Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series)

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  He’d had a start of four hours, for it wasn’t until the evening cell-check that the substitution was discovered.

  The workman left behind had been questioned thoroughly and his background scrutinized and it was concluded he was as innocent as he claimed.

  We also spent some time looking at the behavior records of all those we spoke to, reading for any conflicting information or other clues.

  Moran was, according to all we spoke to and his indisputable record, a model prisoner. He behaved as expected and caused no trouble. He associated with none of the prisoners who were considered troublemakers and even those prisoners deemed his close associates were only vaguely acquainted with him. He wrote no letters and did not appear to communicate with anyone outside the prison, with the sole exception of his sister. She was the only visitor.

  The sister, Beatrice O’Connor, lived in London. She had also been questioned. The transcribed notes of her interview were available to us and made unexciting reading. She was as virtuous in fact as Moran appeared to be by report—a Matron at Saint Luke’s Hospital, married and with a blameless reputation which had already withstood countless investigations as a result of Moran’s criminal activities.

  Lestrade could add more to the prison’s information. “I personally interviewed her when Moran was put on trial in 1894. Mrs. O’Connor would have disowned him if she’d known how to go about it. An amazing difference in siblings—virtue on one hand and corruption on the other.”

  It was not an isolated phenomenon. Moriarty’s brother James had been as good and kind as his brother was evil. “I think we can safely discount Beatrice O’Connor,” I replied.

  We emerged from the prison compound into the evening light and wearily made our way to the station and boarded a train for home. Lestrade spent the trip going back over his copious notes, sorting and cross-referencing.

  “I suppose this must seem very plodding and pedestrian to you after working with Mr. Holmes,” he said, catching my gaze.

  I tried to frame a considerate answer. “Holmes is as tied to information as you, Inspector. Though I have a feeling he would not have bothered with Dartmoor—he said as much only seconds before the shot was fired, if shot it was.”

  “Yet he asked you to come. That indicates some importance, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, I suppose it does,” I said doubtfully. “Though we’ve uncovered absolutely nothing. Moran was a saint according to what we’ve learned.”

  “Not like the man we know at all, is it?” Lestrade replied. He returned to his notes again.

  I fell back into my brown study. I was at a loss as to what to do, now. I had completed the one duty Holmes had charged me with, as useless as that had been. My position now, I thought, was dictated by my being the best person to represent Sherlock Holmes’ interests. Accordingly, I should remain at Baker Street. If I were to emulate Holmes’ usual course of action, I supposed my next step was….

  It was on this mental barb that my flow of reasoning became snagged and stayed snagged until the train pulled into the station.

  Lestrade packed away his papers and stood up, looking about the compartment. “Will you be staying at Baker Street, Doctor?”

  “Yes, I thought I might,” I replied. Then I added carefully; “And you, Lestrade? What will you be doing now?”

  He scratched his head. “I do not mind admitting that I am not sure what to do. Whatever it is, it will be routine. Circulating descriptions of that ‘Mrs. Thacker’ and Miss Elizabeth and Moran. Doing the rounds of informers and spies to see what the criminal world can dig up for us. Then there’s the investigation in Perth and Gregson’s part of the show to look into.”

  “Do you believe you will find anything?”

  “There’s not a lot of hope in any of it, Doctor. I am being frank only because you’re familiar with the business, you understand. You see, all the lines of inquiry we could have followed disappeared along with Mr. Holmes.” He gave a crooked smile. “This is one of those cases upon which I would normally consult Sherlock Holmes.”

  •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•

  During a night of restless tossing about on my pillow I finally came to the conclusion that my one best course of action was inaction. I had a feeling, merely an instinct, that Holmes would contact me and I had best be prepared and available for him to easily find me.

  But my heart and mind were in conflict. Despite the logic of my decision, I found inaction barely tolerable. Much as Holmes had, I began to suffer from mental pictures of Elizabeth enduring hardships and indignities in whatever prison they held her in. I imagined Holmes badly wounded and living off the streets.

