‘Well done, Miss Rhodes,’ Holmes exclaimed. ‘I hope that spending time in your company sharpens Watson’s wits to a similar degree.’ He turned to me, with a small smile on his lips to demonstrate that he was speaking in jest. ‘You see, Watson, Hamblin died on the following day, and if you glance at the other books in the series, you will note that none of them have a similar date on their flyleaves. There is significance in this marking.’
‘Still,’ I said, unwilling to cede the point too readily, ‘a name and date in a book do not bring us any closer to solving the riddle, do they?’
‘Ignore the inscription then, Watson,’ said Holmes, curtly. ‘Look below that, instead.’ He stabbed a long finger at the bottom of the page, where someone had scribbled a string of nonsense letters. I had noticed but dismissed them before, but now I saw that Holmes had copied the letters down on a clean sheet of paper:
WXYUQFSGAGTSRMZ
‘You believe there is some meaning in this jumble?’ I asked.
‘Without doubt. I believe this is a Vigenère cipher encryption, a method by which a phrase can be encoded and then only translated by means of a key, which is made up of the repetition of another word or phrase entirely, mapped against a third set of letters. The trick is to find the key to this, as you rightly say, jumble. Unfortunately, at the moment we do not have that key or any idea how to find it.’
He sighed heavily, the temporary elation of discovery already dissipating.
I cast about for some crumb with which to comfort him. ‘The key must be in the paintings, you said so yourself. All we need do is winkle it out. Give me a hand moving them. Perhaps if they are arranged in a row, so that you can study them in order, something may become apparent.’
I was not confident, but having contributed so little to date, and with no other potential action presenting itself, it was the best I could suggest. Holmes and I propped each painting against the back wall, then stood back and examined them.
Nothing resembling a key phrase was evident. Each painting remained stubbornly as it had always been, and none provided any fresh insight.
At that moment, Frogmorton appeared in the library doorway. The expression on his face was a mixture of sheepish embarrassment and defiant annoyance but when he spoke he appeared sincere enough. ‘My wife is away until the weekend so I suppose it does no harm to have you people rummaging around. Towards the end of Jessica’s previous stay, Alexandra became displeased by our friendship, but since there’s not a soul on the estate in her absence bar myself, I suppose the odds of her finding out are pretty long. Anyway, I came to ask if you’d care for refreshments. Tea and whatnot, or something stiffer if you’d prefer?’
Holmes waved the offer away impatiently and returned to his work. He had written the nonsensical letter series from Aquinas’s book in large letters on a sheet of paper, and was scribbling what appeared to be random words underneath – ‘KING’, ‘STUART’, ‘HAMBLIN’ – repeating each word until the number of letters in each row matched, before scoring them out in obvious irritation. The current iteration read:
WXYUQFSGAGTSRMZ
CHARLESCHARLESC
With a snarl he crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it across the room.
‘This is pure guesswork!’ he complained. ‘I am no better than a third-rate mesmerist in a fleapit of a theatre, or a Scotland Yard detective at the scene of a murder! “CHARLES” is too obvious a key; Hamblin would have chosen something more complex than that which could be guessed by a mere child!’
I have known Sherlock Holmes for many years, and in many moods, and as he looked up at me, I recognised the driven, obsessive demeanour which had, on more than one occasion in the past, presaged a period of intense study, devoid of rest or sustenance, culminating in the solution to some almost intractable conundrum. There was nothing I could do on such occasions but stand by, ready to provide whatever service Holmes required. In the meantime, I accepted Frogmorton’s offer of tea, as did Miss Rhodes. There was no point in being thirsty while we waited for Holmes to uncover some new avenue to explore.
‘I should perhaps offer to help Mr Frogmorton, since he has no servants at present,’ Miss Rhodes suggested, innocently. I was on the verge of insisting she stay in the library while I went to help, when the significance of her words struck home.
‘He said he was the only person on the entire estate, didn’t he?’ I asked the room in general. Miss Rhodes nodded her agreement a bare second before I saw the same look cross her face as, I assumed, had very recently crossed my own.
