Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series) (18 page)

“And what of Persia’s deserts?” Elizabeth asked Sullah. “Are they to be as feared?”

Sullah smiled grimly. “All deserts should be respected. But my country’s deserts…these are not a problem. Even the children of my household are familiar with each oasis and wadi. I can find you a guide to help you down to the sea and across the gulf. But someone who is familiar with the Empty Quarter?” He frowned again. “There is only one person I know who has traveled across the Arabian peninsula often enough to be useful.”

“Who?” Holmes asked, restraining his impatience.

“Me,” Sullah said simply. He laughed, one of his great bellows. “If you must risk your lives on such a reckless dash across three of the world’s worst deserts, it is only fair that I as your friend should share the risk. Besides, it is the perfect opportunity to pay my debt to Elizabeth.” He put his hand on his heart and nodded his head toward her. “I will lead you both to Khartoum.”

The mounted party that left Mashhad in early January 1894 numbered eight, and included two of Sullah’s sons and three of his most capable caravan guards.

Sullah, with true tradesman’s thrift, planned to wait in Khartoum with Elizabeth until Holmes’ information gathering assignment for the Foreign Office had been completed and then travel with Holmes and Elizabeth as far as Suez, where they would part.

Sullah would then travel up the eastern Mediterranean coast, taking advantage of the unique opportunity to buy and sell in these foreign markets. His caravan would be led by his eldest son to Constantinople, where Sullah intended to convene the two parties and continue with his annual carpet sale.

Their trip across the deserts was arduous, but rapid. As promised, Sullah lead them across the burning plains as swiftly as safe travel would permit. But their speed was not too fast for them to learn and understand just how dangerous it would have been had they attempted the trip alone.

They reached Khartoum in February. Dressed as Arabs, as they had been for their journey, they blended into the indigenous population with experienced ease. This had been Holmes’ intention. They had learnt from their time in Constantinople that tongues were looser when Europeans were absent and Holmes intended to draw out every scrap of information available for Mycroft’s associates.

Rumors were endemic and Holmes soon had a wealth of speculation and gossip. Within twenty-four hours of their arrival, he moved onto Omdurman, leaving Elizabeth and Sullah in Khartoum. There, he completed his extraordinary interview with the Khalifa, who found this strange Englishman in Arab dress much easier to talk to than any other representative of that odd race. He found him such a congenial listener, in fact, that Holmes was able to confirm much that had been worrying the British government for some time concerning Britain’s affairs in that corner of the world.

Holmes and Elizabeth planned to travel by sea through the Suez Canal and across the Mediterranean to Marseilles, on the French coast. There were also ships that traveled directly from Aden to England, but they chose to approach home circumspectly. Poised for the final passage, they could wait in France until Holmes received a clear sign of Moran’s activities or otherwise deemed it time to return to London.

This route to France was well-frequented by the British, for apart from journeying by sea, one was forced by the sentinels of desert to travel along the narrow Nile valley—a picturesque, although lengthy, journey that Holmes in his desire to move on would not countenance. He needed to reach either of the port cities of the canal so he could dispatch his report to England and delay was intolerable.

Since the trouble began in the Sudan, the country hosts many British. As a consequence, trades and services considered essential by the Englishman had sprung up in all the cities. So it was with unexpected reluctance Holmes and Elizabeth purchased and donned European style clothing and re-adopted the customs and habits of “the Mad English.” Elizabeth, perhaps, had a little more enthusiasm, though she confessed the constrictive fashions were initially uncomfortable after the freedom of trousers. Sullah, too, converted to European clothing for the duration of their voyage up the Red Sea.

It was Elizabeth who discovered my bereavement, as reported in an old copy of the
Times
she found beneath a dusty pile of periodicals in the hotel foyer, on their last evening in Khartoum. She took the paper to their rooms and showed it to Holmes.

“I am sorry he suffered through it alone,” he told her.

“Even if we rushed home, the fastest route we can take is the one we’re taking,” Elizabeth said. “And the paper is three months old….”

“Nevertheless, I am relieved we are continuing on tomorrow.” He put the paper aside. “Apart from the report to London, I am anxious to reach Aden. I do not trust any of the wire services in this country and I can arrange for money with the bank in Aden.”

•ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•

Two weeks later they were in Marseilles. Holmes observed England from this near neighbor, judging the timing of his return. The cable services between the two countries and the two brothers fairly steamed, as they exchanged cryptic information. Based on this new collection of data, Holmes confirmed his decision to wait.

They moved on to Montpelier, which was strategic for two reasons; Holmes was familiar with the city and the countryside and knew several people there. One of his acquaintances would be able to host them and they could thereby avoid using easily investigated hostels, inns, or hotels and remain a little better sheltered from possible detection.

The second reason was purely self-indulgent. Holmes knew the owner of a research laboratory and was able to arrange that he work there, gratifying his curiosity regarding coal-tar derivatives, at the same time distracting his mind from his simmering impatience, which was agitated by the nearness of London and his goals, and his enforced idleness.

The French of that district have an enjoyable custom of not segregating their women after dinner. All the diners sojourn to a lounging room where they consume coffee and after dinner liquors, while the host and hostess skillfully lead off conversation.

It was at this point one evening, nearly two months after their arrival in Montpelier, when Elizabeth looked up from her conversation with their hostess and observed Holmes standing by a small table next to the heavily curtained windows. He had casually pushed a newspaper around with his forefinger and was scanning an article on the back page. To casual observation it appeared he was just pausing and would move off in a moment to rejoin conversation. Only Elizabeth sensed a sudden tension in him, a taut thrumming of nerves and pulse.

He glanced toward her to see if she was watching and his finger tapped the paper. Then, casually, he moved back to the group he had left.

