by Anna Elliott
Becky unfolded the grubby note and caught her breath.
“What is it?”
“It’s from Flynn!” She looked up at me, her face gone pale. “He’s in some sort of trouble—look.”
She held out the note.
Flynn hadn’t written much—probably because he hadn’t had time. The writing on the paper was hurried and untidy even for Flynn, and the pencil had gone straight through the paper in a couple of spots, suggesting that he hadn’t been able to find a proper surface to write on.
SOS. Urgent, the note said.
And then on the last line was a scribbled address: 46 Cable Street.
CHAPTER 4: FLYNN
Flynn was adrift in a dark sea. His body rose and fell with the throbbing in his head.
No, he was actually moving. Something rattled underneath him, and there was a steady clop-clop he ought to recognise.
But when he tried to grasp hold of the memory, the pain swelled up, tangling his thoughts. He sank down into darkness once again.
CHAPTER 5: WATSON
“Now, Lestrade,” Holmes said, “why did you not come to me yesterday, when the crime was fresh?”
Lestrade had perched on our settee, his dark, ferrety features pinched with tension, his knuckles white as he clutched the bowler hat on his lap.
“Because we thought we had our man.”
“Indeed?” Holmes’s brow lifted. “That was not in the newspaper account.”
“We did not want to alert the suspect. Nor did we want to alert the public.”
“So, what has changed?”
“We were watching the suspect’s home, certain that he would return. He had left all his belongings behind.”
“Who was the man?”
“A warder at Hampton Court Castle. He was on duty at the time of the theft.”
“And he did not report afterwards? Or go home?”
“He lived in a boarding house. His landlady said he hadn’t been there since Monday night, but that he hadn’t removed any of his things.”
“And now?”
Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. “There’s been another death reported.”
“Another? I had not known of a first death.”
“It’s been kept out of the papers. Two warders were assigned to guard the missing painting. One was found in the gallery, murdered. The other warder was our suspect.”
“And now his body has been found?”
“Possibly. We were hoping you and Dr. Watson could have a look?”
“Where?”
“An inn in Hampton Wick called The Three Pines. They let rooms. On the second floor.”
“How far from the man’s boarding house?”
“That’s in the same town. About ten minutes’ walk.”
“Time of death?”
“Difficult to determine. You see, the window had been left open, and the cold air—”
“When was the room rented at the inn?”
“Monday night, for a week.”
“The night before the theft.”
“Yes. Now will you come? It’s only an hour on the train.”
Holmes held up one finger. “First, please describe the stolen painting.”
“Why, that’s not information available to the public. The loss of it is quite an embarrassment to the government. It’s a symbolic affair, you see, very political.”
Holmes looked steadily at Lestrade, pointedly drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair.
“All right. There are portraits of these twelve women, you see, from the time of King Charles II—”
Holmes shook his head. “What are its dimensions and how was it framed?”
Lestrade fumbled in his coat pocket and withdrew a small notebook. He read from it, “About 3 feet by 4 feet. Gilded wood frame.”
“The frame was missing?”
“Yes,”
“And a search for it was made at the Palace?”
Lestrade nodded. “You have no idea what an ordeal that was. There are these private apartments in the Palace, you see, free of rent to dozens of important toffs currently in favour—”
Holmes stood. “You can tell us more on the train.”
We took the first train to Hampton Wick.
CHAPTER 6: LUCY
The address Flynn had given proved to be the small set of rented lodgings over a fish shop.
Becky and I approached cautiously, standing on the opposite side of the road to watch the place before moving any closer.
“I don’t see Flynn anywhere,” Becky murmured.
“No. But at least I don’t see any sign of trouble, either.”
Everything about the scene looked perfectly ordinary for a London street in the middle of winter and at mid-morning: housewives doing their shopping—the fish shop was doing a brisk trade in oysters and haddock—porters hurrying up and down with loads carried from the nearby docks.
“What was Flynn doing this morning, do you know?”
Before leaving home, I had tried telephoning to Baker Street to ask Holmes about whatever job Flynn had been on, but there had been no answer. Holmes and Watson were out, and Mrs. Hudson would be doing her weekly marketing on this Monday morning.
“I don’t know exactly,” Becky said. “When I saw him yesterday, he said that Mr. Holmes had given him an easy task this time—just to go down to visit the docks and ask around about a sailor. Flynn said the man’s sister came to Mr. Holmes and wanted help in finding him, because they’d lost touch.”
“That doesn’t sound as though it should have turned dangerous.”
“I know.” Becky bit her lip. “I don’t know why he would have sent us to this address, either—if he found out that’s where this woman’s brother is living, why not just go and tell Mr. Holmes?”
I considered the building in front of us. “I think we need to get inside number 46,” I said.
Becky looked up at me quickly. “You mean that we’re going to break in?”
“Only if no one answers the door. Come along—and try to look as though we’ve every right to be here.”
I had learned that confidence and an attitude of complete unconcern were the best way to avoid attracting attention.
