Albino's Treasure

by Douglas Stuart

  Holmes meanwhile was arguing with Inspector Lestrade, who had arrived in the wake of the battle, looking for the Albino. Holmes had a cut on his forehead, which was bleeding into his eyes, and Lestrade was insisting he have it seen to before doing anything else.

  Holmes had other ideas. ‘It is imperative that we speak with Mrs Boggs immediately, Inspector! We have already been delayed for almost two hours by your cretinous colleagues!’

  ‘In due course, Mr Holmes, in due course. I’ve sent a constable to the address you provided, with instructions to stay with the lady until we arrive. As soon as we get your head bandaged you can speak to her.’

  ‘That will be too late!’ Holmes was furious, his grey eyes wide with anger, his jaw rigid as he strove to control his temper. ‘It may have been too late before you even arrived here, Lestrade, but it will certainly be so if we delay any longer. Do you imagine that a man capable of ordering one of his men thrown into that—’ he pointed towards two constables who were carefully lowering the manhole cover back into place, ‘—would baulk for a second at killing a defenceless woman? If she yet lives, then a few coins may loosen her lips a little, especially now that her husband is dead, but any further delay will certainly render the possibility moot, in which case we may as well stay here.’

  I had long since learned not to be shocked by Holmes’s occasional descent into callousness, recognising that in every case what seemed cold-blooded disregard was simply pragmatism. Holmes, I knew, was not without compassion, but he rarely allowed it to hinder an investigation. Lestrade, too, knew Holmes’s moods of old.

  ‘Very well, Mr Holmes,’ he said. ‘Press this handkerchief to the cut, at least, and we’ll be on our way, though I’m sure Mrs Boggs will already be enjoying a cup of tea in police custody.’

  * * *

  As soon as we reached the street, it was obvious that something was amiss. Crowds of people milled about in front of the Boggses’ home, held back by a single harassed constable.

  ‘Frost! Constable Frost!’ Lestrade jumped to the ground while the vehicle was still moving and pushed his way through the crowd, all the while shouting to his subordinate. We followed in the wake he created, until we stood before the front door, which spun on a single hinge. I was reminded of Miss Marr’s door sitting open in the rain, and felt a heaviness build in the pit of my stomach. I was suddenly sure that an already bloody day was about to become even bloodier.

  By contrast, Constable Frost’s relief was palpable as he quickly but concisely gave his report to Lestrade. ‘There’s a woman’s body inside, first door on the right, sir. Looks like she’s been attacked by a madman, sir. The kid is with a neighbour. Place is a bit of a mess, sir, but it’s impossible to tell if it was always that way, or if there was a robbery.’

  ‘It’s unlikely Mrs Boggs had much worth stealing, Constable,’ Lestrade said wearily, as we pushed past Frost.

  Inside, what had been tattered but clean had been transformed into filthy wreckage. What little furniture the Boggses had owned had been turned over and smashed to splinters, mattresses ripped apart, a cupboard turned to kindling, the door to the box room destroyed and even the baby’s cot stove in on one side. Mrs Boggs had been savagely beaten until her face was all but unrecognisable. She sat propped against a wall as though still living, but there was no chance of that. I found a rough blanket in a corner and pulled it over her body.

  ‘The death blow was struck with a heavy, rounded object, directly to the back of the head, possibly while she was on her hands and knees,’ I said sorrowfully.

  ‘Like the cane you said you saw the Albino holding, Doctor?’ asked Lestrade.

  ‘Perhaps. It’s definitely a possibility, but I would need to examine the head of the cane more closely before I could say for sure. You think that the Albino got here before us, and killed Mrs Boggs to silence her?’

  ‘Then why destroy the room?’ Holmes interrupted flatly. ‘Mr Boggs worked for the Albino, that much was made clear at the Bailey. His job was to retrieve the miniature from its purchaser and bring it to his master, but for whatever reason he muddled the job and the lady in question ended up dead. Even so, Boggs must have given the miniature to the Albino. So I ask again, why destroy the room?’

  Lestrade was hesitant. ‘He believed Boggs had further information?’

