by David Marcum
“There is a train for Bighelmbury-on-Sea at five minutes past eleven,” said he, casually throwing the Bradshaw onto an ever-growing pile of discarded literature. “There are several enquires I need to make before we leave for Somerset. In the meantime, Watson, if you could bear to forgo your breakfast, I need an expert’s opinion on the matter. I would be obliged if you would take this report and illustration to this address in Lombard Street. Ask for Mr. Leighton Prior and be sure to mention my name. If he proves uncommunicative, remind him of the Surbiton Substitution.”
“He is an expert on Classical Greek sculpture?”
“On the contrary,” said Holmes absently as he checked his watch, “he is a forger.”
I stared at him in disbelief.
An impish smile touched the corners of his mouth when he saw my expression. “To excel as a forger of works of art, one must become intimate with the working practices of the artist concerned,” he explained. “In the absence of the alleged sculptor, it is not the doting adoration of the connoisseur I require, but the considered opinion of one who may be familiar with the artist’s methods. Who better to tell us if this Venus is typical of Praxiteles’ style than someone who copies it?”
“But a forger, Holmes.”
He held up his hand. “A first-rate forger, Watson. He once deconstructed an indifferent work of the sixteenth-century and, after repainting it, presented it as a lost portrait by Hans Holbein the Younger. It is that attention to detail that makes him a prince among his profession. It was only that he was paid in the stolen jewels of a murdered woman that the forgery was discovered. Well, well, a man cannot be an expert in everything.”
“Is he trustworthy?”
“Enough for our purposes. I would not trust him with my Old Masters, but when it comes to information, he is invaluable.” He paused momentarily in the doorway, looking back. “However, a word of caution. Do not let him sell you anything. Good hunting, my dear fellow.”
And with that he was gone. I took a cab to the address in Lombard Street and presently found myself at a small gallery. The walls were lined with bucolic paintings of country scenes and seascapes, and several had attracted the interest of potential buyers. My attention was drawn by a particularly fine watercolour of a view of Lyme Regis gripped by a storm, with a schooner struggling against the swell as the surging waves were thrown against the grey walls of the Cobb and the swirling sea spray was framed against the grey of the turbulent sky.
As I stood marvelling at the deft composition of the scene, a dapper man of middling years in grey pinstripe trousers, colourful waistcoat, and a speckled green tie wandered over to stand by my side.
“A virtuoso work by the late Mr. Turner,” said the newcomer with an air approaching veneration. “You have discerning taste, Mister...?”
“Dr. Watson,” I replied. “It is remarkable.”
My new companion nodded sagely. “It is, I am told, a faithful rendition. And most reasonably priced at only ninety pounds.”
“Reasonable, as you say. Would you be Mr. Leighton Prior, by any chance?”
He inclined his head, his interest piqued. “Were you recommended to my gallery, sir?”
“Yes, by a mutual acquaintance, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
The change in the man was instantaneous. His upper lip curled and his genial countenance faltered.
“Forgive me, sir, I have other clients - ”
“Mr. Holmes was telling me about the ‘Surbiton Substitution’.”
Prior paused. His forced manner told of the effort he was making to be polite.
“That was a misunderstanding. Mr. Holmes would do well to remember there are laws against slander in this land. Occasionally clients ask me to produce credible replicas for their collections when they wish to sell the originals. I cannot bear the blame if they become confused as to which is real and which is the copy. All the same,” he relented, “come into my office, Doctor. If I am any judge, you have not come here to debate matters of criminal responsibility.”
Prior’s office was an austere room, stripped of excess adornments, save for a desk, bulging bookcase, and bureau. A draped curtain on one wall led me to believe that there was another room beyond, for the fabric moved unbidden, as if disturbed by a breeze from behind.
“Are we alone?” I asked.
Prior glanced dismissively at the curtain. “That is my studio. We shall not be disturbed.” His eyes narrowed. “Your caution suggests a matter of the utmost delicacy. Now, Dr. Watson, what does Mr. Holmes require?”
“Information,” I said. “And your opinion on this.”
I passed him the illustration and paperwork. He glanced through them with an impassive expression that soon turned to disgust before tossing them aside.
“Mr. Holmes disappoints me. He usually has better to offer than this balderdash.”
“You do not believe it to be a genuine statue?”
Prior abruptly got to his feet and poured himself a whisky from a decanter on the bureau. I declined when he offered a glass to me and instead waited patiently for his answer.
“That depends on your definition of ‘genuine’,” said he at length. “If you ask me whether it is an antique piece, then I cannot tell you without seeing the statue in the flesh. An examination of the dowels holding the torso to the lower body, for example, whether lead or stone, would be most revealing. But ask me if it is an original work by Praxiteles, then my answer would be in the negative.”
“Could you explain your reasoning?”
“Precedent, sir. The most popular of Praxiteles’ statues were copied by the Romans. Scholars constantly squabble amongst themselves over whether any of the surviving examples are original. So the likelihood of your statue, found in a Roman villa in West Sussex, thousands of miles away from the land of its creation, being a ‘genuine’ work by Praxiteles is remote. And then there is the arm.”
