Sherlock Holmes and The Mystery Of Einstein's Daughter

by Tim Symonds

  ‘While you have a good line in pomposity, Watson,’ Holmes replied, grinning, ‘what if you get carried away and describe the wounds caused by the Long Tom cannon used to pound the Afghan tribesmen? Colonel Moran would detect your Army station in an instant.’

  He thought for a moment and snapped his fingers.

  ‘Watson, I have it! We shall take on the appearance which accords most closely to our purpose in being at the Falls. Photographers! Taking photographs of waterfalls for the London Hydraulic Power Company postal cards. You may abandon the Ascot-knotted cravat and pin and your rigid conventional dress with its smell of camphor. Embrace the high collar and black frock-coat illuminated by yellow gloves, white waistcoat, patent leather shoes and light-coloured gaiters.’

  He paused. ‘Unless of course for a reason I would find unfathomable you prefer to be a missionary of the Colonial and Continental Church Society or a decayed professor studying archaeology?’

  ‘If I am to play the role of photographer, what about you?’

  ‘Your assistant, what else? I must not steal your thunder. I’ll need nothing more than a Norfolk suit with a spare pair of breeches. I shall name myself George Archibald Hewitt.’

  ‘And I?’ I asked, amused.

  ‘How about Samuel Learson?’ came the reply. ‘We’ll be Hewitt and Learson, Photographers. I doubt if hotel-keepers or even the police in the Bernese Oberland bother to learn the names of England’s foremost forger and safe-breaker. To complete our masquerade we’ll order a pair of bicycles and peddle them with abandon.’

  Mrs. Hudson’s brother-in-law sent over an advertisement claiming Mohair Sicilian was far and away the best variety of cloth for cycling purposes. ‘The coarse weave renders it not only more appropriate for the wheel, but causes it to retain its style and lustre under the most severe strain which the ardent cyclist can put upon it.’

  My breakfasts were accompanied by a copy of Cycling Magazine Vol. X1V.The cover story informed me the magnificent Purple Emperor butterfly abounds in Hyde and Battersea parks, and had even been observed in stately flight in the neighbourhood of Richmond. A less peaceable use of the bicycle came with a full-page advertisement titled ‘The Bicycle in War’. ‘Can a bicycle be satisfactorily used in real warfare? ’it asked. The noted war correspondent Mr. Wilfred Pollock answered in the affirmative. He went through the Graeco-Turkish campaign on a Raleigh with Dunlop tyres despite the rough roads of Thessaly. ‘This machine was ridden over a barley field and came out all right’ and ‘Dispensing entirely with horses and using the bicycle alone he saw every fight except the first and was able to beat all other war correspondents in the dispatch of news.’

  I mooted the idea of a tandem. Holmes rejected it out of hand.

  ‘We must do nothing which would encourage attention, Watson. In the entire history of mankind it is impossible to think of a more ludicrous sight than you and me attacking an Alp on a tandem.’

  Knowing Holmes’s notorious reluctance to dress appropriately on public occasions I entered his dressing-room to check his wardrobe for the ceremony in Berne. The only coat in evidence was his favourite loose Ulster, the sole headgear a rural outdoorsman’s rabbit-skin cap with hanging lappets. I told Holmes the occasion called for a swallow tail coat, white waistcoat and white bow tie. He would be representing not just himself but England. His resistance continued. Open warfare was on the point of breaking out. Holmes stalked off.

  Two hours later he returned, bearing a borrowed deerstalker and an overcoat with a velvet collar worthy of a senior partner in a large private banking concern. The dispute continued. Holmes offered a compromise. He would pack a new frock coat or a black lounge jacket. If it was good enough for Simpsons...

  In the end we compromised. Holmes gave in to a double-breasted frock coat from Scholte’s with its unpadded shoulders, plus waistcoat and Ascot tie.

  ***

  Our advertisement seeking a guide for Adam’s Peak received two replies. We discarded the clearly genuine response. ‘Dear Mr. Ranawana, unfortunately your reply arrived too late,’ I wrote. The other applicant had Moran’s footprints all over it. It said he was ‘English born’ and stressed his suitability ‘from many years in the sub-Continent and a facility with languages’. If we found his qualifications satisfactory we should reply to a given postal box with our final instructions. Our reply instructed him to purchase a second-class ticket for the Victoria. He was to board her in London. On arrival in Ceylon he would be given time to purchase a few necessities at Whiteaway, Laidlaw & Co. He could give his forwarding address as the Grand Oriental Hotel, Colombo. We assured him he would be compensated on arrival. I had no intention of doing so if it proved to be Moran.

