Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series) (29 page)

The speed was deepening my predicament. If Holmes did not appear, or I had some other sign of impending action before the cargo was fully loaded, I would be forced to act on my own to stop the ship from leaving. Just how I would go about managing that, I had no idea at the time. I had some vague notion, I recall, of marching up the gangplank and pulling out my pistol and holding the captain at bay until help arrived.

Another problem was gnawing at my mind. Where was Moran? This was the ship upon which he was going to make his escape from England and it had every appearance of casting off and leaving as soon as the cargo was below decks. Would Moran, like Holmes, miss its departure? Or was he already below decks, having stolen aboard whilst I was making my way to the waterside?

And where was Holmes?

My vigil was disturbed by footsteps crunching in the dry grass that lay between me and the warehouses behind me. Startled, I turned, expecting to find either Holmes or Wiggins, or perhaps Gregson or Lestrade had arrived. Instead, the captain and two hefty-looking crew members moved to surround me where I perched on an upturned crate.

“Would you be so good as to accompany me aboard, good sir?” the captain asked, in adequate English.

Dismay flooded me. In my preoccupation over Holmes’ absence, I had lost concentration and missed seeing the captain had left his deck, and now I was truly in a bind.

I raised my hand to my forehead to shield my eyes against the lengthening sun. “What on earth for?” I asked, pretending bewilderment and a little belligerence. The thought occurred to me that perhaps my discovery would delay the ship’s departure a little, whilst the captain attempted to deal with me. It would lengthen matters if I were as uncooperative as possible.

“You have been spying on my ship, sir, for most of the afternoon. I wish to invite you aboard to discuss your reasons for this conduct.”

“Spying? Me? Now look, sir, that is preposterous. Why on earth would I wish to spy on a little boat?”

“That is what I and my second officer would like to know,” the captain replied quietly, not at all moved by my bluster.

“That’s damned silly. I have just been sitting here, minding my own business and enjoying the sunshine. This isn’t a private dock. I am free to come and go as I please.”

“Yes, I am aware that this is a public dock,” the captain said. His tone suggested that the fact was most inconvenient to him. “However, it is quite obvious that you have been watching my ship very carefully. You were sighted not long after we arrived and have been monitored all this afternoon. For a member of the general public you have a singularly deep interest in my ‘little boat’. Please, come aboard and let us talk about it.”

“I can’t, I am afraid. I have, in fact, an appointment elsewhere.” I pulled out my watch. “In fact I am already late—fell asleep in the sun—stupid of me, I know.”

The captain remained entirely unmoved by my reply. Stoically he repeated; “Please accompanying me on board, sir.”

“No.”

He sighed and waved a hand toward the crewman who stood closest to me. “Then, I am afraid my man here will have to shoot you.”

• Chapter Fourteen •
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FORCED BY THE threat of bodily harm, I left my perch on the packing crate, and allowed myself to be led across the dock and up the gangplank of the ship, the captain and his armed crewman close behind me.

The second officer was on the main deck, watching the loading. He turned as we approached and his face sagged when he saw me. He let out a curse.

“A stranger, you said, Sarawan!” he snarled at the captain.

The voice told me what my eyes had not seen. Ten years in prison had not smoothed Moran’s tones. It had only deprived him of the flesh of easy living and sucked the mark of an outdoors-man from his skin. The excess skin lay in folds and creases about his frame, prematurely aging him. But the eyes were unchanged. They held the same hatred and venom I’d last seen in the empty house over a decade earlier.

The captain was puzzled. “So he is.”

“He is only Sherlock Holmes’ right hand man, by Christ!” Moran snarled. He looked at me. “The years have treated you kindly, Dr. Watson. As you can see, they have done very little for me.”

“One of the side benefits of being a criminal, I would suppose,” I remarked.

“Where is Sherlock Holmes?” he asked abruptly.

“I don’t know,” I replied, truthfully and without hesitation.

