The Reichenbach Problem Read online

  I was appalled. To have this chap accompany me all the way, and then to have him bumping into me at every turn, to bore into me with his grey eyes across every restaurant, was too much. The village I was going to was tiny; we couldn’t fail to encounter one another every day.

  “You haven’t the right clothing…” I blurted out. It was all I could think of.

  “No, you’re right. Thanks,” he replied gratefully, as if I had given him a traveller’s exclusive insight. “I’ll buy some when I get there.”

  “So, what have you got in your luggage?” I asked, or rather demanded to know.

  “Not much. Just a few bits. Thrown together. Left in a rush.” He shrugged and looked up at the luggage rack above his head. I glared up there as well, as if it were the bag’s fault. The case appeared brand new and it wasn’t English. Swiss, perhaps; possibly French. I couldn’t quite establish the maker’s name, embossed on the leather strap, from across the compartment, but there was a de or a de la in it.

  This man was a conundrum. Was he running away from someone? If so, whom? And, more importantly, why?

  “You do have a passport, don’t you?” Again, I was unable to prevent my curiosity from getting the better of me. Or maybe I was hoping he didn’t have one, and would have to get off at the next station to return from whence he had come, and retrieve it.

  “Oh yes,” he replied, patting his breast pocket, “and money.”

  At least he wasn’t going to try to touch me for a few francs. And that wasn’t an idle concern of mine. Famous authors are not immune from the occasional begging letter.

  At that moment, the guard arrived to examine our travel documents. I showed him mine and was saluted for my trouble. Negotiations were then entered into between the official and the young man, regarding his potentially unauthorized occupation of a First Class seat. Much to my further disappointment, a deal was struck. Monies changed hands, and a contract of travel or billet de voyage was written out and handed across.

  The guard, a gaunt fellow with a bristling moustache, straight back and crisp, sharp creases to his uniform, advised us of the time at which lunch may be taken in the dining car. He spoke German, which I understood as I had spent two years in Austria, studying medicine and, a few years prior to that, at school in Vienna. He touched the peak of his claret and gold käppi with the tips of his fingers once more, backed out of the compartment, like a cuckoo returning into its clock, and slid the door shut.

  A few moments passed as we both sat and listened to the steel wheels clattering on the rails. Then the young man began to fidget. He was building up to a further remark, I was sure of it.

  “Do you mind if I smoke?” he ventured at last.

  “Not at all,” I replied. “In fact, I think I’ll join you.”

  He had started to pat at his pockets, presumably looking for his smoking materials. “I suppose you enjoy the occasional pipe?” he said, while continuing to rummage.

  “I do, yes,” I returned, producing the item in question, followed by my sealskin tobacco pouch, a Vesta case and my pipe knife. “How did you guess?”

  “I just imagined that since Holmes did, you did,” he replied, eventually producing a packet of Three Castles.

  “Ah – Holmes,” I remarked; primarily to myself.

  The satisfaction on his face at having discovered the whereabouts of his cigarettes soon reverted to a frown as he revisited his pockets and, one by one, began to turn them inside out.

  I embarked on the complex, painstaking, yet ultimately satisfying procedure of the cleaning, rubbing, filling and tamping that is an essential element in the pipe smoker’s ritual. Halfway through this process, filling the bowl with a mixture of Virginia, Burley and Black Cavendish in a medium loose cut, I noticed that he was just watching me with a rather forlorn look on his face. A moment later, I realized why. I tossed him the Vesta case.

  “Thanks.” He popped a cigarette in his mouth, took out a match and scratched it along the red sandpaper glued to the side of the box. The little stick of wood fizzed and flared and, hidden momentarily behind a cloud of sulphur, he lit up.

  He tossed the box back to me, which I was glad to catch neatly with my right hand. There is nothing more undignified than an allegedly proficient cricketer and goalkeeper scrabbling down on the carpet for a spilled box of Vestas.

  Soon we were both puffing away in, for me, welcome silence; he edgily on his Three Castles, I leisurely on my Kapp & Peterson.

