‘Well, upon my word,’ Graves protested. ‘This will not do. This will not do at all.’
I merely shrugged. ‘The gallery then?’ I suggested.
Slowly, reddening with suppressed rage, Graves tightened his thin, colourless lips and strode from the room, Ryan and I following closely behind.
‘I have enjoyed a most productive afternoon,’ Holmes announced to me as soon as we had gained entrance into the gallery, which, as Holmes had correctly surmised, was situated in an airy, well lit room on the uppermost floor.
‘So I perceive,’ I said attempting to suppress my own indignation at his repeatedly shoddy treatment of our client. Holmes had, however, detected my anger but merely laughed.
‘Oh Watson, you should know my methods well enough by now.’
At this, Holmes halted, for he had just noticed an area of wall, approximately three foot square, where the previous presence of a painting was obvious by the discolouration of the wall.
In an instant, Holmes was lying on his stomach, scanning the large, rich Persian carpet with his lens. He was as dexterous in this position as a snake seeking its prey, and repeatedly a cry of triumph, occasionally, a groan of dismay, sounded from the floor. On one occasion I noticed him extract a small particle of dust, or even, ash, with a fingernail. This he examined minutely. Then, finally he dusted this away and leaped to his feet like a recoiling spring.
‘My examination of this room has been most informative, and confirms the evidence I received at the gallery this afternoon. Yet, I fancy the height of this floor will have prevented the thief from making his entrance up here.’
‘The thief gained access through the window of the first floor parlour, the security of which I have, to date, unfortunately, neglected,’ Graves reluctantly informed us.
‘Unfortunate indeed!’ Holmes gravely observed. ‘I should like to examine this window if I may.’
‘Very well, but I cannot see where all this tomfoolery is getting you.’
Holmes however was already descending the stairway to the first floor, leaving us there in his wake and still none the wiser.
By the time we had reached the parlour, Holmes had all but concluded his examination of the window and sill and gestured us to be seated before him.
‘My already tenuous indulgence is now done to exhaustion, Mr Holmes,’ Graves announced. ‘This leaping about the room like some jack-in-the-box does not impress me a jot.’
Holmes was arrogantly dismissive of these protestations from Graves, regarding, as he often did, his client merely as his introduction to his own private contest with the elusive truth. That he was now close to this truth was evident to me at least, in the certain gleam of his eye and a strange half smile that would not be subdued.
‘The tangled strands of this case have provided me with a wealth of deductive and analytical opportunities which I could hardly have expected from such a seemingly, innocuous burglary. Yet my investigations and deductions have led me to a conclusion that seems to satisfy all the facts.’
‘It is to be hoped that you, Mr Ryan, will provide me with the final clue, with Mr Graves’s co-operation and enable us to bring this affair to its natural conclusion.’
‘It is still a mystery to me why this scoundrel is in my house at all, much less how he can possibly be of any assistance,’ Graves snarled, peering down his nose once more.
‘By sketching an exact duplication of the missing painting,’ Holmes continued quickly, before Graves could resume his tiresome jibes. ‘The possibility that the theft of a relatively worthless painting, in the midst of such artistic treasures, could have been a mishap born of ignorance did occur to me initially. My examination of this parlour window, however, indicates that an experienced professional had been at work. Such an expert would hardly have preferred a nondescript landscape over, say, the Goya, unless there was a far deeper motive for its theft.’
‘The owner of the gallery, from which you made the purchase, paid a heavy price for violating the artist’s instructions to him. I understand you persuaded him to sell the painting to you rather than to the person that had originally ordered it, by almost doubling the asking price?’ Holmes queried.
‘Indeed I did, yet it was still only a trifling amount when weighed against the pleasure gained from the reminiscences that it provided. A heavy price you say?’
‘Alas, yes. The anger of the intended buyer was such that the hapless gallery owner was hospitalised for some time, the marks of the injuries to his face and head still most evident. Yet he was able to provide me with the name and whereabouts of the artist.’
