A Voice in the Night

THE LOST EQUATION

Emil Kohler was a guy who laughed a lot, chased women, generally enjoyed life, and in his spare time picked up a Ph.D. in physics. But on that gray afternoon, when he walked into a London café, carrying a briefcase, he did not look happy. We hadn’t seen each other since he’d left Baltimore for a teaching position at Brunel University. “Henry,” he said, “it’s good to see you.” We shook hands and he slipped into a chair. “How long has it been?”

“About four years.”

“Well, I see you’ve been moving along. Congratulations.” He dug into the briefcase and produced a copy of my new book, The Philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche. I was still trying to forget my earlier one, an unhappy analysis of George Bernard Shaw which had sold about fifty copies. I’d said good things about Shaw but apparently even he didn’t like it.

He held it up so a customer seated across from us could admire it. “I wonder if you’d autograph it for me?”

I was trying to look modest. “Of course.” I inscribed it For Emil, a man of exquisite taste, and signed it.

“How did you get involved with German philosophy?” he asked.

“Manufacturing cigars can take you down strange roads.” That had been the family business. “Anyway, it’s good to see you, too, Emil.”

“You still with the Sun?”

“I’m the Sunday editor.”

“Beautiful. I always knew you would go places.”

“How is life at Brunel?”

“It could hardly be better, Henry. I don’t think I ever realized how much I’d enjoy teaching physics.” He picked up the menu, but he didn’t seem to be paying much attention to it. “You said you’re also going to Germany on this trip?”

“Yes. Next week.”

“Will you be stopping by to say hello to him? To Nietzsche?”

“He died a few years ago.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear it.” He hadn’t closed the briefcase yet. And I could see distraction in his eyes. “Why don’t you come over to the house tonight, Henry? For dinner. Eliza will be there.”

I had no idea who Eliza was. “I’d like to,” I said. “But I have a previous commitment. Dr. Watson is giving the graduation address this evening at the London Metropolitan University. I’m going to do a story on it.”

“Dr. Watson? The Dr. Watson?”

“Yes. Are you interested? Would you like to go?”

“Really? Can you arrange that?”

“Sure. No trouble at all. Least I can do for a fellow graduate from Baltimore Polytechnic.”

He laughed. “What time?”

“Six o’clock. You’ll be there?”

“Oh, yes. Certainly. Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Good. I didn’t know you were a Holmes enthusiast.”

“Isn’t everybody on the planet?” He was still holding the briefcase open.

“Now why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”

He looked momentarily puzzled. “Nothing. I’m fine. No problems.”

“Let me phrase it differently. What else is in the briefcase?”

He flashed a tentative smile. “Mr. Holmes has nothing on you, has he?” He lifted out a pair of notebooks. “You remember when I left home I told you I was coming here to spend some time with relatives?”

Emil had never known his mother, and his father had died while he was at the Polytech. “I remember you said something about a cousin. His name was Earl, right?”

“It was Steve.” His lips tightened. “Steve Addington. He died while I was on the way over.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “What happened?”

A waiter showed up. We both ordered fish and chips. When we were alone again, Emil continued: “A stroke. He was only thirty-two. Nobody saw it coming. He was a professor at City University. He was on his way home one night but when the coach arrived they found him collapsed inside. Died at the hospital a few hours later.”

“Pity. He was a physicist, too, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. He was the one who got me interested in the field. That was before my family moved to the States.” Emil had blond hair and amiable blue eyes. But they’d become intense.

“So what’s going on?”

He set his elbows on the table, folded his hands, and braced his chin on them. “You know who Einstein is?”

“The Swiss patent clerk who published something about relativity?”

“Yes. Are you familiar with the equation he’s come up with?”

“Not really. I probably shouldn’t admit this, Emil, but I’ve never had much interest in physics.”

“As far as I can tell, Steve was there first, with the relativity research.” He opened one of the notebooks to a page that had been folded over so he could find it easily, and passed it to me. “These are Steve’s.” The page was covered with numbers, symbols, and obtuse terms that meant nothing to me. The only thing I recognized was Newton’s name followed by a couple of exclamation marks. He pointed at a line near the bottom. E=c²m. “You recognize it?”