‘He did,’ she said, quietly. ‘But if that is the case, then who waved to us from the copse of trees in the grounds?’
The conclusion was inescapable. Whoever had been following us throughout our investigations, whoever had tried to run Holmes down, and shot at us through the windows of Baker Street, whoever had killed Mr and Mrs Boggs, and murdered Miss Eugenie Marr, whoever they were, they were outside Hamblin Hall right now.
‘Holmes!’ I cried in horror. ‘The Albino has men in the grounds!’ I hurried to explain about the ‘servants’ in the trees, but Holmes was preoccupied, still mired in the problem of the cipher, and dismissive of anything that did not immediately touch upon that puzzle.
‘That is fascinating, but worthless, information,’ he remarked with ill grace. ‘We could not have hoped to keep ahead of them forever, Watson, and at least here we are behind good thick walls. Lestrade will be with us shortly and, if I am correct in some recent conclusions of mine, we have less to worry about from the Albino than we at one point believed. In the meantime, perhaps I can return to the puzzle of the paintings? I am so close that I can taste it, Watson. It is as though Horace Hamblin is speaking to me across the centuries.’
I looked at my friend, quizzically. ‘That may make sense to you, Holmes, but I admit it leaves me baffled. Would you care to explain – and quickly, if possible? For all your talk of good thick walls, we do not know the strength of the Albino’s forces nor their intentions, and in the event of an attack I would prefer Miss Rhodes at least to be far from here.’ Holmes made a vague noise of agreement, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere, and I would need to be more forceful if I were to get through to him. ‘Holmes, the Albino could be at the door any second. We must either create a defensive barrier, or leave while we can!’
As though he had been summoned by my words, the door to the library slowly opened and a dark figure stepped through. It was obviously not the Albino, however, though it was clear that Holmes recognised him.
The newcomer was an average young man in every respect. Almost boyish in appearance, he was approximately five foot eight inches tall, clean shaven, with short brown hair. He wore a plain brown suit with an open collar, and a light overcoat, as befitted the season. The only peculiar things about him were his eyes, which were so dark as to appear violet. Something about that fact nagged at me for a moment, before I realised that the pistol he held was pointed in the direction of Miss Rhodes, who stood closest to the entrance. I slid my hand into my pocket and wrapped my fingers round my revolver, but before I could move, Holmes stepped forward.
‘Major Conway,’ he said evenly. ‘Why, I thought you were dead – or returned to Ireland, at the very least.’
Seventeen
My own reaction was far less sanguine. ‘If you intend to harm Miss Rhodes in any way—’ I began, but Conway interrupted before I could complete the thought.
‘I am not in the habit of assaulting defenceless women, Dr Watson.’ He appeared offended by the suggestion, in fact, and moved his gun around to cover Holmes and me.
With a twitch of the barrel Conway indicated that he desired us to sit. The most minute shake of the head from Holmes convinced me to leave my own revolver in my pocket, and thus we gave no trouble to the Major as we seated ourselves.
Holmes’s disappointment with himself was plain to see. ‘You have been working for the Albino all along, of course,’ he sighed, reaching inside his jacket for his cigar
ettes. He offered both the Major and myself the case, then lit one for himself. ‘I should have wondered at the ease with which I was embraced by the Brotherhood, should I not? An error of judgement on my part.’
Conway spoke for the first time. ‘Come, come, Mr Holmes. Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ he said, in a voice entirely bereft of an Irish lilt, but with more than a hint of the American. ‘I had no concept of your identity when we first met, though I was made aware of your true name after your abortive, if entertaining, self-assassination attempt. I myself was relatively newly inserted into the republican movement, truth be told, and was concerned enough for my own concealment, without worrying about yours.’
He smiled agreeably, and blew a large, thick smoke ring towards the ceiling. ‘My role was simply to find out what the Brotherhood was up to, to ascertain whether the assault on the Portrait Gallery was in any way linked to our own search for England’s Treasure and to act accordingly. Having discovered it was simply another of that group’s foolish indulgences I moved on to pastures new, as it were.’
