The Eccentric Painter (A Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tale)

by Steven Ehrman

  “Very well, Miss Livingstone,” said Holmes. “You draw a clear picture of the family events in America. Now pray tell me of more recent events and the family members of the house.”

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes. Outside of the servant staff, there have been only four members of the household. My Uncle David was a man of some sixty-seven years, yet hale and hearty. After his affairs in business brought him his wealth, he became a patron of the arts and an accomplished amateur painter. My Cousin Harold is a bookish young gentleman, highly educated with a degree in botany. Since my return, I have taken charge of the house and serve as hostess when Uncle David has occasionally had small gatherings.”

  “You said there were four members of the household,” reminded Holmes gently.

  “Of course,” said she, blushing slightly. “A distant cousin named Nigel, also a Livingstone, became my uncle’s secretary some six months ago.”

  “Pray continue,” said Holmes.

  “Our household was a happy one. Harold often took trips to symposiums and to his club in London, but he was home more often than not. Nigel, of course, was busy with Uncle David’s correspondence, whilst I took charge of the affairs of the staff. We are all fairly regular in our habits, and the day of the murder was no different. Uncle David was painting on the roof-”

  “On the roof, you say?’ I interrupted, and was rewarded with a look of annoyance from Holmes.

  “Yes, Dr. Watson,” said Miss Livingstone. “My uncle was in the habit of painting, he was quite a talented amateur painter of landscapes, on the top of the manor house. It is a flat roof surrounded by a stone balustrade in the style of the ancient homes. It is three stories high, and it actually appears to be more of a castle than a home. My uncle, without fail even in inclement weather, would paint from two o’clock in the afternoon until four on the southeast corner of the roof. He felt the elevated outdoor view was most conducive to his artistic inspiration. It was my habit to take advantage of the quiet in the house, to read in the library during the same time period. Harold, as is his wont, was in the garden also on the southeast corner of the house. The library has windows that face both south and east, with the southern section of the home facing the road. Do I make clear the layout?”

  “Most clear, my dear,” said Holmes. “An old manor such as this one is surely not a comfortable home with no modern conveniences.”

  “Oh, but it does have the most modern amenities, Mr. Holmes,” she cried. “My uncle modernized the entire estate, laying in gas, plumbing and drainage pipes. At one time, I gather, the place was a gloomy old relic, but it is quite comfortable now.”

  “Very good. Now to the events of the murder.”

  “Well, sir, as I say, I was reading when I heard Harold cry out ‘Hallo! What is wrong with the postman?’ I looked out the south window facing the road, and I saw the postman gesturing wildly and jumping up and down. I feared the poor fellow had quite lost his mind. In a matter of a few moments, he began running down the lane and was soon beating on the front door. By this time, Harold and Nigel had both joined me. Harold had come in the back entrance, and Nigel had fairly run down the steps from the second floor. Both of them were breathing hard from the exertion, and for a minute or two we could get no sense from the postman. He finally blurted out that he had seen someone on the roof strangling my poor uncle. As you can imagine, Mr. Holmes, we were flabbergasted. Nigel took charge, and leaving me in the company of my Cousin Harold, he and the postman ran to the back of the house and climbed the steps to the roof.”

  “Is there only one entrance and egress from the roof?” asked Holmes.

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes. It is in the rear of the house just off the hallway of the north entrance on the ground floor. This entrance is generally used by the staff and by tradesmen. It is an ancient stone stairway, narrow and winding. Nigel and the postman, reached the roof and found my poor uncle garroted with a length of rope that lay beside the body. We sent one of the stable boys to the village for the police. They arrived within a half an hour, yet they discovered nothing of note. A Scotland Yard Inspector has been assigned to the case and is in Kent, but I fear with each passing day the chances of the killer being apprehended grow weaker. Mr. Holmes, the police have not directly accused us, in fact they have been quite kind, but I have heard whispers in the village that they think one of us is involved, but it cannot be true. Harold was outside the library window when the crime occurred, and Nigel was upstairs. This is why I am here, Mr. Holmes. Will you help me? Will you, and Dr. Watson,” she shot a glance in my direction, “please come down to the estate and investigate this grave matter?”

