We ascended the steep, narrow rock fissure, our boots slipping on the frozen mud until the damp subterranean air finally gave way to a biting mountain wind. We emerged through a hidden cleft in the hillside, blinking against the dazzling glare of the New Year's afternoon sun.
High above the snow-bound village of Castleton stood the ruins of Peveril Castle. Its ancient, grey keep loomed like a stone sentinel over the treacherous, ice-slicked precipice. The wind here was fierce, whipping clouds of fine, powdery snow into the air.
Holmes, carrying the heavy leather Gladstone bag, suddenly dropped low against a crumbling stone wall. I crouched beside him, my eyes scanning the courtyard of the ruined fortress.
Standing near the edge of the sheer cliff face was Dr. Mirabeau. His continental overcoat was torn and soaked, and his face was twisted in a mixture of rage and desperation. He was not alone. Lord Blackwood lay slumped against the base of the stone keep, a dark stain of blood seeping through his fine coat where the traitorous doctor had evidently shot him during their frantic escape through the upper flues.
"Give me the bag, Mr. Holmes!" Mirabeau screamed over the howling wind, his hand shaking as he leveled a silver-plated revolver at us. "The game is over. If I do not leave this mountain with the Mogok suite, none of us leave it alive!"
"The game is never over until the final card is played, Doctor," Holmes called back, his voice steady and cold as the surrounding ice. He stepped out from the shelter of the wall, entirely exposed. "Your aerial on Mam Tor has been dismantled by the county constabulary. Herr Oberstein will not be waiting for you at the Hull docks. You are an outlaw in a frozen land, with no country to fly to and no confederates left to buy your freedom."
Mirabeau let out a guttural cry and fired. The bullet chipped the stone beside Holmes's shoulder, spraying him with sharp flint dust. Before the doctor could cock the hammer a second time, Holmes lunged forward across the packed snow.
What followed was a brief, terrifying struggle on the very lip of the abyss. Mirabeau fought with the feral strength of a cornered beast, striking wildly with the butt of his pistol. But Holmes utilized his knowledge of baritsu, the Japanese system of wrestling, deflecting the doctor’s blows and throwing his weight leverage against the man's treacherous footing. With a swift, twisting motion, Holmes disarmed the villain, sending the silver revolver spinning over the edge of the cliff into the rocky gorge hundreds of feet below.
Mirabeau slipped, his boots losing purchase on the treacherous ice-sheet covering the castle wall. He fell backward, his hands clutching frantically at the freezing air before tumbling down the steep, snowy embankment into the arms of the ascending parish constables, who had finally negotiated the mountain path from the village below.
