Gaslight Grimoire: Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes

by Jeff Campbell

  “As if you needed one, Mr. Holmes,” said a refined if somewhat effected voice behind us. We turned, and found ourselves facing a fellow I deduced to be Mr. Bartholemew Milhause himself. If I could have pictured a more suitable brother for the rotund Mycroft Holmes than my colleague, then it would surely have been Milhause. He was only slightly smaller than the obese civil servant I had encountered during the affair of the Greek Interpreter and the business of the stolen submarine plans, but in all other respects — the thinning hair, the deep-set grey eyes — he might have been his twin. However, where I commonly associated Mycroft with the faint odor of expensive cigars, Milhause had apparently drenched himself in a perfume better suited to a vulgar music hall artiste than an alleged patron of the arts.

  He shook Holmes by the hand with an enthusiasm I considered unseemly. “An honor, sir, an honor!” he cried. “And you must be the other one,” he observed caustically, eyeing me with distaste. I pretended to ignore the obvious slight.

  “Mr. Milhause, you act for the artist Redfern, do you not?” Holmes enquired.

  “A true talent, Mr. Holmes — a young fellow of genuine ability. An oasis in the desert of mediocrity that passes for culture in modern London. I make an exception for the items to be found in the Tuttman Gallery, of course.” Crabtree, to whom this remark was directed, responded in similarly fawning terms. I glanced at Holmes, but he did not return my grimace.

  “It just so happens, Mr. Milhause, that I am interested in sitting for a portrait.”

  “But surely Mr. Paget—”

  “That was some years ago, and I am no longer the man I once was. I thought that if any artist in London might be capable of capturing my — well, my spirit…”

  “That artist is Algernon Redfern!” Milhause declared, with a tiresome flourish. “Excellent, Mr. Holmes, excellent! Portrait work is not really in his line, you understand, but I doubt that he could pass up such a fascinating commission. Mr. Sherlock Holmes himself — how very unique!”

  “It is simply ‘unique’, Mr. Milhause,” I pointed out.

  “But it is, my dear fellow — simply unique!”

  Like every Londoner, I had, of course, heard of the artists’ studios to be found off the long lean artery of the King’s Road, but I had never seen them. Finding myself on that dark flagged alley, I must confess that I was not impressed by my surroundings. Indeed, the only hint of a bohemian air to the district was supplied by two disreputably-dressed young gentleman, no doubt on the way to their own studio. As they passed us, I heard the taller man say, “Honestly, Bunny, you really are the most frightful ass…” in a cultured fashion greatly at odds with his attire.

  We halted at an unlatched door, and Holmes raised his hand to knock.

  “It’s open, Mr. Holmes, do come in!” called a male voice. My friend’s expression betrayed none of the surprise I was sure he must have felt, and he pushed the door open.

  I had imagined that the residence of a successful artist would be crammed to the rafters with sketches and paintings in various stages of preparation. But the lofty room in which we found ourselves betrayed little evidence of the tenant’s occupation, save for an easel at the far side of the room and a small table in the center. The painting upon that easel faced away from us, but had, in any case, been covered by a stained towel. A completed work, rolled-up, rested against the easel.

  As for Algernon Redfern himself, again my expectations were crushed. Given his flamboyant agent, and his apparent connection with a string of bizarre murders, I had begun to imagine him as a curious cross between Oscar Wilde and Edward Hyde; but such was not the case. Redfern was a man of approximately five-and-twenty, tall, loose-limbed, with black close-cropped hair and a pockmarked face.

  “Forgive me for not shaking hands,” he said, jovially, displaying his paint-smeared palms.

  “How does it come about that you were expecting us?” I enquired.

  He smiled, and I observed a row of uneven yellow teeth. “Perhaps as an artist, I have a keener instinct than most, Doctor. Or, a telegram might have reached me before your carriage. Then again, I might have that marvelously convenient invention, the telephone, installed somewhere on the premises. Pick any one you prefer. Cigarette?”

  Under a copy of the Pall Mall, a plain cigarette box rested upon the small table. He brushed the newspaper to the floor and opened the box, revealing just one cigarette within.