Prior put down his glass and went to the bookcase. Carefully selecting a red leather book, he turned the pages until he made a small noise of satisfaction. He offered the book to me, where I saw several impressions of how the Venus de Milo may have originally appeared. One showed the statue holding a spear, another with her outstretched arm resting on a column.
“The Venus de Milo has holes in its torso for the insertion of a metal tenon to support the arm. Anyone who works with marble knows the limitations of the material. Such an unsupported arm is impractical. In other examples attributed to Praxiteles and his copyists, there are upright marble supports in the form of columns or trees to bear the weight. I would be interested to see how your Venus is supported, Dr. Watson.”
So saying, he returned to his seat and regarded me over steepled fingertips. “And then there is the question of attribution. The Venus de Milo originally had a plinth ascribing the work to a later sculptor called Alexandros of Antioch. For that reason alone, I have very little faith in the opinion of your so-called expert.”
“Then you believe this statue to be a forgery?”
Prior stared at me, one brow elegantly raised. “Most statues of the period are discovered damaged or missing limbs. Your statue appears to be in good condition and near complete, which would indeed be remarkable after two thousand years. Any forger who valued his liberty would not have been so bold.” He hesitated, his lips pursed, and a question in his eyes. “Unless the statue was never intended for public view.”
“It has gone missing,” I confirmed.
“Has there been a claim for the insured value submitted?” Prior chuckled to himself when I did not answer. “Believe me, sir, there is nothing new under the sun. Well, Dr. Watson, if that is all...?”
I rose and thanked him for his help. “There is just one thing, Mr. Prior. That watercolour I was looking at earlier. Is it genuine?”
An hour later, I had joined Holmes at Paddington
Station and we were soon heading for the West Country. He had noted the wrapped painting I had with me, but had initially said nothing. It was only when the serried ranks of terraces with their soot-blackened bricks and peeling stucco had given way to daisied fields and sun-bleached wheat that he finally expressed his disapproval.
“I see you chose to ignore my advice,” said he tersely when I showed him the work. “Well, it is a charming study, if nothing else. I trust Mr. Prior did not relieve you of too onerous a sum.”
“On the contrary, he was more than accommodating. I paid a fraction of the advertised price, given that it was from the workshop of J.M.W. Turner, rather than from the hand of the master himself.”
“To my knowledge, Turner worked alone. He did not have a workshop of assistants.”
“He does now.”
Holmes laughed. “Well, one can never accuse Mr. Prior of lacking pluck. Aside from your purchase, what else passed between you?”
I went on to recount what Prior had told me. Holmes nodded sagely and listened with attention until finally I finished my account.
“How much would such a statue weigh?” he asked.
“He did not say.”
Holmes made an expression of exasperation. “Given that the statue has been carried off, Watson, I should have thought that was first question anyone would have asked. But here we are instead, talking of copies and dowels and tenons. What practical use is that to us? I did not doubt that the Venus Discordia was a fake from the outset.”
“Indeed?” I asked, still smarting from his curt dismissal of my efforts.
Holmes sat back in his chair, and turned his gaze to the passing scenery. “Did you have a collection as a lad, Watson?”
“I did. Shells and fossils, mostly. My father always took us on holiday to Lyme Regis, and we would spend our time searching the beaches.”
“Which accounts for your attachment to that whimsical watercolour,” Holmes remarked. “Have I ever told you of Mycroft’s boyhood collection of train tickets?”
I expressed my surprise.
“Oh, he was quite the collector. His pride and joy was a First Class Return from Broxbourne to Ponders End, which he found in Balls Pond Road dated on the day, month, and year of his birth. He was forever showing it to all and sundry. I fear he became quite a bore on the subject. Our father had to take the collection away from him after he became obsessed with finding a ticket associated with the London Necropolis railway. I have always attributed his lack of ambition to his grief at the loss. Having expended so much energy in one direction, it made him disinclined to do so ever again.”
His gaze drew back to mine. “My point is that it is a rare collector who does not share his treasures with others. Sir Charles’ excessive secrecy does not fit with his previous patterns of behaviour. A find of this magnitude should have gripped the world’s press by now. Instead he hides it away in an insignificant seaside town. His reservation therefore gave me pause. My own enquiries have since confirmed my theory.”
“Professor Marshfield did inspect the statue, as Mr. Pettigrew stated,” he continued. “He then left for Egypt, but not before paying off his debts, which were long-standing and considerable. You know my opinion of coincidences. Is it not truer to say that events occur because someone or something causes it to happen? The professor had debts of amounting to nearly eight-hundred pounds. Those debts were paid in full before he left the country, not before giving his opinion concerning a contentious antique statue. I ask you, Watson, what would the reasonable man make of such a turn of events?”
“That Marshfield was paid handsomely to produce a favourable report.”
“And has now removed himself from the centre of the crisis. If the statue is never found, no hint of scandal over its attribution can ever attach itself to the good professor.”
“You believe it is lost then?”
