The Shadow of Reichenbach Falls Read Online Free

his mother, or he himself. Judging by the fading of the pants,
the cuffs, and the portion still tucked under, I would say these trousers had been altered in the last year.
    “How’s it coming?” Thomas calls from nearby.
    “Fine,” I reply, setting to work to strip off my ruined clothes and don these instead. “Just a bit awkward.”
    “Take your time,” Anna says.
    I don’t, quickly pulling off my soaked rags and pulling on my comrade’s clothes. The splint is tight in the sleeve, but I manage. There are even shoes, slightly large for me, but serviceable. A glance out the hansom window shows my comrades deep in conversation. I take a moment to check the basket they have left in the corner. It holds remnants of a baguette, a brick of Gruyere, a half-drunk bottle of Burgundy, a Scots dirk, and—something else … . Beneath the cloth in the basket, there is a map of Meiringen, Switzerland. A hotel is circled, and a route marked out, leading into the mountains to a place called Reichenbach Falls, also circled. The time of 2 P.M. is written there in a man’s hand. Beside it is a notation in dark script, the ink smudging at each terminal of the letters as if the writer had perseverated on each one: THE FINAL PROBLEM.
    “About finished?” Thomas calls.
    I fold the page, slide it back under the cloth, and say, “Yes, all finished.”
    Thomas approaches the hansom. “Well, let’s get back to town so a doctor can look to your arm and your head.” He opens the carriage door, and I offer him his greatcoat, folded neatly. He takes it, unfurls it, and slips it on, all the while studying me with amused suspicion. Then Thomas steps back, and Anna piles in, pretty in her dripping white lace and blushing cheeks. She takes the seat beside me.
    “Ah, you look better,” she says. “Warm and presentable and alive.”
    “Better than cold and repulsive and dead.” Outside the window, Thomas pats the mare with a fretful hand that shows he has no experience with horses. “I have big shoes to fill,” I say, and lift one of my feet.
    “Well, you know what they say about big shoes …” Anna remarks suggestively.
    What do they say? That you must walk a mile in a man’s shoes? That a man must get his foot in the door? That a man’s shoe size correlates with … ? But surely not Anna—not this prim German, if indeed she is what she purports to be.
    “We’ll get you to Meiringen and to help.”
    “Medical,” I ask wryly, “or psychological?”
    “Yes.”
    The carriage dips as Thomas mounts to the driver’s seat, snaps the reins, and cajoles a little motion out of the horse. The mare sets off at a walking pace down the trail, dragging the hansom behind.
    “He’s not the best horseman,” Anna confides.
    They’re charming, these turtledoves, though I doubt Thomas and Anna have known each other long. They are still sizing each other up, from shoe size to skull size.
    Oh, I don’t even like to think of what my skull size currently is.
    Who am I? The thought of finding out sends a chill through me. What sort of man must I be to end up in a river in Switzerland? I almost prefer not knowing. I glance out the windows at the rugged cliff on one side and the plunge to whitewater on the other.
    Anna meanwhile appraises me. “You really have no idea who you are?”
    I shake my head grimly.
    “Well, you’re a Londoner, for starters—”
    “Ah, yes. The accent …”
    “A man of letters, which your slender hands show.”
    “A right-handed man of letters,” I add as I point to the pen callus on my middle finger.
    Anna flashes a smile. “Who needs memory when there is deduction? Surely the whole of your life is written on you.”
    “Read on.”
    “What of these?” Anna asks, turning my hand over and finding a few irregular blotches on the skin. “Burns? But not from fire … from acid!”
    She is right, of course. But why would I have acid-burned hands? I withdraw them uncomfortably and avert my eyes, but Anna is not