Sherlock Holmes Never Dies- Collection Four

by Copland, Craig Stephen

  I chuckled. “So now Bannister is suspect as well, is he, Holmes? Is there anyone who is not going to be a suspect? The finalists for the prize? The Dean himself?”

  Holmes gave me a forced smile. “You left off the several hundred students from Britain and overseas who are still here in Oxford, as well as the entire faculty and staff. I have not yet included you and me on the list, but just wait. That might happen too.”

  I laughed in response. “And now what?”

  “Now we retire for a good night’s rest. Tomorrow morning, quite early, we pay a call on the Dean. Good night, my friend.”

  Chapter Three

  Quod Erat Demonstrandum

  Rowing against Cambridge on the River Thames

  DEAN SOAMES’S HOME WAS LOCATED in a refined residential district near South Park, a short walk from the University. Like the other houses in the neighborhood, his was of adequate size, perhaps thirty feet across the front with a doorway in the middle. There were three stories with the top floor being half-enclosed by a Mansard roof. Hooded windows were interspersed across all floors and the two visible sides. The front yard was separated from the pavement by a low, wrought-iron fence that had a small open gate inviting us to proceed up the walkway, past a delightful display of summer flowers, to the door.

  Our knock was answered by an attractive young African maid.

  “Yes, gentlemen. How may I assist you?”

  “Please excuse the early hour,” said Holmes, “But we are here to speak with Dean Soames, and it is rather urgent.” He handed her his card, and I did the same.

  A look flashed across her face, and it was obvious that she recognized our names.

  “Please,” she said. “Come in and be seated in the parlor. I will let Dean Soames know that you are waiting for him.”

  She showed us into a comfortable front room that was furnished in a way that I would expect for a home of a middle-aged professor except for the odd collection of heads of big game animals mounted on the walls above the paintings. While I was taking all this in, a lady appeared in the doorway. She was petite, about the same age as Holmes and me, and wearing a silk housecoat that was a veritable explosion of brilliant colors and designs, all shouting Africa to anyone within a country mile. We stood as she entered the room and extended her hand to Holmes.

  “Oh my, Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, what a delightful surprise.”

  She turned her head back to the doorway and spoke in a raised voice, “Florrie, darling, please organize some coffee and morning biscuits for our distinguished guests.”

  A reply from somewhere in the back of the house was returned.

  “Already on its way, Mrs. Soames.”

  The lady again turned her attention to Holmes and me. “Please, be seated. Hilton told me that you were in town and that Rodney had spoken with you, but I wasn’t expecting you to be quite so efficient as to show up here this quickly. Hilton will be right down and I am sure will be thrilled to meet you and have a chat. This nasty business last week has been very distressing to him and your being here in Oxford is a godsend.”

  Holmes smiled graciously, “I cannot claim to be an instrument of divine intervention, Mrs. Soames, but I am honored that my services have been requested.”

  “Oh, but you are, Mr. Holmes. I read the story of how you rescued that poor soul, Violet Hunter, who had been tricked by the dreadful chap, Mr. Rucastle, who had imprisoned his step-daughter. I put that story down after reading it and clapped my hands in joy. And I said a little prayer thanking the good Lord for giving us Sherlock Holmes.”

  She was smiling at him in unfeigned adoration. Holmes, proud though he was of his skills, was never comfortable when he became the object of any woman’s devotion and was at a loss for how to respond.

  He was rescued by the maid, re-appearing and bearing a tray with coffee and morning pastries. Behind her came a smallish man, bald except for a fringe of hair extending from temple around to temple. He was without a jacket, waistcoat or tie and only wearing a shirt, open at the collar. A set of gold spectacles sat part-way down his nose. The maid, unaware that he was standing behind her, stopped in the doorway, blocking his passage. He ducked his head to one side to look past her and then stooped so that he could pass under her elbow and I was fully expecting that any second the entire tray of coffee and food was about to go flying.

  “Hilton,” commanded his wife. “Just wait, for goodness sake.”

