Sherlock Holmes Never Dies- Collection Four

by Copland, Craig Stephen

  “Could he,” I ventured, “have gone home? He is from Germany, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, yes. From a wealthy family in Heidelberg. But no, he has not departed. All of his clothes and his personal belongings are still in his room. When a student vacates his room for the summer, we keep his books and other things that he will not need in the basement and we rent the room out again to tourists. You know, Americans who come every day on the train to say that they have been to Oxford. Fritz has not signed out. He was here on Monday, and went out, as he always does in the evenings, to one of the pubs, although he is not much of a drinker. He always comes back by eleven o’clock, and then does two hours work at his desk before putting his lamp out. On Monday night, he never returned. I do not know what else to say, gentlemen. If you know what has happened to him, please tell me.”

  “We do not know, sir,” said Holmes. “Would you mind telling us what you know about him?”

  “Oh, goodness, where shall I start? Fritz is somewhat larger than life. He just never stops. Always, always he is meeting with other men and women, all of them attractive. He sends and receives more telegrams and letters than everyone else in this house combined. He seems to know everybody and everything about everybody. He is a superb student. His priority is architecture, but he is also head of his class in history and economics. This past year he was president of the Bullingdon Club, and an officer of the Gridiron Club, and Vice-President of the Stubbs Society. There is not a social gathering of the smart young men and women that he does not attend and, from the reports I hear, he is the life of every one of them. He is an excellent athlete. Last year he was on the Eights when they won against Cambridge. He quit the team this year because they had to be out on the water every morning by six o’clock and it interfered with his social life. But he has been on the cricket team, and the fencing team and whatever sport he chooses he emerges as a winner and often serves as the captain. As I said, sir, he is a remarkable young man.”

  “His family?”

  “I cannot say much about them. He does not speak of them at all. I heard someone say that he claimed that his mother was part of the Krupp clan, but that was only hearsay. Every week a letter arrives for him with the crest of some family and estate near Heidelberg. He picks it up and takes it directly to the bank. He is never short of funds. He paid his room and board here entirely upfront on the first day of Michaelmas. If he has any siblings, he does not speak of them.”

  Holmes paused and, as he often did in moments of concentration, brought his hands and fingertips together.

  “Do you know of any reason, Mr. Spencer, why anyone would want to do harm to the young man?”

  Having heard such a stellar report of our Mr. Fritz, I fully expected that Mr. Spencer would reply with an automatic “No, none at all.” But that was not what I heard. Instead, he sat back in his chair and looked steadily and directly at Sherlock Holmes.

  “Mr. Holmes, I make it a practice, to the best of my imperfect ability, as a Christian gentleman, never to speak ill of any man behind his back. To your question, I can only offer unproven suspicions.”

  “Let us hear the suspicions. I will look after the proof.”

  “Very well, Mr. Holmes, but, I will not sit here and volunteer information that would diminish Fritz’s character in your eyes. If you have specific questions, I will answer them, again to the best of my ability. But before you do that, may I suggest that you pay a visit to his room. As his landlord, I have the right of entry, and I give that to you on the understanding that, as a detective, you are seeking his good. Would you agree to that, gentlemen?”

  His response struck me as odd, but Holmes consented, and we climbed to the next floor and entered the room. Mr. Spencer gesticulated to the desk on which sat two loose sheets of paper held down by a paperweight.

  “I know,” he said, “that a gentleman does not read another gentleman’s mail, but I suggest that you make an exception to that rule.”

  Holmes picked up the two sheets and separated them, handing me one and reading the other himself. Mine ran as follows:

  Speyerer Strasse

  Heidelberg

  20 June, 1906

  My dear Fritz:

  Writing this in English I am for I need practice. I will never with you keep up for you have been now four years in Oxford.

  Look forward to see you in August. Beer halls and wenches waiting for us, my friend. Not so much fun is going alone without you. As much good times this year again as last.

  So many stories to tell you I have. Had to tie and gag latest wench or she wakes up the whole street. And, for first time, had young African. Emptied my purse of deutche marks but was well worth it. Together, we my friend are the superman. Say me how goes the Rhodes? Sure you will win. Just eliminate competition as you always do.

  See you in five weeks.

  Your Freund,

  Bernhard

  The second page was the reply from Fritz.

  St. Clement’s Street,

  Oxford, Great Britain,

  28 June, 1906.

  Dearest Bernie:

  Splendid to hear from you. Like you, I am so looking forward to seeing you, my fellow superman, in August and enjoying yet another wonderful month of debauchery.

  The past month in Oxford has not been as triumphal as last year, but brilliant all the same. The English are so easy to seduce. All that is required is to tell them that you find them terribly attractive, which to a man or woman they are not. Then tell the fools that you are in love with them and like magic their clothes come off. My current conquest list, since arriving in Oxford, stands at forty-five young women (Oh, very well, not all of them were young), and twenty-two men. At least half of the men were my professors and have had to repay their dalliances with awarding the highest mark in the class. They are so stupidly easy.

