Sherlock Holmes--The Legacy of Deeds

by Nick Kyme

  “But how can you be sure it wasn’t something in the champagne? It could easily have been tainted.”

  “Indeed it could, Watson, but earlier this evening I paid a visit to Edmund Garret, who was most accommodating in giving me a list of all the guests, including those he knew to be teetotal. Several, including Mr Garret’s unfortunate colleague, did not touch a drop, Watson.”

  “So how were all those people poisoned, Holmes?”

  “That is what we are here to find out, Watson,” he said, advancing across the room towards the painting of the Undying Man, which was as grim in moonlight, if not grimmer, as it was during the day.

  “A little more light, if you please, Doctor,” said Holmes. The ambient light coming in through windows at either end of the gallery had been sufficient illumination thus far, but further investigation would require something more direct. I found an oil lamp and lit it, keeping the flame low so that any passer-by would not be alerted to our presence, and offered the lamp to Holmes.

  “Thank you, Watson.”

  Holmes then proceeded to examine the grisly portrait of the Undying Man, which was rendered still more forbidding in the flickering light of the lamp.

  “Hold this for me please, Watson,” said Holmes, handing the lamp back to me. “Keep it close and steady, if you would be so kind,” he added, snapping open his pocketknife.

  “Holmes, what are you going to do? You cannot mean to—”

  “Have you ever heard of pentimento, Watson?”

  “I beg your pardon, Holmes?”

  “Pentimento. It is an Italian word that means repentance. It has a certain resonance here, I believe.”

  “I’m not sure I follow, Holmes.”

  “Then allow me to demonstrate,” he replied, and proceeded to scrape at the painting with the edge of his knife.

  “Holmes, I—”

  “The light, if you would be so kind, Watson. I need the light.”

  I steadied the lamp, as Holmes defaced the painting, now realising why he wanted to come to the gallery at night and without Gregson looking over his shoulder.

  “Upon our first visit to the scene of the crime, I was able to scratch a small sample of the painting while you and Garret were distracted. Gregson had yet to make his entrance, and so for a few seconds I was unobserved and thus able to covertly collect a modicum of evidence.”

  “I see, Holmes. You really are quite devious at times.”

  “I shall take that as a compliment, Watson.”

  “Please do,” said I, watching fascinated as Holmes began to reveal something beneath the top layer of paint. “Good lord, what is that?”

  “Pentimento also refers to the alteration of a painting, a change of mind if you will, on the part of the artist. It is the painting within the painting, Watson.”

  “I see,” said I, “but what does this have to do with the poor souls who were poisoned?”

  “I have a theory, but only a theory,” Holmes replied. “For now, I shall keep it close.” Then he stood back and I brought the light closer.

  “I’ll confess, Holmes, I am none the wiser.”

  There was indeed a second image beneath the first, a fragment of script. A curve, a straight line, almost like a letter, although as to its meaning I had no clue.

  Holmes pondered the defaced portrait for a few moments, no doubt fixing every detail of the original in his mind for later consideration. “A portrait of a man, neither dead nor alive, frozen in ice,” he said. “Torture and penance, Watson. Wouldn’t you say?”

  I could only agree, but had no idea as to the significance of it. “What can it all mean, Holmes?”

  “Torture and penance, Watson. Though whose remains a mystery.”

  Our business concluded for the evening, at least as far as the Grayson Gallery was concerned, we left the exhibition hall. We were halfway down the corridor that would lead us back out onto Wellington Street when Holmes froze.

  I saw what had disturbed my companion only a moment later, clapping eyes on a shadowy figure, dressed entirely in black. I swiftly realised that he too must have broken into the gallery, although I doubted his motivation was solving a crime.

  “Good evening,” said Holmes warmly, though I heard his grip tighten around the walking stick in his hand.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE THRILL OF THE CHASE

  Evidently the figure dressed in black had not expected company. Without a word the interloper turned and bolted back the way they had come.

  “You there,” I bellowed, throwing aside all caution, “stop at once!”

