by David Marcum
“‘How did you discover this?’
“She looked out of the window, her thoughts far from the confines of the empty room. ‘I knew a girl once called Agnes. We grew up together. I was not always a titled lady. I come from generations of ‘cunning folk’. Herbs and poisons are second-nature to me. I turned my back on that life and went to London to become an actress, which is where I met my late husband. Agnes married a sailor named John Day. I sought her out many years later and learned of her fate. I took the child in, trained her, and took up her cause. Scratched on the back of the beaten silver coin she wears is the name the vicar spoke. It is all she has of her mother. It is not much to show for a life, Mr. Holmes.’
“‘It was not your place to dispense justice, Lady Bulmer.’
“‘The law would not punish him and the Lord works too slowly for my liking. It took me longer than I thought, but finally I located Tunstall and moved to Norton Deverill. There is no crime in that.’
“‘It is a crime to drug a man. I know you poisoned him with mandrake root. The doctor revealed that it grows locally. Tunstall confirmed it when he told me he had had sensations of flying – a common result of the drug. Witches took mandrake to achieve the same effect. Delusions too are produced, hence his sighting of devils, faces, and snakes. He grew to see demonic forces at work in everything around him, and finally in the church on Christmas morning, he saw the face of a woman he thought was dead. Mary is much like her mother, I dare say.’
“‘The very image,’ she confirmed.
“‘You kept her from the church until the vicar was sufficiently delusional for her sudden appearance to have fatal consequences. You had her deliver the two-headed lamb to his door, whilst you dined with Lord Zeal. I will be making enquiries to see if the purchase of that creature was made locally, but I suspect you brought it with you.’
“‘A curiosity, is it not?’ said she with amusement.
“‘Mary too was the vehicle by which you poisoned Tunstall’s food with the mandrake. Mrs. Balfour was in the habit of making cakes for the vicar. She also likes to gossip. Through her, you learned of the vicar’s ill health. Zeal told me that you allowed Mary to help her with her chores and no doubt her baking. In so doing, you made Mrs. Balfour the unknowing instrument of your revenge.’
“Lady Bulmer rose abruptly to her feet. ‘If what you say is true, Mr. Holmes, then you should inform the authorities. That is, assuming you have evidence?’
“My silence was eloquent. In truth, the strangest sensation was coming over, as though I was looking at the lady through a veil of coloured lights.
“‘I thought not,’ said she, assuredly. ‘I saw in you the potential to cause trouble from the first. I also saw your arrogance in your treatment of the vicar the other night. The same arrogance has brought you to my door. You expect me to confess when there is no evidence to convict me. That would be foolish of me, Mr. Holmes, as it was foolish of you to come here. When I said I was expecting you, it was for this very reason. I took precautions. The sugar Mary put in your tea was laced with mandrake, which in low doses produces a disorientating effect. Because of you, we have had to change our plans. You may not secure a conviction, but you could make things difficult for us in the future. I mean you no harm, but I cannot allow you to stand in our way.’
“‘I will not let you leave,’ I said, trying to rise. The room began a merry dance and it was all I could do to stand upright with the assistance of the chair.
“‘But, Mr. Holmes, how will you stop me?’
“I reached for her, but she stepped out of arm’s length. A grotesque being began to unfurl its coils in the corner of the room, and while I was distracted, she took the opportunity to leave. I staggered after her, scarce knowing where I was going. A doorway yawned before me, and before I could react, I had been pushed into a cellar that might as well have been the depths of hell. The door slammed shut and a key turned in the lock.
“Under normal circumstances, I should have freed myself in a matter of minutes. In the dark with my drugged imagination conjuring up creatures seen only in the work of Hieronymus Bosch, it took a good two hours before I was free of my prison. Night had fallen, and with threatening rain clouds robbing what light there was from the sky, I faced a difficult journey back to Deverill Grange to raise the alarm.
