Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series) (21 page)

He inquired curtly at the desk for rooms.

“Ah yes, Mr. Holmes. We’ve been expecting you.”

Holmes looked up from the register. “You have?”

“Yes sir. Ever since this cable arrived last night.”

Holmes all but snatched the telegram from the clerk’s hands and tore it open. I moved to behind his shoulder and read it too.

“Return at once. Mycroft.”

The hand holding the paper began to tremble and he dropped the cable to the desk and put his hand in his pocket. “Elizabeth,” he said softly. “Something has happened to Elizabeth.”

I felt a cold hand clench at my own heart with Holmes’ whispered inference.

Holmes looked at the clerk. “When is the next train to London?”

The clerk looked at the desk clock. “You’ve just missed it sir.”

“I said the
next
train!” Holmes rapped out.

The clerk seemed to shrink back away from the desk. I looked at him pityingly, for I knew the effect Holmes’ countenance had on those who attempted to oppose his will. “Six o’clock tomorrow morning, sir,” the clerk stammered.

Holmes slammed the flat of his hand down on the desk in reaction to this bad news. He whirled to face me. “Back to the station,” he said shortly.

The return to the station was silent. Holmes’ eyes were focused on an invisible point in middle distance, narrowed and glinting with an unveiled danger. His hand tapped a quick rhythm on the top of his cane. Otherwise he was perfectly motionless, and I was afraid to disturb him.

Our first action upon reaching the station was to investigate the swiftest alternatives available to get us back to London. The clerk behind the counter proved helpful, fortunately, but he could not get us back to the city earlier than midnight. I could see the information chaffed Holmes to the quick. It was then I offered my one contribution to the sad, sorry adventure.

“Holmes, look. This timetable. There is a train leaving Carlisle at midday. If we could get to Carlisle….”

A back-light flared deep in his eyes and he turned back to the clerk. “I want to hire a special. To whom do I speak?”

The journey back was a nightmare of darkest imagination. For the entire trip Holmes stood at a window, motionless, neither smoking nor walking. Nor did he communicate with me just what sort of danger he thought Elizabeth might be in. His only comment was a scathing answer to what, on reflection, seems a foolish question. “It is Elizabeth who is in trouble, or she would have signed the cable herself.”

• Chapter Ten •
_________________________

•ï¡÷¡ï•

MYCROFT WAS SITTING in his usual seat in the private salon of the Diogenes Club, a drink and ashtray on the table beside him and several newspapers folded on the table to his right. He watched us approach across the shining tiles, his face unreadable.

“My cabby found you, then,” he said, as we reached him. He waved to the chairs beside him and I sank into one.

Holmes merely pushed his hands into his pockets. “Come, Mycroft; I have expended nearly the last of my admittedly limited patience on the officials of the British railway system.”

Mycroft closed the book he held in his lap and rested his hand on the cover.

“The case you were investigating was a ruse designed to have you depart from London and leave Elizabeth behind. They’ve taken Elizabeth.”

I watched Holmes’ face for his reaction to this confirmation of his fears. “I should have seen that,” he said after a moment’s silence. His voice was quite flat and emotionless. “Freemasons!” It was a curse. His eyes cut away from us both and he looked toward the window behind us. “The old woman set the bait perfectly.”

“Elizabeth evidently did see it. They had quite a struggle taking her away. Your rooms are in ruins.”

“You have been there?”

Mycroft shrugged. “Mrs. Hudson sent for me. The woman was hysterical. She had been held at gunpoint while they attempted to extract Elizabeth from the rooms.”

I felt the small wave of horror in me swell as the scene played itself out in my mind.

Holmes ran his fingers through his hair, ruffling it. “I have been a fool!” he said to himself. “They invent a tale that sends me racing for one of the furthest points from London, leaving Elizabeth behind…in safety.”

Mycroft said gently: “I suggest you go home and look for any messages Elizabeth may have left. I have looked and found none, but you know her better than I. I will finish here and follow you.”

Holmes turned and walked away. Mycroft looked to me as I stood to follow. “Watch him, Watson. He is straining the limits of his control.”

“Yes. I am aware of that.”

“My decision to bring you here first was the correct one,” Mycroft said, standing up. “The disarray that will greet you at Baker Street would unnerve even the most placid of characters.”

It was a warning that was not lost on me. I nodded a farewell to Mycroft and walked swiftly to catch up with Holmes as he hailed a hansom.

At Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson met us at the street door. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her face had aged several years in the short period we had been gone. “You’ve seen Mr. Mycroft?” she asked Holmes fearfully, half-barring his way to the stairs.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I have,” Holmes replied. He pushed her gently aside and climbed the stairs.

I gave her a reassuring pat and followed him.

The door to his rooms was a splintered skeleton. The lock was still sitting in the frame, the wood impaled by the nails of the key plate. He pushed the door open and it jammed, half-open, on an overturned sofa.

Holmes stepped over the sofa with one long-legged stride and stood in the middle of the rug, staring at the destruction. He was not observing in his scientific manner, but merely acquainting himself with the unyielding fact of this very personal attack.

His files and papers were spread over most of the room—the result of years of careful classification scattered in minutes. The old deal table his chemical equipment sat upon had been upturned, the glass, china and metal allowed to slide down the slope to shatter and puddle on the carpet. Some noxious chemical had begun to eat into the priceless Persian rug.

As he turned a slow full circle, taking in the overturned furniture, the fragments of his eccentric collection of memorabilia from his travels and his carelessly scattered possessions, a draught from the smashed pane in the window by the fireplace lifted some of the papers and floated them over to land at his feet.

