The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (17 page)

“What do you want?” demanded the man.

“A little information, Joshua, if you please.”

“Why it’s Mr Holmes,” came the voice again, this time softer and warmer in tone. “Give me a moment to settle my little ‘uns down. I don’t want any of them to get out. Dog meat’s at a premium around here.” So saying he shut the door and he could be heard shepherding his pack of dogs back into the recesses of the house.

After a while the door opened again, this time wide enough to reveal the occupant, who was a scrawny individual of around seventy years of age, or so his wild white hair, rheumy eyes and fine dry skin led me to believe. He was dressed in a pair of baggy trousers, a blue collarless shirt and a shapeless green paint-spattered cardigan.

“Come in gentlemen, come in.”

Only two dogs appeared at their master’s heels as he led us down a dingy corridor and into an equally dingy sitting room. The air was oppressive with the smell of hound. In a nearby room one could hear barking and yelping accompanied by the occasionally frantic scratching as some fretting dog attempted to burrow out.

Jones gave a throaty chuckle at the sound of the muted row. “The little ‘uns don’t like being separated from their daddy,” he grinned, revealing a row of uneven brown teeth. With a casual wave of the hand he indicated we should take a seat on a dilapidated old sofa. “Well, Mr Holmes, what can I do for you?”

“I need information.”

A thin veil of unease covered Jones’s face. “Ah, well,” he said slowly, “I am reticent in that department, as you well know. I cannot be giving away the secrets of my clients or, soon enough, I’d have no clients.”

“I have no wish to compromise you, Jones,” said Sherlock Holmes evenly. “Indeed, it is not fresh information I require, merely confirmation of my deductions, confirmation which will allow me to proceed further in my case.”

Jones frowned. “What you’re asking is something I cannot give you. I treat all who cross over my threshold, be it man or dog, with the same regard and assurance of discretion.”

Holmes appeared unperturbed by Jones’s intransigence. “I am glad to hear it,” he said. “I have no intention of asking you to betray anyone’s trust, even that of such a lowly character as Lord Arthur Beacham.”

Jones blanched somewhat at the mention of this name and his eyes flickered erratically. “Then what do you want from me?” he asked, his voice lacking the earlier assertiveness.

“I wish to present a series of suppositions to you regarding my current investigation which concerns the theft of Lord Darlington’s painting the ‘Adoration of the Magi’ by de Granville – a work I understand you know intimately. All I require from you is a slight inclination of the head if you believe that I am in the possession of the correct interpretation of events and a shake of the head if you perceive my suppositions to be incorrect. There is no need for verbal confirmation. This would help me tremendously in the same way I believe I have helped you in the past.”

Jones, who was by now sitting opposite us on a wicker chair with one of the dogs perched on his lap, bent over and kissed the creature on the nose and ruffled its fur. “As you know, I never ask questions of my clients. However I cannot prevent you from expressing your views in my company, Mr Holmes,” he said, as though he were addressing the dog.

“Indeed,” agreed Holmes.

“And I may nod and shake my head as I feel fit. That is not to say that this will indicate definitely that I either agree or disagree with your statements.”

“I understand perfectly. Now, sir, I happen to know that you have recently been asked to copy Louis de Granville’s ‘Adoration of the Magi’ for a certain client.”

Jones head remained in close proximity to the dog but it moved downwards in a virtually imperceptible nod.

“I believe your client to be Lord Arthur Beacham …” Holmes paused but Jones did not move.

“And I believe you have copied many paintings for him over the last six months or so.”

Another gentle nod.

“The work was carried out over a day and a night and both paintings, the original and the copy, were returned to your client. He then returned the fake to the premises of the owner and sold the original to one of several unscrupulous collectors.”

“I have no notion of what happens to the paintings when they leave these premises, Mr Holmes. I have no interest in the matter and would regard it as somewhat indiscreet to make enquiries.”

“I can understand that. Such enquiries could lead you to learn information you would not wish to know.”

For a moment a smile played on the old man’s thin lips. He sat up, and looked Holmes in the eye and nodded.

