The Reichenbach Problem Read online

Page 4


  “I am a writer, too.” Werner threw the fact at me as if he were slapping my face with a kid glove and inviting me to cross épées at dawn. “Plays. Perhaps you could read them. They are in my room.”

  “Are they in German?” I asked.

  “Of course.” Werner looked astonished, as if any language other than Schiller’s and Goethe’s could produce such fine literary craftsmanship.

  “I’m afraid I may find that rather difficult, then…” I began.

  “I have heard you speaking German,” Werner interrupted.

  “I am hardly fluent,” I retorted, taken aback. “But,” I retreated before that formidable stare, “I’ll gladly have a look.”

  “Good.”

  Werner was one of those fellows who believed that the deepness of one’s speaking voice has a direct correlation with maturity. The deeper the voice, the greater the wisdom. I had just decided that the roundness of his booming tones was becoming, frankly, offensive.

  “I am a writer, too.”

  We all looked around. Van Engels had emerged from his glass and was addressing no one in particular. Oh no, I thought, I am attracting them like moths.

  “I have come to Switzerland for inspiration.”

  “The mountains, you mean?” Werner interjected and then, with a shrug, as if by way of explanation, “The Netherlands are very flat.”

  Van Engels fixed me with an unsteady gaze. “Where do you get your inspiration from?”

  I was tempted to say from a left luggage locker at Paddington station, but resisted. “I just look at my experiences and knit pieces together from here and there, really,” I said.

  “Oh,” van Engels replied, returning to his cognac.

  “I am still not clear, Herr Doctor,” Werner continued. “Are you a spiritualist?”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “You are not, then.”

  “I didn’t say either way. I just wondered what gave you that idea.”

  “People say,” Holloway piped up, sullenly.

  “Which people?”

  “I don’t know – maybe I read it somewhere.”

  “Read what?”

  “That you have embraced spiritualism.”

  “Ah,” offered Werner, sagely, “and did you not write a book… ah… was it something like… The Mystery of… Cooper…?”

  “Coomber. Yes, that was mine. And yes, it did explore the idea of the concept of life beyond this one.”

  “Are you, then?” Plantin asked. “Are you a spiritualist?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s no answer,” Holloway grumbled.

  “What kind of answer is that?” Werner agreed.

  “The truth. In my Holmes stories, the detective wrestles with the supernatural as he sees it. On my behalf, perhaps. Now I’m doing so myself; Holmes cannot do all my wrestling for me.”

  “So you do believe in spiritualism?” Tomas sounded disappointed; as if he had discovered a failing in a pupil he had entertained high hopes for.

  “I don’t know. I believe in the possibility of life after death.” I began to feel as if I were in the dock.

  “So you have turned to spiritualism?” Plantin asked.

  “I have not. At least, not in the way you mean.”

  “But they say…” insisted Holloway.

  I interrupted him. “These they that you have such faith in seem to be very certain of their facts – despite never having spoken to me.” I paused. The gathering could see that I was becoming vexed by the subject. I began again, patiently, “Holmes would tell you that the only true way to discover the thinking of the criminal mind is to think like a criminal. To all intents and purposes become one, if necessary.”

  “So spiritualists are criminals?” Plantin asked.

  “I do not propose, for one moment, that they are – although there are undoubtedly charlatans and abusers, just as you may find in any walk of life where there is profit to be gained or power to be had over another. Human beings are constantly drawn towards justifying themselves by seeming to have something special that another does not have. But I am talking of the principle of assimilation, rather than any direct comparison with the criminal mind.”

  “I do not understand,” Werner interjected. “You are talking nonsense. You believe in spiritualism, yet you do not. You believe in the power of the imagination, but you do not think that imagination is all…”

  “All I am saying,” I sighed, “is that a doctor is taught, while learning his profession, to examine himself, experiment upon himself if need be. To use himself, if you will, as a guinea pig. Rather than come at spiritualism with any preconceptions, I keep an open mind. The true open mind, if it is to explore a phenomenon properly, must expose itself in as full a way as possible to that phenomenon – with all the attendant risks – if it is to examine its effects methodically.”

