Sherlock Holmes and The Mystery Of Einstein's Daughter

Chapter XIV The Matter Settled, We Return to Baker Street

We were on our way home. Holmes and I sat across from each other in a swiftly-moving railway carriage, he in his long grey travelling-coat and deerstalker cap, Bradshaw’s Railway Guide at his side, Gladstone bag at mine. Paris had come and gone. Ahead lay Calais. Our concern that agents from Moran’s criminal gang would lie in wait for us at Calais or the white cliffs of Dover had dissipated with the weeks spent in Serbia. Soon we would be greeted by our loyal Mrs. Hudson on that fine street laid out by master builder William Baker, nestled in the splendour and squalor of England’s Capital city, over it all the comforting sound of a bell striking from a distant tower.

My comrade filled a pipe and applied a flame. He looked across at me through the blue fumes.

‘The fair sex is your department, Watson,’ he said reflectively, ‘but women never cease to amaze me. So profound is Mileva’s love for Einstein, unless her own letter was thrust before her on the witness stand, I am certain she would affirm in a Court of Law, even on the Holy Bible, that it was her husband and he alone who formulated the magical equation on which he may now build a considerable career.’

His voice softened. ‘I am satisfied we did what was required of us. If Lieserl is not reburied in hallowed ground, Zorka believes the child will continue to live out her natural term as a rusalka. By obliging young Einstein to go - however secretly - to Titel and arrange the reburial of his daughter in holy ground we may have done him a considerable favour. If the matter had festered in Zorka’s mind much longer, the crime she may have committed against his person can only be left to the mists of conjecture. The infant is beyond our powers of reassurance but it is all men’s wish to see justice done - especially to the dead. Lieserl will rest sheltered by Father Florus and the Hand of God. Once done, the rusalka will fall silent, the haunted house become a simple ruin.’

Holmes looked at me reflectively. ‘They may call Zorka mirna ludakinja as much as they wish but she has a remarkable mind. Her enterprise was brilliantly done. She led everyone to believe her old home was haunted while the matter of Lieserl’s final resting place awaited settlement. She has ensured the reburial of an infant in a quiet and beautiful spot, in sacred ground. As to Mileva, due fame has been withheld from her but there are always those who profoundly despise and fear any women with a mind the equal of men or greater. Had we revealed the truth it may not have benefitted her in her lifetime. The hyenas would be unleashed on her. Her enemies would call her an adventuress, a liar, a cheat, a grande horizontale. At least you and I know the truth, Watson.’

He glanced across at me.

‘Until you choose to publish this adventure we must console ourselves that the secret history of the world is frequently so much more interesting than the public chronicles.’

I asked, ‘How do you suppose Zorka gained possession of those letters?’

‘Given Einstein’s lack of acknowledgement of anyone except himself in the new theories, I suggest he thought he had long since got rid of them. It’s entirely conceivable Zorka found them in his waste-paper basket not long after they were written and squirreled them away for a rainy day.’

‘And that rainy day came.’

‘It did’. His eyes twinkled.

‘Now we can return to Mrs. Hudson’s dinners. As to whether we regale her with fishing tales from the Tisza - ’

I nodded. I pondered another matter, the failure of my commission. How was I to break the news to Sir George Newnes?

Holmes sensed my abstraction.

‘My dear friend, you have not brought up the matter which must surely be very close to your heart, certainly your pocket.’

‘Which is, Holmes?’ I enquired as innocently as I could.

‘The Christmas cover photograph for the Strand.’

‘Ah,’ I responded. ‘That matter! I had quite forgotten.’

He tapped me on the knee. ‘When we get back to London I shall commission John Singer Sargent to paint an Alpine waterfall - one of his six-footers. As soon as you purchase a camera - and if my clothes ever dry - I shall pose for you in front of Mr. Sargent’s backcloth of boiling waters, safe in the heart of the Sussex Downs.’

We continued in this happy vein while our train chugged through the long twilight.

Once more in London, an excited Mrs Hudson greeted us. She handed me a telegram. It was from Colonel Moran. We read it silently.

‘To Messrs. Holmes and Watson. 31st May ’05. Trent Bridge. England’s cricketers under Stanley Jackson beat Australia by 213 runs. Bosanquet’s googlies took 8 Australian wickets for 107 runs, second innings.

I am sending you two tickets for the Lord’s Pavilion on August 2nd.

Sebastian Moran (Col.)’

‘Aha! He’s back!’ Holmes exclaimed. ‘He kept his men at bay in order to challenge us to a duel. The wheel grinds ever onward.’

As I climbed the steep stairway to our rooms Holmes called back, ‘What takes place at Thomas Lord’s on August 2nd, Watson?’

‘The centenary Eton versus Harrow match,’ I replied.

‘We have something to look forward to. Our Colonel will want to redress the humiliation we’ve just inflicted on him, no matter what the cost to his well-being.’

‘Or to his life,’ I added, reaching the landing. I pointed at Holmes’s pocket containing the hip-picket Webley.

‘We shall be ready, Holmes,’ I said confidently. ‘If he dares to tangle with us at Lord’s, even on the Mound, he will quickly find himself on the London Necropolis Line with a one-way ticket to Brookwood Cemetery.’

‘Watson,’ Holmes said, unable to repress a smile, ‘no-one can say you are just a galumphing St. Bernard. There is something of the Kipling in you. May I interest you in a Trichinopoly cheroot?’

‘My dear Holmes, I would rather smoke an Old Bailey judge’s Full Bottom horsehair wig.’