DROWNED STUDENT FOUND IN THAMES
I lowered my head to bring my eyes closer to the page. The story said:
The body of Mr. Fritz Richter, 25, a fourth-year student from Heidelberg, Germany, was discovered this morning floating in the River Thames just before the entry to the locks at Abingdon. Few details are available at this time and the local police will only say that they are investigating and will issue a statement later this evening.
The body was found by some boaters out on the river. One of them, a Mr. Michael Gross of Appleford, spoke to our reporter. “We found the poor bloke right about ten this morning, we did. He was looking pretty rough. Must have been in the river for a week maybe. All bloated up he was.”
He was identified by his cards in his wallet, which Mr. Gross confirmed had over £200 in it. “It don’t look to me like someone took his money,” said Gross. “Looks like this lad had a few too many doing his celebrating and fell in the drink.” The local police refused to confirm if foul play was suspected or if Scotland Yard had been called in. Initial reports, yet to be confirmed, claim that Mr. Richter has not been seen since the evening of the 29th of June when he was observed at the Lamb and Cross. Additional information will be provided in this evening’s edition.
The Lamb and Cross is not noted for its afternoon tea, and it was not surprising that, just before four o’clock in the afternoon, we were the only patrons. I looked up at Holmes and gave my thoughts.
“He was sitting right here, Holmes, just ten days ago and I am willing to guess that you are thinking that £200 in his pocket or not, his death was not an accident.”
Holmes sighed. “You are, of course, being premature, but the news does not surprise me given that his room was abandoned the way it was. I will pay a visit to the police station tomorrow and make further inquiries.”
We had ordered tea and scones but were only nibbling at them, our minds being occupied on other matters. We were interrupted by the barkeep who appeared at our table bearing two snifters with generous amounts of brandy in them.
“On the house, gentlemen. According to the stories I keep reading about you two, this is what you are always drinking, so drink up.”
He laid the snifters in front of us.
“Patrick Kelly at your service, gentlemen. And I would not be a self-respecting son of Connemara if I were to have two such famous gentlemen in my pub and not give them a warm welcome.”
We thanked him for his hospitality.
“And would I be right in guessin’ that Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson did not just happen to stumble into my pub by fate, and that you might have had a reason for bein’ here and that reason might be tied to what’s on the front page of this newspaper?”
“The answer to your run-on question, sir, is yes,” answered Holmes.
“Seein’ as the Garda were here just around noon and then Sherlock Holmes himself comes by a bit later, its says to me that something is not quite right about poor drowned young Fritz.”
It was as if I could see the gears moving inside Holmes’s brain when he heard the mention of Fritz Richter.
“You know who this lad was, sir?”
“Mr. Holmes, I am an Irish publican, of course I knew who he was. When the classes are in session, I might have three hundred different students, professors and their ilk comin’ through here in a week and I know every one of them by name. It’s much easier after the Trinity term is over and the numbers drop. At the end of June, I am down to fifty regular customers, and I know them all and try to have a friendly word for every one of them.”
“And so you should,” said Holmes, now smiling. “So tell me, Mr. Kelly, how well did you know Fritz Richter?”
Kelly shrugged his shoulders and pushed a strand of red hair back from his forehead. “I could say well, seein’ as he was in here several evenings a week, but the truth is not well. Now, sir, de mortuis nil nisi bonum, but I will say that he was, well, a slippery one. I watched as he chatted and charmed no end of other lads and professors and they all said how fine a fellow he was seein’ as he was so interested in them, but no one ever seemed to get to know Fritz, if you know what it is I’m sayin’, Mr. Holmes, sir.”
“I believe I understand. In the recent past, with whom had he been seen having intimate conversations?”
“Back during the early part of the Hilary term, back in January, he was exceptionally friendly with that little fellow, Danny Jackson, and I mean very close sir. They were always touching and leaning into each other and walking out of here with their arms over each other’s shoulders. Of course, Fritz was more than a head taller, but they seemed to be gettin’ along just fine. Then that ended and next thing he’s sitting with the big American boy, the one they call Kit. Now there’s no touchin’ goin’ on between them, but they sit in the corner and have a real quiet conversation and once or twice it looks to me like that Kit boy has tears in his eyes, which you don’t expect seein’ as he is so fierce a competitor and built like Hercules. So those were the two he was chattin’ with most over the past few months, sir.”
“And was he with either of them on Friday, a week past?”
“No, and that’s what was odd. He was sittin’ and chattin’ with an older bloke.”
“Was he and who was that?”
“A chap named Rodney. He’s been comin’ in here every Friday for donkey’s ages and havin’ a drink with Hilton Soames. But on that evening, he weren’t with Hilton. He spent the evening chattin’ with Fritz, and he kept buyin’ him drinks. Well, Rodney’s pushin’ maybe sixty years old and has been drinkin’ since he was maybe two and he’s one tough old bird. So he can toss back a shoulder of rum or gin or vodka or whiskey, and you would never know it. But Fritz isn’t much of a drinker. Two maybe three shots or three pints is his limit. Well by seven o’clock in the evening Fritz is ossified, and Rodney says not to worry, he’ll get the lad back to his house all safe and sound, and then he helps Fritz to his feet and the two of them stagger out of here. And as far as I know, Mr. Holmes, that was the last that was seen by anybody except Rodney of Fritz Richter.”
