“Good. Watson, I’ll need your help on this.”
Watson looked momentarily disrupted. “Holmes, I’m leaving tomorrow for my Scotland tour.”
“Oh, yes. I’d forgotten.”
“I can help,” said Emil. “Just tell me what you want.”
“Unfortunately, that won’t work.”
“Why not, Mr. Holmes?”
“Because you’ve already spoken to these people.”
“Why’s that a problem?”
“They’ve given you a set of responses. That means they’ll be predisposed to remain consistent.”
“Are you suggesting someone lied to me?”
“No, not at all. But they may have embellished, or forgotten, or exaggerated. I want them to realize they are receiving a fresh start.” Those intense eyes locked on me. “Mr. Mencken, have you a day or two to spare?”
“I’d be pleased to help, Mr. Holmes. But I doubt I’d qualify as a detective.”
“Not necessary. All I need is your presence. To reassure everyone that they are engaged in a quiet conversation, and not a police procedure.”
Watson offered to put me up for the night, but he was leaving on an early train in the morning, so it would not have been convenient. My hotel, however, was on his route home, so we shared the ride. We talked about the weather, and he asked what writing projects I was then occupied with. I explained that my editorial job with the Baltimore Sun kept me busy. “By the way,” I added, “you have a serious writing talent, John. Are you, at some point, going to produce something other than crime reports?”
He rearranged himself on the coach seat, trying to decide whether to read that as a compliment. “Probably not, Henry. They’re very popular, and I’m making far more money than I ever did as a physician.”
“But,” I said, “twenty years from now, these tales will have played out, Sherlock Holmes will have been forgotten, and, barring a change in direction, so will you. We both know it’s not all about money. Have you considered, perhaps, doing some historical novels? Those, when handled by a master, have a tendency to survive. War and Peace and A Tale of Two Cities will never grow old.”
“Thank you for the encouragement, Henry. But I suspect no one will ever confuse me with Tolstoy or Dickens.”
Steve Addington came from money. His parents, George and Emma, lived in a villa on Old Street, in an area crowded with trees and high-rise buildings. Holmes asked the driver to wait. We climbed down out of the coach, walked through a gate, mounted half a dozen steps onto a veranda, and rang the bell.
The door was opened by a short, heavy-set man with a ridge of white hair and eyes that reflected pain. “Mr. Holmes?” he asked, unsure which of us would respond.
“Yes. Good morning, Mr. Addington. This is my associate, Henry Mencken. Thank you for agreeing to see us.”
“It’s an honor, gentlemen. Come in, please.” He led us to a sofa and invited us to sit. A woman entered from another room. “My wife, Emma.”
Emma was blonde. She flashed a quick smile, but she too appeared discomfited. She went immediately to the point: “I always thought there was something strange about the way Steve died. He’d never had a health problem. Then he got into a coach and hours later he was gone. Pray, Mr. Holmes, are you bringing news?”
“No, no, Mrs. Addington. Nothing like that. Those things do happen. We lose people sometimes without warning. And apparently without reason.”
“Then what,” she said, “brings you here?”
It was obvious who was in charge. One more example why no man with half a brain should ever marry. I settled onto the sofa. A cool breeze was reaching us through open windows. Outside somewhere, children shouted and laughed. A coffee table held copies of Jane Eyre, David Copperfield, and a Shakespeare collection. Several pieces of art adorned the walls. One was a portrait of a rather formal couple who did not look as if they’d ever laughed. Another was a landscape, mountains and a waterfall, illuminated by moonlight.
“It’s probably Steve’s notebooks,” her husband said.
“That’s correct.” Holmes lowered himself into an armchair. “There’s nothing wrong. But your son seemed to be far ahead of everyone else in his research.”
“I’m not surprised to hear that,” said Emma.
“Do you know what he was working on?”
“We do now. It was the same as that Einstein person. Relativity.”
George smiled. “Neither of us is a scientist. I’ll confess I have no idea what relativity is about.” He turned to his wife. “Did he ever talk to you about it?”
Emma shook her head, and her lips tightened. “Not really. He didn’t think we were smart enough to understand what he was doing.”
“Did he say that?”
“No. He would never have said anything like that. But it was clear enough that’s what he thought.”
“That’s not fair, Emma. He tried a few times to explain it. He talked about particles and light and I don’t know what else. Neither of us ever had a clue what he was trying to say. Other than that Isaac Newton needed revising.” He smiled as he said it, but Emma turned angry eyes in his direction. “It’s not fair to blame him,” George continued. “It was just over our heads. Or at least it was certainly over mine.”
“Yes,” Emma said. “I guess you’re right.”
“So you didn’t pick any of it up, is that right?”
“Just the name,” said George. “Particle theory. He was studying atoms. Or something small. We didn’t know it was anything like the Einstein stuff until Emil told us.”
Holmes radiated empathy. “I can understand your frustration. I took a long look at some of the news stories about relativity, and—.” He waved it away. “I’m afraid it’s a little too complicated for me, too.”
