Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series) (9 page)

“I also said that bystanders would be hurt. You must return, Elizabeth.”

An artificial calm descended upon her at Holmes’ indirect confirmation of her guesses. The panic left her as she comprehended that the final confrontation was mere minutes away. She had a promise to live up to.

“I am not leaving you alone,” she replied.

“You must. For your own sake.”

Elizabeth held out her hand. “Give me the gun.”

“The gun will serve no useful purpose.”

Elizabeth stared at him, dismayed and vexed. It was not part of her nature to accept the inescapable with Holmes’ fatalism and she knew no way of jarring him out of the mood short of direct action. Alert to the seconds ticking away, she used this dramatic alternative.

With a swift, dexterous movement, she lunged and delved into Holmes’ coat pocket, the one she knew carried the loaded revolver. She moved very fast—quickly enough to catch Holmes off his guard. She succeeded in getting a grip on the gun and half-withdrawing it from the pocket, before Holmes’ iron grasp snared her wrist. She looked up at him.

“If you won’t help yourself, I must,” she said.

“And you will be killed alongside me,” he said firmly. He lifted her wrist and her hand was held steady, the gun between her tingling fingers. She could feel her grip loosening. “Go back,” he told her and reached for the gun.

It dropped from her numbed fingers and fell through Holmes’ as he stretched to catch it. With a solid thump it hit the spray-drenched rocks at their feet and gave a little bounce up, over the edge and down, irretrievably, into the mists hiding the foaming water beneath them.

They both looked over the edge, Elizabeth with a wordless cry of dismay. She wrenched her hand from his loosened grasp, grabbed his lapels and shook him.

“Damn it, Holmes, do something! Don’t just stand there. Think of a plan, work out a strategy. He can be beaten!”

Holmes looked down at this extraordinary woman. He had not had a finger laid on him since boyhood and he certainly hadn’t been shaken. Her vexation was beginning to communicate itself to him. Firmly he pulled her hands away. “I have been building strategies and laying plans for a whole year and it all leads to this.” He in his turn shook her a little, for emphasis. “Go back to the hotel, Elizabeth. Now. I insist.”

The sound of loose falling rocks alerted them and they looked up toward the top of the cliff path. The hunched, crooked figure outlined in the last of the evening sun was unmistakable. Moriarty had arrived.

Elizabeth didn’t need confirmation of Moriarty’s identity, for Holmes’ quick, exhaled breath was all the verification she required. She rubbed her wrists as Holmes let them go.

“Too late,” he breathed.

Elizabeth looked back at the figure slowly making its way down the path that ended where they stood. There was no way out.

Holmes pushed her gently to one side. “Now I must win,” he said. “Or you will die, too.” He stepped in front of her and faced Moriarty as he approached.

Moriarty halted a few paces from them and glanced at Elizabeth before returning his steady gaze upon Holmes. “Foolish. You should have got her out of the way, Holmes.” The words were innocent enough, but Elizabeth realized with a jolt that her death sentence had been pronounced. The grim surety behind the casual verdict made her shudder.

Holmes remained silent, seemingly relaxed, yet Elizabeth could sense his whole body was tense and waiting.

Elizabeth expected Moriarty to continue, to give some twisted justification for what he was intending to do, but the man fell silent and simply watched Holmes. There was no need to declare himself, she perceived, for everything that could be said had already been spoken. The entire year’s convoluted strategies and complicated actions led to this moment.

Suddenly Moriarty sprang and threw himself at Holmes. They grappled and Moriarty’s weight carried them back toward the edge of the path. Elizabeth flattened herself against the cliff face, stifling a gasp as Moriarty leapt past her.

On the very brink of the path Holmes and Moriarty struggled against each other, as Elizabeth watched, frightened. It did not occur to her that the path was now clear and she could make her escape. She was held in place by the power of lethal intentions, waiting for the fatal outcome. She was so close she could reach out and touch them, but knew it would be a purposeless attempt. Yet her helplessness was diluted by the malignance she was watching.

