The Strange Case of the Pharaoh's Heart, page 24
“Why do you keep calling him ‘she’?” asked Mrs. Roberts.
“Brace yourselves. She’s coming up on our tail,” said Holmes, still hanging out the port side.
“That’s luck!” Bishop gave a little whoop. “Hang on!” He tugged at the wheel and we went spinning. I nearly lost my breakfast as we went barrel-rolling, one, twice, three times, each time battering the nose cone of the other plane. Then he broke away, veering off, and we rose into the clouds.
“Good show, old man,” said Holmes. He had found a pair of goggles and put them on. His hair, blown by the wind, was standing straight up. He looked rather like a praying mantis.
“She’ll be climbing up our tail soon enough. Didn’t biff it as much as I’d hoped,” reported the major.
“But don’t you see?” Holmes cried. “That’s it! The rate of climb.”
“You might have something there. All right, yank and bank.”
So began a strange chase. As soon as the Avro appeared on our tail, we would plunge till we could almost smell the salt waves beneath us. The Avro followed fast enough, but as soon as it attained our level, the major would turn up the F-13’s nose and rise above the clouds. The Avro, with its deficient climb rate, would struggle to follow, then once we spied the pursuit, he would once again plunge. Lawrence seemed stymied by the maneuver.
Then the Avro simply disappeared.
“Did he give up?” asked Mrs. Roberts hopefully, opening one eye.
Just at that moment, a roaring filled our ears. “Roll, roll!” cried Holmes. And Bishop put us into a snap roll just in time to avoid by a cat’s whisker being sliced in two by the Avro attacking at almost a sheer vertical from below. I date my neck problems from that moment.
“He’s downright mad!” roared Bishop. “But a damned foxy pilot.”
“We can always hear him coming,” I reminded.
“That’s probably what he’ll pull next,” said Bishop.
“Kill his engine and try to spin into us?” Holmes asked.
“That’s what I’d do if I didn’t care if I lived or died.”
“Oh, he doesn’t think he can die,” said Holmes.
“Who the hell taught him to fly? Beg pardon, ma’am.”
“I believe he taught himself,” said Holmes in a matter-of-fact way.
Bishop groaned. “We’ll just have to get fancy, then.”
And he did get fancy, with simultaneous half rolls and half turns, snap rolls, and half loops, and something he called a wingover, in which he seemed to be going every direction at once. Holmes spied the Avro behind us twice, but each time our pilot made a dizzying array of evasive maneuvers. I could see why the Germans had never brought him down.
“Well, we can keep this up forever,” I said cheerfully.
“Can we keep this up forever? No, we’ll run out of petrol. And before he will. We’re one plus zero to splash. And by splash I mean buy it, because we’ve got land in sight.”
“Do you have parachutes on this aeroplane?” asked Holmes.
“Check behind your seats.”
We searched. We came up with two parachutes. Two.
“I’ve got one behind my seat,” offered the major.
“Keep it. Have you parachuted before, Watson?”
“Never,” I replied glumly.
“Count this as your first lesson. Under no circumstances land on your feet. Drop and let your whole body absorb the brunt of your impact. Mrs. Roberts, you’ll hold on to me. Imagine, if you will, a waltz.”
Mrs. Roberts did not look convinced. Nor did I feel it. But I donned my parachute, as Holmes did his.
“Don’t we have any weapons on this aeroplane?” asked Mrs. Roberts. Her face was the color of curdled milk. Bishop just laughed in response.
“The devil we don’t,” I said, remembering. I made my lurching way back to where the luggage was piled. I found my bag and pulled out the revolver. Had I remembered to load the thing? Yes. Six bullets. I would have to make them count.
“Level out,” I barked. “It’s about to get colder in here, friends.” I took the revolver and smashed one of the windows out. Glass sprayed everywhere, and the wind rushed in like a slavering dog.
“When was the last time you fired that?” Holmes asked.
“You’ve dropped enough hints about all your activities during the war. You never asked me what I did.”
“You performed surgery, did you not?”
“And I gave lessons in marksmanship.”