  Holmes now formally tasked me with a variety of errands each of which presumed we were under the constant gaze of Moran. We engaged the half-dozen little Street Arabs known to us as the Baker Street Irregulars. A few bags of maroon-coloured Norfolk Biffins purchased from a cart and a shilling per day per ragamuffin guaranteed they were en garde as our flock of look-outs. I saved up my officer’s half-pay pension for an eve-of-departure Dinner at the restaurant run by Josef Sheekey, unrivalled in London for fish and seafood dishes. An elegantly dressed doorman of unimposing politeness and gentility, complete with top hat greeted us outside the wine-red shop front. We were led to rich red leather banquettes. The warm, dark wood panelling was dotted with paintings of Hastings trawlers by the artist Barbara Bodichon. I ordered Colchester oysters and Cornish cock-crab.

  Chapter IV

  We Return to Switzerland

  After a fine night’s sleep, I awoke with inexpressible happiness. I would be at my comrade’s side once more as we ventured abroad. A driver came to the door at 8 o’clock. We stepped into the vehicle with the air of men without a care in the world, accompanied by the camera and tripod and a vasculum for collecting specimens of exotic plants. I had decided against a hansom hailed from the street in favour of a chauffeured, 16-horsepower Maxwell Touring car with bevel-gear drive. The Maxwell could outpace any horse-drawn transport determined to follow us. A barouche hired from Shipley’s Yard followed behind, loaded to the gunnels with trunks extensively dotted with shipping labels for points East, filled only with old newspapers. The bogus impedimenta would be lodged overnight at No. 10 Downing Street care of Mycroft and quietly retrieved by our loyal Mrs. Hudson. We would catch the next boat train to Paris, and to all appearances travel on to Marseilles to pick up the great ocean liner.

  We boarded the train at Victoria Station, our first trip together for some years. As we rattled through the Sussex countryside I stared across at Holmes. Inheritance had bequeathed him considerable height, the prominent, penetrating grey eyes and square chin. It was at university and its slow aftermath the elements came together to form the great Consulting Detective, like an actor assembling a character from prop to prop to the final full performance. The pipe, the ear hat, the ever-present rudeness and arrogance, the curious sense of humour (‘Watson, I’m not a psychopath, I’m a fully functioning sociopath. Do your research’).The next day we arrived in Berne. The University had arranged comfortable accommodation for us at the Hotel Sternen Muri. We found ourselves with a day to reorient ourselves comfortably. I felt secure in the belief that, thanks to our precautions, we had not been followed to Switzerland.

  It was now the day of the ceremony. An open carriage drawn by a leash took us to the University, the plumed horses regal enough to take Edward himself from Buckingham Palace to a State opening of Parliament. Pedestrians and cyclists stopped to watch as we swept by. We arrived at our destination, a large new building on the Grosse Schanze. A man in later middle age met us. Keen eyes sparkled brightly from behind large horn glasses. He bowed ceremoniously in our direction.

  ‘Gentlemen, I am Professor Eli Sobel,’ he explained in good but heavily-accented English. ‘Head of the Department of Physics.’

  H
e led us up the imposing stairway and along a broad, high-ceilinged corridor to an ante-chamber set up as a gentleman’s cloakroom. A collection of costly silk toppers perched on pegs to the left. The pegs to the right held modest Quakers and a fedora to which I added Holmes’s felt hat and my billycock. We continued on to a side-entrance to await the arrival of the Rector and dignitaries. Vases crammed with flowers lined the walls like wall-paintings from a Roman villa. Excited groups of people flocked into an auditorium where the ceremony would take place. The frou-frou grew. Dowager lorgnettes, ruffles, fluted collars, lace flounces and bris-fans bristled with social warfare.

  I was led to a seat in the front row. The procession entered to a blast of trumpets, headed by the Usher with a gold-tipped mace, followed by the Rector and Holmes, side by side with Professor Sobel. Behind them straggled dark-suited Faculty members. Holmes settled himself into the graduand’s red-plush and gold-embellished chair. The Rector strode to the podium to a polite and expectant hush. Hespokefirst in German, then followed it with the French translation.

