“Then allow me to begin by asking how it is that you were expecting us?”
“Oh, come, come, Mr. Holmes. You needn’t pretend to be naïve. The portion of Oxford that is connected to the University is rather a small town. The news of the break-in at Dean Soames’s office spread quickly, and the spotting of Sherlock Holmes and hearing that he was investigating it … well … that news spread like wildfire. I assume you are talking to the three finalists. Oh, please sir, try not to look surprised. Anybody who is anybody in the University knows who we are. It is the best un-kept secret of the week. Have you spoken already to Fritz and Kit? If so, what more is there that I can tell you?”
Sherlock Holmes had, over the years, dealt with his fair share of arrogant young men and rather than be offended he quite enjoyed the battle of wits that such an encounter offered.
“Very well, Mr. Jackson, as we are not interested in friendly chit chat either, let me start with an obvious question. You are a native of Australia, and yet you have no discernible accent. Why is that?”
This struck me as an odd question, and it seemed to surprise the master of the house as well. He looked a little perturbed but recovered almost instantly.
“Oh, please, Mr. Holmes. You cannot possibly be so uninformed that you think that everyone who lives in Melbourne has to sound like they spent their life in Alice Springs.”
Holmes acquiesced. “You are quite correct, Mr. Jackson. I regret that I have never been able to travel to your home country, but perhaps some day.”
“It would be good for your knowledge, sir, as it appears to be lacking. Now, what else is it you need to know?”
“Could you tell me, please, where you were on Friday evening past?”
“Oh, are you wondering if I broke into the Dean’s office? Very well, I suppose a detective must suspect everybody. If you must know, I was here in my home until half-past seven, studying. My staff will confirm that if you wish to speak to them. After that, I spent the hour of recreational time I allot myself each week at the Lamb and Flag.”
“Ah, yes, just down the road from here,” said Holmes. “And if I wished to confirm that I suppose that your picture was in the newspaper whilst quaffing a pint or two?”
Mr. Jackson did not immediately respond. He took the time to extract a cigarette from his tobacco case and, not offering one to Holmes or me, lit it and, holding it his small left hand, waved it at Holmes dismissively.
“That is partially correct. My picture did appear in the paper along with many other students, but I was not, as you call it, ‘quaffing a pint.’ I do not drink beer.”
“A presumption on my part,” said Holmes. “I had assumed that you were behaving like your peers, all those other students.”
“I assure you, Mr. Holmes, I am not like other students.”
“No, I am sure you are not. In that you are a finalist for the Rhodes Scholarship, you are not like at all the rest of your peers, and not even at all like Masters Fritz or Christopher.”
“Do you actually have a question to ask me, Mr. Holmes?”
“Yes, I do. Being as you are quite different from your fellow students, what is it that has qualified you for the Rhodes?”
Mr. Daniel Jackson took a slow inhale on his cigarette, followed by an equally slow exhale. He leaned back and rolled his eyes.
“My accomplishments here, Mr. Holmes, are a matter of public record. I consider it unseemly for a gentleman to sing his own praises but since you insist on hearing them from me then kindly take note. My academic record is one of the highest ever recorded for a student studying medicine. In my first year, I scored perfect on every test and examination in every subject. In my second through fourth years, I have been at the head of my class in all years and all subjects. I have been an officer of the Labor Party organization at the University as well as serving as a member of the Christian Fellowship. During the three summers in between my academic years, unlike most students who return to their homes to eat and drink and play, I have served as a volunteer with medical missions in East Africa, Jamaica, and the British Honduras. I will depart next week to do another term of service in Somaliland. I attend services at the Cathedral and have not missed a Eucharist or vespers in four years. Is that enough, Mr. Holmes?”
“You did not mention sports. I understand that successful applicants for the Rhodes are expected to have performed admirably on the playing fields as well as in the classroom.”