“Not really.”

“It’s the Einstein equation. Steve had the light and mass symbols in reverse order, but it doesn’t matter.”

“So what’s the point, Emil?”

“This is central to Einstein’s work. Particles can be made to produce substantial amounts of energy. This is the heart of it, Henry.”

“So you’re telling me that your cousin was interested in the same thing Einstein was doing. Why does that matter?”

“Henry, he was ahead of Einstein. This stuff is all dated 1902 and 1903. But he never told anybody.” He took a deep breath. “Steve had the formula two years before Einstein did.” It was beginning to rain. A coach rattled past. I didn’t see it, but it made a lot of noise and reminded me there was a real world out there. “Henry, we’re talking about the biggest scientific breakthrough since Darwin.”

“Okay,” I said. “So why didn’t he tell anybody?”

When Watson, supported by a cane, appeared, he had a slight limp, probably resulting from the injury he’d suffered in the Second Afghan War. But he made it onto the stage and took his place at the lectern without any help. The applause was thunderous, and I wondered if maybe I should put the philosophers aside and start writing crime stories. He waited for the noise to subside. When it did, he thanked his audience with a voice that rang out across the theater, a fortunate quality in an era that did not yet have much in the way of microphones. He congratulated them on this “grand milestone in our lives,” and proceeded to talk about achieving success. “It is essential,” he said, “to learn to believe in yourself. Most of us underrate what we are capable of. Authority figures, parents, teachers, doctors, are always showing us what we do wrong. ‘Don’t touch it; you’ll break it.’ We mean well, but after a while, people begin to believe what they hear.

“Be aware that education doesn’t stop with graduation. Keep your mind open. Don’t assume that a position is correct simply because you happen to believe in it. Follow the facts. If they lead in a different direction, then be willing to make the adjustment. It’s okay to be wrong. Just don’t persist in it. That is the definition of stupidity.”

When he’d finished he got a standing ovation. He bowed, the hall quieted, and he started walking away from the lectern. Suddenly he turned back. “By the way, I almost forgot. An old friend came with me this evening, and I think you might enjoy meeting him.” He looked out into the audience. “Ah, there he is. Sir, would you come up onto the stage for a moment, please?”

Everyone in the building must have known who the friend was. He was seated about three rows back, on the aisle. Before he had a chance even to stand, the place erupted. He got to the aisle, walked to the front of the theater and climbed a half-dozen stairs onto the stage. He acknowledged the ongoing applause with a bow, and waited for Watson to calm everyone down. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the doctor said, “I’d like to introduce Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

That brought another thunderclap. Holmes looked out over the crowded seats, and waited for the noise to subside. “Thank you,” he said. “It’s an honor to be here with the class of 1908. I can’t help wondering what you will live to see in a century that promises such enormous progress.”

When it was over and the students should have been filing out with their diplomas, they instead crowded around the famous pair while they were escorted into a conference room that already contained waiting journalists. Questions were being directed at them as Emil and I showed our passes and entered. “We haven’t seen any more of your work on Mr. Holmes in almost four years. Is it over, Doctor?”

“You mean the writing?” asked Watson. “I doubt it. I still have notes of numerous cases.” He smiled. “All right, I can tell you that two more are coming. The curious business of the Wisteria Lodge will be released at the end of the summer. And the affair of the Bruce-Partington plans will arrive in December.”

One of the reporters clenched a fist and said “Wonderful.”

A hand went up. “Mr. Holmes, are you working on anything now?”

And another: “Is there any chance you will be coming out of retirement, Mr. Holmes?”

“You’re not wearing your deerstalker, sir? Does that have any significance?”

He raised his hands and waited for them to quiet down. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I’ve put on a few too many years to continue running about the London streets. I’m planning on settling in and doing some reading.”

The questions continued for about ten minutes until Watson finally thanked everyone and indicated it was time to go. As he and Holmes headed for the door, Emil leaned in my direction. “Aren’t you going to ask him something?”

“What did you have in mind?”

He rolled his eyes. Security cleared a path for the two guests, but we followed them outside, waited for an opportunity, and closed in on them as they started across the campus. Eventually they noticed us, and the doctor frowned. “Can I do something for you gentlemen?”

