Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series) Page 4

  “He was the large coachman who drove you here.”

  I shook my head, bewildered.

  “Elizabeth, did you notice anything strange or unusual on your way here?”

  “I don’t believe I was followed. I spent the night at the convent I was raised in and traveled here with a group of nuns. Moriarty couldn’t possibly have traced me.”

  Holmes considered her. “No. I don’t think he would have outguessed your movements.” I heard just the smallest note of amusement in his voice and studied Elizabeth anew. She appeared to have unsuspected talents.

  Holmes lit a cigarette and fell into an introspective silence. Elizabeth, remaining in character, drew out a pocket copy of the Gospel and read quietly. I, having lacked the foresight to bring any reading matter with me, sat back and gazed out of the window at the passing scenes.

  We were nearly to Canterbury when Holmes spoke. “I don’t for a moment suppose Moriarty has missed all three of us. I know he traced one of us as far as Victoria, for I saw him scanning the platform as I came on board and he will guess my plans to leave the country. So we are going to have to abandon our luggage and our comfortable berth and alight at Canterbury.” He gave us his plans to cross the country to Newhaven and then cross the channel to Dieppe, on the French coast.

  “So we are limited to taking only what we can carry ourselves. Elizabeth, can you limit yourself to essentials and a few days’ rough living?”

  She pushed at the carpet bag at her feet. “I only have this bag.” She stood up and tugged at the fastenings of her habit. “Holmes, could you help me? These things are not designed to be cast off quickly.”

  I stared up at her in amazement. “Elizabeth!”

  Holmes smiled at my discomfort and reached up to untie the fastenings at the back of her wimple.

  “Holmes!” I exclaimed, fast becoming horrified and confused.

  Elizabeth quickly shed the long black flowing habit and threw it aside. She stood revealed in men’s trousers, shirt and waistcoat, her hair tightly fastened at the back of her head. I fell back against my seat, lost for words and not a little relieved.

  She opened the carpet bag and pulled out and donned a soft brimmed hat and jacket. I watched in fascination as she adjusted the hat to cover her hair and shade its burnished sheen. “Do I pass?” she asked Holmes, who had watched the transformation with detached, clinical interest.

  “Straighten your tie and pull your cuffs down,” he said, after a minute inspection.

  Elizabeth complied.

  “If you remain silent and keep your face from close inspection, you will pass. It would be wise to keep your hands in your pockets to disguise them and act as a callow, sullen youth. It was an excellent piece of forward planning.”

  “Then you didn’t suggest it, Holmes?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “But you expected it. You knew,” I pointed out.

  “You forget, Watson, what first brought Elizabeth to our attention.”

  “Ah, yes,” I said, recalling the other set of men’s clothing.

  Elizabeth smiled. “I foresaw we might have to flee on foot. I thought it best to be prepared for the possibility at the very least. And running is difficult in skirts.”

  Holmes peered out the window. “Canterbury. In about three minutes.” He stood and picked up his hat.

  •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•

  I have related earlier how we found ourselves hiking across to Newhaven and our race across Western Europe. Holmes and I were old hands at fast cross-country travelling. I suppose I expected our progress to be much slower with a woman in the party, but it was not so. Indeed it was I who had trouble keeping up.

  On the third day we paused at a stream to refresh ourselves and I offered the flask to Elizabeth from which to drink. She sipped and handed it back. “You look exhausted, John,” she said, tucking her long legs up against her chest.

  Holmes turned to study me. “Elizabeth is right. Is your leg troubling you?”

  “A little,” I answered reluctantly, rubbing the knee. “It is nothing.”

  “I want to reach the Swiss border tonight. Think you can manage it?”

  “I will manage,” I said shortly.

  Holmes examined me again, then turned away. He and Elizabeth exchanged looks before he abruptly walked away.

  Elizabeth turned to me, troubled. “Are you sure you can manage?”

  I watched Holmes’ retreating back. “In truth, I don’t know. So far the knee hasn’t started to swell. That is usually a good sign I am going to be laid up for a while.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him that?” she asked.