Holmes continued: “I take it that you are able carry out preparatory work on most copies as their images are easily accessible in lithographic form.”

“That is correct. I prepare what I call my skeleton work in advance. It speeds up the process and lessens the time the original work needs to be with me in my gallery.”

“But in the case of the de Granville this was not possible, was it? Being a ‘lost painting’ there were no lithographs available, so you required a longer time with the original.”

Another imperceptible nod.

“You are an excellent listener,” cried Holmes enthusiastically, rising to his feet and pulling me with him. “Your silences have been most eloquent. My case is all but complete. I thank you.”

“In expressing your gratitude please remember that I conveyed no information to you, nor confirmed any of your statements.”

“Of course. The players in this sordid drama will condemn themselves without involvement from outside sources. Come, Watson, let us see if the cabbie has waited for us.”

And so in this hurried manner we took our leave of “the dog man”.

I was surprised at the speed by which this case came to its conclusion; and a very dark conclusion it was too. I would never have guessed that what began as as a fairly inconsequential affair concerning a missing painting would end in murder and a family’s disgrace.

The cabbie had been as good as his word and was still waiting for us at the corner of the street. However an expression of relief crossed his ruddy features as he saw us returning. “Back to Baker Street is it?” he asked as we climbed aboard.

“No,” responded Holmes, “Mayfair.”

“This is a sad affair, Watson,” said my friend, lighting a cigarette as he lounged back in the recesses of the cab. “The person who will be hurt most by its outcome is the only innocent player in the drama.”

“Lady Darlington?”

He shook his head. “Her husband. His career is likely to crumble to dust if the facts become public. Lady Darlington is far from innocent.”

“You cannot mean she was involved in the theft?”

“Think, Watson, think. There was only one key to the gallery. It was on Lord Darlington’s watch chain. The only time he would not be wearing it would be at night when he was asleep. Then his wife, and only she, sleeping in the same room would have easy access to it. She is the only person who could have provided entry to the gallery. However improbable the circumstances, logic always provides certainties.”

Lady Darlington was dismayed to see us and it was with a certain amount of ill grace that she bade us take a seat in the morning room. “I hope this will not take long, gentlemen. I have a series of pressing engagements today.”

We had only just taken our seats when Holmes gave a sharp sigh of irritation and leapt to his feet. “I beg your pardon, Lady Darlington, my brain is addled today. I have just bethought me of a pressing matter that had slipped my mind. There is urgent need to send a telegram concerning another case of mine which is coming to fruition. If you will pardon me one moment, I will arrange for our cab-driver to deliver the message.”

Before Lady Darlington had the opportunity to reply, Holmes had rushed from the room.

“What extraordinary behaviour,” she observed, sitting stiffly upright, clutching her reticule.

“I am sure my friend will return shortly,” I said, surprised as she was at at Holmes’s sudden departure.

“I presume that you are not in a position to enlighten me as to the purpose of Mr Holmes’s visit.”

“Not precisely,” I replied lamely. “But I am sure he will not be many minutes.”

Her ladyship sighed heavily and I sat in embarrassed silence, awaiting Holmes’s return. Thankfully, he was as good as his word and in less than five minutes he was sitting opposite our client’s wife once more.

“Now, Mr Holmes, as you have already wasted some of my time, I beg you to be brief.”

“My business here will take but a short time, but I thought it would be best if I consulted you first before I told your husband the truth behind the disappearing and reappearing painting and the roles that you and your son played in the mystery.”

Lady Darlington gave a startled gasp. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh yes you do,” asserted my friend coldly. “The time for pretence and dissembling is over. You cannot go on protecting your son any longer.”

“Mr Holmes, I will not tolerate any more of your nonsense. Would you please be kind enough to leave.”

“I will leave, certainly, taking the key with me.”

“The key?”

“I am afraid that I played a little trick on you just now. On leaving the room I did not go to instruct our waiting cabman as I intimated. Instead, I slipped upstairs to your son’s room where it did not take me very long to discover the hiding place where he secreted the key.” Holmes reached into his waistcoat pocket as though to retieve some small object. “The duplicate key that gains him access to your husband’s gallery.”

