The local constable returned with a small search party for an official investigation, but as night was falling and the evidence seemed clear, he quickly reached the same conclusion as had I. He assured me that the bodies would quickly turn up in the Aare or more likely the Lake of Brienz into which the Aare flowed.
I ignored the constable’s suggestion that I leave with the group and with a shrug of indifference he handed me his lantern. I turned my back on the retreating figures and stared into the dark chasm of the falls and thought fondly of my friendship with the best and wisest man whom I had ever known.
It was but a short while later that the sound of a boulder hitting the pathway not ten feet from me shook me out of my reverie. I stared up the side of the cliff face but it was too dark to see much of anything. For some time I listened but I could hear nothing more.
I began to make my way down the pathway when I again heard a noise from above. Fearing another boulder I pressed my back against the rocks but the sound had stopped again. Could I possibly have imagined it? But no, in a moment the noise began afresh, faint yet steady and unmistakably drawing closer. I pulled out my service revolver. I half expected to see one of the many goats which abound in the area and I strained to catch a glimpse of them however the darkness was impenetrable. Suddenly a steely grip fastened onto the hand which was holding the revolver while another hand covered my mouth. It was then that the black of the night was replaced by the stygian blackness of unconsciousness.
I awoke to the welcoming light and warmth of a crackling fire and to the sight of my old friend Sherlock Holmes.
For a moment I felt as if I should pass out again.
The warning signs must have been evident as Holmes knelt down beside me and forced some brandy between my lips.
“Forgive the intrusion old fellow,” he said. “I took the liberty of relieving you of your brandy flask after you fell. The day has been a harrowing one and I felt we could both use a drink.
“You must also forgive the manner and suddenness of my appearance. For reasons which I will soon make clear I dare not show myself to you before this. I also did not wish you to practice that skill which you undoubtedly perfected during your army days and shoot me with the revolver which I remember you putting in your pocket this morning.”
“My God, Holmes I thought you were dead,” I said. I rubbed the rising welt on my head, where I had hit it, when startled by Holmes I had fallen. Luckily the wound appeared to be only superficial.
“It is exactly what I wanted you to think Watson.”
“But why, Holmes?” I asked.
“As you know Watson, I had voiced the opinion earlier that this affair with Professor Moriarty would prove to be the climax of my career one way or another. If I was fortunate enough to be able to rid the world of his vile presence I felt that I should have done a service to my country and to my fellow man and if he was to get the better of me, well then, I have done what I could to help balance the scales of justice. It was with this latter possibility in mind that I had left instructions with my brother Mycroft as to my affairs should anything untoward happen to me.”
“What of the note?” I asked.
“The note was quite genuine, I assure you. I truly believed that I would not return alive from the confrontation with Moriarty. He allowed me to write that message to you while awaiting me at the end of the trail. There was room for only one man at a time on the path and neither of us would trust the other at his back. Once I had finished my letter I advanced up the path to meet him. He came at me suddenly almost throwing me over the precipice. But as you know, Watson, I have knowledge of Baritsu, the Japanese system of wrestling and as I was younger and stronger I countered his attack. Although his assault was inspired, his rage made him careless and I was able to end our contest swiftly.
“He made no sound as he fell, but his eyes never left mine even as he was falling. With our struggle concluded and with no one to say any different, I thought that this might be a good opportunity for Sherlock Holmes to disappear also.”
“To disappear?”
“Yes, Watson. With the death of Moriarty there would no doubt be any number of successors to the late Professor who would wish me dead. My life would not be worth a moment’s purchase and in any case it would make it impossible for me to continue to pursue my line of work. I thought it would thus be prudent to absent myself from London for a time until things died down. All these thoughts went through my head even before the Professor hit the rocks.”
“What would you have done away from your beloved London, Holmes?”
“Oh, travel the continent and study.”
“Study what?”
“Anything and everything. All disciplines are of importance to the criminologist.”
I took another drink from my flask. “Holmes,” I asked suddenly “what of the footprints?”
“Ah yes Watson, the footprints,” he said patiently. Throughout our long friendship he had become quite accustomed to my sometimes disjointed thoughts.
“Of course my footprints would have given me away had I retreated down the path. Fortunately an alternative was at hand. Although the cliff wall appears to be smooth there are sufficient hand holds, for an experienced climber, with which to scale the wall. Twenty feet up I found a small ledge where I spent eight uncomfortable hours while the local constabulary conducted their investigation in a thorough but unimaginative manner. The hardest part my dear Watson, was not calling out to you after they had left. I had resigned myself to spending a cold and damp night on my perch when a falling boulder changed my plans.”
“Yes, one fell close to me,” I interjected. “This is a most dangerous place; it is a wonder that there are not more accidents.”
“It is certainly dangerous; however it was not an accident, Watson. After the rock fell past me I looked up and saw something which made my blood run cold.”
“I saw nothing.”
“The very outcrop upon which I was seated would have blocked your view, especially as the light was growing dim.”
“What was it you saw, Holmes?”
“Peering over the edge of the cliff top, not fifty feet above me was the face of Colonel Sebastian Moran.”