  “He has the bit between his teeth. I have seen him like this before. If we weren’t with him he’d probably walk all day and all night. I know of one occasion when he worked five days without cease. He collapsed afterwards, of course, but only when he’d solved the case.”

  Her candid eyes were troubled and I looked away, a little embarrassed. “He is worried,” I told her truthfully. “He cannot keep in touch with the London police out here and he is afraid they will blunder the job of rounding up Moriarty’s gang. He feels the weight of responsibility for us, too.”

  “You don’t want him to worry anymore?” she asked softly.

  “No.”

  “You’re very loyal, John,” she told me. “What if I ask him if we can rest in an inn for a couple of days? Would that help your leg?”

  “It might, but I wouldn’t suggest it. He is quite single-minded and any delays would make him impossible to be near.”

  “Perhaps after he has heard from London he will relax a little,” Elizabeth suggested. “I could try then.”

  For the next forty-eight hours, Elizabeth was never far from my side and whenever I felt myself back sliding or faltering she was there with a helping hand or quiet word of encouragement. Holmes was not aware of her subtle delaying tactics. On one occasion she pretended to have a cramp in her side, giving me five minutes’ grace in which to rest my leg, while Holmes fumed, scanning the horizon anxiously. She buffered his impatience and kept me going and by the time we reached Strasburg and the hotel to which Holmes had arranged to have his most urgent cable addressed, I was quite in awe of her abilities.

  Elizabeth was kicking the ground like a sulking youth and I was resting on a flat rock in the low rays of the sun, when Holmes emerged from the hotel foyer with the cable in his hand.

  “Well?” I asked simply as he reached us.

  “Moriarty escaped.” Holmes crushed the cable in one hand and threw it to the ground. “He escaped.” His voice was deeply bitter. He looked out across the mountains, screwing his eyes up in the sunlight. Abruptly he turned and walked away again.

  I sighed. “Unfortunate. He has spent nearly a year building the trap and in the end it fails to catch the mouse.”

  Elizabeth picked up the cable, smoothed it out and read it. “All the others were rounded up. All except Moriarty.”

  I rubbed my leg wearily. “I wonder what Holmes will decide to do next?”

  Elizabeth considered carefully. “We will have to leave Strasburg. Moriarty may trace us here through the cable. Can you go on tonight, John?”

  “I will have too.”

  “I will try and help.”

  “You have been,” I assured her. I felt a sudden bitter frustration. “I am getting too old for this sort of thing.”

  “Nonsense,” Elizabeth scoffed. “You’re no older than Holmes.”

  “Holmes thrives on this. It is his meat and bread. Now he knows the outcome, you watch him. He seems to quiver with the excitement of it all.” I sat up. “I prefer to live my excitement vicariously.”

  Holmes returned then, striding rapidly. “It is clear Moriarty will flee London. He has nowhere to go. I have had my revenge on him, yet he is still at liberty, his organization in ruins. He will come after me and when we meet, death will be on the agenda.” He studied us both. “You must return to London. It
is safe enough there for you now. Certainly it is much safer than my company.”

  I protested. “I refuse to even consider it, Holmes. I could be of help.” It was the beginning of an argument that lasted for nearly thirty minutes. I insisted on remaining with Holmes and he was his usual intractable self, demanding I return. Elizabeth stayed well out of the argument, merely observing our heated exchanges. I did not like her hearing some of the truths we threw at each other, yet I judged the situation important enough to ignore such considerations.

  Then Holmes drew her into the argument. He indicated her. “Very well, then. If you will not return for my sake, do it for Elizabeth. You can hardly countenance her continuing on this dangerous adventure. You must take her back to London.”

  I laughed shortly. “I have you there, Holmes. With all due respect to Elizabeth, I will not leave you even to return her to London. You cannot argue that she will slow you down because for the last three days she has more than kept up with you and managed to help me along as she was doing it.”

