The Reichenbach Problem

  “The facts, Doyle,” he sat forward in his chair to stare directly into my eyes, “and forgive me if I hurt your feelings at this point – the facts are that you have made a bit of a botch of the whole affair to date. To the extent that you even found yourself hopelessly lost on a mountainside at night in the fog. Which, if nothing else, serves as a very significant metaphor.” He held up a thin white hand to stay my objections. “We hear some, frankly, implausible tale about your being shot at by hunters. Hunters who, according to reliable reports, were not within at least two miles of you. In my opinion, you concocted the whole fairytale simply in order to try to save face in the light of your ineptitude…”

  “Now, look here, Holloway…”

  “But if we allow fate to be the judge between us, then further facts present themselves. It was I who rescued you. It is therefore evident that my star is in the ascendant, while yours is in sharp decline. The gods, as it were, have judged between us and have ordained me as their representative, if you like. I know that this appears to you to be fanciful, and I am aware of your astonishment, Doyle. Please do not boggle your eyes at me and open and close your mouth as if you were a genus of carp. I do not wish to embark upon a metaphysical discussion so early in the morning. I merely point out that I have been making all the running in this. Up to and including having contacts such as Eva. Meanwhile, you have none and rely entirely upon mine. Your clumsily setting fire to the chapel when secrecy, delicacy and subtlety were of the utmost importance, we shall draw a discreet veil over. It is plain to me, therefore, that I must step out from behind your shadow, where you have been at pains to keep me since first we met, and begin to take control. For all our benefit.”

  Once again I tried to open my mouth and interrupt. Once again he constrained me to hold my peace.

  “No, Doyle, whatever you may care to say is no longer of any value. The case is mine and, I daresay, by the end of it you shall be glad that I chose to impose my will on this whole business… brutal and unfair as it may seem to you at this present moment.”

  He subsided and I, at last, had the opportunity to say something. I duly opened my mouth but discovered, perhaps unsurprisingly, that I was speechless. I therefore simply nodded a curt “good-day” to my tormentor and left the library with as much dignity as I could muster. It did not help my disposition to note that as I turned to leave his presence, he waved me away with a bored air. He then placed the tips of his fingers together and rested them pensively against his lips once again. It was as if, rudely interrupted, he was now at last able to return to his lofty thoughts.

  Back in my room, sitting out on my balcony, puffing furiously on my pipe, and clenching the stem firmly between my teeth until it was fit to snap in two, I took stock. It was still my intention, I reasoned, that I should not let this whole affair ruin my rest-cure. I decided, consequently, to return to my earlier resolve. The one I had framed before I had even arrived here – to give Holloway as wide a berth as possible. The whole atmosphere had become oppressive and I was scandalized by Holloway’s offensive and thoroughly personal and wholly inappropriate remarks.

  Finding myself unable to settle, however, I decided to go for a walk and suck in a few lungfuls of sweet mountain air.

  I walked through into the reception area on my way out, and encountered Plantin in his rolling chair. He had come from his room along the ground floor corridor. Despite the excitements of the previous evening, I still detected a distance between us. I nodded a distracted “good morning” and he responded equally coolly. I continued upon my egress and had just reached the front door when Plantin called to me.

  I turned to face him. I did not feel very much like another confrontation quite so soon after my interview with Holloway, but I also possessed good manners. When I am addressed, I consider it the height of bad manners not to turn and attend to the addressor.

  “Monsieur Plantin…” I nodded a greeting.

  He was struggling with some strong emotion. I waited for him to approach and to hear what it was for which he had called me back. He reached me and spoke.

  “Doctor, would you care to accompany me for a short while?”

  “I was just going to take the air…” I was minded to refuse. However, there was an earnestness in his eyes, so I changed tack in mid sentence. “… so I would be glad to accompany you.”

  “I am happy to hear it.” Although he did not appear happy.

