Maples and his wife had “at home” afternoon teas twice a month, the second and fourth Tuesdays, and quite soon these events became very popular with the students. His sister-in-law, who was invariably present, was certainly part of the reason, as was the supply of tea-cakes, scones, fruit tarts, and other assorted edibles. I attended several of these, and was soon struck by an indefinable feeling that something was not what it seemed. I say “indefinable” because I could not put my finger on just what it was that puzzled me about the events. I did not attach too much importance to it at the time. It was only later that it seemed significant. I will try to give you a word picture of the last of these events that I attended; the last one, as it happens, before the tragedy.
It was Holmes who suggested that we attend Professor Maples’s tea that day. I had been trying to impress upon him a rudimentary understanding of the calculus, and he had demanded of me an example of some situation in which such knowledge might be of use. I outlined three problems, one from astronomy, involving the search for the planet Vulcan, said to lie inside the orbit of Mercury; one from physics, relating to determining magnetic lines of force when an electric current is applied; and one based on some thoughts of my own regarding Professor Malthus’s notions on population control.
Holmes waved them all aside. “Yes, I am sure they are very interesting in their own way,” he said, “but, frankly, they do not concern me. It does not matter to me whether the Earth goes around the Sun or the Sun goes around the Earth, as long as whichever does whatever keeps on doing it reliably.”
“You have no intellectual curiosity regarding the world around you?” I asked in some surprise.
“On the contrary,” Holmes averred. “I have an immense curiosity, but I have no more interest in the Binomial Theorem than it has in me. I feel that I must confine my curiosity to those subjects that will be of some use to me in the future. There is so much to learn on the path I have chosen that I fear that I dare not venture very far along side roads.”
“Ah!” I said. “I was not aware that you have started down your chosen road, or indeed that you have chosen a road down which to trod.”
Holmes and I were sitting in an otherwise unoccupied lecture hall, and at my words he rose and began pacing restlessly about the front of the room. “I wouldn’t say that I have chosen the road, exactly,” he said, “to continue with this, I suppose, inescapable metaphor. But I have an idea of the direction in which I wish to travel-” He made a point of his right forefinger and thrust it forcefully in front of him. “-and I feel I must carefully limit my steps to paths that go in that direction.”
“Is it that pile of erasers or the wastebasket at the end of the room at which you hope to arrive?” I asked, and then quickly raised a conciliatory hand. “No, no, I take it back. I’m glad you have formulated a goal in life, even if it doesn’t include the calculus. What is the direction of this city on a hill toward which you strive?”
Holmes glowered at me for a moment and then looked thoughtful. “It’s still slightly vague,” he told me. “I can see it in outline only. A man-” He gathered his ideas. “A man should strive to do something larger than himself. To cure disease, or eradicate hunger or poverty or crime.”
“Ah!” I said. “Noble thoughts.” I fancied that I could hear the lovely voice of Miss Lucy earnestly saying that, or something similar, to Holmes within the week. When a man is suddenly struck by noble ambitions it is usually a woman who does the striking. But I thought it would be wiser not to mention this deduction, which, at any rate, was rather tentative and not based on any hard evidence.
“It’s Professor Maples’ afternoon tea day today,” Holmes commented. “And I had thought of going.”
“Why so it is,” I said. “And so we should. And, in one last effort to interest you in the sort of detail for which you find no immediate utility, I call to your attention the shape of Lucinda Moys’ ear. Considered properly, it presents an interesting question. You should have an opportunity to observe it, perhaps even fairly closely, this afternoon.”
“Which ear?”
“Either will do.”
“What’s the matter with Miss Lucy’s ear?” Holmes demanded.
“Why, nothing. It’s a delightful ear. Well formed. Flat, rather oblate lobes. I’ve never seen another quite like it. Very attractive, if it comes to that.”
“All right, then,” Holmes said.
