The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Veiled Detective

Twenty-Nine

FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN H. WATSON

Carrying my new suitcase filled with freshly purchased clothes that Ihoped would be sufficient for our sojourn to the Continent, I made my way down platform three of Victoria Station, heading for Carriage Bof the Dover train, as Ihad been instructed by Sherlock Holmes. My heart sank when Iobserved that the carriage was already occupied by a venerable Italian priest. He gave me a brief greeting as Ientered, and then returned to his contemplation of a book of prayer.

Stowing my luggage in the overhead rack, Istepped back out on to the platform, eager to catch a glimpse of my friend. In vain Isearched among the group of travellers for the lithe figure of Sherlock Holmes. There was no sign of him. Achill of fear came over me, as Iperceived that his absence could mean only one thing: some blow had befallen him during the day; Moriarty had caught up with him.

The porters were slamming all the doors in readiness for departure and the guard was ready with his whistle to send the engine on its way. Reluctantly, Iclambered inside the carriage and slumped down in my seat.

“Don’t look so glum, Watson. Everything is going according to plan.”

I turned in uncontrollable astonishment. The aged ecclesiastic had turned his face towards me. For an instant the wrinkles disappeared, the nose drew away from the chin, the lower lip ceased to protrude, and the mouth to mumble, the dull eyes regained their fire, and the drooping figure expanded. The next moment, the whole frame collapsed again and Holmes was gone as quickly as he had come.

“Great heavens!” I cried. “How you startled me!”

Holmes grinned. “Every precaution is still necessary. I have reason to believe they are hot upon our trail.” He rose from his seat and peered from the window. “As I thought. See, Watson, see?”

There, some way down the platform, were two men running in a vain attempt to catch the moving train. I recognised them both: Colonel Sebastian Moran and Professor James Moriarty. Reaching the end of the platform, reluctantly they accepted the futility of their pursuit. They came to a halt and stood stern-faced, watching the train as it sped away.

“By the skin of our teeth, Watson. By the skin of our teeth. Despite all our precautions, you see we have cut it fine,” said Holmes, laughing. Throwing off the black cassock and hat which had formed his disguise, he packed them away in his luggage.

“But we made it,” I replied, my heart lightening at the thought. “And as this is an express train, and the boat runs in conjunction with it, I should think we have shaken them off very effectively.”

Holmes lit his pipe before responding. “My dear Watson, you do not imagine that if I were the pursuer I should allow myself to be beaten by such a slight obstacle as this?”

I shook my head.

“And neither will the Professor. This man is on the same intellectual plane as myself and has as much dogged determination in his pursuits as I have in mine.”

“What will he do?”

“Exactly what I should do.”

“Which is...?”

“Engage a Special.”

“But that would take time.”

“Not too much time, with Moriarty’s contacts, money and powers of persuasion. And our train stops for a while at Canterbury and there is always a delay at the boat. I am sure he will catch up with us there.”

“What can we do?”

“We shall get out at Canterbury.”

“And then?”

“Well, we must make a cross-country journey to Newhaven, and so over to Dieppe. Moriarty will again do what I should do. He will travel on to Paris, track down our luggage and wait two days at the depot. In the mean time, we shall treat ourselves to a couple of carpet-bags and make our way at leisure to Switzerland, via Luxemburg and Basle.”

“You had this contingency all planned,” I smiled.

“Of course,” he said, sending a cloud of smoke spiralling to the luggage rack.

At Canterbury we alighted, only to find we had to wait an hour before we could get a train to Newhaven.

I was still gazing ruefully at the rapidly disappearing luggage van containing my brand new leather valise containing my brand new wardrobe, purchased earlier that day, when Holmes tugged at my sleeve and pointed up the line.

“Already, you see?” said he.

Far away, from among the Kentish woods, there rose a thin spray of smoke. A minute later, a carriage and an engine could be seen flying along the open curve which led to the station. We had hardly time to hide behind a pile of luggage abandoned on the platform before the Special passed with a rattle and a roar, beating a blast of hot air in our faces.

“There he goes,” said Holmes, as we watched the carriage swing and rock over the points. “It seems that the Professor has underestimated me. It would have been a fine coup-de-maître if he had deduced how I would act once I was aware that he was on my track. But he didn’t. It reveals a very satisfying weakness in his strategy. However, the vital question now is whether we take our dinner in the buffet here, or run the chance of starving before we reach Newhaven.”

We made our way to Brussels that night, and spent two days there, moving on our third day as far as Strasburg. On the Monday morning, Holmes telegraphed Inspector Patterson, and in the evening we found a reply waiting for us in our hotel. On opening it, Holmes swore vehemently, tore up the telegram and hurled it into the grate.

“I might have known it. Damned incompetence!”

I had rarely seen Holmes this angry. His normally pale features were suffused with the glow of anger.

“What is it?” I asked.

“He has escaped!”

“Moriarty?”

“They have secured the whole gang, with exception of its leader. He has given them the slip. Of course, when I left the country, there was no one intellectually competent to deal with him. But I did think I had put the whole game in Patterson’s hands. That certainly alters cases. I think it best if you return to England now.”

“What on earth for?”

“Because you will find me an extremely dangerous companion now. The Professor’s occupation is gone. He is extremely vulnerable if he returns to London. If I read his character right, he will devote the whole of his considerable energies to revenging himself on me. My demise will be his raison d’être. I certainly recommend you return to your wife and your practice at once.”

We sat in a Strasburg salle-à-manger, arguing the question for half an hour. I was hardly going to desert my friend now. Indirectly he had been responsible for cutting the bonds that bound me to Moriarty and granting me freedom. I also realised that, while the villain lived, isolated though he might be now, he still posed a threat to both Holmes and me. If Holmes was correct — as I believe he was — that Moriarty’s sole desire now was to destroy Holmes, then it would not be too long before their paths crossed. I wanted to be there when that happened. Eventually, I convinced Holmes that I was going to stay to the bitter end.

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.