Holmes looked grave. “I believe Sir Charles had this statue created for the sole purpose of defrauding the insurance company. He has debts of his own, Watson. Archaeology is not an inexpensive hobby. Sir Charles’ estate is mortgaged to the hilt, and he owes his creditors in excess of twelve-thousand pounds. Furthermore, he wishes to leave a legacy. Such an ambition has led other men to greater folly before now.”
“But surely the money would go the Museum?”
“It is a capital mistake to ignore the small print of insurance documents, my dear fellow. Had you read the terms and conditions, you would have seen that the Museum does not take possession of Sir Charles’ collection until after his death. Before such time, he merely loans them to the Royal Victoria. The Museum took the precaution of insuring the statue on his behalf. Sir Charles will collect the money for the loss, not the trustees.”
“Then it is paramount that the statue be found.”
Holmes snorted softly and shook his head. “With so much at stake, Sir Charles would be very foolish if he has not already disposed of it.”
“There must be something he has overlooked.”
“That is my reasoning,” he asserted with sudden confidence. “Even the most cautious of men are apt to make errors. Well, we shall see what Bighelmbury may bring.”
Several hours later found us at the seaside resort. Bighelmbury in those days was a favoured destination with day-trippers from Bristol, a far cry from the gentle decay of recent years that has seen its pier burn down and its hotels crumble.
We had arrived on the hottest day of the year, and the press of crowds on the platform told us that others had followed our lead in heading for the cooling breezes of the coast. As far as we could, we avoided the main thoroughfares and made our way, not to the Museum as I expected, but rather to the police station. The red-faced desk sergeant had seemed flustered when we introduced ourselves and, after a moment of indecision, declared that he would get his superior. A few moments later, a sandy-haired, world-weary inspector named Parsons appeared and ushered us behind the counter into the ordered quiet of his office.
“You’re here about the statue, no doubt,” said he, taking his seat. “Mr. Pettigrew said you would be coming. Sir Charles is waiting for you at the Museum. He said we were to give you every assistance.”
“Now that is interesting,” said Holmes thoughtfully. “May I ask why you have not involved Scotland Yard?”
Parsons sat back in his chair with a sigh. “It was judged not to be in the town’s best interests. We already lose visitors to Weston-super-Mare just up the coast. A scandal would cause people to stay away in droves. The Museum is one of the town’s main attractions, Mr. Holmes, along with the pier and the bandstand. But truth be told,” he confided, leaning forward, “stolen statues are not our usual fare. The most we have around here are thefts from boarding houses, pick-pockets, and young men losing their hearts and money to dubious ladies. But, no, neither Sir Charles nor the Town Council would have it. Said they had faith in us.”
The inspector gave a dry, throaty chuckle and continued. “Well, we appreciate the sentiment, and I dare say Scotland Yard couldn’t have done much better in the investigation. Not that we got anywhere, mind. Then the insurance company started questioning our lack of progress, so when Mr. Pettigrew insisted on consulting a private detective, Sir Charles agreed, providing that the insurance company accept your word as final, and, if the statue is never found, the loss never becomes public knowledge. He said he felt he could rely on the discretion of an individual more so than a few inspectors from Scotland Yard looking to make a name for themselves.”
“Sir Charles may rest assured that if the loss ever does becomes public, it will not have been through a failing on our part,” Holmes assured him. “Now, tell me, Inspector. Mr. Pettigrew said you had arrested the night guard, William Lennox, but released him.”
Parsons nodded slowly. “Bill had nothing to do with this. He wouldn’t know a priceless statue if one fell
on his head.”
“But others might. He may not have had a hand in the crime, but he may have been otherwise distracted. Mr. Pettigrew told us that he has a history of drunkenness.”
Again came that sigh of weary resignation. “Bill’s had his problems with drink, I’ll not deny it, and neither will he. ‘Legless’ Lennox we used to call him, and there were times when he wasn’t fit for duty. It was the death of his wife that did it. He was always a drinker, but after she passed away, he took the bottle as his companion. We covered for him as much as we could until the night when he was supposed to be watching for sheep rustlers and the thieves walked straight past him and emptied the farmer’s field of livestock. That’s when he knew he had to retire. He took the pledge after that and set up as a private enquiry agent. He’s been sober ever since. That’s how I know he wasn’t drunk the night of the theft. He says that when he did his rounds, he saw nothing. I believe him.”
“Were there any other witnesses to verify his story?”
Parsons spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Look about you, gentlemen. It’s the height of the season. People are coming and going all the time. It’s been so busy here these last few weeks, the boarding houses have been packed to the gunwales. Folk have been sleeping five to a bed, and they’re the lucky ones. Others have had to sleep out in the open on the pier. We had to let them in the church hall and the theatre on the night of the theft to give them shelter from the rain.”
I was sorry to hear this. Our prospects for getting a room for the night seemed poor at best. My younger self would have thought nothing of a night on a greatcoat beneath the stars, but older and wiser now, I found the notion less than appealing.
“All the same,” continued the inspector, “you’d have thought someone would have noticed a wagon being loaded up in the middle of the night. They made enough commotion when they brought the thing. We had to shut the main road to make way for them.”