“Ah, that is interesting, Mr. Kelly. A moment ago you referred to Rodney, who I presume to mean Mr. Rodney Bannister, as a tough old bird. Why did you call him that?”
“Why? Because that’s what he is. He spent his youth fightin’ and scrappin’ down in Devon and then did more of it in the BEF out in the Afghan Wars. Everybody who came through my door, Mr. Holmes, knew that you just left Rodney Bannister well enough alone. It didn’t matter if a young fellow was as big or bigger than Kit Evans, they didn’t tangle with Rodney. No, sir. Once, maybe twice a year, usually in the fall when the first-year lads are more likely to start up with fisticuffs here in the bar to prove how manly they are, well Rodney would tell them to stop because they were disturbin’ his quiet chat with his friend, Hilton. If the boys didn’t stop right then and there, well they stopped a minute later after Rodney laid both of them flat. Then he would go back and sit down and continue with his chat. So, you see, sir, they all soon learned not to engage with Rodney.”
“Indeed, a good lesson to know,” said Holmes. “Just out of curiosity, sir, you said that Rodney Bannister was buying the drinks for Fritz. Do you recall approximately how much the tab came to?”
“Not exactly, but somewhere close to a pound. He paid me with a sovereign, and I gave him his change, and it was less than a shilling. They had quite a lot to drink.”
“I was told that there was a photographer from the newspaper here that evening, is that correct?”
“Aye, ‘tis. There’s not much news after the end of the term so they were doin’ a bit of a story on celebratin’ and on those that were still here in Oxford and not going home to their families. It was something along that line, if I remember correctly.”
Some other patrons had entered the Lamb and Flag and Patrick Kelly excused himself to attend to them. Since we were already sitting at a table, we decided to stay and enjoy an early supper. The sausages
and mash were as good as I have had anywhere in London.
“The evening hour, Watson, is still early. I believe that it would behoove us to pay another visit to the residence of the now late Mr. Richter. I suspect that his landlord, Mr. Spencer would be willing to let us in.”
“You were already there, Holmes. What else so you expect to find?”
“All we were able to do was to look at some of Fritz Richter’s correspondence, and, at the time, that was a reasonable limit to our search as our assumption was that he was the perpetrator of nasty business, not the recipient. Now there is a distinct possibility that he has himself been encountered foul play, and that is sufficient reason for taking a second and more thorough look.”
I agreed, and we took yet another long walk from the north edge of the University grounds to the district south of Oxford Castle where the Spencer House was located. As we approached it I chanced to look up to the second-floor window, the room rented by Fritz Richter.
“Holmes! Look. In Richter’s window.”
Chapter Seven
A Committee Was Appointed
The Meeting was held in the Radcliffe Camera
EVEN THOUGH IT WAS EARLY EVENING, there was more than sufficient light to let us see a body moving back and forth in the room.
“That does not look like Spencer,” said Holmes. “Come, Watson.”
He began to run the last half-block to the house and on arriving hammered on the door. The landlord opened it, and Holmes surged past him, shouting as he went.
“Mr. Spencer, did you give anyone access to Fritz’s room?”
“No.”
“There is someone in it. Please, sir, the key, immediately.”
Mr. Spencer ran up the stairs behind us, fumbling for his keys as he climbed. Holmes stood aside and let him unlock the door, and the three of us stormed inside. The window was wide open, and the room was empty.
“This window was not this far open two minutes ago,” said Holmes. He leaned out the window and, perilously close to falling out, gazed intently at the small edge that separates the ground and the first floors.
“Please, Watson, Mr. Spencer, do not disturb anything in here. I must look outside.”
We did as we were told and sat for fifteen minutes chatting about the death of Fritz Richter. Mr. Spencer could only offer the same unhelpful insight as he had during our previous visit, that being that he could, if pressed, come up with close to a hundred names of people who hated Fritz Richter and might have wanted him dead.
Holmes re-appeared, still carrying his magnifying glass in his hand.
“What did you find out there?” I asked.
“Let me begin by what I observed inside this room,” he replied. I was a bit surprised as Holmes had only been inside the room for a few moments before rushing back out.
“As the room has not been cleaned now for over a week, there is some dust on the floor below the window, as would be expected. There are footprints in the dust. Again, that is to be expected since whoever was in the room, upon hearing us at the downstairs doorway, rushed immediately out of the window. There are some scuffs along the ledge where he took several running steps before leaping to the ground.”
“Good heavens, Holmes. It is a wonder he did not break his leg. That ledge has to be a good twenty feet above the lawn.”
“It is, and he landed hard but moving forward and immediately somersaulted as if trained like a highly skilled marine. His footsteps then moved quickly across the grass and toward the footpath that runs along the side of the stream. There was no sign of him. He must have run very quickly up the path and onto Thames Street. Any footprints vanished once his feet were on pavement.”
“How did he get in here?” demanded Spencer.