The test of wills and power came to a sudden end, for Moriarty found a superior grip on his opponent. With a rasping cry of glee he prepared to throw Holmes over the ledge but on the very verge of losing his balance, Holmes twisted and broke free, throwing himself aside.

Moriarty’s cry changed to a scream of rage as he continued to fall without his prey. Holmes rested on the lip of the cliff, watching Moriarty’s descent.

Elizabeth moved shakily to his side and looked down. She saw Moriarty’s body strike some rocks and bounce aside, still falling. Then the swirling, floating spray closed over the body and Moriarty was gone.

Elizabeth closed her eyes, her body shaking with giddy relief.

Holmes stood, moving slowly. Then he lowered himself gingerly to sit upon a broad rock close by. He delved into his pockets and pulled out a pencil stub and his note book and opened it.

Elizabeth stared at him. “What in the world are you doing?” she asked, not a little bewildered.

Holmes was writing rapidly and without hesitation. “I am about to die,” he said.

Elizabeth felt her jaw drop. “You are?”

“Moriarty was the leader of a very clever gang of criminals. At least three of his lieutenants are almost as ingenious as he and all of them have as much reason to wish me dead as Moriarty.”

Elizabeth nodded. “You want them to think you dead so they will not come after you,” she surmised.

“Yes and not only they. There are other enemies, not connected with Moriarty. It would suit my purposes if they fell to the same erroneous conclusion. If they are truly convinced that I am dead, they will grow lax and careless. They will make mistakes and I can then destroy them.”

Elizabeth considered the plan. “I am to die, too?” she asked.

Holmes glanced up from his page. “I am afraid so. You heard Moriarty—he was going to deal with you as he tried to deal with me. If you walked out of this canyon and claimed that Moriarty had killed me and let you live to tell the tale, his men would know without a doubt that it was a bluff.” He looked back down at his page. “Besides, I do not trust your ability to carry the bluff convincingly. You would be cross-examined by some of the shrewdest minds in England and nothing but the truth would be allowed by them.”

“I see,” Elizabeth said. “How are we to die?”

“This note to Watson should take care of the details,” Holmes said, tearing out the pages and folding them. He took out his cigarette case and rested the notes beneath it on the rock he had leant his cane against. He pointed to Elizabeth’s feet. “Do not move any further up the path. I want our footsteps down to the end of the path to be perfectly clear and easy to read.”

Elizabeth stayed where she was. “And how are we to get back up the path to the top?”

“We don’t,” Holmes replied.

“There is no other way out…unless you intend to fly?”

Holmes pointed up the almost sheer cliff face beside him. “If I am right, there is a shadow up there that suggests a small ledge, about twenty feet up.”

Elizabeth gazed upwards and bit her lip. There was no need to ask Holmes if he seriously intended to scale the cliff. The situation was entirely inappropriate for jest. Instead she told herself firmly that this was something that had to be done and that was that.

The climb taxed their nerves and sinews, for the cliff was wet and slippery and they strongly felt the urgency to reach cover before my reappearance which did nothing to help their equanimity. Several times either one or the other nearly slipped as grass pulled out by its roots or their footing gave way beneath them. But they persevered and at last made the safety of the minuscule ledge.

There, laying full length, they watched as I returned with the party I had hastily called up, only to discover, to my dismay, that I was too late and Moriarty had won.

As the searching party moved out of sight of the Falls, Elizabeth and Holmes relaxed, only to be shocked by a huge rock falling past them from above.

Holmes looked up and ducked as another large rock bounded by barely a foot from his head. Elizabeth flinched against the cliff face, in relative safety. He looked again and his face remained expressionless as he identified the figure. “Moran.”

