Sherlock Holmes and The Mystery Of Einstein's Daughter

by Tim Symonds

‘That it was her father and he could only have carried out Lieserl’s murder with Einstein’s agreement.’

  ‘Holmes,’ I said, brimming with anger, ‘we must set off immediately. We must reveal this at once to the Rector and Professor Sobel. For Einstein to condone, perhaps incite the killing of his baby girl, even one with a badly-damaged brain -the wretch deserves whatever punishment he’s due.’

  Chapter XI

  We Meet Father Florus

  The monks were up and about by the time I went for breakfast in the simple refectory. Despite my keenness to return to Berne there was an undertaking to fulfil. We had to deliver Miss Durham’s gifts to Father Florus at the Church of Our Lady Among The Rocks. Archimandrite Nikanor greeted me. I explained we were postponing our fishing in favour of a visit to Father Florus. A kavass, a Serbian guide, was summoned to escort us. The Archimandrite led us though a little stone-paved room hung with portraits of the Czar and Czaritsa of Russia out to the start of a well-marked footpath among wild pomegranates. Our kavass led off, a heavy lantern swinging from his hand in case darkness overtook us on our return.

  Away from the monastery any semblance of a road capable of supporting a cart ended abruptly. All around was wild, untouched rock, the scent of cistus and thyme on the hill-sides. Shrub oak jutted up among outcrops. Occasional abrupt descents left us slithering and sliding down the sides of stony ravines. Now and then a small flock of sheep pressed past us, hurrying to fresh pastures, driven by little girls with eyebrows blackened, their hair dyed a red as fierce as the bright crimson of the local rams.

  Our pace slowed as the altitude increased. Now and then a palisaded village came into view. On patches given over to vegetables, bent figures pushed potatoes, turnips, onions and garlic into the well-prepared soil. At one point we stopped to resupply our water from an artesian well sited by a moving fringe of dogs and crude lean-to toilets. Our kavass told us that in times of danger the villagers took refuge in the most inaccessible gorges.

  From above us came the first low growl of a storm. ‘Thunder,’ I called ahead to Holmes’s back.

  ‘Evidently,’ he replied over his shoulder.

  To take my attention off my aching legs my mind returned to fishing. I thought about the time when aged twelve I went for my first night-fishing. I made a great deal of noise stumbling around and fell down, wrenching a shoulder, and never caught a thing.

  Mycroft had sent us the most wonderful fishing tackle. During the short time on the Tisza, the Hardy Perfect reel and Mr. W. Senior’s Red Spinners had proved themselves. I needed more time to try out the favourite chub-fly of the late Mr. Francis, a complicated matter of grilse size, silver tinsel, and a tail of white kid glove or wash leather. Cheered by these happy reflections I returned to the present. Holmes had taken the lead, maintaining a relentless pace up the ever-steepening slope. We passed through the ruins of an ancient forum. Green acanthus flourished between the stony leaves of fallen Corinthian capitals. It was now noon. Our guide pointed to a second stony track round the hillside. A ridge of rocks ended in a sheer cliff overlooking a stone-strewn slope.

  ‘You are there,’ he said. ‘Pass between those,’ he continued, pointing at two immense boulders. ‘You will find the Father beyond them.’

  We squeezed between the boulder sand spied a tall figure in the tattered black cassock of a priest. He was aged between thirty-five and forty. Father Florus stepped forward to welcome us.

  ‘Miss Durham sent word you would be coming. I watched you all the way across the plain in case you had an encounter with the Veele. In South-Slavic mythology the Veele are fairy-like spirits.’

  He recounted how the Veele live in the wilderness and sometimes in the clouds, spirits of women who had been frivolous in their lifetimes and now float between the here and the afterlife. They appear as swans, snakes, horses, falcons or wolves, ‘but usually as beautiful maidens, naked or dressed in white with long flowing hair’. The priest sighed.

  ‘The voices of the Veele are beautiful. One who hears them loses all thoughts of food, drink or sleep. However,’ he continued, smiling, ‘despite their feminine charms the Veele are fierce warriors. The earth is said to shake when they do battle.’