  “No thank-you, Mr. Redfern,” Holmes replied.

  “As you like,” said the artist. In one swift movement, he placed the cigarette in his mouth and lit it. “This will probably be my last one, anyway. Plays hell with my chest. Is there any medical basis for swearing off them, Doctor?”

  I must own that during my explanation — which took in findings made a century earlier regarding the connection between snuff-taking and certain nasal polyps, as well as my friend’s frequent three-pipe sessions — I rambled more than a little, distracted as I was by Redfern’s voice. That he was attempting to conceal his own nationality beneath a somewhat flawed English accent was clear.

  “Well, Mr. Holmes,” he said, jovially, “to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

  “What does your keen artist’s instinct tell you?” Holmes asked, dryly.

  Redfern chuckled. “Most assuredly, not that you are interested in having your portrait painted. From what I know of you from Dr. Watson’s stories, I would not have said you were so vain.”

  “If you are an admirer of the Doctor’s work, you have my condolences,” said Holmes with, I felt, unnecessary relish. “But you are correct in stating that I have not come here today on my own account. I am more interested in your connection to James Phillimore, Anwar Molinet, Oliver Monckton and Mrs. Bernice Serracoult.”

  Redfern expelled a long, luxurious cloud of smoke before responding: “Sorry to say, I’ve never heard of any of them. Who are they?”

  “They each bought one of your paintings,” I explained.

  The artist shrugged, before stubbing out his cigarette on the lid of the box and picking up a pad and pencil. “I only paint them,” he said. “The charming Mr. Milhause handles the business side of things. You’ve met him, of course. Quite unbearable isn’t he?”

  “They are also, as Dr. Watson is too discreet to mention, all dead — Mrs. Serracoult as recently as this afternoon.”

  Algernon Redfern appeared unperturbed by this news. “I should call that a rather extreme reaction to my work.” He began to scribble absent-mindedly on the pad.

  “Are you English by birth, Mr. Redfern?” Holmes asked.

  “How could you doubt it? I’m not native to London, however, but I’ve been here a while. And I’ll remain until I’ve done what I came here to do.”

  “And that is?” I asked.

  He looked up from his pad. “To sell my paintings, naturally. What else?”

  I coughed to attract Holmes’ attention.

  “Your friend seems to have rather a nasty chest. Or is there something on your mind, Doctor?”

  “You said … you said that Mr. Milhause dealt with the sale of your works. And I would not have imagined that a true artistic soul would be interested in such vulgar matters.”

  “I don’t play any part in the sales — I couldn’t even tell you where they’re sold. But as a professional writer, you must know that any artist who says they’re not interested in public acceptance is a liar. That’s what it’s all about. And money, of course. Only the air is free, gentlemen, and I have some doubts as to its quality.”

  “Dr. Watson likes to say that my pipe does little to add to the city’s atmosphere.”

  “Another persuasive argument in favor of my giving up the cigarettes.” Redfern dropped the pad at his feet, seeming not to notice. “I’m sorry I can’t help you, Mr. Holmes, but as I told you, I’ve never met or even heard of those people you mentioned. And I’m certain that as a professional detective, you must have all sorts of ways of telling whether I’m telling the truth or not.” Again,
he flashed a sickly yellow grin, and I had the certain feeling that we were being manipulated, as a cat toys with a wounded mouse.

  Holmes scratched his long nose. “Well, it was a long shot at best. Thank-you for your time, Mr. Redfern.”

  We made to leave, but the young man bounded across the length of the room, the rolled-up painting in his hand. “Wait!” he cried. “Mr. Holmes, as an … admirer of your work, I should very much like you to have this.”

  Holmes chuckled. “My services are charged at a fixed rate, Mr. Redfern. I doubt that I could afford one of your paintings.”

  “I’m not selling it — I’m giving it to you. It’s mine to do with as I wish, and I wish you to have it. Take it, please.”

  I was already on my guard, and should never under any circumstances have accepted a gift from a man so patently false as Algernon Redfern, so I was astonished by my friend’s reaction, unrolling the picture with an almost childish enthusiasm of which I would never have imagined him capable. Holmes’ eyes glittered as he examined the picture.

