Sherlock Holmes Never Dies- Collection Four

by Copland, Craig Stephen

  Holmes nodded in the affirmative. The editor continued. “Now then, concerning your part of the arrangement, I would require your word that you would give us exclusive access to your story.”

  “I have already offered that.”

  “I am not finished, Mr. Holmes. I would add that you would not speak to any other reporter from any other newspaper for a period of two weeks following the initial publication of the story.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And if there are additional related stories that follow on, then the same terms would apply.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And that if we, in our sole discretion, determine that what you deliver to us is not newsworthy after all, and print nothing, then Mr. Sherlock Holmes will owe us an exclusive story on his next newsworthy case. Will you also agree to that, Mr. Holmes?”

  “You are asking quite a lot.”

  “We are not a charity, sir. We have a business to run, and better stories deliver better returns. Are you in agreement, Mr. Holmes?”

  Holmes agreed, and Mr. Prestwich went so far as to say that he would recommend a meeting tomorrow morning at the Grand Café on the High Street and assured us that it was a common place for people to meet and would not arouse any suspicions. That seemed like a good idea, and we thanked him and departed.

  The Grand Café on High Street claims to be the oldest coffee house in England, giving as evidence its being spoken of in Pepys Diary in 1650. It has been upgraded once or twice since that time and is now a favored place of students, professors, and local people for morning coffee and afternoon tea. Holmes and I were sitting at a small table at five minutes before the appointed hour of eleven o’clock. At ten minutes past the hour we were still there and furtively gazing around the room for anyone who might be our imagined letter writer.

  At twenty minutes past the hour, an attractive woman in the conservative attire of a secretary came by our table. I recognized her straight away as the woman I had seen chatting after the church service but whose name I did not know.

  “I have a message for a Mr. Holmes and a Dr. Watson. I assume that would be the two of you, gentlemen.”

  Apparently our informant had relented on the meeting.

  “That, madam,” said Holmes, “is who we are.”

  “Thank you, sir. The message is that the party you are waiting to meet apologizes for being late and advises you to become used to waiting and never expect her on time.”

  Having said that, she sat down and smiled at us showing a perfect set of beautiful white teeth and bright blue eyes, offset by jet black hair that hung down, framing her face and cascading over her shoulders. She was not of student age any longer and, if pressed, I would have placed her in her early thirties.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said. “You can call me ‘A.B.’ or whatever else you want to. Charlie told me about your wanting to have a chat, so here I am.”

  It would be an understatement to say that Holmes and I were surprised and maybe even somewhat skeptical.

  “And are you the one that wrote the letter to the editor?” asked Holmes.

  “That is who you wished to meet with, is it not, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

  “Yes, madam, it is. Perhaps you could begin by telling us what your connection is to the Selection Committee for the Rhodes that permits you to have such an informed opinion on its concerns.”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Holmes. That is not where we will begin. We will begin by your giving me your word as an English citizen and a gentleman that you will deny ever having had this conversation with me and, if questioned, will lie through your teeth before admitting your source of information. Are you prepared to do that, Mr. Holmes?”

  “To tell outright lies, madam, no. To give clever, evasive and misleading but not false answers, yes.”

  “Well, I guess that have to will do. Of course, I might be rather good at doing that myself. You will just have to be the judge of that, won’t you?”

  She was quite fearlessly looking Holmes directly in the eye, and I had the sense that she had dealt face to face with all manner of men before and was not the least intimidated by any of them.

  “I will, madam, now as to my question.”

  “Oh yes. I know all about the workings of the committee because I am its secretary. I attend all the meetings, take all the minutes, keep all the correspondence and student files and whatever else appears on paper. I believe that would qualify me adequately, would it not?”

  “It would indeed, Miss …?”

  “Stuart. Jane Stuart.”

  “Oh yes, Dean Soames made mention of you. But tell me, how did you come to this position?”

  “As you are likely aware, Mr. Holmes, women have been permitted to attend classes at Oxford now for over thirty years. Women’s colleges have been established at Somerville, Lady Margaret, and St. Hugh’s and we write tests and essays and take examinations. The only thing we are not allowed to do is graduate and be awarded a degree.”

  “That,” I said, “seems rather illogical.”

  “Oh, no, Dr. Watson, it is not illogical at all. Unethical and perverse, certainly, but not illogical. You see, membership in the wider Congregation of Oxford University, its sovereign governing body, is restricted to graduates and alumni of the university. If women were awarded degrees then our dear men fear that we would take over the control of this place and, well, that just wouldn’t do, now would it?”

  “I see. Yes, not illogical at all.”

  “Yes, So happy you agree. Some fifteen years ago I began to take classes in a variety of subjects. I did rather well, especially in my study of the classics, and that led me to read Homer with Dean Soames. He and his dear wife took a great interest in my education and after completing my studies and passing all the examinations with honors, but without being given a degree, Dean Soames hired me to do bibliographical research in the Classics Department. He has given me other assignments from time to time with increasing responsibility, and I enjoy carrying them out. Three years ago the will of Cecil Rhodes provided for the international scholarship program, and selection committees were set up all over the world. Dean Soames had been a friend of Cecil Rhodes, and he was specifically named in the will to chair the committee at Oxford University. He recruited me to be the recording secretary, and I have handled all the committee’s arrangements and records since it began.”

