The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Veiled Detective

Thirty

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.”