Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series) (17 page)

Elizabeth said softly: “We weren’t expecting you….” She stopped as Holmes swayed a little. “You’re hurt!” she said, and her eyebrows rose as he pulled his coat aside and a large blood-stained tear in his clothing appeared.

“We ran into trouble around sunset last night and decided to continue walking until we got home,” Holmes said, pulling layers aside.

“Oh, my god….” Elizabeth murmured, appalled at the sight of the wound itself.

“It is not as bad as it looks,” Holmes assured her. “A little blood goes a long way. But it might need a stitch or two and I’d rather not let Ts’iang administer me. Her embroidery is worse than yours.”

Elizabeth reached for her clothes. “I will see to it,” she told him.

•ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•

It was later than she had supposed for as she strode toward the river, she could see the first glimmer of dawn in the east. Holmes’ enforced march had taken twelve hours.

The pre-dawn was still and quiet and the air was warm, trapped by the cloud layer that had lingered overnight. The cloud was clearing now and the sun would continue the warming process, bringing the temperature close to zero degrees. Winter had been delayed for a while.

As she was drawing the bucket to the bank, Holmes appeared by her side, the unfastened coat flapping as he scrambled down the bank. “I will save you having to carry the water back.”

“I am used to it,” she said simply. She studied his dark silhouette, waiting.

“I wanted to talk,” he said at last. “It is actually a relief to use English after that bastardized Persian Ch’ang T’i insists on using. I am feeling garrulous, which is a change.” He brushed the snow from a large flat rock, propped the lantern on a corner, and lit it with one of the last of their judiciously-preserved supply of matches. The light flared out and he reduced it to a feeble glow, enough for Elizabeth to see what she was doing. It left his features in deep shadow. He sat on the rock and held out their medical kit—one of their most precious possessions.

“You’re also feeling extravagant,” Elizabeth replied. She took the kit. “Lie back.”

Holmes obeyed and watched the sky lighten above Elizabeth’s head as she worked. “Our standards of value have changed since Switzerland, haven’t they? We think nothing of the best cuts of meat, yet begrudge a sulfur match.”

“The law of supply and demand,” Elizabeth said, her voice a little detached as she concentrated on what her fingers were doing. “How did this happen?”

“A trio of outlaws ambushed us in the ravine leading to the last pass. We fought them off, but decided it was wiser to keep on the move rather than wait for them to catch up with us again. And you? Any trouble?”

“Only with wolves, in the last week or two. They’re heading south. I think winter is on its way, at last. We’ve been lucky.” She snipped the sterilized thread and Holmes jumped. “Sorry.”

“I deserve it. I was a little too complacent and this is the result. I have lost my edge.”

Elizabeth lifted her head. “Why do you say that?”

“The lack of competition. The lack of danger. My mind has grown lax.”

Elizabeth raised his hand to his side and put his fingers on the edge of the bandage. “Hold that and sit up,” she instructed him, then began to wind the bandage about his ribs. “I do not believe you’ve grown soft, Holmes. It is just this country. You’ve no echoing footpaths or hidden doors out here…and considerably less than five million people. All your normally sensitive instincts have merely relaxed.” She tore the end of the bandage and tied it firmly. “You do not have to keep wide awake and listening to know if someone is approaching you across a valley of shale.”

“I have grown used to danger from beast and birds rather than man.”

“Some people would consider that an improvement,” Elizabeth pointed out. She sat back on her heels, studying him in the growing light.

There was nothing of the European about either of them anymore. Elizabeth’s only distinctions were her long burnished hair and the strong arched brows and smooth cheeks. Otherwise they were dressed alike in long trousers, sheep skin boots, shirts, overshirts and jackets. As a further measure against the cold they wore layers of woolen material in the form of overcoats and cloaks, all topped off with hugely oversized coats of goat’s wool. They wore the Kurdish adaptation of the turban on their heads and they wore their knives and pistols openly, tucked into the bright cummerbunds. Holmes habitually carried the shepherd’s crook and Elizabeth a long staff—invaluable aids when scrambling about the knees of mountains searching for recalcitrant goats. Both were tanned and extremely healthy, although thinner. They had developed far-seeing eyes and had learned a philosophical patience for all nature’s quirks and delays, though Holmes was still quick to flare over human stupidity.