  “Why did you write the letter?”

  “Hilton Soames and his wife are great supporters of the cause of higher education for women. And there exists an unusual opportunity, if events so conspire to make it happen, that a woman could be a potential recipient of the Rhodes Scholarship.”

  “I believe, madam,” said Holmes, “that that would be in direct contravention to the terms of the will of Mr. Rhodes.”

  “Correct, sir. But there is one loophole. The terms under which the committee was established made provision for the possibility that at the last minute a finalist might, for any number of reasons, have to be dropped from consideration, leaving the committee insufficient time to review a replacement application. In that unlikely situation, the terms of the will state, and I am quoting here, Mr. Holmes, “that the Chairman of the Committee, in his sole discretion, shall appoint another student as finalist provided that the student has completed a full course of undergraduate studies and successfully passed all examinations.” Kindly note, sir, that the wording does not require that the student have graduated, since the conferring of degrees often takes place later than the date of international announcements, and there is nothing that explicitly states that the student selected must be a male.”

  “But that,” I interjected, “would be opposed to the obvious clear intent of the Rhodes will.”

  “Would it, Dr. Watson? The only thing that was clear was that Hilton Soames was to be the Chairman and that he was to have sole discretion, and that there was no explicit exclusion of women. Dean Soames is prepared to force the issue and make a test case. It could have repercussions all
the way to Westminster. He suggested that I try to stir up some debate and support by using the press, and that is why I wrote the letter. Even if a deserving young woman were to be recognized as a finalist candidate but not win, it would set a precedent and bring us closer to the emancipation of half the population of the earth.”

  “But,” I protested, “there is no vacant position. All three of the finalist candidate slots have been filled by fully qualified young men.”

  “That is correct, doctor. However, there was a possibility that one, or two of the current finalists might have to withdraw, leaving an opening for someone to be appointed by the Chairman.”

  “Madam,” said Holmes quite sharply, “explain your statement.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Some information has been submitted to the Committee that could lead to the current candidates withdrawing their names. The members of the Committee are not yet aware of this information. It will be made known to them at their next meeting.”

  “And did the information regarding both Christopher Evans and Daniel Jackson come to the committee by way of Fritz Richter?”

  Miss Stuart nodded. “I see you have been doing some investigating, Mr. Holmes. And yes, we believe although we cannot say for a certainty that it came from Mr. Richter and it would, if made public, be highly embarrassing to those two fine young men.”

  “However,” said Holmes, “the file has gone missing. You and Dean Soames have now lost control over its contents.”

  “And that, Mr. Holmes, is another reason why it is imperative that you find the file and do so very soon. The announcement of the winner is scheduled for Thursday. The committee meets tomorrow and will be made officially aware of the theft. There is not much time, sir.”

  Holmes smiled and nodded. I knew him well enough to see that he was pleased when presented with a case that had become increasingly consequential and urgent.

  Chapter Six

  A Terrible Thing to Waste

  The Grandpont on the River Thames

  “WATSON,” HE SAID AS WE STOOD OUT ON HIGH STREET, “I need to spend some time in the archives of the newspaper. Have you a way to occupy yourself this afternoon if I were to abandon you in Oxford?”

  “That,” I replied, “would give me the opportunity to spend some needed time in the library of the Faculty of Medicine. Shall we meet up for tea?”

  “An excellent suggestion, my friend. Would you mind if we did so at the Lamb and Flag Tavern? It seems to be working its way into this case.”

  Having asked directions from a local student before he pushed off on his bicycle, I walked up Longwall Road past the recreational fields and to the medical buildings. The library I was in need of was not difficult to find and the librarians, being insufficiently occupied now that classes were over and students departed for the summer, were only too happy to help me.

  For the next two hours, I read up on the latest medical research and opinions. Then I sighed and acknowledged to myself that my being an assistant to a detective would have to be put aside for a while and obligations as a doctor had to be obeyed. There was an exceptional young man who had recently crossed my path and who now needed the kind of direction that only a doctor could give. I began the walk back south along the edge of the River Cherwell to the residence of Christopher Evans.

  “Hey, hello there Doc,” said the affable American giant. “Where’s your pal, the detective guy. C’mon in. Did Mr. Holmes start reading more of Edgar Allan Poe like I told him to?”

  I sat down and smiled at him. “Kit, I have not come here as a detective, I have come as a doctor. We need to talk about your illness.”

  He looked honestly surprised. “Illness? Who? Me? Doc, I’m as healthy as a horse. I’m tearing up and down the football or rugby pitch several times a week. Legs, arms, heart, lungs, liver … you name it. All in great shape.”

  “All of your limbs and organs, I am quite sure, are in superb shape,” I said, “except for one. I am referring to the illness in another one of the body’s organs, your brain.”