“Who is Colonel Sebastian Moran?” I asked, warming my hands over the small fire.
“Sebastian Moran was a Colonel in the Indian Army and is one of the finest big game hunters our country has ever produced. And he also,” he added as almost an afterthought, “happens to be the right-hand man of the late Professor Moriarty. If I was the perfect thinking machine you tend to depict me as in your little stories, I should have realized Moriarty would never confront me on his own. When I saw Moran I knew that my plans for an effective disappearance would not bear fruit, I also realized my life was in mortal danger. “I squeezed myself under a small outcrop of rock and waited the half hour or so until the night had deepened. Once darkness had descended I carefully made my way down the cliff side, by the same route which I had ascended, and the rest you know.”
“But why did you not call out to me Holmes, instead of accosting me in such a manner?”
“It would have only served to draw attention both to myself and to you, Watson. Moran would have had us both at the mercy of a further fusillade of rocks or even his deadly air gun.”
“You have mentioned this weapon before, Holmes.”
“Yes, Watson, Moran’s favorite weapon when not hunting big game is an air gun made by a blind German mechanic by the name of von Herder. It is noiseless and fires a .22 caliber projectile and in the hands of an expert such as Moran it is an extremely accurate and deadly weapon. Any precipitate move on my part would have drawn fire from such an eager hunter as he.”
“Then why did he try to smash our brains out with rocks instead of using his gun?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps he found it inconvenient to display such a thing in public.”
“But what of this fire Holmes, does it not make us sitting targets?”
“Put your mind at ease, Watson. This cavern which shelters us also protects us from attack, at least from any direction save the one. Moran can not be sure that we are not armed, as indeed you are, and he would not risk a frontal assault. He will wait to ambush us.”
“It is eleven now,” he said taking out his pocket watch and reading it by the glow of the fire. “We shall leave this place in four hours.”
“Why not wait until morning?”
“I do not believe that he will mount an attack in the dark while we possibly have the advantage, however by dawn we shall be in grave danger. To risk moving about in the light of day would be foolhardy indeed. I have also set some traps of my own. Colonel Sebastian Moran may soon discover there is a more experienced big game hunter in Switzerland than he. Get some sleep, Watson we shall need all of our wits about us on the morrow.”
“And what of you, Holmes?”
My friend moved to the mouth of the cavern and seated himself on a rock, well out of the small circle of light thrown by our little fire. “I shall stand sentry, Watson just in case the Colonel does comes calling.”
“I do not think that I shall sleep a wink Holmes,” I said edging closer to the fire. Despite my doubts I soon felt myself nodding off and the next thing I knew Holmes was shaking me by the shoulder.
“Come Watson, it is time to go.”
Holmes had extinguished the fire in order to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark. We had no other preparations to make for our departure.
“Quiet Watson, our lives may depend on it.”
As I may have possibly mentioned elsewhere in these narratives my friend’s ability to see in the dark was uncanny and taking my arm he led us unerringly to the bottom of the path. Soon we were making our way cross country and back to the village of Meiringen.
Although it was evident to me that Holmes expected some type of trouble our return journey was uneventful. The trip seemed to take an eternity, but in a little over an hour we were back at the hotel where we woke up a bleary eyed and surprised Herr Steiler. He gave us the use of the two empty beds which we had occupied the previous night and cheerily wished us a good night.
The sun was high when I awoke and I quickly packed the few belongings which I had left there pending our return from Rosenlaui, and descended to the dining room. I greeted Holmes who was already seated and reading a newspaper. He ignored the savory looking breakfast which was in front of him.
“Good morning Watson,” he said gaily. “I trust you enjoyed your sleep.” His breezy manner was betrayed by the weariness which was etched upon his face. Mumbling some reply I poured myself a cup of coffee. I slumped into a chair and sipped on the deliciously strong beverage. Following our simple repast we fondly bid farewell to our hosts and began our journey home. Holmes, I noticed, chose an opposite route to one which would take us past the falls of Reichenbach.
It took us another three days to make our way out of Switzerland and across France, making a brief stop in Paris to admire Monsieur Eiffel’s magnificent new edifice on the banks of the Seine.
Holmes all the while remained vigilant. My friend seemed ill at ease and while he could converse well and knowledgeably on almost any subject he barely spoke at all. Our trip though was almost anticlimactic after our adventures on the Continent and soon we were nestled in Holmes’ rooms in Baker Street.
“Tomorrow, Holmes I shall be able to return to a normal life, my practice and most wonderfully of all I will be able to rejoin Mary,” I said accepting his offer of a brandy and a bed for the night.
“Yes Watson, my former client can, no doubt, hardly wait to get her claws into you again,” he said with more than a hint of sarcasm.
“Goodnight, Holmes,” I said wearily. “I will see you in the morning.”
He made no reply, as he sat in his chair by the fire and stared into the flames.
CHAPTER 2
The week long excursion had taken its toll upon me, for despite my desire to rejoin my wife I did not awaken before noon on the following day.