“Fire away.”
I got out my reading glasses and set them on my nose.
“He does look like an owl,” commented Mrs. Roberts.
“Here he comes,” called the major.
“I see him. Let him get right up on you, Major,” I replied tightly.
“Righto!”
I could see the whites of Lawrence’s eyes. We hit turbulence. I fired.
And nearly lost the gun as I lurched backward. Holmes caught me. “I missed him.”
“He didn’t even notice your shot,” agreed Holmes.
There was a sickening thud as he hit us. We both fell back.
“He’s right up on us now. Are you boys going to do something or will I?” shouted Bishop.
I was angry now. I took my roost in the window again. I braced myself. Holmes put his hands to my shoulders. She banged against our tail again, but Bishop held the plane steady, and I held myself ready. I squeezed the trigger and fired.
Damn, damn, damn, I muttered to myself. I had seen the wood of her wing splinter. But now at least I had my range. I fired again. My aim went true! The glass of the pilot’s window cracked. But did it hit him?
“Fire again!”
I fired. The glass shattered into a spiderweb. The Avro twisted and fell out of sight.
“Did I hit him?”
“He still seems to be in control of his craft, but you made a mess of his windscreen. He wasn’t wearing any goggles, and his cockpit’s enclosed. He’s blind.”
“We’ve won!” I crowed.
“Not exactly. He’s chewed up my rudder but good. With these crosswinds, I’m going to have to land as soon as possible.”
“Where?” asked Holmes.
“Le Bourget, just north of Paris, if I can make it.”
“And where will he make for?”
“The same—if he can make it” was the major’s verdict.
“Then I’d ask you to drop us off at Gare de Lyon,” said Holmes, as unflappable as ever.
“This isn’t a taxi, man!”
“No, fly over the train station. We’ll parachute. Once we’re gone, you won’t have to worry about Lawrence, I think.”
“Do you know what it’s like trying to make a jump in the middle of a large city?” he asked, incredulous.
“We have no choice. Time is of the essence. Of course, if Watson or Mrs. Roberts wishes to remain—”
“With you to the end,” I said.
“You’re not leaving me behind,” said Mrs. Roberts.
“You’re all mad. All right, Gare de Lyon it is, but be ready. I can only take one shot at this,” warned Bishop.
“Uh, just one thing,” I asked. “How do I open this thing?”
Holmes showed me how the rip cord worked. “Lesson two,” he said with a wink.
“I’m going to climb, so you’ll have room for your chutes to open properly.”
The wind was still screaming through the shattered window, but it was nothing to the mighty rush of air that almost knocked me down when I heaved the door open. We had already passed the towering spires of Rouen. Soon the banlieues of Paris would come into view. We only had a few minutes to make our plans.
“If we become separated, make your way by the first train to Meiringen. What was the name of the excellent hotel we stayed at there?”
“Englischer Hof.” How could I forget that name of ill omen?
“That’s it. If we’ve gone out, and we almost certainly shall have, we’ll leave a message with the landlord.”
“There’s the Seine,” I said. Glittering in the sunlight. So close. I felt sick.
“Hold on tight, Mrs. Roberts. Major Bishop, we’re forever in your debt.”
Bishop gave a backhanded salute. Then he shouted, “Jump!”
They jumped.
“Jump!”
My stomach twisted in knots.
“Jump!”
I jumped.
Chapter Twenty: Mrs. Estelle Roberts
First there was the terrible sensation of falling, and then a kick that put my heart in my throat, and then a suspension, when my heart stopped altogether, and the parachute opened like a tulip unfurling above us. Then we began floating, so peacefully, so quietly, with just the air feathering my skin. I was afraid to look down, but I stared into the gray eyes of Sherlock Holmes, his strong arms about me, my hands clasped tight round his neck, and in that moment, he wasn’t an old man nor I a wife and mother, but we were two dust motes spiraling together in the wind. For a moment I thought I would kiss him.
“When you hit the earth, don’t tense. Let your muscles go slack, fall on your side and roll. Let the earth take you in its arms. We may land in a crowd, so there could be a panic.”