The greatest change was in their attitudes. Meet either of them on one of the lonely mountain passes they routinely traveled and you came face to face with an overt, inactive menace. They radiated danger and power and an overriding sense of fine control which made them seem formidable indeed.

(
Elizabeth’s description seemed a little exaggerated to me, when I first heard it. Indeed, it ill compared with her appearance as she related it—a tall beautifully turned out lady in a lovely lilac dress and a fragile piece of lace at her collar, with all the subtle and hidden feminine skills designed to excite a man’s interest. It seemed far from the savage appearances she was accrediting them both. Elizabeth smiled at my reaction. “It is true we’ve recaptured a thin veneer of civility. But we would both be unmasked if trouble struck. For that was what had reformed our attitudes—danger. We reverted to uncivilized barbarians because that was how you survived out there.
”)

Holmes remained silent, enjoying the spectacular hues of dawn sunlight on the last of the clouds.

“Did you find what you wanted in Lhasa?” Elizabeth finally asked him.

“I did sell my articles.” Holmes rearranged his clothing and dug into a pocket and pulled out a cigarette—a European style ready-rolled cigarette carefully preserved in a vacuum tin. After he had lit it and drawn on it, he said slowly: “I visited the Polata and spoke to the Llama.”

“And?”

He stared out across the river, remembering. “He was indeed a wise man. He had no answers but one and that was to find what I seek I must look inside of me, not for symbols or signs from elsewhere.”

Elizabeth remained silent and Holmes glanced at her. “Yes…you knew that all the time, didn’t you?”

“You are not one of the weak, Holmes. You already have all the wisdom and strength you need. You simply have to find it.”

Holmes nodded. “I have made a crucial mistake,” he said.

“I am sure it is not your first.”

“It probably won’t be the last, but I swear I will never make the same mistake again.”

“I am listening.”

He hesitated a little. “If Moriarty and our adventures in Switzerland hadn’t happened, I would still have made this trip. Except I would have been alone. As we’ve learned, I would probably dead as a result. However, it didn’t happen that way. Even before we left Persia I had begun to think I didn’t need to visit Lhasa. It wasn’t a conscious thought, but an unsettling feeling of…completeness. I have traveled over half way around the globe, most of it on foot and through some of the most god-forsaken country in the world, only to discover I’d brought my happiness along with me.” He glanced at her quickly. “I have wasted so much of your time, Elizabeth.”

“It hasn’t been wasted,” she replied softly. “We take back the gift of solitude with us.”

“I have put you in danger. That will remain a constant for the rest of your life. Being closely associated with my name is hazardous.”

“You have tried to compensate for that,” she pointed out, her hand dropping to the hilt of her knife tucked into her belt.

“I have tried to develop your abilities. It is hardly a fair bargain. You’ve had very little choice in the matter so far. Perhaps I should give you a chance to decide.”

She touched his arm. “It is time to go back, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is time we returned,” he replied. “It would be selfish to remain here any longer.”

•ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•

Typically, once he had made up his mind, Holmes could tolerate no delays in implementing his decisions. With seething agitation, he pressed the arrangements to leave.

Elizabeth was equally anxious to depart at the soonest date, for she had been keeping a vigilant eye on the weather. Holmes had returned from Lhasa in late October and Elizabeth knew the mild autumn would not stay much longer.

With both keen to hasten their departure, they managed to find a guide that was willing to show them the western route along Tibet’s low summer valleys and across the mountains, straight into Persia. The very route, in fact, that Sullah had been adamant they not tackle, two years before and the same route that Ch’ang T’i had been using when Sullah’s people had found him, eleven years before.

It seemed to Elizabeth they were destined to be forever travelling into bad weather. However, she was confident of their guide’s knowledge and both Holmes and she were so much more experienced, now, in surviving the harsh conditions.

