“Well, well, well,” muttered Holmes. “Sebastian Moran. Moriarty’s short little killer. It would appear the famous hunter had a spot of trouble tracking his quarry, eh?”
As we rode along, I tried to wrest control of my mind back from the four brandies I’d poured into myself. Funny, but I did not even reflect on my own emotional state until Holmes said, “Watson… why are you smiling?”
“Eh? Oh. I suppose I’m just happy that you are including me in adventures voluntarily again.”
He gave a little snort. “Well, I wasn’t having much luck stopping you, was I? But I’m glad you’re keen. It makes the next bit easier. Come with me, please.”
He rose, walked to the front of the car, opened the door, led me onto the platform between cars and said, “When the train slows for the Canterbury curve, jump.”
I think I must have turned rather pale. “Oh no. I don’t think much of that idea. I’ve tried it before, Holmes. It did not go well.”
“It will be much better, I fear, than staying on this train until it pulls into Canterbury Station. Sebastian Moran saw us board. I absolutely promise you a gang of well-armed murderers is waiting for us at Canterbury, and probably not to help us with our bags. Could I defeat them? Certainly. But that would involve a rather impressive display of gunfire on their part and demon-fire on mine. The wisest course—and I think you must concur, dear Watson—is not to arrive where we are expected. Therefore: jump.”
The only bright side is that it did go significantly better than the last time I’d tried it. Apparently, flinging oneself from moving vehicles is a cultivatable skill. Either that, or Holmes slowed my plunge with magic. We found ourselves thrashing around in a stand of gorse beside the track. This too proved lucky, for just a few moments after the final cars of our train rounded the bend a second appeared, zooming along at full steam. There was only the engine, a coal-carrier and a flat-bedded freight car. Despite the lack of creature comforts, Moran and a gang of four confederates huddled at the center of the freight car, three of them clutching bulbous, unconvincing umbrellas under their arm.
“By God, they love those air guns, don’t they?” I noted.
“Well, of course they do,” Holmes laughed. “Here’s a fun theater exercise for you, Watson. I want you to cast yourself as a master villain. Have you got it? Good. Now, without breaking character, try saying, ‘No, thank you, I don’t wish to invest in high-power, rapid-fire murder umbrellas.’ You see? It can’t be done. But, come along; I fear we’ve got a bit of a walk ahead of us.”
I should say we had—halfway across the bloody Kent Downs. Then a bit of a ride hidden under the hay in the back of a farmer’s cart. Then another bit of a walk. Then (blessedly) a ride in a hired coach, then another bit of a walk, until we finally arrived at Folkestone Harbour. There, Holmes procured us passage to Calais upon the next steam packet. This he did with ready money. It seems Holmes’s only preparation for travel had been to stuff his every pocket with massive wads of cash.
Although…
Now that I put it to paper, I realize that may be the single finest travel preparation ever.
I suspect some extra money changed hands in order to convince the agent to ignore the fact that one of his new passengers was dressed in a battered dressing gown, boots and a hat.
As the ship pulled out into open water, Holmes drew up at my elbow and hissed, “Watson! Pst! Watson!”
“Yes?”
“How many people do you think saw us board this ship?”
“I hate to say it, Holmes, but given the rather conspicuous state of my current dress, I have to assume we’ve been noticed by everybody aboard. More than a few on shore, too, I shouldn’t wonder.”
This seemed to upset him. He shuffled his feet back and forth a minute, then said, “Word may well have reached Moriarty of this ship’s destination.”
“I wouldn’t think so, Holmes.”
“His net is wide, Watson! We cannot arrive where we are expected. Ever! I’m sorry to say it, my old friend, but… jump.”
“Holmes. No. You’ve got to be ki—”
“Jump!”
* * *
Our fourth ship finally set us on the mainland. Not in Calais. In a small fishing village, thirty miles from Oslo. As a point of interest to travelers: do you know where an Englishman can secure appropriate traveling garb?
Not in a small fishing village, thirty miles from Oslo!
Still, the hideousness of my new clothes was not my foremost concern. Despite my joy to be once again adventuring with Holmes, the fact did begin to sink in that I was on the lam in Northern Europe, having abandoned my home, servants, medical practice and wife with nary a fare-thee-well. Disregarding Holmes’s continued insistence on utmost secrecy, I penned a quick letter to Mary, to let her know she wasn’t a widow yet.
That settled, my main concern became our aimlessness. This came to a head on our third day when—on some random train in the middle of Finland—Holmes glared grimly out the window and muttered, “It’s Moriarty or me, this time.”
“Well then I hate to say it, Holmes, but my money is on Moriarty. Unless you feel that a plucky little Scandinavian holiday is going to somehow cause his empire to crumble, I’d say he’s got the upper hand.”
“Ah, but it just might, Watson. It just might!”
“You’ll forgive my lack of confidence.”
“No. Really, Watson, I have a plan.”
“Oh God…”
“Don’t be mean! Now, look here: has it occurred to you that Moriarty’s made himself last a bit longer than most fellows?”
“Of course.”
“But how, Watson? How has he done it?”
“I really would be the last to know.”
“Then perhaps you’d be good enough to apply that famous sense of logic to what I’m about to say and tell me if it makes any sense. Remember how Hugo Baskerville was keeping himself alive
