Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series) (6 page)

Holmes handed over his gun.

“John, throw that glass up into the air, please.”

I picked up the tumbler the inn had supplied with our lunch and threw it high into the air. Elizabeth aimed and fired, then dropped her chin as glass fragments pattered about the ground around our feet. She held out the revolver and calmly brushed glass pieces from her hat brim.

I laughed, delighted.

Holmes silently replaced the spent bullet and put the gun back in his pocket.

Elizabeth pushed her hands back into her pockets. “Besides, I will not sit back in safety and let a fellow human being go off and get himself killed. Not while I can do something about it.”

Holmes turned his back on us, walking about the gravel. I merely watched. Finally he half turned and said over his shoulder; “I want to be well on the way to Geneva tonight. We leave in ten minutes.”

Elizabeth caught my arm in her hand in a totally spontaneous expression of comradeship. Holmes walked away, his hands deep in his pocket.

“I believe, deep down, he is touched and pleased,” I told her.

“So now we must deliver our promise and watch out for him. And ourselves,” she replied.

• Chapter Three •
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•ï¡÷¡ï•

WE CONTINUED OUR journey through springtime Europe. On any other occasion it would have been a wonderful walking tour, but that week held hellish overtones. Even though I know now the outcome was a happy one, I can easily and clearly recall the deep despondency I afterwards suffered. It was to stay with me for three years.

Holmes’ awareness of fate waiting around the corner I did not exaggerate, nor the counterpoint charm of the countryside. Elizabeth was a cheerful, energetic, thoughtful companion and I believe Holmes all but forgot her womanhood, so well did she fall in with our habits. However, he did not forget the last small lingering issue of doubt clouding over her, until she cast the doubt aside for all time.

It was an evening around a campfire, as we had failed to reach a village or farmhouse before night overtook us. Elizabeth had proved her capabilities to us by this time and we thought nothing of sitting down where we were to spend the night. We had passed over the Gemmi that day and a falling rock had nearly taken Holmes. Holmes had instantly assumed foul play. He had become increasingly tense after that, dampening the holiday spirit that had begun to develop and eventually even our guide became uneasy. We paid off the guide at the next village and Holmes insisted on continuing on while daylight lasted. Consequently, darkness found us in a low, deserted valley and we stopped for the night.

“You are wondering if you have brought your fate along with you,” Elizabeth said quietly, some time later. I looked up, surprised at her voice and words. They were facing each other across the fire. Holmes was watching her steadily and I sensed some sort of
dénouement
was about to take place. I put my note book down quietly.

Holmes looked away from her gaze, which held as unwaveringly as his own. He threw a small twig on the fire. “It would not be the first time I have been betrayed by a woman.”

“You cannot brand womanhood with the same tainted brush because of the doings of one woman.”

“I did not say just one. Every woman I have dealt with professionally has had ulterior motives.”

“I see. So now you are wondering what my own motives are?”

“You have a surprisingly long list of skills and talents, all tied up in the prettiest of packages. The combination is disconcerting and could have been designed to do just that.”

Elizabeth studied him. I sensed she was judging him. “Very well,” she said softly, yet I could hear the steel quality of decisiveness in her tone. “I will put myself in your hands. I will give you the leash that will tie me to you and you may do with it what you wish.” She paused, choosing words. “You were seeking the location of a knife. Do you still wish to know its whereabouts?”

“Where would I look?” Holmes asked sharply, his eyes narrowed speculatively.

“In the same grave as the man who was wielding it,” she said shortly.

“You killed him?”

“And buried him, yes.”

Holmes sat back, regarding her, his eyes glittering with satisfaction and eagerness. “I suggest you give me the complete story.”

They had forgotten me completely. I was still staring, astonished, as Elizabeth continued.

“Dressing in male costume has been a habit of mine since I was fourteen. I enjoy the freedom of movement and social independence it allows me. However, I am not blind to the possible complications that could arise over mistaking my intentions, so I also carry a gun with me whenever I go on my excursions over the moors. I learnt how to use it, too, as I could not see the purpose of threatening if one couldn’t deliver the threat.”

I must have made some small sound in reaction to this, for Elizabeth glanced at me. She must have read disapproval into my expression, for she shrugged. “I have been alone in the world since I was three years old. A foundling soon learns the hard facts of life. Because I am a woman, I was doubly disadvantaged. I have had to work to support myself and the only positions I could attain were as governess, teacher, or nurse. None of them appealed to me. I held a job as a typewriter before this adventure and even that was beginning to pall. My only pleasure was my long solitary walks upon the moors. Last winter the trouble I was always prepared to guard myself against occurred.”

Holmes lit a cigarette. “A man. A shepherd?” he guessed.

“Yes. I came too close and he saw me for what I was. He was too fast for me and trapped me against an outcrop of rock and the bog. He had a knife, as you have already surmised and his intentions were perfectly obvious.”

I felt an ache in my hand and glanced down to find my hands both tightly fisted. I willed my fingers to unfurl and lifted my gaze back to Elizabeth’s face.

She drew in a deep shaking breath and forced herself to continue.

“He thrust me to the ground and I believe that had I been wearing skirts my fate would have been quickly sealed. As it was, he had trouble with…the fastenings.” Elizabeth stopped and swallowed. “Must I continue?” she asked Holmes.

He leaned forward. “You shot him with the gun you always carried,” he said, sparing her.

She nodded. “I could see no other way out of my predicament. I shot him and I managed to lift his body off me and I dragged him toward the bog, intending to throw him in. But the shock of what I had done struck me then and I lay for a while, too sick and dazed to do anything. After a time—I do not know how long—my mind slowly began to work again. I knew that what I had done was murder, yet I had killed only to defend myself. The man was…an animal.” She whispered the word with abhorrence. “He had boasted to me of other conquests while he was preparing himself, but I knew no-one would believe me if I attempted to recite his claims.”

