The Last Sherlock Holmes Story (20 page)

There were still two hours to wait before the departure of the boat train. We occupied this time with a long drive across the river to Peckham, where we breakfasted amply in an establishment frequented almost exclusively by omnibus drivers. Shortly before eleven o’clock we drew up in the concourse at Victoria Station. I remained in the cab while Holmes purchased the tickets. At his signal I joined him, and we both then rushed headlong through the milling throng and clambered aboard the already moving train. Needless to say this behaviour, together with the eccentricity of our apparel, attracted some little attention. But it was not this which caused Holmes to utter an oath as he gazed back at the receding platform.

‘Damn! It’s Moriarty!’

I rushed to see, but another train pulling out hid the station from view. Holmes smote the partition of our compartment in frustration and anger.

‘The cunning devil! He must have gambled that we were heading for the Continent. When we gave him the slip he simply made for Victoria and sat down to wait. It is what I myself would have done in the circumstances. It is well we took no chances at the station! But I fear we are up against it once more, friend Watson.’

By now this continued pantomime was beginning to pall on me, and I found it hard to keep my voice from betraying that fact.

‘I scarcely see what good it can do him to know we have caught this train. It is an express, and the boat runs in connection with it. Even if he engages a special he must arrive too late.’

Holmes favoured me with a pitying smile.

‘My dear Watson, you evidently did not realise my meaning when I said that this man may be taken as being quite on the same intellectual plane as myself. His plans have been laid for months, and you can be certain that he will not have overlooked the possibility of my escaping him in London. Our train may achieve sixty miles an hour, but the impulses in those wires’ – he pointed out of the window – ‘travel at the speed of thought. Even if we break every record for the run, Moriarty’s henchmen in Dover will have well over an hour to prepare for our arrival, and when we step from this carriage we will be as good as dead!’

I shrugged my shoulders.

‘If that is the case,’ I muttered, ‘we had better say our prayers. The train does not stop, and there is no way out of this compartment.’

Holmes took a large pinch of snuff and settled back in the corner without a word. The train sped on, shaking off the tentacles of suburban London and striking out into
the vernal Kentish countryside. Outside, life burgeoned, fresh and strong and straight, whilst in the fetid air of our compartment lurked a blight that sickened and twisted everything it touched. Already I was exhausted again. The simple act of constantly moving from my world to Holmes’s and back again, as I had to every moment, was in itself debilitating to an extent I had not foreseen. Thank God I had the cocaine to help me! But its spell was wearing off, and I needed privacy to renew the dose. I lit a cigar and chewed anxiously on the smoke. How dangerously demoralising it was to turn from those stilly gathered oast-houses to confront a man capable of brutally murdering a young mother, bottling her gravid womb, and then celebrating this infamy with a diabolical pastiche of one of our finest Christmas hymns!

We roared through Chatham and Sittingbourne, and still Holmes spoke not a word. As we passed Faversham he roused himself at last, crossed to the outside of the compartment and tried the door. It was locked. He took out his keychain, and opened a small instrument which was attached to it. With this he worked at the lock for a few minutes. Then he reached up and pulled the alarm cord.

‘Climb out on the running-board, Watson. When I shout, we jump.’

He opened the door. The brakes were squealing viciously but the train was still moving very fast.

‘After you, Holmes.’

With a shrug, he went. Gingerly I followed him out on to the narrow board, clinging for support to the brass hand-holds. The train was now slowing perceptibly, although the cinder bed beneath us was still but a streak. It was very awkward having to hold my bag while grasping the shaking carriage, and I was wondering how long I would be able to keep it up when Holmes shouted and was gone. I shut my eyes and leapt out into space. The fall
was painful, but I was soon on my feet and running towards Holmes, who stood beckoning to me from the abutment of a bridge some fifty yards away. In the other direction the train was grinding to a halt as I joined my companion. Together we climbed the bank, slipped through a hedge, and started off along a little country lane. A short walk brought us to the village of Chartham, where we repaired to the inn. After a leisurely lunch we remade our plans in consultation with Bradshaw. By leaving Holmes for a few minutes at table I was able to restore my flagging energy and confidence, and the day ended without further ado in our sailing aboard the night packet from Newhaven.