‘But not before removing several of the more prominent republicans from the field of play,’ Holmes replied. ‘The Metropolitan Police have you to thank for the deaths in Streatham, I presume?’ Major Conway nodded, and Homes continued. ‘I will not weep for those particular deaths, I admit.’
A frown crossed the Major’s face and I think he would have spoken, but Holmes was in full spate by now, and nothing short of a revolver shot would have silenced him.
‘But what have you been doing since then? Where have you been, Major? A man such as yourself is not a natural recluse, but neither do I imagine yours is a face currently welcome in many of the capital’s public houses.’
‘No,’ Conway replied with a laugh. ‘Fair to say it’s not. But I’ve kept myself busy, Mr Holmes, don’t you worry. I’ve been information gathering, you might call it. Checking out the lay of the land, as it were, on behalf of my employer.’
‘Does he trust you so much then?’
‘He flatters me with his confidence, yes. ’Course, it helps that I saved his life only a few days ago. You recall the vault beneath the Old Bailey, and the eager constable who knocked both yourself and the good Doctor to the ground as you prepared to shoot our mutual acquaintance?’
‘That was you? I admit I had not made the connection. I should have recognised you in Limehouse, however. I almost did, in fact. You were the beggar by the riverside, were you not?’
‘I was. My task recently has been keeping an eye on the two of you, and the circumstances lent themselves to my saving the day.’ He grinned hugely. ‘I did wonder if you had recognised me, down by the docks. I would have told you something to your benefit then, had there been an opportunity. I tried to get Dr Watson’s attention just after, but his mind was elsewhere. Yes, sir, I’ve been following you around London for days, keeping an eye out for danger… but you have me talking away, when I intended by now to be listening to what you gentlemen have to say.’
As Conway spoke, Holmes’s face twisted into a scowl. ‘We will reveal nothing before your principal arrives, Major.’
It was clear that Holmes was stalling for time. I knew my part of old in such an undertaking. ‘Holmes! Enough!’ I said with all the passion I could muster. ‘You cannot seriously be considering helping these people! This is the man who tried to crush you beneath a hansom cab, who attempted to kill you with a crossbow in your own sitting room, and who – in case you have forgotten – murdered Miss Marr and Mrs Boggs! For God’s sake, his forces are outside this building as we speak! Will you make polite conversation with the representative of the very man who may at any moment order an armed attack on us?’
Holmes looked around for an ashtray and, seeing none, walked over to the window and flicked what remained of his cigarette outside. ‘Really, Watson, you should know better than that,’ he said as he strolled back to his chair. ‘If one of the Albino’s men could so effortlessly walk into this library and confront us with a gun, do you imagine that they would bother with a full-scale attack? From the manner in which Major Conway was able to immediately find the library, I would further hazard that he has been here before – or at least scouted the Hall out at some point – and so knows that a frontal assault is entirely unnecessary. There are not even servants enough to keep watch on the many entrances, never mind defend the place from a concerted attack.’
‘That’s all very well, Holmes,’ I replied with what I hoped was a convincing degree of anger, ‘but even if it was not Conway himself who attempted to kill you, it was his master, or another of his men.’
‘Again, I would say not. You heard the good Major. He is not in the habit of murdering innocent, defenceless women. I believe that Miss Eugenie Marr, at least, would count as such a person.’
‘And you believe him?’ I asked, making no attempt to keep the growing incredulity from my voice. I understood that Holmes desired as much delay as we could create, but I was becoming confused as to what was bluster and tactics, and what was Holmes’s genuine thoughts on the subject of the Albino.
‘I do. I would go further, in fact. I am now persuaded that the Albino and his men have played little part in the more unpleasant aspects of this case. The presence of Major Conway was final proof that there is another, darker force at work, one determined to obtain England’s Treasure, whatever the cost. That force, I am convinced, operated under the leadership of the Lord of Strange Deaths.’