  He backed away and waited until the maid, now turning to see the body behind her, gave a bit of a startled jump, and again I feared that my morning coffee would be delivered to me in my lap. But the maid recovered her balance, gracefully entered the room and set the coffee on the parlor table, smiled at us and retreated. The fellow now approached Holmes and me.

  “Oh, good morning, gentlemen. I’m afraid I was still in my pajamas and reading Ovid in bed when you came to the door. He is such a delight to read, isn’t he sweetums?”

  He directed this question to his wife, not to Holmes.

  “My dear wife just loves it when I read Ovid to her, especially in bed. The Ars Amatoria is one of our favorites, isn’t it sweetums?”

  “Hilton, darling,” replied his wife, “I somehow do not think that Sherlock Holmes came here first thing in the morning to hear about your favorite aphrodisiac.”

  “Oh, oh, yes. I suppose you’re right. Pity. It is so much more pleasant talking about the beauty of the classics that this awful, nasty business we have going on here. Dreadful. Just dreadful. I hope you will understand, Mr. Holmes. But let me first take your measure, sir. I will ask you the same question I ask when meeting any gentleman for the first time. If you were alone on a deserted island, who would you rather have with you? Homer or Virgil?”

  “Hilton!”

  “It’s a perfectly good question, sweetums. If we are going to be discussing serious matters, then I am entitled to know the true character of the man with whom I am dealing.”

  Holmes, not missing his cue, turned his head part way to the side, looked at the head of some poor ibis mounted on the wall and replied, “I loathe them both.”

  “Ha! A man after my own heart. A man who knows his convictions and is fearless to state them. A man I can do business with. Excellent. Now sir, with that out of the way, what shall we discuss? You are here to learn all about the terrible events of a week ago. Am I correct, sir, in my deduction? If so, then let us speak together of arms and the man and the wine dark sea.”

  If Holmes was either nonplussed or just annoyed, I could not tell, but he surprised me by starting with something I had not expected.

  “That photograph, Dean Soames, on your mantle. The one of the two boys with their arms across each other’s shoulders – who are they?”

  “Ah, you noticed. How thoughtful of you, Mr. Holmes. As they say, verus amicus amici nunquam obliviscitur. He and I were old friends and good friends. That is Cecil Rhodes. The two of us had just endured another glorious summer Sunday morning in his father’s church and were about to go and enjoy our God-given boyhoods, and his dear mother took the photo.”

  “You knew Mr. Rhodes, that far back.”

  “Yes, back in Bishop’s Stortford, we were boys and amicus erat adulescentia mea.”

  “Hilton,” his wife interrupted, “speak English.”

  “What, sweetums? English, oh, yes, of course.”

  “How is it,” continued Holmes, “that you ended up as the Chairman of the Scholarship Selection Committee?”

  “Really sir, it was no more than the usual way that we scholars gain recognition – a lifetime of diligent laboring in obscurity, a track record of publishing in the better journals, doing our time first as lowly lecturers and step by arduous step working our way up the ladder.”

  “Hil…ton!”

  “Yes, as I was saying, the way all of us in academia get ahead. It depends on who you know. Cece was my friend. I had helped him in whatever way I could when we were boys, and he returned the favor. He directly
named me in his will as the Chairman of the Committee at Oxford and so I am the Chairman. Quid sit circuit gyrum.”

  “And as the Chairman,” said Holmes, “you were entrusted with all of the records of the applications and minutes and such. Is that correct?”

  “I suppose I must answer that with an unequivocal ‘yes and no’ mustn’t I? I held the most current matters in my office. The rest of the files are kept by the dear lady who is the secretary of the committee, Miss Jane Stuart. She keeps the records of all the applications and letters of reference and documentation of all the achievements of the countless applicants. All I had in my office on that terrible evening was the file on the finalists.”

  “And why did you return to your office?”

  “Oh, didn’t Mr. Bannister tell you why? Oh, dear, I must have a word with him. I returned Mr. Holmes because et oblitus est. I forgot something.”

  “What did you forget?”