“Ah, yes. That could also be observed from the footprints in the lawn. On the backside of the house, Mr. Spencer, you have a large oak tree whose branches reach to the eaves of the house.”
“I do.”
“Whoever it was, being an agile and athletic person, climbed the tree, stepped off onto the roof, let himself in through a third-floor window, and came silently down the stairs. If you will look at the transom, you can see that it is wide open. He must have found a chair in the hallway, pulled his body far enough through the transom to reach the door latch and undo it. Then he could open the door, return the chair to wherever it came from and be free to inspect the room.”
“The room does not appear to have been disturbed,” I said.
“No, it does not. However, Mr. Spencer, if you have no objection, I would like to spend some time looking through the room again.”
“Go ahead, Mr. Holmes. Although I should warn you that the police sent me a note saying that they would be coming first thing tomorrow morning to do their inspection, so you must not re-arrange or remove anything.”
“No one will guess that we have been here,” said Holmes.
Spencer left us in the room and for the next hour Holmes, with glass in hand, peered and poked into every corner, bookcase, drawer, file, and closet. I sat patiently and added to my notes, thinking about how to tell the story of this case, the successful conclusion of which was far from certain. Finally, Holmes finished his investigation, and we departed. It was now dark and the summer air was warm and pleasant as we walked back to the Randolph.
“You did not appear to find anything untoward,” I said.
“On the contrary, my dear doctor, there were several items that were of interest.”
“Were there now, and what were they?”
“For starters, Fritz’s bankbook.”
“Ah ha. You have always said that you could learn as much or more from a man’s bankbook as his diary.”
“And it is true. Many men tell lies to their diary, but banks, while they may commit legally sanctioned robbery, do not lie while doing so.”
“And you found?”
“The stipends that Mr. Spencer said came from his family in Heidelberg were not particularly generous, certainly not large enough to support his adventurous way of living. They were supplemented by a host of irregular smaller amounts, each of which had a set of initials and a checkmark written beside it.”
“But Spencer said that he came from exceptional wealth. He mentioned the Krupp empire, did he not?
“He did, but said that his basis for that information was some passing comments made by Fritz.”
“Then where did the other deposits come from? Payments made to him by other people, yes?”
“Obviously, and although there is no proof of it, I suspect that our Master Fritz was blackmailing a score of people, anyone of whom would not have been happy about it.”
“Interesting, Holmes. Go on. What else?”
“He was a full two years older than would be expected had he come to Oxford immediately upon completing his gymnasium studies in Germany.”
“What was he doing?”
“He was a student at the University of Heidelberg, specializing in the study of psychology. However, he did not complete his degree, but transferred to Oxford and began over again in first year.”
“Which explains his ability to spot Kit Evans’s mental illness. Yes, keep going.”
“As to the intruder, there was something I did not mention when I returned from examining the footprints. The shoe size was small, no more than a size six.”
The implications of what Holmes said were confusing.
“That would lead us to Daniel Jackson,” I said. “Except you said that the ability to take a running leap from a height, strike the ground and roll to your feet was a skill learned in the marines.”
“It is also a skill taught to jockeys who ride at the racecourse, and riders who compete in steeplechases.”
For several blocks he said nothing more, and then as we were passing the ancient gravestones of St. Mary Magdalen’s he added, “And tomorrow it would be a good idea if we were to pay a visit to our disagreeable young medical student.”
The following morning Holmes
and I came down from our suite to the breakfast room. I expected that we would eat and proceed immediately to the house owned by Daniel Jackson. However, as we entered the room, sitting at a table, alone, but clearly waiting for us, sat Miss Jane Stuart. She stood as we entered and gestured to the two empty chairs at her table. We joined her.
I was immediately struck by the change in her appearance. Gone completely were the healthy complexion and rosy cheeks. Her eyes were red and swollen, and underlined by dark half circles.
“Good heavens,” I said to her as we joined her, “you look terribly upset. What has happened? Is it to do with the death of Fritz Richter? Did you know him?”
“No. I knew who he was and something of his reputation but no, Doctor Watson, that is not why I am here. I’m sorry to bother you and disturb your breakfast, but I am here because I desperately need your help and have nowhere else to turn.”
“Please madam,” said Holmes. “You are not disturbing us at all. Kindly take a moment and compose yourself and have some coffee.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. But I have already consumed several cups over the course of the past night. Any more would not be good for me. But please, gentlemen, do not let me keep you from yours.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes, “but do explain what it is that has so distressed you and how we may be of assistance.”
“In addition to the death of Mr. Richter, you may be aware, since you seem to have a way of learning all sorts of things, that Christopher Evans has withdrawn his name from consideration for the Rhodes Scholarship.”
“We are also aware of that,” said Holmes.
“As I suggested to you when we met, a unique opportunity was made available for the emancipation of women in this country if Dean Soames had appointed a woman as a finalist, as he was authorized to do. Instead, this is what happened.”
She handed a sheet of paper to Holmes with a copy to me. It was the minutes of the meeting of the Selection Committee for the Rhodes Scholarship that had taken place the previous day. I looked over the page in front of me. It ran:
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies- Collection Four Page 43