I closed the few books I had been using and put them in my book sack. “I hereby renounce any future attempt to teach you higher mathematics,” I told him. “I propose we adjourn and head toward the professor’s house and his tea-cakes.”
And so we did.
The Maples’ event was from three in the afternoon until six in the evening, although some arrived a bit earlier, and some I believe stayed quite a bit later. The weather was surprisingly mild for mid October, and Holmes and I arrived around half past three that day to find the professor and his household and their dozen or so guests scattered about the lawn behind the house in predictable clumps. The vice-chancellor of the university was present, relaxing in a lawn chair with a cup of tea and a plate of scones. Classical Greece was represented by Dean Herbert McCuthers, an elderly man of intense sobriety and respectability, who was at that moment rolling up his trouser legs preparatory to wading in the small artificial pond with Andrea Maples, who had removed her shoes and hoisted her skirts in a delicate balance between wet clothing and propriety.
Crisboy, the physical education instructor who roomed with the Maples, a large, muscular, and pugnacious-looking man in his late twenties, was standing in one corner of the lawn with a games coach named Faulting; a young man with the build and general appearance of one of the lithe athletes depicted by ancient Greek statuary, if you can picture a young Greek athlete clad in baggy grey flannels. The comparison was one that Faulting was well aware of, judging by his practice of posing heroically whenever he thought anyone was looking at him.
The pair of them were standing near the house, swinging athletic clubs with muscular wild abandon, and discussing the finer details of last Saturday’s football match, surrounded by a bevy of admiring underclassmen. There are those students at every university who are more interested in games than education. They spend years afterward talking about this or that cricket match against their mortal foes at the next school over, or some particularly eventful football game. It never seems to bother them, or perhaps even occur to them, that they are engaged in pursuits at which a suitably trained three-year-old chimpanzee or orang-utan could best them. And, for some reason that eludes me, these men are allowed to vote and to breed. But, once again, I digress.
Maples was walking magisterially across the lawn, his grey master’s gown billowing about his fundament, his hands clasped behind him holding his walking-stick, which jutted out to his rear like a tail, followed by a gaggle of young gentlemen in their dark brown scholars’ gowns, with their mortar-boards tucked under their arms, most of them giving their professor the subtle homage of imitating his walk and his posture. “The ideal of the university,” Maples was saying in a voice that would brook no dispute, obviously warming up to his theme, “is the Aristotelean stadium as filtered through the medieval monastic schools.”
He nodded to me as he reached me, and then wheeled about and headed back whence he had come, embroidering on his theme. “Those students who hungered for something more than a religious education, who perhaps wanted to learn the law, or what there was of medicine, headed toward the larger cities, where savants fit to instruct them could be found. Paris, Bologna, York, London; here the students gathered, often traveling from city to city in search of just the right teacher. After a century or two the instruction became formalized, and the schools came into official existence, receiving charters from the local monarch, and perhaps from the pope.”
Maples suddenly froze in mid-step and wheeled around to face his entourage. “But make no mistake!” he enjoined them, waving his cane pointedly in front him
, its duck-faced head point first at one student and then another, “a university is not made up of its buildings, its colleges, its lecture halls, or its playing fields. No, not even its playing fields. A university is made up of the people-teachers and students-that come together in its name. Universitas scholarium, is how the charters read, providing for a, shall I say guild, of students. Or, as in the case of the University of Paris, a universitas magistrorum, a guild of teachers. So we are co-equal, you and I. Tuck your shirt more firmly into your trousers, Mr. Pomfrit, you are becoming all disassembled.”
He turned and continued his journey across the greensward, his voice fading with distance. His students, no doubt impressed with their new-found equality, trotted along behind him.
Lucy Moys glided onto the lawn just then, coming through the french doors at the back of the house, bringing a fresh platter of pastries to the parasol-covered table. Behind her trotted the maid, bringing a pitcher full of steaming hot water to refill the teapot. Sherlock Holmes left my side and wandered casually across the lawn, contriving to arrive by Miss Lucy’s side just in time to help her distribute the pastries about the table. Whether he took any special interest in her ear, I could not observe.
