More Professor Mysteries

By John Hulme

Around The College Henry Wodeash is known as ‘The Professor’. This pipe-smoking biologist likes solving mysteries. In this new collection of four short stories, The Professor and his junior colleague are once again confronted by strange and unusual happenings that appear to have no logical explanation - just the sort of challenge ‘The Professor’ enjoys. They explore the dirty world of cheating on college examinations by finding out what happened to a missing crossword puzzle clue. Putting salve on a burnt foot eases the pain, and leads to the mystery of dying corn plants and jumping genes. At the oldest brewery there is a mystery fermentation that needs solving, because it is impossible, unless you know all about wort, and then there are valuable orchids that have been saved from disaster, but no one knows - ‘who done it’; except ‘The Professor’.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Hulme
• Release date: Jul 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463074398

John Hulme

John Hulme is a retired Professor, now living and writing in Florida. He was educated in England - a long time ago - and arrived on the shores of New York carrying a single suitcase and lots of ideas. He has written several hardcover science books and was an early user of the fledgling internet as a teaching tool. Before retirement he wrote a set of fictional science stories about Gregor Mendel - the person who discovered genetics, which he is now converting into ebooks. Since retirement he has started on a long-cherished writing project of historical fiction - which you may be seeing soon.

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More Professor Mysteries

by

John Hulme

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2019 John Hulme

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews..

This is work of pure fiction. All names, characters, places and events or instances are totally the product of the author’s imagination and are used throughout the work in a fictitious manner. Any accidental resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, colleges, businesses, companies, actual events, or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Table of Contents

The Professor and the Missing Clue

The Professor and the Scottish Thistle

The Professor and Batch 13

The Professor and the Cheese Sandwich

About the Author

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THE PROFESSOR AND THE MISSING CLUE

WITH A DEEP, deep sigh I checked the last row of numbers in my grade book, did the calculation once more, picked up the HB pencil and darkened the appropriate box on the official grade roster provided by the Registrar. I closed the folder. My duty for another semester was finally done.

Since joining the faculty at The College a few years ago there has been only one duty/task that I do not enjoy, that of giving out grades at the end of my Biology courses. Being the most junior Assistant Professor in the Department, and the lowest in rank and status, I was usually assigned to teach the IntroBio course that every student at The College was required to take before graduation. This was a definite pleasure, mixed with a splash of pain at the same time, as, for almost all the students in my classes, this would be their only exposure to any kind of rigorous science. The duty and responsibility this placed on my narrow shoulders was heavy indeed.

I therefore poured a lot of time and effort into seeing that my students got the best exposure to science and biology I could provide with the limited budget I was allowed. Gratifyingly, most of their evaluations reflected their appreciation of my endeavors. There was only one element in this vital transfer of knowledge from me to them that neither of us took any pleasure in doing; at the end of the course I had to give them each a grade.

So as to be totally objective about this task I based all my final grades on the student’s performance in a minimum of two multi-part examinations; the midterm and the final exam. The previous week all my students had taken the last of these tests and since then I had spent most of the time I was not in the laboratory grading these results. That morning the Registrar of The College had sent me his official Grade Rosters and I had given a deep, deep sigh and begun the process of transferring my results into his required format.

This was now complete, I could turn in my Grade Rosters and finally be free to get back to my laboratory and my research into the mysteries of a new, exciting, strange biological molecule - DNA. About six months ago I had been awarded a NASA research grant to use my own, special technique for separating different kinds of DNA molecules and evaluate how their ratios changed under different kinds of cellular stress. This would be important knowledge for human cells as more of them travelled to the Moon.

But first, I had to take my Grade Rosters to the Department office and hand them in.

Holding down all my papers was a yellow jacketed book entitled Techniques of Nucleic Fractionation which I picked up and allowed myself a movement of nostalgia. In my entire academic life I had only once come close to failing a course - because of this book and an angry ex-girl friend. I had made the mistake of breaking up with her a week before my final exam. In revenge she had hidden this book at a vital moment in my pre-exam studies. After a day of panic and by sheer luck, I found it just in time to read its contents, complete the course and to get a decent grade.

Deep sigh.

Then onto the Biology Department office where I handed my Grade Rosters to the Department Secretary, a robust, rotund, highly efficient martinet who, by shear determination and force of will, kept the whole Department functioning smoothly and all the faculty firmly in their appropriate place. I always treated her with the greatest respect; it would be fatal for me if I ever annoyed her.