“My name—,” I said.

Holmes finished it: “—Is Henry Mencken.”

My jaw dropped. “I didn’t realize I was so well known in England.”

“I’m not sure who you are, Mr. Mencken. But Watson told me you were coming, and no Briton would wear that hat.”

“He’s the author of a new book on Nietzsche,” said Watson.

“Excellent.” Holmes smiled as if he knew who Nietzsche was.

The doctor’s expression suggested he hadn’t been taken in. “Mr. Mencken is also a well-known critic.”

“Well, Watson, I assume we both have a soft spot for critics.”

We shook hands, and I introduced Emil, who appeared overwhelmed. “I’ve always enjoyed your work, Dr. Watson,” he said. “It’s an honor to meet you both.”

The conversation went on in that vein for another minute or so until Holmes started to drift.

Emil hesitated. “Before you leave, sir, I wonder if I could arrange to get your help.”

We took a carriage to the Moonlight Café, which was apparently a favorite of Watson’s. Emil explained about the equation. I expected Holmes to wave the whole business away as a matter of no consequence. There’d been no murder, no theft, no blackmailing. He was, after all, basically a policeman. Why would he be interested in this issue?

But to my surprise, he listened closely to Emil’s account, examined Addington’s notebooks, and eventually pressed his fingertips to his forehead and stared down at the table. “He died in 1904, a year before Einstein’s theory became public, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re a physicist also, Professor Kohler? “ Kohler nodded. “Have you spoken with any of his colleagues about this?”

“There was one he worked with occasionally. Thomas Gordon. I showed these to him but he said he didn’t know anything about it. In fact, he said it’s not possible that Steve could have developed this research. He maintained that if he’d been working on anything like this, he would have said something. He confirmed that particle theory was Steve’s field of interest. But he didn’t believe he could have gotten this far.”

“Was that simply an emotional reaction? Or did he have a concrete objection?”

“He just didn’t think Steve was capable of this kind of breakthrough.”

“Have you discussed any of this with his family? Friends? Anyone other than Gordon?”

“I talked with his parents. He lived with them. They’re my uncle and aunt.”

“And what did they tell you?”

“They said it was news to them.”

“Who else was in his life? How about a girlfriend?”

“There was one. Amy Monroe. She’s married now. Her name is Daniels.” He shrugged. “She didn’t know anything either. Outside the classroom, Steve apparently led a pretty close life. He was devoted to his work and shut everybody else out.”

“It’s certainly curious.” Holmes glanced through the notebooks again, and then handed them back. “So he locked down the discovery of the age but forgot to mention it to anyone. Is that where we’re going with this?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes.”

“Where did they come from?” He was looking at the notebooks.

“His father found them in his office. A few weeks ago. They were thinking about disposing of them but decided to show them to me first. Asked if I could make any sense of them.”

“You’ve checked the handwriting?”

“Yes. It’s Steve’s.”

I was getting bored. It was starting to rain, and watching people outside scurrying for cover was more interesting than the conversation. “Why,” I asked, “do we care? So your cousin came up with relativity first. And kept it to himself. But it’s a subject nobody understands. What’s the difference?” Emil took a deep breath. He was disappointed in me. “I’m serious. I understand you feel an obligation to your cousin, but beyond that, why would it matter?”

Emil glared at me. “This from the guy who’s always going on about reality. And truth.”

“Sometimes an issue really has no significance,” I said. “Suppose we found out that somebody knew about evolution before Darwin? Or discovered electricity when Ben Franklin was three years old. What difference would it make?”

Holmes seemed focused somewhere else. Then: “But wouldn’t we be curious as to why the person who figured out evolution before Darwin didn’t say anything?”

A waiter finally arrived and took our orders, informed us of a special, and left. Watson watched as he returned to the kitchen. “Easy answer there, Holmes,” he said, without returning his attention to the table. “You start talking about evolution in the last century and you get into trouble with the Church. I suspect that’s about over, fortunately, but in Darwin’s time it was a serious hazard.”

“I can’t argue with that,” said the detective, who was possibly not quite as infallible in real life as he was in Watson’s accounts. “If these documents are valid, is there any conceivable reason that Addington would have remained silent?”