  “Oh, dear me, I cannot remember what it was I forgot.”

  “Hilton!”

  “Can I not even tease the fellow a little, sweetums? You spoil all my fun. Well, sir, I had intended to spend the weekend re-reading the plays of the Bard of Avon. We have some lovely tickets to Stratford this summer. We are going to see Hank Sank, The Scottish Play, and Twelfth Night, the latter being my wife’s favorite. She truly sighs every time the Duke struts onto the stage and says “If music be the food of love, play on.” But tell me, Mr. Holmes, which is your favorite. Which of those thirty-eight masterpieces move your heart the most?”

  “I loathe them all. Now sir, at what time did you return to your office?”

  “Oh dear, well, let me see. The lecture I gave was supposed to be only forty minutes, but I do have a deplorable habit of going on too long. I suppose that might be because I go off on tangents rather than sticking to the matter at hand. What do you think of that, Mr. Holmes? Do you do that from time to time?”

  “No. What time did you return to your office?”

  “Oh, yes. Let me think for a moment. Yes. I waved at Mr. Nelson, the porter. Lovely chap, strong as bull. Have you met him?”

  “Yes. What time was it?”

  “The clocks had struck nine before I left Exeter. I went directly to Balliol, and crossed the quad, and to the staircase by my office. And there at the bottom of it was poor Mr. Bannister. He was in such terrible pain. Did he tell you that?”

  “Yes. Then what happened?”

  “He told me about the robbery and what the thief had done to him and he insisted that I help him back up the stairs so he could show me. I could not do it alone, so I ran and fetched the porter and we helped him stand up, and got him up the stairs. Does that make sense, Mr. Holmes?”

  “No. He is a tall man, and you are a small one. How could you and the porter have lifted him up and taken him up the stairs?”

  “Oh, we did not carry him. He just put his hand on my shoulder for balance, held on to Mr. Nelson with his other, and he hopped on his one good leg.”

  “Which leg was that?”

  A look of bewilderment came over the fellow’s face. He paused for several long seconds.

  “Honestly, Mr. Holmes, I cannot remember, and I am not teasing you this time. I recall him putting his right hand on the railing and his left hand on my shoulder, but if I try to recall which foot he hopped on I get confused. I seem to remember him jumping on his right leg, as that was closest to the wall, but as we crossed the floor to the office door, I seem to remember him on his left. I’m terribly sorry, sir. But you have stumped me on that one. Mind you, had his foot been cut off then he would be the one stumped and then I’m sure I would remember.” He chuckled again.

  “Hilton!”

  “Yes, dear. I will try to behave.”

  “Thank you,” said Holmes. “After that, I assume you went into your office and discovered the theft. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. I could see that the outer door had been smashed open, so I left him sitting on his chair at his desk and rushed to mine. My file drawer had been opened, and the Scholarship Finalist file had been taken.”

  “Why did you not call the police?”

  “Perhaps, Mr. Holmes I should have. But the files that were taken were not of great monetary value. Between Miss Stuart and me, we could remember almost every word of every page that was in the file and re-create them in a few hours. In modesty, Mr. Holmes, I only pretend to have a poor memory. In truth, it is like yours, sir. And secondly, no one could sell the file for gain. There was no value to it. The finalists have already been notified, and it would be an honor to be known as a finalist even if you were not the one who was chosen. But there were some notes in the file about the young men that were very sensitive. Some very confidential information was in the file that could be highly embarrassing to them. If it became a police matter, the contents could become public. And if the police became involved the entire process of awarding the scholarship to the best and brightest young minds of the world could have been jeopardized.”

  “You mean, Hilton,” said his wife, “to one-eighth of the best and brightest young minds. Cecil ruled out the other seven-eighths.”

  “Madam,” said Holmes, “I’m sorry. Could you please explain?”

