The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories, Part VI

by David Marcum

  Curious, I joined him, and we contemplated a series of well-executed but pedestrian landscapes, still-life studies, and allegorical scenes featuring a lovely young woman. “Do you suppose he earned much from his work?” I asked Holmes as I contemplated several studies of an autumnal field. I had seen similar paintings in our local pub.

  “Unlikely, unless one desires the commonplace.” Holmes moved to another pile and continued his perusal. He paused at the third canvas, then stooped to examine it more closely. “It appears Mr. Edgar Tice decided to experiment with his subject matter. This was completed recently.”

  I looked at the painting - what appeared at first glance to be an uninspired portrait of the same attractive young lady who appeared in the mythical paintings - and leaned down, my gaze drawn to her soulful eyes. I frowned, disturbed by... something in the portrait. “This is... unusual.”

  With a nod, Holmes rose and crossed to where the easel stood. It was positioned so that the painting propped on it could not be seen from elsewhere in the room. I approached it reluctantly, joined by the inspector.

  We both gasped when we saw what stood on the wooden crosspiece. A painting, true, but the painting itself had been defaced, large portions smeared or covered with thick black paint. What could still be seen showed, in broad brush strokes, the artist’s intent: Another portrait of the same young woman. Yet a sense of disquietude, of profound unease, permeated the canvas, with corruption blossoming just beneath the surface, evident even in the ruined sketch. I shuddered, and could only imagine the effect the finished, unblemished portrait would have upon its viewers. Even Hopkins’s phlegmatic practicality appeared shaken as he grimaced and shook his head. Holmes, however, examined it minutely, pausing at several points to peer at it so closely that his hawk-like nose almost touched the paint.

  Eventually, to my relief, Holmes turned away. “I take it his personal chambers are on the floor below?”

  “Yes, they are,” said Hopkins. We descended to the second floor, where Holmes spent fewer than five minutes examining Tice’s spartan sitting room, furnished with one upholstered chair and a small side table, and his surprisingly opulent bedroom. The bed was of carved mahogany and took up most of the room. I wondered how Tice had managed to manoeuver it into the small chamber. Rich brocade hangings harkened to the Orient, while a heavy fur lay across the counterpane and lent a barbaric air. There was not room for the three of us, so Hopkins and I stood by the door.

  When Holmes finished, he merely remarked, “Now let us hear what Mr. Elliott wishes to say.”

  We trooped down the stairs and joined the young man in his chambers. A small sitting room faced the street front, and from it an open door led to a bedchamber. An unmade bed with an iron bedstead was just visible through the portal. The tiny room had a threadbare look and appeared furnished with castoffs. The furniture was of good quality, but forty years out of date, the fabric on the uncomfortable-looking settee and chairs faded and thin with age.

  After greeting us with a nod and grunt, Elliott threw himself into a chair which creaked alarmingly. Holmes moved directly to the window and glanced outside before standing by the hearth, his keen eyes fixed on Elliott. That left the settee for Hopkins and me, and it was indeed as uncomfortable as it looked.

  “Do you know whom Mr. Tice entertained last night?” asked Holmes.

  Elliott looked startled. “How did you - Ah, the glasses we used. Of course, Annie has not been up to the studio to clean.” He shrugged. “It was the usual collection of friends. I was there, along with Edgar’s brother, Randolph. Georgie - Lady Georgiana Beaufort - and Daphne Beaufort. Daphne modeled for him occasionally. Also Charles Plunkett, another painter. We often gathered in Edgar’s studio after dinner, especially when he wished to show us a new work.”

  Holmes studied Elliott for a long moment. “And did he show you a new work last night?”

  Elliott sat up and leaned forward, his reddened eyes glittering fever-bright. “He wasn’t yet finished and was reluctant to let us see it, but eventually we persuaded him. It’s remarkable - I don’t doubt it will cause a stir amongst the entire artistic community.”

  “I don’t doubt it either,” said the inspector dryly. I could only silently agree.

  Elliott glared at him. “Of course, the ignorant are skeptical. Every artistic advance is met with resistance.”

