The Reichenbach Problem Read online

  “I do hope that I have not in any way upset your holiday.”

  “You have not upset this. But you must not make personal enquiries about me with Marie any more.”

  “I can assure you that that would be the last thing I should wish to do.”

  Werner had been watching this exchange, swivelling his head this way and that, as if at a tennis match. His beer glass remained suspended between thigh and lips throughout. He finally took a sip and replaced the glass on his thigh. There it joined a succession of wet rings, created by the condensation running down the outside of the glass and collecting on the bottom.

  “Since you have organized this séance,” I returned my attention to Plantin, “I would deem it a pleasure if you and your wife would join us after all.”

  “We will consider this.”

  The interview ended and, my pipe once again knocked out, I finally made my own exit.

  “I bid you both goodnight.”

  As I lay upon my bed, waiting for Holloway’s and my covert expedition, I could not help but reflect on Plantin and his wife further. I had a vague theory that he was in some way frustrated by being unable to fully enjoy these beautiful slopes. However, I was sure that there was transport available to take him and his wife as high up into the mountains as practicable. I wondered whether, perhaps, there was an even more personal problem than that. It was hard to tell on such a glancing encounter. If I wished to get to the bottom of this, then I would have to explore further. Or, then again, I could just leave them to their own devices. As far as Plantin was concerned, the case was closed. I recognized that unless it was reopened voluntarily by one or other of them, I would not concern myself with it a moment longer.

  I had just reached this satisfactory conclusion when there came a firm rap upon my door. I clambered off the bed and, yawning, opened it. I fully expected to see Holloway, bright and early for our expedition. I did not expect to see Professor van Engels.

  “Do come in.”

  The Dutchman shuffled in and closed the door behind him. I could detect an invisible curl of cognac fumes. He was clutching something close to his chest. It was tied with red ribbon like a legal brief.

  “Do please sit.”

  He settled on the room’s only armchair. I took the ladder-back seat, situated before the escritoire.

  “I am afraid I am unable to offer you anything by way of liquid refreshment,” I said. This was true, but it was also a relief. I did not feel much like entertaining a man apparently devoted to alcohol by supplying him further.

  “It is no matter. I have come to see you to discuss a subject of some importance…’

  I let him gather his thoughts.

  “Do you see…? I am very keen to write myself. I have done this for many years. Since a boy, in fact. In my job I became too busy for such trivia.” He waved the dossier, then replaced it against his chest. “So, I let it slip. But now, I have begun again to write. Stories. Intricate, artistic stories. Complex. About complex people. I try to write stories that make people add up. Like equations.”

  “What is it that you do for a living?”

  “I am professor, mathematics. Utrecht.”

  As I suspected.

  “I try to give the people in my stories characteristics. So, for example, character number one has characteristics A plus B plus C. Then my character number two has characteristics X plus Y plus Z. So…”

  I nodded to indicate that I followed him.

  “Then I create circumstances and situations and, depending upon these, I multiply or divide or add or subtract. It is very simple formulae. But it works.”

  “And you believe that all human life can be explained by, for example, quadratic equation?”

  “You should read my stories.”

  “I should like to.”

  “They are not like ordinary stories.”

  “I am sure that they are not.”

  “They are original and revealing.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Of course – they do not read as other stories do.”

  “I surmised as much through your explanation. Professor van Engels…?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is there love and hate, pain and joy in your stories?”

  “The reader may interpret the various outcomes in this manner, ja.”

  “But it is for the reader to interpret?”

  “It is for the reader to feel. The writer is merely the instrument, surely?” He looked at me as if I were unable to grasp some basic tenet of literature. He gave the impression he was amazed that I had come so far as a writer without knowing such a simple fundamental fact.

  “Dickens wept as he wrote,” I said.

  “Nej, Dickens was imprecise. He would start in the morning, not knowing what he would put down on paper, and write until dark, following his instincts. He was all passion and emotion, like van Beethoven.”

