The Reichenbach Problem

  The second possibility was suicide, of course. He was said to be a morose chap. There were no signs of actual struggle that I could detect. It may explain why he did not care to take his usual walking equipment. In my limited experience, however, of the suicide’s emotional frame of mind, I believe they rarely ended their lives without leaving behind some indication of why they had felt bound to take such a terrible and desperate step. In that case, an inspection of Brown’s belongings became additionally important. Having said that, if it had been suicide, a note might well have already been found, and a small village’s rumour factory would have done the rest. It was also highly unlikely that a suicide would choose to leap off a cliff backwards. In addition, if I were to kill myself at that place, why would I choose to land on a ledge? I would most probably leap off into the force itself, believing that if the crashing against the rocks of the waterfall didn’t kill me, submersion in the pool beneath, while helpless and probably unconscious, would.

  This left the third possibility, to which I could not but return: that a person or persons unknown forced him off the edge. Which returned me, naturally, to the boot-wearer. Whether this person’s prints indicated elements of duress, misfortune or, indeed, complete innocence, remained to be seen. The evidence, though, so far fitted the facts. Brown had fallen off the cliff backwards. An unlikely event in terms of accident, but highly likely if he were talking to someone, pleading for his life or trying to prevent them from achieving their aims. He had attempted, at the last gasp, to cling on to the edge for dear life. He was dressed inappropriately for such an expedition.

  Why, though, would anyone wish to kill him? It remained meaningless to speculate at this stage. I wondered whether Holmes would have speculated.

  No. Theories, to him, clouded the precise, clinical analysis of the situation. I resolved, therefore, not to speculate for the time being, either. As for Holloway? I further resolved not to tell him about the second set of footprints. Or, indeed, anything.

  I continued for some considerable time, relishing the peace and quiet of this splendid district. Presently I began to recognize the features of my own village’s locality, the conjunction of the mountains to the south adopting a familiar aspect.

  The sun, although very low now, was still giving off a bronze light. The sky directly above had grown profoundly blue. The mountains gleamed proprietorially while, from the east, a cumulus mass was marching in, in splendorous rank upon rank, like Napoleon’s Grande Armée.

  I crested the last ridge and wearily began my final descent through the forest to my hotel. A hot bath and a hearty meal was what I desired most now. Why should I let this sorry business ruin my holiday? I had come to rest and enjoy myself – so rest and enjoy myself I would. With that happy thought, I stopped on my downward trudge to fumble through my pockets and refill my pipe.

  At that exact moment, a brief but sudden noise, a foot or so from my right ear, startled me. It was like the heavy hum of a stag beetle in flight. But it did not approach, arrive and pass in that preposterously aimless, indolent way stag beetles have. This noise was faster, busier, more purposeful. It came and went in an instant. I then heard a smack or slap, like a butcher dropping a steak onto his chopping board from a height. The hum had come from somewhere off my starboard quarter, down the slope. The slap had been some yards ahead, on the rise off my port bow. Immediately afterwards, I became conscious that there had been simultaneously an increase in atmospheric pressure and a brief rise in temperature, which I had sensed on my cheek. The conclusion that I drew from all this evidence was as unbelievable as it was shocking.

  I had just escaped being shot.

  Had I not stopped to feel for my smoking materials, I might well have walked into the bullet, for bullet it was. All of this went hurtling through my mind as, instinct taking command, I flung myself onto the ground, scrabbling along on my belly for the second time that day. I found shelter behind a fallen trunk.

  I lay there for an indeterminate period, drawing in copious breaths full of air, yet trying to remain as silent as possible. The hardest thing was to try to suppress the surge of adrenaline that was flooding my system and creating the most agitated and anxious state within me. I longed to take to my feet and run as far and as fast as my legs could carry me. Yet I knew to rise from my position of relative safety was the last thing I should do. I lay there consciously trying to calm myself. My nerve ends were making my whole body tremble. My heart was drumming erratically, like a pebble being shaken in a balloon.

  Regaining some degree of equilibrium, I started to take stock. There were no noises that I could discern above and beyond the usual woodland rustlings. I waited a further minute or so, listening. No indication of anyone trying to make their way stealthily through the undergrowth. No twigs snapping, or creatures disturbed by an alien presence in their territory. I took my ice axe and placed my hat upon its iron ferrule. I then raised it just above the log.

  Nothing happened. No movement. No unusual noise. Either this was a very patient hunter, or the person who had loosed off the round had moved on.

  After a further interval, I decided to move. I crawled back a little along the way I had just come, but also deeper into the woods. I chose to go this way in case whoever it was expected me to head in the more likely direction, back to the village. Finding a broad enough tree, I then stood up behind it. It was good to be back on my feet. A sense of something approaching normality enveloped me. I peered as cautiously as I might around the trunk to inspect the surrounding forest.

  No movement. No unusual noises.