  I lazed about the sitting room or else sat at the table with the papers spread before me and gazed out the window.

  On the second day, from my vantage point at the window, I sighted several people who appeared to have nothing better to do than loll about on the pavements. I guessed immediately they were watching the rooms, but the purpose behind the vigil escaped me. Holmes was no longer here and it was hardly likely that I would be in danger.

  I gained my answer on the Thursday. Inactivity had finally driven me out into fresh air. In the first cool of the evening I ventured out onto Baker Street and headed for Oxford Street, intending to walk to the Embankment. I longed for a good extended stroll.

  It had been a hot, still day. The traffic was heavy and there were a good many pedestrians out, soaking up the small sporadic breezes that had arrived with the evening star. I threaded my way through them, moving fast, trying to blow away the mental cobwebs.

  At the Oxford Street corner I looked over toward the Arch and saw instead, barely fifteen feet from me, a young man whose features I recognized almost at once, even though it had been quite a few years since I had seen him and he had been a boy of ten or so, then. It was Wiggins, once the captain of Holmes’ street urchins. His clothing was still as tattered as I remembered and he was walking away from me, dawdling as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  I acted instinctively at first. I lifted my cane and called out to him.

  Wiggins turned, startled. It would have been rare enough for friends of his to be in this area, so he must have assumed that someone calling his name was of the opposite variety. When he saw that I was, indeed, a stranger and therefore in the enemy camp, he bolted.

  I gave chase.

  Wiggins, of course, outclassed me completely. He was younger and could dodge the crowds more easily and was faster on his feet. He’d had infinite practice at this type of exercise as a child. Nevertheless I raced after him as quickly as I could, content to keep within sight of him, hoping my adult cunning would best him. If I could catch him, I thought, or at least get within earshot and convince him I was not a threat, I might be able to employ him as Holmes had on occasions. Only this time I would put him to tracing Holmes.

  The race led down Oxford Street, away from the Park. I found, much to my surprise, that I was able to at least maintain the distance between me and my weaving quarry. Several times I lost sight of him but then he would reappear just as I was about to give up.

  He ducked sideways and vanished and when I reached that point, I found a narrow, dank alleyway leading into goodness knows where. Determined to overtake him, I hurried into it. Halfway down its length was a doorway and as I reached it, a door opened. I was grasped and drawn inside by two powerful hands and the door shut quickly behind me.

  I blinked in the dark. “What on earth is the meaning of this?” I demanded to my unseen captors.

  The hands tugged at my coat. “Give us your hat and jacket.”

  And out of the darkness came a voice that, because of its accent and youth, was recognizably Wiggins’. “‘urry up Guv. And the cane, too.”

  “I do not understand,” I began, as the hands finally stripped me of my jacket. I felt my hat and stick being removed.

  “We’ve gotta get rid of your watchdogs. Just keep quiet for a moment.” Wiggins’ voice was r
eassuringly confident.

  I fell silent as requested, blinking as my eyes became used to the dim light. Before me stood a man of approximately my height and weight. He had donned my jacket. As my eyes continued to distinguish more detail, I saw him quickly empty the pockets, the contents of which he handed me. He adjusted my hat, winked at me and slipped out the door.

  The brightness of the daylight dazzled me again and I listened, blinded, as his footsteps echoed up the narrow alley.

  “But what—”

  “Shush up, will you?” Wiggins demanded fiercely.

  I obediently fell silent and waited, redistributing my possessions about my person once more.

  Only a few second later I heard a shout which seemed to come from the entrance to the alley, on Oxford Street. “Here! Down here!”

  Then the noise of several pairs of running feet echoed along the alley’s length and petered out again.

  Only after the alley had been silent for nearly a minute did Wiggins relax with a gusty sigh of relief. “Thank ‘eavens for that.”

  “That man was impersonating me to draw them off?”

  “Correct, Guv.” Wiggins handed me a faded, disreputable raincoat and a soft shapeless hat. “‘ere. Stick these on.”