  He had had his rolling chair adapted so that he might be able to propel himself at least a little distance, which gave him a degree of independence. I offered, though, to push him, and he was good enough to accept my gesture of reconciliation; for that was what it was.

  We left the hotel and turned left onto the main street. We commented on the weather, which again was excellent. I asked after his wife and he told me that following the emotional and physical exertions of last evening, added to which, the lateness of our return from the séance, she had felt it would benefit her best if she were to remain within her chamber for the morning. To rest, to read, to drink coffee in the privacy of their room.

  I considered that a sensible and enviable decision, and remarked as such to my companion.

  As we walked along, we passed Professor and mevrouw van Engels, in line astern, wearing their by now familiar and apparently habitual tweeds and brogues. Professor van Engels suddenly developed an avid interest in a baker’s shop, which he maintained until he was certain we had passed him by. Mevrouw van Engels gave a species of twitch, which could have been interpreted as a greeting, but could also have been seen as an inability to know quite what to do.

  “Is it me, or is it both of us?” asked Plantin.

  “It is me. But do not ask me why, as I am sure I do not know.”

  We had reached, by now, a small café with lace curtains and an elegant red and gold painted façade. There were tables set out in the front and, from within, I could smell the rich and inviting aroma of freshly milled and roasted coffee beans. I asked Plantin if he would join me, and he replied that he would be more than happy so to do. The conversation had been general and, while not uncomfortable, still a little strained. Doubtless, we both hoped that the more convivial atmosphere of the café might contribute towards creating an atmosphere in which we might discuss whatever matter was still, evidently, pressing upon my companion’s mind.

  I moved a chair and brought Plantin up to the table. I then took up residence directly opposite him. We sat there, in the bright morning sunshine, enjoying the relaxed and peaceful hubbub of a mountain village occupying itself with its daily routine. Presently, a waitress came out from within to serve us. I was surprised, but pleasantly so, to discover that she was, in fact, Francesca. She greeted us with a warm smile of recognition and apologized for the previous evening’s dramatic finale. We waved aside her apologies professing, truthfully, that we had found it a most diverting experience. None of us made mention, naturally, of Hugo’s behaviour.

  Francesca took our order and, solicitously brushing a crumb from the crisp, white linen tablecloth by my forearm, left to fill our request.

  Again Plantin and I made our small talk, as if neither of us wished to be the first to plunge into the actual meat of the conversation.

  Francesca returned and practically leaned over my shoulder to place the coffee jug, cups, saucers, sugar and cream upon the table. Lily of the valley wafted over me. I am ashamed to say, my heart thrilled at her proximity. Her soft, lush, black hair brushed my cheek as she straightened herself up again.

  “Will that be all?” She looked down at me in a way that made me feel all at once both protected and protective. Her smile filled my heart with a hope that I had no right to experience. Her smile gave me the impression that I was the only person in the world at that precise moment. It was folly, of course, and I knew it. Yet a sunrise of promise dawned somewhere in the darker recesses of my being. I longed to see her again. Alone. I could not help it.

  “No, that is splendid, thank you,” I croaked. S
he turned to leave. I stopped her by touching her arm. “I did not know that you worked here.”

  “I have to work somewhere. I am afraid I could not say that my séances provide me with a life of luxury.” Then, sotto voce: “Hugo does not earn enough for the both of us.”

  “What does Hugo do?”

  “He helps in the farms hereabouts; in the mountains, in the valleys, where the work is needed to be done. Today he is making hay in the meadows.” She gestured towards the centre of the village. About half a dozen lusty men, stripped to the waist under the hot morning sun, were scything and raking their way rhythmically through the long grasses.

  “If you need anything else, just call me.”

  “A real woman.” Plantin observed. It was obvious that Francesca’s femininity touched and lifted the spirits of every man that she encountered.

  “Indeed.”

  We sipped our coffees and watched the passing people, barrows and carts. Then Plantin began.

  “You are a doctor.”