Emil shook his head in frustration. “It makes no sense to me.” His eyes were fixed on Holmes. “Can I persuade you to look into it?”

“I must confess it’s of interest,” said Holmes.

“May I ask how much your services would cost?”

“Let’s discuss that later, Dr. Kohler.”

“Okay. I just wanted you to understand I don’t have substantial resources.”

“I’ll require contact information. Addington’s parents, Gordon, and the girlfriend. Amy Daniels, I believe you said. “

“I can provide that now.”

“Good. Watson, I’ll need your help on this.”

Watson looked momentarily disrupted. “Holmes, I’m leaving tomorrow for my Scotland tour.”

“Oh, yes. I’d forgotten.”

“I can help,” said Emil. “Just tell me what you want.”

“Unfortunately, that won’t work.”

“Why not, Mr. Holmes?”

“Because you’ve already spoken to these people.”

“Why’s that a problem?”

“They’ve given you a set of responses. That means they’ll be predisposed to remain consistent.”

“Are you suggesting someone lied to me?”

“No, not at all. But they may have embellished, or forgotten, or exaggerated. I want them to realize they are receiving a fresh start.” Those intense eyes locked on me. “Mr. Mencken, have you a day or two to spare?”

“I’d be pleased to help, Mr. Holmes. But I doubt I’d qualify as a detective.”

“Not necessary. All I need is your presence. To reassure everyone that they are engaged in a quiet conversation, and not a police procedure.”

Watson offered to put me up for the night, but he was leaving on an early train in the morning, so it would not have been convenient. My hotel, however, was on his route home, so we shared the ride. We talked about the weather, and he asked what writing projects I was then occupied with. I explained that my editorial job with the Baltimore Sun kept me busy. “By the way,” I added, “you have a serious writing talent, John. Are you, at some point, going to produce something other than crime reports?”

He rearranged himself on the coach seat, trying to decide whether to read that as a compliment. “Probably not, Henry. They’re very popular, and I’m making far more money than I ever did as a physician.”

“But,” I said, “twenty years from now, these tales will have played out, Sherlock Holmes will have been forgotten, and, barring a change in direction, so will you. We both know it’s not all about money. Have you considered, perhaps, doing some historical novels? Those, when handled by a master, have a tendency to survive. War and Peace and A Tale of Two Cities will never grow old.”

“Thank you for the encouragement, Henry. But I suspect no one will ever confuse me with Tolstoy or Dickens.”

Steve Addington came from money. His parents, George and Emma, lived in a villa on Old Street, in an area crowded with trees and high-rise buildings. Holmes asked the driver to wait. We climbed down out of the coach, walked through a gate, mounted half a dozen steps onto a veranda, and rang the bell.

The door was opened by a short, heavy-set man with a ridge of white hair and eyes that reflected pain. “Mr. Holmes?” he asked, unsure which of us would respond.

“Yes. Good morning, Mr. Addington. This is my associate, Henry Mencken. Thank you for agreeing to see us.”

“It’s an honor, gentlemen. Come in, please.” He led us to a sofa and invited us to sit. A woman entered from another room. “My wife, Emma.”

Emma was blonde. She flashed a quick smile, but she too appeared discomfited. She went immediately to the point: “I always thought there was something strange about the way Steve died. He’d never had a health problem. Then he got into a coach and hours later he was gone. Pray, Mr. Holmes, are you bringing news?”

“No, no, Mrs. Addington. Nothing like that. Those things do happen. We lose people sometimes without warning. And apparently without reason.”

“Then what,” she said, “brings you here?”

It was obvious who was in charge. One more example why no man with half a brain should ever marry. I settled onto the sofa. A cool breeze was reaching us through open windows. Outside somewhere, children shouted and laughed. A coffee table held copies of Jane Eyre, David Copperfield, and a Shakespeare collection. Several pieces of art adorned the walls. One was a portrait of a rather formal couple who did not look as if they’d ever laughed. Another was a landscape, mountains and a waterfall, illuminated by moonlight.

“It’s probably Steve’s notebooks,” her husband said.

“That’s correct.” Holmes lowered himself into an armchair. “There’s nothing wrong. But your son seemed to be far ahead of everyone else in his research.”

