The Veiled Detective (29 page)

That same night we resumed our journey, heading for Geneva. For a charming week, we wandered up the Valley of the Rhône, and then branching off at Leuk, we made our way over the Gemmi Pass, still deep in snow, and so by way of Interlaken, to Meiringen. It was a lovely trip, the dainty green of the spring below, the smooth virgin white of winter above; but it was clear to me that never for one instant did Holmes forget the shadow which lay across him. In the homely Alpine villages or in the lonely mountain passes, I could still tell by his quick glancing eyes and his sharp scrutiny of every face that passed us, that he was convinced that, walk where we would, we were never clear of the danger that dogged our footsteps.

Once, as we passed over the border of the melancholy Daubenese, a large rock which had dislodged from a ridge clattered down and roared into the lake behind us. In an instant, Holmes raced up to the ridge and, standing on the pinnacle, he craned his neck in every direction. It was in vain that our guide assured us that such a fall of rock was a common occurrence in the springtime. Holmes said nothing, but smiled sardonically with an air of a man who sees the fulfilment of that which he had expected.

And yet for all his watchfulness, he was never depressed. On the
contrary, I can never recollect having seen him in such exuberant spirits. As we walked we conversed on many subjects, and Holmes both amused and amazed me by his knowledge and insight and also his ignorance. Any topic which bore no connection — however tenuous — with the detection of crime held no interest to him, and so he remained ignorant of it. How I smiled when he protested that he couldn’t care a fig if the earth went around the moon or the other way around.

“Whichever is correct, it makes not a jot of difference to me or my work,” he said with warmth. “It is of the greatest importance to store only the important facts, facts that can be of use to you, in the brain attic, otherwise you would have the useless facts elbowing out the useful ones.”

On arriving at the little village of Meiringen, we put up at the Englischer Hof kept by Peter Steiler the elder. That evening, we dined in the little restaurant. At first we spoke little, as though we had talked out all conversation that was possible without referring to Moriarty. At one point, Holmes raised his wineglass in a toast.

“To you, my dear Watson,” he said solemnly. “Without you and your support in these last days, I doubt if I would have achieved the success in bringing down Moriarty’s organisation.”

I was too moved to respond in words. I just raised my glass in acknowledgement of the sentiment, and took a drink.

“With this case,” Holmes continued, reflectively, “I feel I have reached the climax of my detective career. I think I may go so far as to say that I have not lived in vain. If my record were closed tonight, I could still survey it with equanimity. The air of London is the sweeter for my presence. In the many cases in which I have been actively involved, I do not believe I have ever used my powers on the wrong side. I would certainly crown my career with the extinction of the most dangerous and capable criminal in Europe.”

The word
extinction
was voiced with a dark relish.

Our landlord spoke excellent English, having served for three years as a waiter at the Grosvenor Hotel in London, and he came to talk with us after we had finished our meal. I was very tired, so I excused myself and headed for bed. Holmes seemed happy to stay and chat with Herr Steiler, who was no doubt pleased to have the opportunity to practice his English conversation.

We left the next day with the intention of crossing the hills and spending the night at the hamlet of Rosenlaui. However, on Herr Steiler’s strict injunction, we were told that we should not on any account fail to take a small detour in order to pass by the magnificent falls at Reichenbach.

It is indeed a fearful place. The torrent, swollen by the melting snow, plunges into a terrible abyss, from which the spray rolls up like the smoke from a burning house. The shaft into which the river hurls itself is an immense chasm, lined by glistening coal-black rocks, and narrowing down into a creaming, boiling pit of incalculable depth, which brims over and shoots the stream onward over its jagged lip. The long sweep of green water roaring forever down, and the thick flickering curtain of spray hissing forever upwards, turn a man giddy with their constant whirl and clamour.

Holmes and I stood near the edge in rapt silence, peering down at the gleam of the breaking water far below us against the black rocks, and listening to the half-human shout which came booming up with the spray out of the abyss.

The path had been cut half-way round the falls to afford a complete view, but it ended abruptly, so that the tourist had to return the way he came. We had turned to do so when we saw a Swiss lad running along the path towards us. He clutched a letter in his hand.

“Doctor Watson!” he cried, above the roar of the falls, his eyes darting from Holmes to me and then back again.

“I am Watson,” I said, and he handed me the letter. It bore the mark of the Englischer Hof and was addressed to me by the landlord. It
appeared that within a very few minutes of our leaving, an English lady had arrived who was in the last stages of consumption. She had wintered at Davos Platz and was journeying now to join her friends at Lucerne, when a sudden haemorrhage had overtaken her. It was thought she could hardly live a few hours, but it would be a great consolation to her to see an English doctor. Could I possibly return? Herr Steiler assured me in a postscript that he would look upon my compliance as a very great favour, since the lady absolutely refused to see a Swiss physician, and he could not but feel that he was incurring a great responsibility.

Holmes read the letter over my shoulder. “You must go, old fellow. You cannot refuse the request of a fellow countrywoman dying in a strange land.”

I felt he was right, but I was reluctant to leave Holmes’ side. He dismissed my concern with the wave of his hand.

“I will stay here a while longer, admiring the falls, and then make my way to Rosenlaui, where you can join me this evening at The Golden Cock.”

