The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (5 page)

“Over here, young man,” a voice commanded from the conveyance.

Crossing a parquet floor scattered with Persian rugs, Holmes found himself confronted by a shrivelled figure almost completely bundled-up in a plaid rug. Gidding’s greyish skin was drawn tight over his skull and a fringe of white hair protruded from beneath a velvet skull cap. However, if there was an air of quiet decay about the aged scholar this certainly did not extend to his bright, peering eyes or the mind behind them.

“Sherlock Holmes? Never heard of you, sir!” Giddings announced in a high-pitched voice.

“But I have heard of you, Dr Giddings, as has anyone with more than a passing interest in the history of art. Your studies on the northern Renaissance have greatly widened our understanding of the great masters of this side of the Alps.”

“Huh!” the old man snorted. “I thought I’d been forgotten long ago.”

Holmes affected a shocked tone. “By no means, sir. Quite the reverse. Some of the radical ideas which you advanced in the twenties and thirties are now taken for self-evident truth. As to your private collection …”

“I suppose that’s what you’re here to see; not me. Well come on then. You can work for the privilege. Push me. We go through that door over there.”

Holmes grasped the handles of the invalid carriage and propelled it in the direction indicated. They passed through into a suite of three ground floor rooms interconnected by tall doors. The contents made Holmes gasp in amazement. Every surface from floor to ceiling was covered with paintings on canvas or panel. Scarcely a square inch of papered wall could be seen.

“This is truly remarkable,” my friend exclaimed. “I had not prepared myself for such a treat.”

“The work of a lifetime, young man. If you start now you might just be able to match it by the time you’re eighty.”

They made a leisurely tour of the private gallery and Giddings spoke with mounting enthusiasm and excitement about several items. Sherlock Holmes relaxed the aged don with flattery interspersed with pertinent comments and awaited the moment to broach the subject that had taken him thither.

At last he said, “I was devastated not to be able to see the Rembrandt you presented to your college. When I visited the chapel there was a notice saying that it had been sent for restoration but I heard a rumour …”

“Vandals!” The old man became suddenly animated.

“Then it’s true, sir, that the painting has been stolen?” Holmes asked in shocked tones.

“They should have looked after it better. It’s a priceless painting – magnificent example of the artist’s best period. Now they’ve let some hooligans make off with it. It’s probably mouldering in a fenland shed somewhere. It will be ruined! Lost!” Giddings subsided into a fit of coughing and pressed a large spotted handkerchief to his mouth.

“It must be very distressing to you, sir. I imagine the Rembrandt was the crowning item of your collection.”

The old man nodded vigorously. “Yes, I bought it privately in The Hague a quarter of a century ago. It had impeccable provenance. It was quite a sacrifice to part with it but I thought it would make a suitable parting gift, to mark a lifetime of service to New College. They might not have appreciated me but at least they had something to remember me by. Now, however …” Giddings shrugged and seemed to shrink even further into his wrappings.

“You don’t think the crime might be the work of professional thieves? The art world, as I understand is not without its share of unscrupulous men.”

“Out of the question,” the old man wheezed. “Too well known. Too difficult to sell.”

Holmes propelled the chair towards the next door but stopped when Gidding’s frame was convulsed by a fresh bout of violent coughing.

“Should I fetch your man?” Holmes enquired anxiously.

The invalid nodded by way of reply and my friend retraced his steps to the library where a tug on the bell pull quickly brought the servant. He conveyed his master back into the library. The old man had recovered from his fit but announced that he was rather tired and begged Holmes to excuse him. He invited the young student to return another day to conclude the tour. Holmes thanked his host volubly and withdrew.

His next call was upon Mr Spooner in his New College rooms. He informed the don that he had become intrigued by the theft and that, with Spooner’s permission, he would like to follow up certain ideas which had occurred to him. He pressed the fellow for some details on certain points and asked him for a letter of introduction to Messrs Simkins and Streeter. Thus armed, Holmes travelled next day to London. A cab dropped him at the entrance of a narrow alley leading off Jermyn Street by way of which Holmes discovered a painted signboard and a flight of stairs which led to the restorers’ second-floor premises. These consisted of a single, long room illumined by sunshine entering through large skylights. Easels and wide tables were scattered throughout the workshop and at these men in their shirtsleeves were working singly or in pairs upon an assortment of old paintings. On enquiring for the proprietors, Holmes managed to distract one of these craftsmen just long enough to elicit a nod in the direction of a partitioned-off cubicle at the far end of the room.