Moran chuckled. “Yes, I expected that answer, or one similar. You’re not going to force me to apply the tedious process of torture and question, are you Doctor?”

“That’s not necessary. I am telling the truth. I don’t know.”

Sarawan, the captain, spoke up. “He may not, Colonel. He’s been here all afternoon, alone.”

“It will be easy enough to find out,” Moran murmured, studying me. “It is not very complex information I am looking for, so I do not have to be careful how I go about extracting it. I can apply whatever messy and expendable process I believe will give me the answer soonest.”

“My answer would remain the same.”

“I beg to disagree, Doctor. With your medical knowledge, you should know the physiological effects sudden and overwhelming pain can have on a body. Now, if we were to apply mental pressure at the same time….” He looked me up and down thoughtfully. “As a doctor, you depend upon the use of your hands as an aid to diagnosis, and also as a writer of your damnable chronicles, too. What if we were, say, to cut off your right index finger and thumb? Or are you left handed? We could cut off both, perhaps. Have you ever tried to cope without that opposable digit, doctor? It is simply impossible to lift anything. Imagine going through life trying to cope without being able to pick things up. Your clothes, your food, your pen….”

The grisly discussion was quite disturbing in that scurrying, mercantile atmosphere. I controlled the shiver it gave me and tried to maintain my steady gaze. I remained silent. Moran would never believe I truly did not know where Holmes was, and it possibly would delay the ship’s departure even longer if I could let him think he might get a different answer with a little more effort.

But Sarawan was more concerned about his ship.

“Colonel, the cargo,” he interrupted quietly. “We cannot afford to delay.”

“This is more important, Sarawan. Take the doctor to my cabin.”

“But the arms!”

“Damn it, Sarawan, if Sherlock Holmes has plans to stop me leaving on this ship, then your revolution is going to go without its guns, too. Think on that. And take Watson below.”

I was roughly pushed down below decks and into a cabin that was quite large, and on a ship of that size an exorbitant waste of space. Moran’s tea chest sat in the corner, by the porthole. The cabin had been Sarawan’s until a short time ago. His compass , charts and navigation equipment lay scattered over the desk. The thick captain’s log rested as a paperweight on the last chart he had been using.

Moran turned to Sarawan. “Leave us. You see to the loading.”

Sarawan nodded, and hurried away, looking relieved.

The crewman was openly wielding the pistol, now we were in relative privacy. Moran waved him forward. “I am going to search his pockets. Keep it trained on him.”

Obediently, the crewman cocked the gun and pushed it up against my ear. The cold metal was sufficient to keep me totally immobile whilst Moran searched my clothing. He found, quite naturally, the gun. My other possessions were quite harmless, and he let them be. The gun he put in the desk drawer. He cleared the desk in one sweep of his arm, sending charts and the log across the floor.

“Put him in the chair,” Moran ordered, pulling the seat up close to the table.

I was pushed into the chair and the gun was brought to rest against my neck again. Moran crossed the cabin and delved into a locker. He extracted a flat black box, which he brought back to the desk. “Recognize it?” he asked me.

I did recognize its type. It was a first aid kit, a comprehensive all-encompassing kit that one would expect a responsible ocean-going captain to have available. Although the more esoteric items could vary from one to another, scalpels and blades were standard items.

Moran opened the lid and extracted the scalpel, then carefully fitted a new blade to it. His movements were slow and deliberate. “Please do tell me when to stop, doctor,” he told me.

“Why bother? You do not believe me.”

“I don’t believe the song you’re singing now. Let’s change your tune and see if I believe you then. Majah, his arm, please.”

The gun lifted from my skin and Majah grasped my right forearm and pinned it to the leather desk top. He put most of his body weight into the effort and I could no more shift my hand than I could fly.

Moran delicately separated my thumb and moved it away from my hand. I was powerless to slide it back. He looked at me with mock kindness. “Last chance, doctor. Do we operate?”