  Though Holmes and I had more than bent the rule of law, I suspected the figure in black had a more nefarious purpose. Alas, my order fell on deaf ears.

  “I do not think they are listening, Watson,” said Holmes, as we gave chase.

  I raced down the corridor ahead of Holmes and out onto Wellington Street. After a brief glance around, I caught sight of my quarry fleeing in the direction of Tavistock Street, a cloak billowing out behind them, and turned smartly to stay on their heels. As any man who has been in the British Army will attest, a rigorous fitness regimen is insisted upon before one can serve one’s queen and country. Even in my civilian years, I have managed to maintain a level of physical ability, but the injury to my leg was telling and had begun to ache. I kept the discomfort at bay through gritted teeth, determined to see justice done.

  I assumed Holmes had fallen behind, but did not glance over my shoulder to confirm this as all of my concentration was bent towards catching the interloper. Certainly, they were fast and their level of fitness put me instantly in mind of Graves, though the distance and the darkness made it difficult to make anything approaching a definitive identification. I considered that perhaps I was in pursuit of an athlete in peak condition and resolved to mention as much to Holmes, should he put in an appearance.

  “Holmes, you had better be just behind me…” I huffed, as I began to feel the strain of the protracted pursuit.

  The streets were all but deserted, and I saw no constables—which was just as well—but not a hansom or growler in sight either. A light rain was falling, which left the cobblestones wet underfoot. I almost slipped more than once, cursing my bluchers and their unsuitability for a foot chase through London.

  A few yards or so ahead of me, the figure in black took a sharp turn down Tavistock Street, then a side street, splashing through the puddles that had begun to form. I followed, but was falling behind, the treacherous ground underfoot a hindrance, and as I reached the side street I could see no sign of my quarry. The street was narrow, and cluttered with empty wicker baskets and a stack of wooden barrels at the end. Strung overhead, a washing line swayed in the breeze, an old shirt still pegged up and as sodden as the Thames.

  I was about to curse my bad fortune, as well as my shoes, but then the stranger miraculously appeared from an alleyway that led off from the side street in which I was standing. They walked backwards, wary and as if recoiling from something I could not see.

  The rain had grown heavier since the pursuit began and I could see it glittering on the figure’s cloak. I gauged it would be a good deal heavier too as a result, and began to hope that I would bring them to heel. Regardless, I decided to try something.

  “Damian Graves,” I declared, “halt and go no further!”

  The figure turned sharply at the name, pausing only for a moment before it took off again. Holmes then emerged from the alleyway, having doubtless dissuaded our quarry with his presence and having likely taken some oblique route to get ahead of the figure in black.

  “Took your time, Watson,” he called to me, and I bristled at the gibe. “You’ve beaten out our prey, though. Good man!”

  “I hadn’t been aware that was my charge, Holmes,” I said.

  I hurried over to Holmes, who looked like he was out for a gentle evening’s stroll. I found his lack of urgency most perplexing, and he saw as much in my exasperated expression.

  “It’s alright,
Watson,” he assured me, as the figure slipped past the stack of barrels and disappeared around a corner ahead of us. “We are about to catch our prey.”

  I could scarcely breathe, let alone answer, so confirmed with a shallow nod instead.

  As we both rounded the corner, the figure in black stopped no more than twenty yards in front of us, facing a brick wall.

  “Cornered, I believe is the word,” said Holmes. He raised his voice to address the stranger. “You have nowhere left to run, I’m afraid. Now, I would be extremely grateful if you would explain exactly what you were doing at the Grayson Gallery.”

  The figure in black did not move, not even to acknowledge our presence, though they kept to the shadows so as to be almost invisible.

  “It’s over, you might as well reveal yourself, Graves,” I said, having recovered enough to speak. “There’s no escape,” I added, taking a firm grip on my stick, though more for support than any thought of self-defence. The frantic pursuit had taken quite a toll and I feared I would be unable to resume the chase. Mercifully, it appeared the chase was over as the figure turned to face us, a hood and thin scarf swathing their face in even deeper shadows.

