by Marvin Kaye
“The Ace of Spades,” Holmes said. “I wonder if Lord Darlington ever considered his birthmark an evil omen, a harbinger of early doom.” He picked up the evening paper, and handed it to me without another word. In the first column was the account of a British steamer called the Craithie that had collided with a German ship in the North Sea. Among the listed dead were the names of Lord and Lady Darlington. I tried to evoke a feeling of pity within myself, but failed. As for Sherlock Holmes, he was only concerned with the lighting of his pipe, the pleasures of tobacco once again restored by his return to health.
* A descendant of Lord Darlington, Palmer Leeds of Manchester, did solicit the courts to prevent the publication of this story, but his petition was denied.
The Adventure of the Old Russian Woman” is a case-to-be-told that Watson referred to in “The Musgrave Ritual.” His suppression of this narrative probably stemmed from Holmes’s reluctance to discomfit those erstwhile artistic “superstars” concerned in the case, JOHN SINGER SARGENT (1856-1925) and JAMES MCNEILL WHISTLER (1834-1903).
The Adventure of the
Old Russian Woman
Composed from Notes in the Files
of Dr. John H. Watson
BY H. PAUL JEFFERS
In the two years which passed since I entered into an arrangement to share rooms at 221 Baker Street with Sherlock Holmes, I had through diligent effort accommodated myself to the many singular, even peculiar, traits of character and habits which had brought him increasing respect and work in his unique occupation—private consulting detective. I had grown used to his brooding silences, smelly chemical experiments, many unsavoury-looking callers in the parlour that he insisted on referring to as his “consulting room,” and an array of Scotland Yard detectives who appeared to be incapable of solving crimes without his keen guidance. Like Mrs. Hudson, our patient landlady, I accepted the unusual hours he kept and no longer felt astonished or affronted by his abrupt arrivals and departures, which frequently stretched into lengthy, unexplained absences.
I had also become adjusted to being ordered to drop whatever I was doing and accompany him on investigations. “Come, Watson,” he would bellow into my room, “the game’s afoot!”
With very little to otherwise occupy me in my retirement, I was excited at the prospect of what might lie ahead on occasions such as that which had taken us to Stoke Moran in April of 1883. It was the notes of this singular case, which I had tentatively titled “The Adventure of the Speckled Band,” that I was reviewing a few days after our return to Baker Street when Holmes came into my room carrying the afternoon post.
“These items are for you,” he said as he dropped a pair of envelopes on my desk.
Until that moment I had accepted without uttering a protest his proprietary attitude toward every envelope and parcel that was delivered to our mutual address by postmen, telegram delivery boys and messengers. Not an item addressed to me passed into my hands without first having been subjected to examination of its exterior by him without remonstrance from me. Consequently, the afternoon following our return from Stoke Moran as I was still feeling unsettled by that horrifying experience, I at last marshalled the nerve to vent my long-simmering irritation at his noisome behaviour.
“Why, Watson,” he declared in a wounded tone as he fixed me with a look of bewilderment, “I had no idea you could become so upset over such a trifling matter. You know my methods. I simply presumed that you, a man of science, instinctively appreciated I was simply honing my powers of reasoning based on observation. I assure you that there is nothing so instructive and potentially valuable to the criminal investigator as handwriting, postage stamps and inks employed for postmarks. Have you any concept of all that may be detected about senders of items in the way in which they address their correspondence? Was it addressed in a hurry? What of the stationery? Volumes of information may be unearthed from a simple letter without opening it!”
Only partly assuaged, I grumbled, “I have no doubt you’ll be writing a monograph on the subject!”
Taking a pipe from the rack atop the mantle, he exclaimed, “I shall indeed. To date I have catalogued no fewer than fourteen kinds of ink used by the Royal Mail and nearly a hundred watermarks of paper manufacturers in England, as well as more than a score from the United States. For example, in the past year you have received eight letters on stationery made in San Francisco. This led me to deduce that a very close relative of yours is a resident of that city and, I am sorry to say, may recently have suffered a serious setback, probably in relation to his health.”