“I’m not surprised to hear that,” said Emma.

“Do you know what he was working on?”

“We do now. It was the same as that Einstein person. Relativity.”

George smiled. “Neither of us is a scientist. I’ll confess I have no idea what relativity is about.” He turned to his wife. “Did he ever talk to you about it?”

Emma shook her head, and her lips tightened. “Not really. He didn’t think we were smart enough to understand what he was doing.”

“Did he say that?”

“No. He would never have said anything like that. But it was clear enough that’s what he thought.”

“That’s not fair, Emma. He tried a few times to explain it. He talked about particles and light and I don’t know what else. Neither of us ever had a clue what he was trying to say. Other than that Isaac Newton needed revising.” He smiled as he said it, but Emma turned angry eyes in his direction. “It’s not fair to blame him,” George continued. “It was just over our heads. Or at least it was certainly over mine.”

“Yes,” Emma said. “I guess you’re right.”

“So you didn’t pick any of it up, is that right?”

“Just the name,” said George. “Particle theory. He was studying atoms. Or something small. We didn’t know it was anything like the Einstein stuff until Emil told us.”

Holmes radiated empathy. “I can understand your frustration. I took a long look at some of the news stories about relativity, and—.” He waved it away. “I’m afraid it’s a little too complicated for me, too.”

Emma looked in my direction. “Can we get you gentlemen something to drink?”

“Nothing for me,” said Holmes, with an amiable grin. “Thank you. I have to keep my mind clear.”

“Is that a joke?” asked George.

I opted for a beer.

Emma got up and made for the kitchen.

“I never joke,” said Holmes. “Your son did most of his work at the university?”

“No. Mostly he worked here.” George looked toward a closed door set between the two portraits. “In there. That was his office.” He walked over to the door, opened it, and entered. We followed. An oak desk looked out through a wide window across a carefully-maintained garden. A pair of bookcases were filled with leather-bound volumes, and a chalkboard stood to one side of the desk. A portrait of Galileo hung near the window, and a framed photograph of a young couple occupied the top of a side table.

Holmes strolled through, scanning book titles. They were mostly science and philosophy. Then he turned his attention to the photograph. “I assume this is your son?”

“Yes.”

Emma arrived with the beer, glasses for everyone except the detective. But she stopped when she saw us in an area that she must have considered sacred. “He was everything we had,” she said, lips quivering.

“He was only thirty-two,” said George.

Emma started to say something more, but stopped, not trusting herself to speak.

“I’m sorry,” Holmes said. He helped her with the tray. “I can’t imagine how painful it must be.”

Emma passed out the beer. When the mood had quieted, Holmes asked if the notebooks had been found in the desk.

“Lower right-hand drawer,” said George.

“Is there anything else here in the way of notes, documents, whatever?”

George shook his head. “No. Nothing.” He pointed at the chalkboard. “He used that most of the time.”

Holmes looked down at the photo. “The woman is Amy Monroe?”

Emma nodded. “Yes. They were engaged.”

“Though not when that was taken,” said George.

“When was that?”

“I think it was 1903.”

They were standing on the veranda in the glow of a warm summer day, glasses raised, toasting each other. Amy was beautiful. Chestnut hair and perfect features. She was wearing a light-colored dress with a dark collar. Steve’s jacket had been folded over the handrail. They were laughing, and obviously in love.

“What are they celebrating?” asked Holmes.

George and Emma looked at each other and shook their heads. Both appeared frustrated. “I’m not sure. He’d figured out something, but he didn’t try very hard to explain it to us.”

We left the office, and George closed the door. “Mr. Addington,” said Holmes, “did you notice any change in Steve’s behavior after the photo was taken? Did he become, say, less accessible?”

George laughed. “He was never very accessible.”

“There was something,” said Emma. “But I can’t imagine it would be of any consequence.” She hesitated.

“And what was that?”

“George is right. For the most part, Steve kept to himself. He wasn’t very interested in the outside world. Even where women were concerned. I was surprised when he brought Amy home. Until she showed up, the only thing that ever mattered to him was his work. The physics. Then, about the time that picture was taken, maybe a little later, he got interested in politics.”

“Politics?”

