Sherlock Holmes and The Mystery Of Einstein's Daughter

Chapter V Albert Einstein

Professor Eli Sobel emerged from behind the rock face and scrambled down to join us. ‘Gentlemen, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ he apologised. ‘I couldn’t approach you at the University among all those people because of the confidential nature of a request I wish to make. ’With a diffident look at Holmes, he continued.

‘I wouldn’t normally ask such a thing of a world-famous sleuthhound but it is a matter of some account to the Physics Department. It concerns a Swiss citizen of German birth; a young physicist at present employed as a technical assistant in the Federal Office for Intellectual Property in Berne.’

‘His name?’ asked Holmes.

‘Albert Einstein. He seeks the post of Lecturer in my Department. The Rector needs to be entirely sure of his good character before we can accept him in the faculty.’

‘My dear Professor,’ Holmes returned, with the flicker of a frown, ‘establishing the bona fides of this Albert Einstein seems to me entirely routine. Check with the police or Doctors’ Commons or their equivalent where-ever he has lived over the past ten years and you have it. I see no difficulty on your part in discovering all you need.’

‘I assure you we carried out the usual investigation into the young man, then two mysterious messages in German were sent anonymously to the Rector.’

Our guest thrust a torn piece of paper at us.

‘Mr. Holmes, I know of your facility with the language. Most of the great works of chemistry are in German. You will have read them in the original. For Dr. Watson’s benefit I have put the English translation by its side.’

Written with a sharp pen in red ink the note stated

A. Einstein is applying for a teaching post at the University. What of Lieserl?

Holmes looked up at our visitor quizzically.

‘What of Lieserl, Professor?’

Professor Sobel shook his head.

‘My enquiries have revealed absolutely nothing. It seems to be a Swabian name. Einstein is from Swabia where they speak an Alemannic dialect of High German. I need to discover if the reference to a Lieserl has any importance.’

He fixed my comrade with a beseeching look. ‘Mr. Holmes, I would be most grateful if you and Dr. Watson were to take up this matter.’

I intervened. ‘What do you know of the lad’s private life?’

‘Little except that two years ago he married a woman he met at the Zurich Polytechnikum. They studied physics together. She’s from Serbia.’

‘I presume you have brought this note to the young man’s attention?’ I asked.

The Professor nodded. ‘The lad begged me to accept his solemn oath that he knew nothing about a Lieserl.’

‘He denied it completely?’ Holmes enquired.

‘I would apply the word stürmisch.’

‘Vehemently,’ Holmes translated for my benefit.

The Professor reached into a pocket. ‘It would all have petered out - but yesterday morning the Rector received the second note.’

Holmes stared at the scrap of paper and passed it on to me. The ragged edge showed it was torn from the first note. In the same red ink and hand it read simply: Titel.

‘Titel?’ I enquired. ‘Is that “title” in English?’

Professor Sobel shrugged. ‘Possibly. Or it could refer to an academic degree, Akademischer Titel. Or betiteln is what you call a nickname. Or it may refer to Rechtstitel - legal title. We don’t know what it means.’

The Professor pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and stared at Sherlock Holmes.

‘These notes have disturbed the Rector, hence my presence here.’

Holmes thought for a while and asked, ‘And the name of the woman Einstein married?’

‘Family name Marić,’ came the reply. ‘Mileva Marić. They say she is a genius at mathematics.’

‘Do you have any reason to believe Einstein’s wife is attempting to thwart his wish to join your Department?’ Holmes asked.

‘Far from it,’ came the emphatic response. ‘If those notes are aimed at warning us off Einstein, they cannot be from Mileva. Several weeks ago she sent me this letter. It shows she is manifestly desperate for us to take her husband’s ambitions seriously. She says she could even complement his knowledge of physics with her knowledge of mathematics.’

He reached into a pocket. ‘Mileva enclosed this certificate with the letter to prove her prowess. It shows she outclassed Albert in mathematics at the Polytechnikum.’

He paused. ‘There is one anomalous fact. The same document shows that in 1899 Mileva achieved a 92% mark in physics - exactly the same as Einstein’s - yet when the time came to sit her Diploma dissertation she failed twice.’

‘When did the second failure occur?’ Holmes enquired.

‘1901. After that she went back to her parents’ home in Novi-Sad.’

‘Professor, what of this Einstein? How would you describe him?’ I interjected.