  “Why, this is really very fine!” he exclaimed.

  “If I have captured the color of the mudstains, I take it you can identify the precise area of London depicted?”

  “No need, Mr. Redfern, I am quite familiar with Coptic Street; I had lodgings not far from there some years ago, and it has featured in one of our recent investigations. Watson, you recall the case of the Coptic Patriarchs?”

  I attempted to convey my concerns to Holmes in a surreptitious manner by means of a loud cough, but he seemed completely oblivious.

  “Well, good-bye, Mr. Holmes,” said the young man, his unhealthy grin now even wider. “It was nice to have known you, if only for a brief time. Good-bye, Dr. Watson — paregoric is the stuff.”

  “I suppose it has occurred to you, Holmes,” I remarked, tartly, “that thus far in this case, everyone who has owned a painting by Algernon Redfern has died the most horrible death … and you are the latest owner of a Redfern?”

  Holmes’ mood during our cab journey back to Baker Street had been irrepressibly cheerful, and he refused to allow my grim observation to spoil his mood. “You know my methods, Watson — I am well-known to be indestructible. Besides, I trust that the two of us will be able to see danger coming in any direction.”

  “I wish us better luck than Anwar Molinet; we still have yet to determine the precise cause of his death, but I’d be prepared to wager a considerable sum that this fellow Redfern is behind it all somehow.”

  “Then perhaps it’s wise that your checkbook is safely locked away in my drawer.”

  I ignored the sharpness of his retort. “I simply meant that I find it inexplicable that you choose to trust this fellow!”

  “I did not say that I trusted him.”

  “But you said you were certain he was at the center of this pattern of events, and now you’re accepting gifts from the fellow.”

  “Well, evidently, I was wrong about his precise connection to the case. I simply view him now as another stop on our journey, rather than our destination point.”

  This pronouncement baffled me; so far as I could see, we had no lines of enquiry left to pursue. Holmes evidently noted the confusion on my features, for he continued: “It’s interesting that, as an artist, Mr. Redfern prefers to write rather than doodle. You noticed, of course, his furious scribblings as we conversed?”

  “I noticed,” I admitted, “but I placed no importance in it.”

  Holmes tutted. “Just when I think I have made something of you, Doctor. As we spoke, he wrote the words ‘Do they know about Ferregamo?’”

  “How could you possibly have seen that from where you were positioned?”

  Holmes winced, and I found myself reaching for my service revolver, imagining that my friend was in some danger. But he simply smiled weakly.

  “I really must speak to Mrs. Hudson about her cooking,” he groaned. “I’m so sorry, old fellow, what were you saying?”

  I repeated my question.

  “No magic, Watson: one simply has to watch the end of the pencil in order to establish what is being written. It’s a trick every detective should know. Now we have to establish who or what Ferregamo is—”

  “That would be a Julius Ferregamo, of Bedford Square.”

  “Your average is rising, Watson. That’s twice in a single day you’ve managed to render me speechless. I retract my earlier criticism. How do you come by this information?”

  “No magic, Holmes. It just so happens that I met the fellow at a luncheon at the Langham Hotel. It was a good many years ago, but his reputation as London’s premier art collector was unequalled even then. Many pretenders to the throne have come and gone in the interval, and Ferregamo retains his supremacy. Half-Italian, you know, but still quite a decent chap for all that.”

  “I’m sure he would appreciate your finding him so, Watson.” Again, he winced, and clutched at his stomach.

  “Holmes, you’re unwell. We must get you back to Baker Street.”

  “If I am unwell, then I am extremely fortunate in having a physician at my side at all times.” He rapped upon the roof of the carriage with his stick. “Driver, we’ve changed our minds! Take us to Bedford Square.”

  I shifted uneasily in my seat, as Redfern’s painting brushed against my leg, and told myself that the chill I felt was entirely imaginary. I remembered Holmes’ old maxim that the more bizarre a crime appears, the less mysterious it proves to be, and I wondered whether we might be witnessing the exception to that particular rule.

  Julius Ferregamo was almost exactly as I recalled him from that luncheon so many years before. Where the years had taken their toll on my brow and waistline, he was as trim and dandified as ever, as he greeted us in the parlor of his lavish abode.

