The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part IV

by David Marcum

  Holmes took the photographs and began to examine them. He focused on one that showed the lower right corner of the frame, and then on two that featured the construction of the reverse. Once satisfied he handed them back.

  “Mr. Danforth, these have been most helpful.”

  “Please understand, Mr. Holmes, that when an item such as this becomes available we have to take advantage of the opportunity immediately or lose out to one of the larger houses. It is most sensible financially. We never take liberties with histories, as we wish no problems with Scotland Yard or any other agency. A Tousignant has significance in the art world. I’m honored to have sold one here. The rewards will be many. It may have been necessary to smooth over some troubling details about the piece before the sale, but I can assure you no laws were broken.”

  “I am not here to determine anything other than a few matters that are important to my task. One more thing, Mr. Danforth - do you employ an art conservator?”

  “No, but we have a gentleman who does that sort of thing for The British Museum. Owens is his name.”

  “Is he in today?” Holmes asked.

  “He and several others are downstairs cataloguing items for the next sale. Came in very late today, the imp. I can take you to him.”

  “I would be most grateful, sir.”

  We made our way down a narrow set of unfinished stairs into an expansive cellar. Vast lengths of shelving lined the walls, and men scampered about carrying statuettes and figurines. Crates were being pried open and the straw packing tossed into a large pile in the far corner where men were using pitchforks to stuff it into burlap bags. We followed Danforth across the room to a large, crudely built table covered with small whiskbrooms and rags.

  “Has anyone seen Owens?” Danforth asked, looking around.

  “Just stepped out for a smoke, sir,” said a large man lifting one end of a settee. “Right as you came down. Said he’d be back in in a bit.”

  “Thank you, Marvin. Well, if you don’t mind waiting a moment or two, gentlemen?”

  “Not at all. Do you mind if we have a look at some of your inventory?”

  “Be my guest,” Danforth said with a huge, toothy smile. “Let me know if there’s anything you might wish to purchase.”

  We strolled among the racks of bowls and perfume bottles, and then through the aisles of furniture.

  “There are some beautiful things here, Holmes,” said I.

  “I am satisfied with our current belongings. I can see no need to add to them.”

  “Mr. Holmes, sir. Doctor. He’s here now,” called Danforth, waving us over.

  Before us stood a small man wearing a battered bowler that sat on his ears. He had a red handkerchief over the lower half of his face, and a large pair of goggles covered his eyes. He coughed just as Holmes began to greet him.

  “Sorry, sir,” the workman said in a gravelly voice. “Been suffering all week with this. How can I help you?”

  “My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my associate, Dr. Watson. I wanted to ask if you recognized this substance.” Holmes pulled the piece of folded paper from his pocket and handed it to him.

  “Looks like dried tar to me.”

  “I see. Mr. Danforth here tells us you do art conservation at the Museum. That may explain the spatter on your boot.”

  “Got that painting a house, if it’s any of your business,” he said with annoyance. “And I mostly work with the animal displays when I’m at the Museum. Taxidermy and such.”

  Danforth looked at the man with wide eyes and an open mouth. “That’s not what you told me, Mr. Owens. You said that you worked on pai-”

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, sir,” the man shot back. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go help Smith over there.”

  “Help who?” Holmes asked.

  “Smith, I said. Good day, gentlemen.”

  Holmes watched the man intently as he walked away and disappeared behind a row of curios.

  Danforth looked at us and with a half-grin. “I’m sorry, gentlemen,” he said with a shrug. “I thought he could help you.”

  “It is not a concern, sir. He has helped more than you could know. Thank you for your time.”

  “We appreciate your assistance, Mr. Danforth,” I said, shaking his hand.

  At the top of the stairs Holmes grabbed my arm and spun me around. “Did you see, Watson?”

  “Did I see what, Holmes? What do you mean?”

  “Oh, Watson. There are times I have to look past my disappointments in your abilities and remember just how loyal you are to me.”

  “I am not you, Holmes,” I said, perturbed, as we walked toward the main doors. “It is not my nature to see the way you do. However, you do not perceive with a doctor’s eye, so we both have our specialties.”

  “Forgive me, old friend. I occasionally forget that you do indeed possess faculties that can be helpful in certain situations. I did not mean to insult you.”

  We stepped out into the warm sunshine and waited for a hansom.

  “So, what did I miss?”

  “What can you tell me about Owens?” Holmes asked.

  “Almost nothing. His features were covered. But I did notice his hat was too big for him.”

  “Wonderful. Anything else?”

  I went over the meeting in my mind. Suddenly a thought came to me. “He didn’t smell like cigarette smoke.”

  “Capital, Watson!” Holmes said, rubbing his hands together. He tilted his head back and let out a short laugh.

  “What about him saying that substance was tar? Was he right?”

  Holmes retrieved the packet and handed it to me. “Smell it. Tell me what you think.”

  I brought the paper to my nose and sniffed.

  “Does it smell like tar?”

  “Not at all. But I do recognize the smell,” I said as I handed it back to him.

