The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part IV

by David Marcum

  “But, you will be leaving without your prize. That cannot sit well with you, and certainly someone will find out,” Holmes said.

  “Not a concern. If the original ever turns up I will simply claim that it is a forgery. No one will call me a liar, and I will have the bill of sale showing I had made a legitimate purchase. Besides, the copy is perfect. The work of an expert forger. Had it not been for a scratch on the frame I would not have found out at all. That’s when I found that it was a brilliant forgery.”

  “How did you come to that realization?” I asked.

  “Tousignant signed all of his pieces, and had a distinct way of crossing the last ‘t’ in his name with a bit of an upward slant. I have seen many of his works, and the signature never changes. I realized that something was wrong with that slant. It was not defined enough. Everything else was perfect, but the damage to the frame and the variation in his signature told me that it was a copy. This is all a positive thing, however. Once the authorities find out I have a fake I will be allowed to leave with it. They will only want to recover the original. That is where you come in, Mr. Holmes.”

  “How will you convince them that the piece is a fake?” I asked.

  “I have an art expert and appraiser coming to see it, Doctor.”

  “I see. And when did all of this occur?” asked Holmes.

  “Last night. I was out for an engagement.”

  Holmes stood and walked past our guest to the window, peering at the stars. After several moments he turned around. Huntington straightened his vest and dabbed his brow again.

  “Well, detective?”

  “I will take the case, sir.”

  “I expected no less,” he said. “No one turns down a Huntington.”

  “The good Doctor and I will arrive tomorrow morning at ten. Is that acceptable?”

  “More than acceptable. The appraiser will be there about the same time if you should have any questions for him. You’ll find my building on Hertford.”

  “Excellent. Until then I will bid you a good night.”

  I rose and handed him his things. He stood staring at me until I realized he was expecting the door to be opened. I stepped forward and did so, giving a forced smile as he passed. Once he had gone I returned to my chair and pipe.

  “Most unusual story, Holmes. Do you believe him?”

  “My thoughts will have to wait until we have had a chance to look at the scene of the crime itself. He certainly expects us to accept his story, and I have no reason to doubt anything yet. It is a most intriguing set of circumstances, however. Will you hand me a match, old fellow? Thank you.”

  Holmes sat opposite me and puffed at his briar for quite some time, his face expressionless as he stared straight ahead. I re-opened my book. Neither of us spoke again for the entire evening, and we retired in the same manner.

  Following a fine breakfast we set out for The Stonechurch, arriving at the predetermined time. The flat-fronted building sat back from the road within a surrounding ten foot wrought-iron fence. I stared in awe at the beautiful rose granite façade and numerous pointed arch windows. It was more than representative of wealth and privilege. We stepped from the carriage and approached the gate. After we identified ourselves, it was unlocked by the stocky gatekeeper. We were allowed inside and led to a front door flanked by tall, fluted columns supporting a Romanesque-style frieze. The gatekeeper knocked twice, and after a moment the door was opened from within by an older, stooping gentleman with large white whiskers and baggy eyes. He silently motioned for us to enter. Ahead we could see Mr. Huntington waiting for us near a carpeted staircase.

  “Mr. Holmes, Doctor,” he said, turning to climb the stairs, “it’s this way.”

  The grandeur of the interior was in perfect balance with the building itself. Fine French furniture filled every room, each piece complemented by an ornate floor lamp with a beaded shade. Mirrors hung throughout, giving the illusion of larger rooms, and beautiful Oriental carpets with elaborate floral designs decorated the floors.

  “Have there been any new developments since last night?” Holmes asked as we started up the staircase.

  “Nothing. I had a member of the staff sitting outside the door all night.”

  We stepped into a long, jasmine-scented corridor to the left of the first landing. The walls held wonderful examples of Gaugin, Renoir, and Monet, among others, and vases of colorful flowers sat below each painting.

  “This is my floor, gentlemen,” Huntington said. “The room in question is the last on the left. No one has been in there since this happened.”

  The three of us walked to the far end of the hall and stopped in front of a dark wooden door with a beautifully fashioned crystal knob. Holmes leaned forward to examine it.

  “You will find nothing to interest you, sir.”

  “Mr. Huntington, you asked for my assistance in confirming a break-in. I can do so only if you allow me to look for evidence,” Holmes said as he stared at it.

  Huntington stood silent for a moment. “Fine. But please don’t waste any time.”

  Holmes stepped as far as he could away from the doorway and pressed his back to the wall behind us. He slowly looked up the length of the hallway. Stepping back to us he grabbed the doorknob and looked at Huntington.

  “Yes, of course. Please go in. I’ll wait out here should you have any questions.”

  “Thank you. We should not be long.”

