“Good luck my fine man, stay out of England until you hear word it is safe, and find some better means of defence,” Holmes replied.
We had only just met, and yet a great friendship was already made, despite the weight we had placed upon their heads. Fogg was a sharp man and Passepartout an eminently capable fellow when push came to shove, we didn’t feel too distressed to be leaving them to talk their way out of a bind.
Our clothes were now grubby, covered in a mixture of coal dust, dirt, black powder residue and dried blood, not a pleasant sight at all, though it bothered me a lot more than it did Holmes, who never really fretted over grimy surroundings. We were fortunately lucky enough to remain unharmed, though exhaustion was taking its toll, the adrenaline rush of the recent drama and risk of death being the only thing keeping us active. We desperately needed rest. Fogg and his recently ruined flying machine would occupy Moriarty’s attentions for long enough, we needed to cover some ground quickly and find shelter. Getting moving we picked up the pace, though both knowing it could not be kept for long.
After just a few minutes at a jogging speed we came across signs for Rouen, this was a small stroke of luck in an otherwise day of pain and suffering. In Rouen we could blend in and rest without serious risk of discovery. We slowed to a walk, we had to keep moving but could not keep any serious progress for a moment longer. After an hour of walking we were staggering with all the drive and dedication to keep going, but with little strength left to do so, it was another hour of such a struggle until we reached Rouen.
It was a sad fact that we could not enter the first inn that we saw, as it would also be Moriarty’s first port of call to find us, a pity, as it looked to be a fine establishment.
“Our cunning foe will investigate the first three inns on this road and then travel to the other side of the town to investigate, and therefore, we will stay in the fourth on the road,” said Holmes.
This sort of talk sounded like an educated gamble, but we both knew that no better option existed. We were now among a country with fewer friends and allies whilst being hunted like dogs. Despite this, knowing we could rest just one night was the most comforting thought either of us had known in years. All this time in the detective service had evidently given me an easy time of things, with war being a distant memory, but now it was hitting back harder than ever. The fact that we had few allies in the area was only made easier to accept when Holmes’ pointed out that Moriarty sat in the same boat.
Finally reaching the door of our intended inn, we stumbled through it, far from the fit and healthy men we used to be. Holmes was looking paler and more distraught than ever and seeing that I had not pursued the physical pursuits of my youth and military service, we were bedraggled to say the least. Entering the hall of the inn, Holmes asked for two rooms and the direction to the bar, not necessarily the best choice, but by far the most appealing one, our sanity was as important to our performance as our weapons were.
Being directed through to a small, low ceilinged room, with just a handful of tables, we slumped into the chairs surrounding a small candle lit table. There was no selection of drink in this place, we were simply seated and served what they had, red wine any civilised drink would be suitable at this stage.
A bottle of wine was placed between us, but the server did not offer a taste nor even pour the bottle, just handed us glasses. Filling both glasses near to the brim, Holmes slammed the bottle down on the table, took hold of his overly filled glass and held it up for a toast, neither of us knowing what to toast. We clashed glasses and drunk at the rate which would be better suited to ale.
What truly astonished me at this stage was that despite the horrors and physical pressures of the last forty eight hours, Holmes showed no reduction in resolve. We quickly topped off the bottle of red wine and gladly headed up to the less than luxurious accommodation, not that it really mattered. Within moments of me reaching my new home for the night I was out of consciousness and firmly into a dream world. The sleep was long but continually disrupted by images of what I had seen from the last two days, it took its toll and I awoke only half recovered from the day before.
Despite the uncomfortable night in Rouen waking up with just half my typical rest, I felt a world apart from the day before and happy to be still walking. Holmes looked as bedraggled as I, both our clothes were dirty and worn, not the way gentlemen should present themselves, and this memorable feature was not an image we wanted seen when secrecy was of the utmost importance in many of our movements.
Brussels was our next port of call, it was a necessary part of our journey, a fact that our enemy would likely know. But setting off from the inn, we knew that this was still the best option, Moriarty must think we were heading to Switzerland with intent and not just on loose information and speculation. With no time to waste we boarded the first train available to Brussels, it was at least a relaxing journey despite the ongoing risk of detection.
We arrived in Brussels that night and immediately travelled to my old friend’s residence on the banks of the Senne. Cyril Matthey had been a friend of mine since my army days, where we were in regular contact in Afghanistan. Cyril was a man who truly appreciated the technical advancements being made in military science on a yearly basis. As much as he loved and respected all manner of weapons that came before us, he was quick to acquire anything new and exciting, a forward thinking man, exactly the sort of chap we needed at this hour practical, capable and well armed.
Traipsing through the quiet night, we eventually reached the home we were looking for, glad to have remembered the route from my visit to my friend some years earlier. Brussels was a lovely placeto be travelling through, though the thought of the destruction currently bearing down upon England was constantly in our thoughts. Seeing lights on in Cyril’s house I knew we were in luck, a man such as this would never refuse a friend in need. We could hear the voices of pleasant conversation taking place in the premises as I knocked on the door, and then knocked again after no response.
A chair could be heard shifting back and footsteps towards the door. With a heave it flew open and Cyril stood before us, a fine cigar between his teeth and whisky tumbler in his hand, his shirt was untidy and waistcoat open, tie undone around his neck he was clearly enjoying a good night in the company of friends. Despite the years that had passed, our ragged state and his inebriated one, Cyril recognised me immediately.
“You are improperly dressed for this fine evening, Mr Watson,” he exclaimed.
“Sorry to bother you sir, but I am Mr Holmes, and we are in need of your assistance,” Holmes butted in.
Cyril swung the door fully open and stood up proudly, inviting us through.
“Then this must indeed be a time of emergency, just the sort of excitement that this evening was lacking Sir,” Matthey shouted.
He was a sarcastic but joyful man, usually a little tipsy, but always a friend and gentleman. We were fortunate to have such a contact within our route, and Holmes clearly understood this stroke of luck for what it was. Passing through the door into better light, Cyril further looked us top to bottom with as much curiosity as shock towards our rough and bloodied attire. This was far from the respectable image I would ever choose to present myself into a friend’s home at any time of the day.
Walking past Cyril and towards the sound of talk and laughter, we passed walls of fine swords, Cyril had clearly kept up his interest in all matters military. Entering the lounge we stood before a table with four men sat around playing cards, with a fifth chair empty where Cyril had clearly sat. All of the men were of a similar age and manner to Cyril, clearly hardy and capable. The room was lit lowly, in keeping with their game, lavishly decorated with smoke wafting across the room. Cyril had evidently done well for himself, this was not the lodgings of a humble Captain.