“I am an equestrian, Mr. Holmes, a member of the Oxford University Riding Club and, for this past year, the Assistant Secretary. You may find a list of the competitions I have been in and the prizes I have taken in the records of the Club. Do you need me to provide you with the Club’s address, sir?”
“Oh, no, that will not be necessary. There is no question concerning your qualifications, I am sure. But let us move on the other matters. You obviously know the names of the other two contenders for the scholarship, might you also be willing to give me your candid opinion of them? And please, be frank and forthcoming, sir.”
Mr. Jackson did not immediately reply and gave Holmes a sharp look for several seconds before answering.
“Under normal circumstances, Mr. Holmes, I would consider that question quite impertinent. A gentleman does not speak other than good of another man behind his back, which does not permit one to speak candidly at all. However, as I assume that you are acting under the authority of the University, I will reply with the understanding that this conversation will not be repeated beyond this room.”
“I have not betrayed a confidence in more years than you have been on this earth, Mr. Jackson. I am not about to start with you.”
“Very well. I will begin with Christopher Evans, or Kit, as he prefers to be called. I observed him from a distance for our first three years here and in this past year, particularly this past term, we have become friendly. Frankly, sir, he is a prince, a true gem of a man. Watching him on the rugby field is positively thrilling. He is fast and ferocious at the same time. His skill and balance are quite dazzling, and when he has, as they say, a full head of steam up, he charges down the field like a massive bull. And he loves the game and the joy of sport. He always is first to help a member of the other team back to his feet and to shake their hands, win or lose, at the end of a match. It is unfortunate that those men who come from wealthier, more aristocratic backgrounds—snobs every one of them—treat him unkindly and make fun of his American accent and his having grown up on a farm. He has demonstrated a very keen intelligence, brilliant in fact, time and time again in all of his classes. He will make an exceptional lawyer and, mark my words, within a decade, maybe two, he will be a justice of America’s Supreme Count. I can say nothing but good of Kit Evans.”
“Yes, and now how about Fritz Richter?”
“He is a snake.”
Holmes waited for Mr. Jackson to continue, and when hearing no more, asked, “Just what do you mean by that?”
“He is the vilest, most treacherous, utterly selfish, and despicable man I have ever met. He has an excellent intelligence and is a very capable athlete, but that is not enough for him. He must win at everything and will do whatever is required, destroying his competitors mercilessly as he pushes himself ahead. If you ask me for specifics, sir, I will not provide them as it would require me to betray matters related to other men and women. So kindly respect that, sir.”
I had not expected so forceful a response, and neither had Holmes, who sat looking intently back at Mr. Jackson for several seconds.
“Daniel Jackson,” said Holmes, “I will not ask you to betray what has happened to anyone else. But … have you, Daniel, been a victim of Fritz Richler’s treachery?”
Now it was Mr. Jackson’s turn to pause before answering.
“Yes.”
Holmes nodded slowly. “With this next question, I am not asking you to betray a friend. I am asking you to help a friend. Was Kit Evans also one of the victims of Fritz’s treachery?”
“Yes.”
Chapter Five
The Colossus Of Rhodes
Cecil Rhodes bestrides Africa
from Cape Town to Cairo
AS WE WALKED SOUTH BACK TO THE HOTEL Holmes, as I expected he would, asked for my thoughts on our meeting with Daniel Jackson.
“He is abrasive and arrogant,” I began. “That is a common trait in men of small stature who have to use their wit and their words to make their presence appear forceful.”
“He does meet that type,” said Holmes.
“It is especially pronounced,” I went on, “in young men who are somewhat affected and effeminate in their appearance and mannerisms, as is young Daniel. However, I did not doubt his truthfulness and sincerity. His statements regarding both Evans and Richter were quite unvarnished and forthcoming. There is certainly an undercurrent of anger and bitterness that he is not doing much to hide.”
“Ah, yes, doctor. Again, I would agree. Did you notice anything peculiar about his appearance? His facial features?”