  ‘Or he has a terrible temper when angered?’ Though the Albino had been outwardly calm when ordering the execution of Mr Boggs under the Bailey, I had known cases of similarly emotionally controlled individuals who, under certain unfortunate stimuli, were capable of the most terrible feats of violence and cruelty.

  Holmes shrugged at the suggestion but I, who knew him better than anyone, could tell that he considered the idea to have little merit. ‘That is not unknown,’ he said eventually. ‘Jack Vincent, who robbed the Bank of England in seventy-four, for instance, was such an individual, and he was not unique.’ He turned to Lestrade. ‘Even more reason to exercise caution when dealing with this man, Inspector. His cold-blooded ruthlessness was amply demonstrated by the manner in which he disposed of Mr Boggs, but the murder of Mrs Boggs argues for a great inner rage. A combination of the two could prove very dangerous indeed.’

  In response, Lestrade called over Constable Frost and gave him a series of instructions. ‘Frost will remain at the front of the building for the moment, Mr Holmes, while we wait for more officers to arrive, but in the meantime, will you be wanting to look at anything in the room?’

  He need not have bothered to ask, for Holmes was already crouched down on the floor, raking through the grate of the fireplace. He reached inside and pulled out a handful of partially burned scraps of paper, each of which he examined, before discarding. ‘Bits of bills and inconsequential scribbles only,’ he complained, ‘burned recently and with no great regard for their complete destruction. I wonder—’

  He picked up one of the larger scraps and looked at it again. ‘The same word copied over and over, Watson, do you see? In block capitals too. Our man was practising.’

  ‘Were we in any doubt that Boggs wrote the letter to Miss Marr, Holmes?’ I asked, with some irritation. It occasionally seemed to me that Holmes liked to flaunt his abilities when anyone from Scotland Yard was present, and I – painfully aware that the trail of bodies we had followed that day had led us into a dead end – had no patience for such frivolities.

  I should have had more faith.

  ‘Yes, yes, Watson, that much is a given!’ Holmes was impatient too, and made no effort to hide the fact. ‘But who’s to say that Boggs had but one correspondent? There is a large quantity of ash here, far greater than one would expect from these few pages. Other, more interesting, correspondence has been destroyed here. Replies, perhaps.’

  ‘Which is all very well, Mr Holmes,’ Lestrade interjected, ‘but what good does that do us? Without the destroyed letters, have you any suggestions regarding our next course of action?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Holmes ruefully. He straightened up and cast an analytical eye over the ruin of the room. ‘If we do not discover something here, then we may find ourselves in difficulties in future.’ He glanced down at the scraps in his hand. ‘But no man can think of everything and it may be that…’

  His voice trailed off as he paced around the room, tapping on walls and running his fingers along the gaps between floorboards. This continued for several minutes, until every possible hiding place must surely have been exhausted, and he stood once more in the centre of the room, his face a mask of frustration. I had seen that look many times before and knew the black mood it presaged. Sherlock Holmes did not react positively to failure, even temporary failure, and as I watched his eyes flicker across the room, I hoped for my friend’s sake that some connection could be made which would move us forward.

  As though he could read my thoughts, Holmes slowly smiled. He walked over to the little box room where the baby’s crib lay and pulled the tiny bed into the main living area. Reaching past the shattered side he slip
ped his fingers beneath the thin mattress – in reality just a worn and much folded blanket – and flipped it out onto the floor. Then, with a cry of triumph, he emerged grasping a sheaf of crumpled paper.

  ‘Never waste anything; that is the invariable rule of the industrious poor! What may not satisfy as a letter intended for a genteel lady will do well as insulation for a baby’s bed, Lestrade!’

  Propping the cot against the wall, he unfolded the papers. There were three in total. The first was a reply from a Mr Howard Smith of Bayswater, regretting that he had no interest in selling ‘the item described’. The others were letters of approximately the same construction as that sent to Eugenie Marr, though addressed to what were presumably other collectors. The nearest – that of Colonel Andrew de la Mare – was not too far distant.

