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.’