Free Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series) by Tracy Cooper-Posey Page B

care of the details,” Holmes said, tearing out the pages and folding them. He took out his cigarette case and rested the notes beneath it on the rock he had leant his cane against. He pointed to Elizabeth’s feet. “Do not move any further up the path. I want our footsteps down to the end of the path to be perfectly clear and easy to read.”
    Elizabeth stayed where she was. “And how are we to get back up the path to the top?”
    “We don’t,” Holmes replied.
    “There is no other way out…unless you intend to fly?”
    Holmes pointed up the almost sheer cliff face beside him. “If I am right, there is a shadow up there that suggests a small ledge, about twenty feet up.”
    Elizabeth gazed upwards and bit her lip. There was no need to ask Holmes if he seriously intended to scale the cliff. The situation was entirely inappropriate for jest. Instead she told herself firmly that this was something that had to be done and that was that.
    The climb taxed their nerves and sinews, for the cliff was wet and slippery and they strongly felt the urgency to reach cover before my reappearance which did nothing to help their equanimity. Several times either one or the other nearly slipped as grass pulled out by its roots or their footing gave way beneath them. But they persevered and at last made the safety of the minuscule ledge.
    There, laying full length, they watched as I returned with the party I had hastily called up, only to discover, to my dismay, that I was too late and Moriarty had won.
    As the searching party moved out of sight of the Falls, Elizabeth and Holmes relaxed, only to be shocked by a huge rock falling past them from above.
    Holmes looked up and ducked as another large rock bounded by barely a foot from his head. Elizabeth flinched against the cliff face, in relative safety. He looked again and his face remained expressionless as he identified the figure. “Moran.”
    The name meant nothing to Elizabeth, but there was no doubt in her mind that Moran was dangerous, for Holmes immediately set about descending the cliff face again. The hail of deadly missiles continued and Elizabeth threw herself forward and began to climb down. They slipped, slithered and scrambled down the cliff face, tearing skin, shredding knuckles, elbows and knees and ripping fingernails, as speed took the better part of their caution in their race for the sanctuary of the footpath. Halfway down, Holmes fell and landed heavily on the footpath below. He picked himself up and reached up to assist Elizabeth down onto the path.
    They took to their heels, the beginning of a long race across the countryside, attempting to lose Moran from their tails.
    It was almost fully dark now. Their footing was unsure and their speed retarded. Constantly they stumbled and sometimes fell, yet Holmes kept up a punishing pace, pushing forward into the darkness.
    They were also climbing steadily for despite their exertions, Elizabeth felt a chill settle into her bones and she was breathless beyond what her hurried gait demanded—the altitude was robbing her of oxygen.
    It seemed many hours of exacting ceaseless effort had passed when Holmes slowed and began to look about him. A bulky shadow defined itself from out of the night, nearby on their right and Holmes led her toward it. Its square angle bespoke man-made shelter and the lack of light its emptiness. As they drew closer, details became apparent and Elizabeth recognized it as an Alpine hut, one of those dotted about the lower and middle slopes of the mountains designed to serve as shelters for anyone caught out in the harsh winter weather. There would be wood and water and a stove for warmth.
    Holmes explored the hut’s perimeter, then opened the door and inspected the inside, before drawing her in. “Rest,” he told her. “We’ve succeeded in losing him, I think.”
    Elizabeth lowered herself wearily onto the hard wooden bench next to the door.
    Holmes opened a small chest next to the rotund stove