The Reichenbach Problem Read online

  I had an overwhelming urge to be at home, in the bosom of my family; with Touie and Mary and my new child-to-be. Safe and secure in normality and predictability; a safe haven in an inconstant sea.

  A walker strode by, supported by a thick, gnarled alpenstock. I stopped. This reminded me of something I had not realized I actually knew. Something I had not even fully understood that I could know. A secret knowledge, secret even to me. As I wrestled with whatever it was in my mind that was so keen to bring itself to my attention, I took a long pull on my pipe. Then the cloud of unknowing dissolved. Brown was an ardent and accomplished walker. His hat had been found and returned to him as he lay upon the blanket. Where, though, was his alpenstock? An alpenstock without which an experienced fellow like he would not have ventured out upon mountain tracks; treacherous after rain. An alpenstock, moreover, with, I supposed, the ubiquitous leather strap. A strap designed to prevent it leaping from the owner’s presence, should they stumble and lose their grip on it.

  I looked across at the spire. The bells were summoning people to mass on this Sunday evening. I searched my memory: how long was evening mass? Under an hour? I resolved to cross to the church after the service had finished. I would discreetly ask to see the body before it was claimed by the officials from the valley hospital, which could be as soon as tomorrow morning for all I knew. Moreover, I decided that nobody must know that I had just taken an interest in the affair. I did not know why, but I knew that this was most important.

  I filled the intervening time by strolling around the village and inspecting the architecture. It was varied and had been understandably subjected to a number of different influences: Swiss, French, German, Italian. I had at length reached the grounds of the church when I encountered the congregation leaving. There were just a few of them, as this was not the principal service of the day.

  To my surprise, I discovered Holloway among them. He nodded and weaved through the small exodus towards me.

  “Going to see any body?” he asked, slyly.

  “Have you been to see it just now?”

  “I got here right at the end of the service and had a word with the padre.” He shrugged. “Our Mr Brown, it would seem, is not receiving visitors today. Though it eludes me what holy reverends are doing denying people access to anything. Especially in a place of worship.” He paused, and looked me up and down. “You going to give it a try?”

  Whatever answer I gave, my principal concern was that he did not accompany me. The nuisance of it all was that he had already received the answer that I was seeking. Yet I could not bring myself to return to the hotel.

  “Are you going back to the hotel now?” I asked. He made a non-committal gesture, which was becoming difficult to see in the gathering dusk. So I continued, “Have you eaten since you returned?”

  “I had something in a café.”

  “Then perhaps you would be best advised to have something a little more substantial. Long mountain walks take it out of one, and if you wish to maintain your stamina throughout your stay, then I would advise you to keep up your strength.”

  He looked at me critically. A smirk stole into his eyes. “You’re the doctor.” He began to move away. “Besides… Eva may be at the hotel…”

  The congregation had dissolved as the morning dew during the course of our exchange, so I was able to step into the church unnoticed. I removed my hat out of deference to the institution and tradition. When in Rome…

  Once inside, the space had a familiarity bred from years of common practice and concerns by clergy and churchgoers the world over. I had been schooled by Jesuits and brought up a good Catholic. As my scientific and medical research had developed, and my library had grown, my opinions and beliefs had gradually altered. I did not discount, by any means, certain possibilities these days. But I rejected absolutism, institutionalism, and exclusiveness in religions. I had naturally been to church on numerous occasions for a variety of purposes since my exploration of faith had begun to widen its scope. I still trusted its comforts while rejecting its dogmas. I abhorred its threats and applauded its struggles. Nevertheless, this church felt strangely welcoming, and I entered with neither trepidation nor antipathy.

  The gas jets had, in the majority, been extinguished. All the old standards that I remembered well from my youth were there: the oak pews, the dog-eared service books, the rose-coloured light flickering in front of the reserve sacrament, and the candlesticks and cross almost glowing in the residual light.

  I sat down at the back to consider this place and review my feelings about it all. If only it were all true, I thought, life would be so much simpler. But if it were true, why did people continue to murder one another? I heard a rustle and looked up. Coming from the vestry in the simple, rough, donkey-brown habit of a Franciscan friar was the priest.

  “Father Vernon?” I guessed. My voice, coming as it did from the shadows of the church, made him jump.

  “Yes? May I help you?” He spoke German, as had I.

  “My name is Doctor Conan Doyle.” I emphasized the “Doctor”. “I was with the party on the mountain that brought Herr Brown down this morning.”

  “Another Englishman?” I was not happy with the assumption as to my nationality, but I let it go. “There seems to be a great deal of English interest in this gentleman’s sad demise,” he continued. I was not sure, but as he approached me, I believed I could begin to smell a hint of alcohol on his breath.

  “Am I not,” I responded, “as a doctor and fellow national, duty bound to spend a moment in vigil with him?” Needs must, I told myself. It wasn’t exactly a lie but, I confess, it wasn’t completely true either.

