The Redacted Sherlock Holmes - Volume 4

  The Redacted Sherlock Holmes

  Volume IV

  Orlando Pearson

  Published in the UK by

  MX Publishing

  335 Princess Park Manor

  Royal Drive, London, N11 3GX

  www.mxpublishing.co.uk

  Digital edition converted and distributed by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  © Copyright 2017 Orlando Pearson

  The right of Orlando Pearson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.

  All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The opinions expressed herein are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of MX Publishing or Andrews UK Limited.

  For My Family

  The Baron of Wimbledon

  In the story I have recounted under the title The Führer and his Deputies, I described how in 1937, newly widowed, I moved down to Sussex to share once more quarters with my friend Sherlock Holmes.

  I confess that when I moved, I considered that my days of assisting Holmes with detective work were behind me, but I have already recounted several cases that Holmes undertook after 1937, even though he was well into his eighties.

  The case that follows has the distinction of being the first case that I took part in with Holmes after my move to Sussex. Although my friend’s role in it was perhaps less prominent than I might have wished, its mode of resolution was so unexpected as to merit preservation for posterity although, as my reader will see, there are aspects of the case which will cause this story to be withheld for many years.

  Our clifftop village was a quiet place. We had a thatched cottage with a garden at the back, which was of a suitable size for Holmes’s chosen retirement activity of bee-keeping. Callers were few and far between.

  At about four o’clock on 13 July, Holmes and I were sitting over cups of tea that our housekeeper, Mrs Turner, had left us in a large vacuum flask. The floor was covered in newspapers as Holmes kept up with the foreign as well as the British press and had filled the day so far reading from Le Monde, Corriere della Sera and the Völkischer Beobachter.

  Holmes and I had Mrs Turner, the married name of Mrs Hudson’s daughter, as our housekeeper, but she was only in the house in the mornings. Thus, when there was a knock on the front door, it was I who went to answer it. Standing on the doorstep was a slight, blond-haired man who had an expression on his face of the greatest nervousness.

  “My name is Gottfried Cramm,” he said, in slightly accented English. “I am the leading tennis player in Germany and I would like to see Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

  I escorted Cramm into our small sitting-room and Holmes rose to greet him.

  “Perhaps,” said my friend, “you would like to tell us a little about yourself before you present your petition.”

  “My full name is an aristocratic one,” he said. “On my birth certificate, it says ‘Freiherr Gottfried von Cramm’, but I always introduce myself as Gottfried Cramm. The word ‘Freiherr’ is normally translated into English as ‘Baron’. I have been a notable player of sports since an early age. The game at which I excel is tennis and it is about this I would wish to consult with you.”

  “Gottfried von Cramm,” said Holmes thoughtfully. “I confess I am not a follower of any sport. Perhaps you could you get down the relevant file from the archives, good Doctor,” he said, turning to me, “and we can see what we can add to what Herr Cramm has said.”

  “My name,” said our visitor helpfully, as I made to take down the file of Ks, “starts with a C.”

  I read out “‘Freiherr Gottfried von Cramm. Amateur tennis player,’” this brief entry coming between entries containing an article on another apiarist and material on the medicinal properties of the cranberry.

  I think Holmes had been expecting slightly more than what I had read, but in the end he said, “Is that all there is? The name Cramm sounded very familiar to me, but, as I said, I do not focus much attention on sport, which I regard as a mere metaphor for the struggles of life rather than life itself.”

  “I think I can add some detail to your entry,” said our visitor. “I have three times been a Wimbledon singles finalist, have been a winner of the doubles. And I won the French Open title in 1934 and again last year.”

  I replaced the heavy volume on the shelf.

  Holmes looked at the young man before us and asked: “So Baron von Cramm, you are evidently one of the greatest sportsmen of the age. How am I able to help you?”

  There was a long pause before Cramm responded. To my surprise, Holmes, who was not notable for his domesticity, broke the silence by asking our visitor if he would like to have a cup of tea. To my greater surprise, he then laid out not one but two cups, one of which he filled for our guest.

  “Next week,” began Cramm at length, having sipped from his cup, “I am playing for my country in our Davis Cup tie against the United States of America at Wimbledon. The winner advances to the final to play against the United Kingdom, the current holders of the trophy. Although Davis Cup tennis is a team event played over five matches, the tie is likely to be decided by whoever wins between the American, Don Budge, and me. Budge beat me easily in the Wimbledon final on the Saturday before last, and I want your help in turning the tables on him.”

  “My dear Baron,” said Holmes, “I am into my eighties, have never played tennis, and you are one of the world’s elite players. Why do you think I am able to help you?”

  “You are one of the minds of the age,” said our visitor looking straight ahead. “I have read the books written by Dr Watson here. I do not believe that there is a process in the world which you could not improve if you turned your mind to it.”