  As to the Rhodes, it is in the basket. I have enough on the panty-waist Aussie and the oxen farm-boy from Kansas to knock them off the list of finalists, leaving only me. Four of the Committee members are in my pocket. The announcement will be made in two weeks, and I will send you a telegram so that you can celebrate with me in the best way we know.

  Your friend In Oxford,

  Fritz.

  I handed the letter back to Holmes.

  “Good heavens, this man is utterly without morals.”

  “You might,” said Mr. Spencer, “also be interested in this file.”

  He took a file from the bookshelf and handed it to my companion. He glanced through it and gave it to me. The label on the outside of the folder read ‘Victims’ and in it must have been nearly thirty handwritten notes. The one on top, written in a woman’s hand, read:

  Fritz:

  When you said you loved me, I believed you. You are a liar and a wicked man. May your soul rot in hell.

  I looked quickly through the rest of the notes. They all had much the same content. Some were lengthier, some were written in a masculine hand, and a few were signed. The wording varied, but all clearly conveyed the message of hatred and disgust for Mr. Fritz Richter.

  “Are you,” asked Holmes of Mr. Spencer, “familiar with the individuals who wrote these notes?”

  “Not all of them, but some. They would appear on a regular basis accompanying Fritz, laughing and enjoying his company and attention. That would last for a few weeks at most and then, if they came by at all, it was in tears. They would call for him, only to be refused a meeting, or spoken to quietly, after which they turned and fled. Most were connected to the various classes, clubs and sports in which Fritz participated, and most might have been a potential rival for a position in the leadership of a club, or on a team, or for an award. Fritz did whatever he had to do to eliminate them and claim the prize, whatever it might have been, for himself.”

  “Did any of them threaten him?” asked Holmes.

  “Oh, yes, I heard several shouting at him, mainly the men. He laughed at them and then acted all the more ruthlessly to destroy them. He was entirely
without scruples. There were several, Mr. Holmes, who threatened him with bodily harm or even death.”

  “And is that why you reacted the way you did when I first asked concerning him?”

  “It was, Mr. Holmes. I would not be at all surprised if someone has taken revenge upon him. I fear I cannot help you beyond that, other than to provide you with a list of one hundred people, all of whom had good reason to hate him.”

  Chapter Four

  An American in Oxford

  American students love going to Oxford

  WE THANKED MR. NELSON for his assistance and took our leave.

  “Are you,” I asked Holmes as we walked back into Oxford along the High Street, “concerned for the well-being of this German chap?”

  “It is always an error,” said Holmes, repeating his nostrum, “to leap to a conclusion when one has insufficient data. However, given what we have just learned, I fear that something has happened and that it might not be pleasant. Many people could have been motivated by desires for revenge, but it only takes one to wreak it. Beyond that, we can only speculate.”

  “And are you speculating,” I asked, “that the other finalists might be so motivated?”

  “We must suspend judgment for the present, but it is most certainly a possibility. Our next visit is to one of them. Mr. Christopher Evans also lives in a private house not far from here. I hope that he is at home and prepared to speak to us.”

  “Unless he also has disappeared.”

  “Somehow, Watson, I am inclined to doubt that.”

  He had not disappeared. Christopher Evans came to the door when we called for him. He looked, if I may say so not uncharitably, very typically American. He had a round, open face and good, straight teeth, short blond hair, hazel eyes and a bull neck. He was taller than Holmes and must have weighed at least eighteen stone. I had the immediate sense that he could have picked up Sherlock Holmes with his right hand and me with his left and tossed both of us off the steps and onto the pavement. His countenance, however, was not hostile. He greeted us with a smile and the stretching out of a hand the size of a bear claw, not seeming to recognize us.

  “Howdy, there. I’m Christopher Evans, but most folks here now call me Kit. You wanted to see me?”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Evans,” said Holmes. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr. Watson.”

  There was no sign on his face of his being acquainted with our names.

  “Real nice to meet you guys. Sorry, did you say ‘Olms’ sir? Like the guy who did the electrical resistance work? Like Ohm’s law? I reckon you can’t be him since he’s longtime dead and gone. So, whoever you are, what can I do for you?”

  “No, Mr. Evans, I said Holmes.” Holmes aspirated the letter ‘H’ quite forcefully. “And no, I have no relations to Mr. Olms. I am a consulting detective.”

  “You are, huh? Like that guy that Edgar Allan Poe wrote about? Or those guys that they tell stories about in The Argosy? Well sure, c’mon in.”

  We followed him into the parlor and sat down.

  “So, what do you guys want to talk to me about? Ain’t never had to talk to a detective before. Is there some mystery going on?”

  “We have just been informed,” said Holmes, “that Mr. Fritz Richter has gone missing. I assume you knew him. Both of you had applied for the Rhodes Scholarship. That is correct, is it not?”

  A look of concern passed across his face, and the smile diminished for a brief second.

  “Well sure, I know Fritz. We had a few classes and sports together and we’re both in the running for that scholarship. But I ain’t seen him for over a week, now. He usually comes around the Lamb and Flag in the early evenings where a lot of us fellows on the varsity teams visit with each other, but he ain’t been there for a few days. What do you mean he has gone missing?”