  I handed Father Florus a carp sent with the Archimandrite’s regards followed by the gifts from Edith Durham. He picked up the book of Verlaine’s poems and quoted from it: ‘Voici des fruits, des fleurs, des feuilles et des branches’.

  He looked at me. ‘One needs little in this life,’ he said. ‘We have so short a time here.’

  Father Florus turned towards his tiny domain, a bare stone wall standing against the hillside with a wooden cross at the top, and a two-roomed cottage with a patch of cultivated ground close by. With a further heavy rumble of thunder the heavens opened. The priest pointed at an opening in the mountain. ‘We can find shelter over there. In my little church,’ he said, leading the way.

  The cave entrance was devoid of any attempt at architecture. Not a capital, pilaster, pediment, moulding, cornice, or porch broke the baldness. Tiny tawdry objects had been pushed into cracks in the rock. We entered a long narrow cavern, water-worn, with traces of stalactite deposit on the rough walls. Two settles served for pews for the scanty congregation. Torches burned brightly, lighting up a picture of Our Lady, their sap releasing an acrid but pleasant odour. A smaller cave opened on either side, making a ready-made nave and transept. The Father said,

  ‘The people say this church was built by the Hand of God. His hands in the wilderness. Si non è vero, è ben trovato - even if it’s not true it makes a good story. Is it not in the form of a cross?’

  He motioned towards a bier covered with a black and gold cloth, and an illustration of the dead Christ. ‘Here, you see, I have made the Holy Sepulchre.’

  The walls at the chancel end were covered with saints and angels, quaint and stiff, their archaic Byzantine forms in perfect keeping with the rough surroundings. Father Florus crossed himself, his chrysoprase ring catching the torch-light.

  ‘When I pray all alone in the silence, then holy things come to me, pictures, vous savez. I paint them here upon the wall.’

  His otherwise serious face broke into a soft and pleasant expression. ‘My poor attempts at painting give pleasure to my people, and they understand. These are the last I have made. There is no paint left.’

  ‘Were you always here?’ my comrade enquired politely.

  ‘No. Once upon a time I was elsewhere.’

  ‘Novi-Sad?’ Holmes asked.

  The priest shook his head.

  ‘No. Not Novi-Sad. Over there. Kać.’

  He placed his hands on a silver bowl and an etched crystal goblet of water placed by the silver cross. ‘We are expecting a Christening ceremony here tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve heard that in Serbia an infant receives the blessing 40 days after the birth, is that correct?’ Holmes asked.

  The Father replied, ‘Yes, after 40 days- unless the baby is sickly and not expected to live.’

  My comrade asked what information the church required on the forms to register the birth of a child.

  ‘Date and place of birth,’ came the reply. ‘Date and place of the christening. Parents’ names and ages. Name of the priest and godparents. Whether the child was a twin. The child’s placement in relation to any siblings - first, second and so on. And whether defective.’

  He crossed himself. His hands touched together briefly as though making a prayer. ‘Or illegitimate. Most births in my region are.’

  ‘Now,’ he proclaimed, ‘we eat.’

  We followed him from the cool of the cave. The hot touch of the outside air on our faces warned of a stifling heat to come. Around us the ground crepitated. Pointing at the cottage, hardly more than a hovel, the priest said, ‘I call this my Konacic. It means little palace.’

  Father Florus refused
to countenance our departure without a meal. ‘I’ve been expecting you, and besides, when shall I again see visitors from England?’ he exclaimed.

  Appreciatively we gulped down burek, pastries made of filo dough filled with goat’s meat and cheese. The pastries were followed by stuffed cabbage, kidney beans and potatoes, grown in his well-kempt vegetable patch. After a last spoonful of sesame honey and a thick prune jam and most of the canned peaches we had carried with us, our host led us to a departure point a hundred yards down the slope towards the boulders. He pointed into the distance. ‘In two or three months those hills will be carpeted with blue periwinkles. You must return at that time.’

  We said our goodbyes. The tall dark figure gave us the blessing. He turned towards the little chapel. When we had walked some distance, I looked back. There was no-one to be seen, only the low whitewashed wall, the tiny cottage and the great mountain.