“Over an hour later, I came up against a gate set into a wall. I scrabbled with the bolt, eager to be out of the pouring rain. My feet sank into mud, which was nothing compared to the torments of my mind, and when I came up against a door, I thought little of letting myself in.
“The realisation that one is in danger may prove the remedy for any ailment. Only once inside did I begin to appreciate my predicament, that far from finding myself in the relative comforts of the Grange, I had entered the sty of King Charles. The boar stood up, transforming with the aid of the mandrake into a beast of leviathan proportions. He was curious and somewhat affronted by the intrusion. I found myself backed into a corner, while he snorted and grunted at me. When he took an exploratory nip at my ankle, I tried to push him away. This only angered him and I soon found myself being pinned between a Berkshire pig and the wall. By some grace I was able to pull myself free, only to tumble onto the straw. Then I felt the boar’s teeth fastened onto my thigh.
“‘Pigs are not as benign as some would have us believe. Many are the unwary farmers who have been crushed or trampled by their animals. In some cases, the pigs have begun to eat the flesh before the body can be retrieved. I was fortunate in being able to escape the sty that night. I still bear the scars to remind me of the encounter.
“I was discovered late the next morning, bloodied and asleep in the hay barn, with no memory of how I got there. Lady Bulmer, with her daughter and maid, were long gone, not to rural Lincolnshire, but to the Southampton docks, where they had boarded a ship for America.
“I told the authorities of my concerns, but without evidence, they had little interest. When I told them of my experience with the mandrake, it was politely suggested that I restrict the amount of beer they imagined I had imbibed, rather than casting slurs on respectable ladies. I could take the case no further. Zeal was disconsolate for a while, and buried his sorrows in his work to great effect. He was never to see the daughter again, and I understand she married a New York financier. Nor did Lady Bulmer return. As I had correctly deduced, her work was done.
“But ours is not, my dear fellow, for I hear Mrs. Hudson’s key in the door, and the curious affair of the Wagstaff Wonder is still on the landing. Rescue it, Watson, before it is confined to the dustbin. In such a context, I fear it would hardly prove edifying to your readers.”
The Painting in the Parlour
by David Marcum
That August had been cooler than typical, for which I was grateful, and my evening walks were more pleasant because of it. On that particular night, with the apparent sunset occurring unnaturally early due to the heavy clouds overhead, I was met at my door upon my return by my faithful housekeeper, who handed me a telegram.
As she shut the door on Queen Anne Street, I opened it to discover a terse communiqué from my old friend, Sherlock Holmes: Available tomorrow for epilogue to old case.
It was no surprise to receive such a laconic message. In fact, I had the manuscript of one of our old investigations, relating to the strange events of nearly twenty years before in the home of Professor Presbury, lying on my desk upstairs, to be submitted at some unspecified point in time to The Strand. It had begun with just such a message from the famous detective, summoning me to his side with the certain assumption that I would join him. My only question about the current communication was whether my friend meant to end the seven words with a question mark, or if it was a declarative assertion. I suspected that it was sent exactly the way he intended.
No time of arrival was given, but if he was traveling up on the usual train from where he’d lived since his retirement, in a “villa” near Beachy Head, I knew when he would likely ap
pear.
I was correct, and my bell rang promptly the next morning at the expected time. I made my way to the door to greet my friend, who had already been admitted by the housekeeper.
“No bag?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I’m only up for the day. A coda related to an old case.” He followed me into my study. “In any event, I have had enough traveling for a few weeks.”
“And how was Dublin?”
“Wet and cold, the same as here. What an unusual August.”
I knew that he had been in Ireland earlier in the month for the formal transfer of Dublin Castle to the Irish Republican Army. The Empire would probably never know what he had accomplished when unexpectedly involved at the last minute in that tense and frustrating imbroglio.
Holmes explained that we had time for a cup of tea, and we chatted about the old days. He informed me that his brother Mycroft, who had remained at his post even after the War, finally intended to retire the next month. We both agreed that it would truly be the end of an era, except for the fact that he would not truly retire, no doubt continuing to provide his unique skills as a fixture at the Diogenes Club until they carried him out.
