"I am retired," he told her, "but always available if you need me."
She smiled slightly. "I am honored that you should travel across an ocean for me."
"Have you lived in Montreal long?"
She nodded. "After our wedding, Godfrey felt we should leave England. Following a brief time on the Continent, he established quite a successful law practice here and we had a wonderful son, Ralph."
"I remember Godfrey as a remarkably handsome man," Holmes said.
"Sadly, he passed away three years ago. If he was with me now, perhaps I would not have summoned you across an ocean."
"But what of your son? In the telegram you said he had disappeared following a murder."
"That is so. I must tell you the entire story from the beginning. I believe it was his father's death that set Ralph off. He was never the same after that. He took to carousing at night and neglecting his schoolwork."
"What is his age?"
"He is nineteen, about to enter his second year at McGill. He met a young woman during his first year, a pretty red-haired classmate named Monica Starr. She seemed like a nice girl and I had no objection to their friendship. I thought it might get him back on track. But this summer he discovered there was a rival for her affections, a German student named Franz Faber who was entering his final year at McGill. I know the two boys had a fight, and Ralph came home a few weeks ago with a bloody nose. But it wasn't anything more than that. Ralph couldn't have-" Her voice broke then.
"What happened, Irene?" Holmes asked her softly.
"Two weeks ago, on a Thursday night, Franz Faber was stabbed to death outside a pub frequented by McGill students. It has caused a great scandal here. Things like this don't happen at McGill."
"The university was in session during August?"
"They offer some summer courses each year. Apparently Faber was taking a language course. He was a German student with only a basic knowledge of English and French. My son was seen in the pub earlier and the police came to our house to question him. He'd come home about an hour before they arrived and went to his room without speaking to me."
"Was that unusual?"
"He's been moody lately. I thought nothing of it, but when I went to his room to summon him for the police, he wasn't there. Apparently he'd gone out the back door. The next morning I discovered that Monica Starr was missing too. The police are convinced he killed Faber, but I can't believe it. He was moody, yes, just like his father, but he'd never kill anyone."
Holmes tried to calm her. "I will do whatever I can for you, Irene. You must know that. Tell me, is there any place in the city or near here where they might have gone?"
"I'm not even convinced they're together."
"I think we can assume they are, whether or not he committed the crime. Was he friendly with any of his professors or instructors at McGill?"
She considered that for a moment. "There's Professor Stephen Leacock. He's a lecturer at McGill and he's published some economics books along with collections of humorous stories. Ralph was quite friendly with him."
"What about fellow students?"
"Only Monica, so far as I know."
"I'll speak to Leacock," Holmes said. "What about you? Are you still singing?"
She gave him a wan smile. "Very little, occasionally in local productions."
"That's too bad, Irene. You have a lovely voice."
"Find him for me, Mr. Holmes," she said. "You're the only one who can help me now."
"I'll do everything possible."
We walked the short distance to the university, a series of stone buildings reached by a tree-lined carriageway from the street. A monument to James McGill, whose legacy helped found the institution ninety years earlier, stood in front of the central pavilion. Only a few students and faculty members were about, preparing for the upcoming autumn term. We asked directions to Professor Leacock's office and were directed to the political economy department in an adjoining building. Holmes led the way, moving with an intensity that surprised me.
"We have no time to lose, Watson. If the young man has indeed fled the scene it is important that we find him and convince him to return for his own good."
"Do you believe him to be guilty, Holmes?"
"It is much too soon to form an opinion."
When we located Leacock's tiny office, it was occupied by a slender young man who introduced himself as Rob Gentry. He'd been studying a map on the professor's desk and he told us, "Professor Leacock is out right now, but he should be returning shortly. There's an election coming up, you know. Please take a seat, gentlemen."
"Is he active in politics?" Holmes asked.
"Very much so, on the Conservative side. He's campaigning against our Liberal prime minister."
Almost at once a handsome broad-shouldered man with a thick moustache appeared in the doorway. "What's this? Visitors? We will need an additional chair, Rob."
"Yes sir."
"I am Professor Leacock," he said, extending his hand. I guessed him to be in his early forties, with just a hint of gray in his hair. "What can I do for you?"
"We have traveled here from London. This is my companion, Dr. Watson, and I am Mr. Holmes."
"Holmes? Holmes?" Leacock seemed astounded. "Surely not the great Mr. Sherlock Holmes!"
"The same," I replied, speaking for Holmes.
"I have published some humorous pieces about your great detective work, Mr. Holmes. At least I trust you will find them humorous."
Holmes ignored his words. "We have come on an urgent matter, Professor Leacock. Irene Norton has asked my help in finding her son, Ralph, who is suspected of murder."
Leacock seemed to pale at his words. "A terrible tragedy," he murmured.
"His mother says you were a friend of his."
"I still am. This entire business is beyond my comprehension." He shifted some papers on his desk.
"If you know his whereabouts, it would be best for the lad if we found him before the police."
"I know nothing," he insisted.
"Perhaps, but your assistant was studying a map on your desk when we entered, and now you have covered it up."
Leacock was silent for a moment, perhaps weighing his choices. Finally he said, "You are quite the detective, Mr. Holmes. Yes, I know where the boy is."
2. The Chase
Professor Leacock explained that he did his writing during summer vacations at a family cottage north of Lake Simcoe in the town of Orillia. It was some distance away from Montreal, actually north of Toronto. "It's on Old Brewery Bay on Lake Couchiching, but that's really an extension of Lake Simcoe."
"How do you get there?" Holmes asked.
"By train. The Canadian National Railway runs a line from Toronto through Orillia. It passes quite close to my cottage. I came back here with my family in early August as I always do, to prepare for the new term. It was just a few days before Franz Faber was killed."
"Did you know Faber?"
"Not personally. Rob here knew him."
Gentry nodded. "I used to see him in the pub on weekends. If he was between girlfriends we might have a few beers together."
Holmes looked thoughtful. "Did you see him the night he was stabbed?"
He shook his head. "I was at a picnic with some friends."
Holmes turned back to Leacock. "You said you know where young Norton is."
"He came to see me just after I returned to Montreal with my family. He wanted to get away for a few weeks, until the new term began. He wondered if I might know a place where he could go."
"And you suggested your cottage in Orillia?"