Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series) (22 page)

“Moran. The enemy reveals himself.”

“The escape was obviously meticulously planned, along with all these arrangements,” Mycroft said, indicating the state of the room.

“Yes and all were executed within a twelve hour period…or perhaps less. To ensure I would not be warned.” Holmes looked at Lestrade. “He escaped yesterday afternoon, Inspector?”

Lestrade nodded. “No one was hurt then?” he asked, looking about. His gaze fell on Mrs. Hudson’s face and her red-rimmed eyes. “My dear god,” he whispered. His face seemed to lose what little color remained after his exhausting race through the hot summer streets to warn Holmes. “The kidnapped woman in the
Standard
…it was Miss Elizabeth.”

•ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•

I was wakened by a dim patter of footsteps—slow, measured steps—and for a moment I was returned to a decade earlier, when Holmes would tirelessly pace the midnight hearth rug, solving difficult conundrums.

I looked at the clock beside the bed. It was just past midnight. I had only been asleep an hour. The evening had consisted of an exhausting interview with Lestrade and Gregson. The latter had arrived in response to Lestrade’s summons. Mycroft had also remained, sitting in the corner by the shattered window, silently absorbing the story as Holmes and I told of the woman who had paraded as the distraught Mrs. Thacker and the detailed, convincing story she had spun.

Holmes was in the novel position of being the victim of a crime and suffered Gregson’s and Lestrade’s thorough examination with bad grace. Both those gentleman, however, were astute enough to realize that Holmes was merely venting his anger over his own gullibility and maintained their professional poise.

Unfortunately, Holmes could also see that they were making allowances for this fact and the knowledge chafed.

The pair of detectives eventually rose and bid us a good evening. After their departure Mycroft had begun his own series of questions. To my surprise, Holmes submitted to this second inquiry with better humor. My surprise abated when I realized that Mycroft had a different purpose in mind. He was not merely gathering information, but questioning Holmes in a manner that was prompting them both to consider every obscure corner of the affair, searching for any facts that their collaborative reasoning might infer.

After a humble and very late supper hastily scratched together by Mrs. Hudson, I had gratefully fallen onto the bed Holmes offered me for the night and immediately slept.

Sensing the unsettled mind behind the measured steps I was listening to now, I rose and drew on my borrowed dressing gown and made my way to the sitting-room.

Most of the disarray had been re-organized and was stacked, packed, or otherwise pushed into related heaps for Holmes to sort out at his leisure, leaving most of the floor space clear, including his thinking circuit.

Holmes was on the furthest point of his lap about the sofa and looked up at me.

“Watson. I woke you. My apologies.”

“No, do not apologize,” I told him. “I came out to see if there is something I can do for you.”

“As a doctor or a friend?”

“Both.”

“I assume your Hippocratic Oath would not allow you to perform a quasi-lobotomy on various parts of my brain?” Holmes asked, with a touch of acid.

“I was thinking of a sedative,” I replied, suppressing a smile at the request.

“No.” Holmes pushed his hands into his pockets. “I need my wits fully functional, not asleep. So instead, as a friend, talk to me, Watson.” He paced the hearth rug. “Take my mind away from the pictures that are plaguing me.”

I slid into Holmes’ vacant and cold chair. “Yes, I thought it was something like this that was goading you along.”

Holmes’ step increased slightly. “It is the curse of a good imagination, Watson. The images are persistent.” He halted and glanced at me from under his lowered brow.

“You’re a logical thinker,” I said smoothly. “Surely it is occurred to you that your concern is exciting your imagination and exaggerating the images.”

“Yes, yes, I am aware of that,” Holmes said impatiently. “But truth and fear are too mixed now to separate and I cannot halt them. So I must persevere with them.”

I studied him professionally. “At least you can reassure yourself she is alive. You know she has to be or Moran has lost any bargaining leverage.”

“Oh, I know she is alive,” Holmes said quickly.

“Well then, that’s one area where you can distinguish between truth and your fears,” I pointed out.

Holmes paused at the fireplace and rested his slippered foot on the skirt guard, and his hand on the shelf. “Not even my fears have entertained that possibility. Elizabeth must be alive….” he began bleakly, but the thought was left unfinished. He glanced up at me. “I owe it to Elizabeth to find her. I owe it as an apology. She was right, not I.”

“How was she right?” I asked.

“If I had not been so anxious to leave for Scotland, I would have questioned, as Elizabeth did, the similarity of the case with that other I compared it to. Elizabeth told me the notes were missing.” He pointed to the sorry pile of documents by the hearth. “They must have been missing since Moriarty’s men ransacked these rooms twelve years ago. They were probably taken then. Moran retained them and used the details to dangle an authentic mystery before me. They knew I wouldn’t be able to resist the lure of successfully solving this case when I had failed so miserably the first time.” His voice was somewhat bitter. “If I hadn’t been quite so hasty, I would have seen it too and known without doubt who was dangling the bait.”

I said slowly, “I do not believe she knew consciously that something was wrong. It was just a feeling of uneasiness.” I recalled the impression she had left with me of premonition. I had not imagined it, after all.

I looked away from the atypically still figure in front of me and my gaze fell to the table beside Holmes’ chair. His watch chain sat in a small heap beside the whiskey glass and as I pushed at it with my forefinger a green glitter caught the firelight. The chain spread and revealed the small Chinese coin that was his fob and two small green gems mounted in gold along the length of chain. I had found Elizabeth’s two missing gems.

Suddenly I recalled Holmes’ manner of tucking his hand into his fob pocket when away from Baker Street, and thinking deeply. Now the chain lay beside his chair, deliberately sought out and carried there.

“Elizabeth is quite capable of looking after herself,” I said thoughtfully.