  Holmes looked at it again and gave a small chuckle. “I think most would. Let us go tomorrow and speak to Mr. Huntington again. I believe I can give him his answer, as was agreed. Tonight we shall dine at Simpson’s and then enjoy an evening of chess.”

  The morning broke with a generous helping of spring sunshine from a cloudless sky. London was once again alive with the sounds of horse and carriage on the streets and the call of newsboys with the latest headlines. My restful sleep prepared me for what I hoped to be an eventful day, and Holmes’s mood seemed to mirror mine. Mrs. Hudson’s fine breakfast satisfied our appetites, and we set out with a determined manner.

  Once inside The Stonechurch, we waited for several minutes while Mr. Huntington was notified of our visit. Holmes used the time to look at the exquisite rooms on either side of us, something I cannot be sure he had even noticed the day before. Huntington appeared at the top of the stairs and invited us up.

  “Good morning, sir,” Holmes said.

  “Mr. Holmes. Doctor Watson,” he said, shaking our hands. “Right on time. Always good for business. I trust we can resolve this matter today?”

  “I believe we can do just that. Would it be possible for us to discuss this in the room with the painting?”

  “Of course, Mr. Holmes. Follow me.”

  We followed him down the hallway, passing fresh arrangements in each of the vases. Stepping inside, Holmes walked over to the far wall while Huntington and I stood by the door.

  “Mr. Huntington,” Holmes said, his words echoing in the chamber and startling us both. “There has indeed been a crime. One committed right here in this very room, on this very spot.” He turned and looked intently at our host. “Before I relate exactly what happened, I will give you an opportunity to tell me anything you may have left out before.”

  Huntington snorted. “I have nothing further to add. I have explained what I need from you. Ju
st give me what I have requested, and I will see that you receive your fee.”

  Holmes returned to Huntington, looking into his eyes. “Are you certain?”

  Neither man moved or blinked.

  “Very well, sir. If you’ll come over to the painting with me I will begin.”

  We all walked to the other side of the room, and Holmes instructed us where to stand.

  “I will start by saying that Phineas Baxter will never appear again.”

  Huntington paused for a moment and then smiled. “That’s excellent news, Mr. Holmes.”

  “What was it that you called him?” Holmes asked.

  Huntington said nothing.

  “Doctor?” Holmes said, looking at me from the corner of his eyes.

  “I believe he called him ‘The Ghost’,” said I.

  Huntington licked his lips. “Can you please tell me what this has to do with this matter?”

  “What it has to do with this is that you, sir, are a liar!”

  Huntington took a sharp breath in and raised his forearm to his chest. “Anyone who speaks to me in that tone and accuses me of something better be prepared to feel the back of my hand.”

  “That will not be necessary,” I said, taking a step toward him. Huntington looked at me, his nostrils flaring. “It would be shrewd of you to listen to what he has to say,” I continued.

  “Let me start with this room. It is completely sound. No trapdoors, hidden windows, or secret passages,” Holmes said, stamping the floor with his foot. “No way to get in without your key. And since you claimed it must have been stolen, it wasn’t necessary to inflict any damage upon the room. So your key was precisely how this mysterious thief entered. You let them in.”

  “This is preposterous!” Huntington said. “Why would I do such a thing?”

  “Because the painting was never stolen. It was never in danger of leaving this room.” Holmes stood beside the piece. “This copy, as you claim, is perfect,” he said with a flourish of his hand. “Too perfect, actually. You see, I know that this isn’t a fake at all. It’s the actual painting. Modified, but genuine. It has sustained a small bit of harm to the signature. The swooping of the final ‘t’ was the only change made.” Holmes looked at Huntington, who was ashen.

  “Will you be taking any drinks now, sir?” I asked. Huntington’s mouth opened slightly, but he said nothing.

  Holmes continued. “Your art expert is no expert. He doesn’t even work for a gallery. The closest he has come to being an authority on art is his infrequent work at The British Museum.”

  My attention turned to Holmes and his last remark.

  “Owens?” I asked.

  “And Calgary, Doctor. The man we met yesterday at Blackfriar’s was the same man we spoke to here. He did his best to hide his identity, but he could not hide his lisp. And if that wasn’t enough to identify him, I also noticed that a spot on the toe of his boot matched the color of the paint used to change the signature. There was a spot on his sole that matched it, as well.”

  Huntington shuffled his feet. He grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket to dab away the now visible beads of perspiration from his forehead.

  Holmes frowned at Huntington. “Owen’s work at the Museum made him a perfect candidate to do a very small alteration to the work. Unfortunately for you, a small droplet of it fell onto his boot and a tiny bit dripped down into the carpet. He then stepped on the drip as he was finishing. I saw the stain on his sole when we were here yesterday and again when we met him at the auction house. I’m afraid his guise of working for an art gallery wasn’t very convincing.”

  “What about the scratch, Holmes?” I asked.

  “Ah, yes. The scratch. It was made by the Greek,” he said with a mischievous grin.

  I flipped furiously through my notes looking for anything about this person.