  ‘Can you take us to this address at once, Lestrade?’ asked Holmes, his mood changing in an instant. ‘With some luck, the Albino does not know that Colonel de la Mare of Mayfair is in possession of—’ he consulted the letter, ‘—an oil painting of Sir James Hamilton of Finnart, nor that a Mr Sebastian Rudge is the current owner of a portrait of Anne Boleyn in a gilt-edged frame. For the first time, we may manage to get ahead of our quarry!’

  Thirteen

  I felt as though we had spent the day bisecting and dissecting London, criss-crossing the city socially and geographically, rising and falling on a tidal swell of poverty and ambition. From Eugenie Marr, via Mr Boggs at the Old Bailey, to his wife in Camden Town, the hours of daylight had witnessed a savage race in which each mile was marked by a fresh corpse. I was heartsick and morose as the police carriage bounced along Camden’s pitted roads, in marked contrast to Holmes, who sat forward in his seat like a predator poised to attack.

  To pass the time, and to take my mind off recent events, I surveyed the passing scenery through the open window. Camden was dark and grim in the fading light, and though the rain had held off for the past hour or two, the walls we sped past were wet with moisture and furred with mould. Here and there children played in the streets, their thin, pale faces briefly uplifted in our wake, before returning to whatever amusement they had found, strangely silent in their merriment. I found the entire spectacle disheartening in the extreme, and was not much consoled when, as we passed through Primrose Hill, the terraced houses began to improve in aspect, and the guttersnipes of the streets were replaced by sober men hurrying home from work.

  ‘Come now, Watson, it is no fault of the industrious man that he lives in such close proximity to the destitute, any more than it is the fault of the poor man that he lives cheek by jowl with wealth and prosperity. They did not kill anyone, after all.’

  Holmes gave a laugh of sheer pleasure at the look on our faces. The possibility of catching up with the Albino had done wonders for my friend’s mood, and if I resented his laughter at that moment, I welcomed his improved humour.

  ‘Everything you think is written plain as day on your face, Watson. When we left Mrs Boggs you were downcast, obviously considering the several deaths we have encountered today, and their cause. Your expression changed to a frown as we passed through the nearby streets, suggesting something had additionally disturbed you. I might have assumed that it was poverty itself that upset you but the frown became more pronounced in the past few minutes as we moved into a more salubrious part of the city. Thus you have been comparing the relative wealth of the people of Primrose Hill with those of Camden Town, and finding the latter wanting. Simplicity itself, Watson.’

  ‘He has you there, Doctor,’ Lestrade chimed in. ‘You’ve had a face like thunder since we got in the carriage.’

  I could deny nothing Holmes had said, and so satisfied myself with a half-smile and a non-committal grunt of agreement. Fortunately, we had arrived at the Mayfair address Holmes had discovered, and so I was spared the need to say anything further.

  We were relieved to discover that nothing was amiss. Colonel de la Mare, a perfectly gruff, red-faced example of the species ‘Retired Indian Army Officer’, did remember receiving a letter asking if he had any interest in selling a portrait of Sir James Hamilton of Finnart – better known as ‘the bastard of Arran’, as our host told us with ill-disguised glee, though I admit I had never heard of the man. But he had only recently bought it and so dismissed the matter without another thought. After some pressing from Holmes, he also described a white-haired man who had turned up on his doorstep the previous week, claiming to be an insurance agent, and asking if there were any valuable artworks in the house.

  ‘A suave sort of cove, if you know what I mean? Smooth as silk and oily as a pimp’s hair, eh? Soon showed him the door. Fancy he was a foreigner too, eh?’

  Lestrade nodded encouragingly, and took the Colonel to one side for a statement, while Holmes and I examined the painting in question, which was displayed over the mantelpiece.

  ‘The Albino, following up Boggs’s letter with a personal visit?’ I asked.

  ‘Assuredly,’ Holmes replied. ‘Clearly he was not confident that Boggs would succeed.’ He pulled out a magnifying glass, which he twisted and turned as he leant ever closer to the painted surface.

