Sherlock Holmes and The Mystery Of Einstein's Daughter

Chapter III Holmes Receives the Offer of a Doctorate

I saw little of Holmes over the next few days. He was out when the post brought a large envelope stamped Universitas Bernensis. I eased the flap open. Dr. Büttikofer had done his job well. It contained the offer of an Honorary Doctorate contingent on Holmes’s acceptance. I resealed the envelope and quit my breakfast before the marmalade stage.

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.’

‘I’ll do my best, Holmes,’ I retorted, hurt.

The next day I breakfasted alone after a restless night. I could wait no longer. It was time to grasp the nettle. I left Holmes a note. Given we would be in the Bernese Oberland and in striking distance of the Reichenbach Falls, would he consent to a photograph for the Strand, the Christmas edition? A commission of six hundred guineas was on offer. I confessed I had already spent a hundred guineas upfront. I grabbed my hat and hurried from our lodgings. Some hours later I returned, sick with trepidation. Holmes greeted me cordially.

‘Good day, Watson,’ he offered.

‘Good day to you too, Holmes,’ I responded anxiously. My note, now open, still lay among the uncleared dishes.

‘Isn’t it a wonderful time of the year!’ my comrade went on. ‘See how our plane tree contemplates unfurling its leathery - ’

‘Holmes!’ I intervened, with an admonishing look.

He pointed through our window at the sky.

‘And the moon at this time of the year! Even by day see how clearly the mountains...’

‘Holmes!’ I yelped, ‘for Heaven’s sake!’

He dropped his arm and peered at me.

‘Was there something you wanted to discuss? I seem to remember - now what was it?’

‘Your decision, Holmes, your decision!’ I cried, pointing at the breakfast table.

He went to the Sanderson camera and posed by it, chuckling. ‘I’ve decided to go along with your wishes, Watson. However, I have a further condition,’ he said in a serious tone. ‘We must cut and run if Colonel Moran discovers our enterprise. I have no intention of helping you shake hands with St. Peter so far ahead of your natural term. The terrain around the Falls could not be better designed for a master assassin with a telescopic sight. Other than your cumbrous service revolver, we shall be armed only with my Penang Lawyer.’

‘You appear to have given this some thought, Holmes,’ I replied. ‘Do you have a plan to forestall Moran? ’

‘I do,’ he affirmed. ‘I think the Colonel should pay a visit to Ceylon.’

‘Ceylon?’ I exclaimed.

‘As a matter of health.’

I gawped. The Crown Colony was not famed for its health-giving properties. Filarial diseases had spread throughout the Island of Ceylon as far back as the invasions of the Kalinga kings in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.

‘For his health?’ I exclaimed, astonished.

‘Not his health, Watson. Ours.’

‘And how to you propose to accomplish that, may I ask? What if our Colonel doesn’t want to visit Ceylon?’

Holmes replied, ‘We shall offer ourselves as bait like the naked ankle to the malarial mosquito. ’He picked up the old clay pipe he dubbed his ‘counsellor’.

‘We shall insert a 6-liner in the newspapers.’

The cost of inserting an advertisement in the principal papers was not inconsiderable, varying from 2/8d to 3/6d for a 4-line minimum in The Chronicle, Standard, and Globe, and a hefty two shillings per line in The Times. The six-line notice which led to the solution of The Adventure of the Naval Treaty had cost me nearly two weeks’ Army pension which I had failed to recover from Holmes. I resigned myself to another attack on my insubstantial pocket. With our lives at stake there was nothing to do but pursue the subterfuge. I took out my note-book.

‘I’m ready, Holmes,’ I said. ‘Would you like to give me the wording?’

‘Commence with the heading Substantial Remuneration, not less than 150 Guineas, followed by, Wanted. Guide well acquainted with Ceylon, in particular Adam’s Peak .Knowledge of Tamil and Arwi useful. All expenses. Able to leave immediately for up to three months. Apply by letter to Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221B, Baker Street, London.

‘That should do it,’ he ended. ‘I suggest you send it to all the newspapers Moran might conceivably read, including the morning editions. ’Holmes pointed to Lloyds List,

‘I’ve checked the movement of ships. The newest and largest Jubilees of the Peninsular And Oriental sail weekly from the London Docks to Aden and points east. The next liner to sail is the Victoria. We shall let it be known we intend go by train to France and board her at Marseilles, thereby avoiding the Bay of Biscay at this time of the year. Our guide must go aboard in London. He’ll be half-way to India before he can check out the entire passenger list - every decrepit Italian priest, every down-on-his-luck goatee beard and a swagger. To boot, Moran will lose himself a pocketful of money for the each way fare.’

‘Why Adam’s Peak?’ I asked.