“You are right about the nature of the letters. They concern my brother. He is very ill and the sickness has left him and his wife nearly penniless.”
He placed a consoling hand upon my shoulder. “I am deeply sorry, my friend. If there is anything I can do to help, you need only ask.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry for losing my temper.”
“You did warn me at the time we were discussing our sharing lodgings that you kept a bull pup. Were I you, my friend, I’d have lost my temper over me and my methods long ago. It’s I who should be apologetic.”
“But how could you have known any of this about my brother without opening the letters? I don’t believe I ever mentioned to you that I have a brother.”
“No, you didn’t. As to my deductions, the writing on the first five envelopes was obviously masculine. They were addressed ‘John Watson,’ neither a ‘Mister’ nor a ‘Dr. John H. Watson,” a familiarity suggesting a family connection. The latter missives were from the same city in the United States but in a feminine hand which addressed you as ‘Dr.’ From this I deduced that your female correspondent had to be your brother’s wife. A sister would also have written to John, not Dr. Watson.”
“You always make it seem so simple. But how could you deduce that my brother is ill?”
“That your sister-in-law wrote to you indicates your brother was probably unable to do so himself, evidently because of some incapacitation. Were he dead, you would have received a cable.”
“He suffers from a nervous disorder that makes him increasingly palsied in the extremities.”
“My deduction was reinforced by the arrival of the woman’s letters only two weeks apart. This suggested increasing urgency, for your brother’s letters came over a period of several months. Addressing you as ‘Dr.’ suggested to me that as she wrote to you she had her mind focussed on medical concerns. Evidently, the situation has now become so troubling that you are contemplating rushing to your brother’s side in your capacity as physician, as well as concerned sibling.” He tapped a bony finger on the longer of the two envelopes he had dropped upon my desk. “A Cunard envelope of that dimension can only be a schedule of sailings. Because Cunard is primarily engaged in trans-Atlantic service, you are at least contemplating going to the United States. The small envelope from Prince’s Hall in Piccadilly contains a ticket for a lecture being advertised on behalf of Oscar Wilde on the subject of the playwright’s impressions of the United States, formulated during his recent visit over there. A further indication of your contemplation of an American odyssey!”
Taking up the small Prince’s Hall envelope, I said, “You are wrong on one point, Holmes.”
“Indeed?”
“It is not one ticket,” I said, tearing open the envelope. “In view of your own interest in America since your visit there a few years ago, I took the liberty of booking a seat for you, too.”
On the following Sunday afternoon it was not without a deep feeling of melancholy that I crossed Piccadilly with Holmes at my side, for it had been there, at the Criterion Bar, that my young friend Stamford had informed me of the existence of a man whom I might find acceptable for sharing lodgings. Now, two years later, sadly mindful that in a few days I would be leaving Baker Street for what might well be a prolonged absence from England and, even more importantly, a lengthy separation from the most fascinating man I ever knew, I approached the lecture hall with both a sense of regret
and an eagerness to hear Mr. Wilde’s impressions of the country I soon would be seeing for myself.
Alas, the English theatre’s most celebrated author since the Bard of Avon proved to be far less interested in enlightening his audience about his impressions of America than in proving to us how greatly he had impressed America. The lecture was witty and charming but lacking in facts that might be of value to one such as I for whom America was not an intellectual abstraction.
I was about to declare this disappointment to Holmes as we were leaving the hall when I heard behind us, sotto voce, “The trouble with Oscar, Mr. Holmes, is that he truly cares about only one subject: Oscar! He has many virtues but modesty isn’t among them, I’m afraid.”
Turning, Holmes faced a man with a trim moustache, dark flowing hair and a rather flamboyant style of dress (for a Sunday afternoon) that suggested a Bohemian nature.