A rickety flight of wooden stairs at the back of the fish shop led to the entrance of the rooms above. Taking Becky’s hand, I led the way up and knocked on a door that was badly in need of a new coat of paint.
There was no answer.
I knocked again and waited. When my third knock failed to get any kind of answer from inside, I took out the lock picks I always carried in the inner pocket of my cloak.
“You keep watch,” I told Becky. “Let me know if anyone is coming.”
But as it turned out, I didn’t need the lock picks after all.
I inserted the first of them and found the door already unlocked. The knob turned easily in my hand and the door swung open.
Becky and I looked at each other. The threads of uneasiness that had been slowly tightening inside me now solidified into a solid knot under my rib cage.
“Flynn?” Becky called out softly. “Flynn, are you there?”
No one answered.
I stepped through the doorway cautiously, but a glance around was enough to assure me that the place was deserted. There was only one small, square room, sparsely furnished—and what furniture there was had been flung about as though this had been the site of a small hurricane or tornado.
Two rickety wooden chairs were toppled over near the door, and a table was overturned in the centre of the room, with the kerosene lamp that had plainly stood atop it likewise now lying on the floor. The cushions in a worn and shabby-looking sofa had all been slashed, and stuffing spilled out. Dishes and cups from a cupboard over in the corner were scattered as though someone had tossed them off the shelves one by one.
Becky followed me inside and gave a shocked exclamation. “What happened here? It looks like someone was searching for something. Or—” She gasped. “No, it wasn’t a s
earch, there must have been a fight, Lucy look!”
She pointed to a scarlet stain on the floorboards, just visible behind the torn sofa. “That looks like blood! We need to go and tell the police—or Mr. Holmes—” She turned, starting for the door, but I stopped her, catching hold of her arm.
“Not yet.”
“But Flynn—” she started.
“I know you’re worried about him,” I said gently. “I am, too. But this place is the only clue we have at the moment to whatever happened to him, and something about all of this”—I gestured to the wreckage all around us—“isn’t quite right. Now, stand right here and see if you can tell me what it is.”
Becky blew out a breath but did as I asked, standing with me and obediently surveying the room.
“That lamp,” she said after a moment. Her brows were knitted together, her anxious look replaced by a puzzled frown. “If the table was tipped over during a fight, and the lamp was on it, it should have broken when it fell on the floor. But it’s not broken. There’s not even a crack in it.”
“Very good. Anything else?”
“Those dishes.” She pointed to the corner. “They ought to be broken, too, if someone threw them out of the cupboard.”
And yet every one of the cups and dishes was perfectly intact. “Exactly,” I told Becky. “Conclusion?”
“Someone wanted to make it look as though there had been a fight here.” Becky looked up at me. “Why would they do that? And what does any of this have to do with Flynn?”
“I don’t know. But I can tell you that I don’t think that stain on the floor is actually blood.” I stooped and sniffed at the dark red stain. “No, it’s not. It’s red paint.”
“So whoever did all this wasn’t very well prepared,” Becky said slowly. “Otherwise they would have used animals’ blood from a butcher’s shop or something more believable.”
“They cared about not damaging any of the furnishings here, too,” I said. “Which makes me think that whoever set this all up is the man who actually lives here, and who didn’t want all of his things smashed.”
“Man?” Becky repeated.
I pointed to a shaving brush, strop, and razor that sat on an untouched wooden shelf.
“The sofa, though,” Becky said. She was still frowning, surveying the stuffing that sprouted like dingy mushrooms from the ruined cushions. “That couldn’t have been done in a fight—and it did cause damage.”
“True. So, what do you think happened?”
“Someone really did come here to search—after the man who lives here staged the fight. Someone he was afraid of,” Becky went on. “That’s why he wanted it to look as though he’d been in a fight and either been killed or dragged off.”
“It certainly looks that way,” I agreed. “Now, I think it’s time to find out as much as we can about the both of them—the man who lives here, and whoever he was so afraid of.”
CHAPTER 7: WATSON
On the train to Hampton Wick, Lestrade told us the warder slain during the theft had been found with a warder’s ceremonial Tudor dagger protruding from his chest in the region of the heart, near the spot where the missing painting had hung. Presumably the other warder on duty, a man named Olson, had done the murder and the theft. The constabulary had been unable to determine how the painting had been taken from the building or where Olson had gone. The snow from Tuesday afternoon had obscured what might have been helpful footprints.
“How was the body discovered?”
“A tour group, led by one of the docents, came in and found the body. There was a general commotion, and a doctor was sent for.”
“What time was the tour?”
“It was the noon tour. The second of the day.”
“Where was the previous tour group?”
“They had gone ahead to their next destination on the tour.”
“Which was?”
“The private bedchamber of King William.”
“How much time elapsed between the departure of the first tour and the arrival of the second?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“How many people in each group?”
