The Last Confession of Sherlock Holmes (3 page)

Incapable of freeing myself from anxiety, I stared out of the window, often straining to look down the carriage, as if expecting to see Holmes impossibly clinging to the outside of the train with a glint of triumph in his eye. My rather fanciful delusion went unfulfilled, so I reluctantly took my seat in the dining carriage. I did not have the stomach for breakfast, and the usual calming affects of morning tea were insufficient in alleviating me of my apprehension. Rather unsatisfied, I returned to my carriage, only to find that my privacy had been invaded by a thoroughly unkempt Italian priest, whose command of the English language was, to my surprise, inferior even to my Italian. Alas, I soon realised any attempt to educate my new companion upon the ways of the English class system was futile, and such was my boredom I found myself briefly lecturing him on Fredk W. Burton's latest work upon the
Putrefactive Decomposition In The Intestinal Tract
. Though giving me cause for momentary distraction, my educative desires waned, and I found myself drifting back into the steady, monotonous bumps of our great rail network, before being startled by a most familiar voice.

“Though I appreciate your attempts to enlighten me upon the way in which poisonous bodies derived from our food pass along the alimentary tract, Watson, I am still rather insulted to find you in such a state of relaxation. But not to worry, our connection at Canterbury is in five minutes.”

I had seen my great friend transform himself on many occasions but the apparent ease which he achieved this feat still astounded me: the previously wrinkled skin; the natural droop of features tired from the everlasting battle against time; the slightly protruding and quivering top lip, all disappeared to reveal the exhausted, yet jubilant, apparition of Sherlock Holmes.

“I assure you, Holmes, I have not enjoyed a single moment of my journey,” said I, indignantly. “Being hounded and fired upon by Moriarty's men is hardly a desirable start to the day. But may I enquire as to why we are no longer boarding the ferry at Dover?”

“For the simple reason that I wish to avoid a mortal attack at the hands of Professor Moriarty; it took some ingenuity and a large slice of luck, but I was just able to give our friend the slip before boarding the train. I was in such a state of triumph that I confess, I had entirely forgotten that our agreed upon rendezvous was in fact this very carriage.”

“But if you managed to escape Moriarty, why must we depart at Canterbury? Surely we shall be safe upon the ferry.”

“No Watson, Moriarty will not give up the hunt so hastily. If I were in his predicament, I would simply engage a special; the delay at both Canterbury and Dover will provide ample time for him to catch us. We must always assume that he also would take such action.”

Unfortunately our connection at Canterbury was delayed, and we found ourselves waiting upon the platform. We had been stationary for only a matter of moments, when Holmes pulled at my sleeve, pointing up the line, and urging me to take refuge behind a pile of luggage. In the distance, a thin tower of smoke began to emerge from the faraway trees, and we saw an engine with a single carriage, hurtling toward the English coastline. It was only a matter of seconds after we had taken refuge that we felt the hot blaze of burning coal and murderous intent sear past our faces.

“Now Watson, we must make haste for Newhaven, where, if we arrive in sufficient time, we may find ourselves with the luxury of enjoying a spot of lunch.”

In comparison to our escape, the first few days of our brief excursion abroad were most enjoyable. Having spent two days in Brussels, we spent our third in Strasburg, where, to my utmost pleasure even Holmes began to enjoy himself. That is until he read the reply to his morning's telegraph to London.

“Moriarty has escaped,” said he with a heated air of frustration in his voice. “I made the mistake in believing anyone other than myself could bring him in, and now I am afraid it has not only ruined my plan, but also, dear Watson, our holiday. You must return to England.”

“You are perhaps a little angered by what has taken place, Holmes, but do not allow that to cloud your judgment over my loyalty,” I said devoutly.

“I could not possibly ask such a task of you. The Professor's game is up, my dear fellow, and you must realise the danger we are both now in.”