‘Brought up in Ulm and Munich. A middle-class Jew. Something of a loner. In character he is brazen beyond his better interests. He wishes to become a member of the Department yet he raises the faculty’s hackles by flaunting a taste for flamboyant clothing - typically a sorrel-coloured cape in le style anglais, a short top-hat, even a nornate cane. He has high aspirations. The fellow is hardly 25 years of age yet he questions Faraday’s law of induction. He failed even to complete his degree at the Munich Luitpold Gymnasium. He failed in his first go at the entrance exam to the Zurich Polytechnikum. When eventually he graduated from the Polytechnikum he wasn’t hired for an assistantship - the usual course for the School’s graduates. His first doctoral thesis was refused. He failed to obtain a teaching post in Switzerland. And despite all this he aspires to tamper with the Laws of Newton.’

‘And in his favour?’ Holmes asked drily.

The Professor smiled. ‘There is something about this stubborn young man which makes me feel he has the makings of a Newton or Kepler. He could turn out to be a rara avis in the world of physics. That’s why I want him in my Department. The scientific field is ripe for the emergence of a towering name. Who knows? It could be Einstein.’

Holmes picked up the letter and the document. He stared at them for some moments. To my amazement he said, ‘I am inclined to accept the case. There is something perplexing in all this which fascinates me extremely.’

The Professor uttered a sigh of relief. ‘I shall of course ask the University to cover your expenses, gentlemen, no matter where the trail may take you. Personally I hope you find nothing more discreditable about the lad than vanity, flat feet and extreme foot perspiration. He wouldn’t be the only one with such afflictions in the Physics Department.’

During the walk back down the mountain Professor Sobel suggested we return to Berne. ‘Go to the Café Bollwerk in the Rotes Quartier for lunch. You might get a glance of Einstein there. He leads a company of six young scientists calling themselves the Olympia Academy.’

‘How shall we recognise Einstein, what does he look like?’ I asked.

‘Physically, not tall,’ the Professor replied. ‘Quite broad shoulders. Light brown complexion. A slight stoop. And a garish black moustache. You will see why Einstein and his colleagues irritate the Rector. In naming themselves the Olympia Academy they deliberately mock the official bodies that dominate science. The Bollwerk is where the “Academicians” sometimes gather around noon. At the very least you might bump into his colleague from the Federal Patents Office, a Michele Besso.’

Some distance short of our hotel the Professor took his leave. As he did so he called back, ‘Mr. Holmes, young Einstein’s fate lies entirely in your hands.’

‘Watson,’ Holmes remarked suddenly, ‘I suggest we return to the Hotel Pension Stechtelberg. Serbia lies on our horizon. We shall take up the Professor’s suggestion to visit the Café Bollwerk. We can donate our bicycles to the Olympia Academy. I would rather ride a mustang backwards, chased by scalp-hungry Sioux Indians, than peddle the wretched things through the baking plains of Serbia or the mountains of Montenegro.’

One of Sherlock Holmes’s defects - if, indeed, one may call it a defect - is his unwillingness to communicate his full plans to any other person until the instant of their fulfilment.

‘Serbia, Holmes?’I spluttered. ‘If I am to be frank with you, there is nothing in this matter for us. There isn’t a man at Scotland Yard, from the oldest inspector to the youngest constable, who wouldn’t reject this case out of hand. This is hardly another summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, it equates more to giving advice to distressed governesses.’

I continued in full flow. ‘Besides, I can’t see how I can entice the editor of the Strand into publishing an enquiry into the internal matters of a university Physics Department. What is there here to fascinate my readers? Where is the conspiracy, betrayal, murder, to feed their hunger? Can you imagine the schoolmaster, the doctor, the tradesman, solicitor, engineer, each clamouring at the railway bookstalls to buy a copy for the long journey home, only to discover a narrative about a Swabian Jew and his sweaty feet?’

My indignation mounted. ‘More to the point, we’re hardly likely to become rich beyond the dreams of Croesus. There isn’t even a payment! What’s more, I have lost my fee for the photograph.’

Holmes looked at me, unable to suppress a smile. ‘I hold there is more to this present case than we can possibly know, Watson. The second note. Doesn’t it indicate a very pretty little mystery?’

‘Titel?’ I queried.

‘Cast your mind back, Watson, to the time the Prince Regnant of Bulgaria asked us to change to second class carriages at Marchegg. Did you fail to note the instruction on one of the destination boards, ‘For Titel take the service to Novi-Sad/Újvidék’?’

‘Holmes!’ I exploded. ‘I’d have thought our time in Bulgaria was enough experience of the Balkans for any one life-time - once again we shall be in shot-and-powder country. If we suspect a jilted woman, why not Swabia or Zurich where Einstein spent so much time? By summer the whole of Serbia will be a boiling cauldron of disease. I invite you to take your pick of which pestilence you’d most like to send us to a premature grave. If malaria fails to harm us, there’s always typhus, cholera, measles and chicken-pox just over the horizon. Balkan rat fleas still carry the Yersinia pestis bacterium which causes the Black Death. By comparison the ravages of diphtheria in Birmingham in the 1870s will be as nothing.’