  “Doctor, so good to see you again. Still producing your little yarns? How charming! And this must be Sherlock Holmes! You’re very fortunate to catch me at home, you know. I’ve been in Amsterdam for some time, negotiating for a Hans Holbein. You’re familiar with Holbein, I imagine?”

  “Only with Anton Holbein, the Augsburg poisoner,” Holmes answered. “The doctor will tell you that I have only the crudest notions about—” My poor friend’s face had suddenly assumed the most dreadful expression. His eyes rolled upward, and his features writhed. For a fleeting moment, I feared he might be on the verge of collapse.

  “Are you ill, Mr. Holmes?” Ferregamo enquired.

  “Merely beginning to regret my dining habits, sir.” He laughed weakly.

  “I always dine at Les Freres Heureux when I’m of a mind, but as I passed it today, it seemed to be closed. I’m so sorry, Mr. Holmes, you were saying something about your crude notions?”

  “Concerning art, Mr. Ferregamo. In fact, I came here today to ask your opinion on a piece I recently acquired. That is, if you would deign to cast your expert eye..?” He passed the painting to the Italian, who accepted it cautiously. As Holmes released his grip on it, a curious change seemed to come over his face, as though the cause of his discomfort had suddenly evaporated.

  “For a friend of the doctor, how could I refuse?” He unrolled the painting with care. “I must warn you, if you are hoping to make a fortune from it, you are likely to be disappointed.”

  “Mr. Holmes is interested in art for its own sake,” I explained. “But of late, I’ve learned a great deal about the importance of money in your world, Julius.”

  “Oh, indeed!” he beamed. “Why, that Hogarth etching behind you has probably appreciated in value about £100 since you entered my home. Why, this is very fine indeed.”

  Knowing that my own artistic impulses — though keener than Holmes’ — were nowhere near as refined as Ferregamo’s, I was cheered by the fact that our view of Algernon Redfern’s abilities tallied.

  “I should say that this would be the pride of your collection, Mr. Holmes,” he went on. Given that Holmes’ entire collection was made up of illustrations from the crime news, I was forced to agree. />
  “I am gladdened to hear that you like it, Mr. Ferregamo,” Holmes said with uncharacteristic glee. “You must have it.”

  I was startled by this sudden act of generosity. What was Holmes thinking? Had he not accepted the same painting as a gift from Algernon Redfern an hour earlier?

  “How much are you asking for it? As I said, it is not valuable, I merely appreciate it as a work of art.”

  “If you value it so highly, I am happy to present it to you as a gift. The doctor will tell you that I do not ordinarily act on impulse, but I feel very strongly that this painting should be yours.”

  A crease of doubt appeared on Ferregamo’s high domed forehead. “Really? You know, I don’t recognize the style, but there’s something oddly … familiar. I pride myself that I can identify an artist’s brushstrokes just as you Mr. Holmes, could spot the typeface of any newspaper.”

  “Not quite any newspaper. When I was very young, I once mistook the Leeds Mercury for the Western Morning News. But the artist in question is Algernon Redfern. Doubtless you’re familiar with him?”

  “As I say, I’ve been out of the country — I’m a little out of touch with recent developments. This Redfern … young fellow, is he?”

  “In his early twenties, I should say,” I answered. “Strange chap — claimed to be English, but he had an accent I couldn’t place.”

  Without warning, Julius Ferregamo grabbed me by the lapels. “His teeth! His skin! Describe them!”

  “Then you do know him!”

  As quickly as he had accosted me, the frightened man released me, before staggering as though wounded. “My God!” he breathed. “Ruber! He’s found me out! My God!” His face had reddened, and heavy beads of sweat ran down his brow. I feared his heart might be under some tremendous strain.

  “Julius!” I cried. “Julius, what’s happening to you?”

  In describing what occurred next, I realize that I risk straining my readers’ credulity. Even the famously eccentric Professor Challenger, the one man in London I imagined would be sympathetic to my tale, dismissed it as some form of narcotic delusion when I related this event to him. Nevertheless, I insist that I speak the absolute truth.