  The door swung open without a sound. Holmes knelt down and looked closely at the thick red carpet just inside the room. He ran his fingers up the heavy oak door frame, and then examined the doorknob and lock on the other side. The windowless room was lit by electric lamps which illuminated several statues of varying sizes, and the landscape paintings that hung on both sides. Directly ahead, opposite the door, was the painting in question. Holmes immediately stepped over to the right wall of the room and motioned for me to follow. He stared intently at the carpet as he slid along the wall, stopping once to drop to his knees and examine something with his glass.

  “Mr. Huntington,” Holmes called out. “Are you wearing the same shoes now that you wore that evening?”

  “Absolutely not. The boots I have on are for not for lounging.”

  “Do you have the shoes you had on that night?”

  “They were slippers. I’ll have them brought to you.” Huntington called out to a servant.

  I stood near one corner and waited for Holmes to finish his examination. Upon reaching the painting, he looked carefully at it. His eyes scanned every inch of the frame, paying particular attention to the mark on its corner. He ran his fingers along its jagged edge, and tugged gently at a small, loose piece. Once it came off he nonchalantly palmed it in his left hand.

  The boy appeared at the door with the pair of slippers. Huntington pointed to Holmes.

  “Excellent. Thank you, my lad,” Holmes said as he took them.

  “My pleasure, sir,” said the young man, his face lighting up with a smile.

  “Noah!” Huntington said sharply. The boy walked back to Huntington, his head down.

  Holmes turned the slippers over in his hands several times, handing one of them to me. While Huntington was distracted admonishing the young man, Holmes pulled out a penknife and small piece of paper, scraped something from the sole onto it, and then placed the items back in his pocket along with the piece of wood from the frame.

  “Mr. Huntington,” Holmes said as he handed the shoes back to the boy, “I’m sure he meant no harm.”

  “I will deal with the servants, sir. Now, back to the business at hand.”

  “Very well. I need to ask that you not wear those slippers again until we conclude our business. I may find it necessary to re-examine them. Tell me, what did you notice about the scratch on the frame?”

  “What’s to s
ee? It’s a scratch. It could have been done by a buckle or a tool. I am not an expert on scratches, Mr. Holmes.”

  “I was curious just how closely you had looked at it, is all. Is it possible to remove the painting from the wall?”

  “I’ll send for someone.”

  “No need. We are capable, and will be sure to be careful.”

  I stepped forward and helped my friend carefully lift the frame, set it gingerly on the floor, and lean it against the wall. I saw nothing different about the wall-paper, but Holmes flew forward, pulled out his magnifying glass, and began an inch-by-inch inspection. Once content, he tilted the painting forward and looked at the back.

  “Mr. Holmes, how much longer will this take? I have explained to you what I need. How many things do you need to look at in order to give it to me?” Huntington asked, his voice strident.

  “My good sir, I am not accustomed to being rushed. If you wish my help then you must wait on the results. If you prefer to have the police come in instead then please do so. But, I will not give you what you have asked for until I am convinced of it myself.”

  His face ruddy, Huntington opened his mouth, but gathered himself and cleared his throat. “I only ask that you go as quickly as you can. I am a busy man, and keep many appointments.”

  As he spoke a small, skittish man was shown into the room.

  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” the man said, walking toward Holmes. After they shook hands the stranger turned to me. “You must be Dr. Watson. I have read your accounts in the papers. Damned clever individuals, you are.”

  I shook his hand and thanked him for the compliment.

  “My name is Charles P. Calgary,” he said with a smile. “Art expert and appraiser. I work for a local gallery.” He turned toward the painting, and walked over to it. After digging in the pocket of his wrinkled jacket he brought out a pair of spectacles, putting them on as he knelt to peer at the canvas.

  With a finger resting on his lips, Holmes contemplated the kneeling man. “Mr. Calgary, where is this gallery you work for?”

  “Why do you ask?” he asked.

  “I’m not terribly familiar with this part of London, and would just like to know more.”

  “Well, it’s only a few minutes away. Isn’t this painting exquisite?” he said with a slight lisp I hadn’t noticed before. He quickly examined the entire thing, and then stood to face us.

  “Mr. Calgary,” Huntington said from the doorway, “what do you make of it?”

  “Well, it has all the hallmarks of Tousignant, but the signature is a bit suspect. Also, if you were to examine the brushstrokes from his other pieces you would see that he has a decidedly left-to-right swipe. This is more right to left.”

  “Just your opinion as to its authenticity, sir, nothing more,” Huntington said.

  “This is a beautiful piece, and would easily fool a novice. It is a fake, without doubt,” Calgary said, replacing his spectacles back in his pocket.

  Huntington turned to Holmes. “I have one of my needs met. Now I await your contribution. What have you decided?”

  “So far, Mr. Huntington, the only evidence I have of even the possibility of a break-in is the fact that the piece has been labelled a counterfeit. I’m afraid nothing else alerts me to an intruder. There is no evidence of the door being forced, and your admitted pacing the night of the alleged theft obliterated any footprints. Furthermore, there doesn’t seem to be any other way in or out of this room. There is nothing for me to confirm.”

  Huntington’s cheeks reddened with anger. “Mr. Holmes, I demand you take another look. Surely you are missing something.”