  Before Hopkins could respond, Holmes spoke. “Was Miss Daphne Beaufort the model for this artistic departure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did the others share your excitement?”

  With a frown, Elliott slumped back in the chair. “Randolph knows nothing of art and makes no bones about his ignorance. Georgie, however, pretends to knowledge she does not possess. I thought perhaps Charles would understand Edgar’s vision, but he was as discouraging as the others.”

  “And what was Miss Daphne Beaufort’s reaction?”

  Elliott’s frown deepened. “She burst into tears and begged Edgar to destroy the painting. Poor Edgar! Initially he attempted to laugh off the criticism, but by the time Daphne began to weep he was extremely upset - understandably so!” Elliott leapt to his feet. “The very friends who should have been his strongest supporters turn on him and make him - the genius amongst them all! - doubt his abilities and talent. By this time whisky had loosened certain tongues and made emotions more volatile.”

  “Whose tongue in particular?” Hopkins asked.

  Elliott’s jaw set and his lip curled. “Georgie, for one, laid into Edgar when she should have maintained a womanly reticence. She considers herself an authority on art merely because her insipid works are popular and have gained attention from the Academy! Edgar paid far too much attention to her opinion, and as a result, his own artistic vision was undermined.”

  “From what you say,” Hopkins said mildly, “it is possible that Mr. Tice became despondent at the response to his work, and after everyone left he decided to end his life.”

  “Never!” cried Elliott. He paced rapidly around the small room. “He believed me when I said it was the best thing he had done, and that once he finished the portrait and received the accolades he deserved, the naysayers would change their minds - especially Georgie.”

  Holmes leaned against the mantelpiece and regarded Elliott with half-lidded eyes. “I only know Lady Georgiana through her artistic works, but she appears to be quite formidable.”

  Elliott snorted and muttered something about unnatural females.

  “What of Miss Daphne Beaufort?” continued Holmes. “I take it she is related to Lady Georgiana.”

  “Yes, yes, she is.” Elliott brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen over his high forehead. “She is Georgie’s cousin. Her parents died when she was young, and she came to live with Georgie. She’s a lovely little thing who fancies herself a poetess, but is more decorative than useful. She is best suited as a model and poses for several of us, including Georgie and Edgar.”

  “Does she model for you?”

  “Yes. As well as for Charles and a few other painters.”

  “So Miss Daphne wept when she saw the painting last night.”

  “Yes, indeed. Of course, she did not understand what Edgar was doing and completely misconstrued his intent. She was upsetting everyone, so Charles offered to take her home. I’m afraid he has a tendresse for her, and unfortunately, it affected his art.”

  “Did Lady Georgiana accompany them?”

  He scowled. “No, she was still flaying Edgar over the portrait. I spoke up for him, but she ignored my reasoned arguments. Finally I could bear it no longer and left.”

  “When did you repair to your bed?”

  “I don’t remember. I sat in front of the fire for a while and had another drink or two. Then I fell asleep in the chair and heard nothing until Annie screamed this morning when she found Edgar.”

 
We were interrupted by a knock. A constable stood on the threshold and nodded at Hopkins.

  “Beg pardon, Inspector, but you told me to find you when Mr. Randolph Tice arrived. He’s in the parlor.”

  “Very good, Constable. We’ll join him in a few minutes.”

  “You mentioned Randolph Tice earlier,” said Holmes. “Was he still in the studio when you left?”

  Elliott hesitated, his brow furrowing. “I don’t remember him leaving, so he may have been. You will have to ask him.”

  Hopkins rose. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Elliott.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” Elliott said as we moved toward the door, “if Georgie had something to do with this business.”

  Holmes stopped and regarded him intently. “Of what are you accusing her? Murder?”

  “I’m not accusing anyone of anything. But when you meet her, do not be fooled by her attempts to charm you: That damned woman is involved in Edgar’s death in some fashion.”

  Randolph Tice awaited us in the small parlor. A tall, composed young man, he greeted us with an old-fashioned gravity. He sat with his hands folded beneath his chin as Hopkins related what we knew thus far, nodding solemnly, yet did not appear unduly upset at the news of his brother’s death.

