The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (6 page)

Holmes stood staring down at the aristocrat and recalled the verger of New College’s disparaging comments on certain degenerate members of the upper class. “If it were nonsense you would scarcely have invited me in,” he observed.

“Who the devil are you,” Mountcey sneered.

“All that matters is that I know the truth about the New College Rembrandt. Apart from anything else I have identified your role in the business.”

Mountcey’s companion stepped across the room and grabbed Holmes by the sleeve. “Shall I teach this fellow some manners, Huffy?” he enquired. The next instant he was lying flat on his back holding a hand to his nose from which a trickle of blood was oozing.

Holmes rubbed the knuckles of his right hand. “I assure you that I have no interest in making life difficult for you. My only concern is to clear up this tiresome business of the missing painting so that I can resume my own studies. If you will be good enough to answer a few questions I will take my leave.”

“And what do you intend doing with your information?”

“I shall place such items as are relevant before the authorities at New College.”

“That might not suit my book at all. I certainly have no intention of informing on my friends.”

“By friends I take it that you mean those responsible for the escapades at Oriel, Merton and here in Magdalen.”

Mountcey nodded.

“I don’t think it will be necessary for me to reveal their identity.”

The dark-haired young man stared at Holmes for several seconds. Then a smile slowly suffused his features. He crumpled the letter he was still holding and tossed it into the fire. “No, Mr Holmes, you are a nobody and I am inclined to tell you to go to hell. Report whatever you like to the New College people. You have no proof. If it comes to a contest between you and those of us who count for rather more in this life it’s pretty obvious who will end up being sent down, isn’t it?” He waved his visitor towards the door and his friend held it open.

Holmes stood his ground. “But it isn’t just you and your friends who are involved is it? It’s your father and his associates.”

Mountcey was caught off guard. “You can’t possibly know …” he blurted out, leaping to his feet.

Holmes took a pencil and paper from his pocket, wrote a few words and passed the paper across to the Honourable Hugh.

“Damn!” Mountcey sank back onto the chair.

“So, sir, about those questions,” said Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes called upon Mr Spooner shortly after eleven the following morning as the latter was returning from lecturing.

The don came up close and peered through his thick lenses. “Ah, Mr Grenville of Holmes, is it not? Come in, sir. Come in. Do sit down. I suggest you will find the seat in the window more than comfortable.”

Holmes deposited himself upon the cushions in the window embrasure. “I have come to report the successful conclusion of my investigation,” he announced. “About the theft of the painting from the chapel,” he added as Spooner gazed vacantly into space.

“Ah, yes, excellent.” The fellow’s pallid features broke into a smile. “So you have discovered who was responsible. Was it Rembrandt?”

“No, sir.” By now Holmes had discovered that the way to prevent Spooner’s train of thought running into frequent sidings was to keep him concentrating hard on the matter in hand. “Perhaps it would be best if I explained, from the beginning, the sequence of events which led to the disappearance of the painting.”

“Excellent idea, young man. Play the part of Chorus and leak your spines clearly.”

Holmes began his explanation, hurrying on when his audience showed signs of wishing to question or interrupt. “First, I must suggest to you that your reading of Dr Giddings’s character owes more to charity than objective observation. I fear that the senior fellow was furious at being passed over for the wardenship and that that is why he gave his painting to New College.”

“But, surely …”

Holmes scarcely paused for breath. “It was to be his revenge. You see, the painting was a fake, or more probably the work of an inferior artist touched up by the hand of an improver. I realized this when I spoke with Mr Simkins. He was puzzled because the painting which another of his clients had seen about the time Giddings bought it was “vibrant” with “warm, glowing colours” as he described it. Yet when Simkins, himself, viewed it in the chapel it was apparently obscured with ancient varnish. Now Giddings was the only one who could so have misused the picture and for only one reason: he realized, after adding it to his collection that it was not a work from the hand of the master. To avoid the humiliation of having to admit that he had been duped he had the picture varnished over, and waited for an opportunity to get rid of it. His exclusion from the wardenship provided the excellent chance to kill two birds with one stone. He disembarrassed himself of the fake Rembrandt and put one over on the fellows of New College. Giddings knew that, eventually, the painting would be cleaned and that, from beyond the grave, he would have his revenge.