  Holmes had his fingertips together and seemed to be lost in thought, but I could see the signs of interest in his manner. His legs were stretched out in front of him, and he was puffing on his pipe in a tranquil manner.

  “Miss Livingstone,” said he. “There are some small points of interest in this case. Dr. Watson and I would be happy to aid you in any manner possible. That is, Watson, if you will acquiesce and join me in traveling to Kent.”

  “Gladly,” I cried. “I would not miss the opportunity.”

  The young lady leapt to her feet and thanked Holmes and myself repeatedly.

  “One last matter, Miss Livingstone,” said Holmes. “I understand a will has not been found. What was your understanding of the disposition of your uncle’s estate?”

  “I had always assumed that it was to go to Harold. He was a son to my uncle in every way but legally. My uncle had a mania about extending the Livingstone name, and Harold was the natural heir. I had always expected that my uncle would leave me some small trust, but I had no expectations beyond that.”

  Holmes bowed his head as if in deep thought.

  “Are you leaving London tonight?” asked he.

  “I return home tomorrow, Mr. Holmes. When could you arrive? Soon I hope.”

  “My dear girl, now let me see. Today is Monday, and I fear I could not leave until Wednesday morning. Expect, the good doctor, and myself Wednesday afternoon. And then we shall see what we shall see.”

  With many more voluble thanks, the young lady left us. Holmes and I accompanied her down to the street. Her own private carriage had returned for her, and we saw her off with promises of meeting again soon. Upon our return to our rooms, I braced Holmes for his thoughts on the case.

  “There are one or two areas of interest here, Watson,” said he.

  “I must confess, Holmes, I see little other than the obvious. That some rogue has killed the uncle for reasons of his own. Perhaps a lunatic, or some local ruffian with a grudge against Mr. Livingstone. After all, a landed gentleman like him might make enemies without even being aware of it.”

  “Watson, you underestimate yourself sometimes. I believe the solution might be just along those lines.”

  “You mean a deranged person or an aggrieved local?”

  “Neither, actually.”

  “But, Holmes, you agreed with me just now.”

  “Indeed I did, my old friend.”

  “I say, Holmes, I am certainly glad I could be of help,” I said, with some small bitterness.

  He simply sat and smoked his pipe, and it was obvious I was to get nothing of note from him this evening. Holmes can be the absolute limit in high-handed manner and is always impervious to sarcasm. We sat in silence for some minutes, when Holmes arose and went into his dressing room. Within minutes he returned in the dress of a common street lounger. When Holmes took it upon himself to engage in camouflage, it was not just his clothes, but also his entire manner that changed. Instead of the ramrod-straight gentleman that I knew Holmes to be, I was confronted with a slouching idler of the worst sort.

  “Pray what is the meaning of this disguise, Holmes?”

  “There are one or two matters that I would like to investigate before we leave for Livingstone Manor.”

  With that, he sat at his desk and wrote several letters; addressed the envelopes and sealed them. Stuffing them into his pockets he
arose and headed towards the door.

  “Do not wait up for me, Watson, I may be quite late. I must post these letters at once, and then I fear that the other avenues I must follow may take me into the small hours. I shall certainly see you in the morning.”

  With that, he dashed out into the night with no further explanation.

  Chapter Four

  After the passage of several hours spent pleasantly reading before the fire, I heard footsteps upon the stairs. Presently the door was flung open, and was filled by the burly figure of Inspector Athelney Jones.

  “Sorry to intrude, doctor,” said Jones, as he entered the room. “I was hoping to find Mr. Holmes this evening.”

  “Some trouble that needs his expertise?” I asked.

  “Hardly that, doctor,” said he, with his natural haughty attitude. “Scotland Yard needs no outside expertise to solve crimes. It is true that Mr. Holmes was uncannily accurate in the Browning jewel theft case, but I had my eye on the coachman all the time.”

