On my return Holmes was reading the invitation from Berne University. He looked pleased. ‘I’m to be awarded a Doctorate Honoris Causa, Watson.’
He replaced the invitation in the envelope and stabbed it into the pile of letters on the mantelpiece. I was to accept on his behalf. Relief flooded through me. We would return to Switzerland. We would be within striking distance of the Reichenbach Falls, one step closer to the 600 guineas.
‘Will you contact Mycroft before we leave for Berne?’ I enquired. ‘After all, if we are to encounter any difficulty abroad - ’
Seven years the elder, Holmes’s brother Mycroft held an indeterminate but unique position at the heart of Government. My comrade had described it thus: ‘Occasionally Mycroft is the British government - the most indispensable man in the country. The conclusions of every department are passed to him. He is the central exchange, the clearinghouse. All other men are specialists, but his specialism is omniscience.’
‘No, my dear friend, I suggest we keep this visit private,’ came the firm reply. ‘You recall our adventures in the Balkans five years ago. If we were to contact my brother we would once more find ourselves kow-towing to Royalty or engaging in High Politics.’
I posted off Holmes’s acceptance at the Wigmore Street Post Office. On my return I found him seated in his basket chair, his lap piled up with newspapers, topped by the St. James’s Gazette. The dressing-gown indicated he was settling in for the rest of the day. On the small table lay a recent edition of The Newspaper Press Directory And Advertiser’s Guide. Something was clearly being planned. Before I could enquire, he put aside the Gazette.
‘Watson,’ Holmes began, ‘it must enter your mind that each time we leave these shores we put ourselves at ever-greater risk. I remind you, somewhere out there, waiting with bitter patience, lurks a vile and enterprising enemy.’
It was a subject I had hoped to avoid. I replied with a calmness I did not feel, ‘I presume you are talking about our brush with Colonel Moran?’
This had been the very considerable brush I described in The Adventure of the Empty House. Holmes and I rated Colonel Sebastian Moran the most dangerous of our living foes. Hardly an Indian hill station household lacked a tiger-skin carpet displaying a single puncture from a Moran bullet. He was the son of a Minister to Persia, captain of the Eton College cricket Eleven when the peerless Ed Smith (later captain of Cambridge and author of Luck) was opening bat. Moran had embarked on a military career, serving in the Jowaki Expedition against the Afridis in 1877. After an involvement in the Second Anglo-Afghan War, Moran turned to the bad. Under a cloud here turned to London to become chief of staff to the malevolent organising genius Professor Moriarty.
‘Why should Moran lay himself open to destruction by tackling you again?’ I demanded. ‘Surely he has learnt his lesson? He spends his time replenishing the pelf he lost on Moriarty’s death. He makes very satisfactory sums at the tables of the rich and gullible in every gaming-house in London. Besides, there is no need for Moran to know about our trip. We shall take every precaution to keep our departure secret.’
‘Watson,’ came the reply, ‘if you read the criminal news in today’s newspapers, you will discover why Moran - like the wounded tiger he pursued down a drainpipe - may become doubly-dangerous. A return to Switzerland will be as perilous an undertaking as any we have ever faced together.’
Holmes pointed to the pile of newspapers. ‘The Colonelis accused of cheating at cards. His favourite London gambling dens are considering expelling him. Moran will be declared persona non grata at every club in London. It will give him time to spare. He’ll become doubly vengeful. I may have dodged death that day at the great Falls but one day our luck could run out.’
I asked, my voice a croak, ‘You have had second thoughts about visiting Switzerland, Holmes? You now wish to refuse the Doctorate?’The trip to Berne was an essential step towards the photograph on which my financial well-being had now become heavily dependent.
‘Not at all, Watson, I’ve accepted and we shall go. I merely stipulate one condition.’
‘Name it,’ I responded with relief.
‘We must resort to artful disguise. For all your attendances at the London theatres, you have learnt very little of use in our present situation. Actors confront their audiences at a determined distance. Stage lighting creates illusion and effect. By contrast we ordinary mortals are at the mercy of the close encounter, the glare of the sun, the street-lamp or the torch.’
‘I shall consider such preparation a privilege indeed, Holmes,’ I replied, seating myself beside him. ‘Instruction from the master himself.’
‘Pick a disguise for yourself. What shall it be?’
‘I’ve been re-reading Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. I fancy myself as a retired captain of a river-steamboat who spent his life trading guns and ivory up and down the Congo River. Your own disguise as a respectable master mariner fallen into years of poverty is rated highly among the criminal underworld. The great painter J.M.W. Turner himself travelled through the Alps with his sketchbook, looking like the mate of a ship.’
Holmes replied drily, ‘One wonders how many people other than Turner disguise themselves as retired master mariners and wander the Alps.’
‘Nevertheless...’ I began.
Holmes pressed his thin hands together. ‘Dear Watson, you appear to consider it done if you emulate the decorator crab covering its back with seaweed, sponges and stones -slap on a captain’s hat, add a coarse brown tint, adopt the rolling gate of the seafarer, speak like Long John Silver and complete the picture with Captain Flint upon a shoulder squawking foul oaths in a Devonian accent. What if we happen across a retired captain of just such a river-boat? Think how large a part chance has played already in our little adventures. You may well be able to compare the antics of the Timurids to the Congo pygmies but what if he finds you confused over whether river-boats measure their journeys in nautical or statute miles?’
‘Surely riverboats use nautical miles like their sisters on the High Seas?’ I replied.
‘Unfortunately you’re wrong, Watson. Riverboats tend to use statute miles.’
My face fell. The sea-captain masquerade had suffered a leak.
With a cruel smile, Holmes continued. ‘What if he asks you to share your knowledge of astronomical navigation and celestial geometry?’
Holed below the waterline, I abandoned a sea-captain’s disguise.
‘Let’s start at first principles,’ my comrade commenced. ‘Whatever your camouflage, it must be tailored to the moment of maximum danger. Animals are readied by Nature - the coat of an African gazelle when it approaches the waterhole at dusk, darkest on those parts which tend to be most lighted by the diminishing light. And Man, the battledress of a modern soldier. Luckily, Watson, both Nature and your ancestors have bestowed upon you the perfect disguise. With your features and your customary dress you could stand for an hour at Piccadilly Circus amid the throng and not one person in a thousand would take any note of you. There is absolutely nothing to note about you. We need only give you a profession.’
He fixed me with a friendly look. ‘You will need to mind your mannerisms, my friend. When we settle on whichever outfit, I implore you to keep to the minimum your irritating habit of drumming a tattoo on your knee with your notably fat fingers.’