  ‘Minister, Your Honour the Mayor, Monsieur Chapuiset of the Journal de Genève, Faculty members, Distinguished Friends, citizenry of Berne, our graduand Mr. Sherlock Holmes and not least our graduand’s own thane, Dr. John Hamish Watson, the very equal of Suetonius.’

  At my side the polyglot student assigned to be my interpreter whispered the English translation. I flushed.

  Resplendent in scarlet robes, the tall, sandy-moustached Orator surveyed the audience with scrutineering eyes through rimless pince-nez. He then moved to the front of the stage. Fluent in Latin and Ancient Greek, he began,

  ‘The honour we confer today is a rare one. An Honoris Causa was last bestowed on the artist Albert Samuel Anke, known as the ‘national painter of Switzerland’ for his depictions of village life. Our recipient today would also merit it for art, the art of deduction. He is the epitome of deductive brilliance not only in his native England but in Norway, Bulgaria, and America and many other lands, including our own dear Switzerland. He is a more commanding figure in the world than most warriors and statesmen. Like the greatest of them, Mr. Sherlock Holmes is a redresseur de destins. Who here does not recall the account in Le Journal de Genève in May 1891 of the near-mythic struggle at our Reichenbach Falls - the clash of Titans-between the most dangerous criminal of the Age and the foremost champion of the Law? The gargantuan tussle ended with the death of Professor Moriarty of mathematical celebrity, and the presumed death of today’s guest himself.’

  ‘But it is not for Mr. Holmes’s pre-eminence in crime detection that we honour him today. He is being awarded a Doctorate honoris causa for his pioneering work in Physical Chemistry, specifically the scientific study of organic substances at the molecular scale, primarily with gases.’

  The Orator turned to address Holmes directly.

  ‘Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you are receiving this honour today because you have used your knowledge of chemical poisons for the benefit of Mankind. This knowledge enabled you to identify murderers in the cases of The Greek Interpreter and The Retired Colourman; and to deter a suicide in The Veiled Lodger. Your pioneering test for the presence of blood was a significant advance in forensic methods. You are indeed master of the Principle of Sufficient Reason, the basis of all science. How aptly the Ancient Greek put it, pasa episteme dianoetike, e kai metechonsa ti dianoiac, peri aitiac...’

  The Orator paused. His eye swept across the audience.

  ‘Ah,’ he continued. ‘For those who do not read Aristotle in the original Ancient Greek, the Roman would say, ‘Omnis intellectualis scientia, sive aliquo modo intellectu, participans, circa causas et principia est’.’

  The display of erudition triggered enthusiastic applause. Professor Sobel beckoned Holmes to stand and approach the Rector to be solemnly dressed in doctoral robes and hat. Further enthusiastic applause arose when my comrade in his fine regalia bowed to the audience. The ceremony ended, the procession reformed and left the stage.

  At the end of a convivial reception Holmes and I shook hands with the Rector and Orator and retraced our steps with Professor Sobel to the cloakroom. En route the Professor remarked conversationally, ‘It might interest you to know, Mr. Holmes, that in the month following your encounter with Professor Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls, the Rector was due to confer upon him precisely the same honour you received today, an Honorary Doctorate for his remarkable Dynamics of an Asteroid. If it hadn’t been for his sudden demise it would have been merely a matter of time before we offered him a Chair.’

  We emerged by a side-entrance into the outside world. The Professor hesitated. For a moment it seemed he was about to say something further. If so, he decided against it. With a courteous nod he left us at our resplendent open coach and pair. Ceremonial was behind us. Ahead lay Meiringen, the Reichenbach Falls, and the photograph.

  ***

  On the journey from Berne into the Alps, Moran crept back into my thoughts. Nearly three weeks had passed since the Victoria was due to set sail for the Mediterranean Sea and beyond. I wondered whether our subterfuge had thrown him off our tracks. Reassurance was in the offing. A telegraph awaited us at the Hotel Sauvage under our assumed names. Holmes passed the envelope to me. I opened it and read aloud:

  ‘Gulf of Aden. From the Master of the Victoria to Messrs. Hewitt and Learson. Private. We coaled last night in Aden. Next stop Bombay. Man answering your description aboard. Singled himself out by displaying exceptional prowess in the clay-pigeon shooting competition through the Suez Canal.’