  “Then what is the purpose of your visit?”

  Jones shifted uncomfortably in his chair and lit a cigar.

  “Well, doctor, the fact of the matter is that the Livingstone case has become somewhat of a dead end, and it is my understanding that Miss Jane Livingstone has consulted Mr. Holmes. If Holmes has an idea who the guilty party is in this case I…er…we would like to know. I have been critical of Mr. Holmes in the past, but it cannot be denied that he has made some uncannily perceptive deductions; whether they be lucky guesses is beyond the point.”

  “So you know Miss Livingstone has consulted with Holmes?” I asked. “Inspector, are our rooms under surveillance?”

  “Certainly not, Dr. Watson,” Jones blustered. “But we are keeping careful track of all members of the Livingstone household.”

  “Then the intimates of the house are suspected?”

  This confirmed the young lady’s worst suspicions.

  “Not exactly, doctor,” said Jones slowly. “It is simply that no other suspect has been found. Doubtless this murder was the work of a tramp or something of that sort, but pressure from the public to solve such a high-profile crime forces us at Scotland Yard to extend inquiries in all directions.”

  I mulled this over. It seemed that Jones was confessing that the authorities were out of their depths, and even doubters such as Jones were eager to hear the opinion of Sherlock Holmes. Though my friend had supporters at Scotland Yard, I would not include Jones in that company. For him to cross the threshold of 221B Baker Street with hat in hand was evidence of the paucity of progress in this case.

  “What I want to know is whether Holmes has any evidence that we do not?”

  “I think that highly unlikely, Inspector. Miss Livingstone came here in the simple hope that Holmes could unlock the riddle of the murder of her uncle. The only evidence outside of the newspapers that Holmes has received has come from the lips of the young lady herself. Doubtless everything she has told to Holmes is already known to the yard.”

  “Has he no theories then?” asked Jones eagerly.

  “Inspector, you know well the methods of Sherlock Holmes. It is not in his nature to share his innermost thoughts until he has arranged all to the satisfaction of his brain. I do not believe that it is breaking any confidences to inform you that Holmes and myself intend on going to Livingstone manor on the day after tomorrow. There is nothing else that I know.”

  “And where is Mr. Holmes this evening?” asked Jones, in a suspicious manner. “Odd that he is out alone so soon after Miss Livingstone’s visit if it did not have to do with something she told him. Something she has kept back from us. Perhaps a family secret she does not want told.”

  “Whether Holmes’s errand this evening pertained to the Livingstone matter or some other case of which I am unaware, he did not share.”

  It was a white lie. Holmes had in fact intimated that he was following up on some salient fact from Miss Livingstone’s tale, something that had escaped my attention, but as it usually did, Jones’s condescending attitude had put my back up and I was in no mood to satisfy his curiosity.

  “All Holmes has shared with me is that we are to visit Livingstone Manor the day after tomorrow.”

  “Well, then I will alert our man in Kent of the arrival of Mr. Holmes and yourself. Inspector Savage will expect you, doctor.”

  “I do not believe that Holmes or I have had the pleasure of meeting Inspector Savage.”

  “Likely not,” said Jones. “Savage is one of our younger men. From what I understand, he is an admirer of the methods of Holmes. Newfangled ideas of deduction and all that. For myself, I prefer the solid detective methods that has made Scotland Yard the envy of the world. English justice is the finest justice, and the men who serve are the finest the empire has to offer.”

  My feelings for Jones aside my heart swelled at the patriotic statement, and I had no doubt that in the main Jones was correct. Many a criminal had underestimated Scotland Yard to his detriment.

  “I am certain Holmes will give any assistance that he can in this matter to the young Inspector.”

  “I still don’t know how Holmes has arrived at some of his conclusions. In the Masterson case he never even left this flat and yet he knew precisely how the murderer had escaped,” muttered Jones.

  “Genius has its peculiarities,” I observed.