Finally, Holmes stood and said it was time to go. “Are you game for a walk?” he asked. When learning that we only had to make our way to Montague Street, I let him know that I was more than able.
We wound down into Wigmore and Mortimer Streets, and on across Tottenham Court Road. The morning was still cloudy but not unpleasant. We trod near that house close to the corner of Gower and Keppel, which I shall always associate with the murder of old Mr. Raines. Finally, passing behind the Museum, we entered Montague Street.
As usual, the short street was very quiet, considering how close it was to Russell Square on one end and Great Russell Street at the other. Our footsteps echoed off the stone faces of the houses. On the right, the edifice of the British Museum loomed over everything. Holmes and I had strolled in companionable silence for most of the way, and I wasn’t surprised when we stopped at No. 24, where he had lived when first coming up to London, now nearly fifty years before.
There was a handsome brougham parked in front, and as we had approached, a portly man in his late sixties, a contemporary to Holmes and myself, hefted himself with a grunt onto the pavement. I recognized him at once.
“Watson,” he said. “Good to see you. And Holmes,” he continued. “How long has it been?”
“Two years, Sir Clive. The matter of the fraudulent McGander.”
“That’s right. That was a snorter.” He waved his stick toward No. 24, now joined with No. 23 next door, and part of a hotel. “Shall we go inside?”
Still ignorant as to the reason for our visit, I followed them up the short flight of steps. We rang the bell, and in a moment a girl answered with a curtsy. Sir Clive stepped in and we followed him into the hallway. Apparently we were expected, as no explanations were given or required.
At the very back of the hall on the left was the door to the parlour. Beyond it was a narrow passage to the kitchens beneath us, and then the very narrow and steep stairs leading up to the lodger’s rooms. I recalled that Holmes had occupied a room on the top floor front when he first came up to London, although he had finally been able to afford something a bit larger, lower down on the first floor, in the year before he had moved to Baker Street.
“They think they’ve identified the painter,” Sir Clive said to me, turning to make this whispered comment.
Making our way to that curiously curved parlour door on our left, Holmes said, “Officially, then? We established that fact to our own satisfaction almost half-a-century ago.” Sir Clive harrumphed.
Stepping through the door, I still had no idea what this was about, but I certainly remembered the painting to which he referred.
“Yes,” answered Sir Clive, “but Richardson, from around the corner in Russell Square, has been doing some research lately, and he wants to write something up for the journals. And then there’s talk again of removing it and selling it to a collector. They asked me to be here today, and I thought of inviting the two of you. ”
“Remove it?” scoffed Holmes. “Impossible.”
Entering the oddly-shaped room, squared at the front windows but rounded at the back, we encountered a grouping of three other men, standing opposite to us beneath a tall and wide painting, about six feet square, affixed above the fireplace. Strangely it didn’t hang there, as it was painted directly onto the plaster. I had seen it before on the few occasions when I had visited this address, most notably to investigate a murder on the top floor in Holmes’s old room that had taken place a number of years earlier.
“Richardson,” bellowed Sir Clive to a scholarly looking fellow, thus identifying for me the man in question. “Still trying to nail down the provenance of this old painting?”
The man responded good-naturedly. “You know how it is to get a bee in one’s bonnet, Clive,” he said. “I have some fresh correspondence from the Duke of Bedford that almost makes it certain that the painter was James Ward.”
“I’ve told you that it was Ward for the last forty years. I knew it when I first saw it, and we had additional confirmation from Abel Granger’s people, who had hired Ward to paint a very similar painting. The man,” said Sir Clive to me, “was rather specialized in what he liked to paint.”
“Anecdotal evidence is certainly valuable,” sniffed Richardson, “but one’s case is always so much more solid with the written word.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a packet of folded yellow papers. “Letters, Sir Clive!” He waved them about. “The proof!”
