“Well, what do you think?” Holloway was waiting for an answer to a question I had not heard. I vaguely remembered him saying something about the scene of the fall.
“We should, as you say, visit the scene,” I said, and watched Holloway carefully to see whether that reply met with approval or confusion. It appeared to hit the spot.
“Good. So you agree, this afternoon, then?”
“This afternoon?”
“That’s what I said – weren’t you listening?”
“This afternoon. But first, I must wire the hospital in the valley – to ask them for the results of the post-mortem, when they have them. I should also wire an old friend in Whitehall. We were at college together. He will be able to advise me on the protocols in such matters.”
“Fair enough.” Holloway took to his feet and moved towards the door. “I shall see if Eva is able to escort us to where they found Brown.”
“As you wish.”
“What we need, though, Doyle, is a Sherlock Holmes moment.”
“A what?”
“You know – like in your stories… a leap of imagination, a sudden inspiration. Try to have one of those, would you? I feel sure that’s the sort of thing that will bring us our culprit…”
“I shall work on it,” I laughed. Although I was not sure that humour was Holloway’s intention.
A felicitous moment in a story? But when it comes to seeking just such a moment in real life…? One cannot conjure elegant leaps of thought and reasoning out of thin air just like that.
Having smoked, enjoyed the scenery, read and reflected a little, I discerned that it was time for lunch.
At the table were the Plantins and the Pivcevics. Werner had been there earlier, but the others told me he had left to prepare for an afternoon’s hunting. The Plantins appeared to be in a more settled mood. Plantin had rolled over to the buffet to collect a second helping of breads and Swiss country cheese. Madame Plantin leaned across to me and said, conspiratorially, that she and her husband had begun to speak about certain matters. Although not much had been actually discussed, it was Marie’s impression that progress had been made.
Anna Pivcevic witnessed this conversation and expressed her curiosity by raising an eyebrow. Marie, thinking, as young married women often do, that she was unjustly being suspected of flirting with someone other than her husband, smiled. She said quickly, for Plantin was returning, that whatever impression Mrs Pivcevic was under, it was erroneous. I, she told her, had been good enough to consult with her on a matter of a delicate nature in my official capacity as a doctor. My wisdom had been much appreciated. She spoke in a low tone, since her husband had now reached the table. Finally, she commended my counsel to Mrs Pivcevic most highly. She then turned with that frisson of feminine energy which all new brides possess, and directed every last ounce of her attention towards her beloved husband.
At the close of the meal, as Holloway and I rose to leave for the next task, Mrs Pivcevic plucked at my sleeve gently. She whispered that she should also like to consult with me. She released me, and I left with Holloway, overhearing Mr Pivcevic asking his wife what it was that she had said to me. She replied that she had not said anything of any interest.
I returned to my room and Holloway to his. I collected my hat and took up my ice axe, which was leaning at the side of the escritoire.
At the side of the escritoire?
The last time I had handled my ice axe, I had left it against the escritoire at the front. Now it was at the side. Of course, it could easily have been moved by one of the hotel staff. But was there a more sinister reason? Putting my things down, I made a thorough search of my room. I could not find anything missing. Nor was there any evidence of anything having been disturbed. I was imagining things, surely? Alternatively I was, conceivably, slowly going out of my mind. I shrugged to myself. If my room had received a burglar in my absence, it was a very neat and tidy one. They had no need for anything of mine. Perhaps I should be offended that my possessions were of so little value that they were considered not worth a sou in a Swiss flea market.
I turned suddenly and cast one final glance around my room. As if I might be able to catch out whatever was amiss. Like a child playing “What’s the Time, Mr Wolf?”. I discovered nothing, collected my things and left.
SEVEN
Holloway and I met in the lobby, ready for both a visit to the telegraph office and a walk up the hill. However, a curious sight met our eyes. Eva was talking intently with Anton, who appeared quite distressed. The moment we appeared, however, they took pains to compose themselves.
We bid them both good-day.
“I am afraid I must stay here awhile. I am sorry.” She cast a concerned glance towards her brother.
“We quite understand,” I replied. “Please do not worry.”
“But…”
“Perhaps, Holloway, we should postpone our walk until a time more convenient to Eva.”
“Very well.”
“Oh no,” Eva interjected, “I would not prevent you from making your walk. It is a very simple route. I can draw you a map. All you will need is some water to drink and a compass, to be sure that you are safe.”
“Do you think we shall be able to navigate for ourselves?”
“It is not hard, doctor,” she said. She grabbed a pencil and notepaper from the reception desk and began to sketch out a rough map for us. As she was preparing this, a middle-aged couple appeared from a downstairs room in the private quarters. I had not met them before. I imagined them to be the hotel’s owners and, therefore, Anton and Eva’s parents. They were dressed to go out. The father looked very severe and there was no doubt that the mother had been crying. A sharp frost descended upon the lobby. Anton and Eva stiffened, and the parents, while acknowledging their existence and ours, said nary a word to any of us. I identified no anger; just, perhaps, disappointment – profound sadness, even.