  ‘Excellent! Well done, Holmes!’ I exclaimed. ‘I shall look forward to Moran sending us a half-anna pictorial postcard from British India. By the time he discovers the large operatic lady at the next table is neither you nor me, he will have the entire return journey to take his revenge on clay pigeons. If we manage to keep our presence here secret until we have visited the Falls and completed our mission, we can return safely to England.’

  Holmes waggled a finger. ‘Don’t cry herring still they are in the net, Watson.

  Nevertheless,’ he added, ‘for the moment it seems Moran is hors de combat.’

  The bicycles we had ordered from Paris arrived, two Le GlobeModèle-Extra-Luxe with Dunlop tyres, at a road-ready weight of 12 kilogrammes, 320 French francs a-piece. They were the most beautiful machines imaginable.

  Holmes eyed them. ‘How do they work, Watson?’ he asked.

  Surprised, I responded, ‘You get on them and peddle.’

  ‘I know that, Watson,’ came the long-suffering reply. ‘I mean what law of physics keeps the contraptions upright while you peddle?’

  ‘The gyroscopic force of the front wheel, do you think?’ I hazarded.

  ‘No doubt, but if we take into account the distribution of weight, the handlebar turn and the angles of the headset and the forks, the gyroscopic effect would not be enough.’

  ‘Then I am sure I don’t know, Holmes,’ I replied. ‘Experience tells me that while we peddle, these machines will stay upright. When we stop, they won’t.’

  ‘Like the dark side of the moon and the three-body problem,’ I added, philosophically, ‘some things may remain a mystery for a very long time.’

  In the late afternoon we assembled in the hotel smoking-room. Cigars were in full blow, sending up blue spirals with nothing in the still air to trouble them. Holmes and I stared through the window in the direction of the Reichenbach River. The famous Falls were set too deep in the mountainside for the roar of tumbling waters to reach our ears. Before dining I left Holmes and stepped outside. All the familiar landmarks met my eyes. I determined I would reconnoitre the immediate area of the Falls in the morning for the ideal spot for the photograph. This would best be undertaken without Holmes tugging impatiently at my elbow.

  On the morrow, at my request, the hotel delivered a supply of English newspapers to our room. I provided
my comrade with an ounce of shag from our stock of Bradley’s. He sat smoking the pipe, framed by an unmatched view of the icy peaks rearing above us. He looked up and waved a hand around him.

  ‘Watson, how small we feel in the presence of such elemental forces! How clear it becomes that we are merely a tray full of chemicals and three buckets of water.’

  I reflected on how it took a vast mountain range to make my comrade break into a statement of such rare modesty. I left Holmes on the terrace reading contentedly through the pile of newspapers. To retain our anonymity I decided against the electric funicular in favour of a two-horse drag. Despite the reassuring information from the Master of the Victoria, well short of my destination I paid the fare and waited until the cabbie set back.

  Alone with my thoughts and unburdened by cumbersome photographic equipment, I wended my way along the same thin path I had taken fourteen years before. In the early summer light the Alps were as beautiful as I remembered them. The meadows and high rocky ground blazed with spring flowers - cowslips, Lady’s Mantle, vivid blue spring gentian and Edelweiss. Higher up in rocky areas lurked the tall Common Monkshood pointed out by Holmes on our earlier climb. Despite its beautiful blue blossoms it was one of the most deadly plants of European and Himalayan flora. In ancient times people coated spears and arrowheads with its poison, strong enough to kill wolves.

  The gorge began to narrow, leaving a sliver of sky half way between blue and green. The torrent burst into view. There, in my imagination, was Holmes’s Alpine-stock still leaning against the rock, there the ledge on which Holmes had placed his farewell note fluttering beneath his precious silver cigarette case. I could recall the words almost by heart.

  My dear Watson,

  I write these few lines through the courtesy of Mr. Moriarty, who awaits my convenience for the final discussion of those questions which lie between us. He has been giving me a sketch of the methods by which he avoided the English police and kept himself informed of our movements. They certainly confirm the very high opinion which I had formed of his abilities. I am pleased to think that I shall be able to free society from any further effects of his presence, though I fear that it is at a cost which will give pain to my friends, and especially, my dear Watson, to you. I have already explained to you, however, that my career had in any case reached its crisis, and that no possible conclusion to it could be more congenial to me than this.