As he spoke he kept his eyes keenly fixed on Major Conway. He need not have worried. Even a sidelong glance, such as I gave the Major in the shocked moments following Holmes’s dramatic announcement, was enough to establish that he knew and despised the name of the Chinese politician we had met the previous week.
‘Bravo, Mr Holmes!’ said Conway, slowly clapping his hands as he spoke. The tone he employed appeared sincerely congratulatory, with a hint of smug self-satisfaction, as if he himself had made some great discovery, and not Holmes. ‘I wondered how much you had figured out. Yes, sir,’ he continued, ‘the Lord of Strange Deaths has proven a thorn in the flesh of my employer in recent months. It’s not for me to go into details of that, but would you mind if I asked how you figured it out? I know for a fact that Scotland Yard never have, and it would pass the time while we wait for my employer.’
Holmes pushed himself to his feet and, pacing up and down in front of the bookshelves, set out his thoughts.
‘I have first to admit that I have made several mistakes during the course of this investigation. I dismissed the Brotherhood of Ireland too quickly, without considering the curious nature of their apparent leader. It is clear now that, although the involvement of the Brotherhood itself was tangential at best to the question of England’s Treasure, it would have served us well to wonder whether anyone else was similarly investigating the level of their knowledge, given their activities at the National Portrait Gallery, unconnected as it proved to be.
‘I can claim no credit for this deduction.’ He allowed a thin smile to play briefly on his lips. ‘So much, then, for the republicans.
‘But, conversely, I was far too ready to accept that the mysterious Albino was the villain of the piece. Lestrade first mentioned him in relation to England’s Treasure and from there every particle of evidence appeared to point directly at his guilt. One of his men, Elias Boggs, murdered Miss Eugenie Marr, and we ourselves saw him order Boggs’s death in his turn. And as a group, you were attempting to bring together the collection of paintings that is the key to the Treasure, whatever it may be. This much is undisputed fact.
‘There is an odour of blood about your employer, Major, and that was the scent we followed, for better or worse. Perhaps I am being too hard on myself. If the evidence of our eyes under the Old Bailey is to be accepted, the death of Miss Marr was repugnant to your employer, but even so, she would not have died but for his actions. There is certainly guilt enough to go around. But whatever the truth in that particular respect, Dr Watson and I witne
ssed Boggs’s death and that, combined with immediately thereafter discovering the slaughtered body of Mrs Boggs, hardened our belief that the Albino’s hand lay behind all the crimes relating to the Treasure. At the start of this affair I was nearly run over by a hansom cab driver who kept his face hidden. Taking later developments into account, I concluded that an albino was the most likely person to require such concealment.’
‘I can assure you, Mr Holmes, that my employer is not given to driving a hansom cab around London, never mind using one to trample a man in the street.’ To my surprise, Conway seemed more amused than guilty. Perhaps it was my long exposure to an eccentric companion, but I found it increasingly difficult to dislike him.
Holmes shrugged. ‘I realised later, however, that an albino is not the only person who might wish to hide his face, lest he be too easily recognised. A Chinaman, too, would not wish to be too readily identified. That was my first inkling that the Lord was involved.’
‘And after that? My employer has a saying he’s fond of: a new theory does not gain traction unless considerable evidence is found to strengthen its case.’
Holmes cocked his head to one side, quizzically. ‘Your employer is not wrong, Major Conway. Very well then. There were two major points of interest, as well as many more minor, or circumstantial, considerations.
‘First, the savagery of the attack on Mrs Boggs and the destruction of her home did not match my observations of your group beneath the Old Bailey. Either you or your principal spared Boggs’s guards, even though it would have been more expedient to kill them. And yes, the fate to which you consigned Mr Boggs was a malodorous one, but a relatively quick death nonetheless, and one with a purpose, designed to send a specific message. There was calculation of cause and effect there: calculation leavened by mercy of a sort that was utterly missing from the unnecessarily brutal slaying of Mrs Boggs. Considering that, I was reminded of something else, something the Lord of Strange Deaths said to me only a few days ago: that in China, when a man is executed, a relative is often also killed. The brutality of that killing I saw first-hand in Limehouse.
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