  “And you have no emotion?”

  “Ja, of course. I am only human. I have every emotion. Including, though I think that you do not suspect this, a sense of humour. But literature demands precision. Objectivity. No emotion, only technique.”

  “I have heard music which is all technique. Music which is applauded to the rafters in conservatoires. Applauded by those cognoscenti who understand music theory, all across the world. But I prefer my music to be born of emotion.”

  “Ja, so, well… I would put overemotional down for you as characteristic A.”

  “Really? How intriguing. What other characteristics would you give me?”

  “Do you really wish to know?”

  “Of course. For purely scientific reasons, you understand?”

  “Then I would say… characteristic B – indiscipline.”

  I looked at him closely. He was not displaying the slightest indication of the sense of humour he professed to possess. “And characteristic C…?”

  “Anger.” He looked pleased with himself. It was as if he had just resolved Euclid’s fifth proposition. Was I really just an equation? A sum of parts that could be dissected and itemized? Can a human being’s personality be compartmentalized and explored in purely scientific terms? There was work going on when I was in Vienna to that purpose, I knew. Furthermore, William James had published his excellent principles of psychology recently. But I was unsure as to whether a person could be simply entered into a ledger and then minutely analysed. I did not doubt that it would have a value in the most extreme circumstances; with profoundly mentally ill patients, for example. It may even be that it would work upon more superficial levels; for people who, perhaps, needed a little clearer direction as to who they were and where they may go in their lives. But to have such a clinical analysis as a be-all and end-all? Would that not lead to a situation where those who had characteristics A plus B plus C were despised by those who had characteristics X, Y and Z? Or at least lead unavoidably to relationships being terminated because such-and-such a type was scientifically proven to be incompatible with so-and-so type? It left no room for chance, this formula. And chance, although it brings pain and confusion, also brings joy and beauty and that inspiring happenstance that is the fundamental alchemy of all humankind’s existence.

  Yet, I wondered, was that what I had made Holmes do? Reduce personality into component parts? No. Frau von Denecker had put her finger upon it. Holmes analysed motive, and the product of that motive. He allowed human beings the dignity of self-expression; even if that meant that this was manifested sometimes in murder. Not that he condoned it. But he allowed that the freedom for it to occur existed, since without that freedom, we would all be automatons. Or formulae as expressed by Dutch professors of mathematics.

  “I should be glad to read your stories, Professor van Engels,” I said.

  With only the slightest hesitation, he gave his precious brainchild into my safe keeping. “You know, my wife said you should read these. I was not so sure.” He departed, and I left the dossier on my escritoire to be examined at leisure later. I l
ooked at my pocket watch. It was ten minutes after Holloway’s and my appointed rendezvous. We had not discussed how we should convene, so I assumed that as he had not come to find me, it was my task to go and find him. I picked up my hat and left my room.

  His own room was empty; or rather he did not answer when I knocked. Nor when I knocked more firmly a second and a third time, assuming that he had fallen asleep. This lack of Holloway left me uneasy. Not that I was pining for his company. I just had, like van Engels, put two and two together and the product left me equating Holloway’s absence with that of Brown’s the night before. That is to say, half a notion lurked in the back of my mind that they had dealt with him the way they had dealt with Brown.

  Whoever “they” were. Even if “they” existed.

  Then again, if Brown’s death were not an accident…?

  I pulled myself up short. It was clear to me that I was beginning to formulate hard and fast theories before I had fully established all the facts. And worse, I was beginning to incorporate Holloway’s lack of response, simple and ultimately explicable though it probably was, into these wild suppositions.

  Another consideration occurred to me. Was I secretly hoping Holloway had been disposed of, like Brown? I did not know. I was unable to peer that deep into my consciousness. Even if I were hopeful – why? Surely I couldn’t want Holloway murdered? Or anyone for that matter. I was a doctor, and a writer of moral stories to boot…

  I shook all these morbid and ultimately futile thoughts off, and brought myself round to considering what was to be done next. I tried to think analytically. Was Holloway dead, asleep or even just not in his room? I could not resolve the first two questions immediately, unless I could see inside the room, which I could not. Therefore, I needed to get in there to find out.