The parents left the building and Holloway looked across at Eva, who returned his gaze.
“Do not worry,” she said. “It is a family matter. No more. All will be well.”
“Are you sure?” I had not known Holloway to possess a tender tone to his voice. But here was evidence that he did.
“Sure.” It was Anton who replied and forced a smile.
In a few moments, our map and directions were completed and we were ready to set off.
“A compass!” I cried, remembering Eva’s cautionary words.
“I have one,” Holloway said, and patted his jacket pocket. “I purchased it from the outfitters yesterday.”
“Then all is well.”
“Hardly that…”
We headed for the telegraph office which, we had been told by Eva, was just off the same street. We found it quite easily, set back a little from the main thoroughfare. I entered and Holloway followed. I found a writing stall, a pencil and a form and began to compose a message to the hospital in the valley. Of course, the moment I started, I realized I did not know to whom I should address it. Although I may quite easily secure the address of the establishment from the telegraph office clerk, a general message would not be treated with sufficient care and attention.
“Why have you stopped writing, Doyle?”
“I realize, Holloway, that I have no authority, other than a British doctor’s credentials, to demand to see confidential medical records.”
“Well, that’s that, then.”
“Although…”
“What?”
“Which gentleman is this, again, exactly?”
“His name is Robert Ignatius Steen. As I said, we were at college together. He was studying politics and law. Found himself a very excellent berth in the corridors of power. We meet up occasionally at his or my
club. He is something of an enigma and a voluptuary. He is also a great cynic, but we have developed a firm friendship. I have no doubt that he is due eventually to find himself a most influential post within the labyrinthine workings of government.”
“Then wire him. And stop prevaricating.”
I took up the pencil stub and the form and began to compose.
MY DEAR STEEN. URGENT.
PETER BROWN BRITISH CITIZEN DECEASED.
ACCIDENT OR OTHERWISE.
ANY INFORMATION OR ADVICE.
NEED ACCESS TO POST-MORTEM REPORT.
I added the name of the hospital in the valley, then addressed the message to Steen’s office in Whitehall. I handed the form in to the clerk, paid the fee, and left with Holloway for our walk. By the time we returned, I felt sure, we would have a response from my friend.
As we left the office, Holloway nudged me sharply in the ribs and pointed. In the distance, coming away from the church and heading down the valley road, was a cart bearing the unmistakable burden of a human body wrapped in canvas. I removed my hat in a gesture of respect.
The climb, such as it was, had not the same gaiety about it as the one we had made in Eva’s company the day before. We trudged most of the first hour in silence, pausing only to look back down at the village and to take a drink of water. The walk seemed much harder this time and, when we passed the edelweiss in the meadows, just a little poignant.
The map was clear and we made the vicinity where Brown’s body had been found quite easily. It was on an escarpment across a coomb from the mountain in whose shadow our village sheltered. The area was very green and dank. Ivy and other climbers with heavy oppressive growth clung to the slopes and mingled with the ash, the pine and the sycamore; like a jungle.
We could hear a continual drumming, throaty noise as we approached the exact spot that Eva had marked on the map. There was a waterfall somewhere near and, judging by the noise, the force was substantial. The trail led through the undergrowth and over another steep slope. We picked and scrambled our way up this further obstacle, and began to follow the most explicit instructions that had been jotted down on the hotel notepaper. I asked Holloway for a glimpse at it – he had cherished it since Eva had presented it to him. He opened it up and showed me. It told us to go over the ridge, follow the path down, at a large rock on our left turn right, follow the path and go down the slope until the path stopped at an open space. It was there that Brown had been found. The note ended with the ominous expression: Take great care. This last she had double underlined. Since it was Holloway who had taken the map, and I had not seen it until that moment, the stark, explicit instruction had great impact.
“What does it mean?”
“I don’t know, Doyle. Come on. This way…”
The going became harder and we sweated and puffed and struggled our way onwards over the crest. With some relief, we began our descent and drew nearer to the fearsome drumming sound. It was becoming more and more intense by the minute. In my fancy, we were not walking a Swiss mountain path, but forcing our way through the jungles of the African interior.
We followed the trail for a few paces more, turned a corner around a rocky outcrop, and forced our way through some overhanging vegetation. At that moment, the reason for Eva’s cautionary note and the source of the fearsome noise became clear. Rounding the outcrop, it was as if the scenery had burst. Directly before us was the most powerful waterfall I had ever seen. It was not the largest by volume. It was not the broadest. It was not the highest. What made this particular force so spectacular and fearsome was the fact that an incalculable amount of water was being pressed through a very narrow aperture at the top of its fall. This unyielding pressure created an incredible, formidable jet of water, which shot out and then down, spearing into a boiling pool a hundred or more yards below. There were further falls beyond that. The water energetically leapt, in fits and starts, down a great gash of sheer and glistening gorge. Stamping and shouting and hurling itself all the way to the foot of the cliff, about half a mile below us. But the main force, the primary fall, upon which we had stumbled in such surprise, was the most spectacular. A stallion’s tail of water that arched towards its destruction through the gap and down into the pool, throwing up cloud after rolling cloud of mist and spray.