  Having established, as best I could, that I was alone, I looked around over my shoulder in the direction in which the bullet’s trajectory had taken it. According to my best estimation, it had lodged in one of three possible trees. Steeling myself for a move, I took a deep breath and crashed across open space to the relative safety of another, marginally thinner tree. I waited a further moment and then peered around behind me to try to inspect the other trees I had marked out. After a long perusal from a distance, I saw a glimmer of arboreal flesh. This was where the bark had been chipped away by the impact of the bullet.

  There was nothing for it but to take another chance. Once again, holding my breath, I leapt across the intervening space and stuck myself behind a further tree. From there I could more clearly see the place where the projectile, which had so very nearly separated me from my loved ones, had struck.

  In all, I was about two yards away from this location. I could now see the dull gleam of the bullet perfectly clearly. It was buried up to the last quarter of an inch in the tree. Since I could still see it, it must have been nearly spent. It had already travelled a significant distance before it had reached me and the tree. If it had not done so, it would have embedded itself right inside the tree and the flesh would have closed over it. Indeed, if it were from a high-powered hunter’s rifle, loosed from just a few hundred feet away, it would have most probably passed right through the trunk; such was the velocity generated by such technically proficient weapons.

  This information was, for me, curiously comforting. I could have every reason to believe that I was not actually being shot at deliberately. A stray shot loosed at some unsuspecting creature had missed its target. It had continued on its trajectory and ended its humming journey just a few feet from me. Astonishing that it had not encountered another trunk in all that distance. Yet, I imagine, that is why hunting in woodland, while observing strict protocols, is possible. Stray bullets, if they miss their mark, are unlikely to travel too far, and not beyond the vision of the hunter.

  I thanked all that was merciful in creation. Then, tentatively at first but with growing confidence, I stepped out from behind my protection and began to walk downhill. I started looking for the path I had left some while ago. The only question was, in which precise direction should I look? I knew that it was downhill and to my left somewhere. The problem was that, my attention having been otherwise occupied, I had lost my bearings. Mor
eover, rain had started to fall. Heavy drops like blood were breaking through the tree canopy. Along with the rain the mist had descended, making visibility difficult. Meanwhile, I realized both the sketch map and the compass resided currently in Holloway’s jacket pocket.

  I scouted around tentatively through the trees, trying to find a path, any path. After a fruitless few minutes, I remembered the bullet tree. If I could find that, I could take a back-bearing on its trajectory and find my original path.

  All very logical and practical, no doubt. And, if I had chosen to do this from the outset, I would already have been on my way back to my warm, dry bedroom. As it was, bumbling about the woods in vain had served only to disorient me further. In short, I had absolutely no idea in which direction to commence my search for the bullet tree.

  There was nothing for it. I would have to use gravity for my guide. So I began my descent. It was exhausting, uncomfortable, laborious and painful. Not only was the slope uncommonly steep and uneven, it was laced with tree roots, hillocks, hummocks and sudden hidden holes. These were designed, as far as I could tell, for the express purpose of trapping the foot and breaking the ankle of unsuspecting blunderers. I barked my shins on fallen branches. I became caught up in all manner of shrubs, brambles and other forest vegetation.

  After twenty minutes of this arduous process, I began to wonder: what if I tripped now and broke my leg, or hit my head? Deep in the forest and without sustenance, I began to become apprehensive. Notwithstanding the mist, night had come. The darkness of the forest had consequently deepened. Meanwhile, another thought occurred. If the hunter’s bullet had not been directed at me, what had it been directed at? Deer or chamois, perhaps? Yes. But what about boar or bear or wolf?

  By way of emphasis, at that moment I heard a throaty, creaturely growl. Not too far away, in my estimation. I began sincerely to regret leaving the bosom of my family in South Norwood. I had selfishly sought isolation; I had acquired it to excess.

  Resolutely casting aside my rising self-pity, I set my face to recommence my descent. No doubt, at some point, even if I missed the village or any further tracks or habitation, I would ultimately find myself in the valley. Even if it took all night. Or a day and a night. However long it took, there would be a conclusion to this difficulty. It was simply my task to keep myself gainfully employed and, by doing so, to ensure that the conclusion came sooner rather than later. I filled and lit my pipe.

  Giving vent to a great cloud of pipe smoke, I watched it mingle with the fog that now clung to everything. I then puffed off into the night like a locomotive. I set my sights on the happy homecoming I was intent on enjoying. Thus lifted, I believe I even began to sing. I seem to recall it was “Through the Night of Doubt and Sorrow”, but I could not guarantee that it was.

  “Doyle!”

  The voice was distant and muffled by forest and fog. I cupped my hands to my mouth and hallooed back.

  “Holloway?”

  “Over here!”

  “Where’s here?”

  His voice was coming to me as if from out of the grave. It echoed around me, with no substance and seemingly from no specific direction. There was a further silence, then: “Stand still, be quiet and listen!”

  I did as instructed. A moment later there came a short, shrill blast on a whistle. There were further echoes, as the mountainside threw the noise from one surface to another, like children in a ring with a ball. However, the initial sound had definitely come from my left and slightly below me. I estimated about five hundred yards on a level march but dropping a yard or two every so often.

  “Coming!”

  After a few moments, I heard Holloway again: “Stand still! Listen!”