  “You may, of course, observe your vigil,” Father Vernon replied, graciously. “Here.” He pointed to where I was already sitting.

  I wondered whether Holloway had used my name in vain with this priest, once he had found access to Brown wasn’t going to be granted him. In which case Sherlock Holmes’s name might well have entered the conversation, too. Father Vernon had that all-too-familiar look about him. That look which said, “I know who you are, but I’m blessed if I am going to demean myself by showing you that I know it.”

  “I may not sit with him, though?”

  “You may not.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Apart from the fact that the sanctity of the human being should be preserved in death as in life, and that I do not consider your picking about around him to be appropriate, you mean?”

  “I was not proposing to ‘pick about around him’ as you put it,” I bridled. “I merely…”

  He broke in, “I do not doubt that your request is presented with the highest motives. It is simply my duty to ensure that the body is not touched until the correct authority has taken responsibility for it.” He looked at me pointedly at his phrase “correct authority”.

  “In which case, I bid you a good evening, Father.” I replaced my hat.

  “And I you… but…”

  I stopped. Had the priest relented?

  “Are you not going to stay and pray for him?”

  I would hesitate to suggest that a respectable man of the cloth might actually gloat. However, few if any other words would suffice to describe how he looked at me at that moment.

  “Thank you, no. Since I may not sit with him, I may just as easily pray for him at my hotel.” At which non-conformist remark, I bowed from the collar upwards and withdrew into the evening.

  My rebuff at the hands of the priest was just beginning to rankle to the point of self-righteousness, when my swarming thoughts were interrupted by a low voice addressing me.

  “Hoi! Doyle! No luck, either?”

  FIVE

  “Holloway?” I peered into the gloaming.

  “Over here.”

  He was sitting on a low wall, drumming his heels against the brickwork. The glow of a cigarette grew and faded. He had found some Vestas of his own, then.

  “What do you mean ‘No luck, either’?”


  “You know. Brown.”

  “I thought that you were going back to the hotel.”

  “So did I. Then I realized I wanted to see how it all came out. You and the Pope, there. Not a sack of laughs, is he?”

  “He is only doing his job.”

  “Telling folk to push off? I thought they were supposed to welcome us?”

  “I did not care to press him. I sought to respect his office.”

  “But you are suspicious, all the same?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “What do you mean ‘How do you mean?’ Seems to me that’s just a delaying tactic while you gather your thoughts. Seems to me you would rather I wasn’t around asking awkward questions and stirring things up. But seems to me I have hit upon something where Brown’s concerned and you are just too big and famous to admit it.”

  “All right, Holloway, it did occur to me that there had been more to Brown’s tragic death than meets the eye. And I do not think myself too big and famous to admit it.”

  He gave one of his long low whistles, like a pigeon’s wings as it settles.

  “But it was not thanks to your coaxing or any such consideration,” I added. “I had given it up until barely an hour ago, when the church bells began to ring.”

  He took another pull on his cigarette and exhaled some smoke in my direction. “Well, then, Watson, what have you deduced from all this?”

  “Where,” I paused, perhaps overdramatically, “was his alpenstock?”

  “I don’t know. Where was it?”

  He really was a most irritating fellow.

  “That is precisely the point. A walker, yet where was that stick? It could not have gone far, because of the wrist strap.”

  “Maybe they just didn’t pick it up?”

  “They had collected his hat for him.”

  “Yes – but a stick’s a stick. Could have got mixed up with any number of other branches just lying around there. It is a forest, after all, Doyle.”

  “Listen, I thought you were the one who wanted to establish some kind of evidence of mischief-making?”

  “Yes. But real evidence. Not all of this namby-pamby stuff.”

  Namby-pamby? Forsooth!

  “Well, since you are plainly the expert in such cases, perhaps you could tell me what evidence you have amassed?”

  “None.”

  “None. So why are you so dismissive of my opinions?”

  “I am not. I’m just exploring the case from every angle. Seeing if it all fits together.”

  “So, how would you propose to explore this further?”

  “Do some more investigating.”

  “Return to the scene, and see if we can unearth the alpenstock?”

  “Oh no, I am not going all the way up there again. Not unless I have to.”

  “So – what do you suggest?”

  “We take a peek at Brown.”

  “But… well… we are not permitted…”

  “Who said anything about permission?”

  The silent dusk grew deeper and darker.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Churches are always open, aren’t they? Priests have got to go to bed some time or other, don’t they?”

  I gaped at Holloway. Unfortunately, it was dark and he was unable to note my disbelief.

  “Well?” he said. “Do you believe in Justice, Liberty and Truth? Or is Mr Sherlock Holmes going to slink away with his tail between his legs?”

  The cigarette glowed again.

  “All right,’ I said, much against my better judgment. “We will do it.”

  We set off towards the hotel together. It was decided that we would lie low there until we could be sure that the priest was asleep. I recollected the smell of alcohol on his breath, which I felt was fresh; possibly occasioned by red wine. Someone who drinks like that would, I felt sure, fall into the arms of Morpheus in an hour or so.