“Why bother, Moran? Doctor Watson has been telling you the simple truth.” It was Holmes’ voice.

Moran looked up, startled. “Well, well, so you were here all along, Mr. Holmes.” He nodded to Majah and the inexorable weight lifted from my arm. I gratefully slid my arm off the desk and swiveled around in the chair.

Majah had turned to point the gun at Holmes, who stood in the doorway dressed in his Indian costume, his dock worker’s gloves in one hand. Holmes pointed at Majah. “There’s no need for him. I have too much to lose by attempting anything foolish.”

Moran considered this. “All right. Majah, give me your gun and leave us.”

The crewman was obedient to the last. Without a murmur of protest he handed over the weapon and left the room, closing the door behind him.

The two opponents faced each other across the cabin.

“Your tan is dripping,” Moran remarked.

Holmes rubbed at the skin dye, which was washing away in the high summer heat. “It has served its purpose.” He pulled off the turban and wiped his face with it.

Moran rose and walked around the desk and sat down in the captain’s chair. “So, Mr. Holmes, despite my warning you have persisted in searching for me.”

“You took extraordinary measures to ensure I would not. That was your mistake. You should have left Elizabeth alone, Moran.”

“I think not. Look at you. I have both you and your companion under my control. I see no sign of reinforcements. You thought the police might foul your plans and now you are here, alone, and unmasked. I think it was a rather effective ploy, myself.”

“You are not out of England yet.”

“Mere details. Shall we negotiate face to face?”

“You have no room for negotiations, Moran. The police are on their way here, now. You do not think I would have foreseen this possibility and made arrangements against it? Even Watson had his own safety provisions. This ship has been watched from afar for as long as Watson was on the dock. As soon as you brought him aboard, the alarm went up. I give you mere minutes of freedom.”

Moran, with a chuckle, lined the revolver up on the tea-chest sitting innocently in the corner. He cocked it and aimed carefully, then looked toward Holmes as he pulled the trigger, watching for his reaction. The noise of the shot was loud in the enclosed room and I jumped despite myself. The shot drilled messily through the thin packing case.

Holmes appeared to remain completely unmoved, despite Moran instantly turning the revolver back upon him and re-cocking it with one quick, practiced motion of his thumb. If Moran had expected Holmes to show any appreciation for his marksmanship, he was disappointed. But I saw something that Moran would not notice beneath the faded remains of the stain: Holmes had turned quite pale. I saw him clench his hand to hide its tremor.

Moran smiled. “Another, Mr. Holmes? Or shall we make arrangements for my escape? I have one last shot at my disposal, for this is a dual firer. No?”

He turned with casual speed and fired into the tea-chest once again. This time, Holmes moved to launch himself at the man, but Moran instantly swung back around, lifting my own revolver from the desk drawer and leveling it at Holmes. Holmes halted, knowing as surely as I did that Moran needed very little excuse to fire upon Holmes himself.

“Surprise,” Moran said softly. “I have six more shots to use.”

“Then I suggest you use them, Moran, for that is the only way you will be able to leave this cabin alive.”

There was something in my friend’s tone that I could not fathom and I was quite at a loss to understand the definite note of doom I could sense in his words. An undercurrent was sweeping through the room and I was being left upon the shore. Moran understood, however. I could see it in his gloating face and triumphant smile.

It was then it happened. There was a loud explosion and the whole ship’s structure rose and fell in an uneven, terrifying heave and shudder beneath our feet. I recoiled violently and swung toward the port hole, hoping to see some evidence or explanation for the alarming explosion.

Moran, too, drew in a startled oath.

I turned my head back rapidly at the sound of his exclamation and was in time to see Holmes catapult himself at Moran, one hand pushing aside the arm holding the revolver, which had dropped away from Holmes’ direction as Moran had turned toward the port hole. My friend’s face was that of an implacable enemy bent on justified revenge.