Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series) (25 page)

“I have been instructed to tell you that your duty has been fulfilled and that you can return to your home now,” the Indian told the docker in the unmistakable sing-song accent of his native country.

I looked my new guide up and down. “And how much are you being paid?” I asked.

“I have been promised one pound also,” the Indian said primly. “This way please.” He waved me on.

I sighed and moved on.

This leg of the journey was over in fifteen minutes, but had we moved in a direct line we could have reached the destination in three. I was led on a tortuous route up and down streets and in and out of alleys. I can safely swear that we completed at least one circle, for I recognized the broad doorstep the Indian had been sitting upon when I had first sighted him.

I was handed exhausted and in considerable pain from my leg, to a very young girl with a sweet face, angelic golden curls and dirty cheeks, who solemnly picked up my hand. She gave the Indian his promised one pound.

The Indian bowed to me, his hands together, and disappeared into the thick warm darkness of the night.

The girl looked up at me. “I am Elizabeth,” she told me. Then she tugged with her captured hand. “This way.”

She led me quickly into another street and then into a deserted, dirty courtyard filled with weeds and rubbish, broken wheels and the carcasses of one or two dories, turned upside down onto trestles and left to rot out in the weather. In the far corner was a ramshackle structure made entirely out of salvaged tin sheet and wood, held together by twine, wire and the occasional bolt. The roof was corrugated iron and looked to be merely resting there, pinned down only by its own weight.

The door was an old wardrobe door, complete with oval mirror frame. The mirror had long since been broken and the wood paneling that would have once been hidden behind the mirror showed as much weathering as the rest of the door.

The child Elizabeth led me to the door. “This is our secret hiding-house,” she told me. “You mustn’t tell anyone about it. Promise?”

“Yes,” I agreed, wondering if this was part of the itinerary or if Elizabeth was adding her own detour into the plan. She opened the door using both hands, then picked up my hand to lead me inside.

I ducked my head and followed her in.

It was exceedingly hot inside. The play-house had no windows and had been baking in the summer sun all day. Also, a shuttered lantern sat on the low table in the middle of the room, which added to the heat. Elizabeth closed the door behind me and unshuttered the lantern.

The lantern told me I was here by design and not through Elizabeth’s embellishment. She pointed to a chair in the corner, which looked massive against the child-sized proportions of the table. “Please sit down,” she said formally.

I sat down gratefully.

“Would you like some tea?” she asked.

I stared at her. “Real tea?” I asked stupidly.

“Of course,” she replied, with adult dignity.

“Yes, thank you.”

She moved over to a crate with skewed corners and removed a cloth that covered a tray with teapot, cups, utensils and apparatus necessary for tea-making. With an unexpected strength, she lifted the tray and placed it on the table in front of me.

“Is that everything you need?” she asked, as I looked over the tray.

“Yes, that does appear to be everything,” I said. My voice sounded distant, for this felt very much like Alice’s Mad Hatter’s party to me.

“Good. Goodbye.” She smiled brilliantly at me, then opened the door and swiftly closed it behind her.

I was alone.

I looked around me. The construction materials were as haphazard on the inside as the out and it looked very much as if children had built the house themselves. I wondered how stable the structure was, but only for a moment. The tea was hot and the scent made my mouth water, distracting me from my grim thoughts. I poured myself a cup and drank.

I sat alone in that cramped, stuffy little shack for nearly half-an-hour. In that time I finished the tea, recovered my strength and had begun to wonder just how long I was to be left waiting there.

Just as I was growing impatient, I heard the latch of the door click and I turned to see who was entering. I was bitterly disappointed when the Indian of the third stage of my journey entered into the house, stooping low to clear the doorframe.

“Just how much further do I have to go?” I asked impatiently.

“Patience, good sir. All will be revealed in time,” the Indian advised me. “Would you like some more tea? It is good tea, is it not? From my own country, it is.”

“No, I would not like more tea,” I answered waspishly. “I would like to continue on with this mad tour of the Thames and get it over with, thank you.”

“Then perhaps you’d prefer something stronger?” Holmes asked me, pulling a hipflask out from beneath the cotton overshirt and proffering it with a smile.

• Chapter Twelve •
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I STRAIGHTENED UP, staring, as delight, anger and relief all claimed my heart. “Holmes…when am I ever going to learn to look past your disguises?”

“Never, Watson,” he told me, settling himself on the dirt floor of the hut, crossing his legs tailor-fashion once more. “It is a human failing to see only what you are shown.” He tipped some of the brandy into my teacup. “Drink.”

I drank, glad of the fiery liquid.

Holmes poured himself a cupful and drank, too. His disguise was moderate—he had darkened his skin with some sort of stain and of course wore the light cotton clothes typical of a poor Indian worker, plus the sandals and turban. One could find dozens of similarly dressed Indians in this area. The rest of the disguise was supplied by Holmes’ acting ability—poise, accent, demeanor, gestures and attitude.

“You had me quite fooled,” I remarked. “Though I cannot see why you insisted on pressing the charade to this point. Surely you could have revealed yourself in the first instance?”

“You must forgive me for appearing to play with you, Watson,” Holmes said soberly. “But there were good reasons for the charade. For the same critical reasons you were left sitting alone in this edifice.” He looked around him with a grim smile. “It has the advantage of having only one possible approach—across the yard. By scaling the wall and perching high up in one corner, I could watch every inch and wait to see if anyone was interested in you.”

I nodded. “I was being watched at Baker Street,” I told him.

