by Anna Elliott
A drab woollen blanket had been nailed over the back.
“Ah.” Holmes gave a murmur of satisfaction, and the rest of us drew in our breath as he pulled away the blanket and we saw the gilded frame of a painting.
The frame had also been nailed to the back of the cupboard, which would probably cause the Hampton Court custodians severe anguish. But the painting itself was entirely unharmed. Even in the dim, shabby little room, the colours glowed softly with all the vibrancy of a masterful artist, and I could easily recognise the woman in the portrait. She was Frances Stuart, Duchess of Richmond. During my school days at Miss Porter’s School, she had been much discussed among the girls and the instructors alike, both as the lady of exemplary principles who had refused the romantic advances of King Charles II, and as the duchess whose image, now costumed as Britannica, appeared on coins throughout the realm.
Watson also recognised the painting. “No wonder they hushed this up,” he said.
Then I heard the voice of Lestrade, accompanied by the pounding of his footsteps on the stairs.
CHAPTER 18: WATSON
“You found it!” Lestrade fairly hugged himself with happiness as he saw the painting. Still breathless, he shouted down the stairs for a constable to come.
While waiting, he turned to Holmes. “I saw the two prisoners downstairs.”
“The former Mrs. Stiles and her accomplice. Watson has her pistol here.”
I handed over the weapon. “She shot the warder in The Three Pines Inn with this,” I said. “Very likely she also stabbed the other warder at Hampton Court.”
Lestrade nodded. “Her accomplice downstairs says the same. As does Mr. Stiles, in Holloway Prison. Both men say they’ll tell all, if we’ll just charge them for the robbery and not bring a charge of felony murder.”
“What about what they did to me?” Flynn asked.
“It will be up to the Queen’s Counselor,” said Lestrade.
“We shall see that he is made aware of the facts,” Holmes said.
“Meanwhile—” Lestrade crouched before the painting, gazing thoughtfully at the nails driven through the gilded frame. “I think we’d better take this priceless object of art back to Hampton Court, dresser and all.”
For a moment, I thought Lestrade intended us all to go, and my pulse quickened at the thought. Then I realised that the time was now well after closing hour at the Palace and there would be no more tours until the following day.
“I don’t expect The Lord Chamberlain’s office will say much to the papers about how it was recovered,” Lestrade said.
“You should take whatever credit can be allotted you,” Holmes said.
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”
“However, there is one thing you might do for me, if you can conveniently arrange it.”
Lestrade’s pinched features narrowed even further for a moment as Holmes came closer, but then he relaxed visibly, as Holmes said something too quietly for me to hear.
CHAPTER 19: WATSON
It was nine o’clock Saturday morning. Save for the watery sun instead of grey fog outside of the window, the scene might have been identical to the one from three days before: Holmes sat slouched in his dressing gown before the fire, his violin lying carelessly discarded at his feet, his pipe clamped between his teeth, and his expression the particularly blank one that denoted either profound thought or profound boredom.
“Come Holmes.” I seated myself in the chair opposite from his. “You cannot claim that this most recent case has provided no novelty or points of unusual interest.”
“True.” Holmes’s expression lightened briefly. “It is indeed something of a novel experience to be hired by the criminal who committed the very crime which I am investigating.”
“Speaking of the subject, how did you connect Mrs. Spenlow’s story with the robbery at Hampton Court?”
“My dear Watson, you really ought to apply yourself more fully to the study of geography. If you recall, Mrs. Spenlow gave her place of residence as East Molesey. When a woman comes in and claims to hail from the town nearest Hampton Court Palace, it surely requires no very great deductive leap to surmise that she may be connected to a crime that took place at the palace mere days before. Particularly as it was plain from our first meeting that she had something to hide and was not who she claimed to be.”
“I see.”
Holmes drew once more at his pipe, relapsing again into moody silence.
“Very well, Holmes,” I said, with a touch of exasperation. “Since you are apparently unwilling to communicate, I will ask you directly: what is it that is troubling you? Is it Zoe—”
I thought there might have been a quick flicker, as of pain or regret, in Holmes’s gaze at the mention of her name. But he interrupted with a shake of his head. “You are mistaken, Watson. I am not troubled—not yet, that is.”