“Then, long after the whole matter had been pushed to the back of his mind, he was alarmed to hear that the fellows had decided upon the immediate restoration of their Rembrandt. He knew Simkins and Streeter could not fail to discover the truth and that both his folly and his vendetta would be exposed. What could he possibly do to prevent the closing days of his life being lived under this double shame? Only the disappearance of the picture could save him but he could not encompass that. He would need accomplices. It was then that he bethought himself of his friend and fellow collector, Lord Henley.”

“Lord Henley? Why on earth should that highly respected nobleman be a party to such a notorious escapade?”

“I confess that I, too, was puzzled on that score. Eventually I had to prize the truth from his son, Mr Mountcey.”

“That young man is a scoundrel.”

“Quite so, sir.” Holmes rushed on. “It seems that not only did the two collectors share common interests, but Lord Henley owed a considerable debt of gratitude to Dr Giddings. A few years ago a crooked dealer attempted to implicate his lordship in a colossal art fraud. Had he been successful the scandal would have been terrible. Giddings was largely responsible for exposing the syndicate behind the imposture. Lord Henley now felt duty bound to assist his saviour. The two old friends planned the robbery together. Giddings found out through his college contacts the precise day on which Simkins and Streeter were to collect the painting. Then Lord Henley arranged for the fake telegram postponing the appointment and had one of his underworld contacts pose as the restorers’ agent. Just in case anyone from the college who watched the removal became suspicious he arranged for the work to be done under cover of darkness when the chapel was almost certain to be empty.”

“But what about the other thefts?”

“A fortuitous sequence of events that enabled the conspirators to muddy the water. Lord Henley’s son was involved in a rather stupid society the object of which was to plan and execute ever more audacious “japes”, as they call them. The Oriel and Merton escapades were carried out by other members of the club and it was Mountcey and his friends who defaced the walls of Magdalen by removing the sundial. It seems that Lord Henley knew of these ridiculous revels and, being an over-indulgent parent, was not disposed to regard them seriously. It was he who put his son up to the fracas that took place early in the term. When Mountcey and his friends were caught examining the chapel painting the authorities connected this with the earlier misdemeanours, a suspicion that was reinforced when the picture went missing. Of course, Mountcey could not be proved to be implicated in the theft, so he was quite safe.”

Spooner was frowning with concentration. “But, then, whose incunabulum stole the Radcliffe?”

“I am persuaded that it was Giddings himself who removed the book from the library. Mountcey gave me his word that he knew nothing of it. Such a reputed and infirm scholar as Dr Giddings was, of course, above suspicion, so it was the easiest thing in the world for him to leave with the precious artefact under the rug in his bath chair, having left the duplicate.”

“Then the book and the painting are safe in Dr Giddings’s house?”

“The book – yes. I am sure Dr Giddings would not harm it, nor intend to deprive the library of it for long. The painting, I suspect, is another matter.” Holmes opened a portmanteau he had brought with him. He extracted a parcel roughly wrapped in newspaper and proceeded to unravel it.

Spooner leant forward to examine a blackened fragment of what had once been gilded wood and gesso and to which a fragment of charred canvas still adhered.

“The night before last,” Holmes explained, “I paid a clandestine visit to Dr Giddings’s garden. I found this on a bonfire in a corner of the grounds. The embers were still warm. Unless I am mistaken, that is all that remains of the fake Rembrandt – and just as well, perhaps.”

“Whatever made you think of looking there?”

“When I called on Dr Giddings the previous day, he was obviously concerned about my interest in the Rembrandt. He tried to convince me that its theft was a student prank and he brought my visit to a sudden halt with what seemed to me rather a theatrical fit of coughing. I believe that was to prevent me looking inside the room where the painting was currently housed. I reasoned that he would want to be rid of the evidence very quickly after such a fright and there seemed to be only one easy way to do that.”

