Sherlock Holmes Never Dies- Collection Four

by Copland, Craig Stephen

  Daniel looked at Holmes, bewilderment all over his face. Then a small, faint smile appeared.

  “I promise.”

  Holmes rose, picked up the file, removed several pages from it, took it in his hand and departed the room.

  As we walked back into the great university town, I asked him, “Is that the end of it, Holmes? What happens now? What of the coup on the Committee? The awarding of the Rhodes takes place on Thursday morning.”

  “My dear friend, I shall deal with that tomorrow, and it may require a quick journey to London. Would you mind awfully waiting here for me to return?”

  Oxford was as congenial a place as any in England to spend a day writing up my notes, and I agreed.

  With Holmes gone I took advantage of the time to stroll through the University Parks and attempt to put some order in my mind to the events of the past week. In the far corner of the Park, I found myself a pleasing place to sit and write for the afternoon. Not far from Lazenbee’s Ground Walk I came upon a solitary bench that afforded a view of the lush gardens of Lady Margaret Hall. I sat down, took out my notebook and, like the Oxford graduate Edward Gibbon a hundred years earlier, began to scribble, scribble, scribble.

  From time to time, I would look up at the students and staff who were entering and exiting Lady Margaret Hall. They were mostly young women and a few no-longer-young women. I recalled that this Hall had been established so that brilliant female students could come to Oxford University and take classes, even if not allowed to earn degrees. Who knows, I thought to myself, but someday one of them might rise, like Deborah of the Old Testament, to be the leader of her people.

  My daydreaming was interrupted by my recognizing some of those who were standing close by the Hall. Yet again I saw Miss Stuart and with her were Rodney Bannister and Daniel Jackson. I could only imagine what was being said. As I observed them an older couple walking arm in arm approached. Mrs. Soames stayed and joined the conversation while Dean Soames shuffled off slowly in my direction.

  I hailed him and bid him join me. He saw me and nodded but as he walked his head was bent and his shoulders fallen. He looked like a very sad, dejected, and defeated man. He sat down beside me and again I knew that my responsibilities as a doctor were called for. I inquired, in unfeigned concern, regarding his health and well-being.

  “Thank you, doctor, for your kind concern. But I feel that my life’s work has been snuffed out. I have never been attacked like I was by my colleagues. It appears to me that all my yesterdays have done no more than lighted fools the way to dusty death. Life’s poor candle has been put out, and I am no more than a poor player who has strutted and fretted his hour upon the stage and now will be heard from no more. I am reduced to being an idiot, no longer even with a trace of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

  “Oh come now, Macbeth,” I chided. “Time to buck up there, my dear Dean Hilton. I have it from a sure source that not only is your dear lady not dead, but she has not a trace of madness. Birnam Wood has not moved an inch toward Dunsinane. Every one of your treacherous enemies was fully and duly born of woman, and, although he does not get any lines in the Scottish Play, the fearless hero, Sherlock Holmes, has taken up arms and is fighting on your side.”

  That coaxed a faint smile out of him. “Perhaps you are right, doctor. Perhaps if I wait until tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, I will be vindicated. But today, alas, is not that day.”

  “I did,” I said, “read the minutes of your meeting. So did Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Did you? Oh, yes, of course. I suppose Miss Stuart showed them to you. Quite a risk she took in doing so. I am a lucky man, I suppose, to have such loyal friends.”

  “There was one item, Dean Soames, that I did not understand.”

  “Oh, really doctor? And what was that?”

  “What was the joke you told that set the whole thing off.”

  His face brightened. “Oh, that. Yes, they all laughed but then that quartet of them turned on me.”

  “Well, are you going to tell it to me?”

  “Oh, yes, I suppose I could. It goes like this:

  “Two professors of theology walk into a pub and order drinks. Soon they are engaged in a vigorous argument. They are arguing about the nature of Almighty God as evidenced by the way He created the human body.

  ‘God is an artist,’ says the first one, boldly. ‘Why just look at the beauty of the human body. How perfectly and symmetrically it has been designed. No matter what the shade of skin or race, men throughout the world have admired its beauty. God must be an artist.’

  ‘No,’ says the second. ‘God is obviously an engineer. The body is a brilliant machine. Look how the intricacies of cells, and membranes and nerves all work together smoothly. See how the muscles and sinews are leveraged so as to produce efficiency. There is no question. God is an engineer.’

  The bartender interrupts them. ‘Both wrong. God is a town planner.’

  ‘’What?!’ they both cry in disbelief. ‘How can you say something so absurd as God is a town planner?’

  ‘Who else would run a sewage system through a recreation area?’ ”

  I burst into guffaws of laughter. And as unrestrained laughter is contagious, soon the Dean was laughing along with me. We chatted on some more and then he looked up and saw his dear wife approaching.

  “Time to go. You are quite right, doctor, my wife is no Lady Macbeth. But She-who-must-be-obeyed beckons.”

  “Will I see you tomorrow at the awards ceremony?”

  His face fell, and he now forced a smile.