Holmes looked up from the fire. I saw his gaze go to where my fingers were touching the chain. “You know their history, then,” he said. “But there are many ways of overcoming a solitary woman, no matter how skilled or prepared she may be. As this room bears witness, Watson, if you are determined enough and have the numbers, it can be done. It is that very force which may have been necessary that worries me.” He turned and began to pace again, one lap before arriving back at the hearth. “This is the very thing I took all precautions to avoid. My greatest fear was that my enemies would learn of Elizabeth’s importance to me and use that knowledge.” He kicked the cold grate. “So, now I am living my nightmare and my passage through it is no easier upon waking.”

I pushed the watch chain back into a neat pile. “Holmes, you’re existing on an overdrawn account. You must get some sleep. This pacing is not achieving any results and will not while your mind is distracted so. Let me prepare a sleeping draught for you. I can at least guarantee you eight hours undisturbed by nightmares—either the waking or sleeping variety.”

He refused, of course. But I am more deft at handling Holmes since I have had practical examples from Elizabeth. I covertly dropped the powder into his brandy and topped up the glass before going to bed myself.

•ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•

I woke to find Holmes standing over my bed, wrapped in his dressing gown. His eyes were bloodshot, proof that my sleeping draft had worked. He ground the heel of a hand into the hollow of one eye as I watched. “We have a visitor, Watson,” he said and turned and walked back out into the sitting room.

Alarmed, I scrambled out of bed and hastily drew on my gown, before following him out.

It was much later than I had first supposed, for the clock chimed the half hour after ten as I entered the sitting room. It looked little different from the previous night. Holmes would have had very little time to work before the sleeping draught had taken effect.

Inspector Lestrade was standing by the table, identifying two rugged, useful-looking chaps to Holmes. I guessed they were policemen out of uniform, here to help protect Holmes from Moran’s revenge.

“Right, you two,” Lestrade finished up. “One by the door and another across the street. Tell the others they’re relieved and they’re to go home and get some sleep. Try not to look like bobbies out of uniform, lads.”

They nodded and left the room.

“You had men patrolling last night?” Holmes asked Lestrade.

“Yes.”

Holmes picked up a box of broken china and dropped it onto the table with a crash. “There really is no need, Lestrade. I can manage this situation.”

“Now, not another word, Mr. Holmes. This is my sort of business and it is nice to be able to help you out for a change, rather than come to you for help as I usually do.”

“If that is the case, there are many other more appropriate ways—” Holmes began, picking up a shard of china that was all that remained of Elizabeth’s favorite teapot.

But Lestrade cut him off with a quick wave of his hand and said firmly. “I insist, Mr. Holmes. Or else I will have to turn this into official police business.”

Holmes looked at him with genuine astonishment. The threat was quite clear, for if Lestrade did turn the affair into official police business, it would be taken out of Holmes’ hand entirely and he would be forced to rely on Lestrade’s skills. To Holmes, that was unthinkable.

Lestrade, for once sensitive to atmosphere, added awkwardly: “I like Miss Elizabeth, Holmes. I do not want to see any harm done to her through my own idleness.”

Holmes dropped the shard of china back into the box. “I see,” he said blandly. “Well, you’d better sit down then, Inspector.”

I could almost feel Holmes’ bafflement at this sudden appearance of a new element in the equation. It was the first time he had ever come face to face with Elizabeth’s true influence on his world and he had been given much to think about.

Lestrade settled himself on the sofa and I turned back to the bedroom to dress, for Lestrade would not be leaving in haste.

By the time I emerged into the sitting room again, we had another visitor. Mycroft sat on Holmes’ favorite chair, his stick between his knees, both feet placed precisely on either side and his hands resting on the cane’s head. He was studying Lestrade in majestic silence.

Holmes looked up from his sorting, his face thoughtful and his manner subdued. I recognized the sign. He was thinking—and thinking hard. He nodded when he saw me.

“Be a good fellow and play host for me while I change?” he asked and without waiting for an answer, disappeared into his bedroom.

I sat down on the sofa opposite Lestrade and nodded to Mycroft. “Good morning, Mycroft. You’re up and about early.” For Mycroft was about much earlier than was his well-established and rarely broken habit.

Mycroft pushed at the carpet with his stick and I remembered the action from the previous day. Mycroft was feeling ill at ease. “I thought I might be of some help,” he said. “Moran appears to have all the cards at the moment—” Then he winced. “Perhaps I should rephrase that….”

I interjected. “How do you think you can help?”

“I am not really sure, but something is bound to happen sooner or later. Moran will not leave things as they are, not now. If I am here….”

I studied him. It appeared to me that Mycroft was suffering the same agonies as Lestrade. I wondered if everyone who knew Elizabeth and were privy to the fact of her abduction would eventually arrive upon the doorstep, hoping to be able to help in some undefined way when the climax arrived.

Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to enter, bearing her largest tray spread with an enormous morning tea. She nodded wordlessly to me and to Lestrade and Mycroft, as she transferred the things to the table and placing the box Holmes had been delving into to one side. Just as wordlessly she left again.

“Tea, gentlemen?” I offered.

There was a knock on the street door as we were serving ourselves and Holmes returned to the room in time to receive the next visitor. “Gregson. Good morning. Come in, come in. Your colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here already.”

I examined Holmes suspiciously, for I knew the bonhomie was false. His face was inscrutable. He drew Gregson into the room and over to the table.

The two official detectives greeted each other politely. It was apparent they had buried their professional rivalry for the duration, for Lestrade immediately replaced his cup and turned his attention to Gregson.

“We have an interview with the Governor of Dartmoor at three o’clock this afternoon,” Gregson told him.

Mycroft lifted his chin to study Gregson, his attention caught, as was mine, for if there were any clues to be had on Moran’s whereabouts, I knew they would probably be found at Dartmoor prison.