‘Indeed, so at least some progress is being made,’ Graves conceded.
‘Most definitely. The individual in question is one James Tyler, currently enjoying accommodation at Her Majesty’s pleasure in Wormwood Scrubs, having committed a most violent robbery. Fortunately his victim survived and, for good behaviour, his governor has allowed him the privilege of oil and canvas, which, as you know, he has put to most excellent use.
‘My further enquiries, at the Yard, have revealed the existence of an accomplice, in all probability his brother, John, who evaded capture and is still at large. Since the description of the gallery owner’s assailant coincides with that of the Yard’s description of John Tyler, there can be little doubt as for whom the painting was intended, nor, indeed, as to the perpetrator of your own theft. Doctor Watson and I will wait in another room, while you describe the missing picture to our friend Ryan, here.’ Turning from Graves to Ryan, Holmes continued, ‘Your commission, Mr Ryan, will not earn you a reputation in the art world, but the reward that might be forthcoming, will certainly start you on your way. Come, Watson.’
Leaving Graves and Ryan as bemused and taken aback as myself, I descended with Holmes to the ground-floor drawing-room to await the outcome of Ryan’s artistic endeavours.
‘I must say, Holmes, the rapidity with which you have solved this confounded mystery has surpassed many of your past achievements. I confess, however, that the nature of the importance these brothers attach to the picture and how Ryan’s sketch will assist us is still a mystery to me.’
‘The first point is obvious, Watson. The proceeds of Tyler’s robbery were never recovered by the police, therefore it is a reasonable assumption to make that Tyler hid these prior to his arrest, without the knowledge of his brother. This landscape that he was so intent on his brother gaining possession of, is nothing more than an elaborate treasure map. I am certain that upon discovering the painting’s secret we will unearth the booty, hopefully before Tyler does. The first step towards finding its location is a relatively easy one and one I am sure John Tyler will also be equal to.
‘I discovered, from the unfortunate gallery owner, that the title of this painting is Bowen Bridge Farm. John Tyler’s arrest took place just under thirty-six hours after the crime was committed. The robbery took place in North West London, therefore we must make enquiries at the Ministry of Agriculture and obtain a list of farms in the surrounding area. I should not be surprised if Bowen Bridge Farm appears as one of these.’
‘The exact location of the booty however, will, I fear, be harder to calculate and I merely hope it takes Tyler longer to work it out than me. Ha! Here comes our sketch.’
Having already witnessed the sketch Ryan did of Montpelier Place in under ten minutes, I was not surprised to see that he had completed his task in such a short time. I was once more, awestruck at my friend’s sharp, analytical mind at work.
‘Excellent, Holmes!’ I exclaimed, ‘Once again your reasoning is amazingly sound.’
Graves caught my words as he and Ryan enter the room. ‘That, sir, remains to be seen,’ Graves remarked with disdain. ‘Though what assistance this poor sketch will be to you, I really cannot tell!’
Holmes ignored Graves’s comments once again. ‘Come, Watson! Mr Graves, as and when we have news of your painting and its recovery, you shall be duly informed. Good-day to you.’ So saying, Sherlock Holmes us
hered Ryan and myself out into the gathering darkness.
After we had compensated Ryan with a most welcomly received five guineas, he went on his way. The interior of our cab was too dark, by this time, for us to study the sketch, but upon reaching 221b, we immediately turned up the gas and spread the picture flat on the table.
Though the technique was undoubtedly brilliant, the content was sadly lacking in any singular features and left me in grave doubt as to our ever being able to unlock its secret. The foreground featured a flat stretch of grass chewed by a pair of quite ordinary cows. To the left stood a large group of full-grown cherry trees and to the right stood a distant square-built farmhouse. In the central background were grouped three quite attractive small cottages, whilst the sky contained two lonely white clouds and a brace of swallow.
In silence we two leaned over the table for a full ten minutes till, despairing of ever discovering anything significant, I straightened myself and lit a cigarette.