I frowned, for the gravity of Holmes’s expression belied his words. “Not yet? Wait a moment.” I had caught sight of a sheaf of papers stuffed down into the chair beside him where they had plainly fallen from his hand. From the few words that I could make out at the top of the first page, it looked like a police report. “Officer killed on duty …” I read aloud, then looked up. “Is this the episode that Jack’s Scotland Yard unit was called in to investigate? Lucy mentioned to me on the way back from Cable Street that a police sergeant whom he knew two years ago had been killed.”
“No.” Holmes picked up the stack of papers. “This is not the report on Sergeant O’Hara’s death, but rather one from three years ago. The death of a police officer named Inspector Glen, who was killed in the line of duty while attempting to carry out the search of a house known to be a stronghold of one of the East End street gangs.”
My eyebrows rose. “I see. And of what interest is the death of an Inspector from three years ago?”
“None. For the present moment. However, I have always found it prudent to prepare to face a threat when it is as yet nothing more than a distant cloud on the horizon.”
“I see.” I did not, of course, but what I did perceive plainly was that Holmes was unlikely to offer any more complete explanation than the one he had already given. “Perhaps my question should have been: who was this Inspector Glen?”
I thought at first that Holmes would evade giving me an answer to that question, as well. But then he said, his eyes on the fire, “An unlikable fellow, by all accounts. Rough-tempered, quick to anger … and there were whispers of corruption. In one or two of his cases, evidence that might have convicted a powerful or wealthy man was unaccountably lost. Interestingly, he also served as training officer for both the dead Sergeant O’Hara and for Jack.”
“You think Jack will need our help?”
“He has been working the O’Hara investigation most strenuously and diligently since its inception.” Holmes paused, glancing at his watch, then added, “Though I believe he has a paid leave day today.”
From the street below, we heard the jangle of our bell-pull and the muffled voice of Mrs. Hudson.
“Now,” Holmes said, getting to his feet and reaching for his scarf, “I hope you are prepared for activity, and perhaps a sporting wager as to whether or not Flynn will be joining us.”
“Another case?” I asked.
“I hope not,” he replied. He shouted, “Mrs. Hudson? Was that a delivery for me?” as he opened our door.
“There is no need to shout, Mr. Holmes,” she said reprovingly. “I am right here. And here is your envelope. They did not ask for a reply.”
I saw the Royal seal on heavy cream-coloured paper.
“From Hampton Court Palace,” Holmes said. “Inside are six tickets for the noon tour, arranged by Lestrade. Lucy, Jack, and Becky will meet us there, and I will give you odds that Flynn accepts their invitation to join them.”
“I would not bet against you, Holmes.”
“I thought not.” He gave one of his quick little smiles. “Whatever storms may lie ahead,” he said, “we may at l
east take full advantage of the calm before them.”
THE END
HISTORICAL NOTES
This is a work of fiction, and the authors make no claim that any of the historical locations or historical figures appearing in this story had even the remotest connection with the adventures recounted herein. However …
1. The portrait of Frances Stuart, Duchess of Richmond, is on display at Hampton Court Palace, along with nine other portraits of similar ladies of the court of Charles II, painted by Sir Peter Lely. Together, the portraits are known as the Windsor Beauties, because they were first displayed at Windsor Castle before being moved to Hampton Court in 1835. Since then, as far as the authors are aware, none of them has been stolen, even temporarily.
2. The authors both had the pleasure of visiting Hampton Court and are confident that Watson and the Baker Street team would have all appreciated a visit.
3. Frances Stuart was the model for the image of the legendary Britannica that appears on British coins such as the one illustrated below:
A NOTE OF THANKS TO OUR READERS
Thank you for reading this Sherlock and Lucy story. We hope you’ve enjoyed it.
As you probably know, reviews make a big difference! So, we also hope you’ll consider going back to the Amazon page where you bought the story and uploading a quick review. You can get to that page by using this link:
https://amzn.to/3dxwEX0
You can also sign up for our mailing list to receive updates on new stories, special discounts, and ‘free days’ for some of our other books: www.SherlockandLucy.com.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Anna Elliott is the author of the Twilight of Avalon trilogy, and The Pride and Prejudice Chronicles. She was delighted to lend a hand in giving the character of Lucy James her own voice, firstly because she loves Sherlock Holmes as much as her father, Charles Veley, and second because it almost never happens that someone with a dilemma shouts, “Quick, we need an author of historical fiction!” She lives in Pennsylvania with her husband and four children.
Charles Veley is the author of the first two books in this series of fresh Sherlock Holmes adventures. He is thrilled to be contributing to the series, and delighted beyond words to be collaborating with Anna Elliott.