I agreed and sent the lad ahead of me to inform Steiler that I was on my way.

Holmes and I shook hands and parted. As I turned away, I saw my friend with his back against a rock and his arms folded, gazing down at the rush of water. There was something infinitely sad about his features.

As I made my way back down the path, doubt and suspicion clouded my mind. How did Steiler know I was a doctor? I had never communicated this fact to him. In fact, I had hardly spoken directly to him. Holmes, of course, might have told him — but for what purpose? Unless... unless it was in the creation of a ploy to call me away.

When I neared the bottom of the descent, I looked back. It was impossible from that position to see the falls, but I could see the curving path which wound over the hill and led to it. Along this path I observed a man walking rapidly. I could see his black figure clearly outlined against the green behind. I stopped in my tracks. There was no doubt in my
mind that this man was Professor James Moriarty.

Suddenly it all became clear to me. The errand of mercy was a nonsense, a clever ruse created by Holmes and carried out with the collusion of Peter Steiler. It was meant to lure me away from Holmes, away from danger, so that my friend could face his foe, Professor James Moriarty, alone. He must have known that the hour was near when Moriarty would finally track us down. Perhaps he had already made enquiries at the Englischer Hof. Certainly Steiler could have confirmed that. I now saw that Sherlock Holmes was prepared to sacrifice his own life in meeting Moriarty and determined to save mine. A rendezvous between two determined men on the edge of the terrible Reichenbach Falls could only end in one way.

With a beating heart, I raced back up the path towards the falls.

A
sense of calm had settled upon Sherlock Holmes as he leaned against the rock, gazing meditatively at the frenzied waters of the Reichenbach Falls. For the last few weeks, his mind and emotions had been as furious and disturbing as the powerful tide of water that roared down past him into the terrible chasm below, but now, suddenly, the tension and the worry had evaporated. He felt at peace with himself and his fate. The end of the affair was very near, and he was prepared for it. He was ready to sacrifice his own life to ensure the destruction of his mortal enemy. Once he had accepted that, all the inner turmoil, worry and anxiety seemed to disappear, and he was at peace with himself. After all, he was living on borrowed time. If it had not been for Watson, he would be a corpse already, shot by Scoular in his Baker Street rooms. On that occasion he had been caught unawares, with no contingency plans. This time it would be different.

He consulted his watch. He knew that he would not have long to wait. Once Moriarty observed Watson returning to Meiringen, he would put in an appearance.

Almost in accordance with his thoughts, a figure appeared someway down the path. A tall man in a dark cloak walking vigorously. As he advanced and his face became visible, Holmes’ heart skipped a beat. It was as he had deduced. It was the man he was expecting. It was Professor James Moriarty.

He was a handsome man, thought Holmes, although his features, now damp with the spray of the falls, were cold and cruel. His dark eyes glittered in triumph as he approached the detective.

“So, we meet at last, Mr Sherlock Holmes,” said the Professor.

Holmes smiled. “Indeed we do. Journeys end in lovers meeting.”

Moriarty gazed down at the swirling torrent and smiled. “You have chosen a propitious location for this historic encounter. You realise, of course, there can be only one outcome.”

“You are the mathematician, but I had calculated that it could end in one of three possible ways — although I assure you my choice is narrowed down to one of two.”

“It was such a pity that you were so tenacious, Mr Holmes. You should have let it drop, you know. It would have been more sensible for yourself and kinder to your friends. Nevertheless, it has been an intellectual treat for me to see the way you have conducted the whole business. I do not think I could have handled the matter better myself.”

“I take that as a compliment. But it is the case that in certain situations one has little choice over one’s actions. I could no more give up my pursuit of you than fly to the moon. It is an innate part of my nature to seek out and destroy the wrongdoer, the criminal in civilised society. I am driven, as no doubt you are driven, to fulfil a destiny.”

Moriarty’s face turned into a sneer. “Speeches. Well, let me respond simply by stating that it has been a fascinating duel between us, Mr Holmes. A stimulating game, but now the game is over and you must pay the forfeit.”

Holmes had been observing the Professor’s movements very closely, and before Moriarty could pull his revolver from the folds of his cloak, Holmes leapt forward and grabbed his hand. For a moment the two men grappled, Moriarty holding the gun high in the air while Holmes secured an iron grip on his arm so that he could not bring it down. As they fought, they slithered on the mud nearer to the edge of the pathway. With Herculean effort, Holmes shook Moriarty’s arm so fiercely that he was forced to relinquish his hold of the revolver and it flew into the air in an arc, far out across the chasm, and disappeared down into the smoky foam.

Moriarty retaliated by clasping his hands around the detective’s neck, squeezing hard to crush his windpipe, while at the same time pushing him nearer and nearer to the edge. Holmes’ feet slipped on the wet mud and he found his strength failing. Despite his efforts to dislodge Moriarty, the villain maintained his ferocious grip. Briefly wrenching his head sideways, Holmes glimpsed the cauldron of water boiling below him. He was now on the very edge of the precipice. Another foot and he would be over it, spinning into watery oblivion.

“Goodbye, Mr Sherlock Holmes,” cried Moriarty, his face contorted with hate, as he pushed harder. “Goodbye.”