Sherlock Holmes Never Dies- Collection Four

by Copland, Craig Stephen

  “Good heavens, my man,” I said. “Have you had a physician look at it? I don’t mind if you want me to. We’re the only ones here in the parlor. Pull up your trouser leg.”

  “Oh, thank you, doctor. That is very good of you sir, but not necessary. I had one of the doctors here in town look at it. He sees all sorts of chaps with their knees wrenched out of place from rugby or football. He said that I just had to let it rest and let nature take its course and in a few weeks it would be fine. So, thank you, doctor.”

  “Pray, sir,” said Holmes, “continue with your story. Did you call the police? Did you give them a description of your assailant?”

  “No, sir. You see, sir I was lying at the bottom of the stairwell, and I tried to get up on my feet, and I could not do it, my back and leg being so injured. The office building was empty what with everyone having gone for the day. But I knew that the porter would come around soon so I told myself that it wasn’t worth it to do even more damage to myself, so I just sat there and waited until someone came along, which they did.”

  “Ah good, but when did this all take place. At what hour?”

  “I can’t be too sure of that, sir, seeing as how I was a bit out of sorts and confused for some time.”

  “Please, Mr. Bannister, was it before seven, or after eight? What time did you leave the pub? Surely you know that.”

  “Well, yes, sir. I would have to say that it was after seven, yes, maybe more like after eight, but not before nine. Yes, sir, I can say that much sir.”

  “And who came to your aid? The porter?”

  “No, he never showed up, but that did not surprise me. A Beer Festival was taking place at Carfax, and some of the lads were coming back to their halls a bit on the tipsy side, if you know what I mean. Those that weren’t down by Carfax were at the pub. So, it made sense that the porter, Will Nelson, was over there where he was needed. No sir, I sat at the bottom of the stairs until just before ten o’clock when my professor came around. He had done his lecture and all and came back to pick up some papers he was going to look at over the weekend.

  “Well, my professor finds me at the bottom of the stairs, and he helps me hobble and hop back up, and we both go into his office. He looks around and then he sees what has been stolen, and he is very upset, sir, very upset. And that’s the reason I have been waiting to speak to you, Mr. Holmes. Because what was taken was terrible important and we need your help to get it back and catch the culprit. And because of what it was, we dare not go to the police.”

  “Explain yourself, please, Mr. Bannister,” said Holmes.

  “What we discovered, Mr. Holmes, was that the door had been broken open. Professor’s locked drawer of his desk had been jimmied. And the most sensitive file he had in his possession had been stolen.”

  “Keep going.”

  “Professor is the Chair of the Committee that selects the recipients of the Rhodes Scholarships. The file with all the information on the finalists was gone.”

  Here I let out a low whistle. If you, reader, are not familiar with the significance of what I have just written, please bear with me until Mr. Bannister’s accounting to Sherlock Holmes is completed.

  “You see, Mr. Holmes,” he went on, “if we reported that to the police it would be all over the local papers by the end of the day, the London papers would have it the next morning, and a day later it would be known everywhere on earth. The most prestigious scholarship in the world would be hopelessly compromised. The fairness of the selection would be suspect. The trust that other universities throughout the globe put in us and their encouraging their best and their brightest to apply would be shattered. It would be terrible, sir, just terrible. That, sir, is why we did not go to the police. And that is why I jumped at the chance of coming to you when I heard that you were in Oxford. But Mr. Holmes, you must give me your word, you must promise, sir, that you will not take this to the police. If you promise that sir, I can continue to tell you my story, but if you will not sir, then I must apologize for taking your time and be on my way.”

  He stopped and looked at Holmes, waiting for a response. I have known Sherlock Holmes now for a long time, and I knew that he bristled any time anyone put restrictions on what he could or could not do when undertaking an investigation. Normally he would tell them, in so many words, to go to the devil. But I also knew that the importance of the Rhodes Scholarship was so appealing to him that he would not want to walk out on such a fascinating case.

  “Mr. Bannister, I will promise this: if the only crime that is committed is the theft of a file, then I will not alert the police. However, if more serious crimes are subsequently revealed then I will reserve the right to inform the police if I so choose. Those are my terms, Mr. Bannister, and my standard fee will apply which I assume will be borne by Dean Soames. Will you accept those terms?”

  The fellow nodded immediately. “Yes, sir. That is perfectly acceptable sir, perfectly acceptable.”

  “Excellent,” Holmes said. “Let me continue then with my questions. Please describe your assailant, and be as precise as possible.”

  “Right, sir. Well, like I said, sir, it was a bit dark so I could not see him all that clear, if you know what I mean. Didn’t see his face hardly at all. But I can say for sure, he was a big one. Taller than me.”

  “How tall are you, Mr. Bannister?”

  “Me? Just a shade over six foot, one inch, so that would have made him about six foot and two inches. Yes, about that height. And big. Not thin like you are, Mr. Holmes. He was big and powerful. I’m not a little fellow myself, and he just tossed me like a sack of potatoes down the stairs. But that’s about all I can say about him.”

  “What was his hair color? Surely you could see that.”

