The Last Confession of Sherlock Holmes Read Online Free PDF

unforgiving howl of the waters. For a moment, I could do nothing but stare lifelessly into the abyss, my mind refusing to comprehend the conclusions which I knew to be true. The torrents continued to crash down before me, relentlessly torturing me with the vision of how my greatest of friends had been dragged and torn away into the merciless mist.
    I took a moment to gather myself before turning my attention to the task at hand. It was Holmes’s Alpine-stock which turned my heart cold; he had not carried on to Rosenlaui. He had awaited his pursuer upon the three-foot path, trapped between an insurmountable rock-face and a perilous drop. The young Swiss lad had disappeared: I am certain he was in the pay of Moriarty.
    I journeyed beyond the rock where I last laid eyes upon Holmes and found, deeply imbedded into the ceaselessly damp black soil, two sets of unmistakable footprints leading directly toward the edge of the fall. Neither had returned. I went to the end of the path, past the thorns which encircled the chasm, and lay down in the mud, my face peering out over the edge, penetrating the periphery of one of the great towers of spray. My efforts were futile. My ears were once again pounded by the half-human cry of the falls, as my eyes failed to see anything in the impenetrable darkness.
    As I wandered in hopelessness back toward his Alpine-stock, I discovered two distinct traces of tobacco ash, and was rather shocked to conclude that the two great rivals had enjoyed one last cigarette together. I stood and contemplated Holmes’s rather singular frame of mind, and could not help but be in a confused awe of his character. I picked up his belongings and turned to leave; but such is the nature of my great friend, I was destined to hear from him one last time.
    From a nearby boulder came an unnatural glint of light, and raising my hand, I discovered the source was Holmes’s silver cigarette case. I intended to slip this token into my pocket and depart as readily as possible, but a small square of paper glided to the ground and stopped me in my tracks. Unfolding it, I discovered it was three pages torn from Holmes’s notebook. The dictation was clear, calm and precise. He may well have been writing from his study.
    â€œMy dear Watson,” said he. “I write these few lines through the courtesy of Mr Moriarty, who awaits my convenience for the final discussion of those questions which lie between us. He has been giving me a sketch of the methods by which he avoided the English police and kept himself informed of our movements. They certainly confirm the very high opinion which I had formed of his abilities. I am pleased to think that I shall be able to free society of his presence, though I fear that it is at a cost which will give pain to my friends, and especially, my dear Watson, to you. I have already explained to you, however, that my career had reached its crisis, and that no possible conclusion to it could be more congenial to me than this. Indeed, if I may make a full confession to you, I was quite convinced that the letter from Meiringen was a hoax, and I allowed you to depart on that errand under the persuasion that some development of this sort would follow. Tell Inspector Patterson that the papers which he needs to convict the gang are in pigeon-hole M., done up in a blue envelope and inscribed ‘Moriarty’. I made every disposition of my property before leaving England, and handed it to my brother Mycroft. Pray give my greetings to Mrs Watson, and believe me to be, my dear fellow,
    â€œVery sincerely yours,
    â€œSherlock Holmes.”
    A few words may suffice to tell the little that remains. An examination by experts leaves little doubt that a personal contest between the two men ended, as it could hardly fail to end in such a situation, in their reeling over, locked in each others arms. Any attempt at recovering the bodies was absolutely hopeless, and there deep down in that