  I made my way downstairs. It was by now very late and I had not intended that anyone should know I was still up and about. I did not want difficult questions about churches and bodies later. There was no other sign of habitation, not even in the back office, behind the reception desk, which was in darkness. Dare I reconnoitre the office in the hope that Holloway’s bedroom key was there?

  I stole into the room behind the desk and looked around for a gas jet or an oil lamp. There was one of the latter on the writing desk, covered by a damask cloth. I lifted off the glass and put it down on the blotter. I then fumbled in my pockets for my Vesta case.

  I had just produced a stick and was pressing it against the sandpaper when I heard a curious, metallic scratching noise. It was coming from the far end of the lobby. I immediately ducked beneath the desk and held my breath. The noise became more distinct, and I realized with a mixture of relief and anxiety that it was the front door latch. A key had been trying inexpertly to find its way into the lock, had now done so, and was in the process of being turned.

  I remained concealed behind the desk for a few moments more, until I heard a whispered exchange. One voice was Eva’s, it would seem. The other voice came in a gruff whisper; the increasingly familiar tones of the current bane of my life. I stood up and walked out from the darkness of the office into the light of the reception area. My sudden appearance produced in Holloway a most gratifyingly shocked expression.

  “Doyle!” He clutched at his pocket. “What are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you.”

  “Good evening, doctor.”

  “Eva… good… good evening.”

  “Why are you waiting for Richard?” she asked.

  I looked at Holloway.

  “I asked him to,” Holloway said, taking his cue. “We had agreed to meet up at this hour…”

  I glared at him. Was he about to let Eva in on our proposed expedition?

  “… for a stroll and a smoke and a chat before bed.”

  Eva was not wholly convinced. I noticed that she had seen the Vesta case in my hand. Her eyes roved about to see what else was possibly amiss. I watched her eyes dart past me, into the office and back to me again. I realized that although dark, the uncovered oil lamp, the cloth and its glass may still be visible.

  “Come along, Doyle.” Holloway took my arm and pulled me towards the front door. “I’m eager for that cigarette. Eva doesn’t approve – so I shall have to smoke it out of view. See you’ve got your Vestas.” He laughed and Eva smiled in return.

  “Goodnight, Richard,” she said, with warmth. She turned to me. “Goodnight, doctor,” she said, rather more coolly.

  Outside the hotel, Holloway lit his cigarette.

  “Where were you?” I hissed.

  “None of your business. Come on – let’s get this over with…” He sighed.

  “There’s no need to sound so world-weary, Holloway. After all, it was your idea to do this.”

  I let the argument tail off. It would get us nowhere and, besides, the need for silence was paramount. Even a hissed exchange of views could carry a long way at night in the still mountain air. We arrived at the church to discover that it was agreeably quiet and dark. Tiptoeing around to the west door, we both steadied ourselves for the trespass we were about to commit. At that point I suddenly received a pang of conscience, as sharp as a barb in my stomach. I am not afraid of much, and I have often had the resolve to approach difficulties with sanguinity. But to enter consecrated ground in the dead of night in order to paw over a corpse – an action for which we did not have permission – was that not desecration? If Touie could see me now, what would she say? And as for my devoted readers… Such a gentleman. Such a moral champion and a fine upstanding pillar of the community. A beacon of light in the sinful darkness of humanity. Pish. And, indeed, tush.

  “Come on, Doyle. Let’s get on with it.” Holloway grabbed at the door.

  “No!” I seized his wrist, fearful that his little burst of temper would result in him wrenching the door open unceremoniously and causing the most awful row, which would wake everyone within earshot. The priest’s house was only a short path distant.