  “His hair color, you say? Well no, sir, I couldn’t see that. He was wearing a hat, so I couldn’t see his hair.”

  “What type of hat?”

  “Well, sir, like I said it was dark, and so I didn’t get a good look, but yes, I do remember that it had a brim on it, so that made it even more difficult to see his face and eyes.”

  “His complexion? What shade?”

  “Well, he was a white man, sir, if that’s what you’re asking. Not one of those dark fellows from India. Or the darker chaps from Africa. He was a white man, sir.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “Just what most men wear, sir. A jacket, dark shirt and trousers. Nothing special, sir. Just what a man usually wears in the evening.”

  Holmes let out a small sigh, a familiar indication to me that he was frustrated, yet again, with the failure of victims and witnesses to observe, remember and offer useful evidence. It made his investigations needlessly more difficult.

  “Very well, then, Mr. Bannister. Those are all the questions I have at the moment. The hour is not yet late. Could you take me to Dean Soames’s office where you say this crime took place?”

  “Oh, most certainly sir. I can do that. Of, course, sir.”

  Chapter Two

  All Rhodes Lead to the Randolph

  Oxford parents stay at the Randolph

  THE RHODES SCHOLARSHIP WAS ESTABLISHED as a bequest in the will of Cecil Rhodes, the wealthy industrialist who made an enormous fortune from diamonds, fruit, and other products of southern Africa and was one of the great champions of the British Empire. The scholarship provided two years of study at Oxford University, the alma mater which Mr. Rhodes attended but never graduated from. The best and the brightest of young men from universities throughout the English-speaking world, and Germany, but excluding those living in Britain, were selected for this prestigious award.

  Within a few years of its having been set up, it had become the most respected award for young scholars throughout the globe. The competition was fierce. Receiving the award not only brought fame and prestige to the winner and his family, but the guarantee of an illustrious career in the public service, academia, or the world of commerce. Already there had been accusations made of favoritism and unfa
ir practices in the selection of some of the men from the colonies, but overall, the national committees were made up of men of untarnished reputations for their probity and honor.

  While young men who were native to Great Britain were excluded, those who were already enrolled at Oxford but hailed from abroad were eligible. A committee had been established within the University to make the appropriate selection and award the scholarship to the one young man considered most worthy.

  “My professor,” continued Mr. Bannister as we walked across the street to the college, “was a boyhood friend of Mr. Rhodes. They grew up as neighbors in Hertfordshire. Went to school together every day, they did. Stayed friends right up until Mr. Rhodes was sent off to the Cape when he was seventeen. But after that, they wrote letters to each other all the time. Whenever Mr. Rhodes came to visit England, he and my professor would meet up. Some say that Hilton Soames was the closest friend Mr. Rhodes had in England. Mr. Rhodes was very loyal to his friends, sir. And when he died he put in his will that my professor was to be the chair of the selection committee for the scholarship here at the University. Quite the honor it was to the professor, sir, but not unexpected between two dear friends.

  “Not that my professor did not deserve it. He has become a famous scholar in his own right. Quite the expert on the classics, he is. He can say ‘How do you do’ in Greek, Latin, Hebrew, Sanskrit, or ancient Norse, and then keep on chatting in any one of those. When he lectures, about The Aeneid, The Iliad, or The Peloponnesian War, he’s not needing a single note. He just rhymes off line after line from memory. He’s an awfully smart, fellow, he is, sir. And a perfect, gentleman he is, always.”

  Bannister chatted on about his professor, praising him endlessly, and was obviously adoring and loyal to the fellow. I could see that Holmes was getting impatient with the paean, and he brusquely interrupted him.

  “Mr. Bannister, you are wearing a locket around your neck. Why are you doing that?”

  The fellow looked a little taken aback but recovered and smiled, reached for the locket and held it out.

  “You mean this, sir?”

  “Unless you are wearing two of them then that is precisely what I mean.”

  He opened the locket and leaned forward toward Holmes. I could see a photograph of a young, smiling, dark-haired woman.

  “It’s my Sally, Mr. Holmes. We met not long after I came home from the fighting and for nigh on to thirty years, she was my darling and I hers. But last year the cancer caught up to her and took her. But I wear this … of course, I know that most men don’t wear lockets, only women, but that’s a silly difference between the sexes don’t you think? … I wear it to remind me of the love we had for each other. And I get asked about it all the time, and I like to show it to folks when they ask. So, I thank you for asking, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Why did you never marry?”

  The fellow gave Holmes a queer look, a look that was not unfamiliar to me, having seen it countless times over the years. Bannister responded with a note of hesitation in his voice.

  “You are right, sir. We never married. Sally was a very modern woman and had no use for marriage, so we never married, and I must say, sir, I never missed it.”

  “Then no children, either?”

  “That is also correct, Mr. Holmes. But we were fortunate to have nephews and nieces on both sides that more than made up for it.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Holmes. “I am sure they did.”