Excellent, Professor, you are the first. Well done. This was high praise indeed and I allowed myself a small smirk of satisfaction. Don’t go, the Deputy Chairman wants a word. I was just about to call you. The smirk died a quick death and a pat on the shoulder told me it was too late to escape.

Ah, there you are, good, a quick word if you please.

Professor Richard Meyers was a thin man of medium height, very dark curly hair and a mind like a steel trap. He never forgot anything and was ruthlessly efficient in a way that made him a lot of enemies, but kept The Biology Department one of the best run and well organized on the whole Campus.

You are good friends with Henry, aren’t you? Well, I want you to use your influence and get him to hand in his grades on time this year. Ask him, beg him if you have to, but make him comply with college regulations.

He was, of course, talking about Professor Henry Wodeash, better known to almost everyone on The Campus as ‘The Professor’. Officially his area of expertise was quantitative parasitology, but unofficially there was no limit to his diverse areas of knowledge which spread out to include everything concerning tobacco and almost everything about solving mysteries. This was his passion as I had discovered after becoming his mentee and assistant. For some reason I could not explain, Prof. Wodeash had taken a liking to me when I first arrived on Campus as a very new, very naive, newly minted Assistant Professor. He took me under his wing and prevented me from making most of the mistakes I would certainly have made without his guidance.

I suspected that the Deputy Chairman was over estimating my influence on The Professor, but I hastily agreed to give it a try.

Good man, He patted my shoulder again, then his mind switched to other considerations and I gratefully moved sideways. Having nothing better to do at that moment I walked down the corridor, away from the Department office and towards a tall, cute undergraduate student with long blond hair standing nervously outside The Professor’s office.

Hello, I said to her, are you waiting to see Professor Wodeash?

Oh, no, she hurried to assure me. I’m waiting for Yegor. He’s in there with the Professor.

Everything about this girl screamed ‘Sweden’ from the blond hair, deep blue eyes, perfect cream skin and svelte figure that didn’t have a single defect. She was unfortunately wearing the required undergraduate uniform of non-description, but I noticed one tiny sign of individuality, a small brown feather pinned to her shoulder, which she kept touching with her left hand every time she mentioned Yegor.

I’m going inside, I told her, do you want me to see if they are finished?

No, no, she hurriedly assured me again, I’ll wait. I know they are talking about important stuff. Saying goodbye, probably. We are off to California in a couple of days.

Congratulations, I said, pushing open the door which was not usually locked when The Professor was in residence, and went inside. There I found The Professor and his guest about to make tea.

Ah, junior colleague, there you are, come in. Oolong I hope?

Certainly, I knew how to reply. The Professor was a short, portly, bespectacled, balding man of later years in life who was a favorite of all undergraduates and the arch enemy of all administrators. Standing next to him was a much younger man who we had got to know quite well over the last semester.

Hi, Yegor, I said, taking a chair.

Hi, Prof, he replied in a thick accent.

I saw a girl outside waiting for you, I told him.

He shrugged and did not comment. Yegor Dorokhin was a graduating student who had been at The College a remarkably short length of time and was graduating well before most of his entering class. An immigrant from the Soviet state of YalamaNabra’nyet which, I was assured was near Sovetskoy, but was a fiercely independent part of a tiny Republic on the Caspian Sea.

I watched him a bit nervously. He was well built, broad shouldered and square jawed, not the sort of person you want to tell that he had not done well in his last course - the IntroBio course we had just finished. Among the grades I had just handed in was one for Yegor Dorokhin which would not make him happy. Throughout his undergraduate career he had ‘aced’ every course he had taken, until mine. He was an exceptionally bright student but had failed to apply himself to his last course (a common failing among students), and thus had not done well.

Get the tea caddy for me, The Professor requested, breaking into my disturbed thoughts, Yegor and I were saying goodbye. He’s off to California to take up a very prestigious scholarship at The Major Californian University.

I picked up The Professor’s tea caddy, which at first glance looked like a short round cylinder of light and dark wood.

This is my Japanese Kuro-Kaki tea caddy, he said to Yegor. It is created very slowly, over many years, from the heartwood of a black persimmon tree. First the wood has to be carefully dried so that the white wood does not separate from the dark wood, then the blocks have to be gently turned on a lathe a bit at a time, and allowed to rest for many weeks between turnings. It a hugely difficult art. This one was made by the famous craftsman Honinbo Sakugen - look, you can still see his brand on the bottom. It is one of my most treasured possessions.

