Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series) Read Online Free PDF Page B

continued to watch anxiously through the window, growing steadily more anxious with each passing moment.
    “Well, Watson, aren’t you going to greet me hello?” Holmes’ voice asked me, to my utter amazement. I jerked my head back to look at the priest. “My god!” I breathed, as the face filled out into the familiar lines and planes of my friend.
    Elizabeth laughed softly. “I told you, didn’t I?”
    Holmes turned to her, his face sinking back into the aged creases of the priest. “What gave me away?”
    “You knew?” I asked of her.
    She pointed to the hands resting on the walking stick. “You made a casual movement with your hands when we walked in and moved them into a position that looks quite awkward. It could only have been to disguise your knuckles, which you shredded last night.”
    “I am impressed,” I said.
    “Moriarty does not know of my knuckles, so if that is all that gave me away I am safe. For the moment. Now, I suggest we behave like strangers, at least until the train departs.”
    Obediently, we studiously ignored each other until the train had pulled away from the station, when Holmes rose and shed his priestly garments and became once more the familiar figure I knew. He relaxed back into the seat. “I am glad to see you both made it through. Did Mycroft say anything to you, Watson?”
    “Mycroft?” I repeated blankly.
    “He was the large coachman who drove you here.”
    I shook my head, bewildered.
    “Elizabeth, did you notice anything strange or unusual on your way here?”
    “I don’t believe I was followed. I spent the night at the convent I was raised in and traveled here with a group of nuns. Moriarty couldn’t possibly have traced me.”
    Holmes considered her. “No. I don’t think he would have outguessed your movements.” I heard just the smallest note of amusement in his voice and studied Elizabeth anew. She appeared to have unsuspected talents.
    Holmes lit a cigarette and fell into an introspective silence. Elizabeth, remaining in character, drew out a pocket copy of the Gospel and read quietly. I, having lacked the foresight to bring any reading matter with me, sat back and gazed out of the window at the passing scenes.
    We were nearly to Canterbury when Holmes spoke. “I don’t for a moment suppose Moriarty has missed all three of us. I know he traced one of us as far as Victoria, for I saw him scanning the platform as I came on board and he will guess my plans to leave the country. So we are going to have to abandon our luggage and our comfortable berth and alight at Canterbury.” He gave us his plans to cross the country to Newhaven and then cross the channel to Dieppe, on the French coast.
    “So we are limited to taking only what we can carry ourselves. Elizabeth, can you limit yourself to essentials and a few days’ rough living?”
    She pushed at the carpet bag at her feet. “I only have this bag.” She stood up and tugged at the fastenings of her habit. “Holmes, could you help me? These things are not designed to be cast off quickly.”
    I stared up at her in amazement. “Elizabeth!”
    Holmes smiled at my discomfort and reached up to untie the fastenings at the back of her wimple.
    “Holmes!” I exclaimed, fast becoming horrified and confused.
    Elizabeth quickly shed the long black flowing habit and threw it aside. She stood revealed in men’s trousers, shirt and waistcoat, her hair tightly fastened at the back of her head. I fell back against my seat, lost for words and not a little relieved.
    She opened the carpet bag and pulled out and donned a soft brimmed hat and jacket. I watched in fascination as she adjusted the hat to cover her hair and shade its burnished sheen. “Do I pass?” she asked Holmes, who had watched the transformation with detached, clinical interest.
    “Straighten your tie and pull your cuffs down,” he said, after a minute inspection.
    Elizabeth complied.
    “If you remain silent and keep your face from close inspection,