  I waited. Then came the whistle again. This time it was definitely clearer, definitely closer, and more on the same latitude as I.

  “Coming again!” I revised my course.

  We repeated this procedure for about five minutes and then: “Doyle?”

  “Yes?”

  “We have a lantern. Don’t know if the fog’s too dense. Can you see it?”

  I peered through the darkness.

  “Nothing!”

  “Keep coming!” Holloway’s voice was now very close and almost echo-free.

  I had barely stumbled another ten paces when, indistinctly, through the dense dark foggy forest, I could see the vestiges of a yellow glow.

  “I can see you!”

  And, presently, I was with my rescuers.

  I never thought I would say it, but I was actually pleased to see Holloway.

  Eva and Anton were with him. They appeared to be in better spirits than the last time I had seen them. We set off together towards the village. Holloway seemed to have improved where his temperament was concerned. Whether this was because he was with Eva again, or whether his raised spirits had been artificially enhanced, it was difficult to say.

  “I got back to the hotel and found my compass and the map in my pocket. I was in such a stew. I didn’t think straight,” Holloway explained. I waited for the apology – but it did not appear.

  “And when we saw the clouds roll in and knew that it would soon be dusk,” Eva said, “we thought that we had better come to look for you.”

  “I am very glad that you did. I am afraid that I became rather lost.”

  “You were not so far from the path,” Anton informed me. “Why did you leave it?”

  “Well, actually, I left it some distance further up the mountain. You called out to me when I was employed in the task of trying to re-establish my connection with it…”

  “You left the path?” asked Eva. “Why?”

  “Do people usually come hunting in these woods?”

  “Of course,” replied Anton. “Although they know to keep away from this path. To hunt more to the north and the west.”

  “If they know what they are doing.”

  “Was there some kind of difficulty, Doyle?”

  “Only a little, Holloway.”

  I then proceeded to tell them the story of the stray bullet. I have to say that they made an excellent audience, emitting low whistles and short gasps at all the appropriate moments.

  “It has been known for this to happen,” said Anton, “although I do not remember if anyone has ever been killed or injured by this stray bullet accident before.”

  “As you say,” Eva added, “it would seem that it had travelled a long way and had been fired for some other reason.”

  “Still, nevertheless, Doyle… you never know.”

  “Thank you for your contribution, Holloway.”

  “A – how you say – narrow squeak?”

  “A narrow squeak indeed, Eva.” I did not tell them of the other narrow squeak I had experienced atop the force. It seemed to me that they had endured quite enough excitement for one day; as had I. There was also the sense in which to have told them I had nearly foolishly flung myself accidentally from a precipice would have meant changing again the increasingly good-natured aspect of the party. We had, after a long day, reclaimed some of the bonhomie we had experienced at the outset of my stay. I did not wish to sully that with tales of my own ineptitude. Not to mention Holloway’s probable sententious reaction to my folly. His approbation I could take or leave alone ordinarily. But I had felt wholly isolated during the past four hours, and his association, if not actual companionship, I recognized I would still need, as we continued our pursuit of whatever and whomever it was that we were pursuing.

  We sauntered into the village; the Four Musketeers returned from a successful sortie against the cardinal’s men. Arriving at the hotel, Anton and Eva bade us farewell. As we made our way upstairs, Holloway informed me that, back at the hotel earlier, he had managed to persuade Eva to allow him access to Brown’s bedroom. He had made a thorough investigation of it, he told me. I did not point out that it would have been better if we had made this thorough investigation jointly. Nor did I feel it was appropriate at that moment to remind him of the reason why he had found hi
mself back at the hotel, and therefore able to pursue such a course in the first place. I merely asked him what it was, if anything, he had discovered. He told me.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “No. Brown’s effects had been gathered together and taken down to the valley on the cart with his body.”

  As I had thought. It was most galling and frustrating. I wished I had had the wit to think about exploring Brown’s room first, rather than delay until after I had inspected the body. Now it was too late. I supposed I might still be able to assess his personal effects at a later date, should I get to see the paperwork from the valley hospital. But it was a long shot, and a pretty rum thing to boot. I would rather have had that evidence now to assist with my deductions.

  “That’s a bit of a blow.”

  “Absolutely. However, all is not lost…”

  “Is it not?”

  “Because it was Anton who collected up Brown’s things and, for propriety’s sake, he wrote down an inventory of everything he put into Brown’s trunk to be sent down into the valley. Eva let me have a look at it.”

  “Well, bless young Anton! And bless young Eva, too. And, while I’m at it, bless you as well, Holloway.”

  “Thanks, Doyle.”

  “So… what was the outcome?”

  “Pipe knife absent. Alpenstock present.”

  “Alpenstock present, eh?”

  “Nothing of any import beyond that, regrettably. Just the usual collection of clothing and other junk that folk are prone to take away on holiday with them.”

  “Any bottles? Liquor, alcohol, that sort of thing?”

  “None. Why?”

  “Just a theory. Anise-seed, you know…”

  “Ah. Yes. No – nothing of that sort.”