The Reichenbach Problem, Page 22

  His whole soliloquy had consisted mainly of invective against his colleagues at Utrecht and among his peers in academia throughout the world. Paris and Cambridge particularly featured as some kind of latter-day Sodom and Gomorrah in his book. He was not clear on why exactly he viewed all these people with distaste. Neither, when I asked, would he elucidate. Superficially, therefore, it seemed that he was just a bitter, disaffected human being who could see neither virtue nor value among his fellows. In my experience, however, to look only upon the surface is to take an unhelpfully simplistic approach. There were depths here that needed exploring, and I intended to start exploring them – if not through him, then through his wife – at the earliest opportunity.

  The main task at that moment, however, was to reunite them and if not actually effect a reconciliation, then at least engineer a workable truce. Undoubtedly, some intense ill-feeling existed between them also. No one escaped the all-pervading displeasure of van Engels. I suspected, by what sense I could make from his tirade, that nevertheless she cared for him, his health, his safety. He may profess not to care for her, which he was frequently doing in our interview, and with venom, yet I rather imagined that it was not in fact the case.

  I encouraged him to accompany me back upstairs to his room.

  “I will not go.”

  “Nevertheless, old fellow… this is the best course for you at this moment.”

  “I will not go…”

  I sensed this time it was more reluctance than obstinacy, so I persisted.

  “You will have to see your wife again sooner or later. So it might as well be sooner. What you need most of all is a few minutes’ lie-down on your own warm and welcoming bed.”

  “Why? Do you think I am drunk?”

  “Yes. I do think that you are drunk.”

  He laughed bitterly. “Yes, you are right. I am indeed drunk. And I don’t care this much –” at which point he snapped his fingers greasily “– for what people think about me and my being drunk.”

  “You are quite right. It doesn’t matter what people think about you. Drunk or sober. What you need is a little lie-down to collect yourself. And then you will be able to discuss matters with your wife.”

  “I do not care two figs for my wife.”

  “Nevertheless…”

  I took him gently by the arm. He did not resist, but rose from his seat like a lamb. He allowed himself to be led upstairs from the library, professing all the time that he really was rather tired after all, that a little lie-down would be really quite a good idea at the moment, and that I couldn’t make him do anything he did not care to do. I replied that naturally I would not expect him to do anything he did not care to do, and that I would not dream of forcing him to do it.

  Mevrouw van Engels met us at the door of the bedroom. She said nothing to me or to her husband, recognizing immediately the situation and taking control, probably through force of habit. She sat her husband upon the bed, removed his tweed jacket, knitted tie and brogues, and folded him in among the bedclothes in the most practised way.

  I left immediately afterwards. She did not look up to see me go. I repaired to my room for no other reason than that I wished to be alone with my own thoughts for a short while. Intense emotion, my own or others’, I found quite draining.

  I arrived for supper in a very sombre and reflective mood. I was by now late, and hoping that I might have missed the other guests and would therefore be able to dine alone and in peace. My wish was partly fulfilled inasmuch as there was no sign of the van Engelses, for obvious reasons, Werner, Holloway, or Marcus Plantin. The latter two had presumably dined and left earlier. Marie was there, as usual, just finishing her coffee, while the Pivcevics had embarked upon the consumption of some species of syllabub.

  I immersed myself in a venison steak that my dining companions informed me had been shot the day before. Not by Werner. The topic of conversation was the séance and, depending on one’s point of view, how exciting or risible it had been. Unfortunately I was not very good company and contributed little to the discussion. Other than, that is, to refute entirely the suggestion of Marie’s that the spirit of Holmes had indeed been vested in Holloway. She challenged my view by asking whether I had seen him recently and whether I had noticed a distinct change in his manner. I confessed that I had not noticed any difference. He was still, in my opinion, the same boorish fellow that I had first encountered on my train from Zürich. I confess that my dining companions were somewhat taken aback by the directness with which I expressed my opinions, and the very personal way in which I spoke of someone who was not even present to answer my criticisms. But it had been a very long and tiring day and, besides, I did not feel that I owed the fellow anything. Nevertheless, I was ashamed that I had allowed my personal sentiments to encroach upon what was, after all, simply polite conversation. I therefore apologized immediately for any offence I had caused. I vowed silently to refrain from such outbursts in future. It was not becoming to a gentleman, no matter what difficulties may have brought him to such impropriety, to discuss others in such a manner. Furthermore, it served no useful purpose.