With the thrill of our adventure over I half expected to see Holmes sprawled indolently upon the settee but somewhat to my relief he was gone. It had been some four years since last I had roomed with him and having spent a week together twenty four hours a day I felt a certain exhilaration at being alone.
Despite the late hour I rang downstairs in the hope of having the parlour-maid bring up some toast and coffee for my breakfast. To my astonishment it was Mrs. Hudson herself who answered my summons. She was happy to see me, although a little put off at my request for breakfast at such an ungodly hour.
“My dear Mrs. Hudson,” I said when she returned with a large pot of coffee, “I had expected you to still be in Scotland visiting your sister.”
She set down the tray, upon which were not only several slices of toast but also a hearty serving of rashers and eggs. “Mr. Holmes sent a telegram from Paris three days ago and said it would be safe to return. Even though Mrs. Turner was good enough to look in on this place and feed my cats while I was gone it is wonderful to be home.”
I remembered Holmes sending only one telegram from the French capital and that one to his brother. As I thought I was privy to all of my friend’s correspondence I was at a loss as to when he may have sent this last message.
“Mr. Holmes has gone out I see?”
“Oh yes sir, he left hours ago.”
As always I marveled at Holmes’ ability to get by with little or no sleep. As a doctor I felt this habit would eventually have a debilitating effect on him but it seemed that the only thing to wear him down was inactivity.
“You do not know where he went then?”
“No, Doctor. I did hear him come down the stairs while I was putting the kettle on the boil. He called out a good morning to me, and before I could say ‘good morning Mr. Holmes’ he was gone.”
The day was an exceedingly fine one and my spirits were high as I whistled for a cab to take me to my own home in Kensington. The streets were teeming with traffic and the journey seemed much longer than normal. As always Oxford Street was in the process of being ripped apart and the gangs of men and machinery seemed ever intent on inconveniencing the London traveler. The trip was in fact much longer than I could have anticipated and it was an hour and a half after setting out from Baker Street that I finally arrived at my modest home and surgery in Kensington.
Mary was in the sitting room reading a letter when I arrived. Silently I stood in the doorway, watching her.
“Hello sir,” said the maid walking up behind me. Startled, my wife looked up and with a little cry she threw down the missive and rushed to greet me. Though it had been no more than a week since we last had seen each other subsequent events had made it seem much longer. We embraced for a long time, and there were tears in her eyes and if truth be told my own eyes were probably moist.
“Oh James, I am so happy to see you,” she said employing the nickname that only she would use. It was a habit which began at a time when we were first courting and it was a habit which I did not try to break her of.
“The daily papers reported that Mr. Holmes had met with a most unfortunate end and I was so worried for him and indeed for you both.”
“Did you not receive my telegram form Paris?” I asked.
“Yes, however the reports of Mr. Holmes death reached the newspapers before I received your message. To my great relief the newspapers also reported that you were not harmed. Is Mr. Holmes really alive?”
“Yes my dear, he is fine.” Mary had a soft spot in her heart for Holmes ever since he had assisted her in the matter of the Agra treasure.
“But what of those newspaper reports?”
“It appears that the standards of the European press are no better than those of their English counterparts. They reported the story without thoroughly investigating the facts and Holmes felt no need to contradict them. The London papers merely took at face value the reports from the French news agency.”
“And w
hat of you John? Were you in any danger?”
Not wanting to worry her I said nothing, instead moving to the sideboard to pour myself a drink.
“John,” she said.
“Would you like a drink?” I asked her.
“Please.”
My wife knew me well enough to know that something had happened and she also knew that I would not be rushed into telling her of it. However with the patience of which only a wife or a clergyman was capable she eventually coaxed the story from me.
Mary looked worried. “This Colonel Moran sounds to me to be a most dangerous creature. Does Mr. Holmes expect further trouble from the man?” she asked.
“Holmes recognizes that Moran is a dangerous and cunning foe but thinks he is a spent force without Professor Moriarty directing him, but enough of this depressing business,” I said. “I saw you reading a letter when I came in. “Anything interesting?” I asked pouring us both another sherry.
“It is from my friend Anna Rathbone,” she said picking up several pieces of paper from the settee. “She and Philip are thinking of starting a family however she says the Boers are becoming restless and they may have to leave Johannesburg and move back to England.”
“That is good news. She is the violinist, is she not?” I said.
“Yes. Your friend, Mr. Holmes, always liked her for that very reason,” she said.
“I believe that she is one of the few women whom Holmes both likes and admires. But tell me Mary, has nothing else of interest happened since I have been away?” I asked. I had missed the hustle and bustle of London and was keen to acquaint myself with the latest news.
“I can think of nothing, save for the fact that there has been a policeman parading himself up and down our street all week long.”
“That was probably of Holmes’ doing. Since you refused his request to put up at a hotel he undoubtedly spoke with Inspector Lestrade about having some extra men keep watch over you.”
I felt this could actually have been the work of either of the Holmes brothers as Mycroft also apparently had some influence with the Yard.
The Adventure of the Tired Captain A Sherlock Holmes Case Page 2