Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series) (3 page)

Holmes nodded, his eyes closed and his pipe jutting out aggressively.

“Last month I had a new patient who could have doubled as your mystery lady. It surprised me. I thought your redhead herself had appeared.”

Holmes sat abruptly upright, dropping his pipe into his hand. “Describe her,” he commanded.

“That’s just it, Holmes. Her description tallies almost exactly with your conclusions. Redhead, tall, trim, neat. It’s difficult to judge forward planning and intelligence with a quick ten minute interview, but she certainly wasn’t a fool.”

Holmes stood up and moved to the mantelshelf. “And her name?”

“Miss Elizabeth Sigerson.” I felt a little bewildered by his reaction. “You don’t think it was your redhead, surely?”

“Why not? It makes a certain kind of sense. Quite apart from an inner certainty I have had that we would one day meet.”

“But it is stretching coincidence a tad, isn’t it?”

Holmes rubbed his brow. “I wish you had told me earlier. As it is, I’ll have to hurry the arrangements. Would you be able to arrange for her to meet you at your consulting rooms on a professional basis?”

“Well, yes, certainly, if you require it. But why, Holmes?”

“For some reason she is afraid of me. She wants her clothes back, Watson, and she is making an indirect approach through you. She fears that if I see or speak to her I will deduct some truth she is keeping secret. So, we must woo her cautiously and time is limited. I’m due back in Paris tomorrow, so it will have to wait until I return. I will send you a cable when I know the date and you can arrange for the appointment.”

I felt a bit winded. I had related my trivial story only to amuse Holmes. “Yes, of course,” I agreed slowly.

“Good. Now, tell me all about her, Watson. Every detail…every nuance.”

•ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•

On April the 20th, a Monday as I recall, I received a cable from Holmes informing me he would be arriving back in London on the Thursday. That was all the cable stated, but I had not forgotten his instructions and set about arranging the interview with Miss Sigerson. I sent her a note stating I wished to review the effectiveness of the treatment I had prescribed for her and requesting her presence on Thursday afternoon.

I received a prettily worded letter back asking to change the time to seven o’clock in the evening for she was working as a typewriter and could not leave earlier. On Holmes’ arrival I informed him of the interview and invited him to share our supper before Miss Sigerson arrived.

Accordingly, he appeared on my doorstep in the late afternoon, looking tired and much used, yet with the same keen look in his eyes that I remembered from whenever he was on the scent of another mystery. I questioned him at the time concerning his health and confessed my curiosity over his doings in Europe, but apart from hinting heavily about the gravity of his deeds, he would say nothing more.

“It is all settled now, Watson. In four days it will be over. I wish to forget it for now and enjoy myself with this lighter, more unusual mystery.”

At seven o’clock we descended the stairs to my consulting room and I pushed the door open to enter, only to fall back in confusion. I held onto the doorknob, preventing Holmes from following me into the room. ``Miss Sigerson,” I said, both in greeting to her and a warning to Holmes.

“Doctor.” She stood. “I suppose I must apologize for waiting in your room, but it is late and I preferred not to wait in the street.”

“Yes, of course. That is quite all right.” I was unsure of whether to enter and close the door, thus risk exposing Holmes, or to back out on some pretense. I had been caught completely by surprise. All the investigative tasks Holmes had coached me to complete during the interview fled my mind.

Miss Sigerson studied me carefully with her candid green eyes and I saw her glance thoughtfully at the door. Then she put her head to one side. “Doctor Watson, you have asked me here under a falsehood.”

I stared at her blankly.

She shook her head. “Never mind. I will see to it myself.” She moved to the door, stepped around me and into the corridor. I saw Holmes straighten from his resting place against the wall. “Mr. Holmes, why don’t you come inside?” she asked him. “It is cold out here.”

“Miss Sigerson.” He walked into the room and patted my shoulder. “Never mind, Watson.”

Elizabeth looked at me kindly. “Your face gave you away, Doctor Watson. Do you ever play whist?”

Holmes sat against the edge of my desk. “Yes, and he loses—quite badly.” He studied Elizabeth. “Red hair, trim, neat….”

Elizabeth allowed him time to scrutinize her properly. She held out her hands. “My sleeves, Mr. Holmes. You find a woman’s sleeves most revealing, I believe.”

He leaned forward to examine them. “Thank you,” he said gravely. “Why did you not want me to see you?”

“I believed you to be in Europe.”

Holmes examined her face closely. “You are not denying you consulted Watson as a means of regaining your clothes?”

“I had genuine reason for seeking a doctor. I merely combined the two. Are you prepared to return my clothes to me? They are very difficult to replace. Understanding seamstresses are hard to find.”

Holmes smiled. “Yes, I sympathize. You may have them back. They are in my rooms at Baker Street.”

“Thank you.” She turned to pick up her gloves.

“Where is the knife that cut them, now?” Holmes asked, addressing her back.

Elizabeth slowly turned back to face him. Her face was quite still. “I beg your pardon?”

“The knife. It was a knife that caused that very neat tear. Through so many layers, too. Aimed right here—” and he touched his breast pocket. “Whoever was wielding it was in deadly earnest. I was wondering what became of the knife. It wasn’t with the clothes.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. The clothes were not torn when I left them.”

Holmes straightened from his slouch. “Of all the very small mistakes you have made, that is the most telling. To me, a man trained in the observation of minutiae, the complete absence of such details about your person shouts of secret purpose.”

Elizabeth bit her lip. “This is what I feared,” she confessed. “That if we ever met face to face you would detect my covert motivations.”

“There is no need to fear me if your intentions are good,” Holmes replied. “Covert or overt. But you must explain, now, these discrepancies.”

Elizabeth visibly wavered.