  I took them and reluctantly donned the filthy garments. “They wouldn’t let me into the Ritz with these,” I quipped.

  “Don’t worry. Where you’re going you’ll fit right in.”

  “And where am I going?” I asked.

  “Don’t know,” Wiggins said blandly. “Ready?”

  “Yes.” I settled the hat so it came down low over my face. “Who is it that was following me? Is it the people who have been watching Holmes’ rooms all week?”

  “Don’t know,” Wiggins replied.

  “I see. I suppose you also don’t know who it is that is impersonating me?”

  “That’s right,” Wiggins replied.

  Four days of confinement had chiseled at my temper and I said sourly; “Then, if you don’t know who it was, it will not matter to you what will happen to him if he is caught by these people you don’t know.”

  Wiggins opened the door and I saw his broad, amused smile. “I don’t ‘ave to worry ‘bout ‘im. ‘e ain’t the one wiv the gammy leg. Come on, let’s get.”

  Wiggins’ confidence was built on competence, I discovered that evening. He led me for the first part of my strange journey. We continued toward the river but I never sighted another main street again. Wiggins led me down back alleys and through mews and finally to the river itself. There, we skirted carefully through Bloomsbury, across Bethnal Green and south to Whitechapel.

  Finally, forty minutes later, he led me into another alley that ended in an enclosed courtyard.

  Sitting on an upturned crate was a dockland worker, still grimy with sweat and dirt, whittling at one of the lathes of the crate he was perched upon.

  Wiggins led me to him, then addressed me. “This fellow doesn’t know ‘oo you are or nothin’. At the other end, e’ll get a pound for ‘is work and go ‘ome. So there’s no point in askin’ questions…same as there’s no point in tryin’ to drive the price up, understand?” This last he addressed to the docker.

  “Aye,” the docker acknowledged sullenly. He looked at me and jerked his head and walked back up the alley.

  Wiggins touched his hat brim. “‘Night.”

  I followed the surly docker and stepped up my pace until I was level with him. He maintained his silence throughout the twenty minute trip, delivering me at last to a deep doorway on a street indistinguishable from hundreds like it around the riverbanks.

  Sitting cross-legged on the doorstep, tailor-fashion, was a dark-skinned Indian, dressed in ragged white cotton overshirt and trousers, turban and sandals. He handed the docker one pound, which he fished out from an inner pocket. The Indian uncoiled himself from the step.

  “I have been instructed to tell you that your duty has been fulfilled and that you can return to your home now,” the Indian told the docker in the unmistakable sing-song accent of his native country.

  I looked my new guide up and down. “And how much are you being paid?” I asked.

  “I have been promised one pound also,” the Indian said primly. “This way please.” He waved me on.

  I sighed and moved on.

  This leg of the journey was over in fifteen minutes, but had we moved in a direct line we could have reached the destination in three. I was led on a tortuous route up and down streets and in and out of alleys. I can safely swear that we completed at least one circle, for I recognized the broad doorstep the Indian had been sitting upon when I had first sighted him.

  I was handed exhausted and in considerable pain from my leg, to a very young girl with a sweet face, angelic golden curls and dirty cheeks, who solemnly picked up my hand. She gave the Indian his promised one pound.

  The Indian bowed to me, his hands together, and disappeared into the thick warm darkness of the night.

  The girl looked up at me. “I am Elizabeth,” she told me. Then she tugged with her captured hand. “This way.”

  She led me quickly into another street and then into a deserted, dirty courtyard filled with weeds and rubbish, broken wheels and the carcasses of one or two dories, turned upside down onto trestles and left to rot out in the weather. In the far corner was a ramshackle structure made entirely out of salvaged tin sheet and wood, held together by twine, wire and the occasional bolt. The roof was corrugated iron and looked to be merely resting there, pinned down only by its own weight.

  The door was an old wardrobe door, complete with oval mirror frame. The mirror had long since been broken and the wood paneling that would have once been hidden behind the mirror showed as much weathering as the rest of the door.