I was appalled. A personal attack on Holmes himself would never have achieved the same deep impression that this carefully calculated destruction would. I could see each item of upheaval Holmes observe strike home with the effectiveness of a well-aimed bullet.

Mrs. Hudson appeared by the door. Holmes looked at her. “No one else has been up here?”

“No, sir. Mr. Mycroft insisted I let no one in.”

“Not even the police?”

“Not even them,” she replied stoutly. “Mr. Mycroft saw to that.”

“That at least is one small mercy in my favor,” he said softly. He dropped his bag, shed his coat and jacket and rolled up his sleeves. Then he crouched down to examine the floor at his feet.

•ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•

Mycroft arrived two hours later. By that time, Holmes had finished in the main sitting room and was examining the bedroom whilst Mrs. Hudson and I cleared the remains of the sitting room.

I showed Mycroft into the bedroom and hovered curiously by the door.

Mycroft pointed to the dressing chair. “You have studied the seat?”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock replied, his voice muffled by the bed base. He extracted himself and lifted the pillows, then looked at Mycroft. “All this damage…there must have been a remarkable amount of noise. Did no one come to investigate?”

“Elizabeth apparently shattered the window in the sitting room herself in an attempt to call up some help, but there were men with guns at either end of the street, holding back witnesses.”

Sherlock pulled the counterpane aside. “And the constabulary—what were they doing?”

“They were rushing to the scene of an accident two blocks away—an accident that, it has now been discovered, was a hoax.”

Sherlock threw the counterpane to the floor and tipped the mattress over. “So, they were well organized, had large numbers of people to use and were not afraid to make a lot of noise or create a lot of fear to achieve their ends.” He shot a glance at his brother. “The newspapers?”

“I managed to suppress her name and any association with you. That’s all I could manage. The police were easier to contain, after I had a word with Tobias Gregson.”

Sherlock strode into the sitting room and over to his scattered files, where he began to sort through them. “They’ve not made any contact since taking her?”

“I rather imagine they were waiting for you to get back from Scotland,” Mycroft said, as we followed him out.

“When did they take her?”

“About seven o’clock last night.”

“The train was barely out of London.” Sherlock sank suddenly onto the sofa, which now sat in its feet once more. “She could be half a world away.”

Mycroft glanced toward me and I read the expression on his face clearly. He was surprised—not that this had hit his younger brother badly, but that it appeared to be affecting those abilities to think clearly and precisely that Holmes was famous for.

“It is hardly likely, is it?” Mycroft said gently. “They’ll want her somewhere nearby so they can use her for the bargaining lever they need her for.” His voice was dry and there was an implied criticism.

Holmes said softly, “Do not let your dislike of Elizabeth distort your perception, Mycroft.”

Mycroft pushed at a file with the ferrule of his umbrella. “You persist in that silly misconception….”

I confess I stared at the two brothers with dumb amazement. It was the first time I had ever suspected there was any dissension over Elizabeth. It occurred to me as I watched the pair that perhaps family dissension was inevitable. My friends’ lives had been bohemian and unfettered and Mycroft was very set in his ways.

“I refuse to even consider Elizabeth may be implicated in this. I would trust her with my life—
have
trusted her.” Holmes rubbed his temple. His hand trembled only slightly, now he had absorbed the worst of the facts. “As you can see for yourself, they’ve gone to a lot of trouble to take her.”

He stood and strode to the mantle where he stuffed a pipe full of tobacco. “At a conservative estimate it would have taken them ten minutes to chop down the door. Elizabeth barricaded the door, too. Once they had broken through the barricade, she besieged herself in the bedroom. Unfortunately that door did not prove so solid. A single heave, I would estimate and the lock snapped.” He started his pipe. “Elizabeth is not entirely helpless and the contest did not end there. I found this—” and he pulled Elizabeth’s long, gold-handled knife from his pocket and threw it to the floor between our feet. “It has blood on it. We know there were at least three guns involved, so it is safe to assume she probably had to contend with a gun, too.”

I picked up the knife and shuddered. The picture Holmes drew was bleaker than the one my own imagination had painted, yet I knew his educated guess was more likely to be the correct one. That this might be Elizabeth’s blood on the blade appeared a distinct possibility.

Mycroft sat in a chair. “For goodness sake, Sherlock, do you not believe I haven’t made it my business to know all about Elizabeth long ago? Her loyalty is not in question here.”

Holmes took his pipe from his mouth. “You had Elizabeth investigated?”

Mycroft had the grace to look uncomfortable. “You’re a public figure. Precautions like these must be taken.”

Holmes merely stared at Mycroft, his face immobile. Then, softly: “Do you still have the report?”

“I burnt it,” Mycroft replied. “I thought it prudent.”

Holmes tapped his pipe out into the grate. “The question still remains—who are they?”

Mycroft looked out the window. “I rather imagine we’re about to find out. Here comes Inspector Lestrade and at a fast clip.”

Lestrade made his way up the stairs at a breathless pace. I could hear his boots rattling out a staccato on the wood of the stairs. He stopped abruptly in the doorway, the expressions on his face beginning with shock and giving way rapidly to puzzlement and then to unhappy resignation.

“Then I am too late. He has already been here,” Lestrade said to Holmes.

Holmes took two paces toward Lestrade. “
Who
has already been here?” he asked and by his tone, it was obvious that whatever shadows concealed the full shape of the puzzle in his mind, Lestrade’s answer would remove them.

“Colonel Moran. He has escaped from Dartmoor. I just heard and came straight around to warn you.” Lestrade looked around and took a breath. “I am too late, I see.”

Holmes’ face became expressionless as his mind raced to compute this new information and add it to the little he already knew. Finally he glanced at Mycroft.