Holmes quickly scanned the formal letter dated 25 August inviting Messrs Simkins and Streeter to examine Rembrandt's Nativity of Our Lord with a view to discussing possible
restoration work. "You responded immediately, I presume," Holmes suggested.
"Yes, indeed, Mr Holmes." Simkins consulted a pocket diary. "We arranged for me to view the painting on Wednesday 10 September."
"Had you done work for New College, before?"
"No, sir, we had not previously enjoyed that privilege."
"Do you know who recommended you on this occasion?"
Simkins sat back in his chair, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his waistcoat. "Ah well, as to that, Mr Holmes, it might have been any one of a number of our satisfied clients. I'm proud to say that we are known to many connoisseurs, museum curators and inheritors of family collections. We have been of service to several of the nobility and gentry."
"Including Lord Henley?" Holmes ventured.
"Why yes, sir. Only last year we executed an important commission for his lordship."
"And Dr Giddings?"
"Him, too, sir. A wonderful connoisseur is Dr Giddings. He's been good enough to instruct us on several occasions."
"Were you acquainted with the Rembrandt before your visit to New College last month?"
"Only by reputation, sir."
"You had never seen it before?" Holmes asked in some surprise.
"Never."
"And you have been familiar with Dr Giddings's collection for ... how long?"
"More than twenty years, I would say."
Holmes pondered that intelligence in silence for a few moments. "And what was your impression of the painting when you did see it?"
For the first time the ebullient Simkins gave evidence of some discomfiture. "Why, to be truthful, Sir, I suppose I was a little disappointed."
"You thought it not a particularly good painting?"
The businessman's bushy eyebrows met in a frown. "Oh, no, Mr Holmes, nothing of that sort. I would not want you to think that I meant to cast any doubt upon the quality of the masterpiece. It was just that ... Well, I recall discussing that item
many years ago with another client who had seen it in Holland and who waxed eloquent about it's warm, glowing colours. What I saw in Oxford was a painting that had been sorely mishandled at some stage of its life. It had upon it a thick, old discoloured varnish. What with that and its gloomy situation in the chapel it was very hard to make out details of the brushwork."
"So you concluded that it required a thorough cleaning and that you would only be able to comment upon the necessity of further restoration after that operation had been carried out."
"That's it precisely, Mr Holmes. We submitted an estimate for initial work. Naturally the warden and fellows needed time to consider our proposal. They responded," here he referred once more to the bundle taken from the roll-top desk, "on 1 October and we arranged to collect the painting a week later, on the eighth."
"But you did not do so?"
"No, on the morning of the eighth we received a telegram intimating that it was not, after all, convenient for us to call on that day and inviting us to make a new appointment."
"You had no reason to doubt the authenticity of this telegram?"
"None whatsoever."
"Tell me, Mr Simkins," Holmes ventured, "as someone who knows the world of pictures, dealers and collectors better than most, how hard do you think it would be to dispose of such a celebrated painting?"
"Very hard, indeed, I would say."
"But not impossible?"
Simkins pondered the question, head on one side. "There are collectors so obsessive that they are prepared to obtain by other means what they cannot fairly buy."
"And are there not international gangs operating to satisfy the cravings of such collectors?"
"Sadly, that is the case, Mr Holmes."
"And would you know how to make contact with just such a gang?" Holmes asked the question in a casual, disarming tone and watched its effect on the other man.
Simkins's ample frame seemed to swell still further with indignation. "Mr Holmes, whatever are you suggesting?"
"Simply that someone in your position might well be approached, from time to time, by unscrupulous men — men requiring, perhaps, a convincing forgery or confirmation of a false attribution. I am sure that Simkins and Streeter would never knowingly be associated with such rogues but I would be surprised if you were not able to identify some of them."
"We know who to steer clear of, if that's what you're suggesting, young sir," Simkins admitted, only partially mollified.
"That and nothing else," Holmes said with a smile. "I wonder if I might trouble you for the names of some of these reprobates." As the other man firmly shook his head, he continued. "You see, someone deliberately deceived you and then passed off himself and his associates as representatives of Simkins and Streeter. That someone was highly professional. Ergo, I deduce that he is no stranger to the business of stealing and disposing of works of art."
"Well, sir, since you put it that way, there are a handful of men who might bear investigation. The police could do worse than question them — not, mind you, that I make any accusations." He found a scrap of paper among the confetti scattering before him and, taking up a pen from the holder, jotted down three names. "Well, Mr Holmes, I hope they may lead to the recovery of New College's Nativity, though I fear it has disappeared for many a long year."
Sherlock Holmes spent the return journey to Oxford recalling with total accuracy, every piece of information with a bearing on this case. It all pointed to one bizarre, though inescapable conclusion. Could it be proved, though? He resolved that prove it he would if it were humanly possible.
With that fixed intention he set out from Grenville after dark clad in tennis shoes, old trousers and shirt and carrying a hand lantern and a copy of The Times. He was gone for two hours and he returned in triumph. He had one more call to make and that would have to wait until the following evening.