  Chapter XII

  The Denouement Looms - We Return To Berne

  Our return to the monastery was a race against the dark. The rough path led us into thick mists swirling down from the mountains. I could have done with a sturdy Shan pony. Any hope of an hour’s fishing on the Tisza dissipated by the minute. By the time we reached the monastery the candle in the kavass’s lantern had reached the full extent of the coiled spring on which it rested.

  Before Holmes and I separated for the night I asked, ‘What have we learned today?’

  ‘Confirmation the infant Lieserl was born palsied,’ my comrade replied.

  ***

  By sun-up Archimandrite Nikanor was dressed and bustling about. We breakfasted with the monks on carp and rudd. Before our departure we were led to the visitors’ book. Our host shook hands and murmured a blessing over us. In turn we presented him with the ferruled fishing rods, the lures and spinners. We commenced the long journey back to Switzerland, starting with a tarantass to Novi-Sad. The ferry transported us across the Danube for the next leg. We settled into a comfortable railway carriage. Holmes was silent, deep in the Baedeker. I fell into a reverie, mulling over our adventures of the past few weeks with their endless twists and turns and utterly improbable discoveries, the searches in large damp boxes in dim rooms, the watchful, puzzled clerks. The feeling we were forever being observed. The jolting carriages. Jelena’s song. Miss Durham’s explanation.

  Budapest and Vienna came and went. I interrupted my companion. ‘Holmes, is it possible Mileva’s father carried out the killing without Einstein’s knowledge? After all, he would want to free his daughter from - ’

  ‘Impossible,’ Holmes broke in emphatically. ‘The infant was blessed on the first day of her life, not the customary fortieth day. Einstein would have been informed. The lack of christening records, the lack of a birth certificate. The complete silence. From the moment of that blessing he and Miloš began to hatch a plan to put Lieserl out of her - and their - misery. The mystery is why they waited so long. I can only presume Mileva - and Zorka - put up a fight.’

  ‘And what of Mileva? Did she finally consent?’

  ‘No. It was a fait accompli. It would have been a terrible shock. Besso said how she lost her happy temperament around September 1903.’

  I fell silent, ruminating to the chug of the steam engine. A railway attendant opened our compartment door. We would be in Zurich in ten minutes. We changed trains. We were on the last lap. The denouement lay only hours ahead.

  In Berne, we called the university from our hotel. Professor Sobel insisted we take a cab to the campus immediately. He sounded beside himself with excitement. When we entered his office, he jumped to his feet, bristling with anticipation.

  ‘My dear sirs,’ he exclaimed, ‘please don’t seat yourselves. The Rector has asked me to bring you to him the moment you honoured our portals again. He wishes to hear the results from the horse’s mouth, I think you English say. But first- ’he held up a journal, ‘have you heard the wonderful, wonderful news?’

  To his delight we both shook our heads.

  ‘While you were away Albert Einstein has startled and bewitched the whole world! He has published an extraordinary paper on the electrodynamics of moving bodies in the most learned scientific journal of all, the Annalen der Physik. He has come up with a theory that escaped the greatest scientific brains, George FitzGerald, Koffman, Lewis, Minkowski, Planck, even Poincaré.’

  The words came to me as though filtered through cotton wool.

  ‘Which being?’ I heard my companion ask.

  ‘L=mV²,’ came the gleeful reply. ‘It’s a scientific earthquake.’

  Generously, the Professor brought me into the conversation. ‘Dr. Watson, isn’t it wonderful! L=mV². Energy equals mass times the square of the speed of light. Gravity and acceleration are essentially one and the same thing. Isn’t it truly remarkable?’

  I stared at him uncomprehendingly. It was clear something of immense importance in physics had taken place in our short absence. Its ramifications were beyond me, except for the fact Einstein was at the heart of it. I felt unable to look into the Professor’s overjoyed face. We were bringing news of a murder in which we held Einstein complicit. Failing to note my confusion the professor rushed on.

  ‘We must change our entire view of the universe! Young Einstein proposes that the speed of light is constant. He determines the relationship between mass and energy.’

  He paused, seeking a way to bring the discussion down to my level.

