Albino's Treasure

by Douglas Stuart

  ‘Looked at from a different angle, it is possible to construct an argument that an animal theme unites the collection. Sir James astride his horse, the Magi at the stable in Bethlehem, the falcon on Queen Anne’s coat of arms… but even if such a theme existed, how would it help us?

  ‘Then again, the thought occurred that the Magi, Anne and Charles are all royalty – could the Crown Jewels of England be the prize after all? Well, perhaps, but how could these paintings lead us to them? No, I thought, that is both too plain and too subtle; it is not that.

  ‘I placed the paintings side by side, and one atop the other, but nothing came to mind. I examined the ridges of paint themselves, but they were just ridges. I even had the frames removed and checked for hidden writing. Nothing. There is nothing there.

  ‘I am not yet defeated, Watson, but I am disheartened; I cannot deny it. I believed that possession of all the paintings – or rather, nearly all of the paintings – would be almost the entirety of the battle, but I confess to a puzzlement that is vexing in the extreme. I actually briefly considered the possibility that this entire case has been a practical joke on Lestrade’s part: revenge for my continual besting of Scotland Yard.’

  He half smiled at his own self-pity and sat a little straighter in his chair. ‘But what of you, Watson? How have you been filling your days?’

  ‘I can do you one better,’ I said, matching his laugh. ‘Earlier on today I gave credence to the idea that a ghost might be involved!’

  ‘Really, Watson,’ Holmes responded acerbically, ‘there are limits to the realms of fantasy I am willing to entertain even in extremis, and the supernatural, I can assure you, is a step beyond those limits.’

  ‘I wasn’t being entirely serious, Holmes,’ I protested. I leaned over and handed him the sheet of paper on which I had listed the various paintings. ‘I was simply collating all I knew about the subject of each composition, including the fact that Queen Anne’s ghost is rumoured to pace the halls of Hever Castle. She was likely born there, of course, and the family lived there for her entire life. In fact, I have heard… Holmes, are you even listening to me?’

  Clearly he was not, for he failed to acknowledge my question but instead continued to stare at the sheet of paper I had handed him. I tried to regain his attention by coughing in a pointed manner, but Holmes barely acknowledged the attempt. We sat like that, unspeaking in the dim light, for several minutes. Finally, Holmes broke the silence.

  ‘Why do you imagine a good – if secret – Catholic like Horace Hamblin included a portrait of the infamous Protestant Queen Anne in this most exclusive of collections?’

  I was pleased that he had asked a question which I had already mulled over that afternoon. ‘I did wonder at that myself, Holmes, but I think you may be about to head down the wrong path entirely.

  It may seem strange that a secretly devout Catholic should own a likeness of a Queen famed for her Protestant beliefs, but I believe I can explain.

  ‘I did a little reading in one of your Civil War histories, and it seems that hanging the image of famous Protestant royalty – especially those who could make a claim to martyrdom – was an excellent way of deflecting suspicion of Catholicism and distracting the attention of Parliament’s more rabid zealots. Presumably Hamblin used Queen Anne in this manner.’

  Holmes, to my surprise, was dismissive. ‘No, Watson, no! I do sometimes wonder if I am wasting my time in allowing you to observe me at work. At times you seem to be making reasonable progress, to be flexing your brain at last, but then you say something so asinine that… Well, never mind.

  ‘Of course Hamblin kept the Boleyn portrait on prominent display! To do otherwise would have been to invite suspicion and investigation. But I was not referring to the painting’s inclusion in the Hamblin Collection in general, but to its placement in this small subset of the larger whole. Whatever these paintings represent or hide, it was Hamblin himself who chose them, and it is more than passing strange that of all the many items he had from which to choose, he chose an image of a woman despised by those of his sect.’

  I admit I had been stung by Holmes’s rejection. ‘And?’ I asked, with some ire. ‘I take it you have a theory?’