  “And,” shot back Holmes, “you have come all the way down from Wimbledon to my retirement quarters in Sussex in this vaguest of hopes that I might be able to help you?”

  “That is so.”

  “And is there is nothing else you wish to discuss?”

  “There is nothing else.”

  Holmes rose from his seat. “I fear that I see no point in continuing this interview. This is a busy time of year for bee-keeping and I must attend to the hives.”

  “Am I to take it,” asked Cramm politely, “that you are unable to assist me?”

  “I regret that in this matter,” said Holmes pointedly, “I am indeed unable to assist you.”

  I accompanied Cramm to the door. When I opened it, standing on the doorstep in the July sunshine was what I can only describe as the most striking middle-aged woman I have ever seen. My reader will recall that in the cases Holmes and I worked on in the 1880s and ‘90s, our clients, or the ladies associated with them, were often young ladies of startling beauty. The fair Mary Morstan, whom I married, was one, the glamourous Irene Adler - the woman, as Holmes aptly called her - was another. The spirited Hatty Doran, who featured in the matter I chronicled under the title, The Noble
Batchelor, was not out of place in the company of the other two.

  For all that she was, as it turned out, nearer fifty than forty, the lady now at our threshold was as striking as any of these women. She had the slenderest figure, a mane of golden tresses which glistered in the July sun, and eyes of the clearest and most piercing blue I have ever seen.

  She ignored me and said to von Cramm in what I knew to be German, “And, was Herr Holmes able to help you?”

  Cramm looked to the floor, unable to answer, so I explained in English, “My friend is not accustomed to providing help on sporting matters.”

  “Sporting matters!” hissed the lady before me in accented English. “Did my son not tell you that he is being blackmailed?”

  “I think you had better come back inside,” I mumbled in reply and brought Frau von Cramm and her son back into our sitting room, where Holmes had already sat down, having poured tea from the flask into the fourth cup.

  “It was obvious, Herr Cramm,” my friend said after we had sat down, “that you would not have come the long way from London to here to ask me a question about tennis when it is a game of which you are clearly a master. Therefore, there was another matter on your mind. And the fact that you chose to talk about tennis once you were seated before me, told me that you had been coerced into coming to see me by someone else.”

  Our visitor declined to comment and sipped his tea.

  “And once,” continued Holmes, “you had declined to speak of the matter that was really on your mind, it was clear to me that that either you would return to London or that that another person would join us. Accordingly, I had a fourth cup in readiness for this fourth person. I felt that tea might be needed to have a soothing effect on what I suspected was in reality a matter far more serious than tennis. Perhaps you would now like to speak freely to me.”

  Even now Cramm hesitated. He looked across at his mother and said, “Are you sure I should speak of this?”

  “My dear,” she forcefully, but not unkindly, “I am sure you have no choice. Openness with Mr Holmes is the only thing that can help you. I will assist you if you stumble.”

  “In 1932,” began the younger Cramm, “I made the acquaintance of a famous singer. We were intimate for about three years although I was married to someone else for some of that time.” I thought he was going to continue but Cramm came to a halt at this point.

  “But, my dear Baron,” said Holmes breaking in, “sportsmen and noblemen have always been given license to indulge themselves in such matters and you are both. What is the shame in this?”

  Cramm appeared unable to continue and looked helplessly across at his mother.

  “Was there a compromising photograph?” asked Holmes.

  There was silence as Cramm continued to look at his mother but eventually he shook his head.

  “Was there a secret marriage?” persisted Holmes.

  Cramm again looked beseechingly at his mother before again shaking his head.

  “A pregnancy?” Holmes pressed.

  Cramm’s mother broke in.

  “Mr Holmes, my son is omitting to tell you that his lover was a man. He is a singer called Manasse Herbst. To make matters more difficult, Herbst is Jewish, and we have a government whose main policy is anti-Semitism. Herbst was hugely successful on the stage, starring in one operetta four hundred times. When the National Socialists ascended to power in our land, Herbst was barred from working on the stage and subsequently fled the country. My son, to my great pride, has breached German regulations on exchange control to support him financially while he is overseas.”

  “I was mad... mad!” said the young German. “I had just married, and on our honeymoon my new wife became intimate with a French athlete. I did not know what I should do.”

  “You did what you thought was right, my son,” said his mother, patting him on the hand. “That is what you have always done.”

  These revelations were, in many ways, similar to revelations Holmes and I had heard many times before in our rooms in Baker Street, but the sexual inclination displayed by Cramm, the background of his lover, and the extreme nature of the German government all added new complexities.

  “And what is it you wish me to do?” asked my friend.