  “Sir, there is nothing to miss. However, there are one or two points that I would like to examine further, but that will have to happen elsewhere.”

  “How long will this take?” he asked.

  “I believe I can have the information tomorrow.”

  “Very well,” Huntington said. “I will expect you at noon.”

  “We are done here, Doctor,” Holmes said as he walked past me. “Until then, Mr. Huntington.”

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Calgary,” I said, turning to leave. I tipped my hat to Huntington as I passed. “We’ll show ourselves out.”

  Once outside we shaded our eyes to the sunshine while the doorman hailed us a cab.

  “What points do you mean, Holmes?” I asked as we climbed in.

  “I’m afraid I wasn’t completely honest with Huntington about having found nothing. There were, in fact, a few small items of interest. I found a small piece of some dark substance in the carpet just below the painting. It appears to be the same as what I found under the seam of his slipper.”

  “What of Calgary? He seemed honest enough.”

  Holmes sighed. “Mr. Calgary does not work at a local art gallery. At least not one in Piccadilly. The closest one to The Stonechurch is at least twenty minutes by hansom. Furthermore, if he is in that trade it would seem business is not good of late. When he knelt I noticed that his boots had been re-soled some time ago, and were stained. He offered neither business card nor company name, and he smelled of gin.”

  “The gin doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

  “Were I going to such an important appointment for a wealthy client I don’t believe I would imbibe beforehand to the point of being odorous. Did you notice the oblong red markings on the left side of his face?”

  “I did.”

  “Finger marks from sleeping on his fist. Most likely an effect of the gin. He was asleep for quite a while.”

  “Who do you believe he is?”

  “I have no answer to that presently. Now, would you care to accompany me to Blackfriar’s?”

  “The auction house?”

  “Precisely. That is where the painting was sold. I have a few questions about it that I can only see to there.”

  Blackfriar’s Auction House occupied a building that had been an old hotel. The chestnut-paneled main lobby was now the primary exhibition and seating area, while the rooms above served as storage and offices. We entered through the large glass doors and strode across the carpeted floor to a door with the word “Manager” on the glass. Holmes knocked. A well-dressed gentleman with a thin build opened the door.

  “May I help you?”

  “Please forgive our arriving without appointment. My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my colleague Dr. John Watson. I was hoping we could speak to someone about a recent item that was sold here.”

  “Of course.” He ushered us into the office and offered us seats. “Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Holmes. My name is Danforth - Theo Danforth. I’m the manager here. How can I assist you?”

  “I am quite interested in a painting that you auctioned here some weeks ago: La Dame Verte d’Ypres.”

  “Ah, yes. Tousignant’s work. A beautiful piece. Sold for quite a handsome amount. More than what we had estimated, I’m happy to say. What is your interest in it?”

  “Primarily in its condition when it arrived.”

  “Excellent. I examined it myself.”

  “Did you, by chance, take photographs of it?”

  “Oh yes. Front, back, the frame detail. Everything. Standard practice.”

  “Wonderful,” Holmes said, clapping his hands together. “Could we possibly see them?”

  “Of course. Is there something in particular you’re looking for?”

  “I am interested in the frame. I would also like to look at the construction of the back of it.”

  “If you gentlemen will come with me we can do this now.” He motioned for us to follow. We walked up a small staircase and turned into a small room filled with cabinets and scrapbooks.

  “Our photographer, Edward, keeps everything in here. I only wish his filing system was the same quality as his pictur
es, but it shouldn’t be too hard to find. Give me a moment, please,” he said as he pulled out his monocle. He crossed the room to a stack of papers and began thumbing through them.

  “Do you mind if I ask a question or two while you look, Mr. Danforth?”

  “By all means, Mr. Holmes,” he said, never looking up.

  “Can you tell me if the frame was damaged in any way?”

  Danforth turned toward Holmes. “Absolutely not,” he said in a stern tone. “The frame was perfect. Beautifully carved walnut with an acanthus and berry design.”

  “I see. Do you recall if there appeared to be any evidence of tampering with the framework on the back of the canvas?”

  A crease appeared between Danforth’s eyes. He took off eyeglass and smoothed back his white hair. “What exactly are you implying, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I mean no disrespect, sir. The person who purchased it has asked me to investigate its authenticity.”

  “I assure you, sir, that it was authentic in every way. We would never have allowed a fake to even enter the building. We have a reputation, you know. Our customers expect the best.”

  “It is true, however, that the painting has a troubled past. Were you aware of that?”

  “I spoke with the French authorities about some minor points, but I was satisfied that the provenance was intact.”

  “And of the possible illegal activities concerning its previous owner?”

  “I am familiar with the reports of certain... indiscretions,” Danforth said with a tremble in his voice, “but we were given authority to sell the piece as genuine. The buyer was anonymous and remitted immediately.” He removed several photographs from the pile with a pleased sound. “I believe you wanted to see these.”