‘Perhaps he came to painting late in life,’ I suggested. ‘Had he not been executed in such a gruesome fashion, perhaps he would have gone on to produce any number of paintings in the future?’
‘Perhaps,’ Holmes admitted. ‘Anything is possible.’
Miss Rhodes was still standing, waiting to be of assistance, while Holmes fell into a brown study, staring with unseeing eyes into the middle distance. Behind Miss Rhodes I could just make out a break in the heavy London sky through a picture window and I found myself wondering if it might stop raining soon. I was about to remark on this to Miss Rhodes when Holmes suddenly started to life and asked whether she had purchased any other artworks during her stay at Hamblin Hall.
At this, Miss Rhodes brightened considerably. ‘Why yes, I did. We have one other portrait from the Hall in the Gallery collection, though it is not currently on display. If you would care to wait here, Mr Holmes, I will go and arrange to have it brought up.’
She left on her errand, and I turned to Holmes with some annoyance. ‘You might make some effort to be pleasant to Miss Rhodes, Holmes!’
Holmes, however, gave no indication that he had heard me. Instead, he walked over to the window and stood, inspecting the street outside, until Miss Rhodes reappeared.
‘Mr Holmes,’ she called. ‘I have had the painting brought up and placed in one of the unused rooms, if you and Dr Watson would care to follow me.’
We followed her downstairs and into a small side-room. Like all the rooms in the Gallery it was spacious and well lit, with a large window dominating the far wall, though otherwise featureless. The object of our curiosity had been set up on an easel directly in front of the door, with a white cloth covering it. Miss Rhodes preceded us in and pulled the cloth off with a flick of her wrist.
‘Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,’ she began, ‘I am pleased to introduce you to Sir Augustine Hamblin, fifth of that name and grandfather to Horace Hamblin. The identity of the artist is unknown, I’m afraid, but it is a striking work, is it not?’
I agreed, though I know almost as little about art as my friend Holmes. To my eye, there was little to distinguish this depiction of an elderly, heavy-set gentleman from any other, but Holmes obviously felt differently, for he immediately strode up to the painting and, with his magnifying glass never more than an inch from the canvas, examined it in great detail.
Miss Rhodes and I shared a look as Holmes leaned in ever closer, muttering softly to himself.
‘The light in this room is not ideal – that’s the reason it’s never been used for display – but even so, I think you must admit that it is a striking piece.’
‘This is Horace Hamblin’s grandfather, you said?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Six generations of eldest sons in the Hamblin family were named Augustine, until Horace was born and broke the run. Evidently his father – this Augustine’s eldest son – decided he didn’t care for the name, even though it was his own.’
‘Another oddity about Horace Hamblin,’ I said, though it did not seem important. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us about either Hamblin?’ Holmes had often impressed upon me that even seemingly inconsequential facts could prove vital to our understanding, and besides, I was keen to talk further with Miss Rhodes.
‘Nothing about the elder man, I’m afraid. But Horace Hamblin was the eldest of seven sons, all of whom died during the Civil War. He and one of his brothers were particularly close to the King, and are even rumoured to have sheltered him while he was on the run from Cromwell’s troops. Perhaps I could—’
‘Miss Rhodes!’ Holmes’s voice cut through our conversation like a thrown dagger. ‘There is something not quite right about this painting.’
Miss Rhodes and I hurried to join Holmes. Before she or I could say a word, he handed her his magnifying glass and pointed one long finger at a point where the canvas met the ornate gilt frame in which the painting was enclosed. I could see nothing amiss, but Miss Rhodes gasped at my side, and I knew that there was something that I was not seeing.
‘Look here, Watson, for pity’s sake!’ Holmes exclaimed, seeing the confusion on my face. He prodded the painting hard and I expected Miss Rhodes to caution him to take better care, but she said nothing, only stood in the grey light of the storm clouds outside, her face pale with shock.
‘What are you talking about, Holmes?!’ I snapped. Holmes could be irritating at times, and the painting looked exactly as I expected a depiction of a dissolute rake of centuries past to look. Wordlessly, he handed me the glass and indicated a specific small section of the frame.
Through the magnifying effect of the glass in my hand I could see several tiny holes in the wood of the frame, which I attributed to woodworm or some such insect. The painting had been hanging, all but ignored, in an old country house for centuries, after all.
I said as much to Holmes, admitting myself baffled as to the reason for his concern.
‘Woodworm do not create perfectly straight holes, Watson! They twist and move as they burrow their way into wood, forming crooked lines, not straight. Only a small drill could possibly have created the holes in that frame, and the only reason to add “wormholes” to the frame is to make the painting it encloses seem older than it truly is.’
‘Because it is a forgery!’ I interrupted in sudden understanding.
‘Bravo, Watson! A capital deduction! Yes, a forgery. But not of the same standard as the first forgery, you’ll note. The portrait of King Charles was so poorly done as to be spotted almost as soon as it was moved; this, on the other hand…’
His voice tailed off, but Miss Rhodes – who had until that point been standing in silent shock – completed the thought for him, ‘…is a work of art in its own right. The attention to detail is exceptional, the brushwork exquisite…’
In turn, she too fell silent and it was left to me to ask the obvious question. ‘Why should the two be of such differing quality? Can there be two groups at work?’
