet of shingle very carefully.

  “The Irregulars seem to have made a mistake concerning which building Moriarty is in control of,” he said quietly, “Unless he has both. Look – very carefully, Watson.”

  I peered into the skylight cautiously. Almost immediately below me was what appeared to be an empty room, dusty and disused, the floorboards dark with age and possibly discolored with oil. There were outlines here and there that seemed to suggest machinery. The machines had all gone and the only furniture in the room was a low divan. Elizabeth lay on the divan, resting on her side.

  I pulled back carefully. “We appear to be in luck,” I commented quietly.

  “It seems a little too easy,” Holmes replied, looking about the roof.

  I felt a tiny flame of irritation. “Oh come, Holmes. You’re really carrying this a bit far. You are entitled to a piece of luck every now and again.”

  He smiled at my irritation. “I will keep that in mind.”

  I took another long look through the window. “She is either asleep or unconscious.”

  “Asleep,” Holmes said shortly. “I imagine she is sleeping off the effects of the concussion she received from the blow to her head.” He was busy uncoiling rope from around his waist. “Did you notice the bruise on her forehead? Or the handcuffs? Or the guard by the door?”

  I hadn’t and looked through the pane yet again, confirming Holmes’ observations.

  “It appears she has been caught up in this adventure against her will,” Holmes continued. “Moriarty may have read more into our relationship than was there, but her innocence ensures I am as tied as Moriarty intended. So we must save her as you wished, Watson.” He loosened the final twist and piled the rope onto the roof. “Are you comfortable?”

  “Comfortable enough.”

  “Good. We may be here until nightfall. If you would be so good as to check through the skylight regularly and let me know when she wakes?” He settled himself full length against the pitch of the roof and closed his eyes. I suspect it was the only uninterrupted sleep he’d had for the last few days. Only Holmes could manage to relax so completely, right in the very heart of his enemy’s lair.

  Just on sunset, I saw Elizabeth begin to stir. I pushed at Holmes with my foot to wake him and we both watched her rouse from sleep.

  Holmes looked about him again. “The
re is nothing we can use for a lever or pivot,” he said. “Unfortunate. Still, I don’t believe Miss Sigerson will prove to be an impossible weight.” He coiled the rope carefully. “We cannot open the skylight until the last moment, for the change of air pressure will alert the guard. On my word, Watson, I want you to lift the frame open as fast as you can and then wait until I have hauled the rope up. You will help Miss Sigerson out.”

  “Do you think she will understand what is required of her?”

  “I have no doubt she will. Ready? Now!”

  I hauled the skylight open, throwing back the pane. Holmes tossed the rope down into the gap and settled himself into a stance that would give him maximum purchase on the shingles, the rope in his hands.

  I peered into the room. The rope had landed right in front of Elizabeth and she glanced up quickly. I waved her on encouragingly and she lifted her cuffed hands and caught the rope between them. “Now,” I told Holmes, but he was already hauling on the rope, hand over hand, his eyes glittering with concentration and his jaw clenched with effort.

  I watched Elizabeth’s ascent anxiously. The guard was racing toward her and she was barely out of his reach. However, Elizabeth remained clear-headed enough to wait until he was within range, then she kicked out with her boot and caught him a well-calculated and powerful blow in the face. It was enough to keep him occupied with his own miseries for the few seconds she needed to be drawn high out of his grasp.

  When her hands reached the lip of the skylight Holmes stopped hauling and by the expedient of reaching down and grasping her waist in one arm, I managed to lift her up onto the roof. She lay full length, her eyes closed and I could well imagine the fear and relief mixing in her blood.

  Holmes dropped the rope and crouched beside her. With one of his fine metal instruments he unlocked the cuffs about her wrists. “How bad is your concussion, Miss Sigerson?” he asked.

  Elizabeth sat up, rubbing her wrists. “For goodness’ sake, call me Elizabeth. Miss Sigerson is such an awkward mouthful.” She was smiling.

  Holmes looked at me inquiringly.

  “Very mild, I’d say,” I judged quickly, studying her eyes. “She is coherent enough.”

  Holmes looked amused. “Very well…Elizabeth. We must hurry.”

  •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•

  We reached my consulting rooms two hours later, after completing a tortuous route to throw off any pursuers. Our escape from the roof of the warehouse had been dogged by several guards, whom we fought off before escaping into the alleys and subways of the London dockside. Holmes’ familiarity with the myriad little ways and paths was our saving, I believe. The trouble we had reaching safety did quell Holmes’ concern that the rescue had been suspiciously easy.

  I locked the door behind me and sat Elizabeth in a chair to examine her injuries. There was some bruising about a small cut on her forehead. “Did it bleed much?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “It knocked me unconscious. When I came to, somebody had already dressed it.”

  “So you were unconscious for a while,” I concluded.

  She nodded. “They attacked me outside my room last night. That’s not when I received this—” and she touched her temple. “I tried to raise as much noise as I could, but they held a rag to my face. It smelt…would that have been chloroform?”

  Both Holmes and I nodded.

  “When I woke I was quite ill and I found myself in that room in which you found me. My hands were cuffed. There were two guards, who took turns watching me. I could hear traffic somewhere nearby and decided I would attempt to draw attention to myself again. I began shouting and calling for help.” She looked up at Holmes. “I am aware of what you call your Baker Street Irregulars. Is that how you found me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then this blow has been worth the pain.”

