Holmes regarded him with a weary tolerance. ‘An accident. Long ago. A carriage. But I am well adjusted.’
‘Happened to a friend of mine. Damned shame! You paralysed then?’
‘Mmm,’ said Holmes, looking away.
It was going to take more than an art education to smooth off Strothers’ rough edges. But this did not bother me; his direct gaze and genial smile put me immediately at ease. And to Holmes, class was invisible when not relevant to a case.
‘Sorry,’ the American said, sensing he’d overstepped. He then turned to me. ‘And who are you, sir?’ he asked with a grin. Americans were nothing if not straightforward.
I hesitated for only a fraction of a second and Holmes quickly answered for me. ‘This is Dr Laurel, my doctor and also my friend.’
We shook hands. Strothers’ was warm and powerful.
‘Well, Laurel, are you an art expert, too?’ he asked with a smile.
‘Hardly,’ I replied.
‘Hunter then? Sportsman?’ he said hopefully. It struck me that Lady Pellingham’s father was as much out of place in this stifling room as I was.
‘I enjoy shooting,’ I said.
‘Good man!’ he exclaimed. ‘Great area for it. I netted three birds, just this afternoon! And in this weather. Imagine. Maybe we can have a go tomorrow.’
Things were looking up.
A Mr Frederick Boden was announced and we were joined by a stiff, well-built man in his late thirties, whose erect bearing and crisp tailoring spoke of a military background. His face was handsome, with strong dark eyebrows and moustache giving him a stern air, made marginally cruel by a duelling scar down one cheek. This had been a serious wound to my medical eye, and not a recent one, but skilfully repaired.
He was offered a drink but declined. His high tenor voice contrasted strongly with his masculine demeanour.
Moving away, Holmes engaged Strothers in a one-sided talk on Géricault. I attempted to strike up a conversation with the other. It proved arduous; the man was as interested in idle chat as was Holmes, and so I shifted the topic to the army, based on my assumption of military service. Boden finally mentioned he had been at the Battle of Abu Klea.
‘Ah, the Square! A remarkable feat!’ I exclaimed. The British forces there, massively outnumbered, had been victorious by forming into an impenetrable square. The battle was famous; Boden must have seen exciting action. But he could not be lured to expound on the topic.
‘We served when needed,’ he said coolly, to my question. He then smiled stiffly, almost as an afterthought.
There was something odd about the man; I decided to try drawing him out. His accent was refined, a man of privilege and education. Feeling Holmes would be proud of my inferences, I went on: ‘What brings you then to Lancashire?’ I inquired.
He looked sharply at me, and then in what appeared a conscious gesture, masked the expression. ‘I was engaged to oversee the Earl’s six factories,’ he said.
An employee, then? And yet distinctly high-born. Who was he and why would he be invited to a dinner such as this at the Earl’s?
As if he read my mind, he added. ‘As a favour to the Earl, of course. My family owns land elsewhere.’
A second son, I intuited – to the manor born, but without the attendant fortune. Such men often found their way through the military, inducted in as officers and retaining their privileges throughout their service; with favoured positions awaiting their return.
‘I understand you have been successful,’ I said. ‘The Earl’s silk is reputed the finest in the country.’
That was a mistake. His tone grew icy. ‘Mr Strothers is a man of great business acumen. Employing his successful strategies, I have returned the Earl’s interests – silk among the smaller of them – to their original state. Thus the Earl is able to continue his patronage of the arts as his father and grandfather did before him.’
‘Er, very good then,’ I mumbled.
‘Neither Lord Prendergast nor yourself would be here, were it not so.’ He paused, seeming to expect thanks.
I remained silent on this point. I wondered if this man might be connected in some way to the mysterious disappearances and deaths surrounding the silk mill. After several seconds had passed, I ventured again.
‘How many factories do you now oversee, Mr Boden?’ I asked.
‘None. It was a brief favour only. I am now the local magistrate.’
Odd. But what was his current connection here? I was determined to find out. Perhaps he was the hunting companion and friend of the American, though their personalities were night and day. But then, that could be said of many friendships.