‘I am so sorry, Holmes,’ I said by way of consolation. ‘After so masterful a piece of deduction we appear to have run into a blind alley. I can see nothing in this sketch to draw our attention.’
I turned to my friend for confirmation, but instead found he had not heard a word I had said. His eyes had taken on a steely gaze, his features were quite inscrutable. In an instant he had snatched up the sketch and took it to his chair, in front of which he positioned a high-backed dining chair. On this he propped up the sketch.
Taking his tobacco from the Persian slipper, he lit up his black clay pipe and sitting cross-legged, his knees almost up to his chin, he stared at the picture, his eyes never once leaving the study of this drawing.
‘Will you retire soon, Holmes?’ I asked. ‘A clear head in the morning may help to solve this puzzle.’ The only reply was Holmes drawing long and hard on his shag and I reluctantly went to my room.
My anxiety for Holmes’s well-being was not unfounded, for I found his position unchanged the following morning, only now his hair was in disarray, his complexion quite ashen and his eyes seemed heavy and lined with dark circles. His black clay pipe had evidently been discarded at some stage during his long night, for the floor about his chair was littered with the tiny butts of well smoked cigarettes.
‘This is really inexcusable, Holmes! To abuse yourself so, for the sake of a solitary picture, a worthless one at that. You must take to your bed at once.’
Slowly Holmes raised his tired eyes towards me. ‘There is considerably more at stake here than a mere landscape which, by the way, I am sure, will soon cease to exist. Tyler’s robbery, which took place at a bank in Highgate, involved the death of a guard. Our real quarry, therefore, is an accessory to murder and our other priority, the recovery of the not inconsiderable proceeds.’
‘Yes, but even so.’
‘I trust you are ready for your visit to the ministry?’ Holmes asked wearily.
‘I am. I must insist, however, that you rest yourself at least while I am out.’
Holmes merely waved me away, with a languid, almost distorted movement of his hand and resumed his scrutiny of the sketch while lighting yet another cigarette.
Reluctantly and with a heavy heart I took my leave.
My morning’s work was long and tiresome, the bureaucracy of the British Civil Service being as slow and clumsy as it is. Nonetheless, by lunch-time my efforts were at last rewarded and a smallholding, just north of Borehamwood, emerged as our likely destination.
I hurried back to Baker Street with my news, flushed with success. I found to my amazement that a miraculous transformation had come over Holmes. Gone was the dishevelled wreck I had left behind and there, dressed and ready for action, was the Holmes I knew only too well. Shaved and immaculate in black frock coat he smiled broadly as I entered, rubbing his hands contentedly together.
‘The speed of your return and lightness of step upon the stairs indicate that you have been as successful as I. All we need now is your army revolver and we are ready for him!’ Holmes’s eyes glistened like a bird of prey and his mouth twitched with suppressed excitement.
‘Oh, but surely you will explain your discovery before we leave.’
‘Patience, my dear fellow. Pray furnish me with the information that I still require,’ he asked.
I informed Holmes of the farm’s location and only once we had consulted our Bradshaw and confirmed that we had some two hours to spare before the departure of the next train to Borehamwood, did he consent to explain how matters really stood.
‘Before we review the sketch for one last time, I must explain to you, Watson, that the matter uppermost in my mind is the apprehension of John Tyler. Though I am sure some manner of reward will be forthcoming should we prove to be successful, neither the recovery of the proceeds of the robbery, nor, indeed, the recovery of the painting itself, are my priorities. With that in mind I have placed an advertisement in all the popular newspapers to the effect that a Mr Tyler wishes to dispose of a pleasing cottage at Bowen Bridge Farm. I have little doubt that, assuming he can manage at all, lacking my own keen faculties, it will take Tyler considerably longer than me to unlock the secret of his brother’s painting. By placing the advertisement in the morning’s notices, we will have time enough to locate and recover the money at our leisure, then to remain at the cottage and be at hand for when Tyler finally makes his appearance,’ Holmes concluded triumphantly.