  “The guards hit you?” I asked, appalled.

  “To keep me quiet, yes.” She smiled at my expression. “They warned me several times to stay silent, but I persisted.”

  I reached for my medical bag. “I have something for the headache. How do you feel, otherwise?”

  “I don’t feel either weak or ill, now. The fresh air and the exercise have done me the world of good.”

  I turned to Holmes. “Let me look at your hand, Holmes.”

  “It is nothing,” he said absently, examining the broken skin about his knuckles briefly before sliding his hand into his pocket. He was leaning against my tall bureau, frowning. “Perhaps you will explain to Elizabeth the events she has become involved in while I consider our next move?”

  I nodded and proceeded to give her the facts as Holmes had related them to me. She listened quietly and without interruption, her eyes on my face. Finally, she turned to Holmes and said soberly; “I appear to have been a nuisance to you, Mr. Holmes. I do hope I haven’t spoiled your plans?”

  “Not now we have retrieved you. Did you see Moriarty at all?”

  “I saw no-one that resembled Watson’s description. I believe I was being held by employees. It puzzled me, the attack, for I could fathom no reason for it, but now I understand.”

  “You are both going to have to travel with me,” Holmes said, his mind apparently settled. “Moriarty has introduced a new twist to the match and I haven’t the time to shore up my defense. Everything I have planned will come to fruition in three days’ time, so for three days I must keep myself and both of you out of harm’s way. We must leave England.”

  “Just like that?” I queried.

  “Do you wish to die?” Holmes asked me harshly. “For obvious reasons I cannot leave Elizabeth here. For those same reasons I will not leave you behind. Come, Watson, you’re always looking for adventure. Here is one for you, filled with genuine danger and difficulty.”

  “Well, of course I will come,” I replied. “If only to keep your neck firmly attached to your shoulders.”

  “Thank you,” he said. He turned to Elizabeth. “I am afraid I must insist, Elizabeth. For your own safety.”

  “I concur,” she agreed simply. I was delighted to see Holmes’ disconcerted expression. He had not expected such a commonsense response. “When are we to leave?”

  Holmes outlined his plan.

  •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•

  The next day at dawn, we began to execute our individual roles in Holmes’ carefully coordinated escape from London. My own part I have already related elsewhere and I have indicated Holmes’ task. Elizabeth was warned not to return to her room, which she had readily agreed upon. Both Holmes and I were puzzling on how to protect her for the rest of the night when she said simply; “Provide me with ten pounds and I will look after myself. It is clear we cannot remain together. I will meet you tomorrow on the train.”

  Holmes gave her the funds without demur and she bid us goodnight before slipping from the room and disappearing through the tradesmen’s entrance at the back of my house. That was the last I saw of her until I arrived breathlessly at Victoria Station the next morning. I had just tussled with an Italian priest who had insisted on my services as translator and was heading for the train when I collided with a Sister of Mercy. The thought occurred to me that I was beset by the church when I focused on the startling green eyes beneath the wimple. “Elizabeth?” I breathed softly.

  She nodded a little and picked up her carpet bag again. “Let me help you, Sister,” I said more loudly for the benefit of eavesdroppers. I assisted her onto the train. “I didn’t know you,” I said quietly as we made our way to our compartment.

  “It was the only way I could think of to disguise my hair. Holmes hasn’t arrived?”

  “No.” I made a small sound of annoyance as we reached the compartment, for the Italian priest was sitting quietly on the seat, his cane between his knees. “I have just had the most infuriating conversation with that silly priest. I don’t speak a word of Italian.”

  Elizabeth put her fingers to her lips, suppressi
ng a smile. “Oh,” she murmured simply, examining the priest through the glass.

  I strode into the compartment and attempted to explain to the man that he was in the wrong seat. I found both my voice and my temper rising. After a moment, Elizabeth put a calming hand on my arm. “Leave him. He seems harmless enough.”

  I threw myself into a seat. “Where’s Holmes? That is what I want to know.”

  Elizabeth sat opposite me, next to the priest. “I have no doubt he will be on the train in time. Relax, Watson.”

  I continued to watch anxiously through the window, growing steadily more anxious with each passing moment.

  “Well, Watson, aren’t you going to greet me hello?” Holmes’ voice asked me, to my utter amazement. I jerked my head back to look at the priest. “My god!” I breathed, as the face filled out into the familiar lines and planes of my friend.

  Elizabeth laughed softly. “I told you, didn’t I?”

  Holmes turned to her, his face sinking back into the aged creases of the priest. “What gave me away?”

  “You knew?” I asked of her.

  She pointed to the hands resting on the walking stick. “You made a casual movement with your hands when we walked in and moved them into a position that looks quite awkward. It could only have been to disguise your knuckles, which you shredded last night.”

  “I am impressed,” I said.

  “Moriarty does not know of my knuckles, so if that is all that gave me away I am safe. For the moment. Now, I suggest we behave like strangers, at least until the train departs.”

  Obediently, we studiously ignored each other until the train had pulled away from the station, when Holmes rose and shed his priestly garments and became once more the familiar figure I knew. He relaxed back into the seat. “I am glad to see you both made it through. Did Mycroft say anything to you, Watson?”

  “Mycroft?” I repeated blankly.