The man who stood behind a desk untidy with scattered papers to greet him as he stepped in through the open door was stocky and of middle years. He was, Holmes judged, a touch overdressed; his suit a shade flamboyant of cut; his diamond-fastened necktie slightly too bright of hue. “Henry Simkins at your service, sir,” the man announced. “Whom have I the honour of addressing?”

Holmes handed over his card with Spooner’s letter and carefully observed Simkin’s reaction. The man displayed momentary alarm but quickly covered it up. “Well, Mr Holmes sit down, sit down do. I’ll help you all I can, though I fear you’ve had a wasted journey, for Mr Spooner knows all there is to be known about this sad business.”

Holmes dusted the proffered chair and sank down upon it. “I’m grateful to you for your time, Mr Simkins. There were just one or two details that Mr Spooner wanted me to check.”

“Why then, fire away, Mr Holmes.”

“When was it that you were invited by the warden and fellows of New College to carry out restoration work on their painting?”

“Well, now, that would be about the end of August. I can give you the exact date if you’ll bear with me a moment.” He swivelled his chair until he was facing an open roll-top desk against the back wall. From one drawer he lifted a bundle of papers tied with string, undid the knot and began to leaf through the sheets. To the precise-minded Holmes it seemed that the exploration would occupy more than “a moment” but within seconds Simkins uttered a little cry of triumph and flourished a sheet of embossed notepaper. “There we are, Mr Holmes,” said he, laying it on the table before my friend.

Holmes quickly scanned the formal letter dated 25 August inviting Messrs Simkins and Streeter to examine Rembrandt’s
Nativity of Our Lord
with a view to discussing possible restoration work. “You responded immediately, I presume,” Holmes suggested.

“Yes, indeed, Mr Holmes.” Simkins consulted a pocket diary. “We arranged for me to view the painting on Wednesday 10 September.”

“Had you done work for New College, before?”

“No, sir, we had not previously enjoyed that privilege.”

“Do you know who recommended you on this occasion?”

Simkins sat back in his chair, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his waistcoat. “Ah well, as to that, Mr Holmes, it might have been any one of a number of our satisfied clients. I’m proud to say that we are known to many connoisseurs, museum curators and inheritors of family collections. We have been of service to several of the nobility and gentry.”

“Including Lord Henley?” Holmes ventured.

“Why yes, sir. Only last year we executed an important commission for his lordship.”

“And Dr Giddings?”

“Him, too, sir. A wonderful connoisseur is Dr Giddings. He’s been good enough to instruct us on several occasions.”

“Were you acquainted with the Rembrandt before your visit to New College last month?”

“Only by reputation, sir.”

“You had never seen it before?” Holmes asked in some surprise.

“Never.”

“And you have been familiar with Dr Giddings’s collection for … how long?”

“More than twenty years, I would say.”

Holmes pondered that intelligence in silence for a few moments. “And what was your impression of the painting when you did see it?”

For the first time the ebullient Simkins gave evidence of some discomfiture. “Why, to be truthful, Sir, I suppose I was a little disappointed.”

“You thought it not a particularly good painting?”

The businessman’s bushy eyebrows met in a frown. “Oh, no, Mr Holmes, nothing of that sort. I would not want you to think that I meant to cast any doubt upon the quality of the masterpiece. It was just that … Well, I recall discussing that item many years ago with another client who had seen it in Holland and who waxed eloquent about it’s warm, glowing colours. What I saw in Oxford was a painting that had been sorely mishandled at some stage of its life. It had upon it a thick, old discoloured varnish. What with that and its gloomy situation in the chapel it was very hard to make out details of the brushwork.”

“So you concluded that it required a thorough cleaning and that you would only be able to comment upon the necessity of further restoration after that operation had been carried out.”