The clock high on Grenville chapel's tower was chiming six as Holmes set out to walk the short distance to Magdalen College. When he reached Hugh Mountcey's apartments the outer door was open and there were sounds of conversation within. He tapped smartly and the portal was opened by a raffish, ginger-haired young man in evening dress and clutching a glass of champagne. "Yes?" he enquired languidly. Holmes proffered
his card. The other held it up fastidiously. "I say, Huffy," he called out to someone inside, "do we know anyone by the name of Sherlock Holmes?" He uttered the name with an air of faint amusement. "No. Send him on his way," came the reply from within. "Be off with you, fellow," the sandy-haired man said, returning Holmes's card.
Before the door closed completely, Holmes handed over an envelope. "Please see that Mr Mountcey receives this."
Holmes stood on the landing and began counting. He had reached thirty-two when the door was re-opened by the same guardian. "Mr Mountcey says you'd better come in," he said.
"I rather thought he might," Holmes rejoined.
The chamber he now entered was opulently furnished. A table at one end was laid for four with sparkling silver and crystal and crisp knappery. Armchairs were drawn around the fire and in one the resident of this suite was sprawled. The Honourable Hugh Mountcey was a gangling, dark-haired young man, with a florid complexion. He held Holmes's letter by one corner between thumb and forefinger. "What's the meaning of this nonsense?" he demanded.
Holmes stood staring down at the aristocrat and recalled the verger of New College's disparaging comments on certain degenerate members of the upper class. "If it were nonsense you would scarcely have invited me in," he observed.
"Who the devil are you," Mountcey sneered.
"All that matters is that I know the truth about the New College Rembrandt. Apart from anything else I have identified your role in the business."
Mountcey's companion stepped across the room and grabbed Holmes by the sle
eve. "Shall I teach this fellow some manners, Huffy?" he enquired. The next instant he was lying flat on his back holding a hand to his nose from which a trickle of blood was oozing.
Holmes rubbed the knuckles of his right hand. "I assure you that I have no interest in making life difficult for you. My only concern is to clear up this tiresome business of the missing painting so that I can resume my own studies. If you will be good enough to answer a few questions I will take my leave."
"And what do you intend doing with your information?"
"I shall place such items as are relevant before the authorities at New College."
"That might not suit my book at all. I certainly have no intention of informing on my friends."
"By friends I take it that you mean those responsible for the escapades at Oriel, Merton and here in Magdalen."
Mountcey nodded.
"I don't think it will be necessary for me to reveal their identity."
The dark-haired young man stared at Holmes for several seconds.Then a smile slowly suffused his features. He crumpled the letter he was still holding and tossed it into the fire. "No, Mr Holmes, you are a nobody and I am inclined to tell you to go to hell. Report whatever you like to the New College people. You have no proof. If it comes to a contest between you and those of us who count for rather more in this life it's pretty obvious who will end up being sent down, isn't it?" He waved his visitor towards the door and his friend held it open.
Holmes stood his ground. "But it isn't just you and your friends who are involved is it? It's your father and his associates."
Mountcey was caught off guard. "You can't possibly know ..." he blurted out, leaping to his feet.
Holmes took a pencil and paper from his pocket, wrote a few words and passed the paper across to the Honourable Hugh. "Damn!" Mountcey sank back onto the chair.
"So, sir, about those questions," said Holmes.
Sherlock Holmes called upon Mr Spooner shortly after eleven the following morning as the latter was returning from lecturing.
The don came up close and peered through his thick lenses. "Ah, Mr Grenville of Holmes, is it not? Come in, sir. Come in. Do sit down. I suggest you will find the seat in the window more than comfortable."
Holmes deposited himself upon the cushions in the window embrasure. "I have come to report the successful conclusion of my investigation," he announced. "About the theft of the painting from the chapel," he added as Spooner gazed vacantly into space.
"Ah, yes, excellent." The fellow's pallid features broke into a smile. "So you have discovered who was responsible. Was it Rembrandt?"
"No, sir." By now Holmes had discovered that the way to prevent Spooner's train of thought running into frequent sidings was to keep him concentrating hard on the matter in hand. "Perhaps it would be best if I explained, from the beginning, the sequence of events which led to the disappearance of the painting."
"Excellent idea, young man. Play the part of Chorus and leak your spines clearly."
Holmes began his explanation, hurrying on when his audience showed signs of wishing to question or interrupt. "First, I must suggest to you that your reading of Dr Giddings's character owes more to charity than objective observation. I fear that the senior fellow was furious at being passed over for the wardenship and that that is why he gave his painting to New College."
"But, surely ..."
Holmes scarcely paused for breath. "It was to be his revenge. You see, the painting was a fake, or more probably the work of an inferior artist touched up by the hand of an improver. I realized this when I spoke with Mr Simkins. He was puzzled because the painting which another of his clients had seen about the time Giddings bought it was "vibrant" with "warm, glowing colours" as he described it. Yet when Simkins, himself, viewed it in the chapel it was apparently obscured with ancient varnish. Now Giddings was the only one who could so have misused the picture and for only one reason: he realized, after adding it to his collection that it was not a work from the hand of the master. To avoid the humiliation of having to admit that he had been duped he had the picture varnished over, and waited for an opportunity to get rid of it. His exclusion from the wardenship provided the excellent chance to kill two birds with one stone. He disembarrassed himself of the fake Rembrandt and put one over on the fellows of New College. Giddings knew that, eventually, the painting would be cleaned and that, from beyond the grave, he would have his revenge.