Elizabeth excused herself and moved over to the paper. With a frown of concentration she began mentally translating headlines. The only one which might have caused the sudden alertness in Holmes was a report on the strange murder of Ronald Adair, in London. She began to translate the article, but gave up and scanned it instead. Almost instantly her sight was caught and held by a name within the print. “Colonel Sebastian Moran.” It was enough to tell her what had caught Holmes’ attention.

She looked around for him, but he had disappeared. She guessed Holmes was making their excuses.

She picked up her skirts and left the room, heading for their suite.

Holmes found her there, packing a small bag. She had already changed into travelling clothes. She paused only long enough to say, “I guessed speed would be the priority. Shall I ask Elise to pack our luggage and send it after us?’

“I have already seen to it.” He disappeared into the bedroom and emerged a few minutes later in a dark suit and heavy overcoat. Elizabeth closed the catches on the bag and he picked it up.

“Let us go home,” he said.

• Chapter Nine •
_________________________

•ï¡÷¡ï•

 
“THAT’S WHEN THE odyssey ceased,” Elizabeth finished. “When Holmes saw the report on Adair’s murder, his heart and mind were picked up and dropped back upon London and for a while it was as if he had never left.”

The tale of their adventures had taken many months in the telling, for I had soon quit my sick bed and time for stories was limited after that. Generally we snatched a couple of hours here and there a week and Elizabeth would take up her narrative where she left off. Of course, the tale I have set down here is extended and detailed beyond Elizabeth’s telling, for I have included all the adventures she had told me before and the stories and viewpoints I have managed to drag from a reluctant Holmes over the years.

Much of my information I received from another, quite unexpected source. At first I did not appreciate the worth of that source at all. In fact, my foolishness very nearly lost me an invaluable friendship.

Nearly three years after Holmes’ return to London, the three of us went walking through Hyde Park one late afternoon in autumn. A cool breeze was ruffling the last of the withered leaves on overhead branches and the freshness of the day was very pleasant after the lagging heat of summer. We had lingered.

“I believe you’re not telling me something,” Elizabeth said, addressing Holmes. She paused to negotiate a rut in the path, lifting her skirts a little. “You’ve checked your watch surreptitiously nearly a dozen times during our walk. Have you noticed, John?”

I smiled. “Details of that type escape me, generally. It is only when you or Holmes point them out that I see them.”

Holmes remained silent and Elizabeth spared a glance from scouting the terrain to impale him with those wonderful green eyes.

“Why don’t you tell me what it is?” Holmes finally replied and there was the faintest strain of a challenge in his conversational tone.

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “I am not sure I should attempt to. You only ever bet when the probability of winning is decidedly in your favor. As you’ve pointed out before, only a fool accepts a wager with a certain outcome.”

Holmes shrugged. “You’re probably wise not to try,” he agreed. He paused to study his watch again, quite openly this time. We both halted to watch him do so.

“Hello!” came a shout from behind us. “I say, Sigerson!”

The use of Holmes’ travelling name startled me and I heard Elizabeth gasp, too. I turned around.

Walking rapidly up the path, trying to catch up with us, was a tall, tanned man dressed in a well-tailored walking suit and brightly polished shoes, wearing one of the latest fashions in hats upon his black hair. He carried a walking cane with a gold handle and ferrule, but it appeared to be an affectation more than a necessary accessory, for he strode along the path with long steps. He held up his cane in greeting as we paused.

Elizabeth gripped my arm tightly. “Sullah!” she breathed.

I felt my own jaw descend. This well-to-do Englishman walking towards us was the Persian of Elizabeth’s tales? No, it could not be.

The man strode right up to Holmes, holding out his hand, which Holmes took without hesitation, pressing it warmly. Holmes rarely accepted a handshake and when forced to it, would accept with obvious reluctance, yet he stood now with a small smile on his face and a pleased glow in his eyes, his hands held in the enormous tanned ones of this man.

This, then, must be Holmes’ surprise.

Then Sullah turned to Elizabeth. “Miss Sigerson,” he said, with a dramatic flourish of his hat. He took her gloved hand and bowed low over it. He straightened with a twinkle in his eye and put his other hand over his heart. “The sight of you restores my lost youth,” he declared.

Elizabeth’s smile brightened and uneasiness touched me when I saw tears sparkling in her eyes. “Would you mind?” she asked, handing her parasol to Holmes, who took it without protest.

Then Elizabeth astonished me even further by virtually throwing herself at Sullah with a joyful exclamation, her arms around his neck.

I looked away, as a proper gentleman should and noticed how the strollers passing by were glancing at us and giving us wide berth. Their expressions ranged from polite non-interest, to outraged disgust at Elizabeth’s improper public display.

Homes, of course, ignored them.

I cleared my throat and studied the gravel at my feet.

Elizabeth tugged at my arm, drawing me closer to Sullah, introducing us. Sullah was a fraction taller than I and his dark eyes seemed to laugh at me while we shook hands. I murmured something, a greeting of some type, then inspected my watch. “Holmes, I should be getting back.”

“Soon, Watson, soon,” Holmes murmured, but he did not look away from Sullah and Elizabeth, who were chattering away to each other, tripping over their words, interrupting each other. Laughing. Even Holmes had the beginnings of a smile on his face.

Sullah nodded at me. “I do not want to delay you, Doctor Watson. My apologies.” He held his arm out to Elizabeth. “Come, you must show me your famous Baker Street.” She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and they walked up the path together, still talking.

Holmes handed Elizabeth her parasol, stepped ahead of them and strode down the path, the distance between us lengthening with every step.

“Holmes!” I called, from behind Elizabeth and Sullah.