  “I am.” The opening salvo had a familiar ring to it. Did not his wife and I begin a conversation in a similar way the day before? Or was it the day before that? So much had happened I could no longer keep track of time.

  “Then I may talk to you as a doctor?”

  “You may. Although I should caution that any practical medical advice should be confirmed with your own physician before you embark upon it.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Consult with your own doctor as well.”

  “Of course.”

  “So… how may I assist you?”

  “Marie has told you, has she not, how I came to be like this?” He tapped the chair with the fingertips of his right hand.

  “Yes.”

  “So. Well, you should know that while I seem to be on the front of it smiling and also able to manage very well, I am, inside, always finding it difficult to be this way all the time.”

  “I am sure that you are.”

  “But I do not want pity.”

  “I am sure that you do not.”

  “You must… you must understand that, although I regret my injury, I do not regret my life one little moment. I adore my wife and she adores me. And so I do not ever wish to upset her. Therefore, I keep my secret to myself. She admires me for my strength and my courage. If I were to show her ever a weakness, she would no longer wish to respect me. Do you see?”

  I nodded and waited.

  “So, it is important for me that you do not explore my difficulties in private with Marie. If she continues to wonder what it is that is the matter with me, she may begin to understand, and then it will all be too late for us.”

  He had finished. I considered what he had said for a moment and replied, “Marcus, you are a very brave man. I admire you; without pity. I understand your difficulties, but you should understand that we all have difficulties with which we have to struggle. Each one of us is different; every difficulty is different for each person. Yet Winwood Reade tells us, in the generality, we are all the same. So your problems are different yet, in having problems at all, you are just the same as me, and I as you.” I looked at him; he was watching me talk, but I could not be sure that he was listening. I continued. “As far as your wife is concerned, I think you should trust her more. People are more robust than we think. I believe you can trust her with your secret, as you call it. In my experience, women do not marry the men they see on the outside, although this may be what attracts them. They marry the man they find inside. It is also my experience that they love the soft, confused, vulnerable, struggling man just as much as the big, strong bear.”

  His eyes had widened during this last homily.

  “Do you mean to say that I should reveal my innermost secrets to my wife?”

  “I would not just go ahead and say it. But I would allow her in a little closer to your most intimate thoughts. Day by day, you will feel more comfortable to bring her closer and closer in.”

  “Is this not dangerous? Will it not… rot my marriage?”

  “There are always risks in love. But if we did not take them, we would not experience love’s joys.”

  He sat there for a long time, staring into his coffee cup and shaking his head slowly from side to side intermittently.

  “All is well?” I asked, after a suitable interval.

  “All is well. I will try.”

  I was profoundly glad that my advice had found a home in his heart. Yet there was still something in his eyes. The way they failed to look directly into my own. He had not given me the whole story. Holmes would have been able to say so directly and, through observation of the person, even identify what it was. If not exactly, then generally, and the object of his studies would have filled in the rest. But I was simply Conan Doyle. An oaf, as Holloway had been so quick to point out this morning. Since I had no means of finding out what was being concealed from me, all I could do was wait. Hopefully, he or Marie, if she knew it herself, might eventually confide in me.

  We finished our coffees in idle chatter about the séance last night. Both of us were unconvinced that anything had transpired. Plantin had become very much the sceptic, whereas I continued to insist that there simply was not enough evidence either way to have collected sufficient data upon which to base a reasoned opinion. Besides, even if the evening were a sham, it was an isolated incident. It would take a lifetime, I concluded, to explore the whole phenomenon. I looked into the café, caught Francesca’s big, brown, Mediterranean eyes, and asked her for the bill. She arrived presently and I paid, inviting Plantin to be my guest on this occasion. He graciously accepted. I left Francesca a few coins and stood to leave. As I made my way around to take hold of the handles of the rolling chair, Francesca pressed a small folded piece of paper into my hand. I said nothing and slipped the paper into my jacket pocket. I nodded, letting her know that I understood what she had given me as being most important to her, and took Plantin away.