But the first panic was mine, when I looked down and saw that we were drifting toward an enormous clock tower at one end of the railway station that reminded me of Big Ben. I wanted to shout a warning, but all I could get out was a sort of mewling.
“Yes, I see it,” he said as though he’d read my mind. Though how he could see it with his back to it, I had no idea. “The wind is blowing us straight toward it. Luckily, it’s 11:59.”
He said it as if we had a luncheon date at twelve. Then the minute hand ticked over and the clock began to toll.
The noise was tremendous, as we were directly in front of the clock face. I could feel its vibrations shuddering throughout my entire body, hammering at my heart. But something else was happening. With each stroke of the clock, the vibrations drove us farther away from the clock tower. For a moment I thought we might land in the Seine, but we were wafted backward by the wind. We were going to land directly in front of the station entrance, thronged with people coming and going. Would the crowd part for us?
A sea of faces turned toward us, a sea of hands pointing. I tried to remember everything Sir Sherlock had said, but hands were reaching for me, all over my body in the most personal way, and then the parachute landed on top of us and I got separated from Sir Sherlock, and for a few moments I feared the intentions of my rescuers until the parachute was lifted and there I was in a wide clearing of men, with Sir Sherlock calmly folding the parachute, and the crowd broke into a round of applause. Not that I could hear it. The bonging of the clock had deafened me.
I wished then that could wear trousers like Anna, but I smoothed down my dress as modestly as I could. Sir Sherlock bowed and I made a little curtsy, and we made our way inside to the ticket counter with a thousand eyes upon us.
“But what about Dr. Watson?” I asked, scurrying along behind him.
“If he jumped—I’m sure he did; he has the heart of a lion—there’s no telling where he landed if he hesitated even for a moment. I only hope he hasn’t broken his neck. We’ll purchase three tickets and hope for the best,” he said.
I felt somehow bereft but knew there was no arguing with Sir Sherlock. We boarded the train and took our seats, but my eyes strayed to the windows and the crowds outside. I could communicate with the dead across the ages, but there was no knowing about the living. Perhaps that meant something? That he was alive still? But then, if he were dead, he might be in no mood to chat.
Then I noticed a disruption in the crowd outside. Someone was burrowing his way through the thick of it. I slammed open the window and waved the ticket at him. It was John! Then he was swallowed by the crowd again. The whistle shrieked, and I fell back as the train began to chuff away from the platform. I put my head out the window and was greeted with a wreath of steam and soot. He was gone. Had he seen me? Had he made the train?
“Should we search the train for him?” I suggested timidly.
“He saw you. He knows where we are. We will remain here until he joins us.”
“But what if he didn’t make the train?”
“He made it from the Place de la Bastille in ten minutes’ time. He was determined not to miss this train. When Watson is determined, he does not fail.”
I was glad to hear he was so confident, but still felt quite unsettled. And how he knew that Dr. Watson had landed in the Place de la Bastille, wherever that was, I didn’t dare ask.
Then a shadow fell across his face. He heaved the door open and Dr. Watson entered, or rather, lunged across me and into the seat, looking bruised and battered and thoroughly disreputable. For some reason he had hung on to his parachute, which he had balled up as best he could against his chest. He was breathing heavily.
“Dr. Watson. You poor thing,” I uttered. “What happened?”
“Bad luck, old man. You got caught on the July Column.”
Dr. Watson merely grunted.
“All right, if Dr. Watson won’t ask, I will. How did you know he landed in this Place de la Bastille and got caught on the—what do you call it?”
“Yes, Holmes, how did you know? Entertain us,” Dr. Watson croaked.
“The plane was turning into a north-by-northwest course. The largest open space by far in that direction is the Place de la Bastille. As I’m sure you know, the prison that once stood there was the touchstone for the revolution of 1789. The prison was taken down brick by brick, leaving only an empty space behind. Later at its center was erected the July Column, crowned by a gilded statue of the spirit of liberty. Rather gaudy, really.”