“He began reading the newspapers, which he’d never done before. He started talking about Arthur Balfour. He got excited when they did the first transatlantic radio broadcast with the United States.” She stopped. “Well, I guess that should not have been a surprise. But he became concerned about Germany. About the threat it presented.”

We took the train to Oxford and caught up with Thomas Gordon on the university campus. He was tall, about thirty-five, with animated gray eyes and an Irish accent. “I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Holmes,” he said as we settled into chairs in his office. “And you, Dr. Mencken.”

“I’m not a doctor,” I said.

“Oh. I assumed, since you wrote about a German philosopher—.”

I tried to look tolerant.

Holmes stepped in: “Professor,” he said, “how well did you know Steve Addington?”

“We were probably not more than casual acquaintances. We met at a conference and more or less stayed in touch.”

“You’ve seen the notebooks that were found?”

“Yes. Emil Kohler showed them to me. I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Did he ever discuss his work with you?”

“Steve and I talked about it occasionally. He was interested in particle physics. Not my field. But yes, we got together periodically. Though we never went deep enough that there was any indication of the material in those notebooks. If he’d actually gotten that far, he never gave any indication. Or if he did, I must have been drinking at the time.”

“Do you see any reason to question their validity? They’re in his handwriting. And he died before Einstein’s work went public.”

“I know.” He cleared his throat. “If they’re legitimate—. Mr. Holmes, the concepts contained in that work require a genius. We’re only beginning to get a sense of who Einstein really is. Steve was smart, but it’s hard to believe that he operated on that level.”

“All right. Thank you, Professor. If you think of anything—.”

“I can imagine one scenario that might explain all this.”

“Proceed, please.”

“You understand, of course, that this is all about energy: E=mc².” Gordon leaned back in his chair. “If Einstein has it right, substantial amounts of energy can be derived from atoms. You’ll have to count me among the skeptics on this. But I doubt the oil companies are happy to hear about it.”

“You’re suggesting what?”

“If Steve was on the same track, and the oil companies found out, they might have tried to pay him off. Shut it down.” He took a deep breath. “Look, Mr. Holmes, I think we’ll eventually discover this whole thing is a communication breakdown of some sort. But could it have happened? I’d be surprised if they wouldn’t have at least tried to buy him off. Think about it: Petroleum runs a substantial number of the factories on the planet. And the numbers are increasing. Now we’re introducing coaches driven by petroleum. And aircraft.” He stopped and grunted. “Coal is last year’s fuel. The world belongs to oil. I don’t think they’d want something else getting in the way.”

“Or maybe,” I suggested, “they had him killed.”

“If so,” said Holmes, “they were pretty smart about it. The autopsy indicated he did die of a stroke.”

“Why was there an autopsy?” I asked. “Was there anything that suggested Addison might have been a murder victim?”

“It was because of his age, Henry,” said Holmes. “And his health history. I talked with the doctor who performed the autopsy. He says there’s no question about the cause of death.” He turned back to Gordon. “It looks as if he put everything together during the summer of 1903. Did you know him then?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Did you notice any unusual behavior at that time. In 1903?”

He laughed. “Not really, Mr. Holmes. He got upset about his school’s soccer team, but that was about it.”

“The soccer team?”

“He was a serious fan. And, come to think of it, the Wright Brothers too.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was with him when we heard about that first flight. We were at a party at City University in December. I remember because the place was filled with Christmas decorations. And that’s when the news came about heavier-than-air vehicles.”

“So what happened?”

“He got pretty excited.”

“Excited how?”

Gordon frowned. “He looked worried. I remember wondering why. At one point I assured him that we would not do anything crazy with aircraft. That they’d never be like trains. So if he was worried about having to travel in one, he could forget it. I think I intended it partly as a joke, but as best I can remember, he didn’t think it was funny.”

“Did you ask him why he reacted that way?”

“If I did, he brushed me off. I never got an explanation.”

Amy Daniels was sweeping off her front porch when we arrived. She put the broom down and removed an apron. “Mr. Holmes,” she said after he’d introduced himself. “It’s so good to meet you.” She smiled at me. “I assume this is Dr. Watson?”