Except for owl, Yegor laughed, pointing at the stuffed owl The Professor kept perched on the back of an overstuffed armchair. He always claimed that the owl intimidated guests and gave him a slight advantage.

We all laughed. The Professor opened the caddy and began the ritual of Oolong tea brewing which I had seen many times but still fascinated me, being at best a tea-bag man myself.

"I am a believer in the writings of Lu Yu, author of the 8th century book, Ch’a Ching, he pontificated in his well-known style, he claims that tea was first discovered by Emperor Shen Nung in 2,737 BC, when a few leaves of either a camellia plant, or a wild tea plant, accidentally blew into a kettle of boiling water, thus creating an infusion that so pleased the Emperor he wrote a whole treatise on the subject. Sadly, now lost to history." He looked at us both over the rim of his glasses and finding a less than sympathetic audience for his history lesson, continued with his tea-making ritual and changed the subject.

Is your last puzzle ready yet? he asked casually of Yegor, but I could tell from his voice that it was anything but a casual question. This was the major connection between the two of them; Yegor was a brilliant creator of crossword puzzles which for the past two years had been published every week in the student newspaper. And The Professor liked nothing better than solving them.

He pointed to the small blackboard at the end of his office on which the number ’99’ was written in bold chalk.

Only one more to go and I will hold the record.

Yegor grinned. And it will be my very best, just for you.

Every week a dedicated cadre of puzzle fanatics, faculty, staff and students, competed with each other to correctly solve Yegor’s latest submission. Only a small handful had a perfect record and had solved every one. Naturally, The Professor was one of these. With Yegor leaving The Campus this rivalry would soon have to end and there had been palpable tension in the Faculty Lounge this week while awaiting the final crossword.

With the Oolong poured into three real-china-but-unmatched cups we all sat around The Professor’s table one last time. Reaching into this jacket pocket, The Professor took out his pipe and a leather pouch from which he extracted a generous sample of Jean Niccot’s weed. When his pipe was puffing satisfactorily he turned to Yegor again.

Tell me more about this scholarship, Yegor.

I am a very luck man, Professor, I have been offered one of only two ‘Tower Awards’ to be given out this year. It is a full scholarship, with expenses and full tuition to The Major Californian University. It will allow me to study without distraction and with great prestige. It is the first time such an award has been given to one of my people. Not many know that YalamaNabra’nyet exists, and even fewer where it is.

I hoped my straight face convinced him I was not among that number, but until recently I had been woefully ignorant about almost all non-American countries, and especially tiny Soviet Republics.

What will you study? asked The Professor, puffing away and sipping his tea with obvious contentment.

Use of transistors to make advanced logic circuits, he said with suddenly animated face, then went on to explain that when a pulse of electricity came to a junction between two . . .

Interesting, interrupted The Professor, when do you start?

I hope to start very soon, but first I must satisfy the scholarship Board that I have met all their requirements. That was when he looked at me strangely. I must ask the Registrar to send them my transcript from The College. It must be perfect. No failing or poor grades in any science courses. Now his stare was making me feel distinctly uncomfortable. Up to now, all my grades have been excellent. Pause. There is only one left. Uncomfortable pause.

Henry Wodeash picked up on the tension that had suddenly developed around his tea cups.

That was a biology course, wasn’t it?

Yes.

How did you do?

I am waiting for the results.

Ah!

I had the decency to look embarrassed, then spoke towards the half-empty cup in my hands.

Sorry Yegor, you did not do well. I cannot tell you the grade, yet, I just handed them into the Department. But I hope it will not sabotage your chances of getting that scholarship.

His face took on a strange expression, half question and half resignation. One of the requirements was that all my science grades be perfect. Is there any possibility that you could, er, change that grade for me?

Now I was acutely embarrassed. Of all the compromises that were asked of me as a faculty member, this was the one that caused me the most pain and suffering. Changing a grade, after the fact, and for non-legitimate reasons was the final assault on my integrity that I was determined to resist.

Sorry, Yegor, I mumbled, but like I said, the grades have already been handed in.

For a moment I thought he was going to make a second request, but instead he simply spread his hands on the table in surrender and nodded.

I see. I should have tried harder. It is my fault. I understand. He drained the tea cup. Now I must go. I have plans to make and things to do before heading west.

Before you go, interjected The Professor, who, to my slight surprise had not intervened during Yegor’s request, I have something to give you. He stood up and went over to the nearest filing cabinet, which I had never before seen opened. Filing cabinets in The Professor’s office were usually used either to store exotic artifacts or support potted plants. He tried to pull open the top draw and failed miserably.