  “Doctor, I meant this Greek.” He walked over to the bronze warrior that stood to the right of the painting. “The damage was done using his sword. The painting was simply lifted up and the frame raked along the tip. There were two small slivers of the dark walnut imbedded in the carpet directly below, and Mr. Huntington here should still have a small splinter of it stuck in the seam of one of the slippers that I asked him not to wear again. A simple comparison of that splinter with a small chunk I took from the frame was enough to show that they were the same wood and staining.”

  Huntington stood perfectly still and stared straight ahead.

  “All of this was done, you see, in an effort to add credence to the theft. It was intended to show carelessness and haste on the part of the so-called thief.” Holmes looked over at Huntington. “You and your accomplice were not very careful about where you stepped, but your pacing did destroy any marks that might have been useful. That, most likely, was intentional. Fortunately you sealed off the room to the wait staff. Had you allowed them in for cleaning, I would never have discovered any of this. You also didn’t have anyone posted outside the door all night. There would be no need. But, if you’re going to claim that, then you at least need to use a chair to make indentations in the carpet. You might also leave it in the hallway.”

  Huntington was now pallid and shaking. Sweat trickled down his temple.

  “Your attempt to take the painting out of the country under the ruse of it being a fake was very clever. But, you made many mistakes, the most egregious of which was hiring me. You said you would need me to report my findings to Scotland Yard when all was done, and it looks like I will be doing just that.”

  “I admit to nothing, Mr. Holmes.”

  “There is no need for you to admit anything, Mr. Huntington. Your accomplice will tell us everything we need to know,” Holmes said, glancing at his pocket watch. “Ah, right now he is likely being questioned by the police.”

  “But Holmes, what of Baxter?” I asked.

  “He never existed, Watson. He was invented to help the situation along. I suppose that could be the name of an acquaintance in America or something similar, but we could never trace him. He’s a person of interest that can never be found. A true ghost.”

  Holmes walked over and stood just to the left of and behind Huntington.

  “You’ll be happy to know that you will be returning to America. With the exception of the modification of the work, which is easily fixed, no real crime has been committed here. You are free to go. What you tell your family and associates about the painting is up to you. I trust, though, that very soon someone you know will find out, for the press is an institution I cannot control. And they do seem to adore a good scandal.”

  Holmes turned back to me. “Watson, there are always officers patrolling in affluent areas of the city. Would you be so good as to run down to the street and locate one? Have them contact Assistant Inspector Elliot. He will be very pleased to learn of these new developments with The Green Lady of Ypres, I think.”

  The Adventure of the Fellow Traveller

  by Daniel McGachey

  It was on an overcast and drear morning in the autumn of 1897 that Sherlock Holmes and I were returning to the hubbub and rush of London from the relative serenity of the countryside. That tranquil calm of the northern village of Upper Winshaw had been rudely usurped by cries of murder; something only too common in the city, but so rare in such a setting as to threaten the peace of mind of all for miles around.

  That peace would now return, thanks to my friend, who swiftly and successfully dismissed the case’s claims to impossibility by demonstrating that the sole witness to the victim’s fatal shriek had been mistaken in their assertion that the act had taken place at five minutes after noon, a time when all possible suspects were accounted for. This witness, having risen late due to a minor but aggravating headache, had been shaving in his bathroom when the dreadful sound reached his ears. Having looked up, startled by the deathly cry, he had fou
nd his eyes falling not on the church clock tower, visible through the open window, but on its reflection in the mirror above his basin. Thus was revealed the possibility that the crime had taken place at five minutes before the hour, shattering the alibi of a popularly-held suspect who had been seen some short distance from the scene at noon, and whose whereabouts were accounted for from that moment on, but not before.

  “Thus you see, my dear fellow,” Holmes had said from beneath his lowered hat brim as he prepared to pass the rest of our homeward journey in the depths of either thought or sleep, “that witnesses may tell as truthfully as they can what they believe implicitly they have observed and, with entirely no desire to deceive, perjure themselves utterly.”

  That reverie into which my friend then sunk was to last only as far as the next rural station, where my own immersion in an absorbing tale of valour and sacrifice during the Napoleonic Wars was interrupted by the opening of our compartment door. I looked up from the page and found myself gazing upon a fair-headed young woman who, out of breath and flushed as she was, returned my gaze with a smile that mixed charm with relief.

  “You gentlemen are together?” she asked from the doorway, one foot still upon the platform. “And are, perhaps, travelling all the way to London?”

  I assured her that she was in both instances correct.

  “Then may I ask if you would not mind if I shared your compartment?”

  I was on the verge of replying that she would be more than welcome, when I glanced at my lounging companion. I was unsure if this newcomer’s arrival would prompt a gracious response or a grunt of dismissal, for dependant on his frame of mind, either of these might be seen as being in perfect keeping with Holmes’s prior behaviour.

  “Not in the least,” came Holmes’s drowsy reply from beneath the brim of his drawn down hat. Emerging once more into daylight, he added, “Watson, perhaps you would be so good as to help our prospective travelling companion with her luggage.”

  “Save for this modest bag, I have no other luggage,” responded the young lady. She displayed this item, as neat and fashionable as her other attire, before depositing herself gracefully yet gratefully in the corner seat, while I closed the door at her back just as the whistle shrilled and the wheels began to thrum once more against the iron lines.