Peter had described men just like these to be carers for Moriarty, and it would seem only logical that those two men would be in this time and place. We stared at each other for an age, neither totally sure of the other’s purpose or intentions, but equally as wary of each other. I slowed my breathing, for my heart was already running too quickly. Only a guilty man would make a snap decision or jerk reaction here, and I would therefore not be the first to act. I could see that both carried weapons beneath their coats from the way the garments stuck out ever so slightly from their bodies. Still, at a time like this, no man should be without a gun. However, only a guilty man would draw that weapon upon another. Finally the one’s arm snapped quickly across his body under the pocket of his coat, the action of only a man drawing a weapon would cause.
Before waiting to see what the man drew from his jacket, I pulled both Adam’s guns from there holsters and fired two rounds from each gun as quickly as the guns were horizontal. I would never have shot first in this situation before the events of the last few days, but killing was now as natural to me as eating, with self-preservation being the order of the day. These men meant me harm, through no fault of my own, my life was now more important than any others, except perhaps Holmes, for our task was too great.
Walking up to the men, I had hit both in the chest with both rounds, they lay bleeding to death, wriggling in pain. These were without a doubt Moriarty’s villains, for no other men would have gone for a gun before asking my purpose. Knowing what would soon become of these henchmen, I aimed at the first’s head and fired, his moans were immediately silenced, whereby I turned my other gun on the second and brought him to the same fate. Never would I choose this manner to deal with the wounded, but these men could not survive, at best they could hope to get infected somehow and return from the dead. These men were also part of Moriarty’s wicked deeds, any knowledge died with them, a service I gladly accorded to the world.
After what felt like an age I finally got back to the point where I had left Holmes at the narrow path of the fall. There was Holmes’s Alpine-stock still leaning against the rock by which I had left him. But there was no sign of him, and it was in vain that I shouted. My only answer was my own voice reverberating in a rolling echo from the cliffs around me.
It was the sight of that Alpine-stock which turned me cold and sick. He had not gone to Rosenlaui, then. He had remained on that three foot path, with the wall on one side and sheer drop on the other, until his enemy had overtaken him. The young Swiss boy had gone too. And then what had happened? Who was to tell us what had happened then?
I stood for a minute or two to collect myself, for I was dazed with the horror of the thing. Aside from the crashing of water upon the basin and rocks, the valley was silent, a awful position to be in with vital questions left unanswered, perhaps killing those brutes was a tad premature.
What truly hit me like a train at this time was how little I now had left in the world. My offices were demolished, the clothes I wore ruined, my weapon collection mostly missing, my friends left for dead or missing and my ammunition almost non-existent. Doubt and despair were truly settling in for the first time, as my mission appeared to have reached an end, but without a conclusion. Thinking back of England, I wondered if the country had even been able to suppress the zombi hordes.
England had overcome all odds for hundreds of years, if Bonaparte was found wanting, perhaps the might of the country would once again triumph.
My mind was wandering, but it served no purpose. I left the trance and came back to reality. I could not leave this place without answers. Then I began to think of Holmes’ own methods and tried to practise them in reading this tragedy. It was, alas, only too easy to do.
During our conversation we had not gone to the end of the path, and the Alpine-stock marked the place where we had stood. The blackish soil was kept forever soft by the incessant drift of spray, and a bird would leave its tread upon it. Two lines of footmarks were clearly marked along the farther end of the path, both leading away from me. There were none returning. A few yards from the end the soil was all ploughed up into a patch of mud, and the branches and ferns which fringed the chasm were torn and bedraggled. I lay upon my face and peered over with the spray spouting up all around me. It had darkened since I left, and now I could only see here and there the glistening of moisture upon the black walls, and far away down at the end of the shaft the gleam of the broken water. I shouted; but only the same half-human cry of the fall was borne back to my ears.
But it was destined that I should after all have a last word of greeting from my friend and comrade. I have said that his Alpine-stock had been left leaning against a rock which jutted on to the path. From the top of this bolder the gleam of something bright caught my eye, and, raising my hand, I found that it came from the silver cigarette case which he used to carry. As I took it up a small square of paper upon which it had lain fluttered down on to the ground. Unfolding it, I found that it consisted of three pages torn from his notebook and addressed to me. It was characteristic of the man that the direction was a precise, and the writing as firm and clear, as though it had been written in his study.
My dear Watson [it said], 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 from any further effects 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 in any case 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 or diversion, 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 pigeonhole M, done up in a blue envelope and inscribed “Moriarty”, it will now provide enough information to ensure this wickedness is never again seen on civilised soil. 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
Looking up from the letter, out at the black dirt, a most odd foot print caught my attention. Just half a print was visible, a huge boulder resting in part where the other half would have been. It would not be possible for a shoe to flex this much to enable a print to be left so clearly with a rock so nearby. I studied the spot intensely, as it made no sense, there was no logical way that the print could have been made in that fashion, and upon this Holmes’ very words struck me like a punch in the face.
“How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?”
As ever, Holmes was right. The rock had evidently been in this place for a long time, but the print was made just hours before. Therefore, this huge boulder must have moved, but not accidentally. Looking up around the rock face for some form of information or evidence to pursue my theory, I could see wet dirt on a small part of the rock, in a place that only a human could have made so in a deliberate fashion.