  At the hotel, rather than come in, Holloway left me and went off mumbling something about having something else to do, which I didn’t catch.

  I returned to my room, changed quickly for dinner, and presented myself at my chair a few minutes later. It was a sombre meal. The fact that one chair in particular was empty – Brown’s – was a reminder to the rest of us. Events high up on a dark, lonely brae, while we were safe and warm enjoying our food and wine.

  Holloway was also missing. Though I doubt any of us regretted that unduly. Having said that, of course, no one regretted Brown’s absence either, and look what had happened to him.

  There was another reason for the maundering tone to our supper. Plantin was undoubtedly markedly discomfited. His countenance clouded over with dark introspection. I looked across at Madame Plantin, who had noticed my concern. She gave a weak smile and a shrug. I wondered whether this change in Plantin’s disposition were due to my conversation with her. I felt obliged to try to broach the subject. “Monsieur Plantin,” I began, “how did you find today? It was an excellent and invigorating day, did you not think?”

  He glared at me for an instant. Le Roi ne s’amuse, point. Then out of, I suspect, sheer politeness, since there were others present, he confirmed that it had indeed been an excellent day. Then fell to his dark thoughts again. I considered returning to the fray, but his glower became even more pronounced. I looked to Madame Plantin, who raised her eyes heavenwards and jammed a fork into an innocent cut of meat.

  Having failed to navigate the waters of Plantin’s black lagoon, I turned my attention to Werner. He was shovelling his meal into his mouth like the fireman on a London to Edinburgh express. He paused only to wash down a mouthful with beer. Not having Holloway for company that evening, he spent even less time in conversation. Hunting does that for an appetite, I surmised.

  In contrast to the Plantins, the van Engelses seemed relatively buoyant. While not exactly sparkling like champagne, there was definitely a lighter mood about them. They even exchanged a word or two in Dutch with one another. They conversed in low tones, as if confiding, or perhaps plotting, some carefully constructed plan. She it was who appeared to be leading the discussion. I would not say that it was returned by a reluctance on his part. It was more something he wanted to do, too, but for one reason or another he had reservations.

  For fear of snapping the delicate gossamer thread that currently joined them, I made my small talk with the Pivcevics. We discussed the weather, the mountains, the meadows and forests. I told them about the edelweiss, which enthralled them. They had not yet encountered the plant in its wild state, so decided to venture out the very next morning.

  The meal concluded, we separated as before. I found myself ensconced, once again, in the library, puffing on my pipe and savouring a small, assertive cognac. Both van Engels and Pivcevic beat me to the departure. The former made no excuse but just swept off peremptorily, the latter pleading other business. I was consequently left alone with Werner and his beer, and Plantin and his funk.

  We sat in unfathomable silence for some while. A silence broken only by the occasional sipping noises perpetrated by Werner. I was just finishing my pipe and had begun making the kinds of moves one makes when one is on the verge of leaving company when Werner spoke up.

  “Ah. Doctor, we have arranged your séance.”

  I knocked my pipe out on the hearth.

  “Had you forgotten?”

  “No.”

  “It will be tomorrow evening. We shall all go after supper.”

  “All?”

  “Ja, of course. Everybody in the hotel wants to come.”

  “Everybody?” To have to endure this folly at all was an awful prospect as it was. But to have the event turned into a sideshow or a music hall revue was too ghastly by half. “Surely these matters are better conducted in an atmosphere of intimacy…?”

  “Ach, nein! The more the merrier, as you English say…”

  “I’m Irish.”

  “Irish say…”

  “I am not sure that merry is quite the appropriate adjective to
employ in the same breath as séance, but I will let it lie.”

  Throughout, Plantin had been staring gloomily at the bookshelf, his chin in his hand. Without changing his posture, he announced mournfully, “I do not know that my wife and I shall be attending.”

  Did this imply that his presence and mine at the same occasion were incompatible? “Monsieur Plantin?” He didn’t look at me. “Marcus – may I speak freely?”

  “Don’t you always?”

  “If I have offended in any way…?”

  “What did you tell my wife?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You discussed matters of a highly personal nature to me. What did she say?”

  “Well, first, Marcus… I am a doctor and it is not uncommon for wives who are worried about their husbands to –”

  He waved a dismissive hand, “I do not care what is not uncommon. What did Marie say about me to you?” He jabbed an index finger towards me: j’accuse.

  “She said nothing improper, I can assure you. We simply discussed, well, her concerns for you…”

  “What concerns for me? Do I have anything that she has to be concerned about? Non.” He tapped the arm of his rolling chair with the fingers of one hand. “Of course, I am sitting in this. But that is a long time past and we have talked about this openly. Before, during and after we are married. So… non… there is nothing to discuss.” He sat back and folded his arms Napoleonically.

  “She was wondering whether anything was upsetting you,” I persisted.

  “Nothing. Absolutely. We are having a splendid time. Until you arrived.”