  Holloway, who had been picking at the fraying braid on the cushion cover of his armchair, perked up.

  “Do you believe Sherlock Holmes has a spirit?”

  “In what way?” I asked, confused.

  “In the way that I asked,” he replied, archly. “Do you believe that the spirit of Sherlock Holmes exists?”

  “That is a different question. However, it is one I find easier to answer. Yes. I believe that there is such a thing as the spirit of Holmes, and that it could quite likely live on, even after I have long left this earth.”

  “Like a ghost?” asked Plantin.

  “No… I do not know exactly what I mean. Undoubtedly there is happy alchemy in the values with which I imbued Holmes. These, taken together over a number of stories, one may acceptably define as a spirit. Goodness, integrity, intellect, wisdom, patience – and impatience – resourcefulness, stoicism, courage… and fallibility.”

  I listed all these attributes as if I had planned them. In fact, this was the first time I had ever discussed the character of Holmes in such depth with anyone; including myself. Holmes had been and always would be secondary to my other interests. Running through my list, I realized why so many people had taken to him. I marvelled at the fact that, yes, he had come to life; under my hand perhaps, but a life that was growing independent of its creator. He embodied values that people esteemed highly. Values, I daresay, as a race we have rarely managed to achieve with any consistency.

  If he were so noble, however, why had I begun to dislike him?

  Would I like to spend an evening with him at my club? I am sure I would find his analytical processes and the hair-raising tales of his escapades wholly absorbing. The likelihood, however, of his expressing himself in that way in my company would be highly improbable. I was sure, were I to meet him, I would find him distant and cool; possibly even insufferable. Polite, yes. But arrogant, aloof and pompous, too. I am sure he would have very little time for my bumbling approach to life. Others may consider me methodical and intuitive. I know better. I don’t doubt Holmes would see through me in an instant.

  I suddenly realized, at that moment, that this was what I disliked in him; the fact that there was a possibility that he would not care much for me at all – his creator. I wondered if that was why I had invented my alter ego, Watson. To deflect any criticism Holmes might otherwise have directed towards me…

  I paused in my internal musings. I noticed everyone had stopped talking. They were looking at me.

  “Well?” Holloway repeated with studied patience. “What do you think, Doyle?”

  “I – I’m sorry,” I replied. “I didn’t catch that last bit…”

  Holloway raised an imperious eyebrow; Werner snorted into his beer glass. Conan Doyle, in the flesh, was a disappointment. An overrated booby, gently losing his faculties as he meandered towards middle age.

  “We were wondering,” Plantin explained, more considerately, “whether you would join us in an experiment?”

  “What kind of experiment?”

  “To raise the spirit of Sherlock Holmes.”

  I looked at
them all looking at me. They were serious.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Doyle, listen,” Holloway began to gabble. “If it is possible – beyond tangible creation – for spirits to exist, then why isn’t it possible for a man’s intellect and imagination to create spirits that also exist on a different temporal and spatial plane?”

  “Because it is self-evidently preposterous,” I frowned. Judging by the blank expressions on the faces before me, I had obviously not made myself clear enough. “Nonsense, gobbledegook, hocus-pocus,” I elucidated. My mind flitted to an image of every author’s and playwright’s creation inhabiting a literary purgatory; condemned to roam the nether regions by their creators’ fevered imaginations. Hamlet hobnobbing with Little Miss Muffet? Absurd.

  “I thought you approached spiritualism with an open mind,” Werner sneered.

  “Now you are twisting my words.”

  “No – we’re only exercising our imaginations, Doyle,” Holloway pressed. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to do anything. Just be there as his creator. You are merely the catalyst.”

  Merely? Forsooth!

  “Be where, exactly?” I scrutinized the room, confounded.