  As I took a step forwards, however, our quarry shrugged the cloak off their shoulders to reveal a slim but athletic frame. Still hooded, they then bowed.

  “Watson!” said Holmes, urgently, and lurched forwards into a sprint as the figure in black performed a half pirouette and scaled the wall, springing from window ledge to gutter pipe, demonstrating the kind of agility I have only ever seen in a feline.

  I gave chase after Holmes, first snatching up the discarded cloak, but we were both far too slow and much too late. By the time we reached the dead end, the figure in black had climbed onto the roof and was quickly lost from sight.

  “Come, Watson!” urged Holmes, who about-faced and hared off back down the alleyway.

  Groaning inwardly, I followed. Holmes gained a fair lead on me, only stopping once he had reached the foot of a ladder. My companion had already scaled halfway up the ladder by the time I reached him, and as I began to make my ascent Holmes was at the edge of the roof.

  I gained the roof in time to see him loping after a diminishing figure and resolved to pick up my pace so he would not face them alone. Throwing caution aside, I began to run but after only a few steps I slipped on a loose tile. Teetering vertiginously, I watched it fall and smash to pieces on the cobbled street below.

  “You’ll be the death of me, Holmes,” I muttered under my breath. My heart thudding a rapid tattoo, I quickly gathered my wits and kept on after Holmes, the cloak still clutched in my left hand and flapping as I ran.

  I saw our quarry approach a gap between two rooftops. It was hard to be sure in the dark, but I guessed it could be no shorter than twenty feet. They gave a quick glance over their shoulder, then leapt. I expected them to fall short and plummet to their death, but instead they reached the other side, clinging to the adjacent rooftop before scrambling on to it. When I saw Holmes backing up to take a run at the jump, a feat I knew was beyond him, I cried out, “Holmes!”

  Mercifully, my companion pulled up just short of the edge and glowered into the London night.

  I reached him shortly after that, a pronounced limp in my step, and sank to my haunches to try and catch my breath. Surveying the rooftops, I realised the figure in black had gone and was beyond our grasp.

  “I thought you were going to jump, Holmes,” I gasped between breaths.

  “I very nearly did, Watson.”

  “Then it would have been your death, I fear,” I replied. “What do you think, Holmes? An acrobat? A gymnast?”

  “The one that got away, Watson.”

  I nodded. “In any event, an incredible leap… Have you ever seen the like of it, Holmes?”

  Holmes said nothing further, his gaze yet to waver. His left hand was clenched in a fist, his right wrapped tightly around his walking stick. Our prey had eluded us, for now. Catching sight of something amongst the rooftop debris, Holmes stooped and retrieved it. From what I could tell, it was a boot heel, though Holmes made no comment and merely secreted it in his jacket pocket.

  “I shall be glad to return to Baker Street,” I said.

  “And so we shall,” said Holmes, “but first we must return to the gallery.”

  “Really, Holmes? For what purpose?”

  “To scale the roof, Watson,” Holmes replied, already on his way as he called behind him. “We shall make use of that ladder, I think. Very handy.”

  Too weary to protest, I sighed and followed Holmes off the roof.

  * * *

  The rain had abated to a fine drizzle by the time we returned to the Grayson Gallery. Using the ladder we had carried from Tavistock Street, Holmes climbed up to the gallery roof and I followed, though to what end I did not yet know.

  “Would you mind telling me why we are up here?” I asked as I clambered onto slick tiles, careful with my footing. “Or have you found a sudden interest in clambering over rooftops?”

  “Take care, Watson,” said Holmes, crouched by a chimney, inspecting something in the brickwork. “It is treacherous underfoot.”

  “I am trying to be, Holmes,” I replied, glancing over the edge and trying not to imagine a fall to certain injury and possibly even death.

  “Look here, Watson…”

  Gingerly, I crawled across the tiles and found Holmes peering into the chimney’s cleanout door. It was dark and I could not discern what it was Holmes wanted me to see.

