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