Holmes’s mouth twitched in a slight smile. ‘My dear Watson, whoever wrote those notes to Professor Sobel has decided we would be wasting our time anywhere but Serbia. At the very least Titel will take us far from Colonel Moran and his men. For a while longer you must suppress your desire for the amiable Mrs. Hudson’s green peas each evening at 7.30 sharp.’

He went on, ‘Did you notice the type of paper the notes were written on?’

‘Not especially. Only that it wasn’t Bohemian paper. As I recall, it was unbleached and similar to hard antique paper.’

‘Good, Watson. The paper is much too sturdy for normal correspondence. Given your time in Afghanistan with the Berkshires I’m surprised you failed to make more of it. I shall forgive you because such paper is no longer used by the major Powers for the tube section of shot-shells but such paper still continues to be used for encasing ammunition in the Balkans.’

‘Of course!’ I exclaimed. ‘Cartridge paper!’

‘As to the cover role we should adopt,’ Holmes continued, ‘now you are without a camera, the same attire will do perfectly well for a fisher. I shall ask Mycroft to go to Hardy’s and arrange for a pair of ferruled fly rods to be delivered to us under assumed names, one for salmon, the other a single-handed for trout. I shall also request a collection of James Gregory lures - and some flies. How about Mr. W. Senior’s Red Spinners on a Snecky Limerick grilse hook? For cloudy days this fly should, I think, be dressed with a dark shade of tinsel and the coch-y-bondu hackle. What d’you say?’

My jaw dropped. Where had Homes picked up so much angling knowledge? Not once had I seen him on a river-bank, rod to hand.

That night I lay in bed retracing my steps during long-gone days and nights. The Alps triggered memories of the mountain ranges of Afghanistan in 1880 on the eve of the Battle of Maiwand. I recalled in vivid detail my first night sleeping under the stars. The rustle of trees. The hump-backed moon. The alarms and excursions, rumour and counter-rumour. Heliographs flashing in the rising sun. The crackle of Martini rifles.

I relived our punitive expedition’s early morning marches across rickety bridges over mountain streams to reach the Pass and confront Ayub Khan before he could lead his men a final fifty miles south-east to Candahar. Rumour circulated that St. Petersburg had supplied Ayub Khan with three thousand Turcoman cavalry. The rattle of our Gardner guns echoing Ayub’s superior Nordenfelts. Attack and counter-attack, cold then hot. The slaughter. The terrible heat. Suddenly, astonishingly, the galloper clattering up with the shout, ‘Sauve qui peut.’

The rout was over. We had lost what we had expected to be one of the lesser hill wars. Out of the Brigade’s two-and-a-half thousand brave soldiers almost a thousand lay dead. The wounded endured the nightmare journey to a line of hospitals in Peshawar and Rawal Pindi, Deolali and Nowshera, where cholera awaited them. Young Rudyard Kipling later wrote of the battle:

There was thirty dead an’ wounded on the ground we wouldn’t keep -

No, there wasn’t more than twenty when the front began to go -

But, Christ! along the line o’ flight they cut us up like sheep,

An’ that was all we gained by doing so.

I thought of the rotting, uncoffined bodies of the dead in the mortuary-tents. I thought more cheerfully of Bobbie, the regimental mascot, wounded like me at Maiwand but able to make his way back unaided to his kennel at the fort, to die many happy years later, safe in England’s bosom. The campaign had brought promotion and honours to many, but for my Army career it had nothing but misfortune. With the shoulder wound, my time in the East had come to its end.

In the morning a dog-cart bearing the insignia of the Swiss mails clattered up to the Hotel Pension Stechtelberg. It brought the fishing equipment sent by the assiduous Mycroft. He had included a brand-new copy of Philip Geen’s What I Have Seen While Fishing and How I Have Caught My Fish. The Angling guide was accompanied by a slip with the author’s scribbled words: ‘Dr. Watson. From the President of the London Anglers. See you at Euston Jan. 14. Bring Lob worms. Long live shoals of 3lb roach’.

I had met the grand old salmon-fisher some years before when I set out to entice Holmes to follow in Boswell’s and Dr. Johnson’s footsteps through the Highlands and Western Isles. Instead, Holmes had turned the proposed fishing trip to Scotland into an opportunity to rid himself of my company for a while. I found myself companionless in the smoking saloon of a sleeping-car surrounded by a merry and boisterous crew of gentlemen, fishermen all. They suffered from the insidious malady my medical skills could never remedy, spring salmon fever.