I thought for a moment. “His face is delicate, bordering on pretty. He has the face and body of boys recruited as catamites, does he not?”
“I suppose he does, yes. But more specifically, doctor, did you notice anything odd about his left ear?”
Mr. Jackson’s left ear was peculiar, and I had noticed.
“Yes, the top of his helix extends rather further down than is usual, covering at least a third of the scaphoid fossa. It is not a common irregularity but not unknown. Why do you ask?”
“Because it was unusual and out of place on his otherwise finely formed face.”
The following day, being Sunday, I decided to attend services at the Christ Church Cathedral, even though I was not a member of the Church of England. Holmes, who had not darkened the door of a church for as long as I had known him, did not join me but took the morning to review his notes on this case and sit and contemplate.
The Eucharist service was somewhat sparsely attended as the bulk of the student population had departed for the summer and would not return until the start of the Michaelmas term in the fall. As a result, the choir was weak and reedy, with participation limited to the older residents of the town who lived there throughout the year. The priest who gave the homily was a very young fellow who was filling in for the rector. The poor lad was dreadfully nervous and I, and no doubt most others in the congregation, was tempted to applaud when he finished without having passed out.
I had come more out of curiosity than conviction. I sat near the back of the nave so I could see who else came to the service. Mr. Daniel Jackson, true to his claim, was present, as were Dean and Mrs. Soames. Perhaps more to my surprise, so was Rodney Bannister, who I would not have tagged as a loyal parishioner. After the service ended the four of them gathered on the steps along with another woman who I did not recognize. They appeared to be engaged in an intense conversation, but when I walked within earshot of them I could hear Mr. Bannister, who had noticed me, give a “shush” and the conversation immediately fell silent. I nodded and smiled and continued on my way.
I returned to the Randolph in time to enjoy a Sunday dinner with Holmes. He was poor company and rudely read the previous evening’s paper instead of attempting a conversation. This behavior continued until the dinner plates had been cleared and we were waiting for dessert when he stopped reading and thrust the paper over to me.
“My dear, Watson, would you please read the letter to the editor on this page; the second letter only. The first is imbecilic nonsense but the second is pertinent to our case.
It was indeed. It ran:
Rhodes Scholarship a Product of Slavery
Dear Editor: This Thursday the Selection Committee at the University will award a Rhodes Scholarship to one deserving student. This young man will be praised and his achievements acknowledged. He will reap life-long benefits. What will not be acknowledged is that the Rhodes Scholarship, and indeed the entire fortune amassed by the late Cecil Rhodes, was only possible because he enslaved thousands of African people to work in his mines and orchards, and took from them the wealth of their land and made it his own. Were these people slaves according to law? No. Were they slaves to Mr. Rhodes in practice?
Yes, unquestionably.
Furthermore, the terms of the Scholarship demand a gross injustice be visited upon the people of the British Empire. Fully two-thirds or more of them are refused any possibility of applying let alone winning the Scholarship. Why? Because of their sex or the color of their skin. Mr. Rhodes restricted his scholarship to men, excluding half of the population, and further permits only Caucasian men to apply.
The British Empire abolished the slave trade well over a century ago and outlawed slavery in all forms back in 1833. Why are we continuing to support such discriminatory treatment of the citizens of the Empire?
The Selection Committee for the University is comprised entirely of men, and they have done nothing to challenge the terms of the Scholarship in spite of its glaring injustice. I call on the Committee, with the support of the College Councils, the University Council and the Congregation to suspend the Scholarship program until such time as an Act of Parliament can be passed forcing the changing of the terms of the will of one of the world’s greatest oppressors of the poor, Mr. Cecil Rhodes.
Respectfully submitted, A.B.
“Whoever wrote this letter,” said Holmes, “appears to have significant knowledge of the workings of the Committee and the awarding of the Scholarship. I may take a short walk to the newspaper offices and speak to the editor.”