Lestrade consulted his pocket notebook. “Ten. The tours are limited in size. And before you ask, yes, all ten persons in the two groups have been interviewed, along with the two docents guiding the tours, and none of them saw anything suspicious or unusual, other than, of course, the loss of the painting. The empty spot was observed by the second group and not the first.”
“All might be lying, of course,” I said. “Though that is unlikely.”
“Were any of the other paintings to be moved that day?”
“No. Several had been moved for cleaning the day before. Mondays are the regular day for that, since the public tours are limited on Mondays.”
Holmes was silent. Beneath our carriage, the clatter of the steel wheels on the steel rails beat on in its regular rhythm.
“Perhaps we ought to see for ourselves,” I offered. “A tour might shed some light on the circumstances surrounding the theft.”
“Perhaps,” said Holmes.
“Perhaps we could arrive in time for the two o’clock tour,” I said. “I have heard of the beauty of the paintings and the furnishings—”
“But we must begin at the Three Pines Inn,” said Holmes. “An unidentified body awaits us.”
Not long afterwards, we arrived in Hampton Wick, a small village between the Thames and the great open park that adjoins Hampton Court Palace. It was only a minute’s walk from the railway station to the Three Pines Inn.
Lestrade gave a meaningful glance at the upper story of the inn. The building had been constructed recently, in a contemporary version of the Tudor style so fashionable in the area. Beneath one of the eaves of the steeply sloping roof, a window on the second floor was partially open. “We left everything as it was,” Lestrade said.
“Has the body been identified as Olson, the missing warder?” Holmes asked.
“Not yet. Identification may be difficult.”
“Who discovered the body?”
“Crows,” Lestrade said. “People on the street saw ’em at the window, going in and out.”
There were three closed doors at the top of two flights of stairs inside the inn, clustered around a narrow central hallway. All were painted to match the woodwork and the whitewashed plaster. A uniformed constable stood guard at the centre door.
Lestrade asked, “Have you spoken with the other tenants?”
“Yes, Inspector. No one saw or heard anything.”
“Or won’t admit it.” Lestrade pushed open the door, holding it open for us to enter. I felt the rush of cold air from the room, and detected an all-too-familiar scent. “It’s a right mess in there,” Lestrade went on. “I had them close the curtains to keep out—”
“Understood,” Holmes said. He was bending over the body of a Caucasian man. Face up on a single bed, the man might have looked peaceful if he had retained his face. As it was, the forehead had been caved in, the skin broken by the force of the blow, and the birds had compounded the disfigurement.
“The quantity of blood that issued from the wound was sufficient to attract the crows,” Holmes said. “The outside air also caused the body to cool rapidly, and then freeze, making it difficult to determine the time of death.”
“You think the killer deliberately raised the window?”
“Someone did, after the murder. The lack of bloodstains at the bottom of the frame is conclusive on that point, given that there are bloodstains on the sides, and the sill.”
Holmes bent over the body once more. “Dr. Watson, would you please examine this wound and tell me your impression?”
I did so. Looking closely beneath the massive fracture that covered the front of the wound, I saw a smaller, darker area. I looked up. “The man has been shot in the forehead. The fracture was done to conceal the entry of the bullet.”
“Likely the blow was struck using this table lamp.” Holmes pul
led a brass lamp from beneath the bed and placed it on the bedside table.
“Bloodstains on the base,” said Lestrade.
Holmes had opened the empty drawers of an oak dresser, and now was examining the contents of a matching wardrobe that served as the clothes closet for the little room. “We have the man’s overcoat here, and nothing else. He is dressed in an ordinary suit. The label inside proclaims it to be a ready-made affair. The shirt and tie, aside from their damaged and stained condition, appear to be perfectly ordinary. However, I do believe he can now be identified as a warder from Hampton Park Castle, if not the warder Olsen.”
“How?”
“His shoes.” Holmes pointed to the shiny leather black shoes worn by the dead man. They had odd-looking toes, bulbous and blunt.
Lestrade slapped his head. “Of course. I ought to have noticed myself. The warders wear Tudor doublets and breeches and all, and their shoes are this old-fashioned duckbill variety.”
“They appear quite new,” Holmes said. “An inspection at the mortuary will show whether they fit.”
“We can also bring Olson’s landlady in to identify him,” said Lestrade. He brightened considerably as he went on, “Well, I’m getting a clear picture here. This man is Olsen, the warder. He needs money. He is in the castle every day, surrounded by priceless paintings. Maybe he has a grudge against the other warder who guards them. He decides to do the deed. According to his landlady, he went out the night before the robbery. We can assume that was when he meets with an accomplice, probably the man who would sell the painting for him. The two stay up all night working out the details. He goes straight in to work the next day, puts on his Tudor costume, and when the opportunity arises, he stabs the other warder. He takes the painting, meets his accomplice here, they have a falling out over the share of the swag or how to fence it or whatever. The accomplice shoots him, leaves the body here with the window open, and makes off with the painting. I’ll put my men onto asking around the neighbourhood. Someone must have seen the accomplice leave the inn.”