  “I know,” Holmes replied, surprising both of us. He waved his hand impatiently. “I will find you a pensione to stay in,” he told her.

  “I am coming with you,” Elizabeth said flatly. “You’re not discarding me like a cast-off shoe. You insisted I come this far. I insist I continue with you.”

  Holmes threw up his hands. “Can I not make you understand? Moriarty is going to search for and find me. When he does he is going to do his very best to kill me. He is not going to concern himself with preserving innocent bystanders. If you come with me you will be in equal danger.”

  “We understand that,” I said, speaking for us both.

  “Very well, Watson, it is your decision. However, in all conscience I cannot allow you to come, Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth put her hands on her hips. “Tell me, Holmes, have you always been so damned obstinate?”

  I sucked in my breath, shocked. I turned to where Holmes stood, motionless, his thin features frozen. Then he smiled, the expression blossoming with humor. “I know my assumptions are right. Why should I salve your pride by doing what I know is dangerously incorrect?”

  “Pride has nothing to do with it. I owe you my life, Holmes. You hauled me out of Moriarty’s grasp in London. You could have left me there. I was of no importance to you and you had more urgent business to think about. So I stay. Besides, I could be of some use to you. Give me your revolver.”

  Holmes handed over his gun.

  “John, throw that glass up into the air, please.”

  I picked up the tumbler the inn had supplied with our lunch and threw it high into the air. Elizabeth aimed and fired, then dropped her chin as glass fragments pattered about the ground around our feet. She held out the revolver and calmly brushed glass pieces from her hat brim.

  I laughed, delighted.

  Holmes silently replaced the spent bullet and put the gun back in his pocket.

  Elizabeth pushed her hands back into her pockets. “Besides, I will not sit back in safety and let a fellow human being go off and get himself killed. Not while I can do something about it.”

  Holmes turned his back on us, walking about the gravel. I merely watched. Finally he half turned and said over his shoulder; “I want to be well on the way to Geneva tonight. We leave in ten minutes.”

  Elizabeth caught my arm in her hand in a totally spontaneous expression of comradeship. Holmes walked away, his hands deep in his pocket.

  “I believe, deep down, he is touched and pleased,” I told her.

  “So now we must deliver our promise and watch out for him. And ourselves,” she replied.

  • Chapter Three •

  _________________________

  •ï¡÷¡ï•

  WE CONTINUED OUR journey through springtime Europe. On any other occasion it would have been a wonderful walking tour, but that week held hellish overtones. Even though I know now the outcome was a happy one, I can easily and clearly recall the deep despondency I afterwards suffered. It was to stay with me for three years.

  Holmes’ awareness of fate waiting around the corner I did not exaggerate, nor the counterpoint charm of the countryside. Elizabeth was a cheerful, energetic, thoughtful companion and I believe Holmes all but forgot her womanhood, so well did she fall in with our habits. However, he did not forget the last small lingering issue of doubt clouding over her, until she cast the doubt aside for all time.

  It was an evening around a campfire, as we had failed to reach a village or farmhouse before night overtook us. Elizabeth had proved her capabilities to us by this time and we thought nothing of sitting down where we were to spend the night. We had passed over the Gemmi that day and a falling rock had nearly taken Holmes. Holmes had instantly assumed foul play. He had become increasingly tense after that, dampening the holiday spirit that had begun to develop and eventually even our guide became uneasy. We paid off the guide at the next village and Holmes insisted on continuing on while daylight lasted. Consequently, darkness found us in a low, deserted valley and we stopped for the night.

  “You are wondering if you have brought your fate along with you,” Elizabeth said quietly, some time later. I looked up, surprised at her voice and words. They were facing each other across the fire. Holmes was watching her steadily and I sensed some sort of dénouement was about to take place. I put my note book down quietly.

  Holmes looked away from her gaze, which held as unwaveringly as his own. He threw a small twig on the fire. “It would not be the first time I have been betrayed by a woman.”

  “You cannot brand womanhood with the same tainted brush because of the doings of one woman.”