On November 1, 1893, as near as they could tally it, they left for Mashhad with the guide, two yaks as beasts of burden, six goats on the hoof, a dressed sheep, barley meal, a small bag of dried tea leaves and the shy, warm wishes of an entire village for god speed and good luck.

“We needed every bit of luck they offered us,” Elizabeth told me. “For we lost our guide just out of sight of the Persian plains and we had to navigate ourselves by stars and moon—when we had a clear night, that is. Usually it was overcast and we simply followed our noses.”

They arrived on Sullah’s doorstep barely a week before Christmas, pushing their way the last mile through a storm that settled into a blizzard that lasted three days.

Winter had arrived and had they followed their intentions, they would have stayed throughout winter once again. But a message from Mycroft was waiting for Holmes—a message that had been sent nearly six months earlier to his last known location, via paid carriers. It had been held by Sullah’s household staff until Sullah’s return to the homestead. Sullah’s return had preceded Holmes’ by a mere three weeks and Sullah had been at a loss regarding the message’s further progress.

That was solved by Holmes’ arrival, but the contents of the letter were sufficient to prevent Holmes from settling for too long.

Mycroft had gathered a large quantity of facts and information relevant to Holmes’ situation throughout his younger brother’s absence from London. The distillation of this intelligence was contained in his letter for Holmes to absorb and upon which to base sound decisions concerning their future.

Amongst many of the significant facts was the news of Straker’s imprisonment for the murder of an innocent victim and the death of two of Holmes’ bitterest enemies—one from natural means and the other a boating accident in a Scottish loch.

Elizabeth was as quick to grasp the significance of this news as Holmes. She tapped the particular sheet of Mycroft’s letter where it lay on the table between them. “Holmes, this means only Moran is loose to cause mischief. If we could somehow contain him….”

Holmes nodded. “Yes, but we must proceed cautiously. Moran’s ‘mischief’ is a potent brew indeed.”

There were other, politically important, instructions in Mycroft’s letter and for these, Holmes approached Sullah for help.

“Khartoum?” Sullah repeated aloud, putting the letter down on the low table before him. Holmes had found him in his private salon, from where Sullah carried out most of his daily business of overseeing the extensive organization of his household and grazing lands. “But the Sudan is peaceful now. The Khalifa has smoothed out all the wrinkles. Besides, he is at Omdurman, not Khartoum. That is where you will get most of your information.”

“I will start with Khartoum,” Holmes answered. “Or finish there. That is where most of the Europeans are and we can travel up to Omdurman as we need to.”

“We can buy what European supplies we need at Khartoum,” Elizabeth pointed out, patting her trouser-encased knees.

“Khartoum….” Sullah intoned, leaning back into his cushions, his brow wrinkled.

“At fastest speed,” Holmes added.

Sullah remained silent, his eyes shut. Holmes and Elizabeth kept the silence, waiting patiently for Sullah to finish his contemplation.

After several long moments, he opened his eyes, clapped his hands twice, sharply and called out in Persian for his maps. The requested maps were speedily brought and spread out across the table.

“There is fastest speed and there is safest speed when crossing the deserts,” Sullah warned them. “But in winter the two are closer than in summer. Cross the desert you must, if you wish to travel to Khartoum as directly as you can.” He pointed out the route on the maps. “From Teheran to Isfahan and to Shiraz on the Gulf. You must cross the Arabian Empty Quarter, through to Mecca, down to Jeddah and across the Red Sea to Port Sudan. There are ships crossing nearly every day, so that will not hamper your speed. Hhmmm.”

Sullah paused, frowning, staring at the map. “Only an imbecile would cross these deserts without a guide—without someone who knows how.” He caught Holmes’ impatient motion out of the corner of his eye and held up a finger in warning. “No, not even clever imbeciles who cross the Swiss Alps alone.” He shook his head gently. “In the Empty Quarter you can die faster and in ways that number more than the people of your wonderful London. You must believe me in this and do as I say. Arabs have spent thousands of years living in these lands and even they with all their expertise and experience of living and travelling through deserts cannot tame the Empty Quarter.”