Holmes has taken two tickets on the Maison Claremont — the mountain line whose dining car has hosted more reputations than any theatre in Europe. The famous ride it to be seen. Others ride it to be near the famous, which is a different occupation entirely, and a more dangerous one.
He does not travel for the scenery.
A name was mentioned to him at the Society last Thursday — mentioned quietly, the way one mentions a debt. Since then he has filled two notebooks with timetables, passenger manifests, and the curious economics of celebrity: who pays for fame, in what currency, and to whom the bill is finally presented.
“Everyone aboard that train is performing, Watson,” he said, as we watched the mountains swallow the track ahead. “Our task is to notice the one performance that ends too early.”
The snow is deep in the passes this season. Whatever happens aboard the Maison Claremont, there will be no getting off between stations.