  “Cecil was a wonderful fellow. We had him here in our home many times and he generously left behind some splendid artifacts from Africa. But he was a pig-headed Empirist, and Imperialist. He wanted a program that would contribute to world peace, but he refused to allow women to participate, ruling out half of the population of the earth. He ruled out the Africans, and the Indians, and the Chinese, and the Japanese, and even the French, the Italians, and the Russians. How could you possibly expect to help bring enlightenment to the world by gathering together only English-speaking men and a few Germans? It is complete stuff and nonsense.”

  “My dear wife, Mr. Holmes, feels quite passionate about these matters, especially about the emancipation of women and the suffrage issue. I agree with her wholeheartedly, but whereas I am in favor of evolution, she is more inclined to revolution. There is a good Latin phrase for that, but I shall constrain myself.”

  “Thank you. Now, Dean Soames, I must be rather forthright in what I say next.”

  “Oh, go ahead, Mr. Holmes. It is not as if I am not used to it here in my home.” He smiled warmly at his wife as he spoke.

  “I need to know the names of the three finalists.”

  An expression of fear came across the Dean’s face. “Oh, sir, you are asking me to break my word. I accepted this role on the understanding that I would honor the requirement of confidentiality. My word is my bond, sir. I have never dishonored that trust.”

  “I understand,” said Holmes. “My word is also my bond. Dr. Watson adheres to the same principle. And I give you my word that anything you say will never be passed on to anyone else. I have honored that principle for over thirty years, sir, and I am not about to break it. However, if you will not tell me the information I need to know, then I cannot proceed further and find the culprit and return the file to you.”

  There followed several moments of tense silence. The dean looked over at his wife.

  “Veronica, what can I do?”

  “Oh, Hilton darling, I suppose you have to tell him. The consequences to so many people are just too great. It’s the lesser of two evils, Hilty, and the names are already rumored about. So you just have to let him know.”

  The dean shrugged his shoulders and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.

  “Very well, Mr. Holmes. They were Fritz Richter, Christopher Evans and Daniel Jackson. Fritz is a German and is in Oxford to study architecture. Christopher in an American and reading mathematics and Daniel is going to be a doctor. I will give you a note with their names and addresses. They are all still here in Oxford. All have been notified that they are finalists, and are awaiting the final announcement this coming Thursday.”

  “Thank you, Dean Soames. I give you my word that I will not rest until this case has been res
olved.”

  The dean let out a long slow sigh and picked up a notepad. The playfulness that we had witnessed earlier had vanished. His wife came over and sat beside him and put her arm around his shoulders.

  “Where to now, Holmes?”

  “To the first on the list. This German chap, Fritz. He lives not far from here. I believe that his residence, Spencer House, is one of the many private houses providing accommodation and meals for senior students.”

  We walked south across Thames Street to a pleasant residential area that was bordered on one side by the warehouses of Friar’s Wharf, and on the other by the Castle Mill Stream as it flowed south to meet the River. Within ten minutes we were knocking on the door. A middle-aged gentleman, who I assumed to be the landlord, met us and bid us enter.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, but then he stopped for he clearly recognized who we were.

  “My goodness, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. I heard that the two of you were in town. And here you are knocking on my door. Please, gentlemen, come in. Sit down.”

  He led us into the parlor.

  “I am Brenden Spencer, gentlemen. Welcome to Spencer House. To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

  “We have come,” said I, “to call on one of your boarders, a Mr. Fritz Richter. If he is here, would you kindly ask him to come down to chat with us?”

  The man looked at me briefly and then closed his eyes and lowered his head. He stood up out of his chair and walked to the entry door of the parlor, looking away from us.

  “I knew it. I knew it,” he was saying. “I knew something was wrong.”

  He turned back and sat down again slowly. “I knew something must have happened. And now that Sherlock Holmes comes asking for him, my fears are confirmed.”

  He took a deep breath and lifted his shoulders and head and looked directly at Holmes.

  “Fritz lives here. Yes. But he has not been seen now for the past five days. None of the other boarders know where he has gone. Some of his classmates and teammates have come to call for him, and when I have told them that he has vanished, they tell me that they have no idea where he could be. And when a famous detective comes looking for him, I know that something evil this way has come.”