The name meant nothing to Elizabeth, but there was no doubt in her mind that Moran was dangerous, for Holmes immediately set about descending the cliff face again. The hail of deadly missiles continued and Elizabeth threw herself forward and began to climb down. They slipped, slithered and scrambled down the cliff face, tearing skin, shredding knuckles, elbows and knees and ripping fingernails, as speed took the better part of their caution in their race for the sanctuary of the footpath. Halfway down, Holmes fell and landed heavily on the footpath below. He picked himself up and reached up to assist Elizabeth down onto the path.

They took to their heels, the beginning of a long race across the countryside, attempting to lose Moran from their tails.

It was almost fully dark now. Their footing was unsure and their speed retarded. Constantly they stumbled and sometimes fell, yet Holmes kept up a punishing pace, pushing forward into the darkness.

They were also climbing steadily for despite their exertions, Elizabeth felt a chill settle into her bones and she was breathless beyond what her hurried gait demanded—the altitude was robbing her of oxygen.

It seemed many hours of exacting ceaseless effort had passed when Holmes slowed and began to look about him. A bulky shadow defined itself from out of the night, nearby on their right and Holmes led her toward it. Its square angle bespoke man-made shelter and the lack of light its emptiness. As they drew closer, details became apparent and Elizabeth recognized it as an Alpine hut, one of those dotted about the lower and middle slopes of the mountains designed to serve as shelters for anyone caught out in the harsh winter weather. There would be wood and water and a stove for warmth.

Holmes explored the hut’s perimeter, then opened the door and inspected the inside, before drawing her in. “Rest,” he told her. “We’ve succeeded in losing him, I think.”

Elizabeth lowered herself wearily onto the hard wooden bench next to the door.

Holmes opened a small chest next to the rotund stove in the corner and pulled out a small wooden barrel. “Water.” He put it on the table and inspected the stove. “We can risk a fire, I believe.” He discarded his jacket and set about making a fire of the wood stacked on the other side of the stove.

Soon the fire was burning cheerfully and they had supped inadequately on the contents of the barrel. At least refreshed, they sat back to consider their situation.

Elizabeth was the first to speak.

“Moran is, I assume, one of Moriarty’s lieutenants of whom you spoke?”

“The most dangerous one.” Holmes frowned. “I confess I was surprised by his appearance but I should have foreseen Moriarty would take steps to ensure he had some assistance. I suspect Moriarty contrived to have Moran released from prison very shortly after he was taken.”

“Just Moran, or would he attempt to release all his lieutenants?” Elizabeth asked. “Do we have to deal with more than one?”

Holmes weighed the facts. “I know Moriarty lacked time. That is why I hadn’t planned on Moran’s presence. Consider this: Moriarty was following us, avoiding the police at the same time, attempting to warn his gang of criminals of the imminent trouble I had brewing and yet he still managed to have his head henchman released from gaol.” Holmes frowned. “If he could manage that, he could manage it twice. But not, I think, more than twice.” He thought silently for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, that is what I would do in the same circumstances. Free two of my men to assist me.”

Elizabeth, following this fragmented answer, said: “Moran is one. Who is the other?”

“In all probability, Mr. Straker. He is as capable of working on his own as Moran. Also, he works well with Moran.”

“What does he look like? How will I know him, if I see him?”

“Straker is very easy to identify.” Holmes held up his hand. “His hand is missing. Straker was once a failed thief in on the east coast of the Mediterranean.”

“Failed?”

“In that part of the world, a thief who is caught loses his hand. The first time.”

“And the second time he is caught?”

“The other hand,” Holmes replied. “I do not know what the punishment is for a third offence. I doubt a third offence often occurs.”

Elizabeth shuddered. “And Moran?”

“Colonel Sebastian Moran, formerly of the First Bengalore Pioneers. It is unfortunate we have him stalking us. Moran is one of the best hunters in Europe—he has written books on the subject. He is a good practical soldier and a superb gamesman and strategist.”

“He sounds formidable.”

“He is. But he has flaws. One of those is a vile temper that he cannot quite control and which distorts his judgment at times when speed of thought and reaction is necessary. It is that which has put him in trouble throughout most of his career.”