  Having stayed his hand, I stepped forward myself and gently, painstakingly, curled my fingers around the doorknob. Gripping it firmly, I began to manipulate it. I turned it to the left, but it refused to give. I twisted it to the right and, similarly, the door did not respond. I turned towards Holloway.

  “It is locked,” I announced.

  SIX

  “Now what do we do?”

  Trespass is bad enough and unforgivable. Trespass in a place that many consider most holy and revere above all earthly things, is doubly so. Trespass in order to conduct an investigation of a dead stranger’s body trebly so. On the other hand, what if it did transpire that something was not as it should be concerning Brown’s death? What then? To be found here, doing what I proposed to do, what would that say about my innocence? I was not Sherlock Holmes. I did not have his reputation and respect as a guardian of truth and justice. This was the real world and, all too often, the real world was far more complex than anything an author’s mind could contrive. My stories were all very well but they still conformed to a reasoned-out structure in my mind. Real-life mysteries may well have a reasoned-out structure as well – cause and effect – but what the participants may propose does not necessarily equate to what fate may eventually dispose.

  And why was the door locked? I speculated further. Were we being watched, perhaps? I could quite understand Father Vernon being suspicious. An Englishman dead. Two fellow countrymen appearing in quick succession to plead that they may be given permission to inspect the corpse. It would be enough kindling for anyone’s suspicions. Would I lock the door, too? I considered that, yes, I most probably would. Of course, it could be more innocent than that. It could simply be an act of courtesy; to allow the body of a departed soul to rest undisturbed through the watches of the night. To rest in peace, secure in this place of worship, this house of God. Again, it could be that the priest was under instructions to keep the place where his charge lay locked until the body could be recovered and both the medical people and the police in the valley could in
vestigate the whole affair themselves.

  “Doyle!” Holloway had been scouting around the side of the church. His hoarse whisper summoned me to his side. He was standing at an open door.

  “You didn’t force it?”

  “Naturally. But it was easy. You didn’t hear anything, did you? There you are, then. Well… what are you waiting for? Get inside…”

  I edged along a passage leading into the body of the church. Holloway drew the door closed behind him, leaving us in utter darkness. He struck a match and lit a dark-lantern. “Did you bring one?”

  “A lantern? No… I didn’t expect…”

  “Lot of use you are.”

  We skulked to a door behind the sanctuary, next to the vestry. Holloway tried the handle; it didn’t move.

  “Hang on, there’s a key in the lock.” It gave way with a well-oiled click.

  An odour met us. There was also the reek of wet wool. The lantern showed us a trestle table, laid with a white linen cloth. There was a second linen cloth on top of this which, with its peaks and troughs, resembled the mountains that loomed over the village outside. They were also the contours of a human being. At the end where the head rested were two solemn oil lamps, lit. The priest had reverenced the mortal remains of the departed soul, and had then ensured that the lights would keep Brown company through the long watches of the night.

  “Excellent!” Holloway set his lantern on a free-standing bookcase of missals. He pointed its lens towards the body. “You had better get straight on with whatever it is that you do. The quicker you’re done with it, the quicker we can be out of here.”

  He stepped aside and lodged himself against the bookshelf like a spectator at a game of billiards.

  I stepped forward and turned up the oil lamps. I then folded back the cloth from the deceased’s face. It looked much as it had looked when last I saw him, on his blanket upon the brae. The eyes had been closed then, as they were closed now. Just as my old tutor Dr Bell had always taught, I contented myself with simply observing in the first instance. As I looked, I drew back the sheet further and further, noting every detail. I discovered the source of the wet wool smell: his tweeds were still damp. I studied every blemish, lesion and abrasion on the skin, wherever it was exposed. They were on the face, the neck, the hands. They were all consistent with a fall down a rocky slope. It was evident that this slope also contained shrubs, as one or two of the lesions were long and jagged tears. There were also occasional places where a branch had simply jabbed straight at the flesh. One hand, the left, was of particular interest. The fingers as far as the second joint were covered in dried mud.