  ‘And therefore the reason for her inclusion must have been unique.’ He leapt to his feet and paced up and down before the fire, punctuating his words with stabs of his pipe. ‘There is something about Anne Boleyn which is unusual in the extreme, or at least distinctive enough that she was the only example Hamblin could possibly utilise. Or should I rather say the only example he had to hand? No? You do not recall what you wrote? You should, Watson, you should, for it is a breakthrough in the case – and all the more pleasurable for its source. Perhaps you have been listening and observing after all!’

  Holmes puffed mightily on his pipe, and leaned back against the mantelpiece, blowing smoke rings into the air as he waited for me to speak. With no idea what he was referring to, however, I maintained my silence, knowing that he could not bear not to explain. I did not have long to wait.

  ‘I have, myself, been considering the question of the uniqueness of Anne for four days, without a glimmer of success,’ Holmes said, without further preamble. ‘I was almost at the point of assuming my initial theory incorrect, and entirely giving up on this line of enquiry. And yet when I return home, disconsolate and disheartened, what do I find? Dr John Watson has scribbled the answer down as a passing thought!’

  Holmes still held the sheet of paper I had given him, and now he read aloud from it.

  ‘Anne Boleyn was rumoured by Catholic propagandists to have had six fingers on one hand.’

  He paused for comment, but still I could not grasp what he saw which I did not.

  ‘Can it be that still you do not understand? Six fingers, Watson! It is a number, to go alongside the three wise men, Charles the First and the Firth of Forth!’

  ‘The Firth of—? What are you talking about, Holmes?’ I was lost.

  ‘The Firth of Forth, Watson!’ He shook his head in irritation. ‘The backdrop to the portrait of Sir James Hamilton. I had been thinking that the subject was the pertinent thing, perhaps even the castle, but in fact the setting is the key.’ He looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘I admit that, as yet, I have not identified the numerals to be read in Augustine Hamblin’s portrait, but now that I am certain there is one to be found, I confidently expect that to be child’s play!’

  ‘A number?’ I understood that Holmes had found the missing link between the paintings, but as to the logic behind it, or the use to which it could be put, I remained in the dark.

  ‘Numbers, Watson, plural! Six paintings, six numbers!’ Holmes’s enthusiasm was infectious, and I found myself smiling as he explained himself. ‘One to six, at that, so an order rather than a code in itself. Charles in the primary position, followed by the missing miniature of the Old Testament twins, and then the three wise men, Sir James at the Firth of Forth, the portrait of Sir Augustine – for where else can he go? – and finally Queen Anne.’

  ‘All very well, Holmes, but what does it mean?’ I asked.

  ‘At the moment, I am unsure, I admit. But we have one, three, four, five and six from a total of six. If we cannot winkle out the mystery from there, then we are not the men I took us to be. I am convinced that these artworks conceal a code which can be used to discover England’s Treasure.’

  Holmes’s eyes sparkled with sheer delight in the game. This was his natural and most beloved milieu: an intellectual puzzle with the highest possible stakes. Only absorbed in such activity was Holmes truly alive; without it, as he had himself remarked more than once, he might as well be dead.

  As I observed him, I was reminded of previous occasions when the trail had grown cold, and all seemed lost, only for Holmes to save the day at the last moment. Then, as now, his entire frame appeared suffused with nervous energy. He leapt to his feet and strode to the window, which he threw open, allowing the cold night air into the house, clearing the room of sta
le tobacco smoke just as his own tired mind had been cleared by his deductions. The rain had finally stopped for good earlier that afternoon, and in its place the air outside was sharp and crisp, with the promise of a fine winter morning to follow. I hoped it was an omen.

  ‘I feel reinvigorated, Watson,’ he said, and would have said more, but for the sudden shattering of the window just above his head, followed by a loud bang as a shelf on the back wall was struck by a shot.

  Glass fragments showered Holmes as he took two quick steps to the side, away from the window and out of sight of whoever was shooting at him. I slipped out of my chair and crouched behind it, wishing that I had my revolver to hand, but I had left it in my bedroom and in order to obtain it I would need to pass in front of the broken window, leaving myself open to a second shot. I cast my eyes around that portion of the room within reach, but a small pile of journals and newspapers awaiting Holmes’s scissors, and an abandoned tea tray holding the remains of my lunch, were all that was visible. Neither offered much promise as a weapon.