  I took the opportunity to make my own examination of the painting. It depicted a sword-wielding knight on horseback, the beast rearing somewhat wildly, set against a rugged landscape dominated by a fortified castle in the background and a stretch of grey water to the fore. While the man’s armour was medieval, even an individual as unfamiliar with art as I could tell that the painting itself was from a later period. I said as much to Holmes, who grunted non-committally before deigning to give me a polite answer.

  ‘Yes, Watson. I’d judge it was painted some time around the 1620s.’ He peered closer. ‘No doubt commissioned by a romantic descendant of Sir James.’

  ‘And the castle? A real structure or an artistic conceit?’ At this point our host appeared at my elbow. He seemed glad to be able to discuss his new acquisition, even in such unorthodox circumstances.

  ‘That’s Blackness Castle, on the south shore of the Firth of Forth, Dr Watson. Hamilton fortified it while holding the position of King’s Master of Works.’ He seemed about to expand on his subject, but was halted by my companion, who straightened and announced that there was nothing to suggest that this painting was a forgery. ‘There is nothing whatsoever to commend this painting over any other, in fact,’ he insisted. ‘A somewhat unusual subject, but other than that, quite unremarkable.’

  Having arranged to have the painting moved to Scotland Yard for safekeeping, we left for the second address on our list, the house of Howard Smith in Bayswater. Mr Smith turned out to be a schoolteacher of amiable disposition, who was happy to show us a line drawing of the Magi at the Nativity, which he had bought from the Hamblin Estate. Unlike the other artworks we had seen, this was a small pencil drawing, showing the wise men paying homage to the Christ child. Though it was obviously a preliminary sketch for a larger work, and everything bar the main figures was indistinct and unfinished, the face of each man had been depicted in life-like detail, drawing the eye as the artist no doubt intended.

  Smith confirmed that the sketch was a rough draft for a larger painting, commissioned by the Bishop of Ely in 1462 for display in his residence. ‘I could not, of course, afford the actual painting, even if it had been for sale, but still, I think this pleasing in its own right.’ We hastened to agree, before Holmes made enquiries as to any recent activity regarding its sale. No, Smith said, nobody had visited him in connection with the sketch, though yes, he had received a letter offering to purchase it. He had written back to explain that he was much attached to it and was not, consequently, minded to sell at present. He was, however, happy to lend it to the police, on the understanding it would be returned unharmed within the fortnight. Holmes again identified the sketch as an original, and we left for the final address on our list, the home of Mr Sebastian Rudge.

  * * *

  From the moment we alighted from the carriage and walked through the impos
ing gates of Mr Sebastian Rudge’s home in Hampstead, it was obvious that we had arrived too late. A policeman stood by the open front door, blocking our passage until Lestrade was called to vouch for us. Inside, more policemen milled about and I confess I felt a knot in my stomach as I gave thought to the possibility of another murder on a day already replete with horrors.

  Imagine my relief, then, when Lestrade spoke to one of the more senior police officers present then relayed to us the news that though there had indeed been a robbery, nobody had been harmed.

  ‘Both Mr and Mrs Rudge were out to dinner when the robbery occurred. Woodrush, the butler, says that a man knocked at the door around an hour and a half ago. The gentleman, according to the butler, wore a woollen hood over his face, with eye and mouth holes cut out. He pulled out a gun and, calling on his confederates waiting outside, ordered all of the servants into the master bedroom, where they were bound and gagged. It seems that they were roughly handled too. They would still be there, but a footman worked himself free and raised the alarm.’

  Holmes nodded, distractedly. ‘What an enterprising fellow.’ He let his eyes wander around the immaculate drawing room. ‘May I speak to the butler?’ he asked, finally.

  Lestrade signalled to the nearest constable, who turned on his heel and disappeared into the rear of the house. He reappeared within a few moments, leading a small man in a dishevelled butler’s uniform. The newcomer was short and grey-haired, though that hair mainly congregated around his ears and the back of his neck, with paradoxically bushy eyebrows and moustache. His expression was morose, as befitted one who had contrived to allow his master to be robbed, and when Holmes offered him a cigarette he lit it with shaking fingers. I did not expect that we would discover much of interest from such a downcast and dispirited specimen.