  We journeyed in this fashion for some while, rattling across the immaculate Swiss countryside. In doing so, my travelling companion and I would occasionally exchange the odd remark. We took it in turns to comment upon any items of interest which hove into view through our respective windows, pointing; he with his finger, I with the glistening stem of my pipe.

  “Sheep.”

  “Burn.”

  “Flowers.”

  “Glen.”

  “Trees. Pine trees.”

  “Mountains.”

  “Snow.”

  The train tipped over the brow of this particular stretch of rolling Swiss upland, threaded its way through a long, steep embankment, and began its steady descent towards the valley; beyond it lay the chalky, turquoise waters of the Brienzersee, or Lake Brienz.

  It was lunchtime.

  I knocked my pipe out and replaced it, with its accompanying articles, in my pocket. I stood up, stretched, stifled a yawn and made a move for the door. For a fleeting instant, I considered whether I should take my valise with me. I didn’t know this fellow. There was, plainly, a degree of mystery surrounding his presence on this train. There was no one else in the compartment to protect my belongings or, at the very least, to shout “Hoi!” were this fellow to make a move towards my possessions. Reluctantly, I concluded that there was no other option. Until I had established my young acquaintance’s credentials, I was obliged to keep him in sight for a while longer.

  “Would you care to join me for lunch?” I asked, through gritted teeth.

  “Rather!”

  I was not at all comfortable with the next generation’s mode of speech. And now I would have to endure it for another hour at least. I cursed my mistrust of human nature, and began to wonder whether the loss of a few nick-nacks from my valise were not a small price to pay for a few minutes of independence and a modicum of solitude over lunch.

  As we staggered along to the dining car along the jolting corridors like sailors on shore leave, I reflected on what had actually grown this suspicious nature of mine. I hadn’t always been like this. When I was a few years younger, I was carefree, always laughing and joking, and eager to grasp any opportunity to chat with each and every person I encountered. The thought that they were in any way possessed of a darker nature never even crossed my mind. It was only after I had begun to write the Holmes and Watson stories, only after I had begun to explore the underworld with which they were obsessed, that my own gloomy outlook on human nature had begun to form itself. Once again, I was moved to acknowledge that there was much for which I had to be grateful to those two. However, whatever I had gained had come at a price.

  There was a species or sub-genus of veal cutlet for lunch, with beans, accompanied by a full red wine from the Vaud region of Switzerland. I had been told about Swiss wine before. It was one of the world’s best-kept secrets. Row upon row of lush vines, reaching up in terraces on the sunny slopes beside Lake Léman, produced a most agreeable wine. The Swiss do not export it, however; they keep it for themselves. Some may say that is uncommonly selfish but, having sampled a glass and begun to embark upon my second, I understood how wise they were. A return visit to introduce Touie to it was plainly to be considered.

  Early on in our meal, I discovered what name my guest went by. I say “went by” as, apart from demanding to see his passport, I had no means of ascertaining that what he told me was actually the truth. Not that he should necessarily be gallivanting around Switzerland under an assumed name, of course. This was just my suspicio
us nature rising to the surface once more.

  He called himself Richard Holloway but, he informed me, I may call him “Dick”. I replied that, while I was honoured, naturally, that I should be allowed such a degree of intimacy, I would prefer to call him “Holloway”. This seemed to gratify him. He had claimed, shortly before, that he was an Old Alleynian, from Dulwich College. So he was familiar with the courtesies and social niceties created by the juvenile hierarchies of the English public school system. When a senior chap wishes, through magnanimous condescension, to be on familiar terms with a junior chap, then the former will call the latter by his surname alone. It elicits a surprising degree of intimacy between the two, without the need for actual friendship, although this can follow. No matter how the relationship developed after this, the practice itself usually created a powerful bond between them that would last all their lives. To call Holloway this, therefore, to him, probably appeared tantamount to me slapping him on the back, calling him “old boy”, introducing him to my gentleman’s club, and offering him my daughter’s hand in marriage.