I acquired a cup of tea and a slice of tea-cake and assumed my accustomed role as an observer of phenomena. This has been my natural inclination for years, and I have enhanced whatever ability I began with by a conscious effort to accurately take note of what I see. I had practiced this for long enough, even then, that it had become second nature to me. I could not sit opposite a man on a railway car without, for example, noticing by his watch-fob that he was a Rosicrucian, let us say, and by the wear-marks on his left cuff that he was a note-cashier or an order clerk. A smudge of ink on his right thumb would favor the note-cashier hypothesis, while the state of his boots might show that he had not been at work that day. The note-case that he kept clutched to his body might indicate that he was transferring notes to a branch bank, or possibly that he was absconding with the bank’s funds. And so on. I go into this only to show that my observations were not made in anticipation of tragedy, but were merely the result of my fixed habit.
I walked about the lawn for the next hour or so, stopping here and there to nod hello to this student or that professor. I lingered at the edge of this group, and listened for a while to a spirited critique of Wilkie Collin’s recent novel, “The Moonstone,” and how it represented an entirely new sort of fiction. I paused by that cluster to hear a young man earnestly explicating on the good works being done by Mr. William Booth and his Christian Revival Association in the slums of our larger cities. I have always distrusted earnest, pious, loud young men. If they are sincere, they’re insufferable. If they are not sincere, they’re dangerous.
I observed Andrea Maples, who had dried her feet and lowered her skirts, take a platter of pastries and wander around the lawn, offering a cruller here and a tea-cake there, whispering intimate comments to accompany the pastry. Mrs. Maples had a gift for instant intimacy, for creating the illusion that you and she shared wonderful, if unimportant, secrets. She sidled by Crisboy, who was now busy leading five or six of his athletic proteges in doing push-ups, and whispered something to young Faulting, the games coach, and he laughed. And then she was up on her tip-toes whispering some more. After perhaps a minute, which is a long time to be whispering, she danced a few steps back and paused, and Faulting blushed. Blushing has quite gone out of fashion now, but it was quite the thing for both men and women back in the seventies. Although how something that is believed to be an involuntary physiological reaction can be either in or out of fashion demands more study by Dr. Freud and his fellow psycho-analysts.
Crisboy gathered himself and leaped to his feet. “Stay on your own side of the street!” he yapped at Andrea Maples, which startled both her and the young gamesmen, two of whom rolled over and stared up at the scene, while the other three or four continued doing push-ups at a frantic pace, as though there was nothing remarkable happening above them. After a second Mrs. Maples laughed and thrust the plate of pastries out at him.
Professor Maples turned to stare at the little group some twenty feet away from him and his hands tightened around his walking stick. Although he strove to remain calm, he was clearly in the grip of some powerful emotion for a few seconds before he regained control. “Now, now, my dear,” he called across the lawn. “Let us not incite the athletes.”
Andrea skipped over to him and leaned over to whisper in his ear. As she was facing me this time, and I had practiced lip-reading for some years, I could make out what she said: “Perhaps I’ll do you a favor, poppa bear,” she whispered. His reply was not visible to me.
A few minutes later my wanderings took me over to where Sherlock Holmes was sitting by himself on one of the canvas chairs near the french windows looking disconsolate. “Well,” I said, looking around, “and where is Miss Lucy?”
“She suddenly discovered that she had a sick headache and needed to go lie down. Presumably she has gone to lie down,” he told me.
“I see,” I said. “Leaving you to suffer alone among the multitude.”
“I’m afraid it must have been something I said,” Holmes confided to me.
“Really? What did you say?”
“I’m not sure. I was speaking about-well…” Holmes looked embarrassed, a look I had never seen him encompass before, nor have I seen it since.
“Hopes and dreams,” I suggested.