I do not propose to weary my readers with a detailed account of our peregrinations through France and Germany. The journey from London to the coast was the model upon which all our subsequent travel was undertaken, and if I had the strength and the time I might compile a catalogue of moonlight flits, assumed identities, invisible foes, arrangements continually revised, and many and various laws infringed. But such a task would be tiresome and nothing to the point. All that matters is that at no time during these five days was Holmes out of my sight, and at no time was I able to bring about the decisive confrontation that I sought. The affair was clearly going to be more difficult than I had imagined. The new month saw us quitting Geneva for the Valais, and found me facing a problem which might aptly be described as insoluble – how to replace my dwindling supply of cocaine. I had only to go to a chemist’s and purchase a quantity of the hydrochloride, which I could then dilute at will. But as I have said, at no time during the five days was Sherlock Holmes out of my sight, as a consequence of which I was at no time out of his. I devised several stratagems to obtain the drug secretly, but they all failed. Meanwhile I was having to inject ever
larger doses of the solution to maintain that state of vigilance which was so essential, for as I continued to deny my body its rightful rest, so it increased the interest it exacted on the mounting debt.

Had some Olympian observer been following our progress, he must have been mightily amused at the contrast between my expectations that morning in Baker Street and the reality which was unfolding. I had imagined myself – strong, righteous and resolved – leading the bewildered and distraught Holmes to a deserted spot where, man to man, we would have things out. Instead, a Holmes who arose each morning still fitter and more lucid than he had been the day before was dragging his increasingly weakened and distracted companion across Europe on an itinerary which he refused to discuss towards a destination he declined to disclose. In short, with each day that passed we resembled more and more the Holmes and Watson of old. The crisis came when our departure from Geneva – at three o’clock in the morning, in a cart full of empty milk churns – ruled out the last possibility of my obtaining further supplies of cocaine. I had just three days’ stock remaining. A few hours after failing to refresh my blood with the drug I would undergo a nervous collapse, and for the next two or three days I would be quite incapable of looking after myself, never mind Holmes. Thus I now knew that the
dénouement
could on no account be delayed beyond the fourth day of May.

On Saturday the 2nd we walked from Leuk to Kandersteg over the Gemmi Pass. I am told the route is extremely scenic. The condition of my nerves, to say nothing of my ankle, prevented me from forming an opinion on the subject. Holmes quite made up for my low spirits, however, displaying a vitality and an exuberance that were almost excessive. We were accompanied by a guide the entire distance, and any initiative on my part
was therefore impossible. I remember Holmes making much of a rock-fall which occurred quite close to our path. He clearly regarded the incident as another attempt on his life, and would have none of the guide’s protestations that such mishaps were common at that season. After spending the night at Kandersteg, we descended the next morning to Spiez, where Holmes announced that we might indulge in the luxury of public transport for the rest of the day. We accordingly took the steamer to Brienz, continuing that evening by train to Meiringen, where we put up at the Englischer Hof.

As I kept my vigil through the long alpine night, I knew that the morrow must inevitably witness either the success or the failure of my enterprise. Fortunately for me the proprietor of the inn, one Peter Steiler, had worked for some time at the Grosvenor Hotel, and his command of English was excellent. Early the next morning, while Holmes was still asleep, I found Steiler greeting the dawn from the porch of the hotel with a series of yodelling yawns. I engaged him in conversation concerning the noteworthy sights in the locality, and as a result I was able to suggest to Holmes over breakfast that we walk across the hills to Rosenlaui that day, taking in the famous Reichenbach falls on our way. Holmes replied, as was his wont, that such had in fact been his intention. I excused myself, and in the privacy of our room I drew the last dregs of cocaine solution from its bottle and injected it into my scarred forearm. Once again I savoured the gush of strength and clarity and purpose. All was well. The die was cast. Vengeance was to be mine.

To my chagrin and dismay, however, Holmes absolutely refused to start our expedition until after lunch. We had been ceaselessly on the move for nine days, he pointed out, and a morning’s rest would do us both good. The walk to Rosenlaui was a matter of a few hours only. We would enjoy a pleasant lunch at the Englischer Hof
and set out about two o’clock. I was furious. This whim of Holmes’s posed a serious threat to the success of my efforts, since it prevented me forcing a conclusion while the stimulating effects of the drug were at their height. I argued, I cajoled, I begged, I sulked, but all in vain. The pictures I painted of charming picnics in alpine meadows, a bottle of Neuchâtel cooling in a near-by stream, entirely failed to move Holmes. He had made up his mind to spend the morning in Meiringen and that was that. And so I was obliged to fritter away my precious energy on such all-important activities as admiring our landlord’s collection of wood-carvings, and listening to Holmes hold forth upon the effect of climate in forming the character of nations.