“That’s it precisely, Mr Holmes. We submitted an estimate for initial work. Naturally the warden and fellows needed time to consider our proposal. They responded,” here he referred once more to the bundle taken from the roll-top desk, “on 1 October and we arranged to collect the painting a week later, on the eighth.”

“But you did not do so?”

“No, on the morning of the eighth we received a telegram intimating that it was not, after all, convenient for us to call on that day and inviting us to make a new appointment.”

“You had no reason to doubt the authenticity of this telegram?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Tell me, Mr Simkins,” Holmes ventured, “as someone who knows the world of pictures, dealers and collectors better than most, how hard do you think it would be to dispose of such a celebrated painting?”

“Very hard, indeed, I would say.”

“But not impossible?”

Simkins pondered the question, head on one side. “There are collectors so obsessive that they are prepared to obtain by other means what they cannot fairly buy.”

“And are there not international gangs operating to satisfy the cravings of such collectors?”

“Sadly, that is the case, Mr Holmes.”

“And would you know how to make contact with just such a gang?” Holmes asked the question in a casual, disarming tone and watched its effect on the other man.

Simkins’s ample frame seemed to swell still further with indignation. “Mr Holmes, whatever are you suggesting?”

“Simply that someone in your position might well be approached, from time to time, by unscrupulous men – men requiring, perhaps, a convincing forgery or confirmation of a false attribution. I am sure that Simkins and Streeter would never knowingly be associated with such rogues but I would be surprised if you were not able to identify some of them.”

“We know who to steer clear of, if that’s what you’re suggesting, young sir,” Simkins admitted, only partially mollified.

“That and nothing else,” Holmes said with a smile. “I wonder if I might trouble you for the names of some of these reprobates.” As the other man firmly shook his head, he continued. “You see, someone deliberately deceived you and then passed off himself and his associates as representatives of Simkins and Streeter. That someone was highly professional.
Ergo
, I deduce that he is no stranger to the business of stealing and disposing of works of art.”

“Well, sir, since you put it that way, there are a handful of men who might bear investigation. The police could do worse than question them – not, mind you, that I make any accusations.” He found a scrap of paper among the confetti scattering before him and, taking up a pen from the holder, jotted down three names. “Well, Mr Holmes, I hope they may lead to the recovery of New College’s
Nativity
, though I fear it has disappeared for many a long year.”

Sherlock Holmes spent the return journey to Oxford recalling with total accuracy, every piece of information with a bearing on this case. It all pointed to one bizarre, though inescapable conclusion. Could it be proved, though? He resolved that prove it he would if it were humanly possible.

With that fixed intention he set out from Grenville after dark clad in tennis shoes, old trousers and shirt and carrying a hand lantern and a copy of
The Times
. He was gone for two hours and he returned in triumph. He had one more call to make and that would have to wait until the following evening.

The clock high on Grenville chapel’s tower was chiming six as Holmes set out to walk the short distance to Magdalen College. When he reached Hugh Mountcey’s apartments the outer door was open and there were sounds of conversation within. He tapped smartly and the portal was opened by a raffish, ginger-haired young man in evening dress and clutching a glass of champagne. “Yes?” he enquired languidly. Holmes proffered his card. The other held it up fastidiously. “I say, Huffy,” he called out to someone inside, “do we know anyone by the name of Sherlock Holmes?” He uttered the name with an air of faint amusement. “No. Send him on his way,” came the reply from within. “Be off with you, fellow,” the sandy-haired man said, returning Holmes’s card.

Before the door closed completely, Holmes handed over an envelope. “Please see that Mr Mountcey receives this.”

Holmes stood on the landing and began counting. He had reached thirty-two when the door was re-opened by the same guardian. “Mr Mountcey says you’d better come in,” he said.

“I rather thought he might,” Holmes rejoined.

The chamber he now entered was opulently furnished. A table at one end was laid for four with sparkling silver and crystal and crisp knappery. Armchairs were drawn around the fire and in one the resident of this suite was sprawled. The Honourable Hugh Mountcey was a gangling, dark-haired young man, with a florid complexion. He held Holmes’s letter by one corner between thumb and forefinger. “What’s the meaning of this nonsense?” he demanded.