  “If we have ruled out ingestion as a means of poisoning,” said Holmes, “based on the evidence to hand, then how else might the victims have succumbed?”

  For a moment, I had no answer, my thoughts clouded by weariness.

  “Inhalation would be the next most logical method,” supplied Holmes. “Certainly, it must at least be ruled out. But I believe I have found further proof of it, that the cyanide that killed the patrons of the Grayson Gallery was released as a gas.”

  “It sounds most plausible, Holmes, but how does clambering about on a rooftop in the middle of the night prove such a theory?”

  “A few scraps of wool and threads from the sack it was carried in, Watson.”

  “I’m not sure I quite follow.”

  “If I am correct and the victims of this heinous crime were indeed gassed, what is remarkable about Edmund Garret?”

  I frowned at first, but soon caught on. “He’s alive, Holmes.”

  “Indeed, he is.”

  “If our murderer did indeed effect some kind of gas chamber in which to kill their victims, then poor Garret would have died the moment he opened the door to the exhibit.”

  “Quite so, Watson. But he did not. And why?”

  “Well,” I said, “the only explanation would be the gas had somehow been released earlier.”

  “And hence the sack of wool,” said Holmes. “There are scraps of it embedded in the chimney, threads of hessian sacking too.”

  “The murderer used the cleanout door to access the chimney and block it up?”

  “A sack of wool is easy enough to come by and light enough to carry whilst climbing up onto a roof, especially for one as apparently nimble as our murderer.”

  “It’s devilish, Holmes.”

  “It’s calculated, Watson. They must have climbed up here to first block the chimney. Cyanide gas rises, it disperses quickly in air, but the packed wool would have made an adequate seal I think. Then, once the deed was done, the murderer returned to retrieve the sack of wool and unblock the chimney.”

  “Thus releasing the gas harmlessly into the air.”

  “Exactly, Watson.”

  “Fascinating, Holmes, and quite horrid. I wonder though, if that is all, might we return to 221B and get out of this damp and miserable night?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A FORBIDDING DISCOVERY

  Upon our return to our lodgings, Holmes had not been in the mood for talk and swiftly retired to his chair without
a word. There he sat, his chin resting on his fist, brooding. I knew not to disturb him, so I hung up the black cloak—which I still had in my possession—on the coat rack. A casual examination of the garment had revealed nothing remarkable. It was, as far as I could discern, a common enough cloak that had served to mask our mystery figure until such time as they needed to make their escape.

  Holmes’s irritation had been palpable, but had lessened the closer we came to our lodgings, replaced instead by deep, almost trance-like introspection. Despite being thwarted by the figure in black, the night had yielded much in the way of evidence, and though only Holmes knew the import of it, I for one did not deem our clandestine venture an abject loss.

  I considered joining Holmes by the fire laid by Mrs Hudson, the last embers of which were slowly fading, but having dragged my weary body up the seventeen steps that led to our rooms, I thought better of it.

  “I think I shall retire,” I said, and was about to bid my companion a good night when at last he spoke.

  “A moment, Watson. If you would be so kind.”

  “Of course, Holmes. What is it?”

  “A matter I should like to resolve.”

  My frown served as the only enquiry.

  “What do you recall of your altercation with that rough fellow on Regent Street, the one who chased the girl?”

  “The thief who stole my pocket watch, you mean,” I said, sitting down in my chair to ease my leg, which still ached with the night’s exertions.

  “That’s the fellow.”

  I thought back, but remembered little else than what I had already imparted. I said as much to Holmes.

  “I see,” he said. “As you know, Watson, my research into the human mind is extensive. During my studies, I have come across several intriguing theories that could be put to use in the field of deductive reasoning. Tell me, what do you know of hypnotism?”

  I frowned, thinking on the question. “Not a great deal. It has ever been the province of stage magicians and petty conjurers.”

  “Would it surprise you to learn that the British Medical Association has endorsed its scientific validity?”