‘Both busily forging paintings taken from the same obscure country home, then swapping them for originals handily held at the National Portrait Gallery? I think not, Watson. No, the solution to that minor puzzle is obvious. What concerns me far more is that we are no closer to solving the greater question.’
‘Obvious?’
Holmes’s air of intellectual superiority was justified, of course, but nonetheless grating for all that. My irritation must have shown on my face, for he swiftly continued, ‘Less complex, then. The paintings vary in quality because of the time taken in their creation.’ He turned to Miss Rhodes. ‘I believe you said that the portrait of the King was about to be removed from display and lent to the Royal household, from where it could not possibly have been exchanged? In such a case, with little time to waste, the replacement was of necessity hurried and consequently of a poorer standard than that of Sir Augustine which, one presumes, was longer in the planning and manufacture, sitting as it did securely in storage.’
Explained thus it was indeed obvious. I admitted as much to Holmes, but he had already dismissed the matter from his mind and was preparing to leave. As he swept down the stairs towards the entrance, I reassured Miss Rhodes that we would be sure to keep her informed of any developments, bade her a hasty goodbye and hurried after him. By the time I caught up, he had already hailed a cab.
Once we were under way, I took stock of our situation before I spoke to my companion. His earlier condescension still rankled a little, and I preferred to have all the facts of our case safely marshalled before making any observations.
We had discovered two forged paintings at the National Portrait Gallery, of two distinct subjects, by two different artists, separated in time by almost a century. Our only potential suspect was dead, and what had begun as a possible threat against Her Majesty had transformed into something altogether more strange. Considerably less serious, it was true, but more puzzling for all that.
Holmes’s voice broke into my musings. He too had evidently been considering our s
ituation, and I was gratified to discover his thoughts paralleled mine to some degree. ‘A pretty puzzle, Watson, wouldn’t you say? Lacking the drama of an attack on the Royal person admittedly, but none the worse for that. Tomorrow we shall take the train to the village of Hamblin, I think. It will be a relief to get out of the city and away from this interminable rain!’
Earlier in our acquaintance I would have been more surprised by the note of pleasure in his voice, but the years had taught me that nothing so invigorated Holmes as a mystery. So it was that I followed my friend through the door of 221b Baker Street in an unexpectedly positive frame of mind.
Eight
By morning, the weather had improved enormously, with the previous day’s clouds and rain replaced by unseasonably clement skies. We breakfasted early and, as soon as Holmes had sent a runner to update Inspector Lestrade on our progress, set off for Waterloo in fine humour. Holmes, indeed, could even be heard briefly humming an air to himself as the hansom rattled through the bright, quiet streets.
The train too was less busy due to the early hour, and we were able to find an otherwise empty carriage into which we settled just as the engine in front thundered into life and we began our journey towards Hamblin.
Before long, the sun shining strongly down through the train windows combined with the heat of the carriage to make me drowsy and I found my head gently drooping against my chest as I dozed my way through the English countryside. Holmes, of course, remained alert throughout the journey, consulting some notes he had copied the night before from one of the many files he kept at Baker Street.
‘Now this is interesting, Watson,’ he announced loudly at one point, jerking me awake. ‘The fortunes of the Hamblin family have taken something of a fall since Sir Horace occupied the Hall. Large sums squandered by a succession of wastrel elder sons, and a considerable loss in an unspecified South Seas venture in the thirties have left the family coffers almost bare.’ He flicked through the papers on the seat beside him, and pulled out a large sheet of paper, folded into quarters. Using some coins he had in his pocket to hold down the corners, he unfolded the document and spread it out before us. It was the Hamblin family tree, roughly copied out in pencil. ‘You see?’ he asked, jabbing a long finger at the paper. ‘The current – and last – genuine Hamblin is Lady Alexandra, married in 1873 to one Willoughby Frogmorton, about whom I am afraid I know nothing.’
I failed to see what was so important. Even the great Sherlock Holmes could not hope to know everything. ‘What point are you making, Holmes?’ I asked.
Sherlock Holmes held his hands out in front of him in mock amazement. ‘Once again you surprise me, Watson. For many years you and I have worked together, on a variety of different cases. You have had ample time to observe my methods, and every opportunity to put them into practice. And yet, here we find ourselves. You see everything, but remain incapable of even the most basic of deductions from those observations. I know nothing about Willoughby Frogmorton. Nothing at all. What does that tell you?’
‘That he has committed no crime?’ I ventured.
‘More than that, Watson, far more than that! It means that Mr Frogmorton has done nothing of interest in public life. He has won no awards, gained no fortune, been mentioned in no reports, achieved not even the most fleeting of fame.’
‘Which leads you to believe…?’
‘Again, nothing at all.’ Holmes spoke calmly but his eyes glowed with the pleasure of new ideas. ‘It does, however, lead me to wonder why the scion of a family with roots back as far as the Conqueror should marry a man with no titles, money or family of his own. Look at the lady’s lineage! An uninterrupted sequence of marriages between members of the gentry, until Lady Alexandra. That does not strike you as interesting?’