  The large, brawny young body sitting across from me noticeably slumped. The cheerful, open face changed immediately. Kit Evans stared at me for several seconds and then closed his eyes. When he opened them, I could see tears forming.

  He spoke in a whisper. “I’m going crazy, right? You could see that, couldn’t you? I don’t see it coming but it catches me all the time. I’m here and then I’m gone, and then I’m back again. What’s happening to me?”

  “Kit, it need not stop you from having a splendid life.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Doc. No baloney, all right? I’m going to end up in the looney-bin babbling away and banging my head against the wall. That’s where I’m headed. And, yeah, it scares the hell out of me.”

  “No, Kit, that is not what is going to happen. I will give you the name of a doctor in Boston who has been doing excellent work on helping people to overcome and live strong lives even if there is not yet any known cure. Your illness used to be called praecox dementia.”

  “Doc, I know that’s what they call it. Fritz told me about it. And it’s my ticket to the madhouse, isn’t it?”

  “No, it is not. Recently there has been far more study done and what you are suffering from is now being called schizophrenia. You have a perfectly good brain almost all the time, but there will be times when it splits off and goes somewhere else, away from reality, and, fortunately for you, it appears to come back quickly. You can live with it, thousands of people do.”

  “And millions don’t, right? So why me, Doc?”

  “No one knows. Some research says it may be hereditary. Other studies point to physical damage to the brain, perhaps from concussions.”

  “Well, I’ve had my share of them I guess. Rugby, football, you know. They give your head a lot of hard knocks. Do you think that’s what caused it?”

  “I don’t know, and no one really knows. But living with it may require some changes in your plans for your career.”

  “You’re telling me that the Rhodes and studying international law is out, right?”

  “I’m sorry Kit, but when lawyers have spells in the courtroom, and they appear to be hearing voices or transported to another world, it can be disconcerting to the judge and jury, to say nothing of their clients.”

  “That’s all right. I’ve already written a letter to the committee telling them I was withdrawing my name. Fritz kind of forced that on me.”

  “How could he have done that?” I asked.

  “About six months ago Fritz all of a sudden started acting like he was my closest friend. All chummy, like. Looking back, I see that it was because he knew somehow that I was in the running for the Rhodes, and he must have wanted me out. Well, he spotted my dementia. He knew about it. Said that it had been studied in Heidelberg, where he came from, and he convinced me that we had to keep a record of it. You know, every time I had a spell, how long it lasted, what sort of things the voices I heard sometimes said to me. All that stuff. Then two weeks ago he changes like from day to night and tells me that I am nothing but a farm boy whose mind is gone crazy and that he has let the selection committee know about it. I was devastated. I thought this guy was my friend, but I had to admit, he was right. No choice, right Doc? So I wrote my withdrawal letter, and I’m getting ready to go back to Arkansas.”

  “May I suggest an alternative, Kit?”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  “You should consider a life in academia.”

  “Huh?”

  “Think about it. Your marks in your math classes were positively brilliant. You would fit right in. How many of your professors over the past four years have been hopelessly absent-minded, even making it a badge of honor to appear that way?”

  “Geez, I don’t know, Doc. Maybe a quarter of them.”

  “Exactly. So Kit, all you have to do whenever your mind wanders away is act as if it were totally normal behavior and say something like ‘Oh, dear me, I’m afraid I was thinking about something else t
hat I have been doing research on. Yes. So, what was it we were talking about?’’’

  “That’s what they all say now.”

  “Precisely, and, if you go to Harvard, and they all know that you have been to Oxford, and you learn to speak with that silly Oxonfordian stutter, and are brilliant but absent-minded, you will be as American as apple pie. Come now, give it a try. How are you today, Professor Evans?”

  He looked at me, puzzled for a moment, then broke into a broad smile.

  “Wa…wa…wa… well, I..I..I.. really can’t say. A..a..a…ask me tuh…tuh…tuh…tomorrow.”

  We both laughed.

  “Excellent, now, do you really sound mad, Kit?”

  “Nuh…nuh…nuh..nuh…nuh…no. Not in the least, my dear chap.”

  “Perfect. Now start packing and send a letter off to Harvard. If they know that you have withdrawn from the Rhodes of your own accord and chosen to come home to America, they will be tickled pink.”

  “Hey, thanks, Doc. Hope you’re right. Give my regards to Mr. Holmes. And tell him the real detective’s name is Dupin.”

  I was in much better spirits as I left Kit Evans’s place on St. Clement’s Street and made my way back along the High Street and up to the Lamb and Flag for my meeting with Holmes. At a news agent’s on St. Giles I bought a copy of the afternoon paper that had just been printed and tucked it under my arm so as to have something to read in case Holmes was delayed. But just as I was about to enter the pub I heard footsteps coming up behind me and turned to see my friend, arriving right along with me. He was not smiling, but that was to be expected. He seldom did while in the throes of concentration.

  “Hello, Watson. I see you picked up a newspaper. Have you looked at it yet?”

  “Not a glance, Holmes. Haven’t had a chance yet.”

  “Then perhaps you better.”

  I opened the newspaper on the bar counter between us. I stopped smiling. The headline read: