The Secret Archives of Sherlock Holmes E-Book

June Thomson

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 337

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

A mysterious veiled lady carries a counterfeit painting into an art dealer's office. A widow with three hands slips out of a church door. A farmer lies dead in a barn, his son accused of his murder. A skeleton with a silver locket is unearthed in a back garden. What do they have in common? The famous resident of 221b Baker Street. From the gas-lit clamour of London's streets, to the isolated Welsh countryside, the great detective Sherlock Holmes, accompanied as always by his faithful friend and biographer Dr Watson, must solve cases as complex as any he has known before, some of which bring him face to face with old enemies from the past, figures left behind in the mists of the Reichenbach Falls. A brand new cache of original cases from the brilliant imagination of June Thomson displays the master of the art of deduction at his intriguing best and proves that the game is still very much afoot.

Leseprobe

The Secret Archives of Sherlock Holmes

JUNE THOMSON

To Guy Marriott, President of the Sherlock Holmes Society of London, with grateful thanks.

And also to ‘Suzy’, the laptop expert who saved my sanity on many occasions.

CONTENTS

Title Page

Dedication

Foreword

The Case of the Conk-Singleton Forgery

The Case of the Stray Chicken

The Case of the One-eyed Colonel

The Case of the Three-handed Widow

The Case of the Pentre Mawr Murder

The Case of the Missing Belle Fille

The Case of the Watchful Waiter

By June Thomson

Copyright

FOREWORD

by Aubrey B. Watson, LDS, FDS, D.Orth.

Although some of you may already know how the collections of hitherto unpublished Sherlock Holmes stories came into the possession of myself and my late uncle, for those of you who are unfamiliar with the details, I will recount them as briefly as possible.

My late uncle, Dr John F. Watson, was a Doctor of Philosophy at All Saints’ College, Oxford. Because of the similarity of his name to that of Dr John H. Watson, Sherlock Holmes’ friend and chronicler, my late uncle made a study of his near-namesake’s life and background and consequently became an authority on the subject. It was through this that a certain Miss Adeline McWhirter, an elderly spinster, approached my late uncle with a proposal which she thought might be of interest to him.

It seemed she was related to Mr Holmes’ Dr Watson on the maternal side of the family and, on Dr Watson’s death, had inherited his tin despatch box containing manuscript accounts of cases that he and Mr Holmes had investigated but which for various reasons had never been published. Because she found herself in straitened circumstances, she offered to sell the box and its contents which had been deposited by Dr John H. Watson at his bank, Cox & Co, at Charing Cross.

Because she seemed honest and respectable, my late uncle agreed and bought the box and its contents for an undisclosed but apparently large sum of money. However, in view of the international situation – it was September 1939 and Britain had not long before declared war on Germany – he decided to place them in his own bank in London. Before doing so, he copied out the papers in case something happened to the originals.

Unfortunately, something did happen.

In 1942, at the height of the Blitz, the bank suffered a direct hit and, although the box was retrieved from the rubble, its contents were reduced to a mass of indecipherable charred paper. Even the original wording painted on the lid – ‘John H. Watson, MD Late Indian Army’ – was burnt beyond recognition.

Although my late uncle still possessed his own copies of the Watson manuscripts, he had nothing to prove the existence of the originals, nor could he trace Miss Adeline McWhirter who had moved out of the residential hotel in South Kensington where she had been living, leaving no forwarding address.

Lacking, therefore, any proof of the authenticity of the Watson archives and anxious to protect his own reputation as a scholar, my late uncle decided not to publish his copies of them and, on his death on 2nd June 1982, he left them to me in his will. As there was no mention of the despatch box or its charred contents, I can only assume that the staff at the Eventide Nursing Home in Carshalton where he died threw them away as so much rubbish.

I, too, hesitated over the question of whether or not to publish my late uncle’s copies, but as I am an orthodontist and have no scholarly reputation to protect, I have decided to risk rousing the ire of serious Sherlockians and to place them before the public.

However, as I cannot vouch for the authenticity of these manuscripts, I can do nothing more than warn any readers by repeating the old adage: Caveat emptor.

THE CASE OF THE CONK-SINGLETON FORGERY

It was about six years after my old friend Sherlock Holmes returned to London following his apparent death at the hands of Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls1 and my own return to our shared lodgings in Baker Street that I became associated with him in a curious case of forgery. It began prosaically enough with the arrival of a visiting card which the boy in buttons2 brought upstairs to our sitting-room and handed to Holmes who, having studied it with raised eyebrows, passed it to me.

It bore the name of Archibald Cassell followed by the words ‘Art Dealer’ and an address, the Argosy Gallery, Bond Street, London. Below this was a handwritten message which read: ‘I apologise for arriving without an appointment, Mr Holmes, but I have a matter of some urgency about which I wish to consult you.’

‘What do you think, Watson?’ Holmes inquired. ‘Should I agree to see this Archibald Cassell?’

‘The decision is entirely yours, Holmes,’ I replied, secretly pleased that he should consult me about the matter.

‘Very well, then. As we are not overburdened with cases at the moment, I shall say “yes”. Show Mr Cassell up, Billy,’ Holmes instructed.

Moments later the client in question entered our sitting-room. He was a tall, silver-haired gentleman, distinguished-looking in impeccably cut morning clothes and wearing gold-rimmed eyeglasses. A small leather case under his arm suggested he was a businessman of some sort or another. There was, however, a harassed air about him which I judged to be out of character.

Having shaken hands with both of us and seated himself at Holmes’ invitation, he remained silent for a long moment before bursting out, ‘In all my years in business, I have never encountered a similar situation, Mr Holmes! I confess I am baffled by it! That is why I have come to seek your advice in the matter.’

‘Then pray do so, sir,’ Holmes replied coolly. ‘I suggest you begin at the beginning.’

‘Of course, Mr Holmes,’ Mr Cassell replied, making a visible effort to pull himself together. ‘As my calling card indicates, I am an art dealer and in my time many hundreds of paintings have passed through my hands, some of enormous value, but until this morning I have never been presented with such a dilemma. It is without precedence and, quite frankly, sir, I am at a loss to know how to deal with it.

‘A lady arrived at my gallery yesterday morning who introduced herself as Mrs Elvira Greenstock, the widow of Horatio Greenstock who died two months ago, leaving all his property to her. Among her late husband’s effects were a number of oil paintings. It appeared Mr Greenstock was an art dealer in a small way; it must have been a very small way, for I have never heard of him, although I pride myself on knowing most of the dealers and collectors in the world of art. It was one of the paintings from this collection which Mrs Greenstock wished me to evaluate. It is not unusual for members of the public to request such a service, for which, incidentally, I charge a small fee. What they have to show me is generally not of any artistic merit and is worth nothing more than a few shillings. However, I tolerate such clients because there is always the rare possibility that what they have brought may be an unknown or lost work of one of the great masters. It has been known to happen.

‘I should perhaps at this point describe Mrs Greenstock to you because her appearance has as much to do with my decision to consult you as the painting she showed me.’

He paused as if gathering together his recollections of his client, a bemused expression on his face as if he were finding it difficult to recall the lady in any detail, a hesitation which was explained by his next remark.

‘Forgive me, Mr Holmes, but there is very little I can tell you about her except to say that her appearance was most bizarre. She was tall, with an educated voice, but as she was dressed entirely in widow’s weeds, including a long, thick, black veil, I cannot give you any description of her features, not even the colour of her hair or eyes. She was carrying a small leather valise and from it took a painting which she laid before me on my desk and asked me to evaluate.’

As he was speaking, Mr Cassell opened his own portfolio which he had placed at his feet and took from it a canvas which he held up before us so that both of us could see it.

It was an oil painting not much more than eight inches by six depicting a rural scene of trees and hedgerows, richly foliated, as well as meadows and fields of corn stretching back to the horizon, where the spire of a church was just visible. Above was a sky full of sunlit clouds moving towards the right-hand side of the canvas as if propelled by a light breeze.

I confess I am not an art expert and, given the choice, prefer portraits to landscape paintings. Nevertheless, I thought the picture captured most charmingly the beauty of the English countryside as it must have looked at the beginning of the century. I was therefore much taken aback when Mr Cassell remarked in a dismissive tone of voice, ‘The lady said it was a Constable3 but it is, of course, a forgery.’

‘Of course,’ Holmes murmured in agreement. ‘The clouds alone suggest it is not authentic, although the artist is competent.’

‘Oh, indeed!’ Mr Cassell concurred. ‘Whoever painted it is no amateur and might have convinced someone of less experience than myself that it is genuine. It lacks that fluid movement in the clouds that Constable was able to convey by a few brushstrokes, as well as the play of light across the leaves and grass.’

‘Given those criticisms,’ Holmes remarked, sitting back in his chair and bringing his fingertips together, ‘I am at a loss to understand, Mr Cassell, what is the dilemma you referred to. As the painting is a forgery, all you need do is send for the lady and tell her the truth.’

‘I agree with you entirely,’ his client replied, ‘and under normal circumstances I would have acted accordingly. Unfortunately, there are two drawbacks to such a suggestion. In the first place, I cannot send for the lady as I have no address for her. She refused to give me one. She would only arrange to call at my gallery again in a week’s time when I shall, of course, act exactly as you suggested.’

As he was speaking, Mr Cassell had laid the little painting face downwards on the table and Holmes glanced across at it as if idly.

I have known Holmes for many years and, although I do not claim to be acquainted with every aspect of his character, I pride myself on being sufficiently familiar with him to recognise signs of excitement on his part, however much he might try to disguise them. They are not glaringly obvious. Indeed, most people would not notice them at all. But on this occasion, a slight lifting of his right eyebrow and a general tightening of the muscles in his shoulders told me that something about the back of the picture had roused his interest.

Aware of this, I looked at it again more closely, trying to gauge what it was that had engaged his attention. But there was nothing that I could see, apart from a piece of quite ordinary brown paper which had been pasted across the edges of the frame, presumably to keep out the dust.

Holmes was saying, ‘You spoke of two drawbacks, Mr Cassell. The first was the lack of any address for Mrs Greenstock. That, my dear sir, can be easily rectified, if you will allow me to make some simple inquiries. What was the second drawback?’

Mr Cassell looked a little abashed by the question. Giving a deprecatory wave of his hand, he replied, ‘I am almost ashamed to admit it, for it is nothing more than sheer curiosity on my part. Who is this lady who calls herself Mrs Greenstock? As I have already explained to you, she is not to my knowledge the widow of any art collector that I have heard of. And why should she attire herself in a thick black veil, which she never raised once during my interview with her, unless she feared I might recognise her?’

‘Excellent, sir!’ my old friend exclaimed. ‘An admirable piece of deduction on your part!’

His client seemed only partly mollified by this commendation.

‘That may be so, Mr Holmes. However, that still fails to answer the question as to her identity. Are you prepared to look into the matter? To be frank, I am uneasy about the whole situation. I shall, of course, not buy the painting from her. But supposing she manages to persuade another dealer or a collector less experienced than myself to do so? I realise the old warning caveatemptor should apply to all business transactions, but there is the reputation of the art world to consider. I feel I cannot allow someone whom I know is a forger to pass off her work, or if not hers then someone else’s, as a genuine old master. Apart from the aesthetic consideration, it would be condoning a criminal act.’

‘I see your point,’ Holmes replied suavely. ‘To set your mind at rest, I will certainly look into the matter. You said the lady will call again at your gallery in a fortnight’s time?’

‘That was the arrangement.’

‘At what time?’

‘At eleven o’clock.’

‘Then, with your permission, Dr Watson and I will also present ourselves at your gallery on the same day but a little earlier, at a quarter to the hour. In the meantime, may I keep the painting?’

Mr Cassell seemed a little taken aback by this request but acquiesced with a bow and, having shaken hands with both of us, took his leave.

As soon as he had gone, Holmes gave a delighted chuckle.

‘To work, Watson!’ he cried.

‘On what, Holmes?’

‘On the painting, of course! But before I make a start on that, I shall look into the curious matter of the lady’s identity. Be a good fellow and run downstairs and ask Billy to bring up a bowl of warm water, a towel, a small sponge and some clean white linen rag while I find the entry I need in my encyclopaedia of reference.’4

He was taking the volume in question from his bookshelves in the chimney alcove as I left the room, surprised by his instructions. To what use was he proposing to put the articles he had listed?

I did not find the answer to this question immediately, for when I returned to the room, followed by Billy carrying the requested items, Holmes was standing by the fireplace, his encyclopaedia in his hands, ready to read out the particulars of the entry he had found as soon as the pageboy had left the room.

‘Now, Watson,’ said he, ‘our client suggested the lady in question, Mrs Greenstock, failed to raise her veil in case he should recognise her features. But if, as he himself said, he knew no art collector of that name, it is highly unlikely he has ever met her. It therefore occurred to me that the lady wished to cover up some disfigurement which she preferred not to display in public.

‘The thought recalled to mind a newspaper report of a tragic accident which happened four years ago in which a woman suffered dreadful injuries and which I noted with particular attention because it occurred near Paddington station, where you had your first private practice as a doctor. The name of the lady was also very unusual; in fact, I had never come across it before. I therefore cut out the report from the Daily News and pasted it into my encyclopaedia. Here, Watson, you may read it for yourself,’ he concluded, handing me the volume of reference open at the relevant page. It was a report under a headline ‘TERRIBLE ACCIDENT IN PADDINGTON’ and read: ‘A lady pedestrian, Mrs Lavinia Conk-Singleton, of Coombe Street, Bayswater, was knocked down and badly injured yesterday afternoon by a runaway hansom cab in Praed Street, Paddington.

‘The lady, widow of Mr Horace Conk-Singleton, a retired banker and amateur art collector, suffered severe cuts and bruises to her face. She was taken to the nearby hospital, St Mary’s, for treatment. The cab driver, Mr George Packer of Bethnal Green, who was rendered unconscious, was also treated at St Mary’s.’

‘So her husband was an art collector!’ I exclaimed.

‘Whom our client may have known had she given him her real name. He might even have recognised her, although I doubt that. She wore that thick veil, I believe, to hide her face, which is almost certainly still scarred from her injuries. We might be able to prove that supposition when we meet her in a week’s time. Now Watson, we must proceed with the next step in our inquiry. If you would be so kind as to spread the towel over the table, I shall start my investigation of the painting.’

As requested, I spread out the towel and placed the bowl of warm water, the sponge and the clean linen beside it, to which Holmes added a scalpel from his workbench. I assumed his intention was to wipe over the surface of the painting to remove any dirt. To my surprise, however, he laid the picture face down, exposing the back of it and, dipping the sponge into the water, began to dab it along the edges of the brown paper which had been pasted over the frame.

‘Holmes!’ I expostulated. ‘Should you be doing that? I know the picture is a forgery but, even so, it belongs to Mrs Conk-Singleton.’

‘Indeed it does,’ Holmes replied. ‘But I shall not harm the painting itself. I merely want to remove the brown paper which someone, presumably Mrs Conk-Singleton, has recently stuck across the back of it.’

‘Recently?’

‘In the past few weeks, I believe, judging by its almost pristine condition. But why should she wish to cover up the back of the canvas?’

As he was speaking, he continued to dampen the paper until it was loose enough for him to run the scalpel under the edges and lift the whole sheet away, revealing what lay behind it.

It was another painting, also in oils, but so darkened by dirt and old varnish that it was difficult to make out its subject matter. It seemed to be an interior, for on the left-hand side I could vaguely discern a window through which discoloured sunlight was falling on two figures standing in the middle of the canvas. They were female, for I could just make out their dresses, one a muddy green, the other a dirty blue.

Holmes, who had gone over to his bench, returned with his magnifying glass and, taking the picture over to the window, began examining it more closely under the lens in the full daylight. When he had finished his scrutiny, he handed me the glass so that I could see the effect for myself. It was still difficult to see the painting clearly and, when I remarked on this, Holmes acted in what was to me at first a thoroughly irresponsible, not to say uncouth, manner. Picking up a piece of the white linen rag, he put it to his lips and, having wetted it with his saliva, wiped it across a section of the painting.

‘Holmes!’ I began, but before I could make any further protest, he had repeated this unseemly action before passing the picture to me.

‘Now look, Watson!’ he urged.

I looked and was amazed. The portion of the canvas he had treated in this displeasing manner had suddenly and unexpectedly cleared, much as a dirty window will become transparent when it is wiped over with a damp cloth, the discoloration vanishing to be replaced by a clear image of one of the figures which occupied the centre of the painting. It was that of a young woman with a fair complexion, her blonde hair braided on top of her head into an elaborate coronet. For a few seconds she smiled at me and then, as the saliva dried, the image faded and all I could see was a vague oval shape, obscured once again by the brown patina of dirt and old varnish.

Holmes burst out laughing.

‘My dear Watson!’ cried he. ‘If only you could see your face! It is a picture itself of bewilderment and disbelief.’

‘It is like a mirage, Holmes!’ I replied. ‘One second the picture is there; the next it has vanished. What causes it?’

‘It is quite simple. When saliva, which is incidentally a mild solvent, is applied to old varnish which has become opaque because of the layers of dirt, it acts as a temporary lens through which one can see the underlying paint.

‘However, once it has dried, the effect is lost and all that is left is a blurred smear. It is an old trick used by art dealers when confronted by a dirty canvas. Would you like to try it for yourself, Watson?’ he added, handing me the piece of rag. ‘The spittle can soon be wiped away with a little clean water.’

Much as I, as a doctor, disapproved of the unhygienic nature of Holmes’ method, I was fascinated by its effects and, choosing the face of the second figure which stood slightly to the rear of the first, I applied the cloth to my mouth and, having liberally moistened it, I dabbed it on to that section of the canvas. Once again, the miracle happened. The dirt disappeared and I caught a glimpse of a fresh-faced young woman, rather solemn of expression, wearing a servant’s white cap on top of her dark hair.

Such was my excitement that I might have gone on and treated the whole canvas had not Holmes, laughing at my enthusiasm, taken the cloth from my hand and, using the sponge with which he had removed the brown paper backing, wiped over the two areas where we had cleaned the paint.

‘Enough is enough, my dear fellow!’ he chided humorously. ‘We must now finish our examination of the frame itself. I believe it will yield more clues.’

‘What clues?’ I asked. I could see nothing to suggest it held anything of interest. The frame was made of wood and, unlike the front of it which was gilded and heavily carved, it was undecorated apart from some traces of gold here and there along the edges where the gilding had spread on to the underside.

‘Use this,’ Holmes suggested, handing me the magnifying glass, but, even with its assistance, I could see nothing which by even the greatest stretch of the imagination could be called a clue, only the rough grain of the wood.

Holmes leaned over my shoulder and, jabbing a long finger, exclaimed impatiently, ‘Look here, my dear fellow! And here! And here!’

What he was pointing to were small nails driven into the inner edge of the frame at an angle to hold the canvas in position.

‘You mean the nails, Holmes?’ I asked.

‘Partly, Watson. You are almost there. What else do you see beside them?’

‘Ah!’ I cried, noticing for the first time that the wood close to some of them was freshly bruised, exposing a cleaner inner surface. ‘Someone has damaged the wood, either when the nails were removed or hammered back into place.’

‘Suggesting?’ he prompted me.

‘That whoever forged the Constable first removed the nails and took out the original canvas so that the reverse side was uppermost and then tacked it back into position.’

‘And?’

‘Well, really, Holmes!’ I protested, beginning to find the game a little irksome. ‘What more is there to say?’

‘Only that whoever replaced the nails was not a skilled picture framer. Mrs Conk-Singleton, for example?’

‘Yes, of course,’ I agreed, a little disappointed at so simple an explanation. ‘Is that all?’

‘Not quite,’ he said, laughing. ‘There is one more clue. If you look at the underside of the upper part of the frame, you will see a small blob of dried glue with a fragment of paper adhering to it.’

And indeed there was. For as soon as I reapplied the lens to the area he suggested, I immediately saw a tiny brown globule, hard and shiny like crystallised syrup, in which an even smaller speck of white material was embedded.

I confess I could not grasp its significance and refrained from asking Holmes, who was bustling into his coat.

‘You are going out?’ I asked. ‘Where to?’

‘To Mr Cassell’s gallery, of course. Hurry up, Watson, and get ready.’