Lady Darlington’s face turned white. “That is impossible,” she cried in some agitation, snapping open her reticule.

“I agree,” said Holmes, stepping forward and extracting a small golden key from her ladyship’s bag. “I told you a tissue of lies in order for
you
to reveal the real hiding place of the duplicate key. It was a simple subterfuge engineered to reveal the truth.”

At this, Lady Darlington broke down and sobbed uncontrollably. I was moved by her obvious distress and watched helplessly as her body shook with sorrow but Holmes remained stony-faced and waited until the lady had controlled herself enough to speak to him. “How much do you know,” she asked at last, dabbing her watery eyes with her handkerchief.

“I know all. I know your son has built up a series of very large gambling debts at the Pandora Club. In an endeavour to keep these from your husband you helped pay for them at first, but when the amounts became too great for you to contend with, you aided and abetted your son in his scheme of replacing the paintings in Lord Darlington’s gallery with fakes while your son’s crony Lord Arthur Beacham sold the originals.”

“The situation as you portray it is more damning than the real circumstances,” said Lady Darlington, regaining some of her composure. “Rupert is the son of my first marriage and has never been accepted by Hector. He even denied him the common courtesies. Certainly Rupert was never shown any love by his step-father. I suppose in a reaction to this I lavished love upon him. I gave him liberties and freedoms that were perhaps inappropriate for such a headstrong youth. He lacked a father’s controlling guidance. When he formed a friendship with Lord Arthur Beacham I was pleased at first. I believed that the influence of this older man would be good for him. Alas, I did not know what a scoundrel the fellow was. The truth only emerged when it was too late and Rupert was completely under his evil spell. Beacham led my son into reckless habits. Yes, there were the gambling debts which, despite my pleas to Rupert to abandon the game, grew and grew. I knew that if Hector found out he would disinherit him and cast him out of the house. What would become of the boy then? How could I let that happen?”

Lady Darlington paused for a moment as though she was waiting for an answer to her questions, although she avoided our glances. Holmes remained silent.

“When the amounts became too great to deal with out of my allowance, Rupert presented me with the plan regarding the paintings. It had been suggested by Beacham of course. He knew of a skilled painter who could copy the pictures so that only an expert could tell the difference and he also had contacts who could provide eager customers for the original canvases. Beacham, of course, demanded a large fee for his ‘services’. To my eternal shame, I agreed, believing it would be only the one painting. One night when my husband was asleep, I took the gallery key from his chain and made a wax impression of it so that a copy could be made.

“The substitution of the first painting could not have been smoother. The exchange was carried out while my husband was away for two days on government business. Rupert took the picture early in the evening and returned the following morning with the forgery. My husband never suspected a thing. The apparent ease with which the plan had been carried out made Beacham bolder and greedier. He led my son into greater debt so that the substitution of another painting was needed. And so it became a regular process, every two months or so.”

“Until the de Granville fiasco when your husband’s trip to France was postponed and he returned earlier than expected.”

“It was Beacham’s idea to take the de Granville. He said it would bring the greatest fee yet, but the copier required more time since it was an unknown painting. As you know, my husband discovered the masterpiece missing …” Lady Darlington’s eyes watered afresh and she dabbed them with her handkerchief.

“Both your son and Beacham knew it would be foolish to place the forgery where the original had hung now that its absence had been discovered. They were aware that your husband would, as a matter of course, call in an expert to verify that it was the original.”

Lady Darlington nodded mutely.

“You have been a foolish woman, Lady Darlington. Although you may have acted with the best of intentions towards your son, you have allowed a situation to develop that cannot fail but to bring pain and disgrace to those two men whom you hold dear.”

“I beg you not to tell my husband.”

“Your husband is my client. He must be told. Besides, we are not dealing with a family squabble here. This matter concerns the theft of a series of master paintings. Two of the culprits are the son and wife of the owner, who is a minister of the crown. A scandal now is inevitable.”