Emma looked in my direction. “Can we get you gentlemen something to drink?”
“Nothing for me,” said Holmes, with an amiable grin. “Thank you. I have to keep my mind clear.”
“Is that a joke?” asked George.
I opted for a beer.
Emma got up and made for the kitchen.
“I never joke,” said Holmes. “Your son did most of his work at the university?”
“No. Mostly he worked here.” George looked toward a closed door set between the two portraits. “In there. That was his office.” He walked over to the door, opened it, and entered. We followed. An oak desk looked out through a wide window across a carefully-maintained garden. A pair of bookcases were filled with leather-bound volumes, and a chalkboard stood to one side of the desk. A portrait of Galileo hung near the window, and a framed photograph of a young couple occupied the top of a side table.
Holmes strolled through, scanning book titles. They were mostly science and philosophy. Then he turned his attention to the photograph. “I assume this is your son?”
“Yes.”
Emma arrived with the beer, glasses for everyone except the detective. But she stopped when she saw us in an area that she must have considered sacred. “He was everything we had,” she said, lips quivering.
“He was only thirty-two,” said George.
Emma started to say something more, but stopped, not trusting herself to speak.
“I’m sorry,” Holmes said. He helped her with the tray. “I can’t imagine how painful it must be.”
Emma passed out the beer. When the mood had quieted, Holmes asked if the notebooks had been found in the desk.
“Lower right-hand drawer,” said George.
“Is there anything else here in the way of notes, documents, whatever?”
George shook his head. “No. Nothing.” He pointed at the chalkboard. “He used that most of the time.”
Holmes looked down at the photo. “The woman is Amy Monroe?”
Emma nodded. “Yes. They were engaged.”
“Though not when that was taken,” said George.
“When was that?”
“I think it was 1903.”
They were stan
ding on the veranda in the glow of a warm summer day, glasses raised, toasting each other. Amy was beautiful. Chestnut hair and perfect features. She was wearing a light-colored dress with a dark collar. Steve’s jacket had been folded over the handrail. They were laughing, and obviously in love.
“What are they celebrating?” asked Holmes.
George and Emma looked at each other and shook their heads. Both appeared frustrated. “I’m not sure. He’d figured out something, but he didn’t try very hard to explain it to us.”
We left the office, and George closed the door. “Mr. Addington,” said Holmes, “did you notice any change in Steve’s behavior after the photo was taken? Did he become, say, less accessible?”
George laughed. “He was never very accessible.”
“There was something,” said Emma. “But I can’t imagine it would be of any consequence.” She hesitated.
“And what was that?”
“George is right. For the most part, Steve kept to himself. He wasn’t very interested in the outside world. Even where women were concerned. I was surprised when he brought Amy home. Until she showed up, the only thing that ever mattered to him was his work. The physics. Then, about the time that picture was taken, maybe a little later, he got interested in politics.”
“Politics?”
“He began reading the newspapers, which he’d never done before. He started talking about Arthur Balfour. He got excited when they did the first transatlantic radio broadcast with the United States.” She stopped. “Well, I guess that should not have been a surprise. But he became concerned about Germany. About the threat it presented.”
We took the train to Oxford and caught up with Thomas Gordon on the university campus. He was tall, about thirty-five, with animated gray eyes and an Irish accent. “I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Holmes,” he said as we settled into chairs in his office. “And you, Dr. Mencken.”
“I’m not a doctor,” I said.
“Oh. I assumed, since you wrote about a German philosopher—.”
I tried to look tolerant.
Holmes stepped in: “Professor,” he said, “how well did you know Steve Addington?”
“We were probably not more than casual acquaintances. We met at a conference and more or less stayed in touch.”
“You’ve seen the notebooks that were found?”
“Yes. Emil Kohler showed them to me. I don’t know what to make of it.”
“Did he ever discuss his work with you?”
“Steve and I talked about it occasionally. He was interested in particle physics. Not my field. But yes, we got together periodically. Though we never went deep enough that there was any indication of the material in those notebooks. If he’d actually gotten that far, he never gave any indication. Or if he did, I must have been drinking at the time.”
“Do you see any reason to question their validity? They’re in his handwriting. And he died before Einstein’s work went public.”
“I know.” He cleared his throat. “If they’re legitimate—. Mr. Holmes, the concepts contained in that work require a genius. We’re only beginning to get a sense of who Einstein really is. Steve was smart, but it’s hard to believe that he operated on that level.”
“All right. Thank you, Professor. If you think of anything—.”
“I can imagine one scenario that might explain all this.”
“Proceed, please.”
“You understand, of course, that this is all about energy: E=mc².” Gordon leaned back in his chair. “If Einstein has it right, substantial amounts of energy can be derived from atoms. You’ll have to count me among the skeptics on this. But I doubt the oil companies are happy to hear about it.”
“You’re suggesting what?”