‘Not particularly, no. Times are changing, Holmes. The twentieth century beckons, with all that is likely to entail. But even were it not, people have always married for love, you know.’ My protests were perfunctory, I have to admit, for I had suffered through Holmes’s views on love and marriage on more than one occasion in the past, and feared a repeat.
But to my surprise, ‘Perhaps,’ was the only further comment Holmes would make on the subject. He returned to his papers, and I to my interrupted dozing.
* * *
Hamblin Hall was just visible through the trees from the road, slumped at the peak of the long ridge that dominated the local skyline. As we travelled there in the tiny village of Hamblin’s only cab, through scrubby marshland then along a long rutted dirt track, the building became more sharply focused, though that was not entirely to its benefit.
From the outside, it was plain that upkeep had been allowed to fall away in recent years. The shape of a stylish and carefully constructed ornamental garden could still be made out amongst the tangle of overgrown rose bushes, wind-tilted statuary and scum-coated fountains and ponds, but only in the manner in which the outline of a sleeper may yet be seen on bed sheets for a brief time after he has risen for the day. What had once clearly been a handsome Tudor dwelling had also been allowed to decay over the centuries. The reddish-brown brickwork was cracked in a multitude of places, and one of the tall chimney stacks which bracketed the front entrance had lost its ornamental crown, though an even larger one to the rear retained its own. The chipped paint of the front door and a thin layer of grey dirt on the upper windows signified financial difficulties so clearly that even Holmes did not feel the need to labour the point.
We had discussed our plan of approach in the cab, and as we stood in the chill air before the entrance, Holmes quickly recapped lest there should be any confusion. ‘I see no need to do anything beyond explaining our purpose and examining such paintings as we may. With luck, Willoughby Frogmorton will be at home, and we can take the opportunity to examine him at the same time.’
I glanced querulously at Holmes, but he said nothing more on the subject. With a shrug, I knocked hard at the door and stood back, but nobody answered, even after I repeated the action more forcefully. I fancied that I saw a figure move behind the grime of an upstairs window but it could as easily have been a cat. I was about to suggest that we try the rear of the house when the door finally opened and a maid appeared. Holmes explained that we hoped to speak to the master of the house, if he was available, and the maid asked us to step inside.
Inside, a long staircase split to the left and right and continued in either direction in a sweep to the first floor, framing the entrance hall on three sides. Visible to our right as we stood opposite the stairs was what I took to be a library, while through the open door to our left a large drawing room could be seen. I had expected to be shown into the latter, but the little maid directed us towards the library, and asked us to wait while she made our presence known to the master of the house.
It was a well-lit room, with several large sash windows, and a large fireplace. Bookcases lined all four walls, with here and there glass-covered display cases breaking up the monotony of oak shelves. I took a seat in one of the deep leather armchairs, which were set on either side of the unlit fire, but Holmes would not settle, and instead wandered slowly along the bookcases.
‘See here, Watson,’ he said after a moment, gesturing at one of them. ‘There are as many gaps as books.’
‘Sold, you think?’ I asked, glancing nervously at the door, as Holmes knelt down behind a chair, then crossed to the far wall to examine the artwork that hung there.
‘That would seem a logical supposition,’ he said. ‘The furniture too is relatively new but not of the best quality and… Aha!’
He pressed a finger to the bottom corner of an unappealing painting of a crying child and tilted it to one side. Underneath was a small rectangle of dark, unfaded wallpaper, covering perhaps half the area of the painting that concealed it.
‘A poor-quality daub obscuring the spot where a better, if smaller, item once hung. I would say that Miss Rhodes is not the only buyer to enter Hamblin Hall of late.’
Before I could resp
ond, I heard the door of the library creak behind me. I turned to greet the newcomer.
Willoughby Frogmorton stood an inch or two taller than I, a thin, bronzed man of about fifty, with dark hair receding at the crown, brushed straight back and held in place with pomade. He was dressed in the height of fashion in a cream lounge suit, which fell open to reveal a high waistcoat and the thick line of a gold watch chain. His voice, when he spoke, was soft and smooth, almost unctuous.
‘How do you do, gentlemen? I am Willoughby Frogmorton, present inhabitant of this draughty old prison, and husband of the beautiful Lady Alexandra.’ He held out a slim hand on which two large gold rings were prominent. ‘Delighted to meet you. We do not get many visitors, I’m afraid, which fact makes your presence all the more pleasurable.’
To my surprise, Holmes hesitated for a heartbeat before taking the proffered hand, and then abandoned the plan we had discussed only moments before. When he spoke, his voice had taken on the hint of a Scottish accent. When he proceeded to introduce us as James Soames and his colleague Dr Cameron Munro, and explained that we were compiling a guidebook on the manor houses of the county, I knew enough to play along, and complimented our host on the splendid old building.
Frogmorton was affable and charming, declaring himself happy to show us round the Hall, but there was a falseness about him that I found discomfiting, and which put me immediately on my guard. Perhaps it was simply a reaction to Holmes’s unexpected use of false names, or a consequence of his damp handshake, but I pride myself that I recognised early on that Frogmorton was not all he appeared to be.
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