Mycroft took his cup and said, “Sir John’s concern, dear brother, is with future officers who must be trained to lead by example.”
“Well,” said Sherlock Holmes wonderingly, “I should have thought that I was the last person to come to for advice on naval training!”
He swept his coat-tails round him and sat down. Sir John Fisher gave a sigh.
“Then you have not heard of Patrick Riley, have you, Mr Holmes?”
“I do not think so.”
“I suppose that is something to be thankful for. Just at present, the fewer people who know of him the better! The press are lying quiet at the moment, but that will not last. Riley is a cadet, fourteen years old, at St Vincent’s Naval Academy, not far from Ventnor on the Isle of Wight.”
“Then I have certainly not heard of him. Why should this youth be of such importance?”
Fisher put down his cup and saucer.
“St Vincent’s is a private academy, but it is licensed by the Admiralty and therefore of consequence to us. Until a few years ago, in the Royal Navy, we used to take cadets for our own naval colleges at twelve years old. That was eventually thought to be too young. The minimum age was raised to fourteen. Unfortunately, this opened the way for private academies like St Vincent’s to take younger boys as cadets, during those previous two years. Frankly, these private institutions are a thorn in my side and I would happily make a bonfire of them all. However, they exist, and their sole purpose is to prepare younger boys for entrance to the senior Royal Naval Academies of Osborne and Dartmouth, between the ages of fourteen and sixteen.”
“I confess,” said Holmes, “that such places are a closed book to me. Tell me, how are these younger boys trained? Could they not go to school in the normal way before entering Osborne or Dartmouth?”
Fisher shrugged.
“Of course they could, but their parents do not think so. They want them trained as miniature Royal Navy lieutenants. Far the greater number, even at twelve years old, are classed as Executive Officers or ‘Deck Officers’ of the future. Heroes of Captain Marryat’s adventure stories, famous names of the fleet who steer the ships to battle and fire the guns. A preparation for a career of death or glory.”
“And what of the smaller number?”
“Precisely,” said Fisher with emphasis. “In the past ten years, that smaller number has been educated rather reluctantly by these same schools as Engineer Cadets. They are less glamorous. They do a good deal of algebra, trigonometry and physics. They come from less wealthy homes—often by virtue of scholarships. I have beaten my brains out to make some of my colleagues accept that the romantic days of masts and sails have gone for ever. Turbine, coal and oil are here to stay. Without the best engine-room officers, the Royal Navy may as well spend the next war at anchor in Scapa Flow. You understand me?”
“Entirely,” said Holmes placidly, “You are, as always, correct. What has this to do with Patrick Riley? Is he an Engineer? And what is St Vincent’s? Who, for example, is its guiding light?”
Sir John raised a forefinger.
“One moment. St Vincent’s and its competitors claim to give pupils a head start when they take examinations for cadetships at the senior institutions. At that point their pupils enter the Royal Navy proper as midshipman cadets and pass out as lieutenants at eighteen. The junior schools give them a taste of it. They employ retired petty officers to impart lessons in drill and to keep a form of naval discipline. Such schools are always on the coast so that seamanship may be taught through sailing and rowing—‘pulling,’ as we call it. For the greater part, though, the teachers are what you would find at a fee-paying school for boys of that age.”
“And the guiding light, if I may inquire again?”
“The headmaster? No one of importance, except in the scandal that is now brewing. Reginald Winter is a Master of Arts from Oxford. He has always been a schoolmaster, rather advanced in years by now. He has never served in the navy and nor have most of his colleagues. Previously he was assistant master at St Anselm’s College, Canterbury. I am assured that his heart is in the right place. In other words, he talks like a man who has been present at every naval engagement since Trafalgar. But, as the song says, when the breezes blow he generally goes below. A martyr to acute seasickness.”
“So, I believe, was Lord Nelson.”
“Nelson got somewhat further than the Isle of Wight!”
Holmes inclined his head in acknowledgement and then glanced at his brother.
“Very well, Sir John, I understand your concern and the reason for your visit. I am not at all clear how it involves Mycroft or what his interest may be.”
Mycroft Holmes turned his large head slowly upon his sibling, the firm heavy features and the deep-set grey eyes rather suggesting a battleship’s gun-platform bringing a target into its trajectory.
“It is not I, Brother Sherlock, who hold an interest. What is it to me? It is the Prime Minister who is concerned.”
“About Patrick Riley? Quite absurd.”
“Not Patrick Riley! Mr Asquith sees clearly that it was a grave error for the Admiralty ever to become associated with a cramming-factory like St Vincent’s. Such institutions carry the reputation of the Royal Navy, yet they are ill-regulated and a likely cause of scandal and demoralisation. Will that do for you?”
“Amply,” said Sherlock Holmes with an ill-judged insouciance. “What would the good Mr Asquith have me do?”
I knew privately that Holmes abominated the current Prime Minister, and his tone was, to say the least, ill-judged. Mycroft looked at him coldly and said, “To carry out an inquiry of your own. What else?”
“And where shall I find Master Patrick Riley in this mare’s nest?”
Sir John Fisher dropped his voice, as if he still feared an ear at the keyhole.
“Riley has been at St Vincent’s for almost two years as an Engineer Cadet. At first he seemed exceptionally gifted in that direction, but I cannot think he has been happy there. Ten days ago there was a most distasteful incident. It is charged that this boy stole a postal order from the locker of a fellow pupil in the so-called reading room on Saturday week. Cadet John Learmount Porson was the other boy. He was also an Engineering Cadet in the same class as Riley.”
“A friend?” Holmes asked.
“Riley says so. Porson had received the postal order for ten shillings and sixpence from his parents by first post on the Wednesday, I believe. He had mentioned this to others in his mess because he was going to use the money to buy a model engine. The order was clearly visible upon his desk that evening, while he wrote a letter to his parents thanking them for it. They have old-fashioned double desks and Riley shared with Porson.”
“Was the order cashed?”
“It was, but not at the school, of course. With permission, the boys are allowed into the village of Bradstone St Lawrence on Saturday afternoons, usually to visit the post office or the local shop. My information is that it is alleged Riley stole the postal order from the unlocked locker and forged Porson’s signature to it. He is further alleged to have cashed the order at the village post office for a ten-shilling note and a sixpence piece at about two-thirty. Porson had intended to cash it himself later that day. At four o’clock he discovered it was missing.”
Holmes relaxed, almost as if he found such a commonplace crime soothing. He looked Fisher in the eye.
“Since you have bothered to tell me about this, I assume that Riley denies the theft?”
“At first. Now he refuses to discuss it. He had a permit but claims he was in school bounds until three o’clock. I fear there is more to come.”
“His silence is taken as an admission of guilt?”
Fisher lifted a hand.