  “I did not say just one. Every woman I have dealt with professionally has had ulterior motives.”

  “I see. So now you are wondering what my own motives are?”

  “You have a surprisingly long list of skills and talents, all tied up in the prettiest of packages. The combination is disconcerting and could have been designed to do just that.”

  Elizabeth studied him. I sensed she was judging him. “Very well,” she said softly, yet I could hear the steel quality of decisiveness in her tone. “I will put myself in your hands. I will give you the leash that will tie me to you and you may do with it what you wish.” She paused, choosing words. “You were seeking the location of a knife. Do you still wish to know its whereabouts?”

  “Where would I look?” Holmes asked sharply, his eyes narrowed speculatively.

  “In the same grave as the man who was wielding it,” she said shortly.

  “You killed him?”

  “And buried him, yes.”

  Holmes sat back, regarding her, his eyes glittering with satisfaction and eagerness. “I suggest you give me the complete story.”

  They had forgotten me completely. I was still staring, astonished, as Elizabeth continued.

  “Dressing in male costume has been a habit of mine since I was fourteen. I enjoy the freedom of movement and social independence it allows me. However, I am not blind to the possible complications that could arise over mistaking my intentions, so I also carry a gun with me whenever I go on my excursions over the moors. I learnt how to use it, too, as I could not see the purpose of threatening if one couldn’t deliver the threat.”

  I must have made some small sound in reaction to this, for Elizabeth glanced at me. She must have read disapproval into my expression, for she shrugged. “I have been alone in the world since I was three years old. A foundling soon learns the hard facts of life. Because I am a woman, I was doubly disadvantaged. I have had to work to support myself and the only positions I could attain were as governess, teacher, or nurse. None of them appealed to me. I held a job as a typewriter before this adventure and even that was beginning to pall. My only pleasure was my long solitary walks upon the moors. Last winter the trouble I was always prepared to guard myself against occurred.”

  Holmes lit a cigarette. “A man. A shepherd?” he guessed.

  “Yes. I cam
e too close and he saw me for what I was. He was too fast for me and trapped me against an outcrop of rock and the bog. He had a knife, as you have already surmised and his intentions were perfectly obvious.”

  I felt an ache in my hand and glanced down to find my hands both tightly fisted. I willed my fingers to unfurl and lifted my gaze back to Elizabeth’s face.

  She drew in a deep shaking breath and forced herself to continue.

  “He thrust me to the ground and I believe that had I been wearing skirts my fate would have been quickly sealed. As it was, he had trouble with…the fastenings.” Elizabeth stopped and swallowed. “Must I continue?” she asked Holmes.

  He leaned forward. “You shot him with the gun you always carried,” he said, sparing her.

  She nodded. “I could see no other way out of my predicament. I shot him and I managed to lift his body off me and I dragged him toward the bog, intending to throw him in. But the shock of what I had done struck me then and I lay for a while, too sick and dazed to do anything. After a time—I do not know how long—my mind slowly began to work again. I knew that what I had done was murder, yet I had killed only to defend myself. The man was…an animal.” She whispered the word with abhorrence. “He had boasted to me of other conquests while he was preparing himself, but I knew no-one would believe me if I attempted to recite his claims.”

  She stopped and looked into the flames, her eyes distant, her mind focused on the memory. “So I buried him. I knew the bog would eventually reveal its booty if I dumped him there. It was clear nothing but burial would do. I found a suitable place and pushed the snow aside and with a rock, his knife, and my bare hands I carved out a shallow grave. I rolled him, the knife and the gun into it and covered him over. I knew the snow would obliterate any trace of the grave by the time the ground thawed. I very carefully removed any sign of human activity in the area, then changed back into my skirts. My walking clothes were wet and filthy, so I washed them in a still running stream and carried them five miles away where I buried them under a rock. I knew I could not walk off the moors carrying them, for if the body was ever found, I would be remembered. I intended to come back for them in the spring. Then I destroyed any clue in the area that might point to my identity.”