“It is Sunday afternoon, Holmes. They will be closed.”
“Ah, right you are Watson. But by early this evening the staff will be in place preparing for the morning edition. I would hazard a guess that the editor will be there by five o’clock. Could you join me?”
“Always happy to, Holmes, but just two days ago you said you had no use for the Press.”
“No, my friend, that is not what I said. I said that the press were not to be respected, not that they were not useful.”
I did not bother pondering the moral ambiguity of my friend’s position and agreed to join him later in the afternoon.
At five o’clock we met and walked over to Little Clarendon Street to the offices of the Oxford Herald.
Our knock on the door was answered by a loud voice from inside shouting obscenities and telling us to go to blazes.
“Are you blind?” the angry voice went on. “Read the sign. We’re closed.”
Holmes simply kept knocking until the door opened.
A scruffy looking fellow, wearing a green eye-shade and an ink-stained shirt with rolled up sleeves opened the door and shouted more obscenities. He raised an inky finger and waved it in Holmes’s face.
“Look, whoever you are, we’re trying to get a paper ready for tomorrow, and we do not need anybody interfering. Now be gone.”
Holmes smiled in response. “It concerns an exclusive story for your paper. One that could bring you recognition from Fleet Street and in America.”
“Not interested. Come back tomorrow.”
“Then I will take the story to the Star.”
That not only got his attention but from an office behind the counter another fellow emerged.
“It is quite all right, Douglas,” he said to the belligerent chap at the front counter. “I will handle this. And I do believe that we have Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson knocking on our door?”
That chap who had emerged was dressed in a similar manner to the first but with a cleaner shirt and hands that had no sign of printer’s ink. He was about the same age and Holmes and me and had very little hair.
“You are correct, Mr. …?” said Holmes.
“Prestwich. Charles Scott Prestwich, gentlemen. I am the editor. Please forgive my city desk man. Douglas takes his deadlines very seriously. But we are always ready to hear about a good story, especially if it is brought exclusively to us by England’s most famous detective. Please, gentlem
en, come in.”
There was no quiet place to have a confidential conversation. Men were coming and going constantly, voices were speaking loudly, and the feeling of near panic was pervasive as this team of pressmen struggled to get their Monday morning paper ready to print.
“I need some information,” said Holmes. “And in return, I am prepared to offer you the first access to a very good story.”
“I’m listening Mr. Holmes. First, tell me why the story is important. We may as well get that out of the way now. If it is, then we will continue the conversation. If not, then I shall have to return to my desk and wish you a good evening.”
“It concerns Oxford University, and possible fraud and malfeasance in the awarding of the Rhodes Scholarship.”
Mr. Prestwich raised his eyebrows, and I could see the Douglas fellow look up from the board on which he was cutting and pasting.
“Well now, that would be quite a scoop. Fine, so tell me what it is you need from us.”
“In yesterday’s paper, you printed a letter concerning the Rhodes Scholarship.”
“We did indeed.”
“I need to speak to the person who submitted that letter.”
“Bloody hell!” came the shout from Douglas. “I don’t care if he is Sherlock bleedin’ Holmes. We do not ever reveal a source that has trusted us with confidence! Get him out of here.”
The editor smiled calmly and turned to his vociferous assistant. “Please, Douglas. Relax. We are not about to betray a trust.”
Turning to Holmes, he said, “We cannot do that, Mr. Holmes, and maintain our integrity as a responsible newspaper.”
“Bloody right we can’t!” bellowed Douglas. “Toss the tosser out of here, Charlie.”
“Enough, Doug. I am sure a solution can be found. Now then, Mr. Holmes, you know I cannot break a confidence, but what I am prepared to do is make immediate contact with the writer of that letter, let him know that you wish to speak to him concerning it and, if he agrees, suggest a time and place for you to do so. Would that be agreeable to you, Mr. Holmes?”
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies- Collection Four Page 41