“Something of that nature,” he agreed. “Why is it that words that sound so-important-when one is speaking to a young lady with whom one is on close terms, would sound ridiculous when spoken to the world at large? That is, you understand, Mr. Moriarty, a rhetorical question.”
“I do understand,” I told him. “Shall we return to the college?”
And so we did.
The next afternoon found me in the commons room sitting in my usual chair beneath the oil painting of Sir James Walsingham, the first chancellor of Queens College, receiving the keys to the college from Queen Elizabeth. I was dividing my attention between my cup of coffee and a letter from the reverend Charles Dodgson, a fellow mathematician who was then at Oxford, in which he put forth some of his ideas concerning what we might call the mathematical constraints of logical constructions. My solitude was interrupted by Dean McCuthers, who toddled over, cup of tea in hand, looking even older than usual, and dropped into the chair next to me. “Afternoon, Moriarty,” he breathed. “Isn’t it dreadful?”
I put the letter aside. “Isn’t what dreadful?” I asked him. “The day? The war news? Huxley’s Theory of Biogenesis? Perhaps you’re referring to the coffee-it is pretty dreadful today.”
McCuthers shook his head sadly. “Would that I could take the news so lightly,” he said. “I am always so aware, so sadly aware, of John Donne’s admonishment.”
“I thought Donne had done with admonishing for these past two hundred years or so,” I said.
But there was no stopping McCuthers. He was determined to quote Donne, and quote he did: “‘Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind,’” he went on, ignoring my comment. “‘And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.’”
I forbore from mentioning that the dean, a solitary man who spent most of his waking hours pondering over literature written over two thousand years before he was born, was probably less involved in mankind than any man I had ever known. “I see,” I said. “The bell has tolled for someone?”
“And murder makes it so much worse,” McCuthers continued. “As Lucretius puts it-”
“Who was murdered?” I asked firmly, cutting through his tour of the classics.
“Eh? You mean you don’t know? Oh, dear me. This will come as something of a shock, then. It’s that Professor Maples-”
“Someone has murdered Maples?”
“No, no. My thought was unfinished. Professor Maples has been arrested. His wife-Andrea-Mrs. Maples-has been murdered.”
I was, I will admit it, bemused. You may substitute a stronger term if you like. I tried to get some more details from McCuthers, but the dean’s involvement with the facts had not gone beyond the murder and the arrest. I finished my coffee and went off in search of more information.
Murder is a sensational crime which evokes a formidable amount of interest, even among the staid and unworldly dons of Queens College. And a murder in mediis rebus, or perhaps better, in mediis universitatibus; one that actually occurs among said staid dons, will intrude on the contemplations of even the most unworldly. The story, which spread rapidly through the college, was this:
A quartet of bicyclists, underclassmen from St. Simon’s College, set out together at dawn three days a week, rain or shine, to get an hour or two’s cycling in before breakfast. This morning, undeterred by the chill drizzle that had begun during the night, they went out along Barleymore Road as usual. At about eight o’clock, or shortly after, they happened to stop at the front steps to the small cottage on Professor Maples’ property. One of the bicycles had throw a shoe, or something of the sort, and they had paused to repair the damage. The chain-operated bicycle had been in existence for only a few years back then, and was prone to a variety of malfunctions. I understand that bicyclists, even today, find it useful to carry about a complete set of tools in order to be prepared for the inevitable mishap.
One of the party, who was sitting on the cottage steps with his back up against the door, as much out of the rain as he could manage, indulging in a pipeful of Latakia while the damaged machine was being repaired, felt something sticky under his hand. He looked, and discovered a widening stain coming out from under the door. Now, according to which version of the story you find most to your liking, he either pointed to the stain and said, “I say, chaps, what do you suppose this is?” Or he leapt to his feet screaming, “It’s blood! It’s blood! Something horrible has happened here.” I tend to prefer the latter version, but perhaps it’s only the alliteration that appeals to me.
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