‘Oh, Holmes!’ I cried, deeply disappointed. ‘I have promised Thurston that I would meet him at the club at noon for luncheon and a game of billiards.5 It is far too late now to send him a telegram cancelling the arrangements.’

Holmes clapped me on the shoulder.

‘Never mind, my dear fellow! The inquiry is by no means finished. You shall join it again, I promise you, at some later stage. And I shall, of course, inform you of any developments which take place this morning.’

Holmes was as good as his word and, when later I returned to our lodgings, I found him already there, his business with Mr Cassell having been concluded.

And what he had to tell me was very interesting. On hearing the name Conk-Singleton, Mr Cassell had become quite excited and had told Holmes all he knew about that gentleman, who had something of a reputation in the art-dealing world. He was a retired banker with private but limited means who, having had an early success in buying a valuable but unrecognised painting for a small sum, had persuaded himself that he was an expert and had haunted the auctions bidding for unlikely paintings in the hope that he could repeat his good fortune and sell them on for a huge profit. Some of the dealers, regarding it as a game, had deliberately bid against him, forcing up the value before withdrawing and leaving him to pay an inflated price for a worthless canvas which he could never hope to profit by. In the end, he died a bankrupt.

As for Mrs Conk-Singleton, Mr Cassell knew a little of her also. Much younger than her husband, she was a talented amateur artist who had had some professional training and, when money became short, had supplemented the family income by selling her work, usually landscapes, for small sums of money. After her accident, which had left her dreadfully disfigured, she had become a recluse, rarely setting foot outside her house in Bayswater.

‘And what about the painting?’ I asked eagerly.

‘Ah, that!’ Holmes replied with a twinkle. ‘Mr Cassell will have it cleaned by a professional with Mrs Conk-Singleton’s permission and will also inquire of her about a possible label which was once stuck on the back of the frame, leaving behind that tiny blob of dried glue. In the meantime, the whole affair is in the lap of the gods.’

‘So it could be an old master?’ I cried.

‘Oh, Watson, Watson! One of your endearing qualities is your habitual optimism, a trait you share with the late Mr Conk-Singleton – and look what happened to him! The painting is probably by an amateur and therefore worth very little. We must wait upon events.’

It was not until a fortnight later that these events reached their climax when Holmes received a telegram from Mr Cassell which read: ‘You are both invited to take tea tomorrow afternoon with Mrs Conk-Singleton at four o’clock in my gallery.’

The following day we presented ourselves on the hour and were admitted by Mr Cassell, the premises being closed as it was a Sunday, and were conducted through the gallery itself, hung with paintings, into our host’s private office. Holmes was in high spirits and I, too, was full of eager curiosity to meet Mrs Conk-Singleton and to see the painting cleaned and restored.

The office seemed a suitable setting for the dénouement for, like the gallery, its walls were lined with paintings, and furthermore it was furnished with rosewood cabinets on which stood exquisite objets d’art in marble and porcelain. It also contained for the occasion a small table laid with a lace cloth and a silver tea service, including a cake stand on which was set out a tempting display of little iced cakes. Four chairs had been drawn up to the table and Mrs Conk-Singleton sat on the one facing the doorway.

She was tall and thin and dressed entirely in black, as Mr Cassell had described her, including the thick black veil which covered her face.

Her sombre attire and her air of sadness cast a melancholy mood over the colour and glitter of the gilt-framed pictures and the beauty of the artefacts which surrounded her, but her voice, when Mr Cassell introduced Holmes and myself, had a gentle sweetness about it which dispelled much of that gloom.

The painting, the reason for our invitation to the gallery that afternoon, was standing to the right of the table, displayed on an easel but covered with a black silk cloth so that, like Mrs Conk-Singleton’s features, it was completely hidden from view. I saw Holmes glance towards it from time to time and I myself snatched several sideways glimpses of it, but it was not until tea was finished and Mr Cassell had rearranged the chairs in a semicircle in front of it that he allowed us to see it.

It was clear that our host was hugely enjoying the situation for, when the moment came, he bowed towards us and, showing an unexpected theatrical side to his nature, announced like a magician about to perform his most amazing and difficult trick, ‘Madame! Messieurs! The painting!’