  Meanwhile, Holmes had not wasted a moment in reflection, but was already on the floor, sliding towards me on his stomach. As he passed, he paused to speak.

  ‘Twice in the last few days I have thought that someone was following me, but on neither occasion was I able definitively to confirm my suspicions. I gave chase to a little fellow the day before yesterday but he evaded me by the river and disappeared. And yesterday I was sure that I saw the same man in the distance, watching me as I entered Scotland Yard. Someone is worried that we are making progress, Watson!’

  There was real satisfaction in his voice, but for myself I was troubled that Holmes had not thought to share this information before now. I said as much, but he merely seemed perplexed that I thought it important.

  ‘Really, Watson!’ He frowned. ‘I was unable to catch the man, so there was nothing to tell. Now listen to me very carefully.’ As he spoke, he rolled onto his back and began stuffing the front of his shirt with the collection of newspapers I had noted a moment before, until he was quite rotund. ‘I need you to be ready to run for your room as soon as I act. The instant I stand up, you must go and get your revolver, then return here. Keep as low as you possibly can, but speed is of the utmost importance.’

  I stared at him in incomprehension. ‘What are you doing, Holmes?’ I asked as he tipped an empty cup from my luncheon tray and held the latter out above him.

  Holmes rolled onto his side to face me. ‘I intend to draw the fire of whoever is shooting at us, allowing you time to run to your bedroom in comparative safety, where you may retrieve your revolver and thereby place us on equal military footing with our unknown assailant. I will count to three, then stand up and walk towards the window, holding the tray in front of me. Are you ready? One, two—’

  ‘You can’t mean it, Holmes! It’s as good as suicide!’

  ‘—three!’ True to his word, and ignoring my interruption, Holmes swung himself to his feet in one easy movement and, tray held before his face, walked towards the window. Whatever his plan, I knew that to delay would be both futile and potentially fatal. I leapt to my feet and, leaving my friend behind, ran to my room. I had barely made it through before I heard another thunderous bang from behind me. My fingers closed round the handle of the gun as something in the other room fell heavily to the floor.

  ‘Holmes!’

  I re-entered our sitting room expecting to find some unspecified horror. Instead, I was grabbed by strong, unseen hands the instant I left my own room, and spun round and down behind the same chair I had so recently vacated. Holmes threw himself down beside me with a grunt. His hair was dishevelled but otherwise he appeared wholly unharmed.

  Wordlessly, he handed me the tray he had been carrying. Sticking straight through it was a thick wooden quarrel with a wickedly sharpened tip. Before I could ask any questions, Holmes removed the revolver from my hand and, in one sudden, whip-like movement, stood up and marched to the broken window, firing three times as he did so. That done, he ducked to one side of the window, and began counting. When he reached one hundred he moved back in front of the window and stood there for a full minute. There were no further shots from the street.

  Throughout this extraordinary passage of events, not a word had been spoken, but now he stepped forward and held my revolver out to me. The movement released me from my stupefied state as though I had been mesmerised and was only just waking from a hypnotic trance.

  ‘What on earth—’ I began, ‘—you could have been killed, Holmes!’

  ‘I hardly think that likely, my dear fellow,’ he replied, with a small, self-satisfied smile. ‘You no doubt recognise a crossbow bolt when you see one?’ He pointed to the tray in my hand. ‘There was no gun fired at us, only a crossbow, and I was never in any danger from that.’

  ‘A crossbow bolt can kill just as easily as a revolver bullet,’ I protested angrily.

  ‘That is certainly true in the general sense, but not, I would hazard, in this. Glance over at the shelf hit by the first shot. You will note that though one or two items have fallen to the floor, the shelf itself is not destroyed, and the bolt itself did not even have the power to stick in the wall. See – here it is on the floor and this small indentation in the wall is the only sign that it struck at all. No, whoever had the crossbow was sufficiently distant, or was using a weapon in such a poor state of repair, that all force had been spent by the time the bolt reached this room. Had it struck me then I am confident that my padding of newspapers would have absorbed the blow with little harm to myself.’