  “I was always afraid Edgar would not live a long life,” he said with a sigh when Hopkins finished. “He lived every day so fully, and sacrificed much for his art.”

  Holmes asked him about the previous evening, and his version of events corresponded with Elliott’s, at least until he spoke of Lady Georgiana.

  “She has always been protective of Daphne, ever since Daphne was orphaned and came to live with her. Elliott?” His laugh at the inspector’s question was as dry as dust. “Thomas has resented Georgie since she received accolades from the Academy - accolades he felt Edgar should have received. And yet even I, unschooled as I am, recognized that Edgar’s abilities and talent were...” He lifted one shoulder. “Lesser. To her credit, Georgie attempted to explain why Daphne reacted so strongly to the portrait, and what Edgar could do to make it less objectionable. Edgar did not want to listen at first, but he respected Georgie’s abilities and artistic sense, and by the time we left, he agreed that her suggestions had merit, and decided to rework the portrait.”

  “So at that point he did not appear in danger of taking his own life?” asked Hopkins.

  Tice flinched - a small crack in his stony façade - and shook his head. “No indeed. If anything, he appeared excited and anxious to return to work.”

  “What would you say,” said Holmes, “to the news that the painting has been defaced?”

  “What?” Tice blinked, bewildered. “Edgar would never do that. Someone else must have joined him after Georgie and I left.”

  “Perhaps we should speak with Lady Georgiana, Miss Beaufort, and Mr. Plunkett,” said Holmes. “They may be able to provide additional information.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. After I received your note, Inspector, I sent my boy around to Georgie’s. She will be expecting news, no doubt.”

  The Beauforts resided in an elegant, if compact, townhouse of Portland stone, located near the best addresses in London. Clearly the family fortunes were still robust, if not massive. Lady Georgiana greeted us, a tall, slender woman unexpectedly wearing breeches, waistcoat, and cravat. Her unusual attire garnered a stare and raised brow from the inspector, but Holmes appeared to take it in his stride. She reminded me of a highly bred racehorse: All long limbs and exposed nerves. Her cousin, by contrast, possessed a delicate flaxen beauty that Tice had never managed to capture in his portraits of her. Even Holmes seemed caught by her loveliness, for he bowed low over her hand, and when he rose, his gaze lingered on her face.

  Behind Miss Daphne hovered a young man, swart and lean, with dark eyes that regarded us suspiciously. He was introduced as Charles Plunkett, artist and admirer of Daphne Beaufort.

  Once we were seated in a tasteful drawing room, Lady Georgiana turned to Holmes.

  “I assume Edgar is dead and that we are persons of interest. How did he die?”

  “What makes you think that, Lady Georgiana?” asked Hopkins, unsuccessfully striving to hide his surprise.

  She gave him a look of weary contempt and repeated her question to Holmes.

  With a nod of acknowledgement, Holmes related the bare facts. Miss Daphne raised a quivering hand to her bosom as Holmes spoke of Tice’s demise. She reached out with her other hand and Plunkett, who sat beside her on a settee, regarded her tenderly and took her hand between his.

  “This is utterly dreadful. I feel responsible for Edgar’s death,” she said when Holmes finished. Her distress appeared genuine. “I lost my composure and was horrible to him, but truly his painting was too frightful...” She took a shaky breath. “I told him I would never model for him again.”

  “You cannot blame yourself, my dear!” Plunkett held her hand tighter. “Edgar’s decision to end his life was his own.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Charles.” Lady Georgiana snorted. “I don’t for a moment believe that Edgar took his own life,” she continued as she lit a cigarette. “The question therefore is: Was it an accident, or did someone intentionally kill him? What is your opinion, Mr. Holmes?”

  “As far as I’m concerned,” said Plunkett before Holmes could respond, “Edgar’s painting of Daphne was monstrous, and he deserved whatever fate befell him, whether it be suicide, accident, or murder. Thank God that disgusting filth will never be shown in public.”