And with that, as if to a roll of drums, he whisked away the cloth and the painting was revealed.

What we saw was indeed like a magic transformation, for the picture we found ourselves gazing at was utterly changed from the original dirty brown canvas into an object of such beauty that I felt some sleight of hand must be responsible for it.

It was the interior of a lady’s chamber, lit by a brilliant shaft of sunlight which poured in through a window on the left. In its radiance, the indistinct forms of the two women were transfigured, the first into a lady with corn-coloured hair, richly dressed in a gown of pale-green silk, decorated with lace and ruffles. Standing immediately behind her in the act of closing the clasp of a pearl necklace round the lady’s throat stood her maid, more modestly attired in a white cap with an apron over a plain blue gown. She was young and pretty, not long up from the country, I imagined, for she wore an anxious, intent expression as she adjusted the clasp as if she were unused to carrying out such a delicate and intimate task.

Against the rear wall stood a table covered with a cloth patterned with blue and green diamonds, a design echoed in the tiled floor, only this time in black and white. A pair of embroidered gloves lay on the table together with a glass vase containing three pink roses. The light and colour were dazzling and so caught up was I in the vivid details of the room and its inhabitants that I heard Mr Cassell’s voice as if in a dream.

‘A genuine old master!’ he was declaring. ‘In fact, a Jan Vermeer, the seventeenth-century Dutch painter who specialised in such interiors.6 Look at the light falling on the silk of the young lady’s skirt! And the roses! They are superb! It is also an unusual subject matter. Vermeer generally included only one lady in his paintings, not two. An expert on his work, a Mr Claude van Heerden at the National Gallery, no less, has examined it and declared it authentic, a claim borne out by its provenance.’

‘Provenance?’ I inquired.

‘Its previous history – in this case the label which Mrs Conk-Singleton found on the back of the frame when she removed the canvas, the presence of which you, Mr Holmes, deduced from the small blob of glue still adhering to the frame. Fortunately, Mrs Conk-Singleton kept the label.’

Mr Cassell bowed to Holmes and the lady, acknowledging the part they had played.

‘The label,’ he continued, ‘was dated 1798 and bore the name Bardwell and the number 275. With a little research, I was able to establish that in 1797 Lord Bardwell died at the great age of ninety-two, leaving a houseful of furniture, paintings and other works of art. His only heir was a great-nephew who, anxious to benefit by his death as quickly as possible, sold the house and auctioned off its contents. Apparently, nobody recognised the value of the little canvas which, according to the inventories I was also able to consult, had been in the family from at least the end of the seventeenth century. However, by the time Lord Bardwell died, it was probably already discoloured with dirt and therefore when it was catalogued as Lot 275, it was described merely as “An interior; Dutch School”. Later it found its way into another auction, still unrecognised for what it was, and was bought by Mr Conk-Singleton.

‘It was an extremely fortunate purchase,’ Mr Cassell continued, bowing again towards the lady, ‘for the painting is now worth a considerable sum of money.’

Mrs Conk-Singleton acknowledged the statement and the bow with an inclination of her veiled head. Speaking in a low, sweet voice, trembling a little with emotion, she replied, ‘I do not have the words to express my gratitude to all of you gentlemen for the work you have done in helping to discover the true identity of the painting. I leave the sale of the Vermeer in your hands, Mr Cassell, and offer my heartfelt thanks to all of you.’

She was clearly overcome with emotion and left soon afterwards, Mr Cassell escorting her to the door and summoning a four-wheeler to take her home.

He returned to the office smiling broadly and rubbing his hands together with delight.

‘What a truly wonderful outcome!’ he declared. ‘Mrs Conk-Singleton is indeed a very fortunate lady. She will be financially secure for the rest of her life and there will be no further need for her to paint fake Constables on the back of old masters to save the cost of a new canvas!’

‘So it was a happy ending after all, Holmes,’ I could not help remarking later as we made our way back to Baker Street in a hansom.

Holmes threw back his head and laughed heartily.

‘Your optimism is indeed vindicated, my dear fellow,’ he replied, adding with a sly sideways glance at me, ‘At least on this occasion.’