  Concerning displays of personal opinion, I could not help but notice that the hotel proprietor, Georg, Anton’s father, was serving at table. He was doing so, I further noticed, with very bad grace indeed. Every dish that I ordered was brought to my place and hurled onto the table from such a height that it clattered noisily and appeared at risk of shattering into tiny fragments.

  I perceived that the other guests were not being served in this combative manner. Such behaviour was therefore for my benefit alone. Having considered the possible causes for this gentleman’s disaffection with me, I could only relate it to two possibilities. Either it was somehow connected to the scene Holloway and I had encountered on leaving the hotel for our walk up to the waterfall the previous day, or it was relating to the séance, the body and the rumours circulating about me that Father Vernon had said he would take steps to quash. The first I could do nothing about until I had gathered further evidence as to the exact nature of Anton’s unhappiness. The second, I was under instructions not to address at all.

  My only option in the face of such plate throwing, therefore, was to accept it with dignity. I ate whatever it was that was flung peremptorily down before me, without comment. Although the consideration that I, a complete innocent, seemed to have found my name a hissing and a by-word in so short a space of time left both the venison and subsequent syllabub next to tasteless.

  The other guests had all left by the time I had completed my meal. Georg, having cast the last of his pearls before me in the form of a cup of coffee and a coarse cognac, had departed. Having completed my meal, it remained for me to dab my lips with a napkin and stand up. No one had made mention of a session in the library, so I resigned myself to the not unattractive proposition of a quiet pipe upon my balcony and an early night.

  As I left the dining room to cross the reception area towards the stairs, I was surprised to see standing in the doorway a figure wrapped in a cloak and a hood. The pervasive scent of lily of the valley hung heavy in the air.

  “Francesca…?”

  I was at first delighted and then, directly afterwards, perturbed. After all, I had only too recently trounced her husband and unambiguously called her integrity into question. My initial smile dropped from my face like a cataract. Francesca, on the other hand, did not appear to be the bearer of recrimination. She seemed concerned and nervous, but I could not detect anger, hatred or even admonishment upon those charming features.

  “Doctor.”

  She had whispered and approached me cautiously. I took this to mean that she was not comfortable to be seen in public with me, or perhaps, to be with me at all.

  “Would you care to come to my room?” I asked.

  She couldn’t help smiling. Then I realized what I had said and felt flustered.

  “No, thank you.” She spoke hurriedly and passionately. “Doctor, you cannot stay here. My h
usband is in a furious rage and people are saying that the near fire at the church, the séance, my husband’s injuries, even the sad death upon the mountain was your fault. Though you may not have done this yourself, you have visited it upon us.”

  “A very superstitious people, country folk.”

  “Perhaps, but also difficult if you do not know how to handle them. I know very well, this.”

  “Well, I cannot just up anchor and leave. To me, that would be an admission of guilt, wouldn’t it?” I spoke as a man of the world, from the perspective of experience. My sangfroid appeared to reassure her.

  “No, I can understand this. But you should, perhaps, leave anyway. Perhaps you could start to say that you have had an urgent telegram. Or maybe a friend has invited you to stay somewhere else? Some simple reason that people can believe.”

  “Lie?”

  “Yes, if it will save you. I do not like how the people are talking about you. Also… what you did to my husband. They will never forgive you.”

  “And you…?”

  She hesitated.

  “That is not the point. Go. Please.”