  “What’s that? Oh, of course, doctor. Well, I am off. Good luck to you and Mr. Holmes in your journey. I hope to see both of you upon your return.”

  With that amiable statement Jones made his exit and I was left to my own thoughts again. Despite Holmes’s admonition to the contrary, I maintained a vigil awaiting his return into the small hours. My hopes, however, were unrewarded; weariness finally overtook me, and I fell asleep in my chair.

  Chapter Five

  The following morning, I awoke with a start. Holmes was sitting in his customary chair across from me and whistling a merry tune as he puffed languidly on his pipe.

  “Good morning, doctor,” said he. “I am afraid that I have caused you a dreary night’s sleep.”

  “Not at all, Holmes,” said I, as I sat up in my chair. I glanced at the clock and was surprised to find it was nearly ten o’clock. “I merely fell asleep reading.”

  “And yet there is no book upon your table, my dear Watson,” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes.

  “Well, I suppose I was curious to see if your investigation bore any fruit,” I admitted ruefully. “In actual fact, we had a visitor last night after you left, which only served to increase my interest in the case.”

  “I should have thought the young lady in distress would have been enough incentive to rouse your interest.”

  “Really, Holmes,” I protested. “I assure you that I have no romantic interest in the young lady.”

  “Of course not, my dear friend. I only mention her because of your well-known chivalric spirit. It really does you proud.”

  “Very well,” said I, somewhat mollified. “At any rate, I am sure you will be astonished by the identity of our visitor.”

  The sun streaming through the windows outlined Holmes’s profile, and I could see the flame in his eyes. The spirit of the case was upon him.

  “So did you have a pleasant chat with the good Inspector Jones?” Holmes asked.

  I am afraid the surprise showed on my face and Holmes had a twinkle in his eyes again.

  “The manner in which I deduced who your visitor was is quite simple, Watson. Upon my return-”

  “Just a moment, Holmes,” said I, as I interrupted his speech. “I have studied your methods enough to guess at the clues the good Inspector left. The chair by the fireplace where the Inspector sat has been moved since you left. The cushion has been considerably flattened because of the girth of the Inspector. This led you to the conclusion that the person was of above normal weight.”

  “Very good, Watson.”

  “Additionally, the Inspector smokes a particularly pungent type of cigar.
Both the ash he left, and the odor remaining in the room give testament to his presence.”

  “Splendid! Anything else?”

  “One final point, Holmes. Mrs. Hudson would not have admitted anyone with whom she was unfamiliar, as the hour was late by the time that you left. Since our circle is rather small that would seem to indicate an official of the police. Together with the other clues, you deduced that Inspector Jones had been our visitor.”

  I finished triumphantly and felt somewhat gratified to demonstrate to Holmes that our time together had caused my own skills of deduction to increase measurably.

  “Doctor, that was quite a recitation.”

  “I trust I have not missed any salient point.”

  “Only one, I am afraid,” said he. “As you can see by the table, our breakfast has been laid in by Mrs. Hudson. You were so sound asleep when I arrived I could not bear to wake you, and Mrs. Hudson was also very quiet as she brought our meal. Since Mrs. Hudson admitted the Inspector last evening, she made mention of it to me while she was here. I am afraid cigar ashes and cushion thickness had nothing to do with my acquisition of Inspector Jones’s identity.”

  “Really, Holmes! And with that information, you allowed me to prattle on about clues in the room?”

  “Watson, please accept my apologies, but in fact I was on the point of telling you how I learned of our visitor when you interrupted me. Is that not so?”

  “Well, I suppose I did interrupt,” said I. “But I believe you enjoy seeing me discomfited, Holmes.”

  “Not a bit, my friend. Now, as you can see, our table is well filled and we have a ride ahead of us this day. Let us repair to the table and break our fast and forget of murders and Inspectors for a time.”

  “But surely, Holmes, you told the lady we would be at Livingstone Manor tomorrow,” cried I. “And I passed along that information to Inspector Jones.”