‘Do you hunt, sir?’ I asked. ‘It is a particular interest of mine. Mr Strothers mentioned the area is rich in game.’
‘Yes, I hunt. In a manner of speaking,’ he said, and then added, ‘Deer mainly. Unlike Mr Strothers, small game is of no interest to me.’ He smiled at this, and then abruptly turned away. ‘I have changed my mind,’ he barked at one of the servants. ‘Pour me a sherry.’
While there was nothing untoward in his words, I was glad our conversation had ended. The man made me uneasy. He silently projected something I could not quite place, a certain coiled sense of violence.
I wondered if Holmes had noticed. He seemed deep into animated conversation with Strothers, attempting to explain some detail of another gloomy portrait nearby. But as Boden moved away from me to accept a drink, I saw Holmes shoot a penetrating glance at the man.
Several awkward minutes passed, with Boden and I continuing as silent audience to Holmes’s art lesson – and still our host and hostess did not appear. While it may be customary to await a grand entrance in some circles, this now bordered on rudeness.
At last the doors to the dining room were opened wide and the room went silent. If a blast of fanfare had sounded, it would not have felt amiss. There, down a long hallway, our host approached, moving slowly, with a studied grandeur. He was alone.
The Earl was a tall, well-built man, golden-haired and still remarkably handsome in his late forties, wearing costly evening attire that was simultaneously fashionable and yet reminiscent of days gone by. His waistcoat was hand-embroidered, his evening coat a masterwork of London tailoring.
His slow approach gave us ample time to take in the splendour he clearly hoped to convey.
There was arrogance in the Earl’s carriage, some combination of entitlement, snobbery and diffuse energy that characterized the worst of his class. His face was a mask of disdain, his languid movements seemed calculated to irritate. Or perhaps I was just ravenously hungry.
The Earl finally entered the room and the servants stiffened perceptibly. Strothers turned to face his son-in-law.
‘Ah, here you are, Harry, my boy! Food at last! Let’s get to it!’
‘Daniel,’ acknowledged the Earl with cool politeness. Then he addressed us all, his eyes staring into the middle distance above our heads. ‘Lady Pellingham is indisposed. She may join us later,’ he intoned.
He then slowly turned to address my friend. ‘Lord Prendergast. Welcome to Clighton. I consider it a great pleasure finally to meet you.’ He smiled listlessly. This is what apparently passed for enthusiasm among the peerage. I disliked him immediately.
Four servants moved to the table and held out our chairs, as a fifth escorted us to our designated seats. Holmes was wheeled to the place of honour on the Earl’s right. Boden was placed next to him and Strothers across. I was directed next to Strothers. Lady Pellingham’s seat, opposite the Earl, remained vacant.
The Earl slowly took his seat at the table. The others followed suit one by one. I hesitated, unsure of protocol. ‘Be seated – Laurel, is it?’ said the Earl dismissively.
He turned to Holmes. ‘We will not wait for Lady Pellingham. Frankly, knowing the subject we share so intimately, she may be bored at our conversation. We shall begin without her.’
With a wave to the servants to begin serving, he continued to focus on Hol
mes. ‘I understand you enjoyed my father’s Titian,’ he said, his face finally lighting up. ‘I have acquired two more, finer even than that one.’
‘Finer?’ exclaimed Holmes. ‘I am eager to see! Of what period, then?’
The dinner proceeded with talk of nothing but the Earl’s art collection and its splendours. The food was sumptuous and plentiful – turtle soup, followed by one seafood course, then a second. There was no need to make conversation; the Earl and Holmes dominated the table with increasingly animated talk of art – punctuated only by the clink of heavy silverware, and the servants’ hushed movements.
As oysters were served as a fourth course, I glanced at Holmes. He detested the slippery things and struggled not to show it. Just then the doors opened again and Lady Pellingham entered the room.
All eyes turned to her. Attired in a deep-rose silk dress of the latest Paris fashion, accentuating her pale blonde delicacy, the lady’s beauty rivalled our client’s, though of a different sort entirely. Not robust like her father, instead she was a porcelain doll, with a wasp waist, delicate wrists, blonde curls and a gentle demeanour. She entered in a rush, standing briefly next to the Earl, with a murmured apology.