“I cannot agree that modesty is one of the virtues,” Holmes said as he shook hands with the fellow. “For Mr. Oscar Wilde to so underestimate his talent as a wit and his place in society as a celebrity would be as much a departure from the truth as to exaggerate those characteristics. Mr. Wilde is a man who knows what his audience expects of him. With one exception that I know of, these people did not come to be informed about America. They came for Mr. Wilde.”
“And the exception, Mr. Holmes? Surely not yourself!”
“My friend Dr. John H. Watson,” Holmes said, turning to me. “He is away to America in the next few days. Dr. Watson, may I present Mr. James Whistler.”
“I’ve heard of you, sir,” I said. “You’re an artist!”
That Holmes should know a painter came as no surprise to me. He claimed to be related to the French artist Vernet and boasted often that he might have become a respected painter himself.
“Mr. Whistler is not an artist, Watson,” said Holmes. “This is the man whom Oscar Wilde recently praised in the press as the first artist not just of England but all Europe. If you want to know about America, Watson, here is your man, for James McNeill Whistler is a native son of that country.”
“I’ll be delighted to answer all your questions, Doctor. What about dinner tomorrow evening? Come to my studio in Tite Street. You’re invited, as well, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps you can use your powers of detection to sort out what has to be the dumbest robbery in British history. A thief broke into my studio a few days ago and, faced with a choice of several paintings by the first artist of England and Europe, as well as those of my friend and house guest, the renowned portraitist John Singer Sargent, made off, instead, with a valueless portrait of an old woman by an unknown painter. Do you think you could make anything of that, Mr. Holmes?”
“I’ve already made of it that your thief took what he came for. If I had more data I might tell you why. Therefore, I’ll be pleased to dine with you tomorrow. After you have satisfied Dr. Watson’s curiosity about America, you can tell me more about the purloined painting, which was evidently more valuable than you believed when you acquired it.”
“Tomorrow evening it is, Mr. Holmes,” Whistler said with a laugh. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m invited to a party that Oscar is giving himself, at which all his friends are expected to crown him with laurels for his triumph of this afternoon.”
“Two questions before you leave, Mr. Whistler. Where did you obtain the painting? And, if it was of no value, why?”
“I bought it at the weekly art auction of the Gordon Gallery in Sloane Street. It was to be a gift for Sargent. I thought he’d find its primitiveness amusing.”
“Thank you. Till tomorrow evening, then.”
“Shall we say eight o’clock?”
Because I had affairs to attend to the next day, having to do with the likelihood of my going to America, I did not return to Baker Street until an hour before we were expected to present ourselves at Whistler’s studio in Chelsea. Not until the cab was making the turn into Tite Street did Holmes bring up the subject of the painting. “What do you make of it, Watson?” he asked. “Is it not a fascinating problem?”
“Candidly, Holmes, I believe you’re making too much of it. I agree with Mr. Whistler. It was simply the work of a very stupid thief who undoubtedly feared being detected and grabbed the nearest object at hand. Your theory that he went there purposely to get that one painting seems to me preposterous on its face. How on earth could he have known Whistler had it?”
“Watson, that is an excellent question. It goes to the very heart of the mystery.”
The cab drew up in front of a high and narrow building with a white stucco facade interrupted in the topmost story by a tall north-facing window. Greeted by Whistler, we followed the artist up four flights of steps to a studio that afforded us through the large window a panoramic view of the rooftops of the surrounding low houses of Chelsea to the north and east and the broad sweep of the mighty Thames to the west. Taking in the view as we entered the roomy space was an older man for whom the purloined painting had been intended. He introduced himself: “John Singer Sargent.”
As he advanced towards us, his eyes fixed upon Holmes.
“So at last I meet the great detective.”
“This is my associate, Dr. Watson,” said Holmes.
“Compared to murder, this business of the purloined painting seems a very trivial thing,” Sargent said with a wink and a smile in Whistler’s direction. “I’m afraid Jimmy has weighted the theft far beyond its importance.”
