The Last Confession of Sherlock Holmes Read Online Free PDF Page A

fall: a perverse serenade of enticing malevolence. We found ourselves bewitched by the tantalising charm, and so followed the path which led into the falls itself before finding that our route abruptly terminated halfway round. Having spent ample time admiring the falls, we turned to continue our day’s journey on toward Rosenlaui, when we were approached by a young Swiss boy. He arrived in a state of exhaustion, tightly clutching a letter addressed to me and bearing our hotel’s crest. It was an urgent plea from our landlord; an Englishwoman travelling from Davos Platz to Lucerne had been struck by a sudden haemorrhage as she had made to leave our hotel. He did not believe that she had many remaining hours, and said that it would be a great comfort for her to see an English doctor.
    â€œYou must go, Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes, eyes transfixed on the abyss below, “you cannot deny an English lady upon her death-bed.”
    â€œBut Holmes, by the time I descend the path back to the hotel, she will either have passed on or be in such a condition as to render my presence obsolete. She would be completely incapable of acknowledging such a gesture.”
    â€œYou are of course sensible in your conclusions, Watson, but would you, of all people, be able to look yourself in the eye having known that you neglected your duty? If Mary was in such a position, would you not wish her to be eased into the afterlife, no matter how trivial the comfort?”
    It was most unlike Holmes to offer such an argument. Never before had I heard him place emotional sentiment before the cold, hard reasoning of logic.
    â€œI will leave your side, Holmes, only if the boy accompanies you to Rosenlaui. I, of course, cannot deny a woman’s dying wish, but I refuse to leave you without a companion.”
    â€œI have no qualms with such a course of action,” said Holmes. “I shall remain here for a little while longer, but then we shall progress toward our inn for the night.”
    I left Holmes leaning against the rock-face, arms folded, gazing into the fall. I made haste away from Reichenbach, not wishing to leave Holmes any longer than was necessary. When I approached the bottom of my descent, I turned back for a fleeting glance at my old friend, but my feet had carried me too far. Upon the one-way path above, still visible from my position, I noted the silhouette of a man walking at a great and purposeful pace; but such was my haste to reach the poor dying woman that I cast this image from my mind, a feat in later years I found myself unable to replicate. I reached the hotel in little over an hour; the landlord was seated upon his porch-chair, smoking contently in the late-afternoon sun.
    â€œHow is the patient?” said I, surprised at his lackadaisical appearance upon my approach.
    It was the flicker of the man’s bemused expression however, which caused me to stop in my tracks. “Who wrote this?” said I, brandishing the letter before his eyes. “Where is the dying Englishwoman?”
    â€œThere has not been an Englishwoman here for weeks!” he cried. “Though that is the hotel mark, it must have been that tall Englishman who came in minutes after your departure.” There was no doubt in my mind as to the identity of this mysterious man. Without awaiting further explanation, I turned and fled in a state of fear that cut down to my very soul. On countless occasions in Afghanistan I had run toward the face of death, but the journey I now faced required an entirely different form of courage.
    Desperate though I was, it was a full two hours before I arrived back onto the narrow path. I reached the rock where I had left Holmes staring out into the distance; only his Alpine-stock remained, perched against the cliff face. There was no sign of Holmes.
    I went to the edge of the fall and called out desperately over the roar. I received no reply, only the echo of my own pleas against the