  The adverse side-effect of my gesture, on the other hand, was less satisfactory. He began to call me “Doyle”. I tried to correct him twice and suggest that “Conan Doyle” would be more acceptable. However, he, purposely or unconsciously, singularly failed to implement my suggestion. Doyle he had dubbed me, Doyle I remained.

  I asked what few questions courtesy demanded of me about his background, but received very little specific in reply. He lived in south London (somewhere) in rooms. He was not married and disliked his landlady who, it appears, was far too pernickety about his social life, which was virtually non-existent, according to him. His personal cleanliness and living habits were also a subject for discussion between the two of them and were, Holloway insisted, none of her dashed business. I discovered that he was a sportsman and indeed played centre three-quarter for Blackheath Rugby Football Club. When I reminded him that my creation Watson had played for that illustrious team, he looked disappointed. Maybe he treasured playing for the world’s first open rugby club, and did not care to think of an old fuddy-duddy like Watson (albeit fictitious) having a prior claim on the club. Or maybe he felt he had given away more about himself than he had wished to.

  Looking at him across the dining car table, I became aware of certain things about him I had not previously noted. While tanned, I could see that underneath his skin was pale, sallow. Although not exactly haggard, his features were drawn and those grey eyes were set so deep into their sockets, he had a haunted air about him. His nervousness had become more pronounced since we had sat down. Facing each other, I felt that he believed I was monitoring his every move, as if I were liable at any moment to criticize him. I have known people to twitch and to proffer a sweaty, tremulous hand for me to shake upon first encounter, as if I were a lofty potentate or great historical figure. Perhaps I had a similar effect on my restive guest, though I suspected a more complicated reason for his demeanour. In fact, the doctor in me suspected an ailment or, perhaps, abuse. Alcohol or another substance. It was not, I felt, a nicotine addiction, as he had only had one cigarette all the time we had been associated. Unless, of course, his abstinence was enforced – due to a singular lack of matches. However, being a smoker myself, I knew that this was no great obstacle. If it were an important part of one’s psyche, an addiction on that scale was liable to mean you made sure you were always able to pander to it.

  Luncheon completed, and I having paid the bill – an act for which he was unctuously grateful – Holloway and I returned to our compartment. Once back in our, by now, customary places, I explained that I always made a habit of taking a catnap after lunch and, if he would excuse me, I was not proposing to amend that habit that afternoon. He quite understood. In fact, I believe he was probably just as relieved not to have to struggle to make further conversation for the time being. I made myself comfortable underneath where my valise lay in the rack, so that anyone wishing to access it would have to clamber over me first. I put my handkerchief over my face and settled down to forty winks.

  My plan was to remain incommunicado under my handkerchief for the most part of the remainder of the journey to Interlaken. When I awoke, consequently I remained concealed there for quite a while, until I realized how absurdly and curmudgeonly I was behaving. I pulled the linen square from my face and sat up.

  He was gone.

  My first action was to look above my head. My valise was still there. My second action – which I later realized should have been my first – was to look to see whether his bag was still there.

  It was not.

  All of a sudden, the entire train juddered, the brakes squealed and the locomotive let out a great expiring “whoosh” of steam. Close to panic, I leapt up. What was happening?

  In an instant, the answer came. Not much. We had simply arrived at our destination. I could see the terminus sign and heard a bassoprofundo intoning: “Interlaken Ost!”

  I had slept longer than I had anticipated. To one extent, I could not have asked for more. To another extent, however, I remained concerned. Where was Holloway? Not that I was interested in his welfare. I simply wished to establish his whereabouts, since we were both destined, apparently, to continue on our journey together. I was particularly keen, also, on discovering why he had left me.