‘Splendid logic, as usual, Holmes, your trap seems well set, although you are assuming the cottage remains unoccupied.’
‘Yes, but I feel it is a reasonable enough assumption to make. James Tyler would have established its long-term vacancy before depositing there all that he had risked so much to obtain. Now to the sketch.
‘A subtle mind has James Tyler, and it is to the public good that such a mind, coupled with his own perverse ruthlessness, now lies incarcerated as opposed to being free to ply his vile and evil trade. As you can see, Watson, the number of potential hiding places is almost infinite, buried under the field, in or around the cottages, the trees, the list is endless. Yet there is one glaring anomaly, that really should have struck me immediately.’
‘I must confess, Holmes, that none presents itself to me. All is peace, beauty and tranquillity, with not a hint of that which lies hidden.’
Obviously enjoying himself, Holmes rubbed his hands together, laughing aloud.
‘I must give you a clue then, those great impressionist artists we were discussing the other morning, though differing greatly in style and technique, had one thing in common that distanced them from their somewhat ponderous predecessors. They all drew their inspiration from nature itself. That is what you must do now.’
‘From nature?’ I repeated under my breath. Holmes’s clue aided me not at all. I studied the field once more and the trees, but the only conclusion I could draw was that the scene depicted was high summer. Some cherry trees in the painting held no blossom, were in full leaf with no sign of the early autumnal growth of cherries taking place as yet. I related this discovery to Holmes.
‘Excellent, Watson, quite excellent, though you have failed to observe the occasional brown patchy stains in the grass which not only indicate high summer, but that it has been a hot dry summer also. Why then is the chimney stack, of the centre cottage, billowing out smoke so profusely?’
‘Tyler’s clue, of course! Really, Holmes you have quite surpassed yourself throughout this case. I shall get my revolver.’
‘If you would be so kind and I shall ask Mrs Hudson to call us a cab. We may just have time for a late lunch at the station before our train.’
Holmes was correct in his surmise, although our repast was somewhat hurried and our train’s departure was prompt. In a short while the grime of London was behind us and I sat back contentedly, contemplating the rebirth of nature that occurs each spring. Every tree was showing signs of budding, blossom or even tiny leaves and the grass had a lush freshness about it. I thought, momentarily, of sharing this observ
ation with my friend, but preferred silence to his inevitable rebuff. On more than one occasion in the past, he had voiced not only his indifference to such natural beauty, but also his conviction that the isolation of country living provided a veritable breeding ground for crime and undoubtedly in this instance, he had been proved correct.
‘Watson,’ he suddenly began, ‘I take it you now share my view that the isolation of the Bowen Bridge cottage, and no other factor, rendered it a far easier location for the depositing of stolen goods than any urban area.’
He laughed at my startled expression and then explained.
‘Really there is no cause for wonderment. It was obvious to me, from the contented expression on your face, and your reluctance in turning from it, that you were enjoying the scenic beauty we are passing through. When you did, however, it was only to glance quizzically in my direction and, no doubt remembering our recent conversation on the way to the “Copper Beaches”, you decided not to raise this topic of discussion. The fact that you did not, led me to my observation.’
‘I cannot deny that you are correct in every detail, though my agreement with you applies to this case alone. I still contend that the everyday strife and squalor of London life is a far more profuse breeding ground for crime than the tranquillity of a country location.’
‘Such as the “Copper Beaches”?’ He sarcastically asked.
Before I could protest, however, we began pulling into the station at Borehamwood and wasted no time in alighting and locating an available trap.
We were fortunate, indeed, in acquiring transport so readily outside a station as quiet and remote as Borehamwood and the driver, a large thickset man of middle years, with dark brooding eyes, was willing to assist us, knowing well the direction to our desired location.
We started off at a brisk pace, the large bay seeming fresh and healthy and the scenery seemed more stunning since leaving the speed of the train.
The Lost Files of Sherlock Holmes Page 2