Sherlock Holmes and The Mystery Of Einstein's Daughter

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.’

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.’

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.

The letter had ended with greetings to my now-deceased wife Mary.

I reached the site I had in mind for the photograph, a wide rock platform. It was not the exact spot where the death struggle took place but the camera angle would work better to show the terrifying force of the plunging waters. A short distance away stood the ruins of a building where I could hide the photographic apparatus, tucked away from the spray, until Holmes arrived to take up his position. Perhaps it was the result of my exertions or the effect of the rushing waters on my brain but in my imagination I could picture crouching figures behind every jutting bush and rock.

I retraced my footsteps down to our hotel and greeted my comrade with a ‘How are you, Holmes?’

The unusual dilation of his pupils caught my attention. He thrust a newspaper at me.

‘Watson, I deduce from your question they do not sell the English edition of the Journal de Genève at the Reichenbach Falls.’

Concerned by his tone, I grasped at the newspaper and saw the headline, ‘ICEMAN EXPOSEDBY MELTING GLACIER - PRESERVED NATURAL MUMMY OF MAN WHO LIVED ABOUT 3,200 YEARS AGO.’

The article continued,

I looked up at Holmes. ‘This is a wonderful discovery, Holmes, why we should - ’

‘Watson!’ Holmes exploded, ‘not that wretched iceman and his copper axe - the piece below!’

The headline blared, ‘WORLD’S MOST FAMOUS CRIMINAL AGENT RETURNSTO MEIRINGEN’. The report continued:

My heart thumped.

Sir George Newnes had kept strictly to his word not to reveal our movements to the London newspapers but had informed the Journal de Genève, no doubt in the hope of increasing the Strand’s circulation among English-speaking residents on the Continent. The Reuter Agency or the Central Press Syndicate would be bound to pick up the report for distribution to news-sheets worldwide.

‘Holmes,’ I spluttered, ‘perhaps Moran will fail to hear about our presence here. After all, he is far away in the midst of the Indian Ocean.’

‘Perhaps,’ came the uncertain reply.

During the first few nights at altitude I sleep fitfully. That night I was even more restless than usual. At last I fell into a slumber. A light tap at the door made me sit up abruptly.

‘Very sorry to wake you up,’ came Holmes’s voice. ‘Turn just the one table-lamp on, there’s a good fellow. News has arrived from London. When you are dressed, meet me on the terrace where we can be alone.’

I joined Holmes in the dim pre-dawn light.

Still groggy, I protested, ‘Holmes, would it be too much to ask why you have summoned me at - ’ I consulted my pocket watch. ‘Good Lord! It’s half past four in the morning!’

‘Clearly our use of substitute names failed to work, Watson.’

He held up two telegrams. ‘These were brought straight to me.’

One was addressed to ‘Mr. Sherlock Holmes or Dr. John Watson’. It read:

Dear Mr. Holmes, I told no one of your whereabouts. The London newspapers have revealed your presence. Ten reporters came to my door in the middle of the night. I was obliged to quit the house by a hind-window into the yard like you and Dr. Watson do when necessary. If you need me you can get me at my sister’s. Kind regards, M. Hudson.

‘Now read this second telegram,’ Holmes ordered. It was from the Victoria.

From the Captain. Arabia Sea. Urgent. Attention Messrs. Hewitt & Learson. Today’s English newspapers telegraphed to the ship contain details of Honour conferred on Sherlock Holmes by the University of Berne and his return to Meiringen. Subsequently passenger referred to in earlier communication composed a telegram to London in code (below). Two words are not encoded: ‘Reichenbach Falls’.

The message was followed by a page covered by a series of three numbers separated by full-stops.

It was clear Colonel Moran had issued an order from the Arabian Sea to his footpads at the murderous Lower Rung Club. I felt dizzy with shock. We would need to abandon all thought of continuing with our photographic enterprise.

‘Holmes,’ I began, ‘we must at once - ’

He interrupted me.‘ Watson, this code is based on Blackstone’s Commentaries on the Laws of England. I myself have used it on several occasions. Each word is described by three numbers, giving page, line and position of the word in that line.’

Holmes’s bony finger jabbed at the middle of the page. ‘If I recall correctly, this set, namely 22.9.14, stands for “Arrival”.’His finger drifted back along the lines of numerals.

‘And 102.8.26,’ he continued.

‘Stands for?’

‘“Essential”,’ came the reply. ‘As to the rest, without Blackstone’s I have reached my limit. I lodge my copy of Blackstone’s with Mycroft. He keeps it at No. 10 Downing Street where it looks perfectly in place. We must telegraph the coded message to my brother immediately with instructions to wake him from his slumber. I suggest we get a couple of hours’ more sleep. The moment I receive Mycroft’s reply I shall share it with you.’

Dawn was breaking when we reassembled on the terrace. The response from Mycroft arrived with a pot of coffee. My comrade pondered for a few seconds before flicking the page across the broad table.