Further discussion of the subject that interested Holmes waited until after dinner, which was devoted for my benefit by Whistler and Sargent to a far more enlightening and useful discussion of their native country than had been afforded the audience at Oscar Wilde’s lecture.
Only after we withdrew from the dining table and ensconced ourselves in comfortable armchairs by an inviting fireplace did the conversation return to the subject of the missing painting and the circumstances of the theft.
“It was a rather amateurishly executed portrait,” Whistler said while his friend sat apart from us, drawing pad in one hand and the other clutching a stick of charcoal as his intense eyes darted back and forth between the pad and Holmes. “I found it fascinating from my point of view,” Whistler continued, “because it had been executed in tones of grey and black.”
“In the style of your famous portrait of your mother that you called ‘An Arrangement in Grey and Black,’ ” said Holmes.
“Yes, but the figure in this case was an old Russian woman.”
“I see,” Holmes muttered as he leaned forward slightly, the sharp point of his chin resting on the knuckles of his upraised and clenched hands.
“Wonderful,” exclaimed Sargent. “Can you hold that pose, Mr. Holmes? You are a natural model!”
“Really, Sargent,” snapped Whistler. “Mr. Holmes is not here to pose. If you must sketch him, don’t interrupt us.”
“I take it that the painting of this woman had been titled by the artist,” said Holmes, maintaining the posture.
“It had not. I merely assumed from the look of the old woman that she was Russian. Judging by the rural scene depicted in the background and by her costume—a plain black dress, a tight black babushka—and a sorrowful expression, she looked Russian to me.”
“You said you bought it at auction at the Gordon Gallery,” Holmes said, lowering his hands. “Were there other bidders?”
“A young woman started the bidding at one pound. I thought Mr. Gordon was on the verge of an apoplectic fit. The gilt frame was worth half a pound at least! I raised the bid to two pounds, the young woman dropped out and the painting was mine. Three days later, in spite of the presence of several of my paintings, two portraits that Sargent left in my care, and three or four others that would fetch a tidy sum if auctioned at Gordon’s, only that crude and worthless object was taken from this very room.”
“Where were you at the time?”
“That afternoon I was paying a call on Oscar Wilde at his mother’s house in Charles Street.”
“When did you notice the painting was missing?”
“The next day. Because Sargent was expected that afternoon, I wanted to display the painting on an easel, drape it and have an unveiling. My little joke, you see.”
“Did you notify the police?”
“It really was not worth the trouble. I mentioned it to you only because I assumed you would regard the theft as ironic and amusing, as I did. It never occurred to me that the thief came to my studio purposely to obtain that painting, and I still find it difficult to believe.”
“It is an axiom of mine that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however difficult it may be for you to believe, is the truth. The theft of the painting was not the ironic and amusing error by an ignorant intruder into your world of art. There is something about that painting that in the mind of the thief made it far more valuable than any James Whistler or John Singer Sargent.”
With that, the famed portraitist arose from his chair and crossed the studio to present Sherlock Holmes with the product of his efforts. Taking the sketch pad, Holmes studied the charcoal rendering of his hawkish profile and came as close as I had ever seen to a blush.
“It’s magnificent, sir,” he said, handing back the drawing. “I’m only sorry I did not present you a more suitable subject for your magnificent talent.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Holmes,” Sargent protested. “You are an ideal subject. You must permit me to do you in oil. Full length. I see you in the regalia of a hunter. Inverness cloak. Deerstalker cap. A magnifying glass in hand. What do you say, sir? Will you sit?”
Whistler bristled. “Sargent, we are not here for your benefit. We are engaged in the solving of a crime. If Mr. Holmes wishes to sit for you, the two of you can discuss the details on your time.”
More amused than chastened, Sargent returned to his chair. Unfortunately for Whistler, Holmes promptly demonstrated that he had derived all available data regarding the missing painting and turned the conversation into what I could only describe as cross-examination of the two artists on their varying styles in particular and on the state of art in general that lasted well past midnight and left the painters and me exhausted and eager to call it a night.