  “There is a medium in the village,” Plantin explained. “We have agreed I would try and arrange a… how do you say séance in English?”

  “Séance,” I obliged.

  “So,” Plantin nodded approvingly. His language had once again proved a proud infiltrator of that clumsy and ugly hybrid, Anglo-Saxon. “We shall arrange a – séance. And you shall be there to bring the psychic energy.”

  “The what?”

  “… and I will be the vessel Holmes can inhabit,” added Holloway.

  “You’ll be what?”

  “I will make myself available to the spirit of Sherlock Holmes. He will surely need a human form in which to manifest himself.”

  “Or the psychic will, of course,” Pivcevic suggested, playfully.

  “Yes, we will need a vessel,” Werner agreed, perhaps jealous he had not thought of this exciting possibility for himself; the great Sherlock Holmes’s host human.

  “Or the psychic,” muttered Holloway.

  I sat in stunned silence. No doubt we had all had a very long day and had drunk and smoked and talked ourselves into a stupor. No doubt it was very late at night, when men’s imaginations traditionally slip loose their moorings and venture upon voyages they would never have undertaken in the cold light of day. No doubt, too, that whatever inhabited Holloway, it was not Holmes. Nor was it nicotine or alcohol alone.

  “Well?” he said. “What do you say?”

  The project was unlikely to go ahead unless I agreed. Furthermore, I didn’t want the Conan Doyle who sadly disappoints in the flesh to be their abiding image. A vanity, I freely admit. Yet, like most people, I preferred folk to think well of me. I sucked on my pipe, which had long since expired. The project was the epitome of balderdash. Yet the notion did appeal to my sense of whimsy. A voice, in the fundament of my being, cajoled: Go on, what harm could it do…? I took a last pull on my dead pipe, expelled a wraith of non-existent smoke, and surveyed the expectant faces.

  “Why not?” I declared. “We will do it.”

  THREE

  I rose later than I had intended. It had been a long day and an even longer night. I performed my ablutions and dressed. Returning from the salle de bain, I discovered the hotel proprietors had left my breakfast tray on the wicker table on my balcony.

  The sun was well on its way in its journey across the clear blue sky, girding its loins for giving the day the full effect of its power. However, the sight that took both my attention and my breath was the view I had been unable to enjoy the previous day because of the clouds and the mist. It was the whole Jungfrau mountain range, dazzling white and momentous, like a vast army in full battle array. If I were a composer, a Mascagni or a Mendelssohn, I would have brought the whole orchestra to a swooping of strings, climaxing as my eyes rose and encountered that glorious view. They stood, those peaks, like giants or gods; with folded arms they pitied us poor wee timorous beasties.

  I sat in my basket chair beside my table and marvelled.

  To breakfast in such illustrious and majestic company was a delight. The food was excellent: bread, cured meats, mountain cheese and rich, acidic, wine-dark coffee.

  Refreshed and relaxed, I reluctantly left my companions and prepared to venture beyond my sanctuary.

  Presently, I was stepping out of the hotel and exploring the locale that was to be my home for the next fortnight. I sported my mottled green and grey hunting hat with its wild boar brush and embroidered edelweiss motif. I had acquired it in Austria when I was studying medicine in Vienna. The sun and the mountains had passed their agreeable temperament on to the locals. To a man and woman, I was welcomed with a Grüss Gott and a warm smile. Here is our village, of which we are justifiably proud. Enjoy it! The spirit of Christian hospitality had been ingrained in just about everyone. Although no longer religious myself, I recognized that the moral principles enshrined in Scripture were everyday practice for these modest folk. Greet everyone as a friend, for many have entertained angels without knowing it.

  I was just starting to suspect that I had, in fact, died in my sleep and been transported to paradise, when I was roused from my reverie by a single word. A name, in fact. It was said in a most pleasant and charming tone. Yet it nonetheless swamped my whole being, like a storm-tossed whaler broached by a great wave, rounding the Horn.

  “Doyle!”

  I was filled with dread.

