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.