  “We just paid a call on his residence, and his landlord informed us that he has not been seen for the past week, and since you knew him we thought you might be able to shed some light on this problem.”

  “Why me? You think that maybe because he and I are both in the running for the Rhodes that I wrung his neck? As far as I’m concerned, Fritz can have the scholarship. He wants it so bad he can taste it. As for me, I don’t need it. I can always just go back to Arkansas, get my law degree and have a real comfortable life. So, sorry there Mr. Hawkshaw, guess I can’t help you.”

  “Were you and Mr. Richter on varsity teams together? What sort of player was he?”

  “Naw. He came out for a while for the rugby team, but he didn’t like it much. Me, well I’d never played it before coming across the pond, but it’s a great game. If a guy hauled me down with a good tackle, well, I’d smile at him and tell him that he did a darn good tackle, ‘cause I ain’t that easy to haul down. But if someone laid Fritz out flat on the pitch, he’d get downright ornery about it and would wait until an opportunity came along and then he’d go and get even by throwing a punch or an elbow at the guy when he wasn’t looking. He had a real mean streak in him that way. But then he quit and did sports that couldn’t get your face hurt. You know, like rowing, or …”

  Suddenly, something very odd happened. Kit Evans stopped speaking. His lips were still moving but he was staring off into space, his eyes looking utterly vacant, and he made not a sound for ten seconds before returning. His face gave a start and his head a small snap.

  “Yeah, like I was saying, like rowing or cricket or tennis. He got his Blue for harrier. You know, all those things that don’t have no body contact.”

  Holmes asked him more questions about himself and the path of his life that led him from rural Arkansas to Oxford University. He was a remarkable young man and even though his speech was peppered with American slang, he was obviously gifted with a keen intellect and competitive spirit.

  What was far more striking, however, was that on two more occasions he stopped speaking, and his mind appeared to have gone blank with respect to his conversation with us. His lips were still moving as if he were talking to someone else altogether. The second time this happened Holmes and I looked at each other, both not knowing what to make of what we were seeing.

  Holmes concluded his conversation with Mr. Evans by asking him if he remembered what he had been doing in the evening, a week ago Friday.

  “Yeah, I remember, why? I was here reading until about seven and then went over to the Lamb and Flag. If you don’t believe me, you can look in the newspaper. They had their photographer get photos of students celebrating the end of term. Got my picture in the paper with a pint of beer in my hand.”

  “Did you happen to see Fritz Richter there?”

  The big American lad paused as if searching his memory.

  “Yeah, he was there for a bit early on. Maybe he stayed longer or came back, but I don’t remember. Danny Jackson was there too.”

  Holmes feigned ignorance. “I’m sorry, Mr. Evans, but who is Danny Jackson? And why did you mention him?

  “Jeez, there, pal. I thought you would know that. You were asking about the Rhodes and Danny is the third finalist. Boy, you can’t be much of a detective. You should spend some time reading that Edgar Allen Poe guy. You could learn a lot from him.”

  “I am sure I could,” said Holmes, not exactly warmly.

  “Like, nevermore, huh, Mr. Detective.”

  As we walked back along the High Street toward the Carfax crossing, Holmes asked me concerning the odd behavior of Kit Evans.

  “I am not sure,” I said, “but some years back a doctor at the University of Heidelberg, a chap named Kraepelin, published some papers on what he called dementia praecox. He said that it had been recorded for centuries and just called madness. But he claimed that this was something different from what happens to the elderly as they become feeble-minded. He used the term praecox to refer to younger people, people in their prime, like this Evans boy, who seem to lapse into madness. Perhaps I should drop into the medical library here at the University, they are bound to have so
mething more recent on it.”

  “If you could do that, my dear doctor, I would be very grateful. His behavior was very strange indeed.”

  As we approached the Randolph, Holmes said, “Do we have time for one more encounter before supper? I am thinking that we should have a chat with the third chap, that Daniel Jackson fellow.”

  “I do not mind. That will round off our day and then we shall be jolly hungry come dinner.”

  Unlike the other two scholars, Daniel Jackson did not live in a typical student residence. His address was in the Summertown section, half a mile up the Banbury Road, well away from the Oxford University grounds.

  We knocked on the door of a small house and were met by a maid.

  “We wish,” said Holmes, “to speak with Mr. Daniel Jackson, I believe he is a student boarder in this house. If he is at home, would you please ask if he could meet with us.”

  “He’s here, sir,” she replied. “But he’s not a border, sir. Master Jackson is the owner of this house. I will see if he is available to meet with you.”

  We waited at the door until the maid returned.

  “He says if your names are Holmes and Watson, then I am to show you into the library.”

  We acknowledged, somewhat surprised, our identities and followed the woman to the back of the house. We were greeted by a young man, impeccably dressed but quite a bit shorter than me, who gave a shallow formal bow rather than extending his hand and gestured us to a small sofa.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen, I have been expecting you. I am, I’m afraid, frightfully busy with my studies so, please, if you have questions to ask me, just get on with it.”

  His voice was tinged with impatience and, had he been a member of a choir, I would have placed him in the tenor section. Holmes did not hesitate to begin his questions.