  She turned to leave and, despite myself, I touched her on the arm and caused her to turn back. I wanted her to stay close to me for just a moment longer. She looked at me with questions haunting her eyes. Questions that she felt had to remain unasked.

  “Do you know Father Vernon?” I asked instead.

  “Of course.”

  “He is talking to people. Telling them the truth about me. It will be all right. You shall see. All shall be well…”

  She gave me one last look as she moved off down the hall and out into the night. “No, doctor. It will not.”

  I made my way to my room greatly disturbed. Undoubtedly I was becoming enmeshed in any number of difficulties and distractions, and reality seemed to be slipping further and further away from me. I was growing unable to grasp what was happening, and where, precisely, my role lay in all of these events. There seemed to be no touchstone, no pole star, no truth in all of this. I had followed a path, one pace at a time, through everything. I believed that to the best of my ability I had been patient, thoughtful and rational. Yet with every step I felt I was being coaxed further into a mire. A mire upon which a thick fog was descending. Was I losing my mind? The sheer uncanniness of this whole district and its people would have brought anyone to question their sanity.

  Napoleon once said that the greatest failing on a battlefield was not to make the wrong decision, but to make no decision at all. I knew that without forward momentum of some description, circumstances were exceedingly likely to collapse in on me. I would then be consumed by an even worse situation than the one that I was presently enduring. I decided, therefore, first to reopen negotiations with Holloway. Despite our differences and our late falling out, he was the closest to these problems. Two minds working in harness on this would be the most likely arrangement to bring palpable results. I disliked intensely, naturally, the notion that I had actually become reliant on this wayward and contrary individual, but needs must when the devil…

  That is to say… needs must…

  Holloway had not been present at dinner. I reasoned he may well still not be at the hotel. It was for me the work of a moment to establish this by trotting up to his room and knocking. Receiving no response, and this time refusing to speculate on the meaning of the silence, I collected my hat and stepped out to scout the village and try to locate him.

  I found him at Francesca’s café. As I approached from the street, I could hear from within people either drunk or intent on becoming so. The noise billowed out from the depths of the building in squalls. It was now a livelier and differing place from the establishment I had visited with Plantin for coffee. It seemed more, not to put too fine a point on it, disreputable. A fog of tobacco smoke diffused the already dim gaslight. This, combined with the thick embroidered wall-hangings, gave the whole room the aspect of a bordello. The result was an atmosphere of enhanced intimacy and exotica. I could see Holloway sitting near the window. I made a move towards the café with the intention of drawing him aside for an earnest conference. However, the thought of facing so many villagers and there potential acusations gave me to something occurred as I approached the entrance that gave me pause. I withdrew sharply into the shadow made by an adjacent building.

  Francesca, now out of her cloak and back serving at her place of work, approached my acquaintance, beaming. He looked up from his beer and returned the smile with warmth. She reached out a hand and tousled his hair. He, sitting, while she remained standing, curled his arm around her waist and pulled her to him. She stood there, her hip nestling against his ribcage and gave no impression that she found such behaviour in any way brazen.

  I became aware of my emotions. Jealousy, outrage and disgust at Francesca. Hatred and righteous indignation at Holloway. This allied with complete incomprehension as to what it all meant. All these reactions and more fought a bitter battle for supremacy within me. The more none of them was able to establish supremacy, the more they clutched and tore at my soul; a storm-tossed sea crashing against a crumbling chalk cliff on a foul winter night.

  What right did I have? I asked myself. I had no claim upon Francesca, nor did I ever wish to have one. Holloway, for his part, had not behaved so abominably towards me as to warrant such a boiling hate as I was experiencing at that moment. Yet here was I, fiercely opposed to all that I was witnessing. It was as though I were the one being cuckolded, made a fool of; it was my back behind which such displays of intimacy were being enacted. And then there was the confusion. How could this scene make any sense? For sure, they had met at the séance. For sure, Holloway was one of the significant reasons that the meeting had taken place. But Francesca was… more intelligent than that. At least, I would have thought so. And Holloway? Well, where did Eva come into all of this? At the thought of that kind, innocent child being hurt in any way, the fury within redoubled in its intensity.