‘On the summit of the mountain is a single footprint revered by all three Eastern religions. To the Buddhist it is where the Gautama momentarily rested his foot on his flight to Heaven. For the Moslem it is where Adam, having been expelled from the Garden of Eden, stood on one leg for a thousand years before being reunited with Eve on Mount Ararat.’

‘And to the Hindu?’ I enquired.

‘It’s the Sacred Footprint of Siva, the god of destruction and wrath.’

I frowned. ‘Why would Moran find Adam’s Peak of interest? He’s not known to be a connoisseur of Eastern religions.’

‘The peak’s above 7000 feet,’ Holmes continued. ‘It can only be reached from the village of Maskeliya by a journey of some eight miles on foot over open mountainside. Moran will envisage many a nook and cranny among the vegetation and rocks to exercise his shooting finger. Given the occasional elephant trampling through the tea-plantations he is perfectly entitled to carry a bespoke double rifle.’

I replaced my notebook in a pocket.

‘Oh, and Watson, given the high possibility the deceased Moriarty’s tentacles have spread into Cox’s Bank, on your way back can you pop in the bank for some rupees. Then as a treat, I suggest we invite Mrs. Hudson to prepare us a pint of oysters and a couple of brace of cold woodcock followed by a bottle of that choice little Ferreira Garrafeira Vintage Port 1863 delivered to us at the instance of your friend the Prince Regnant of Bulgaria.’

I had reached the door when my comrade called out to me in an unusually serious tone.

‘If anything happens to me because of our trip, don’t have me cremated before you have removed the £1000 banknote stitched into the lining of these trousers. That should be enough to get you home and a little more besides.’

I decided to purchase two one-thousand rupee banknotes and a suitable assembly of 10 rupee notes with as much ostentation as possible and our Swiss francs with the least. My walk took me through the Inns of Court. I halted for a moment outside the Henry Fielding Hotel, my first lodgings on returning from Afghanistan. The hotel rates(albeit including illuminating gas) were uncomfortably high for my wound-pension. Recollections flooded back. Though I missed the camaraderie of the regimental mess, I was glad enough to exchange the cobra of the Afghan hills for the common adder but bitter that Afghanistan had taken away youth, strength and energy and left me with a damaged tendo Achillis. However, my time on the North West Frontier, by way of compensation, left me with a vast accumulated knowledge of the science of medicine.

The bank manager handed me the rupees. Would he also, I asked casually, provide me with a supply of Swiss currency - explaining the Swiss francs were for a trip following our return from Ceylon.

‘Dr. Watson,’ he replied expansively, ‘English sovereigns and bank-notes are gladly received everywhere. Why should you and Mr. Sherlock Holmes concern yourself with the Swiss franc?’

The bank manager peered through his spectacles at a list on his desk.

‘Though as a convenience you might hold a few guineas’ worth of small Swiss notes. An English sovereign will get you 25 francs. I am told a comfortable hotel will charge you four or five francs for bedroom, light and attendance, and perhaps a further twelve francs for all meals, plus small tips for the boots and porter.’

The sound of people engaged in fierce argument burst in on us. Two men locked in each other’s clasp fell through the door, the one an elderly cleric, the other a member of the bank’s staff trying to prevent his entry. High-pitched tones emanated from the priest as he pushed himself into the room past the employee. Under a wrap rascal he wore baggy trousers and white tie, topped by a broad black hat, the exact dress of the Nonconformist clergyman I described in Scandal In Bohemia. He demanded to speak to the bank manager come what may, insisting he needed to open a safe deposit box on the instant, ‘poor as a church mouse as those of my calling may be’.

With a triumphant flourish at having gained entry, the clergyman dropped a heavy pouch on the manager’s desk. It was the very pouch of gold coins given to us by the Prince Regnant of Bulgaria five years before. The purse split with the force of the fall, scattering the glittering coins across the desk and into every corner of the room.

At the sight of the gold coins the bank manager rushed around the desk and waved the staff member away.

‘I am sure Dr. Watson will not mind if we are joined by a clergyman,’ he expostulated. ‘I myself am a son of the manse, with a strict Presbyterian upbringing.’

‘Not at all,’ I responded amiably. ‘The clergyman is most welcome.’

My Heavens, I thought. Holmes has gone a step too far. He will be found out within a matter of minutes. I turned to the bank manager.

‘You say you are a son of the manse?’ I enquired.

‘I am,’ he replied. ‘Every day my aged father proclaims the sovereignty of God, the authority of the Scriptures, and the necessity of grace through faith in Christ.’

‘Then I am sure our clergyman friend here would enjoy sharing his knowledge of the Sacred Book. A short test, perhaps?’

Embarrassed, the bank manager began to protest. Holmes cut back in.

‘Come now, Sir,’ he told the bank manager, gesturing towards me, ‘as our young friend here demands, you must question me. Test the simple preacher seated before you on his knowledge of the Scriptures.’