  “Herbst mixed in irregular circles,” replied Frau von Cramm. “One of his acquaintances was a man called Alfred Wanzer. Wanzer found out about the relationship between Herbst and my son. He is threatening to tell the authorities.”

  “And what would be the consequences of that?”

  “As in Great Britain, sexual acts between people of the same gender are punishable by imprisonment. The current regime has recently increased the punishments and, in any case, is often willing to operate outside the law to deal with people of whom it disapproves. I would not wish to speculate what punishment might be meted out to my son were the authorities to hear of the activities for which he is being blackmailed.”

  “And,” asked Holmes, “has your son given any reason to displease the authorities?”

  “I have refused to join the National Socialist party,” said the male Cramm, speaking up for himself at last, “although party membership is expected of my country’s elite sportsmen. Hermann Göring, the Reichsmarschall or marshal of the German empire, is a member of Rot-Weiβ Berlin, the tennis club of which I am a member, and he has sought to persuade me to join, both through blandishments and bluster.”

  “And,” asked Holmes after a pause, “are you paying the sums demanded by this Wanzer?”

  “I am,” said Cramm. “You will understand that tennis is an amateur sport and to play it full time, as I do, requires considerable personal wealth which, fortunately, I possess through my family.”

  “Then,” said Holmes after some thought, “I believe that your best course of action is to continue to pay the blackmailer and to be as successful on the tennis court as you can.”

  “But,” interjected Cramm’s mother, “that is no advice at all other than to continue with the status quo, which is unsupportable.”

  “Consider this, Madame,” replied my friend. “If your son stops paying his blackmailer, Wanzer will almost certainly denounce him. He may in fact do so anyway, or he may be arrested on another matter and talk loosely. But if your son plays well on the tennis courts, the German authorities will be much more reluctant to take action against him as they will not want to punish someone who has made a name for himself as a sports star. The status quo, I regret to say, is the least bad option. But contrary to my initial refusal to help your son with his tennis, I shall watch him in action and see if I have any insights I can offer him. He needs all the help he can get.”

  “I am quartered at the Savoy Hotel,” replied the sportsman, “although I use practice facilities in Surbiton in southwest London, where there is a club with excellent grass courts. Perhaps you could come and watch me practise.”

  The evening saw Holmes engross himself in his archives and address questions to me as he sought to increase his knowledge of tennis - a sport of which I confess I had only a modest knowledge. The next day we journeyed up to Clapham Junction and then down to Surbiton. I had traversed the area though which Holmes and I now passed many times before on the way to cases in Surrey and further southwest, but my gaze was transfixed by the evidence of huge urban development over the time since I had last done the journey. From Clapham to Surbiton stood solid houses as far as the eye could see, where there had only been fields in the 1880s. Surbiton Tennis Club too is surrounded by recently built houses and we were soon on manicured lawns as Cramm limbered up with the club’s coach, the wiry Mr Nickolas Grey.

  Holmes and I sat beside the court as they first warmed up at the service box and then moved to practising ground strokes, hitting balls from one corner of the court to the other before Cramm took up a basket of balls to practise his serve. I saw my friend watch f
irst from the side and then stand at the back of the court behind Mr Grey as Cramm sent down serve after serve to the Surrey professional. The two men then proceeded to play out points. After about an hour of hard pounding, Cramm came over to us.

  “And, Mr Holmes, did your keen eye spot anything that I should or should not be doing?” he asked.

  “I noted,” said Holmes, “that when you did your serve, you sometimes brought the racquet straight through the ball and sometimes it came down on the ball at an angle.”

  “Yes, Mr Holmes,” replied the German. “The second kind of serve you refer to is called a slice. The racquet applies side spin to the ball and that has the effect of making it swerve through the air and kick more off the surface than a ball of its speed and length would normally do when it lands.”

  “I see. And in a match, would you normally slice your serve or try and hit it as hard as you can?”

  “Well, I try and mix it up, but normally try to hit my first serve as hard as I can, and use the sliced serve more on my second serve when I have hit my first serve out.”

  “And can you choose which ball you use when you are playing?”

  “There are six balls in use at any one time and the first set are used for seven games before they are replaced. Thereafter, the balls are changed every nine games. I can use any ball I like out of the six.”

  “And I assume that over the games that they are in use the balls degrade by varying amounts depending on how much each ball is used.”

  “That is so. I normally try to use the hardest ball I can find as it will go the fastest.”

  “May I suggest that as a tactic you try using your sliced serve as your first serve as the balls get older. And alternate between using the softest and the hardest ball in the set of six. That will produce a difference in the bounce each first serve gets. With the very fine margins that top players play with, this is more likely to make your opponent misjudge his return.”

  I could see Cramm listen with some scepticism to the suggestion, but he agreed to try it.