I was suddenly reminded of that dark, skeletal tree in Afghanistan where I had crouched down and, in a weak moment, with the aid of a brandy bottle, surrendered my liberty to an unforgiving future. That was in the dream-world of yesterday, part of another life. Now, in a strange twist of Fate, I had recovered my freedom, my individuality, once again. There was a difference though, for I was no longer John Walker. He had faded away in the cold desert night. Now I was the creature I had been fashioned into: John H. Watson. I had become the fiction. I was the Watson of my stories — and, more importantly, I was the friend, the biographer and champion of Mr Sherlock Holmes.
This realisation brought a smile to my face, and the gnawing pain in my stomach evaporated. I flung down the paper and hurried from the station. Within minutes I had hailed a cab and was on my way.
A gunshot thundered and reverberated in the burned-out chamber.
Sherlock Holmes braced himself for the pain of a bullet ripping through his flesh. None came. Then he realised that Scoular had not fired his pistol; the shot had come from elsewhere.
With an inarticulate grunt, Scoular took a few paces forward, the expression on his face a mixture of surprise and amusement. He aimed his pistol at Holmes once more, but before he was able to pull the trigger, his knees gave way and he slumped silently to the floor, falling on his face amongst the wet debris. Holmes observed a patch of blood in the centre of his back.
A figure stepped out of the shadows, a smoking gun in his hand. It was Watson.
“For preference, I would not have shot the fellow in the back, but I really had no alternative,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Watson, by all that’s wonderful!” cried Holmes, hardly able to take in the situation.
“It struck me that the fire was a ruse by Moriarty to lure you back to Baker Street, and that therefore he would have someone waiting for you — waiting to kill you. I got here as quickly as I could. Luckily, I was just in time.”
Holmes was lost for words. Not only did he always find it difficult to express his gratitude, but also there was something different about Watson’s behaviour that inhibited him. He seemed more assured, more confident, and somehow a little colder, as though a touch of humanity had seeped out of his soul.
At length, Holmes stepped forward and clasped his friend’s hand warmly. Watson responded in kind.
“I... I cannot thank you enough. You saved my life, you really did,” said Holmes.
“I hope you would have done the same for me,” replied Watson simply.
“So I would.”
For a brief moment the two men stood, still clasping hands, and smiled at each other.
“Well,” said Watson, eventually breaking away and kneeling down by Scoular’s body, “we have certainly burned our bridges now. I’m not sure what the penalty for killing one of the Professor’s trusted servants is, but I am sure that it is not very pleasant and that he will want to exact it to the full as soon as possible.” He turned the body over and gazed at Scoular’s face, which looked back at him with an unnerving glassy stare. “Poor devil,” he said quietly.
“Save your sympathies for us, Watson,” observed Holmes, reverting to his business-like self. “London is now far too dangerous for us. We must get away until Patterson’s force has carried out its work. Within a week, Moriarty’s gang will be no more.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Would you come to the Continent with me? A week in foreign climes will do our health the world of good. There is a train leaving Victoria this evening which will take us to Dover. What do you say?”
“I say yes.”
“Good man. I have already taken the liberty of booking two first class tickets for a private compartment in Carriage B. Spend the rest of the day collecting a piece of luggage and some clothes for the trip. Do not go home on any account.”
Watson nodded.
“We’ll leave by the back entrance. Not a salubrious exit — down the drain pipe and over the garden wall — but far safer than the front door. Then we shall seperate. I will see you in the appointed carriage at six o’clock this evening. Do not be late.”
“I will not.”
Holmes paused, and once more he clasped Watson’s hand. “Thank you again for all your help, Watson. You are the finest fellow one could wish to have with you when in a tight spot. The drama is almost over. The last act is about to commence. We must not lose our nerve now or slacken our vigilance. We both have come a long way. We must not fail at the last.”
Twenty-Nine
FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN H. WATSON
Carrying my new suitcase filled with freshly purchased clothes that Ihoped would be sufficient for our sojourn to the Continent, I made my way down platform three of Victoria Station, heading for Carriage Bof the Dover train, as Ihad been instructed by Sherlock Holmes. My heart sank when Iobserved that the carriage was already occupied by a venerable Italian priest. He gave me a brief greeting as Ientered, and then returned to his contemplation of a book of prayer.
Stowing my luggage in the overhead rack, Istepped back out on to the platform, eager to catch a glimpse of my friend. In vain Isearched among the group of travellers for the lithe figure of Sherlock Holmes. There was no sign of him. Achill of fear came over me, as Iperceived that his absence could mean only one thing: some blow had befallen him during the day; Moriarty had caught up with him.
The porters were slamming all the doors in readiness for departure and the guard was ready with his whistle to send the engine on its way. Reluctantly, Iclambered inside the carriage and slumped down in my seat.
“Don’t look so glum, Watson. Everything is going according to plan.”
I turned in uncontrollable astonishment. The aged ecclesiastic had turned his face towards me. For an instant the wrinkles disappeared, the nose drew away from the chin, the lower lip ceased to protrude, and the mouth to mumble, the dull eyes regained their fire, and the drooping figure expanded. The next moment, the whole frame collapsed again and Holmes was gone as quickly as he had come.
“Great heavens!” I cried. “How you startled me!”
Holmes grinned. “Every precaution is still necessary. I have reason to believe they are hot upon our trail.” He rose from his seat and peered from the window. “As I thought. See, Watson, see?”
There, some way down the platform, were two men running in a vain attempt to catch the moving train. I recognised them both: Colonel Sebastian Moran and Professor James Moriarty. Reaching the end of the platform, reluctantly they accepted the futility of their pursuit. They came to a halt and stood stern-faced, watching the train as it sped away.
“By the skin of our teeth, Watson. By the skin of our teeth. Despite all our precautions, you see we have cut it fine,” said Holmes, laughing. Throwing off the black cassock and hat which had formed his disguise, he packed them away in his luggage.
“But we made it,” I replied, my heart lightening at the thought. “And as this is an express train, and the boat runs in conjunction with it, I should think we have shaken them off very effectively.”
Holmes lit his pipe before responding. “My dear Watson, you do not imagine that if I were the pursuer I should allow myself to be beaten by such a slight obstacle as this?”
I shook my head.
“And neither will the Professor. This man is on the same intellectual plane as myself and has as much dogged determination in his pursuits as I have in mine.”
“What will he do?”
“Exactly what I should do.”
“Which is...?”