  “No, doctor, that would be too much for me to bear. The new chairman of the committee will present the Rhodes. My time has passed. I wish you a good day, doctor, and thank you for brightening mine.”

  He joined his wife, and the two of them walked slowly, their arms intertwined, through the Park. I returned to writing my story.

  Chapter Nine

  I Will Not Cease From Mental Fight

  Christopher Wren's Sheldonian Theater

  BY ELEVEN O’CLOCK THAT EVENING, Holmes had still not returned from London, and I went to bed. In the morning a note was waiting for me that simply said:

  Shall meet you at the Awards. Back of Sheldonian Theatre. 8:40 a.m. Holmes.

  I walked along Broad Street and entered the great theater at half-past eight. There was no sign of Holmes yet, and I was worried about being able to find a seat, given the rate at which people were arriving. By 8:45 a.m. he had not shown up and the hall was almost filled to capacity. Finally, at five minutes before nine, he came in, panting from the exertion of running.

  “Holmes, I was afraid they would start before you got here,” I muttered as we climbed the stairs to the upper gallery and took two of the few remaining open seats.

  “Not to worry, doctor. The procession will be a few minutes delayed.”

  “Holmes, how in heaven’s name would you know that?”

  “Sssshh, doctor. Enjoy the lovely architecture.”

  I gave up and let my gaze wonder over the splendid interior of the building, another masterpiece of Christopher Wren. As with St. Paul’s, si monumentum requiris, circumspice. If I sought his monument, all I had to do was look around.

  At nine fifteen, the trumpets sounded, and the academic procession entered. The Deans, Rectors, Professors, Chaplains and the like were all clad in full academic regalia and strutted in pomp and circumstance their way to the front. I craned my neck to get a better view as they filled the loft and spilled over into the front rows of the theater.

  The Chancellor called the gathering to order, followed by not one but three Chaplains offering successively longer prayers. The first was said by a bishop of the Catholic Church, the next by the chap from the Church of England, and the final by a fellow representing the multitudes, multitudes of non-conformist Protestant sects. A summer choir had been hastily assembled and, accompanied by the great organ, delivered a stirring rendition of And did these feet in ancient times… For a moment, I
felt a pang of joyful patriotism. I glanced at Holmes, and he was smiling too, which made me suspicious as he had no use for building Jerusalem anywhere, let alone in England’s green and pleasant land.

  Various speakers were then called upon and various awards given out. All recipients received polite applause. Then, to my shock, the Chancellor called up the Chairman of the Selection Committee for the Rhodes Scholarship and up to the podium, with a spring in his step, came Dean Soames. I gave an elbow to Holmes, who, in a manner that was thoroughly annoying, turned his palms upward and shrugged his shoulders, as if he knew nothing.

  Dean Soames gave a spirited talk about his dear friend, Cecil Rhodes, and what a wonderful chap he had been. He made a brief passing acknowledgment to the fact that Rhodes’s wealth had been obtained by draining it from the people and land of southern Africa but added the mandatory nevertheless and praised him some more. He was undeniably cheerful and went so far as to add a few literary puns that no one, except for a group of Oxonians, would understand. He further expounded upon the qualifications for the Scholarship—awarded only to an international student from one of the countries selected by Rhodes; the recipient to have been outstanding in his academic achievements, to have contributed selflessly to the life of the community, to have shown strength of character through participation in athletics, and to have an unblemished record of personal rectitude.

  He then announced the winner. “Master, soon to be Medical Doctor, Daniel Joseph Jackson.”

  From a seat near the front of the theater, a slight young man walked to the podium and, bowing, accepted the award. The entire audience stood and gave a hearty round of applause.

  “Now look here, Holmes,” said I as we walked out of the Sheldonian and back to the Randolph. “Enough is enough. Just what went on back there?”

  “Elementary, my dear Watson…”

  “Enough Holmes,” I snapped.” None of you elementary, Watson. What happened?”

  “Will you wait until we can celebrate with a generous snifter of brandy?”

  I harrumphed and did a forced march back to the hotel.

  Holmes lit his pipe, took several sips of brandy and sat back in the chair.

  “It was not at all complicated. I merely appealed to a higher power.”

  “If by that you mean you spent hours on your knees beseeching the Almighty, then forgive me if I do not waste a single second believing you.”

  “Oh, no, my good doctor, not that higher power. Since dear old Cecil Rhodes is no longer with us, I went to the next notch below him. I spoke to his lawyers. You know, all those fusty old boys at Gray’s Inn. A half dozen of them are, together, the governors of the Rhodes Trust and empowered to make sure that the wishes of his will are honored, down to the last jot and tittle. I sent an urgent note to each of them saying that an emergency meeting concerning the Rhodes Trust was necessary.”

  “And they dropped everything they were doing and met with you?”

  “Thanks to you, my dear doctor. As a result of your absurdly dramatized stories about me, it turns out that when an old lawyer is called upon by Sherlock Holmes for an emergency, he comes running on the double, as it promises to be a relief from his otherwise morbidly boring existence. They met with me, and I presented to them the minutes of the Selection Committee that Miss Stuart had surreptitiously given to us. They could see that what happened was prima facie a violation of the terms of the will and they hastily sent a very threatening note back to Oxford University.”