“Come, Miss Sigerson, explain. I have about me at this very moment some of the most dangerous, desperate criminals of the century. I cannot afford to play loosely with even the slightest of suspicions. Tell me.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I cannot. Please believe me when I say I wish I could. I have nothing to do with these criminals you fear and would clear myself if I could. My intentions were benign. I have nothing but deep admiration and respect for your abilities, as reported by Doctor Watson.”

“Yes, that is clear by the length you went to avoid my scrutiny.”

Elizabeth sighed. “I want my clothes back. That is my chief aim. I believed you to be in Europe and thought it would be an ideal time to approach Doctor Watson, establish contact and eventually ask his help in reclaiming them, thus staying out of your way and creating the minimum of disturbance.”

“That was most considerate of you,” Holmes replied dryly. “It must have dismayed you to learn the police had asked me to examine the clothes when they found them.”

“Considerably, at first, but then I realized that they would have appealed to you sooner or later. It was inevitable. I knew they would find no answers.”

“Yes, you made quite certain of that. However, you fear I might and that is why you want them back.”

“I blame myself entirely for this mess. At the time I was dazed and sick and not thinking clearly. I should have destroyed them utterly.” She finished quietly, almost to herself, “It is a mistake I won’t make again.”

Holmes frowned. “The person whom you were hiding from, they are no longer a threat?”

“I have solved that problem,” she replied.

Holmes walked up and down the room once, thinking. “If you would care to accompany us, Miss Sigerson, you can collect your clothes now.”

“And then?”

“And then you are free to go.”

“I would believe that only when you replace the safety catch on the revolver you are holding in your pocket,” Elizabeth replied.

Holmes glanced at her sharply, then with a short amused laugh he pulled out the revolver and ostentatiously replaced the safety catch before dropping it back in his pocket. “Come Watson, let us collect Miss Sigerson’s cherished possessions.”

Holmes called up a hansom and handed Elizabeth in. He gave his address, then settled back into the seat and closed his eyes. Elizabeth kept her gaze on the passing scenery. The entire trip was silent. On our arrival, Holmes opened the door, hurried up the stairs and threw open the door of his sitting room while I paid off the cabby. I climbed upstairs and found him removing the cloth bag from the top drawer of a bureau. Elizabeth stood just inside the door.

He tossed the bag on the sofa.

Elizabeth picked it up. “Thank you,” she replied.

“I’ve not solved your mystery, Miss Sigerson,” Holmes said suddenly. “I have other more pressing matters on hand that prevent me from following up your puzzle. You should consider yourself fortunate, for it is clear you fear my discovering the truth.”

“No, I do not fear you, Mr. Holmes,” Elizabeth replied, her voice mellow and I detected a hint of amusement. Evidently Holmes did, too, for he fixed her with his keen gaze, but a sudden shout out on the street made him whirl toward the window. His gun was withdrawn from the pocket and he carefully pulled the curtain aside by a small fraction to peer out.

“I suggest you leave, Miss Sigerson,” he said shortly.

Elizabeth studied his tall motionless figure and the gun in his hand. Wordlessly she turned and left.

I moved to the other window and peered out, too, but there was nothing remarkable to be seen. Holmes dropped the curtain and looked about the room. With a shrug he pocketed his revolver and looked at me. “I shouldn’t have returned here. This place is not safe for me at the moment.”

“Then come home with me,” I insisted.

“I will remain here for the night, now. I need to think and I prefer my own hearth for that.”

“Then I will remain here, too,” I replied.

He was pleased. “Thank you. That would be a great comfort to me.”

“Holmes, won’t you tell me what this is all about?” I burst out. The thing had been pressing on my mind. “You’ve dealt with Miss Sigerson now and had your leisure. It is clear you consider yourself in danger. I would be of more assistance to you if I knew what was happening.”

It was then he told me of Moriarty and his gang and the plans Holmes had been painstakingly following for nearly twelve months in an effort to outwit the most dangerous criminal in England. He explained to me the details of his expected coup in four days’ time and the waiting game he was playing now.

I spent an uneasy night in front of the fire after that and it was with some relief I watched the sun rise outside the windows. Holmes read my thoughts easily.

“It is not a sign to relax our vigilance,” he warned me. “Moriarty is a clever man and he understands that night fears disappear in daylight and will use it to his advantage. But there is no need to starve while we wait. I will scare up Mrs. Hudson and request a large breakfast.”

We were almost through the excellent meal when there was a knock on the door and Moriarty himself entered. I have written elsewhere about this extraordinary interview and the repugnance the man created in one. In my public account of the event, I omitted the fact that I was there. In this account I am free to describe the conversation as I saw and felt it.

Moriarty and Holmes exchanged words that held the form of politeness, but they were really taking the measure of each other as part of their preparations for the final combat due in three days’ time. From my observations I deduced that I was right to be as uneasy as Moriarty made me feel. Menace radiated from him even though he spoke civilly.

I also omitted Moriarty’s very last parting words from my account. For he turned at the door and looked back. “There is one other thing we share, Holmes.”

“Oh?” Holmes replied coolly.

“Our taste in redheads. She is very beautiful.” He laughed and slipped out the door.

Holmes’ face held a momentary shock, then his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. I fell back into my chair. “I didn’t believe we would come out of that alive,” I confessed.

Holmes threw off his dressing gown and reached for his jacket, dropping the revolver into the pocket.

“Quick, Watson! We haven’t a moment to lose.” He grabbed his coat and rushed out the back door, where he hailed a passing hansom. He rattled out the address as he climbed in and I recognized it immediately;

“Why, that’s Miss Sigerson’s address!”

“Exactly,” Holmes agreed. He remained silent for the remainder of the short trip and sprang to the pavement as the cab slowed. “Pay the driver to wait, Watson!” he called over his shoulder.