He grimaced. He wondered how Inspector Bradstreet might react if he were assigned his case in London. Lestrade, at least, might be expected to show some sympathy.
But of course, Sherlock’s situation was a touch graver than St. Clair’s had been. Considering that he had been present at the time of Moriarty’s fall, it would likely prove impossible for him to escape suspicion for murder. Would a court recognize self-defense? And should he be kept in custody for the entirety of the trial, Moriarty’s brother might make maneuvers during that time. It admitted no question, then. Sherlock would have to remove himself from society for the present—heavy though the consequences might be.
The sound of voices began to mingle with the roar of the falls. Sherlock realized he was not imagining things. He raised himself up slightly and peered over the edge of the shelf.
Below him was a group of uniformed policemen. They stood with another gentleman—a man two years older than Sherlock was, sporting a mustache, and with a face that bespoke good nature. The living image of fidelity and faith, none other than Dr. John Watson.
His friend’s state of distraction was apparent. He peered fretfully into the chasm several times, before collapsing upon one of the rocks with a groan. He seemed to have caught sight of Sherlock’s alpine-stock. He took up the cigarette-case laying by its side.
A pang seized at Sherlock’s chest. What an execrable wretch he must be, that the day should come that he must deceive the trust of the very dearest of friends.
Absorbed for a time in reading the letter he had left behind, Watson lifted his face at last, his expression one of baffled despair. His face stricken with grief, he shouted desperately into the falls: “Sherlock. Sherlock!”
Sherlock felt a wave of hot misery overcome him. Looking at the sky, his vision swam with tears. There were no eyes upon him now. Surely this once he might be forgiven for momentarily giving in to a little sentiment. Without this slight release, he feared he might cry out for Watson, and then all would be naught—he would only face constant designs upon his life, and his friend would be exposed to considerable danger.
Watson had been his constant companion. He had shuttered his practice for over a week already to join Sherlock in their present maneuvers. He recalled the day he had first met the doctor, at the hospital chemical laboratory, as if it were only yesterday. A man like Watson might be found anywhere, and yet Watson, the man, was possessed of a temperament unique among any Sherlock had heretofore encountered.
Friendships between men are built without words. Or so prevailing wisdom demanded. Sherlock had never believed such tripe. Indeed, the two of them engaged in frequent conversation. And while familiarity was known to breed contempt, such was never the case with them. Watson could be called upon whatever the hour, morning or night, and had never hesitated not only in sympathizing with Sherlock but even in joining him in his endeavors.
The only sound that remained now was the deep groan of the falls. He leaned over the edge a second time.
Watson was gone, along with the police. He had taken the stick and cigarette-case with him.
Sherlock turned his eyes toward the sky once more with a heavy heart.
He placed his two hands before his face. They were numb as churchyards, and he had lost feeling entirely in the fingertips. Was it from the climb? No, not the climb. They had been stiff as boards ever since he threw Moriarty. He must have clenched his hands with considerable tension.
Sherlock had executed the move instantly. His body had remembered it for him. The first time he had witnessed the move performed, he had been only ten years old…
Although Sherlock had still been a child then, he had recognized something unusual about the young man’s appearance. He had worn a silk top hat and frock coat, like any common Londoner, but the articles were evidently too large for him. The man was so slender and slight that he might even have been confused for a woman dressed in men’s clothing. His complexion, too, was so clear, and his features so youthful, that Sherlock almost didn’t believe the man later when he revealed he was 22. Though Oriental, the man was evidently not Chinese. His movements were quick and agile, his posture strict, and he spoke English with a vaguely labored pronunciation that Sherlock found distracting.
The man’s name was Shunsuke Ito, and he had travelled to London as a stowaway, he had told him, though discovery on the ship would have surely meant death.
Suddenly there was a change in the air pressure against his face. A dark shadow menaced his field of vision, quickly growing larger. A boulder! Sherlock gasped, rolling over. He pressed his body against the cliffs, hugging the rocks. A piercing whistle invaded his ear, before the boulder smashed into the ledge and crashed down the cliff.
He looked up. A bearded face peered back at him from atop the cliff. The face drew back, and immediately another boulder came rolling down. He attempted to take cover.
The third boulder hit the cliff with a shrill cry before rolling further down. For a moment, all was still. Sherlock shimmied out from the natural rock bed and latched onto the edge. If he attempted to simply jump down, the momentum would likely send him tumbling all the way into the falls. Instead he slithered, searching by inches for footholds. Another boulder whistled past his ear, rebounding off the rocky outcropping below before disappearing, spinning, into the watery chasm.
His feet finally reached solid ground below. The skin on both hands was scraped and raw. They throbbed as painfully as if they had been burned. Blood oozed from his palms. Sherlock’s trials, however, were not yet over. He dashed toward the narrow trail that hugged the cliff face, putting new distance between himself and the falls.
It must have been one of Moriarty’s men. He knew now that Sherlock was still alive. This meant Sherlock had lost half the benefit of playing dead, and to the very enemy against whom such advantage was needed most. What should he do? Surely his sterling intellect would hit upon a solution. At the moment, however, he need better apply his full faculties to escaping his predicament in one piece.
As of today, Sherlock Holmes was dead. A trifling ghost. There was no one he could rely on now. Not even dear Watson.
3
Properly speaking, it was the fourth year of the Bunkyu era. But as this year fell on the first of a new sexagenery cycle in the Chinese calendar, which according to ancient divination portended great political upheaval, the name of the year was instead changed to that of the first year of the Genji era. Changing the era name every few years in this way was extremely inefficient. Using the Western calendar, one could express the year in four simple numbers: The year was 1864.
At age 22, however, Shunsuke Ito was beginning to realize that Western culture was not always something to be aspired to.
In March in London, the air had begun to shed its chill and the snow that had accumulated on the streets had finally disappeared. Ito took advantage of the change in weather to escape the streets surrounding his college and stroll through a few areas he rarely visited.
Though Cheapside was bustling, there was something about the thoroughfare, tucked into a corner of the City of London district with its view of St. Mary-le-Bow Church, he felt was slightly off. True, Cheapside offered the same elegant scenery as the other high streets. The rows of stone and masonry-structure buildings were adorned with splendid classic architectural motifs. And in Cheapside, as in those other neighborhoods, the number of carriages that travelled to and fro was the same, as was the clothing worn by the pedestrians and the way the women dragged their hems as they walked. Ito had learned from a girl whose company he had briefly enjoyed that those skirts were puffed out with bustles and crinolines.