  What he said made sense, and I was somewhat mollified, but I was not willing to allow his recklessness to pass without one further remonstrance. ‘Even so,’ I said, ‘all it would have taken was one decent shot to do you terrible damage. A bolt may not have the power to stick into a brick wall and yet still have enough to pierce an eye or strike the temple. It does not take a great deal to kill a man if his opponent should prove lucky, Holmes.’

  ‘There is that word again, Watson, and I say again that luck has no impact upon any action of mine. There was no risk because clearly our assailant is a poor shot. He could not manage to graze me with his first bolt, even though I was standing still, framed against the window. What chance then did he have of hitting a moving target?’ He glanced again at the tray I was still holding, and the bolt that had transfixed it. ‘I was, I admit, incorrect in that respect.’

  ‘Do you think you hit him with your shots?’ I asked.

  ‘I very much doubt it, Watson. I was not aiming at anyone or anything in particular, but simply made the natural assumption that any assassin who went to the trouble of using a weapon as silent – not to mention archaic – as the crossbow would baulk at the sound of a trio of revolver shots, and flee. And so it proved.’

  I walked over to the window, still cautious, in spite of Holmes’s reassurances. There was nothing to be seen outside, simply Baker Street in the dark. ‘Who do you think it was? The man you saw following you on the last two days?’

  ‘There is nothing to indicate otherwise. Though I confess that I have not, as yet, deduced who that person is.’

  I pulled the curtains shut. ‘One of the Albino’s men, surely? He is the only person involved in this affair with reason to want Sherlock Holmes dead, and we have already seen how merciless and cruel he can be. Plus he did attack you earlier. He nearly ran you down, after all.’

  Holmes said nothing at first, but instead toyed with the bolt he had retrieved from beneath the shelf. ‘This is nothing but a plain wooden bolt, hand carved from ash. A common enough tree, even in London.’ He turned to me. ‘But why should the Albino wish me dead? That he wants the paintings we hold is understandable, but killing me would not make obtaining that task any easier, or any more likely. The opposite, in fact.’

  ‘He may fear your deductive skills, Holmes. He would not be the first criminal arrogant enough to believe that only Sherlock Holmes could ever catch him. Remove Holmes, he may
think, and he will be home free.’

  Holmes carefully righted the bench he had knocked over and which had made such a noise while I was in my room. ‘At the moment all we can say for sure is that it is impossible to say for sure.’ He smoothed his hair down and at once it was impossible to tell that he had recently been in great physical peril.

  ‘In light of our new insights, perhaps it would be useful for us to return to Scotland Yard?’

  Before I could protest that he was treating a second attempt on his life with an unwarranted lack of caution, Sherlock Holmes picked up his hat, coat and scarf and left the room, pausing at the top of the stairs to instruct Mrs Hudson that a glazier was required before sweeping out into the street. With no other obvious course open to me, I followed suit and soon we were ensconced in a hansom making its way to Scotland Yard.

  Fifteen

  Lestrade, I was pleased to discover, was more interested in the murder attempt on Holmes than any potential breakthrough regarding the paintings. I admit that, for once, I had some sympathy with his priorities.

  ‘Really, Mr Holmes, you would be best advised to place yourself under the protection of the Metropolitan Police until we are able to ascertain just what the Albino is up to, and who else he may have sent after you!’

  Lestrade was in many ways a phlegmatic man, but there was no doubting the strength of his emotions. I had insisted in the hansom that we tell the Inspector about both the shooting and the earlier attempt to run Holmes down in the street, and Lestrade had reacted exactly as I would have expected. He had been berating Holmes for several minutes without pause now.

  ‘If you had informed the Yard about the first attempt, we might well have been in a position to make an arrest by now, and would certainly have been better positioned to offer you a degree of protection from further assaults on your person.’