“Inconvenient place to put a statue,” said Dr. Watson, as if personally affronted.
“Your right ankle is swelling. You fell on it when they cut you down. You were cut down with a meat cleaver. You still have your harness on, but of course the lines have been cut. Notice the lines were cut evenly on each side, two chops of the cleaver. You can see the blood, which I am happy to report is not Watson’s—more likely that of the fatted calf. There’s an open-air market just north of the square, including a boucherie. The crowd must have rushed toward your descent even as they did ours, and the butcher obligingly cut you down with the cleaver still in his hand. Then you were lowered—”
“They pulled me up,” said Dr. Watson. “They didn’t cut me down.”
“Ah, of course. I forgot about the staircase inside and the platform on top. A magnificent view, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I twisted my ankle going down the stairs. The bottom stair, if you want to be exact,” the doctor said dryly.
“Even so, you could never have made it here in ten minutes by taxi, not with the noonday traffic,” Sir Sherlock continued, undaunted. “But there is the Gare de la Bastille, which, though it only makes local stops, connects with the Gare de Lyon, only five minutes away by train. Why did you bring the parachute, by the way?” Sir Sherlock concluded by asking.
“Well, I couldn’t very well leave it in the middle of the square.”
“Souvenir, then? Or were you planning on dropping off a cliff?”
“Don’t even mention such a thing,” I said.
“Indeed, the reading public would never believe you plunged to your death from the Reichenbach Falls.” It was a gallows sort of humor, but both men cracked a smile.
“Well, we have six hours to Meiringen. I don’t believe Watson is fit for the dining car, but I think some sandwiches would not go amiss.”
“Our luggage! We left it on the plane!” I wailed.
“It would have been rather an encumbrance on our jump,” Sir Sherlock said.
“I suppose so, but I do look a fright. Oh, I don’t even have my powder box mirror.”
“In that case, you look as rosy as the dawn,” said Sir Sherlock, tongue firmly in cheek.
“Oh, pshaw!” But I must have gone bright red at the compliment.
“Meiringen is a town of not inconsiderable size. How do we go about finding Sir Archibald?” asked Dr. Watson.
“Tell me, Watson, why did we originally pick the Englischer Hof to stay in?” Sir Sherlock asked in return.
“Well, all we really had to go by was the name. We thought with a name like ‘English House,’ it might be owned by an Englishman, or at least cater to the English.”
“And we were half right. Old Peter Steiler looked like Geppetto, but he spoke perfect English, and most of the guests were Anglo-Saxons.”
“So?”
“So why should not Archibald Douglas-Reid reason along the very same lines? We shall begin our search at the Englischer Hof. If he’s not there, we may get wind of him from one of the guests. The English are a small, clubby set.”
“Have you considered that Sir Archibald and the princess may be meeting for a perfectly harmless fling?” Dr. Watson asked. I flashed him a ferocious look, I’m afraid. Flings are never harmless.
“If we only find them in flagrante, I should breathe a sigh of relief,” Sir Sherlock replied. His waxen face belied the possibility.
Chapter Twenty-One: Dr. John Watson
Meiringen was not at all as I remembered. For a quarter century I’d had it lodged in my brain as shrouded in darkness and dread. We walked out of the train station, a gingerbread concoction such as only the Swiss can construct without being laughable, into the bright Alpine sun. A jingling pony-driven cart painted red waited to take us to the hotel. Normally we would have walked it, but Holmes took mercy on my swelling ankle.
The hotel, in turn, which I remembered as a Gothic monstrosity, was instead a bright thing in Art Nouveau style, curled like an orange peel. Why, it must have been nearly new when first we visited. Yet I felt chilled to the marrow when I crossed the threshold.
Holmes dispensed with the preliminaries as soon as he arrived at the desk, actually shouldering another guest aside. “Is Sir Archibald Douglas-Reid staying here?” he demanded of the clerk, who was not old Peter Steiler but spoke English quite as well.
“Did you have an appointment? No? I’m sorry. Sir Archibald is otherwise engaged.” “With whom? It’s a matter of life and death.”