Spooner removed his spectacles and polished them thoughtfully. “Mr Holmes,” he said, “you are a remarkable young man. I predict that you will go far. May I ask you to put what you have just told me in writing? My colleagues will, I know, want to study it most carefully.”

“I had anticipated that request,” replied my friend, handing over a sealed envelope.

“How wise, Mr Solomon, how wise. The college is indebted to you. You will undoubtedly be hearing more from us. For the moment all I can do is personally grace my platitude on record.” He shook Holmes warmly by the hand and escorted him to the door.

Sherlock Holmes reflected during the next few days on the immense pleasure and satisfaction this little enquiry had occasioned him. He had, at that time, no inkling that his vocation lay in the field of criminal detection but, as he later confessed to me, the bothersome business of the Dutch
Nativity
, was undoubtedly the case that opened up new possibilities to him.

All that lay in the future. One more immediate result manifested itself a few days later. Holmes received an unexpected invitation to dine with the Master of Grenville. He arrived at the lodge at the appointed time expecting to find himself one of a large party. To his surprise the only other guest was the Warden of New College. As soon as the three men had embarked on their meal the master introduced the subject of Holmes’s recent investigations. The fellows of New College were very grateful to him for clearing the matter up but were anxious that none of the information he had gathered should go any further. Under the circumstances he felt sure that Holmes would appreciate that absolute secrecy must be a condition of his remaining in Oxford.

Holmes assured the dons that he would not contemplate breaking any confidences. What, he enquired would be happening to those involved in the series of outrages culminating in the theft of the painting? The warden replied, “Any action we might take could only embarrass several important people. Under the circumstances we think it best to draw a veil over all that has happened.”

Holmes was stunned. “Forgive me, sir, if I mistake your meaning, but it seems to me that you are saying that truth weighs very lightly in the balance against personal reputation.”

“That is a rather stark way of expressing it,” the master suggested.

“But apparently accurate. Theft, forgery and deceit must go unpunished, even unremarked, because we must not make life awkward for members of the establishment. That is a philosophy I am surprised to hear advocated by men of learning and honest enquiry. I fear, gentlemen, that it is one to which I could never subscribe.”

The subject was quickly changed but at the conclusion of the meal Sherlock Holmes returned to his chambers and immediately wrote a letter announcing his resignation from the college.

The Affray at the Kildare Street Club

Peter Tremayne

My narratives of the adventures of Mr Sherlock Holmes, the well-known consulting detective, have always attempted a modicum of discreetness. There is so much of both a personal and professional nature that Holmes confided in me which I have not passed on to posterity – much, I confess, at Holmes’s personal request. Indeed, among Holmes’s personal papers I had noticed several
aide memoirs
which would have expanded my sketches of his cases several times over. It is not often appreciated that while I indulged in my literary diversions, Holmes himself was possessed of a writing talent as demonstrated by over a score of works ranging from his
Practical Handbook of Bee Culture
to
The Book of Life: the science of observation and deduction
. But Holmes, to my knowledge, had made it a rule never to write about any of his specific cases.

It was therefore with some surprise that, one day during the spring of 1894, after the adventure I narrated as “The Empty House”, I received from Holmes a small sheaf of handwritten papers with the exhortation that I read them in order that I might understand more fully Holmes’s involvement with the man responsible for the death of the son of Lord Maynooth. Holmes, of course, did not want these details to be revealed to the public. I did acquire permission from him at a later date to the effect that they could be published after his death. In the meantime I have appended this brief foreword to be placed with the papers and handed both to my bankers and executors with the instruction that they may only be released one hundred years from this date.

It may, then, also be revealed a matter that I have always been sensitive about, in view of the prejudices of our age. Sherlock Holmes was one of the Holmes family of Galway, Ireland, and, like his brother Mycroft, was a graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, where his closest companion had been the poet Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde, who even now, as I write, languishes in Reading Gaol. This is the principal reason why I have been reticent about acknowledging Holmes’s background for it would serve no useful purpose if one fell foul of the bigotry and intolerance that arises out of such a revelation. Many good men and true, but with such backgrounds, have found themselves being shunned by their professions or found their businesses have been destroyed overnight.