The Earl appraised her coolly, but not without some concern. ‘Feeling better?’ he asked, taking her hand and patting it.
She withdrew it sharply. Then, to cover, she smiled at her husband. ‘Yes. Quite, thank you.’ She quickly took her seat at the end of the table.
‘My wife is like a fern,’ said the Earl with a smile. ‘She eats little and seems to subsist on air.’
‘Always has done so,’ said her father with a chuckle. ‘Eat up, Annabelle. You’ll float off.’
A pale blush coloured Lady Pellingham’s cheeks at these words but she turned to Holmes, with a forced smile. Her accent was American, but far fainter than her father’s. ‘Lord Prendergast. Dr Laurel. Welcome. Please forgive my lateness. I am of course very pleased to see you. My husband has spoken at length of your great expertise, sir.’
As the dinner proceeded, I noticed two things. Lady Pellingham spoke but little and ate next to nothing. She appeared troubled. Both her husband and her father were solicitous, alternately eyeing her with concern, or encouraging her to speak, to eat, or to relax.
At one point, Holmes managed to ask her about her family. Her mother was dead, she admitted, many years earlier. A wave of grief passed over her father’s face as she said this, but her own demeanour masked something more complex. Grief and … anger perhaps?
‘I understand you and the Earl are the happy parents of a boy?’ said Holmes, appearing to change the subject.
Lady Pellingham dropped her fork with a clatter.
‘He is away at present,’ she said, recovering.
‘He was suffering from a chronic cough,’ said the Earl. ‘Annabelle has arranged for him to winter in a warmer climate, haven’t you, my dear?’
‘Hmmph. Weakens the lad,’ snorted Strothers. ‘Bad idea!’
‘It’s not tuberculosis, I hope?’ I asked.
The Earl and his wife shot me a venomous glance. That had been a faux pas on my part. In these circles, tuberculosis was considered a disease of the poor, and yet I knew of many a titled sufferer.
‘Of course not,’ Lady Pellingham said. ‘He has been well looked after.’ Shortly after, she excused herself from the table and retired, presumably, to her room.
I sensed rather than observed Holmes’s disappointment. But he carried on as if nothing were amiss. At the end of the meal, he managed to convince the Earl to give him a preview of the private collection – that very evening, right after dinner – as he could hardly wait.
To my surprise, the Earl acquiesced. He seemed as eager as Holmes.
CHAPTER 18
First Look
s the Earl set off with Holmes towards his private museum in the Palladium Hall, I was invited to join Boden and Strothers for a cigar and cognac in the smoking room. But as our brief talk of guns and hunting moved into industrial matters, I grew restless. Genial as Strothers was, Boden made me uncomfortable and the discussion of productivity and shipping issues quite bored me. Making my apologies, I feigned fatigue, and took my leave.
Thankful to be alone, I decided to do some investigating. In retrospect this was a mistake, my first of the evening. I hoped to encounter Pomeroy, and perhaps continue the conversation Holmes had started. After serving our dinner, the servants were probably gathered in the kitchen eating their own late supper, I reasoned.
Heading in that direction, I took a back staircase and which led to a far less ornate section of the house with dark wainscoting and simple plaster walls, lit dimly by intermittent gaslight, turned down low. I reached a rear door to the pantry when I struck gold. Nellie and Pomeroy were two feet away from me, hidden in a walk-in cupboard. They were locked in a tearful embrace and I slipped behind a door to listen. Holmes had been right about them.
‘Freddie, Freddie,’ the girl sobbed. ‘Can’t we leave tonight?’
‘Steady, Nellie. Don’t let Dickie threaten you. I need another day is all.’
‘But he’s about to tell them about us! I feels it!’
Pomeroy sighed. ‘We’ll be fine. It’s Emil and the Lady I’m fearin’ for.’
‘Leave it, Freddie. You could go to gaol!’
‘But the Lady is as scared as we are! I have to help her.’
Lady Pellingham was afraid? But of whom, and why? Suddenly I felt the awful prickle of being watched. I turned slowly. Mason stood at the end of the hall, staring at me. He was not close enough to hear, but he had certainly seen me listening.