Eventually Holmes realised that I could not be swayed, and I believe that he was, in his own way, grateful for my company. No man wishes to tread the path of eternity alone, even if they stray back onto the edge of mortality. We therefore continued with our travels, following our feet up the Valley of the Rhone, before detouring via Leuk and over the Gemmi Pass. An idealist would have failed to choose a more serene and idyllic route for our journey. The elegant grace of the spring valleys, complimented by the dazzling whites of the mountain peaks, was an image of such comforting beauty that any man would contentedly recall it as his last. Try as I would to encourage Holmes to absorb our surroundings, his focus would not be diverted. Vigilance of the highest order was meticulously preached. Each passing face, no matter how commonplace, was met with a piercing gaze of fierce scrutiny, and I often noticed how the victim sharply increased their pace.On more than one occasion, a large rock came crashing down narrowly behind us. With startling ease over such terrain, Holmes would be upon the summit of the ridge before the boulder had lost its velocity, always returning with a glint of understanding in his eye. Even amongst the well-trodden paths, he often found hints of our dogged pursuer.

“You see, Watson,” said he, delicately poised over a set of prints in the snow. “These are the traces of a very particular pair of shoes: hand-crafted personally by Mr John Lobb, for Professor Moriarty. I observed him wearing such a pair upon his visit to Baker Street: the model and shape are identical, while the indent in the snow matches the height of the heel to that of the Professor's. You will also notice that these prints are always trodden into a larger set. Moriarty is trying his utmost to conceal his tracks.”

“But how can you be sure of your conclusions, Holmes?” I replied. “Could the tracks not simply have been made by a taller man with a larger foot than Moriarty?”

“If you observe, all will unfold. Take note of the size of the larger print, as well as the length of the stride. Then, if we observe the secondary print, its relative size and position within the larger is quite clearly out of proportion. It is possible, of course, that Moriarty is trying to throw us off the scent, but owing to his burning haste to ‘bring destruction upon me', I would consider such a hypothesis highly unlikely.”

“You believe Moriarty has brought a brigade of henchmen upon the Continent, and they are travelling in single file to hide their numbers?”

“No, Watson; unfortunately, I believe he has only brought the one, though as you correctly deduce, they are undoubtedly travelling in single file. Moriarty would not prematurely risk his exposure by naively relying upon orchestrating a small battalion. It is most likely that he has brought with him his most capable of servants, Colonel Sebastian Moran.”

Moran is a most distinctly unpleasant individual. Considered amongst military circles as one of the top marksmen in Europe, he was deemed too dangerous for the British Army in India, and upon his return to London continued to build an evil reputation. His talents did not go unnoticed by Moriarty. After a short period of service Moran was readily promoted as Moriarty's Chief-of-Staff, and was called upon only for jobs of the utmost importance: it was for this reason that Holmes referred to him as ‘the second most dangerous man in London.' Until this juncture, my nerves had been steady; I had believed that Holmes and I were a match for any pursuer, but such is the reputation of Moran that I could not help but feel a slight quiver of fear. I was sure we continued to draw breath only because Moriarty wished to personally murder my friend in cold blood.

Despite our daunting pursuers, Holmes insisted we continue on our journey, soon passing through Interlaken and arriving at the village of Meiringen on the third of May. We found accommodation for the night at a small hotel named the Englishcher Hof, whose owner, Peter Steiler the elder, spoke fluent English, having waited tables at the Grosvenor Hotel in London for three years. It was his advice that, having rested comfortably, Holmes and I should visit the hamlet of Rosenlaui; but also that under no circumstances should we pass up the opportunity of a visit to the falls of Reichenbach along the way.

Never have I laid eyes upon such terrifying beauty. The cascading torrent burst over the inadequate lip as the relentless waves plunged into a void of jagged, coal-black rock: the merciless entrance to an eternal chasm. Deep from within the depths of this perpetual abyss arose great towers of spray, encompassing the grand fortification. As Holmes and I gazed into this ominous, yet mesmerising feat of nature, we listened to the faceless haunting choir, echoing from the elusive chamber from within the very heart of the fall: a perverse serenade of enticing malevolence. We found ourselves bewitched by the tantalising charm, and so followed the path which led into the falls itself before finding that our route abruptly terminated halfway round. Having spent ample time admiring the falls, we turned to continue our day's journey on toward Rosenlaui, when we were approached by a young Swiss boy. He arrived in a state of exhaustion, tightly clutching a letter addressed to me and bearing our hotel's crest. It was an urgent plea from our landlord; an Englishwoman travelling from Davos Platz to Lucerne had been struck by a sudden haemorrhage as she had made to leave our hotel. He did not believe that she had many remaining hours, and said that it would be a great comfort for her to see an English doctor.