Holmes laughed—a long, low chuckle. “It is a pity ‘watched’ is a verb, for it prevents me accusing you of understatement. You had no fewer than three agencies examining your every movement. The watchers had watchers watching them and those watchers were in turn observed by others.” He laughed again. “It has been a merry week in this respect, for you confounded most of your watchers by very elaborately doing nothing.”

I stared at him. “You were one of those watchers?” I asked.

“Not in person. I have been busy elsewhere. But mine was one of those agencies I refer to. I have kept myself informed of your conduct.”

“That is a great deal better than I have managed,” I replied. “You had me quite worried, Holmes. The last time I saw you I thought you badly wounded. Mycroft convinced me you were not as incapacitated as you let me believe and for four days now I have been trying to guess what it was you were doing. Have you found Moran? Have you any sign of Elizabeth yet?”

He refilled his cup from the flask. “I had better begin at the beginning and explain myself,” he replied. “As it seems I have sorely troubled you.”

“I thought you had lost your mind,” I confessed. “As there seemed to be no sane explanation for disappearing as you did.”

“There was one—only one—reason. There were too many people involved and the whole affair was in danger of tripping over one of its many feet.” He leaned back against the tin wall and pulled up his knees.

“My midnight pacing had not been entirely without effect, Watson. By reducing the situation down to the bare facts, I could distinguish Moran’s motives. If you ignore the complexity of the arrangements, you have the fact that Elizabeth was abducted at almost the exact moment of Moran’s escape from prison. Moran’s motives become somewhat clearer when it is put that way.”

“Revenge,” I stated.

“No. Not revenge. At least, not entirely. You have overlooked the coinciding times. Moran wanted me to be distracted at the moment of his escape and effectively immobilized for some time afterwards. Elizabeth’s abduction ensured that and allowed him to escape from Dartmoor and travel to London undetected.

“That was as far as I got before your compound stole my senses. It wasn’t until the next morning, when Lestrade forced me into collaboration with him that the significance of the dramatic manner of Elizabeth’s abduction occurred to me. By involving so many people and causing such a public uproar, Moran was not only snarling the police force’s efficiency, but guaranteeing they would be involved in the investigation that followed.”

“He wants you to find him?”

“No, Watson. He does not. He wants to avoid a confrontation. Moran does not fear the power of the police. It is me he fears. So he involves the police, knowing they would hamper my search for him. He knew I would not be able to keep Elizabeth’s disappearance a secret and investigate on my own.”

“That is why you tricked us all?”

“Not completely.” His keen eyes glittered with a remembered impatience and anger. “Although I was, indeed, hampered by all the attention.

“I also knew that Moran would comprehend my every move, either by report or by direct observation. I stood at the window and I could almost feel his presence out there, watching me. I was an insect in a specimen jar, Watson. I could not stir and not be scrutinized from all directions. It was a most uncomfortable and disabling position.”

“So when that shot was fired, you used the situation to climb out of the jar,” I stated, borrowing his simile.

Holmes nodded. “Yes. Excellent, Watson.”

“I am afraid that was Mycroft’s conclusion, not mine.”

“I knew he would comprehend the situation,” Holmes replied.

“What was it that struck you? We determined that it was not a bullet.”

“It was a message. Moran communicated his intentions far earlier and more adroitly than even I would have predicted.”

“A message?”

“A slip of paper enclosed in a ball of wax and projected by an old-fashioned sling, pitched from the rooftop of the building opposite the window. A powerful and almost silent ancient weapon and a clever piece of thinking on Moran’s part. His message is delivered without intermediaries, who could be detained and questioned.”

“But the blood—you were bleeding!”

“A moderately shallow cut from a flying shard of glass from the pane. It was fortunate window dressing. I could not let you examine the wound because you would know immediately it was not what it seemed.”

“It does explain why Mycroft found traces of red wax on the carpet.”

“The ball of wax broke up upon impact. It hit me squarely in the shoulder. My reaction was to clasp the point of impact and I felt the paper beneath my hand. I knew immediately that this was a message from Moran. I kept it hidden in my hand while I played out the scene and sent you to investigate the empty house. As soon as I was alone I read the message, which was close to what I expected it to be.”

He withdrew a small folded piece of paper and handed it to me. It was thick and yellow and not unexpectedly waxy to the touch. Some of the red wax clung to the edges. The writing was in soft dark pencil.

Search for me and she dies.

I turned the sheet over to check the other side, which was blank and featureless.

“Moran’s handwriting?” I guessed.

“Undoubtedly.”

“Succinct and to the point,” I observed.

“It was no more than I had expected,” Holmes replied. “So I pushed it into a pocket, snatched up money and other small essentials, raced down the back stairs to Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen and out the back door and across the yard, now conveniently deserted whilst the police searched elsewhere for my would-be murderer, scaled a few walls and was alone and well on my way to the East end before, I am sure, you returned to the sitting room and found me gone.”

I considered the sequence from Holmes’ point of view. “It certainly achieved your aim.”

“I apologize for worrying you.”

“It was necessary,” I said dismissively, “if you are to find Elizabeth.”

Holmes’ face was grim. “Everything I have done is only for that purpose,” he replied.

“So tell me who it was that was watching me and why,” I prompted him.

Holmes composed himself once more. “The watchers,” he said, with a smile reminiscent of his earlier mirth. “After I had slipped from the limelight, both the police and Moran were anxious to learn where I was and what I was doing. The police, so they could learn where Moran was through me and Moran, to decide whether I was obeying his demand to keep well away from him. The only possible means they had of determining my whereabouts was to watch both you and my rooms, utilizing the theory that sooner or later I would contact you. I am quite sure you had a tail like a comet on your journey to Dartmoor. Had you moved from Baker Street again, that same tail would have dogged your every step.”