  “Merciful heavens, what threat could they have made that would cause the powers that be to intervene and even hold up the morning ceremonies. I assume that was your doing as well.”

  “Oh, perhaps it was. They made the ultimate threat that shook Oxford to its foundations.”

  “Enough, Holmes. What?”

  “They wrote that unless the Dean Soames, a dear personal friend of Cecil Rhodes and specifically named in his will to be the Chairman of the Selection Committee at Oxford University, was immediately restored to his position they would invoke the awfulest penalty imaginable and move the entire program over to Cambridge.”

  I had to laugh. “Well, that would do it. Well done, Holmes. Now then, is that the finale of this case or is there more?”

  “One small matter that might be of interest,” said Holmes.

  “Yes, get on with it.”

  From his portfolio, he took out a newspaper and handed it over to me. It was a copy of the Oxford Herald, dated 15 June, 1898.

  “Heaven’s, this is eight years ago.”

  “Precisely. Look on the third page. The first story.”

  I did. There was a photograph of a young woman under the headline:

  Woman student takes highest grades in first-year medical classes

  Underneath the photograph was a brief paragraph that ran:

  A special recognition is given to Miss Deirdre Bannister of Taunton for scoring the highest marks in every class that was part of the first-year course of study for Medicine. Miss Bannister is the daughter of J.W. (“Jack”) Bannister and Mrs. C.S. Bannister (née Besley) of Devon. Neither parent is a graduate of any university. Miss Bannister will not continue with her studies at Oxford as her family is emigrating to Australia. We wish here well in the land down under.

  “Who is this young woman, Holmes? Is she a niece of Rodney Bannister?”

  Holmes did not answer. He again reached into his portfolio and this time brought out a large glossy photograph.

  “Our good editor at the Herald helped me find this although he has no idea why I was interested in it. It is the original photograph that was used for the story. Please, take a close look and you might wish to use the glass.” He handed me his magnifying glass, and I scanned the photograph.

  “What am I looking for?”

  “The ear.”

  I focused my view on the side of the young woman’s head. The distinctive and unusual shape of the upper ear, the same as I had observed on Daniel Jackson, could be clearly seen.”

  “Good heavens. Obviously the same family. Did Daniel have an older sister?”

  “No, he did not. Now look at the facial features.”

  I did and then I put the photograph down and exclaimed, “Ah ha, not an older sister. This young woman looks like his identical twin. The features of her forehead, mouth, nose, chin, and eyes are the same as his. Quite remarkable to find features in a brother and sister that are so exceptionally similar.”

  “No, Watson. They are not similar. They are the same.”

  I grabbed the photograph and the glass again, and slowly my mouth fell open in amazement.

  “Holmes, this cannot be possible. Are you saying …?”

  “I am saying that there is no such person as Mr. Daniel Jackson. There is a brilliant, determined young woman who is for the past four years has passed herself off as a young man in order to be granted a degree from Oxford and to be awarded the Rhodes Scholarship.”

  I was speechless and sat back in my chair, shaking my head.

  “How did you know?”

  “It took some time, but the clues slowly accumulated. The first was her bragging about her academic achievements. You will recall that she said that in her first year of studies she scored perfect on all of her tests and examinations.”

  “I do recall her saying that.”

  “Watson, you went to medical school. Have you ever heard of anyone scoring perfectly, not a single wrong answer, on every test and examination in the first year of study?”

  “No. Unheard of. Impossible.”

  “Is it? Under what circumstances would it be possible?”

  “Only if the student cheated and had complete copies of all the tests and exams prior to taking them.”

  “True. Or … unless the student had already written every one of those tests and exams before and kept the copies. Miss Deirdre attended first-year classes here eight years ago and was, I would deduce, enrolled in St. Margaret’s Hall. When she returned four years ago with a
different name and as an international student from Australia, she knew exactly what the courses of study were and what would be on the test and exams. That was the first hint that something was not quite right in her story.”

  “Yes, go on.”

  “Her birthdate. She is now twenty-six years old. Similar to Fritz Richter, there are years that could not be accounted for. Most likely she was taking classes in Melbourne. Her slender neck and fingers had a feminine look to them and she refused to shake hands. Then, her privacy; there is no reason for a student to purchase a house and be the sole resident. That is a foolish waste of money unless one wishes never to be observed too closely by a man. Add to that, her chosen sport. There is no bodily contact between teammates in equestrian events. It does not matter how carefully a woman tries to conceal her sex, on a playing field there is no mistaking the touch, the feel, the smell of a woman’s body. Any man who has grown up with sisters would spot her immediately. And if the horse could tell, well, it did not tell on her. The one who did tell was Fritz Richter, to whom, as a young woman she was quite naturally attracted, although he failed to discern why.

  “All of these clues made me curious, and I spent hours in the newspapers archives looking back through the files until I saw this story. I spotted the misshapen ear and from there it was not hard to put together the rest of the story.”