  The child Elizabeth led me to the door. “This is our secret hiding-house,” she told me. “You mustn’t tell anyone about it. Promise?”

  “Yes,” I agreed, wondering if this was part of the itinerary or if Elizabeth was adding her own detour into the plan. She opened the door using both hands, then picked up my hand to lead me inside.

  I ducked my head and followed her in.

  It was exceedingly hot inside. The play-house had no windows and had been baking in the summer sun all day. Also, a shuttered lantern sat on the low table in the middle of the room, which added to the heat. Elizabeth closed the door behind me and unshuttered the lantern.

  The lantern told me I was here by design and not through Elizabeth’s embellishment. She pointed to a chair in the corner, which looked massive against the child-sized proportions of the table. “Please sit down,” she said formally.

  I sat down gratefully.

  “Would you like some tea?” she asked.

  I stared at her. “Real tea?” I asked stupidly.

  “Of course,” she replied, with adult dignity.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  She moved over to a crate with skewed corners and removed a cloth that covered a tray with teapot, cups, utensils and apparatus necessary for tea-making. With an unexpected strength, she lifted the tray and placed it on the table in front of me.

  “Is that everything you need?” she asked, as I looked over the tray.

  “Yes, that does appear to be everything,” I said. My voice sounded distant, for this felt very much like Alice’s Mad Hatter’s party to me.

  “Good. Goodbye.” She smiled brilliantly at me, then opened the door and swiftly closed it behind her.

  I was alone.

  I looked around me. The construction materials were as haphazard on the inside as the out and it looked very much as if children had built the house themselves. I wondered how stable the structure was, but only for a moment. The tea was hot and the scent made my mouth water, distracting me from my grim thoughts. I poured myself a cup and drank.

  I sat alone in that cramped, stuffy little shack for nearly half-an-hour. In that time I finished the tea, recovered my strength and had begun to wonder just how long I was to
be left waiting there.

  Just as I was growing impatient, I heard the latch of the door click and I turned to see who was entering. I was bitterly disappointed when the Indian of the third stage of my journey entered into the house, stooping low to clear the doorframe.

  “Just how much further do I have to go?” I asked impatiently.

  “Patience, good sir. All will be revealed in time,” the Indian advised me. “Would you like some more tea? It is good tea, is it not? From my own country, it is.”

  “No, I would not like more tea,” I answered waspishly. “I would like to continue on with this mad tour of the Thames and get it over with, thank you.”

  “Then perhaps you’d prefer something stronger?” Holmes asked me, pulling a hipflask out from beneath the cotton overshirt and proffering it with a smile.

  • Chapter Twelve •

  _________________________

  •ï¡÷¡ï•

  I STRAIGHTENED UP, staring, as delight, anger and relief all claimed my heart. “Holmes…when am I ever going to learn to look past your disguises?”

  “Never, Watson,” he told me, settling himself on the dirt floor of the hut, crossing his legs tailor-fashion once more. “It is a human failing to see only what you are shown.” He tipped some of the brandy into my teacup. “Drink.”

  I drank, glad of the fiery liquid.

  Holmes poured himself a cupful and drank, too. His disguise was moderate—he had darkened his skin with some sort of stain and of course wore the light cotton clothes typical of a poor Indian worker, plus the sandals and turban. One could find dozens of similarly dressed Indians in this area. The rest of the disguise was supplied by Holmes’ acting ability—poise, accent, demeanor, gestures and attitude.

  “You had me quite fooled,” I remarked. “Though I cannot see why you insisted on pressing the charade to this point. Surely you could have revealed yourself in the first instance?”

  “You must forgive me for appearing to play with you, Watson,” Holmes said soberly. “But there were good reasons for the charade. For the same critical reasons you were left sitting alone in this edifice.” He looked around him with a grim smile. “It has the advantage of having only one possible approach—across the yard. By scaling the wall and perching high up in one corner, I could watch every inch and wait to see if anyone was interested in you.”