  The questions stopped as we had arrived at Balliol College. We followed Bannister through the arched entry and along the pathway that bordered the uniformly green and flat expanse of grass in the quadrangle. We entered the stately old building through a door at the back end of the quad and climbed a staircase to the second floor. Bannister ascended slowly, grasping the railing in his right hand and his cane in his left. Then we found ourselves in a long hallway, where the portraits of deans and masters down through the ages had been hung. On both sides of the hall were doors with nameplates attached, indicating offices of professors and administrators. He led us directly to one of them.

  “This is my professor’s office,” he said.

  On the door, a small brass plaque was affixed. It read: Hilton Soames, Dean.

  “The door was all smashed open,” Bannister began explaining. “But I had a carpenter and a locksmith come over straight away and get it fixed. And a better lock this time. Not going to let that happen again, no sir. Shall I show you inside?”

  “No,” said Holmes. “Please, Mr. Bannister, stand back for a moment and let me take a look at the door.”

  Holmes pulled his glass from his pocket, bent over and took a long, slow look at the door, concentrating on the portion above and below the handle and keyhole.

  “Thank you. You may open the door now and let us in.”

  He unlocked the door and opened it. The first room was a small office, with a plain wooden desk, sitting in front of a bank of file cabinets. The walls were bare and, except for a photograph sitting on the file case, there were no other furnishings present.

  “This is my office, Mr. Holmes. It has been my office now for going on twenty years. Every day I look after the appointments of my professor, file his notes, fetch and send off his correspondence, and all manner of tasks given to a professor’s secretary. Of course, they have changed over the years as he rose through the ranks and now that he is Dean I have to spend far more time in the affairs of the school and not so much with his research and writing, but this is the place I do all that, sir.”

  Holmes glanced briefly at the photograph. It looked as if it had been taken several decades back and showed a husband and wife flanked by five children of varying ages.

  “Your family, Mr. Bannister?”

  “Aye, ‘tis. That is me mum and dad and me brothers and sisters. I’m the middle boy, to the left. The parents have both passed away as has my older brother, and I’m the only one left in England. My younger brother went off to Australia and both sisters to Canada. But come and I’ll show you the Dean’s office.”

  The Dean’s office itself was as I had expected. A large window was on the far wall, a desk sat to the left with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the wall behind it and two wooden chairs in front. The desk was a dark walnut with an inlaid olive green leather desk pad on top. The chair was a carved mahogany from which the varnish had been worn in all the appropriate places when a chair has been sat upon for several decades.

  On the right-hand wall were more bookshelves as well as some open space on which several framed certificates and citations were mounted. Beneath that space, on the floor in front of it, was a small table around which another three wooden chairs were set. The room was clean and tidy and had none of the musty smell that is so often associated with offices in academia.

  Bannister walked over to the far side of the desk and pointed to the left pedestal.

  “This is the locked drawer that was forced open. It’s still broken. Can’t be repaired without looking like it came from a rag and bone shop. So I’ve ordered him a brand new desk. It should arrive in another fortnight. You can see how it was broken into if you want, Mr. Holmes.”

  Holmes again took out his glass and examined the drawer of the desk and having done so, walked slowly around the office, looking at many points of interest before returning to the door of the room.

  “Why would he keep the file in his desk and not along with all the other files in his cabinet?”

  “He was working on it every day, sir. The announcement of the winner is to be made on Thursday. The selection committee has to meet on Tuesday to make their final decision. It was a current file, sir.”

  “Of course. Fine. Thank you, Mr. Bannister. Allow me to bid you a good evening and kindly give me your card so I can know where you may be contacted. I will continue to work on this case until it is resolved. Good evening, sir.”

  It did not look as if the chap had expected to be dismissed so abruptly but he nodded politely and took his leave, c
arefully locking the door behind us as we left the office. Upon reaching the pavement on Broad Street, we parted company and watched as he walked away to the east.

  “Back to the hotel, Holmes? Some dinner, perhaps?”

  “Not yet, my dear doctor, not yet. Let us pay a brief visit to the porter’s lodge before we do so.”

  Immediately adjacent to the entry archway was the office of the college porter. We had ignored it when entering with Bannister, since he knew where to go and there was no necessity to make inquiries. This time, we paid a visit.

  I opened the door and approached the fellow behind the counter.

  “Good evening, sir. Sorry to be bothering you.”

  “Not a bother at all,” he said as he stood up. “How can I help you two gentlemen? I don’t recognize you so I would be guessing that one of you, maybe both, are fathers to our boys. Come to get them packed up and home to mum?”

  I smiled and feigned a warm laugh.

  “No, my good man. Nothing so familial as that. My name is Dr. John Watson, and this is my friend, Sherlock Holmes.”

  His eyes immediately widened and his lips parted. He, like many people throughout our sceptered isle, was now familiar with our names.

  “Oh, well, yes, pardon me, gentlemen. You took me by a bit of a surprise. It is not every day that Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson walk into our college. I did not know that you chaps were Oxford men.”

  Holmes, smiling, replied, “I hate to disappoint you, Mr. …?”

  “Nelson. Like the admiral. Except that my first name is Will, not Horatio.”

  “Well, now, my admirable Will Nelson,” continued Holmes, “sadly neither this good doctor nor I attended these hallowed halls. He’s an Edinburgh man and such studies as I undertook were at, well, you know, that other university.”