“The Reichenbach Fall!” Holloway had to shout above the water’s clamour to be heard, indicating where Eva had written its name down upon our map.
“Magnificent!” I cried, and ventured as near to the edge of the cliff as I dared. The rocks and the undergrowth were particularly greasy and treacherous here. I did not feel secure enough to go too far. I clung on to my ice axe for further comfort, and ensured its spiked ferrule had sufficient purchase upon the slimy mud that clung doggedly to the rocks at the edge.
“Come on, Doyle. We haven’t reached the exact spot yet.”
I withdrew as carefully as I had ventured out, and rejoined my companion on the path. We set off again, in what I might only describe as a slithering totter. The track led straight down the cliff side, keeping the savage plume of the fall company.
After ten minutes of sweating and striving to keep our foothold, we reached a small plateau or shelf among the rocks.
“Here!” Holloway waved a hand about him to show the place where Eva’s map indicated Brown had ended his life’s journey.
The roar of the fall drummed all around me and dulled my senses. My very bones vibrated. I began to pick my way carefully over the scene, looking for any scrap of information I might uncover.
“What are we looking for, Doyle?”
“Anything! The pipe knife, the alpenstock. Anything!” I soon arrived at a part of the rock shelf where the mud had been churned up more than somewhat. “Here!”
Holloway joined me immediately. The telltale signs of little gobbets of blood from Brown’s wounds, as his battered body lay waiting to be discovered, were all around this spot. They had been kept moist and glistening by the constant mist and spray and the close atmosphere in that oppressive gorge. The mud had been churned up, I was sure, by the boots of the men who had come to bring the body back to the village. I looked up from the position and inspected the impossibly steep path we had just negotiated, at great risk to life and limb. I was gripped by what an extraordinary and heroic feat it must have been for those men to have manhandled a dead weight back up that almost vertical cliff face. They must have been as sure-footed as chamois and as courageous as bears. I sat back on my haunches, imagining every perilous step and stumble, blew out my cheeks and marvelled.
“Can’t see anything!” cried Holloway.
I shook my head and shrugged. There did not seem to be anything there other than the signs denoting where Brown had lain and where he had been gathered in. This, though, was at least something rather than nothing: no pipe knife, no alpenstock. What could we infer from their absence, I wondered? I stepped gingerly towards the rim of the shelf. The pool, although closer, was still a terrifying drop below us. It slewed and bubbled and convulsed with every hammer blow of the force above it.
The turmoil of the waters notwithstanding, there was an infusion of a milky white colour, with a hint of turquoise, indicating the presence of some mineral, perhaps copper. Whatever the reason, the water was cloudy as well as disturbed, which made spotting anything lying at the bottom of the pool next to impossible.
I resolved, however, to explore one further avenue before I could complete my initial investigation. I would need to look for the pipe tool and stick in Brown’s bedroom. I felt sure that Eva could accommodate me as far as access was concerned. That is, if his effects had not already been collected together. Perhaps they were, even now, trundling their way through the valley upon the cart with their late owner?
“Nothing here at all, Holloway.”
“No!” He had been rummaging around in the shrubbery.
It had not unduly surprised me – this singular lack of anything significant to show for our endeavours. I had always know
n that the main area for our search would be back up at the top of the fall where, as it were, Brown had commenced his descent. “Come on,” I urged Holloway. “Back we go!” I pointed cheerfully up the cliff with the tip of my ice axe. Holloway surveyed the return journey and, with a heavy sigh, put one pokerworked boot in front of the other to begin the long ascent.
Fatigued and heaving for breath, we arrived back at the top of the cliff. We drank some water and sat down to regain our strength.
“Waste of time that was, Doyle.”
“Not a bit of it. Having found nothing down there is not a negative result; it simply means that there is nothing there to find and that therefore the absence of both the pipe knife and the alpenstock remains a significant factor.”
“If I may say so, Doyle, what a load of gobbledegook.”
“You are entitled to your opinion, Holloway. However, we should now be seeking evidence of a fight or some other event that would have preceded and even precipitated Brown’s downfall.” I got to my feet and started to scout the immediate vicinity. Holloway listlessly followed suit.
After about ten minutes of searching in vain, my companion started to mutter to himself. I could not hear what it was he was saying, but I had no doubt that it was about me and that it was both highly personal and indelicate.
“What exactly is it that we are looking for now, Doyle?”
“Well, again the knife and again the alpenstock. But also: crushed foliage, spilled blood, broken twigs, footprints, pressed grass.”
“Pressed grass! What on earth for?”
“Well, my dear Holloway, while the theory is that violence has taken place – if the fall was not an accident – one must not leave any stone unturned, literally, in seeking evidence of any event.”