"Then, long after the whole matter had been pushed to the back of his mind, he was alarmed to hear that the fellows had decided upon the immediate restoration of their Rembrandt. He knew Simkins and Streeter could not fail to discover the truth and that both his folly and his vendetta would be exposed.
What could he possibly do to prevent the closing days of his life being lived under this double shame? Only the disappearance of the picture could save him but he could not encompass that. He would need accomplices. It was then that he bethought himself of his friend and fellow collector, Lord Henley."
"Lord Henley? Why on earth should that highly respected nobleman be a party to such a notorious escapade?"
"I confess that I, too, was puzzled on that score. Eventually I had to prize the truth from his son, Mr Mountcey."
"That young man is a scoundrel."
"Quite so, sir." Holmes rushed on. "It seems that not only did the two collectors share common interests, but Lord Henley owed a considerable debt of gratitude to Dr Giddings. A few years ago a crooked dealer attempted to implicate his lordship in a colossal art fraud. Had he been successful the scandal would have been terrible. Giddings was largely responsible for exposing the syndicate behind the imposture. Lord Henley now felt duty bound to assist his saviour. The two old friends planned the robbery together. Giddings found out through his college contacts the precise day on which Simkins and Streeter were to collect the painting. Then Lord Henley arranged for the fake telegram postponing the appointment and had one of his underworld contacts pose as the restorers' agent. Just in case anyone from the college who watched the removal became suspicious he arranged for the work to be done under cover of darkness when the chapel was almost certain to be empty."
"But what about the other thefts?"
"A fortuitous sequence of events that enabled the conspirators to muddy the water. Lord Henley's son was involved in a rather stupid society the object of which was to plan and execute ever more audacious "japes", as they call them. The Oriel and Merton escapades were carried out by other members of the club and it was Mountcey and his friends who defaced the walls of Magdalen by removing the sundial. It seems that Lord Henley knew of these ridiculous revels and, being an over-indulgent parent, was not disposed to regard them seriously. It was he who put his son up to the fracas that took place early in the term. When Mountcey and his friends were caught examining the chapel painting the authorities connected this with the earlier misdemeanours, a suspicion that was reinforced when
the picture went missing. Of course, Mountcey could not be proved to be implicated in the theft, so he was quite safe."
Spooner was frowning with concentration. "But, then, whose incunabulum stole the Radcliffe?"
"I am persuaded that it was Giddings himself who removed the book from the library. Mountcey gave me his word that he knew nothing of it. Such a reputed and infirm scholar as Dr Giddings was, of course, above suspicion, so it was the easiest thing in the world for him to leave with the precious artefact under the rug in his bath chair, having left the duplicate."
"Then the book and the painting are safe in Dr Giddings's house?"
"The book — yes. I am sure Dr Giddings would not harm it, nor intend to deprive the library of it for long. The painting, I suspect, is another matter." Holmes opened a portmanteau he had brought with him. He extracted a parcel roughly wrapped in newspaper and proceeded to unravel it.
Spooner leant forward to examine a blackened fragment of what had once been gilded wood and gesso and to which a fragment of charred canvas still adhered.
> "The night before last," Holmes explained, "I paid a clandestine visit to Dr Giddings's garden. I found this on a bonfire in a corner of the grounds. The embers were still warm. Unless I am mistaken, that is all that remains of the fake Rembrandt — and just as well, perhaps."
"Whatever made you think of looking there?"
"When I called on Dr Giddings the previous day, he was obviously concerned about my interest in the Rembrandt. He tried to convince me that its theft was a student prank and he brought my visit to a sudden halt with what seemed to me rather a theatrical fit of coughing. I believe that was to prevent me looking inside the room where the painting was currently housed. I reasoned that he would want to be rid of the evidence very quickly after such a fright and there seemed to be only one easy way to do that."
Spooner removed his spectacles and polished them thoughtfully. "Mr Holmes," he said, "you are a remarkable young man. I predict that you will go far. May I ask you to put what you have just told me in writing? My colleagues will, I know, want to study it most carefully."
"I had anticipated that request," replied my friend, handing over a sealed envelope.
"How wise, Mr Solomon, how wise. The college is indebted to you. You will undoubtedly be hearing more from us. For the moment all I can do is personally grace my platitude on record." He shook Holmes warmly by the hand and escorted him to the door.
Sherlock Holmes reflected during the next few days on the immense pleasure and satisfaction this little enquiry
had occasioned him. He had, at that time, no inkling that his vocation lay in the field of criminal detection but, as he later confessed to me, the bothersome business of the Dutch Nativity, was undoubtedly the case that opened up new possibilities to him.
All that lay in the future. One more immediate result manifested itself a few days later. Holmes received an unexpected
invitation to dine with the Master of Grenville. He arrived at the
The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures Page 4