“I don’t need any such proof,” said one of the other two men. He was a cadaverous looking fellow with unhealthy dark hollows under his cheeks. Speaking with an American accent, he added, “I recognized it for a Ward from the minute I saw it. Those letters will simply make it even sweeter when it’s hanging in my own little museum in Pittsburg.”
“And I can’t make it any plainer than I already have, Mr. K--------,” said the third man, whose origins were clearly British, “that the painting cannot be moved. It was applied directly onto the ordinary plaster surface above the mantel. A massive and expensive effort would have to be undertaken to remove it, and even then it’s likely that you would fail. We would need to construct a special steel underpinning and frame, and after all of that, it would likely crumble to pieces.”
Sir Clive gestured with his thumb toward the third man. “Grigsby. British Museum.”
The man nodded, looking curiously at Holmes and me, obviously wondering why we were there. Sir Clive made no move to introduce us.
The American shrugged his too-heavy coat up around his thin shoulders. “Don’t care. Whatever it takes. Money is no object. And keep looking for that canvas version as well.”
“It was lost nearly a decade ago,” said Grigsby.
“Money’s no object,” K-------- repeated, and then, with a quick and hungry look toward the painting, he turned and stalked from the room. Grigsby looked with frustration to Sir Clive, and then hurried to follow.
We three and Richardson were left in front of the fireplace, naturally turning our gazes upward at the object under discussion, I had seen it before, of course, but had never given it more than a passing glance. Now, I studied it more carefully.
It was a landscape, done in rather unpleasant yellows and browns. The upper two-thirds portrayed a brassy sky, with sour-looking and strangely lit clouds mostly hiding the light but dull blue that peeked through in just a few places. On the ground beneath them was a rural and timeless scene, tedious in its plainness and, frankly, lack of imagination. In the center, taller than almost anything else in the painting, was a figure seated on a downtrodden white horse, both man and beast with their backs to the viewer. The rider, in a brown hat and matching brown clothing, was holding out a hand to a boy at his right. The lad was wearing a blue coat and red pants – the only unusual colors in the whole artwork. The man on the hors
e seemed to be reaching for a hat that the boy was offering, in spite of already having his own hat upon his head.
Incongruously, there were three cows spread around them, all of apparently different breeds (or so it seemed to me, as I know little of cattle), two lying down and one standing, facing indifferently away from the men and beasts. To the left, the land dropped off to a dark hollow and distant forest, while on the right, set back at what seemed to be a couple of hundred feet, were some ill-defined trees, with the lop-sided roof of a two- or three-story house barely showing amongst them. It was competently painted, no doubt, but not – to my view – anything that would inspire a collector to declare, “Money’s no object.”
“It was the cows,” said Sir Clive, to my obvious confusion and his amusement. “That’s how I first knew it was a Ward, you see. The old Duke of Bedford, who owned of all the property around us, including this house – and the family still owns it, by the way! – took Ward under his wing over a hundred years ago. Ward, you see, was the most popular painter of cattle of his day.”
“Cattle?” I said. “Are you serious? That was a specialty?”
“A most sought-after specialty,” asserted Sir Clive. “The early 1800’s was a period of romanticism, a reaction against classicism, wherein people wanted paintings that glorified nature and invoked an emotion, sometimes with a solemn and mysterious feel.” He gestured at the painting and glanced toward Holmes, who had remained strangely tacit the entire time. “Of course, we know what the mystery connected to the painting was. Eh?” Richardson, who had been pondering the illustration, silently glanced toward Sir Clive, who continued, “In any case, the Duke of Bedford hired Ward to paint this picture for this particular house, although we never did find out what the significance of this house was. According to the records, this house wasn’t built until 1808, and by then Ward had become somewhat separated from the Duke’s sphere of influence, having long since departed from the Bedfordshire home of his lordship, where he stayed for quite some time.”