“If Steve was on the same track, and the oil companies found out, they might have tried to pay him off. Shut it down.” He took a deep breath. “Look, Mr. Holmes, I think we’ll eventually discover this whole thing is a communication breakdown of some sort. But could it have happened? I’d be surprised if they wouldn’t have at least tried to buy him off. Think about it: Petroleum runs a substantial number of the factories on the planet. And the numbers are increasing. Now we’re introducing coaches driven by petroleum. And aircraft.” He stopped and grunted. “Coal is last year’s fuel. The world belongs to oil. I don’t think they’d want something else getting in the way.”
“Or maybe,” I suggested, “they had him killed.”
“If so,” said Holmes, “they were pretty smart about it. The autopsy indicated he did die of a stroke.”
“Why was there an autopsy?” I asked. “Was there anything that suggested Addison might have been a murder victim?”
“It was because of his age, Henry,” said Holmes. “And his health history. I talked with the doctor who performed the autopsy. He says there’s no question about the cause of death.” He turned back to Gordon. “It looks as if he put everything together during the summer of 1903. Did you know him then?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Did you notice any unusual behavior at that time. In 1903?”
He laughed. “Not really, Mr. Holmes. He got upset about his school’s soccer team, but that was about it.”
“The soccer team?”
“He was a serious fan. And, come to think of it, the Wright Brothers too.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was with him when we heard about that first flight. We were at a party at City University in December. I remember because the place was filled with Christmas decorations. And that’s when the news came about heavier-than-air vehicles.”
“So what happened?”
“He got pretty excited.”
“Excited how?”
Gordon frowned. “He looked worried. I remember wondering why. At one point I assured him that we would not do anything crazy with aircraft. That they’d never be like trains. So if he was worried about having to travel in one, he could forget it. I think I intended it partly as a joke, but as best I can remember, he didn’t think it was funny.”
“Did you ask him why he reacted that way?”
“If I did, he brushed me off. I never got an explanation.”
Amy Daniels was sweeping off her front porch when we arrived. She put the broom down and removed an apron. “Mr. Holmes,” she said after he’d introduced himself. “It’s so good to meet you.” She smiled at me. “I assume this is Dr. Watson?”
“No, Mrs. Daniels, this is my good friend Henry Mencken. He’s an author.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t hide her disappointment. “Well, hello, Mr. Mencken. Please come in.” She opened the door and would have stood aside for us, but of course there was no way Holmes would allow that. He took the door, Amy went into the house, and we followed.
“I don’t know that I can be of much help,” she said. The furniture, which was limited to a settee, a pair of armchairs, and a desk, looked a bit worn, as did the carpet. A wedding picture portrayed Amy and the groom outside a church. Beside it, a clock ticked solemnly. It was approaching 4:30. The desk occupied a corner of the room, its surface largely given over to a machine that vaguely resembled a typewriter. A magazine rack was cluttered with penny dreadfuls.
Holmes smiled as if he knew she was understating her value. “We won’t take much of your time, Mrs. Daniels. All I need is for you to tell us why Steve Addington didn’t reveal what he’d discovered. Where his relativity research had taken him.”
“I have no idea, Mr. Holmes. He never really told me anything.”
“Losing him must have been very painful.”
“It was.” She sat quietly for a moment. “It came out of nowhere. Nobody knew he had a health problem.” Her voice shook.
“I understand your husband is an accountant?”
“Why, yes, he is. How did you know?”
Holmes indicated the machine on the desktop. “I’m not sure there’d be any other reason for a tabulator here.”
“Very good, sir. He’ll be home
in an hour.”
“Did he ever meet Steve?”
“Just to say hello. They never really communicated with each other. I’d have been in the way of that, I suppose.”
“Of course,” said Holmes. “Now, just to be clear, you say he never explained to you what his research had uncovered?”
“No. He did not.” She pushed her brown hair back and shrugged.
“Did he mention at all the fact that he’d made a major discovery?”
“There were a few times he told me about making progress on something, but he never really took it beyond that.”
“There’s a photograph of you and him, raising glasses of wine at his place. Celebrating. I’m sure you remember it.”
“Yes. I remember it.”
“What were you celebrating?”
“It was his birthday.”
“You were both out on his porch. It was obviously a summer day.”
“That’s correct.”
“Can you tell me when his birthday was?”
She had to think. “April something. I forget exactly when.”
“You’re sure it was in April?”
She inhaled. “Mr. Holmes, why don’t we let it go?”
“Because there is a story that may gain credence. That could destroy Steve’s reputation.”
“What story is that? He was a good man. A decent man. He never would have—.”
“He may have uncovered a power source that could have threatened the profits of the oil companies. They may have bought him out. Paid him to bury what he had.”
“Ridiculous. He would never do a thing like that.”
“Once it gets out, that kind of rumor will not be stopped. There’s even talk they might have had him murdered. Why don’t you tell me what really happened?”
She froze. Looked toward me. I smiled, as if we already knew the truth, whatever it might be. “The oil companies never knew about it.”
“About what, precisely?”
“He made me promise not to say anything.”
“Why?”
“Because he thought his discovery was too dangerous.”
“In what way?”
A Voice in the Night Page 16