“No, Mrs. Daniels, this is my good friend Henry Mencken. He’s an author.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t hide her disappointment. “Well, hello, Mr. Mencken. Please come in.” She opened the door and would have stood aside for us, but of course there was no way Holmes would allow that. He took the door, Amy went into the house, and we followed.

“I don’t know that I can be of much help,” she said. The furniture, which was limited to a settee, a pair of armchairs, and a desk, looked a bit worn, as did the carpet. A wedding picture portrayed Amy and the groom outside a church. Beside it, a clock ticked solemnly. It was approaching 4:30. The desk occupied a corner of the room, its surface largely given over to a machine that vaguely resembled a typewriter. A magazine rack was cluttered with penny dreadfuls.

Holmes smiled as if he knew she was understating her value. “We won’t take much of your time, Mrs. Daniels. All I need is for you to tell us why Steve Addington didn’t reveal what he’d discovered. Where his relativity research had taken him.”

“I have no idea, Mr. Holmes. He never really told me anything.”

“Losing him must have been very painful.”

“It was.” She sat quietly for a moment. “It came out of nowhere. Nobody knew he had a health problem.” Her voice shook.

“I understand your husband is an accountant?”

“Why, yes, he is. How did you know?”

Holmes indicated the machine on the desktop. “I’m not sure there’d be any other reason for a tabulator here.”

“Very good, sir. He’ll be home in an hour.”

“Did he ever meet Steve?”

“Just to say hello. They never really communicated with each other. I’d have been in the way of that, I suppose.”

“Of course,” said Holmes. “Now, just to be clear, you say he never explained to you what his research had uncovered?”

“No. He did not.” She pushed her brown hair back and shrugged.

“Did he mention at all the fact that he’d made a major discovery?”

“There were a few times he told me about making progress on something, but he never really took it beyond that.”

“There’s a photograph of you and him, raising glasses of wine at his place. Celebrating. I’m sure you remember it.”

“Yes. I remember it.”

“What were you celebrating?”

“It was his birthday.”

“You were both out on his porch. It was obviously a summer day.”

“That’s correct.”

“Can you tell me when his birthday was?”

She had to think. “April something. I forget exactly when.”

“You’re sure it was in April?”

She inhaled. “Mr. Holmes, why don’t we let it go?”

“Because there is a story that may gain credence. That could destroy Steve’s reputation.”

“What story is that? He was a good man. A decent man. He never would have—.”

“He may have uncovered a power source that could have threatened the profits of the oil companies. They may have bought him out. Paid him to bury what he had.”

“Ridiculous. He would never do a thing like that.”

“Once it gets out, that kind of rumor will not be stopped. There’s even talk they might have had him murdered. Why don’t you tell me what really happened?”

She froze. Looked toward me. I smiled, as if we already knew the truth, whatever it might be. “The oil companies never knew about it.”

“About what, precisely?”

“He made me promise not to say anything.”

“Why?”

“Because he thought his discovery was too dangerous.”

“In what way?”

“It had military implications.”

She folded her arms and Holmes sat waiting. “Mrs. Daniels,” he said finally, “can you be more explicit?”

“He said that it could be used to develop a single bomb that would have the capability to destroy London. And I know how that sounds. I didn’t believe it either. I still don’t. But he did.”

“I see,” said Holmes.

“Please,” she said. “Keep this to yourself. I’ll deny it if it gets out.”

“We won’t reveal any of this unless it becomes necessary.”

“He would not want you to say anything, Mr. Holmes, even if his reputation was at stake.”

“It’s not likely to matter because the research was completed by Albert Einstein. Mrs. Daniels, thank you for your assistance.” Holmes looked my way. “Well, Henry, I think we’re done here.”

“Mr. Holmes,” she asked. “What do you plan to do?”

“A single bomb capable of destroying London? I think perhaps whatever would later bring on the stroke was already making Addison delusional. It hardly seems like something we need worry about.”

I went on to Germany, did some sight-seeing, and visited relatives. When I got back to Baltimore, a letter was waiting for me. It was from Holmes. He said he’d passed the information on to his brother Mycroft, who has a position high in the British government. “Mycroft checked with Einstein,” he wrote. “We’ve been advised there’s no reason for concern.”