The bank manager agreed, immeasurably pleased. ‘The Epistle of Paul to the Church at Philippi,’ he began,’ the book of the Gospel where...’

‘Acts, Sir,’ Holmes broke in, chortling. ‘You shall have to do better than that.’

‘Which book? Ninth, I believe?’ asked the son of the manse.

‘Eleventh,’ Holmes returned.

‘But you agree it was written on St. Paul’s first missionary journey?’

‘Second,’ Holmes parried.

‘Date?’

‘49-51 AD,’ Holmes ended, triumphantly.

‘I too have a question,’ I broke in.

It was a question my Tractarian mother had once posed on my return from Sunday School.

‘Where in the Bible does it refer to ‘Five Golden Emerods’ and ‘five golden mice’? Kings or Chronicles - or Ruth?’ I asked.

‘Very droll, Watson,’ Holmes whispered, followed aloud by ‘Samuel, my dear fellow. 1 Samuel 6:4 if I am not mistaken.’

Heavens, Holmes, I thought admiringly. The stage may have lost a great actor when he took up crime but the Church lost a doughty scholar.

With the rupees and Swiss bank-notes tucked securely under my coat, I left the clergyman and bank manager still discussing matters Biblical and resolved to purchase a copy of William Clark Russell’s latest nautical novel The Mystery of the Ocean Star for the journey to the Swiss Alps.

At Marshall & Snelgrove’s I ordered a suit of pongee silk, white drill, and a Swiss Army officer’s knife Modell 1890. From there I strolled en pleine vue. Whenever I could be lost to sight in the crowded streets I slowed my pace to allow an observer to regain my spoor. At Salmon & Gluckstein of Oxford Street - ‘Largest and Cheapest Tobacconists in the World’ -I purchased a half-dozen tins of J&H Wilson No. 1 Top Mill snuff and a box of Churchwarden clay pipes, proclaiming loudly the latter were presents for the natives. I announced extravagantly how appreciative Holmes and I would be if the Tobacconist supplied us with several boxes of Trichinopoly cigars manufactured from tobacco grown near the town of Dindigul (‘a favourite of yellow-robed Buddhist monks,’ I explained to the small audience around me).

My next stop was Foyle’s bookshop at Cecil Court for The Mystery of the Ocean Star. From there I strolled openly to Watson & Sons in Holborn where I usually purchased my microscope slides. The same photographic suppliers stocked the wide-angle photographic lenses suited to Alpine and no doubt Adam’s Peak vistas. My final call was on B. J. Edwards for Iso plates.

On my return, Holmes was poring over a large survey map brought across Hyde Park from the hallowed vaults of the Royal Geographical Society. A life preserver, a new box of Manstopper bullets ‘for police, civilian and Colonial use’, and a tin of Rangoon Oil sat by the map. A brand-new Webley Metropolitan Police revolver with a lanyard-ring lay beside him. The two-and-a-half inch barrel allowed the weapon to be secreted in the trouser waistband or pocket of an Inverness cloak. I looked dubiously at the hand-gun. Holmes was more than my equal with a rifle but his principal experience with a handgun had been desultory practice many years earlier on a range among sand-dunes near Calais. I glanced over Holmes’s shoulder at the map.

‘Holmes,’ I exclaimed, ‘do I deduce you are studying our choice of tracks to the Reichenbach Falls?’

He put the magnifying glass down. ‘Really, Watson, you excel yourself. Palpably your walk has cleared the brain.’

He folded the map and applied a lightly oiled ramrod to the barrel of the revolver. The oiling complete, he dry-fired the weapon three times and put it back on the table.

‘If our deceit fails and Moran catches up with us on those mountainous slopes, we shall have need of all the fire-power we can muster. Not a word must reach Moran’s ears as to our real enterprise or we are doomed,’ he warned.

‘I can assure you, Holmes, I have extracted the firmest of promises from my publisher,’ I returned. ‘Not a syllable will escape his lips, not to the English newspapers, not even to his wife and children.’

‘I have no worries in a town as busy as Berne,’ Holmes said, ‘but don’t make a reservation for us at our former hotel at the Falls. Old Steiler will surely forgive us. We must take a chance on rooms. We’ll arrive after dark at the Hotel Sauvage, unannounced and using sobriquets.’

The following morning I strolled into our sitting room to find Holmes poring over the silk-panelled map with a magnifying glass. He looked up.

‘Do you still wish to become the asthmatic captain of the Roi des Belges steaming up the Congo River?’ he queried.

‘No, Holmes. On our past adventures you have limited me to a moustache here, a pair of rubbish-collector’s boots there, or for our adventure in the Case of the Dead Boer at Scotney Castle a country-cut coat and low-crowned hat. This time I fancy passing myself off as an Ambassador,’ I responded.

‘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.