  ‘If Einstein’s theory is correct, a clock located at the Equator should run slower than one at either pole. If you could go into orbit around the Earth for a month, you would be one thousandth of a second younger than those of us who stayed behind. Isn’t that amazing! Don’t you see, gravity is no longer a force in space and time but part of the fabric of space and time itself! Put simply, due to the equivalence of mass and energy, the gravitational field acts as its own source.’

  His hands clapped together in excitement. ‘Gentlemen, it’s a scientific earthquake,’ he repeated. ‘Albert Einstein has altered the principle of Conservation. I assure you, this paper will change physics forever.’

  The Professor put his hands to our shoulders. ‘Come, come, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. Let us hurry down to the Rector’s office where you can make your report in person.’

  The Rector greeted us warmly.

  ‘Professor Sobel tells me your travels took you as far afield as Serbia. Heavens above! We are happy to welcome you back to Berne safe and sound. I trust you had an interesting time?’

  We were waved to a comfortable Shenzhen sofa. Our hosts seated themselves in arm-chairs facing us. The Rector beamed from ear to ear.

  He continued, ‘I presume Professor Sobel has given you the news? Most remarkable, most remarkable. Who would ever have thought it - except our friend here and me, of course,’ he laughed, tapping his colleague’s shoulder. ‘The implications are immense. Isaac Newton will topple off his plinth. The focal point of physics will fly away from your Cambridge University and alight here at Berne. At our University.’

  It was clear the Rector had put to one side the scarcely-veiled anti-Semitism and aversion to the flamboyant and rebellious young Swabian.

  ‘Now all that remains is for you to give us the results of your investigation. Have you uncovered any skeletons in his cupboard?’ at which query he and the professor broke into loud, almost raucous laughter.

  Holmes placed his fingers together as he always did when poised to deliver his verdict on a matter of consequence.

  I braced myself. I felt sick. ‘Get on with it, Holmes,’ I urged him silently. ‘Tell them the wretched news and let’s clear out of here.’

  My comrade stared in prolonged silence at the two men before us. Their bright smiles began to fade into expressions of concern and bewilderment. Finally Holmes commenced.

  ‘As you say, Dr. Watson and I have returned
from conducting a confidential enquiry in the Balkans.’

  Our hosts nodded eagerly.

  ‘We were charged by Professor Eli Sobel here with the investigation of two notes delivered anonymously to you, Sir,’ he said, looking directly at the Rector.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ came a joint response.

  ‘The first note referred to a Swabian by the name of A. Einstein and to a Lieserl. The second note simply stated “Titel”.’

  The two heads nodded vigorously.

  ‘Both notes,’ Holmes went on, ‘were written on cartridge paper in red ink by an anonymous and disturbing hand. My interpretation of the word “Titel” combined with the type of paper and Mileva Einstein’s place of birth led us to spend some weeks in the Kingdom of Serbia.’

  By now I had been brought to a pitch of exasperation. For Heaven’s sake, Holmes, stop footling, I begged under my breath. Tell them.

  ‘As a result of our investigations we have discovered something of vital importance about Einstein. It is imperative you should know about it before you offer him employment at your famous University.’

  ‘Which is?’ Professor Sobel and the Rector demanded in unison.

  ‘That there is absolutely nothing to report about him. My good friend and I found nothing amiss. Nothing. I think you may fairly go ahead and offer him employment. We trust Albert Einstein will have a long and successful career in science.’

  My comrade and I rose as one, stretching out our hands.

  Holmes asked, ‘If there is no other point to which you would wish to draw our attention?’

  I observed the most profound expression of relief on Professor Sobel’s face as he shook his head. In a babble of thanks and chortles and goodbyes we were shown from the office.

  ***

  We were once more on the streets of Berne. A short distance from the university I grasped my comrade’s arm, unable to restrain myself any longer.

  ‘Holmes,’ I demanded, ‘you know perfectly well you did not tell the truth back there. Whatever the mitigating circumstances, however palsied the infant, you yourself concluded that this contemptible scoundrel Einstein was deeply involved in the dispatch - murder - of his daughter.’