Must be locked. Now, where’s the key? Keys and The Professor usually avoided one another. He stood scratching his chin with his pipe while he looking in random directions around his office.

Yegor laughed, relieving the tension. You want that drawer open, Professor? And receiving an affirmative nod, pulled a soft plastic case out of his pocket and extracted some thin, pliable tools. He made it look easy and within a second we heard a ‘click’ and the drawer slid open with a very rusty growl.

Unfortunately The Professor was unable to find the gift he had intended to give the student, so instead offered him a reprint of his very first published scientific paper on the nature and habits of river parasites in Mozambique. With a generous laugh, Yegor accepted the token, shook hands with both of us, mine somewhat more firmly than was strictly necessary, and turn away for the last time.

I followed him to the door and watched him greet the attractive Swede outside. She patted the feather on her shoulder and then gave him a big hug and kiss. They wandered off together down the corridor, arms wrapped uncomfortably tight around each other’s waist.

FOR THE NEXT two days I tried hard to put all thoughts of teaching and grading out of my mind and concentrate on getting my laboratory ready for the big summer research project I had been planning since Christmas. Using some of my NASA grant money I had ordered enough equipment to take on a summer undergraduate intern as a research assistant and intended to pay her a small stipend. With her help I fully intended to crack the issue of DNA extraction from heat shocked and cold shocked micro-organisms and thus get a significant leap forward in my research. With any luck I should have enough data by November to publish my second paper - and satisfy The College, The Department and NASA that I knew what I was doing.

Thus it came as a nasty shock when I went to collect my mail from the Department office to find the place in an uproar. At the center of the melee The Chairman stood shaking a stack of horribly familiar forms.

Colleagues, he was explaining, The Registrar has just sent me a duplicate stack of Grade Rosters for you to fill in. Apparently there has been a cock-up in his office and they have lost a whole batch of the rosters you sent them earlier this week. He needs for you to do it all again.

Massive groans. He needs them as soon as possible as many of the students are waiting for their transcripts to be completed for graduation or transfer. Sorry about this, but I must ask you to drop everything and get on this right away.

What about those faculty who have already left for the summer? Came an anonymous question.

I don’t have an answer, let’s just take one problem at a time, shall we?

Most of us bowed our heads in resignation that summer would be starting a little later this year and waited for the Department Secretary to sort out all the new Grade Rosters and put them in our mail boxes.

Good job I still have mine, came the voice of Henry Wodeash from behind me. Let’s go and hand them to the Registrar personally. I’d love to see him squirm a bit. Naturally, despite my urging, The Professor had not handed in his grades on time, as requested, and thus would not have to do them all over again. In a strange way, this was an annoying reward for bad behavior.

After a quick stop in his office, to pick up the Grade Roster in question, The Professor led me at his usual bouncy pace across the Quadrangle, now in full summer bloom, and up the marble steps of The Administration Building. We had no difficulty finding the Registrar’s Office as there were at least three solid lines of students and faculty trying to gain entrance. They were obliged to use the official portals which gave access to long rows of windows through which clients and Higher College Officers eyed each other suspiciously.

We avoided this crush and bottleneck by the simple expedient of knocking on an unmarked door further down the corridor. It was reluctantly opened a sliver by a wary HCO who, on seeing The Professor, grinned broadly and invited us in.

Hi Helen, he buzzed the elderly female softly, good to see you again. Did you enjoy those flowers I sent you? Is himself around? I hear he is having his problems.

He is indeed, dear Professor. Yes I did get your flowers. They were magnificent. Did you want to see him?

I think it would be a good idea, Helen. It’ll only take a few minutes.

Of course. Come with me.

We walked between a crowded collection of desks and large, noisy scanning machines which were being fed a steady stream of Grade Rosters. In a miracle of modern technology these devices transferred the data recorded in HB pencil on the rosters into some electronic brain in the basement where it punched holes in cards. As we were often told, our College was at the forefront of this kind of modernization, mechanization and efficiency. When it worked.

Sidney, exclaimed The Professor as we entered a glass-walled, filled to capacity, office with one large desk, many cabinets and the overwhelming sense of being just one envelope away from drowning in paperwork. Good to see you again. I hear you have been having some problems.

Registrar Sidney Bradword looked up from his desk, took a long, hard stare at all three of us, removed his glasses and pushed back his chair.

"Thank you,