‘Mycroft has deciphered Moran’s telegram.’

The decoded message was shorter than I had anticipated from the jumble of numbers. It read:

Aboard the Victoria. Essential you do not proceed to the Reichenbach Falls. Rather, cover quarry’s arrival at likely Channel ports, not least Continental boat trains between Newhaven and London. SM.

‘You will note even our greatest living adversary forgets himself in his excitement,’ Holmes remarked with a slight smile. ‘To his minions Sebastian Moran has signed himself with his true initials, yet aboard the Victoria he will be known by the quite different nomme de guerre he supplied to us.’

A surge of relief burst through me.

‘Holmes,’ I exclaimed, ‘it seems we are safe! Moran says explicitly ‘do not proceed to the Reichenbach Falls’. We shall be able to take the photograph after all.’

Holmes’s fingers unwrapped themselves from along cherry-wood pipe. In a serious tone he resumed.

‘I must inform you, my dear Watson, that your conclusions are erroneous. We are in the utmost danger and must quit this hotel with all due speed.’

I stared in bewilderment at my companion.

‘You have not reached the end of the message,’ Holmes continued. ‘It tells us that if the Channel is calm the first of Moran’s assassins should arrive here in a matter of hours. My brother is a cryptographer of great merit and intuition. Moran’s telegram has made him suspicious in the extreme.534 C2 13 127 - followed by 36 31 4 17 21 etc. Those numerals and the letter C were added by Mycroft. As children he and I communicated using a code based on the old Whitaker’s Almanac our father revered. We used that particular warning frequently enough to fix it firmly in my memory. It means danger may come very soon.’

I responded, ‘In his telegram Moran orders his band of assassins to waylay us at the Channel, not here in the middle of Switzerland.’

Holmes looked again at the telegram.

‘Colonel Moran moves up in my estimation,’ he said. ‘Something of Moriarty has rubbed off on him. It was genius on Moran’s part. Leaving the words Reichenbach Falls uncoded means he has worked out the Victoria’s Captain is in communication with us. Moran knew I would come quickly to the realisation he was using Blackstone’s, ergo he wanted us to break his code. He must have read my monograph on codes where I recommend Blackstone’s. If Colonel Moran anticipated we would break the code, it can mean only one thing: he has a long-standing arrangement with the recipients, that they will do precisely the opposite. ‘Wait for us at the Channel ports’? No -it means they are not to wait for us at the Channel ports. ‘Do not proceed to the Reichenbach Falls’ - do proceed. Hardly shall we have peddled furiously from here than they will be taking up their hiding-places on the slopes above us.’

‘If you are correct in your deduction, Holmes, then we must slip away at once,’ I said. ‘One shot from a rifle as powerful as those Moran would provide for his acolytes would shatter our skulls into splinters.’

‘We must adjust our plans in light of this new information,’ Holmes responded. ‘I shall be infinitely obliged if you will find a hotel servant and order him to bring us a further pot of coffee while I change to a new pipe. If we are to relinquish limb or life in carrying out your commission, this may be the last quiet talk that we shall ever have.’

I got to my feet. ‘If your deduction is correct, Holmes,’ I responded, ‘rather than a pot of coffee and a fireside chat we must abandon the photograph and make our way back to England without a moment’s delay.’

My companion looked at me calmly. ‘Tell me, Watson, where had you thought to secure the photograph for the Strand?’

‘The exact spot where you tossed Moriarty to his death - where else?’ I replied.

‘At the very same cliff edge?’ Holmes pursued.

‘Preferably, yes,’ I replied.

‘And how long will the photograph take?’

‘At least the quarter hour. My instructions are to get your face in sharp detail, with a determined look on it, the torrent in soft focus at your back,’ I explained. ‘But surely that is entirely academic. We - ’

‘So we would be en plein air and in good light long enough for the worst marksmen in the world to loose at least a hundred shots at us,’ Holmes interrupted.

‘Let me ask you a question, Watson. There are seventy-two waterfalls in the Bernese Oberland. Of your countless readers, how many will have visited each of them in person?’

I attempted a smile. ‘A handful at most. I’ve heard the expression that when you have seen one Alp you have seen them all. I believe much the same applies to Alpine falls.’

I ordered the pot of coffee and instructed the waiter to take the pot together with the hotel bill to the terrace. I sped to my room to pack my few belongings. When I rejoined Holmes on the otherwise empty terrace he was staring at the guide-book. All seemed tranquil. The sun was by now high over a fine mountain peak. Our bicycles awaited us. At my arrival he looked up and swept a hand across the landscape.

‘Tell me,’ he asked, ‘what do you make of such a view! Doesn’t it bring out the poetry in a man’s soul. You know, Watson, every time you and I confront the Grim Reaper’s rapscallions, I am forced to wonder about the Life Hereafter.’

Holmes continued, ‘At the very least, after we are gone, I believe a vaporous emanation of our lives will linger on until everyone who knew us has also departed.’