  We wandered back to the hotel, content enough in each other’s company by now. I could see Francesca’s husband, Hugo, toiling in the sun across the village in the meadow. He was working very hard and energetically. It was a wonder to me that he would be able to sustain such effort throughout a full day.

  Plantin had expressed a wish to return to the hotel and rejoin his wife. This was perfectly acceptable to me. In fact, it sounded a hopeful note inasmuch as, perhaps, he was already proposing to discuss at least part of that which had been concerning him with his wife.

  I brought him to his door and left him to knock, returning to my own sanctuary. I discovered that I had received a new telegram, posted underneath my door. I picked it up and inspected it. Like the previous ones, it had been slit on the underside edge. Just enough to extricate its content and replace it; then sealed with a thin, snail’s trail of glue.

  I opened the wire and read it. It was from Steen.

  ALL CLEAR TO CONTACT SWISS HOSPITAL.

  HERR SÄMLICHEN IS YOUR MAN.

  GOOD HUNTING.

  STEEN

  So far so good. There remained, though, the vexed questions of who was opening my wires and why? No doubt someone had established a relationship with one of the telegraph office clerks or delivery boys. Coin usually provided ample incentive in these cases. It would be a simple matter to ensure that the wires took an elliptical route, via the unknown reader, before they reached me. It did not have to be delayed too long. Just long enough for, possibly, a copy to be made and the glue to set. Telegrams to and from England were notoriously leisurely. I imagined that it was most probably one of the messenger boys who, as it were, took the long way round to my hotel room. It would be unlikely to be a receiving clerk. It would be a simple matter for them to read and copy any missive before the envelope was sealed. No slitting would be necessary at that stage. Unless, of course, they wanted me to know my messages were being read.

  Whichever it was, if I were to discover the reader of my wires, I had to let him or her think that I had not detected
the tampering of the envelopes. That meant that the wires should continue to arrive exactly in the way they had done to date. It was important, above all, that any message should appear as innocent as possible. I toyed with the notion that they might contain misleading information. But that, for me alone, would be too complicated a matter. Many years ago I had realized that I would not make a very good liar. I had an abysmal memory. I would be tripped up every time by others remembering something that I had said or done which I could not remember. This was caused by the simple expedient of my not having actually experienced whatever it was I had just made up. This inability to lie was one of the fundamental reasons why I found all these present shenanigans so unsettling. I had been drawn into intrigues with which I was not comfortable. And now, even worse, I had been set adrift in my lonely coracle or boat to paddle these turbulent waters alone. No, it was best that I did not conceive too many subterfuges, lest I lose count of the phantom facts I would have to assemble – and consequently betray myself.

  So, some species of cipher was the recommended course. This could keep the material in the wires open, yet allow me to communicate with someone such as Steen, or Flemyng. It was just patently clear to me that another or others perceived my interest in this business as a threat. I had no doubt, since there was a death involved, that I would be placing myself in an exposed position. Perhaps even my own life might be at risk. Touie would not thank me for this. Were she here, she would have implored me to reconsider; to return home to my sacred duties as a husband and a father. It was indeed irresponsible of me not to consider my family in all of this. I was struck by a great wave of regret. I could only hope that if she and the children, one as yet unborn, suffered in any way as a result of my decision to press on, they would forgive me. I was not morbid enough to compose a will, mindful of my beloved, like some latter-day Nelson before my own Trafalgar. However, I was reminded that I had not written to Touie since I had arrived at the village. Taking pen and paper, I sat at the escritoire and composed a six-sided note of great tenderness and affection to my dear wife. I did not allude to the perils I had recently experienced, nor of those possibly yet to befall me. It was an intimate and private letter between two people who know that the bond between them could overcome all obstacles. I confess, as I completed the demonstrative missive, and signed it with the heartfelt affirmations of my undying love for my beloved, a tear stole into my eye. It lay there, blurring my vision as I sealed the envelope.