It was after two o’clock when we finally set out. I was silent, husbanding my strength for the trial that lay ahead. My companion, by contrast, was at his blithest and wittiest. Undeterred by my preoccupation, he persevered gamely in pointing out to me the many beauties of the surrounding landscape. But I was conscious only of the sickening sagging of my spirits, and of the exhaustion and delirium lurking like a pack of wolves at the fringes of my mind.

We had covered about half the distance to the falls when I discovered, with much annoyance, that I had left my watch at the inn. Quite apart from its actual value, the piece was of some considerable sentimental interest to me, having belonged to my late father. I could not feel easy, I told Holmes, until I had it once more in my pocket. But it is always tedious to retrace one’s footsteps, and there was no point in his returning with me to Meiringen. I therefore suggested that he continue alone to the falls, where I would rejoin him as soon as possible. Holmes readily agreed, and we parted. I hurried off down the hillside, hoping that I had not made a mistake in letting Holmes out of my sight. But I did not see how else the
affair could be managed. I reached Meiringen in a little under the half-hour. Steiler was lounging on the porch of the inn as I hurried up.

‘I trust she is no worse?’ I cried.

The good old Swiss gazed at me with an expression of stolid puzzlement.

‘Worse?’

‘The sick Englishwoman! Come, man, lead me to her!’

Steiler’s puzzlement darkened to utter confusion.

‘There is no Englishwoman staying here!’ he exclaimed. ‘What are you talking about?’

For answer, I thrust a letter under his nose. It was written upon the stationery of the Englischer Hof and explained that shortly after Holmes and I had left for the falls, an English lady had arrived in the last stages of consumption. Nothing could ease her final hours so much as the presence of an English doctor, and if I would have the goodness to return, etc., etc. The letter was signed ‘Peter Steiler’. That individual was now evidently reading it for the first time.

‘A Swiss lad came running after us with this letter,’ I explained. ‘Of course, I could hardly refuse such a request. But now you tell me –’

The situation proved too much for the honest Switzer’s carefully cultivated English.

‘This is not my write!’ he burst out. ‘This is not my signing! My paper, yes, but that makes nothing. You should look to –’

But I did not stay for the landlord’s suggestions. I had pressing business elsewhere, and besides, the author of the letter was well known to me. I hurried back up the path leading to the Reichenbach falls. My watch, which had apparently been safely tucked away in my fob all the while, showed that it was now twenty past three. Almost eight hours had elapsed since I prematurely injected the last of the cocaine, and it was a miracle that I was still on
my feet. No doubt it was the air that was the saving of me. Under England’s clouded skies I must have succumbed, but that alpine atmosphere, so piercingly pure and cool, seemed to revive my flagging spirits with every breath. The landscape, too, helped me to concentrate. At those rarefied heights one might as well be on the moon for any sense one has of the operative pressures of civilisation. My mind, weakened by its long dependence on the drug, was already subject to mild hallucinations, but in an odd way these too served my purpose. At times I seemed to be climbing through the painted lumber of a theatre set, like some abstraction from an old morality; no longer ‘Good old Watson’, but Revenge with his dagger.

Such notions no doubt seem fanciful, set down in cold print. I can only say that they sustained me through that long dizzying climb from Meiringen to the falls at Reichenbach. When I reached my destination, at long last, my only anxiety was that Holmes might have given me the slip. Nor was I immediately reassured, for at first glance there was no sign of him. Then I observed the path which has been cut into the rock half-way around the fall, to afford a better prospect of that attraction. Even a man of steady nerves might well have thought twice before venturing out on to that narrow ledge. In my condition, with my head yawing and spinning, it was harrowing in the extreme. But all my trials seemed worthwhile when, coming in view of the falls, I beheld Sherlock Holmes standing there with his back to the rock and his arms folded, gazing down at the rushing waters. A yard beyond, the path ended abruptly. With grim satisfaction I realised that I now commanded the only exit from the trap in which Holmes had so obligingly placed himself.