‘Holmes, without question I accept Hamlet’s argument there may well be more things in Heaven and Earth, but could we get on, please?’

‘Certainly, Watson, but first I have a further question. Are you prepared to play just the smallest of deceits on your publisher?’

I replied cautiously, ‘What are you suggesting?’

Holmes reached into a pocket and withdrew his Baedeker guide book. He waved the stocky volume at me and read out loud:

‘“The narrow gorge, with the copious brook fed by the glaciers, is rendered accessible by steps and rough paths. The sun forms beautiful rainbows in the spray which bedews trees and meadows far and wide”.’

‘Holmes, I am fully apprised of such descriptions of the Reichenbach Falls,’ I retorted. ‘You may recall I was with you only minutes before you plunged Moriarty to his death.’

Holmes’s eyes sparkled. He sent up a great blue triumphant cloud from the briar pipe and slid the guide book across the table.

‘Turn to Page 192.’

I did as ordered. Astonished, I exclaimed, ‘The passage you read refers to the Falls on the Trümmelbach yet it could hardly be bettered as a description of the Reichenbach.’

‘Precisely. For the fifteen minutes or so required for your photograph, given an exact angle, the Trümmelbach Falls will become the Reichenbach Falls. Hats and boots, Watson! Our hegira commences.’

Holmes flicked the hotel bill across to me.

‘Deal with this, there’s a good fellow. Tell them the telegrams require us to return at once to Interlaken. Ask about trains. Mention in passing that we shall be travelling on to Tuscany by the quickest route. Our real destination lies in the opposite direction.’

We set off for our new destination, driving hard on the bicycle pedals until my lungs panted in the thin air. The bulky camera and tripod were due to follow us to the Stechtelberg by dog-cart. It could act as a dagger to our hearts if Moran’s men spotted it. Not too soon for my unaccustomed legs, Lauterbrunnen hove into view. The pretty village was tucked into a deep, long valley of rocky cliffs and green pastures. To the left rose the great snow-mountain Jungfrau, towering above the rocky precipices of the Schwarze Mönch. Not far away we could see the Staubbach. Fed by the melting snow its waters tumbled nearly a thousand feet, resembling a silvery veil, wafting to and fro in the breeze. By the time we reached the Hotel Pension Stechtelberg the mountain peaks had begun to cast their evening shadow. The photograph would have to wait for the following day.

I spent much of the next two hours at a vantage point, purporting to survey scenes of interest for postal cards. Anxiously I scanned the track we had taken to the hotel. Colonel Moran’s malign presence seemed to envelop the very mountains around us. I had last faced him eleven years earlier, in The Adventure of the Empty House. I described him thus: ‘one could not look upon his cruel blue eyes, with their drooping, cynical lids, or upon the fierce, aggressive nose and the threatening, deep-lined brow, without reading Nature’s plainest danger-signals.’

At a wretchedly early hour we set off, leaving the bicycles at the hotel. The journey to the Trümmelbach was almost entirely uphill. Holmes strode out with the Lancaster’s Patent oak and brass tripod while I carried the heavy Sanderson camera. Jutting among the boulders were the descendants of the plants we had trodden on fourteen years before - the large Yellow Vetch, dog’s mercury, Star-of-Bethlehem, purple Betony and Giant Ragweed. After frequent stops pretending to survey for a general photographic purpose we arrived at a ledge identical to the one at the Reichenbach Falls.

I set the camera on the tripod and opened the shutter, focusing with the ground glass screen. I had carefully worked out the exposure time and aperture the day before. Holmes watched me fumbling for the exact position for the tripod, edging it as close to the precipice rim as I dared. His lips tightened as the minutes passed. I raised a hand, counted out loud from one to three and operated the shutter. With a click I had the precious plate, my subject suitably bedraggled and grim-visaged. In a few months’ time his iconic image would appear on the cover of the Strand’s bumper Christmas edition.

A second plate was needed to be sure of success. I was about to duck under the black cloth when small particles of rock fell from the cliff above. I threw myself in front of Holmes with as much haste as I could muster on the uneven soaking ground. I tugged at the revolver in my jacket. My elbow struck the tripod. The apparatus jerked backwards. It seemed to hold at the very edge like a man trying his utmost to stay upright, then the Sanderson toppled into the abyss, taking with it the precious plate. I heard the crack of camera and tripod cannonading from rock to rock.

I stared frantically upward for sight of an enemy. There was no-one to be seen.

‘Holmes! Someone is spying on us,’ I hissed, uttering the words from the corner of my mouth as though ventriloquising.

With surprising composure Holmes replied, ‘I noticed him too. He has been following us for a while. You may put away your revolver. He is not an assassin.’

Despite my companion’s assurance I kept the revolver pointing at the cliff-face and commanded,

‘You up there. Come out and reveal yourself!’

‘You’d best address him by name,’ Holmes advised. ‘Try “Professor Sobel”.’