  Still disconcerted, I prepared to leave the compartment. Folding my handkerchief so that I may replace it in my pocket, I began to take a more balanced view of the situation. A moment later, and a further sensation was sluicing the feelings of concern from my system. I was relieved. The young fellow had grown tired of me. Maybe the sound of my snoring had put him off. I always maintained that I did not snore, but Touie insisted that I did, and that it had the resonance and timbre of a highland stag calling to its mate across a misty glen. Whatever the reason for Holloway’s departure, however, he had gone. To me, that was, naturally, the best outcome for the journey so far.

  With optimism beginning to burgeon within me, I brought my valise down from the rack, and stepped out into the corridor. The door onto the platform was already open. I climbed down the steps and onto the cobbles.

  “Ah, Doyle!” a voice called from behind me. I turned to see Holloway approaching with a porter. “I was coming to wake you – if you hadn’t woken by now. You really should get your sinuses seen to, by the way. Thought you may like one of these.” He gestured to the porter as if he were a mechanical implement like his barrow, rather than flesh and blood. “They can be the very devil to get hold of sometimes, and I’m sure you have luggage.”

  My heart returned to its customary place, lying disconsolate upon the diaphragm.

  “I do; a couple of trunks. Thank you,” I said, and we walked down to the baggage car.

  Holloway was remarkably cheerful and seemed more relaxed, less self-conscious, as we three proceeded across the station towards the platform from which our little mountain train was due to depart.

  “Sleep well?” he asked.

  “Thank you,” I replied. My manner was growing surly again. This was my trip. These were my trunks. This was my Switzerland. Yet this young fellow had practically commandeered all of it. I resented being “looked after” in this manner, as if I were an elderly colonel. I was perfectly capable of looking after myself. In fact, I wanted more than ever at that moment to be allowed to continue my journey alone again. Had I not two cumbersome brass-studded and leather-bound travelling trunks to take into account, I’m not sure I would not at that point have clamped my hat to my head, taken to my heels and fled this limpet of a man.

  But, of course, such behaviour would have been unthinkable for a self-respecting, albeit tetchy, doctor–novelist.

  TWO

  The journey along the valley was as agreeable as the train, with its industrious little locomotive and its clatter of carriages, was charming. The deal-clad compartments’ slatted birch-wood seats and the small guttering gas jets, which passed for lighting, created an overall cosy effect
. The views grew even more appealing with every gentle sweep of the track. The grass was as lush and as emerald green as any I had seen on my honeymoon in Ireland. The wooden cottages scattered among the fields had pictorial motifs and edifying words of Scripture, or other similar encouragements, painted or engraved on them. Every chalet – for that was their name – had orderly rows of logs and kindling. They were stacked along the walls and reached up to the broad eaves. In this way, the wood could be kept dry in most weathers, and would enable the occupants to have a cheering, crackling fire all through the dark, snowbound winter months.

  The verdant valley we were rolling through seemed as though it had been completely cut off from the rest of civilization. I began to feel as if it were a lost world, and that I was the first oafish heathen of a corrupt race to have chanced upon it in a thousand years. I resolved to allow this magical place to refresh me, and allow its simple pleasures to work their purifying charms upon me. I did not want to bring the turpitude of my own world here, and so be the one responsible for sullying its timeless integrity.

  The whole soothing effect of the journey along the valley gave one the impression of a homecoming. It softened my unease where my persistent travelling companion was concerned.

  On the way up, Holloway and I played the same desultory game of tourist “snap” that we had shared on the journey to Interlaken, pointing out everyday landmarks that had taken on new life and vibrancy in this setting.

  “Stream.”

  “Cattle.”

  “Waterfall.”

  “Pine trees.”

  Disembarking at the small valley terminus, we engaged a waiting dog cart to haul us up into the high Alps. Holloway carried his bag; my luggage would follow later, I was assured.

  It had been raining quite recently; the brows of the lower mountains were garlanded with misty clouds and we could see no peaks. There were many streams, too. They hurled themselves down the slopes and on, pell-mell, into the valley. Oftentimes they would convulse into waterfalls and other cascades in their eagerness to comply with the demands of their mistress, Gravity.