1 The Reichenbach Falls is a series of waterfalls near Meiringen in Switzerland. It was where Sherlock Holmes met his arch-enemy, Professor Moriarty, for a final confrontation in May 1891. In the ensuing struggle, Holmes, who had learned baritsu, a Japanese form of self-defence, succeeded in throwing Moriarty off balance and in consequence he plunged to his death in the ravine below. Dr John F. Watson.

2 Billy was the young pageboy who attended Holmes at Baker Street in The Valley of Fear. A similarly named pageboy also appeared in several much later accounts, ‘The Problem of Thor Bridge’ and ‘The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone’, and it is generally assumed that this is a different pageboy and that ‘Billy’ was a generic name. Dr John F. Watson.

3 John Constable (1776–1837). An English landscape painter, some of whose paintings, e.g. The Haywain, are world-famous. Born in Suffolk, he is considered, along with Turner, to be one of the greatest painters of the English countryside. Dr John F. Watson.

4 Among his library books in the Baker Street lodgings, Sherlock Holmes had an encyclopaedia that he had compiled himself and that contained newspaper cuttings and other sources of material that he considered of particular interest. There are several references to this volume in the canon. Dr John F. Watson.

5 Doctor Watson played billiards with Thurston at their club. Nothing else is known about him, not even his Christian name. Vide: ‘The Adventure of the Dancing Men’. Dr John F. Watson.

6 Jan Vermeer (1632–75). A Dutch painter, born in Delft, he was famous for his paintings of household interiors, containing a single female occupant, often occupied with some intimate or domestic task, e.g. Young Woman Reading a Letter at an Open Window. Dr John F. Watson.

THE CASE OF THE STRAY CHICKEN

It was eight o’clock on a fine June morning and Holmes and I were seated at the breakfast table, he reading some correspondence which the postman had just delivered, I scanning in a desultory manner the pages of the Daily News and thinking rather wistfully how pleasant it would be to spend the day somewhere on the coast away from the heat and noise of London, when Holmes suddenly remarked, ‘What would you say to a little outing to the seaside, my dear fellow? To Brighton, for example?’

‘How extraordinary, Holmes!’ I exclaimed. ‘The same idea for a day’s outing occurred to me only a moment ago. You must have read my mind.’

‘Not in this instance, my dear fellow, although I must confess at times your face so clearly expresses what is going on inside your head that it resembles a page in a book. So I might have divined your thoughts from the way you glanced towards the window and gave that pensive little sigh. In this case, however, it was this letter which prompted my remark. It is from a Miss Edith Pilkington, a middle-aged lady to judge from her handwriting, who is staying at the Regal Hotel in Brighton and who writes: “Dear Mr Holmes, I trust you will forgive my addressing you without a formal introduction but I would very much appreciate your advice over a matter which is causing me considerable concern. I am companion to a lady, a Mrs Huxtable, who has recently become acquainted with a certain medical gentleman, Dr Joseph Wilberforce, and his sister Miss Adelaide Wilberforce, who are also guests at the Regal Hotel. Although I have no proof that they are untrustworthy, I have nevertheless become uneasy about their relationship with Mrs Huxtable, who is a widow and has no immediate family to take an interest in her.

‘“Because Mrs Huxtable is in poor health and relies on my companionship, it would be very difficult for me to come to London to consult you and, although I am aware I am imposing heavily on your generosity, I wondered if it might be possible to meet you in Brighton one afternoon between two o’clock and three o’clock when Mrs Huxtable has her afternoon rest to discuss the matter with you?

‘“I remain, sir, Yours etc. Edith Pilkington.”

‘Well, Watson, what do you make of that?’ Holmes continued, folding up the letter and returning it to its envelope.

‘Make of it, Holmes? I am not sure I make anything of it. It sounds a straightforward enough appeal, although in my opinion she is expecting quite a lot of both your generosity and your time.’

‘No, no, my dear fellow. You do not understand,’ Holmes broke in impatiently. ‘Neither my time nor my beneficence have anything to do with it. It is the situation which is important. Think back a few years. Do you recall a remark I once made regarding foxes and stray chickens?’

‘Really, Holmes!’ I began to protest but he overrode me.

‘Concerning an exceptionally astute and dangerous man?’