Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series) (10 page)

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.

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.”

“John? How?”

“There would have only been one, perhaps two, journalists actually
in situ
and their stories would have been syndicated or simply plagiarized in the other papers. Watson would have seen to it that Steiler and his staff kept their silence and the journalists had no other source through which to learn that there was a third party at the Falls.”

“But why?”

Holmes shrugged, suddenly bored with the subject. “If your presence was disclosed, your background would have been investigated and we both know how undesirable that would be.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of the telegram boy, who held out his tray towards Holmes. He took the cable and read it, then thrust it toward her. “Mycroft. He suggests we avoid returning to London just yet. I suspected as much.”

Elizabeth read the cable. It was in free cryptic, but she had enough points of reference now that she could decipher its message. “So what do we do now?”

“Do you speak Swedish or Norwegian?”

“Not at all. Why?”

“Sigerson is Scandinavian,” Holmes pointed out.

“My ancestors were Norwegian. I was born in Hertfordshire,” Elizabeth explained.

“So…your Italian is not good enough for you to pass as native, either.”

“Why? What are you planning?”

“I believe it might be better if we parted company. I was thinking of settling you in some sort of
pensione
and I would travel. Moran, given a choice of two targets, would come after me.”

They went into dinner and over the meal discussed the necessary arrangements for settling Elizabeth in a safe situation.

The next day, Holmes departed to survey the city, searching for a suitable
pensione
of some description, leaving Elizabeth at the hotel. After a substantial lunch she collected her meager possessions and took herself off on a walking tour of Florence’s beautiful heritage. This proved absorbing enough that it was quite late and fully dark when she finally returned to the hotel. She approached the front door and the light that spilled out into the street and hesitated when she observed the ferret-faced desk clerk talking to a stranger. A handful of Lira were passed over the desk and her heart leapt with alarm, for the stranger’s left hand was missing.

She stepped back into the shadows at the side of the doorway, trying to think of what she must do. She knew it was vital she warn Holmes and so she must somehow get past the desk.

She slipped back further into the shadows and moved along the street, looking for an alley or mews or some access to the back of the building. Her intention was to indulge in some creative hotel-breaking and reach their rooms without alerting the desk clerk of her return.

A dismal alleyway presented itself and she glided down its length, moving silently. The ending opened out into a courtyard that served the back of the hotel and held an untidy assortment of crates and other miscellaneous rubbish left to be disposed of properly. Elizabeth negotiated her way through to the bottom of a tall set of rusty iron steps leading to a narrow door. The service entrance.

With an outward confidence, she climbed the steps and boldly turned the handle and was more than a little surprised when it gave way and the door swung slowly open. She pushed it further ajar and slid inside, looking around for witnesses. Finding herself alone in the service hallway she made her way along to the corridor she guessed would lead her to the service stairs.

Three minutes later she reached the floor their rooms were on and was stealthily working her way down the carpeted corridor toward their door. She could see a light from under the door and assumed Holmes had arrived ahead of her, but a week of being pursued had sharpened her cautionary instincts and she moved slowly and quietly, alert to any sign of danger.

So when she traversed an open doorway and a hand reached out toward her she was startled, but not panicked and she dodged. Holmes stepped out of the doorway and motioned her to silence, then rapidly drew her back into the darkness of the room.

“Straker is here,” Elizabeth whispered urgently. “In the foyer. I nearly collided with him and retreated around to the back and came up through the servants’ hall to warn you.”

“Straker, too? Moran is at this minute ransacking our rooms.” Holmes shook his head in mock disbelief. “It appears our little ferret-faced friend is working for two masters.” He took a quick look down the corridor. “It is as well we have so little luggage, for we must abandon it once more. Show me the way to the service door. We have an appointment with the desk clerk.”