She stopped and looked into the flames, her eyes distant, her mind focused on the memory. “So I buried him. I knew the bog would eventually reveal its booty if I dumped him there. It was clear nothing but burial would do. I found a suitable place and pushed the snow aside and with a rock, his knife, and my bare hands I carved out a shallow grave. I rolled him, the knife and the gun into it and covered him over. I knew the snow would obliterate any trace of the grave by the time the ground thawed. I very carefully removed any sign of human activity in the area, then changed back into my skirts. My walking clothes were wet and filthy, so I washed them in a still running stream and carried them five miles away where I buried them under a rock. I knew I could not walk off the moors carrying them, for if the body was ever found, I would be remembered. I intended to come back for them in the spring. Then I destroyed any clue in the area that might point to my identity.”

She looked up at Holmes. “I kept your reputation in my mind as I did so and tried to match my wits against yours. I believe to a certain degree I succeeded.”

I let out my breath. “It must have taken you hours!” I exclaimed.

Elizabeth nodded. “Two days,” she said softly. “I was very ill by the time I felt I could safely leave and not be noticed and remembered.”

Holmes threw his cigarette into the fire. “Your mistake was contacting Watson.”

“Yes. I knew that even as I contacted him. But I had been ill for weeks and dazed. When I finally recovered, I didn’t know if the police had discovered the body or the clothes, or if the game was up. I was desperate to know what my fate was to be. I combed through back issues of papers at the newspaper office and found a very small article stating my clothes had been found and Sherlock Holmes had been brought in to investigate. You can well imagine my terror. I didn’t believe for a moment I had managed to outwit you. I was quite sure I had overlooked that one vital clue that you would discover and that it was only a matter of days before you would arrive on my doorstep to arrest me. When that didn’t happen I became more deeply disturbed.”

She stared into the fire. “I haven’t had much practice as a criminal. I believed you were playing with me. So I learned John’s address and consulted him on a medical matter. My intention was to coax him into talking about the clothes, to see if I could gain an indication of what was happening in your investigation. As soon as I walked into the room, John started and stared at me as if I had the word ‘murderer’ tattooed on my forehead. It was all I could do to carry through with the interview and leave. There was no need for me to trick him into talking about the case. I’d already had my answer.” She sighed. “So when you wrote to me, John, asking me to return, I believed it was the end. I fully expected that when I arrived the police would step in and arrest me.”

I gasped. “Yet you still came!”

“I couldn’t see the point in prolonging the inevitable. I truly did believe it was the inevitable with the famous Sherlock Holmes on my trail.” She gave a very small laugh. “You can imagine my amazement when I realized a few minutes into the interview that, contrary to my belief, you hadn’t solved the entire puzzle. I was quite light-headed with relief. Up until Moriarty’s men abducted me, I thought I could finally reclaim the reins of my life.”

We sat in silence for a long moment. I was filled with horror at what Elizabeth had put herself through. Quite apart from her narrow escape on the moors, she had lived a life of silent dread for months.

Holmes said softly; “Have you proof of any of this, Elizabeth?” His words were the gentlest I had ever heard him address toward her before.

She frowned. “I am not sure it is evidence, but it will corroborate part of my story.” With an embarrassed hesitation she unbuttoned her waistcoat and pulled her shirt and undergarments up. She twisted her body around so that we could both see a vicious red, recently-healed scar on the skin high up over her ribs.

I sucked in a breath in reaction. “Who doctored those stitches?” I said, appalled. “He should have his license withdrawn.”

“That would be difficult,” Holmes replied. He reached out to lower her shirt down again. “As the doctor was never qualified in the first place.”

Elizabeth looked at me. “I did it,” she said softly.

The enormity of her undertaking shocked me anew and I shook my head, unable to express myself.

Elizabeth looked at Holmes as she tucked her shirt back in. “So there you have it, Holmes. I am in your hands now. As you can see, I have nothing to do with Moriarty, my mystery has been cleared up and you have the means to keep me immobilized. As you are renown across Europe, you have merely to inform the police at the next large town we call on and they will ensure you are rid of me.”

Holmes studied her closely for a while. “I am not a court of law,” he said softly.

“Your reputation is built on a zeal for justice.”

“As Watson will tell you, my definition of justice and the law’s sometimes conflict.” He sat back and lit another cigarette. “Besides, neither of us can judge you guilty of murder when we ourselves have both killed in self-defense.”

“I do not understand,” Elizabeth replied, her voice low and strained. I believe that is the only time I have ever heard her utter those words.

“You have paid enough for your mistake,” Holmes replied. “Your secret is safe with us.”

Elizabeth’s face seemed to crumple and for a brief moment I thought she was about to cry. She dipped her head and when she lifted her chin again her face was smooth and under control. “Thank you,” she said, her voice hoarse with unshed tears.

Holmes got to his feet. “I suggest Watson give you his professional opinion on your needlework,” he said, indicating her side. He walked away.

Elizabeth’s secret was full of horror, courage and resilience. My admiration for her lifted even higher after her confession. I do not believe I was ever troubled by my conscience over what was technically a murder. To me, the world was less one shepherd and well rid of him at that. As Holmes pointed out, we had both killed in self-defense, too. Though I am not sure I would ever be able to compete with Elizabeth’s self-control in attending her own wound after all she had achieved on the moors.

It also explained her cheerfulness under our rough camping conditions. In comparison to what she had already lived through, to her our walking tour must have felt very much like a stroll in the park.