  I glanced at Holmes and Hopkins. Were either going to reveal that the painting had been destroyed? Neither spoke. Apparently they were going to hold this fact close, at least for the moment.

  Miss Daphne turned to Plunkett. “Do not be so unkind, Charles. You heard me tell him I would never model for him again; that was sufficient. Still, I am glad the painting was not finished.”

  “It should be destroyed,” said Plunkett, his nostrils flaring in anger. “Cut to ribbons and burnt. I would have done so myself last night if Daphne had not needed me to escort her home.”

  “Oh, Charles,” said Miss Daphne, a pretty blush upon her smooth cheeks. “I am certain Randolph will not permit it to be exhibited now that Edgar...” Her voice broke on his name.

  Hopkins looked at Plunkett with the air of a coursing hound catching a scent. “What did you do after you brought Miss Beaufort home?”

  “I sat with her for a while until she calmed, and then I returned to my own chambers.”

  “Can anyone confirm this?”

  “No,” said Plunkett. “I live alone, with only a woman who comes in during the day.”

  Lady Georgiana threw her cigarette into the fire. “Do you suspect Charles of being somehow involved in Edgar’s death, Inspector? Simply because he wanted to destroy Edgar’s painting?”

  “He is certainly a suspect,” replied Hopkins. “Especially because someone did deface Mr. Tice’s painting.”

  Miss Daphne gasped and Lady Georgiana regarded Hopkins thoughtfully, but if Hopkins hoped that the news would shock Plunkett into confessing his involvement, he sadly underestimated the young man’s nerve.

  Plunkett laughed. “My dear Inspector, if I believed I could destroy that abomination while avoiding an inebriated and bellicose Edgar Tice and his sycophant, I would have made the effort.”

  “Sycophant?” Holmes glanced at the others. “Is that a general opinion about Mr. Elliott?” He looked at Randolph Tice, who shrugged.

  “Yes, it is. Edgar discovered Thomas last year - ”

  “You mean Thomas flattered his way into Edgar’s good graces,” said Lady Georgiana, emitting an unladylike snort.

  Randolph Tice inclined his head. “Granted. To be fair, Edgar admired Thomas’s work and brought him to the attention of several gallery owners. When Thomas mentioned tha
t he was going to be thrown out of his digs, Edgar offered him chambers and a space for his studio.”

  “Deferring his rent until he became established,” added Lady Georgiana. “Well, of course Thomas would defend Edgar. He had too much to lose otherwise.”

  “Thomas is such an appalling man,” murmured Miss Daphne. “Always so presumptuous. I never liked modeling for him.”

  Plunkett patted her shoulder. “You did so out of kindness, at Edgar’s insistence.”

  Hopkins turned to Randolph. “Who is your brother’s heir?”

  “I am,” he said, startled by the abrupt change in subject. “As he was mine, since we are both unmarried and have no children. The house he lived in was a gift from our late parents. And before you ask,” he continued as Hopkins opened his mouth to speak, “I can prove that my business is successful and I do not need the property.”

  “That’s as may be,” said Hopkins, glaring at Tice. Was he now changing his mind and casting suspicion upon Randolph Tice?

  Tice shifted as if uncomfortable with the inspector’s regard, but Lady Georgiana bristled, hands on hips, as she rounded on Hopkins.

  “Honestly, Inspector, if you believe that Randolph would have anything to do with Edgar’s death, then you’re even more of an idiot than you appear.”

  Before Hopkins could reply, Holmes stood, hiding his smile behind his raised hand. “Let us all return to Edgar Tice’s studio, and I will shed some light on the subject of his death.”

  “What?” said Hopkins, his surprise at Holmes’s assertion evident. “Tell me!”

  “All in good time, Inspector,” said Holmes with a dry laugh.

  He headed toward the door. The others stared at each other for a moment before rising and hurrying after him.

  “Mr. Holmes? Inspector? What are you doing?” asked Thomas Elliott, peering from his chamber door as we traipsed up the stairs to the top floor.

  “Mr. Holmes is going to reveal all,” said Lady Georgiana. “Come along, Thomas. You may as well join the party.”