‘Hello there,’ I said. ‘I am looking for some warm milk. I am preparing Lord Prendergast’s evening medications,’ I said loudly, hoping to warn the two young people.
It went quiet behind the door. Mason approached me sternly. ‘You may always ring for what you need.’ A tiny pause. ‘Sir.’
‘Ah, you’ve found them!’ came Holmes’s shrill Prendergast voice.
Jeffrey appeared, wheeling Holmes along the corridor. It was excellent timing.
‘And Mason, what an astonishing collection your employer has acquired. I am in seventh heaven!’ continued my friend. ‘I look forward to studying it at length tomorrow.’
‘My lord,’ said Mason stiffly with a small bow. He turned to Jeffrey. ‘The Earl, Jeffrey?’
‘He has retired, sir. I notified his valet.’
‘I must attend one last time to the Earl,’ said Mason. ‘But before I do, may I escort you to your rooms?’
‘The Earl mentioned an exquisite Vigée Le Brun in your front hall that I would like to see before I retire,’ said Holmes. ‘Dr Laurel is used to this obsession of mine. We can find our way back.’
‘It is a difficult house to navigate in your condition, my lord. Jeffrey, accompany our guests with a light. And then to their rooms.’
They left to arrange things and Holmes leaned in quickly to me. ‘Persistent devil. But we are in luck, Watson. I have managed to identify enough stolen art in the Earl’s possession to open a wing in the British Museum, not to mention make a serious case against him. Lord Elgin’s own collection cannot compete!’
‘What about the Nike?’
‘She will be delivered at noon tomorrow! Mycroft will have what he needs. And we will have a clearer path to pursue the mystery of Emil and the other children.’ He grinned in triumph. ‘The Earl is a lunatic on the subject. He is obsessed.’
‘But what now?’ I asked, thinking the line between aficionado and lunatic was a fine one.
‘I am hoping to see the nursery. And if possible Lady Pellingham.’
But neither was to happen, or at least not in the way Holmes had hoped. Jeffrey returned with a light, and after a circuitous route through the darkened house, during which Holmes deftly set the young man at his ease with a steady stream of witty banter, we arrived at the charming portrait of a Russian noblewoman peering impishly out of the darkness at us.
&nbs
p; As we studied her, Holmes piped up, ‘And what of illustrations? Children’s illustrations are a particular passion of mine.’
‘Perhaps in the nursery, my lord.’
‘Take us there!’
‘Sorry, sir, but it is strictly out of bounds. None of us may even set foot, sir.’
Holmes turned on his considerable charm. ‘No one need know, Jeffrey, and you will make this old baron a happy man.’
‘I can’t, my lord. I wish I could.’
‘Too bad,’ said Holmes. ‘I adore children’s art. And children as well. They remind me of my own happier, carefree days.’
‘I know what you mean, sir,’ said Jeffrey.
‘Do you know the child?’ ventured Holmes.
‘I do, sir. All of us do. A very playful little fellow, cheery-like and always smiling.’
‘Always?’
‘Well, until recently that is.’
‘What happened recently?’ asked Holmes.
‘No one knows. But he ain’t talked in nearly a month.’
‘Really? And why, do you think?’
Jeffrey grew quiet. After a moment he said, ‘I have spoken out of turn, my lord.’
We could get nothing more from him and soon came back to the butler. Mason was waiting for us where we had left him, and I had a sudden stab of suspicion. Had he followed us throughout the house?
I dismissed my fear as fatigue. I would be happy when this day ended, thinking that perhaps I was catching some of my colleague’s mania.
‘Did you enjoy the Vigée, Lord Prendergast?’ he asked.
‘Oh immensely, Mason,’ exclaimed Holmes. ‘Her portraits have such animation, it is as though they might speak at any moment. I shall sleep well, dreaming of what I have seen tonight.’
If only that had turned out to be true. As it happened, we would both witness something so horrible that the image of it would be burned forever into our brains. It would be a long time before either of us slept well again.
PART SIX
DARKNESS DESCENDS
‘Our main business is not to see what lies dimly at a distance but to do what lies clearly at hand.’
Art in the Blood Page 11