The Last Confession of Sherlock Holmes Page 3

  “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.

  As I wandered in hopelessness back toward his Alpine-stock, I discovered two distinct traces of tobacco ash, and was rather shocked to conclude that the two great rivals had enjoyed one last cigarette together. I stood and contemplated Holmes’s rather singular frame of mind, and could not help but be in a confused awe of his character. I picked up his belongings and turned to leave; but such is the nature of my great friend, I was destined to hear from him one last time.

  From a nearby boulder came an unnatural glint of light, and raising my hand, I discovered the source was Holmes’s silver cigarette case. I intended to slip this token into my pocket and depart as readily as possible, but a small square of paper glided to the ground and stopped me in my tracks. Unfolding it, I discovered it was three pages torn from Holmes’s notebook. The dictation was clear, calm and precise. He may well have been writing from his study.

  “My dear Watson,” said he. “I write these few lines through the courtesy of Mr Moriarty, who awaits my convenience for the final discussion of those questions which lie between us. He has been giving me a sketch of the methods by which he avoided the English police and kept himself informed of our movements. They certainly confirm the very high opinion which I had formed of his abilities. I am pleased to think that I shall be able to free society of his presence, though I fear that it is at a cost which will give pain to my friends, and especially, my dear Watson, to you. I have already explained to you, however, that my career had reached its crisis, and that no possible conclusion to it could be more congenial to me than this. Indeed, if I may make a full confession to you, I was quite convinced that the letter from Meiringen was a hoax, and I allowed you to depart on that errand under the persuasion that some development of this sort would follow. Tell Inspector Patterson that the papers which he needs to convict the gang are in pigeon-hole M., done up in a blue envelope and inscribed ‘Moriarty’. I made every disposition of my property before leaving England, and handed it to my brother Mycroft. Pray give my greetings to Mrs Watson, and believe me to be, my dear fellow,

  “Very sincerely yours,

  “Sherlock Holmes.”

  A few words may suffice to tell the little that remains. An examination by experts leaves little doubt that a personal contest between the two men ended, as it could hardly fail to end in such a situation, in their reeling over, locked in each others arms. Any attempt at recovering the bodies was absolutely hopeless, and there deep down in that dreadful cauldron of swirling water and seething foam, will lie for all time the most dangerous criminal and the foremost champion of the law of their generation.

  Chapter II - A Most Singular Occurrence

  For years I have tried to fill that void in my life: to turn hollow words back into poetry, the endless droning of orchestras into soft melodies. A bellowing silence grasped the Continent, which still bore the deep invisible scars of the conflict which had taken place between the late Sherlock Holmes and Professor James Moriarty. A great state of mourning had seemingly descended across every nation, yet none appeared aware of the cause behind their sombre disposition. I took to travelling upon the Continent in the hope of discovering some form of salvation. I cannot recall how much time I spent lifelessly drifting from country to country: I could muster no admiration of Vienna; no love or sentiment for the great stream of bridges and waterways in Venice; no sense of grandeur in Rome. All I could see were petty thieves, incapable roughs and despicable orchestrators.

  I often mused to myself which I considered more hateful: a public under the control of Moriarty, or under the brutish control of the inept. For what seemed like an age, I considered the similarities to be found amongst Europe’s criminally mundane, but it was not until I engaged in the study of the faculty that I truly appreciated the outstanding. Although Sherlock Holmes was no longer able to demonstrate those powers which so often astounded me, I decided to imitate his methods to broaden my understandings of the criminal mentality: I observed, I analysed and I deduced the subtleties which set certain crimes apart. Most, of course, were quite un-extraordinary; their lack of imagination and craft merely reflected the tedious routine of the authorities. Both factions had ostensibly agreed to enter into some form of uneasy armistice; neither had the guile or the craftsmanship to continue the struggle which had consumed the lives of the two great adversaries.

  Though I had always admired Holmes’ abilities, I could not help but be struck by the brilliance of Moriarty. To weave such a web, to build such an empire out of almost completely hapless material was an achievement of the ages. As I delved further into the underworld, I wandered in horror as his successors tarnished his once-great empire with their shameful banality.

  I therefore decided to honour the legacy of both men by the best means at my disposal. I made it my purpose to demonstrate the incompetence of both the criminal and the authorities. Why simply rob a person when you can manipulate them: toy with their emotions and find a way to incriminate them. Why must the criminal always be the villain? Perhaps now that I have rebalanced the scales and left the official-forces perplexed in so many of Europe’s great countries, they will finally bow to the wisdom of Sherlock Holmes and seek to broaden their tragically narrow horizons.

  It was in the dawn of 1894 that I found myself embroiled in a case of particular intrigue. My travels had taken me to Montpellier, the capital of the Languedoc-Roussillon region in southern France. It was here,whilst enjoying light r
efreshment after a visit to the Cathédrale St-Pierre, that I had the misfortune to be introduced to a most ghastly gentleman, Henri de Saint-Hippolyte. His expression was keen yet dim, and his handsome features were somewhat diminished due to the blandness of their regularity. It soon became apparent that he possessed neither talent nor intellect; I have found more charm even from those hopelessly pretentious and insufferable fools found haunting the boulevards of Paris. But, despite my insistence upon the matter, he refused to leave me be until I had accepted an invitation to dine at his estate on Friday evening.

  I could imagine no more dismal an affair, and had no intention of fulfilling such a commitment; that is, until I discovered that Monsieur de Saint-Hippolyte was soon expected to inherit a rather fine collection of objets de vertu. Such were the rumours surrounding this collection that I concluded that they were at least worthy of inspection, and though dreading the evening’s events, I was at least pleasantly reminded of my fondness of dressing for such occasions. It had been a considerable time since I had allowed myself the indulgence of formal affairs.

  I took a carriage from my lodgings and noted the disgruntled look upon the driver’s face as I gave him my destination. After a relatively brief journey, I found myself travelling through a great archway of trees, the moonlight shining through the steady swaying of the bare branches providing me with a dance of shadow and graceful percussion. I was entertained by this performance of rhythm and silhouette for a considerable time before arriving at the entrance to a grand house. It was an impressive sight, but served only to increase my contempt for Monsieur de Saint-Hippolyte; who, to my surprise, welcomed me himself.