“You must go, Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes, eyes transfixed on the abyss below, “you cannot deny an English lady upon her death-bed.”

“But Holmes, by the time I descend the path back to the hotel, she will either have passed on or be in such a condition as to render my presence obsolete. She would be completely incapable of acknowledging such a gesture.”

“You are of course sensible in your conclusions, Watson, but would you, of all people, be able to look yourself in the eye having known that you neglected your duty? If Mary was in such a position, would you not wish her to be eased into the afterlife, no matter how trivial the comfort?”

It was most unlike Holmes to offer such an argument. Never before had I heard him place emotional sentiment before the cold, hard reasoning of logic.

“I will leave your side, Holmes, only if the boy accompanies you to Rosenlaui. I, of course, cannot deny a woman's dying wish, but I refuse to leave you without a companion.”

“I have no qualms with such a course of action,” said Holmes. “I shall remain here for a little while longer, but then we shall progress toward our inn for the night.”

I left Holmes leaning against the rock-face, arms folded, gazing into the fall. I made haste away from Reichenbach, not wishing to leave Holmes any longer than was necessary. When I approached the bottom of my descent, I turned back for a fleeting glance at my old friend, but my feet had carried me too far. Upon the one-way path above, still visible from my position, I noted the silhouette of a man walking at a great and purposeful pace; but such was my haste to reach the poor dying woman that I cast this image from my mind, a feat in later years I found myself unable to replicate. I reached the hotel in little over an hour; the landlord was seated upon his porch-chair, smoking contently in the late-afternoon sun.

“How is the patient?” said I, surprised at his lackadaisical appearance upon my approach.

It was the flicker of the man's bemused expression however, which caused me to stop in my tracks. “Who wrote this?” said I, brandishing the letter before his eyes. “Where is the dying Englishwoman?”

“There has not been an Englishwoman here for weeks!” he cried. “Though that is the hotel mark, it must have been that tall Englishman who came in minutes after your departure.” There was no doubt in my mind as to the identity of this mysterious man. Without awaiting further explanation, I turned and fled in a state of fear that cut down to my very soul. On countless occasions in Afghanistan I had run toward the face of death, but the journey I now faced required an entirely different form of courage.

Desperate though I was, it was a full two hours before I arrived back onto the narrow path. I reached the rock where I had left Holmes staring out into the distance; only his Alpine-stock remained, perched against the cliff face. There was no sign of Holmes.

I went to the edge of the fall and called out desperately over the roar. I received no reply, only the echo of my own pleas against the unforgiving howl of the waters. For a moment, I could do nothing but stare lifelessly into the abyss, my mind refusing to comprehend the conclusions which I knew to be true. The torrents continued to crash down before me, relentlessly torturing me with the vision of how my greatest of friends had been dragged and torn away into the merciless mist.

I took a moment to gather myself before turning my attention to the task at hand. It was Holmes's Alpine-stock which turned my heart cold; he had not carried on to Rosenlaui. He had awaited his pursuer upon the three-foot path, trapped between an insurmountable rock-face and a perilous drop. The young Swiss lad had disappeared: I am certain he was in the pay of Moriarty.

I journeyed beyond the rock where I last laid eyes upon Holmes and found, deeply imbedded into the ceaselessly damp black soil, two sets of unmistakable footprints leading directly toward the edge of the fall. Neither had returned. I went to the end of the path, past the thorns which encircled the chasm, and lay down in the mud, my face peering out over the edge, penetrating the periphery of one of the great towers of spray. My efforts were futile. My ears were once again pounded by the half-human cry of the falls, as my eyes failed to see anything in the impenetrable darkness.