  Francesca did not remain long at his side. She collected a glass that stood empty upon his table – a feeble excuse for a liaison, I thought – and returned to her duties within the bowels of that scandalous place. Holloway leered around the room. He suddenly appeared transfixed by something. I, for my part, had by now decided to continue upon my chosen course to discuss matters with him. So I was once again on my way in through the entrance of the café when I saw what it was that had attracted his attention. He had risen from his seat and had become engaged in conversation with a fiddler beside the piano, which stood against one sordid wall. I found a spare seat at Holloway’s vacated table and tried to ignore the numerous heads that turned my way. None of them, it would seem, were doing so in a spirit of welcome. I watched in growing amazement as the fiddler relinquished the instrument into his hands. Holloway deftly placed it beneath his chin and took up the proffered bow. He drew the fibres with great dexterity across the strings. In a very short space of time, he stilled the clamour in that place. It was a most moving and lyrical bittersweet melody. As he played, his eyes closed, rapt in his art. He swayed and persuaded the music out of the instrument with an uplifting sensitivity. If I had not seen it with my own eyes, I would not have believed it possible. He had become a different person. Thus transformed, he gave a beautiful virtuoso performance; not of the highest degree, perhaps, yet compelling. Man and violin were one, and the absorbing air veritable soul-food for those of us privileged to hear it.

  At length, Holloway completed the piece and stood there, as silent and still as high cloud in a summer sky. He appeared as if he were savouring the lingering notes, now falling from the air like dew. His stillness was reflected in his audience. Then someone – I rather suspect that it was I – began to clap. The applause was taken up around the room. The cries of “Bravo!” echoed to the rafters.

  As if waking from a dream, and surprised to discover that he was not alone, Holloway opened his eyes. He gazed about him. He returned the violin sheepishly to its owner and weaved
his way through the congratulating crowd back to his table.

  “Ah, Doyle,” he said, slightly abashed, as if I had caught him out doing something shameful. This, naturally, was far from the case.

  “That was simply wonderful!” Despite all my faults, I always give credit where it is due. I begrudged him nothing for his technical ability and musicianship. Even if I did begrudge him much in many other areas.

  He looked longingly across at the fiddler, who had embarked upon a brisk, scratchy air of his own.

  “It is quite astonishing, Doyle.”

  “What is?”

  “Well, I daresay, like me, you learned an instrument as a nipper as a matter of course.”

  “I did.” I forbore to expand upon which instrument, for fear he would accordingly encourage me to perform upon it; something I was not in the least interested in doing.

  My concerns were not his, however, as he had something far more mystifying to expound at that moment. “I could never play like that, though.”

  “But you did.”

  “I know I did. But I did not know that I could play quite like that. I have never played so lucidly, sympathetically, fulsomely in my life before.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “So… what came over you?”

  “Exactly. What… or indeed … who?”

  We surveyed one another with a wild surmise.

  Slowly, despite the context of our discussion, Holloway returned to something of his former self. He dipped into his pockets and produced what I assumed were some very recent purchases. A briar and a creaking leather tobacco pouch. Presumably he had been smoking the pipe earlier and had let it go out, for there was still some tobacco in there. He topped the contents up with more from the pouch. I refrained from telling him never to relight old ash. How disgusting that is liable to taste. He tamped down the pipe bowl with the steel stub end of his smart new ivory-inlaid smoker’s tool. Then, with a stainless steel Vesta case of his very own, he lit it. He sucked on the stem like a beginner. Rapid little pecks that showed the tobacco was not drawing at all well. But he stubbornly persisted. I recognized the rub as predominantly Virginia from the light, sweet fragrance. I also noticed, however, a slightly thicker smell, like burning resin.