  Holloway.

  I thought about affecting not to have heard him, and marching on in the opposite direction.

  “Ho! I say… Doyle!”

  My choice was clear. One: I could carry on ignoring him and risk his continuing to raise his voice. My name would grow louder and shriller until it caused an avalanche. Two: I could acknowledge my tormentor.

  “Morning, Holloway.” I touched the brim of my hat. “I trust you slept well?” I had little interest in the response, and continued on my way without turning to look at him.

  “Like a top, old boy. You?” I fought the shudder that threatened through being addressed in the middle of the street as his “old boy”.

  “Well, thanks,” I said. “Well, won’t keep you. I’m sure you have a lot to…”

  I had turned to address my final remarks to his face. The sight that greeted me finally brought that latent shudder to the fore. It was a fearsome sight, as vulgar as the mountains in the morning had been sublime.

  Holloway was dressed in a short-sleeved check shirt and purple braces. Lime green corduroy knickerbockers were set off by bright red socks. They featured, I believe, an assortment of creatures from the Alpine region. Possibly ibex and chamois, though it was hard to say for sure since the needlework was not of the highest standard. The whole ensemble was completed by a black, high-pointed Swiss mountain felt hat and a pair of calf-length leather boots with Swiss motif pokerwork. He looked like a cross between an Italian cowboy and a warlock.

  “You appear to be half-dressed.”

  “Not a bit,” he replied. “It’ll be hot all day. The peasants round here dress like this all the time.”

  I didn’t doubt Switzers in the fields stripped down to shirtsleeves on occasions. However, I felt sure they would never go so far as knickerbockers and calf-length boots; with or without pokerwork.

  “You have just purchased these items?” I tried to keep the disbelief out of my voice, but rather fancy I failed.

  He jerked his head along the street. “Outfitters – ‘for the walking and climbing gentleman’. All sorts of climbing equipment, too. And some strange planks of wood that the shopkeeper insisted I could put on my feet.”

  “Skis.”

  “What?”

  “Worn in the winter-time. Helps one walk along when there’s snow and ice.”

  “Like ice skates, you mean?”

  “A little.”

&
nbsp; “So – why don’t they wear ice skates, then?”

  “They need them for their mountain tracks. It is called ski-running. They carry the wearers on a horizontal plane for miles in relative comfort, speed and safety. These are hardy people, but their winter livelihoods mean that they have to get about as much in the winter as in the summer. Did he show you any poles?”

  “What?”

  “Walking sticks with a small spider’s web of leather straps at the bottom?”

  “Oh yes, they had spiked tips. I thought they were some kind of harpoon.”

  “They walk on the skis and propel themselves along with the poles. It also gives them purchase and balance. It helps them avoid side-slipping and plummeting pell-mell down a mountain slope. Although,” I continued, remembering the trip to Norway I was proposing later that summer, “there is a Norwegian writer fellow who wrote a tale about his exploits in Greenland. He suggests that one may actually plummet downhill in that manner out of choice. For one’s amusement.”

  “Oh no, I don’t think I hold with that at all.”

  “On the contrary, I rather suspect it may be diverting. Now, as I say, I am sure that you have much with which you would care to be getting on with, so I shall detain you no longer. Goodbye, Holloway.” I pinched my hat brim courteously and turned.

  “Hoi, Doyle,” he said amiably, and tugged at my jacket sleeve. “Got any ideas where I could go?”

  I considered telling him exactly, but manners prevented me. “Sadly not.”

  “Never mind,” he shrugged. “Tell you what, we could explore this place together.”

  “I really don’t think…”

  “Yes, definitely,” he said. He looked speculatively up at the inviting mountains above the village. “Just a couple of hours’ stroll before lunch. A meander up into the hills, eh? What do you say?”

  “I am not sure…”

  “Do, please,” he entreated. “I’ve not done anything like this. Ever.”

  I relented. “I’ll meet you outside the hotel in one hour.” It would have been boorish to refuse him.