The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (74 page)

“But in the case of the de Granville this was not possible, was it? Being a ‘lost painting' there were no lithographs available, so you required a longer time with the original.”

Another imperceptible nod.

“You are an excellent listener,” cried Holmes enthusiastically, rising to his feet and pulling me with him. “Your silences have been most eloquent. My case is all but complete. I thank you.”

“In expressing your gratitude please remember that I conveyed no information to you, nor confirmed any of your statements.”

“Of course. The players in this sordid drama will condemn themselves without involvement from outside sources. Come, Watson, let us see if the cabbie has waited for us.”

And so in this hurried manner we took our leave of “the dog man.”

I was surprised at the speed by which this case came to its conclusion; and a very dark conclusion it was too. I would never have guessed that what began as as a fairly inconsequential affair concerning a missing painting would end in murder and a family's disgrace.

The cabbie had been as good as his word and was still waiting for us at the corner of the street. However an expression of relief crossed his ruddy features as he saw us returning. “Back to Baker Street is it?” he asked as we climbed aboard.

“No,” responded Holmes, “Mayfair.”

“This is a sad affair, Watson,” said my friend, lighting a cigarette as he lounged back in the recesses of the cab. “The person who will be hurt most by its outcome is the only innocent player in the drama.”

“Lady Darlington?”

He shook his head. “Her husband. His career is likely to crumble to dust if the facts become public. Lady Darlington is far from innocent.”

“You cannot mean she was involved in the theft?”

“Think, Watson, think. There was only one
key to the gallery. It was on Lord Darlington's watch chain. The only time he would not be wearing it would be at night when he was asleep. Then his wife, and only she, sleeping in the same room would have easy access to it. She is the only person who could have provided entry to the gallery. However improbable the circumstances, logic always provides certainties.”

Lady Darlington was dismayed to see us and it was with a certain amount of ill grace that she bade us take a seat in the morning room. “I hope this will not take long, gentlemen. I have a series of pressing engagements today.”

We had only just taken our seats when Holmes gave a sharp sigh of irritation and leapt to his feet. “I beg your pardon, Lady Darlington, my brain is addled today. I have just bethought me of a pressing matter that had slipped my mind. There is urgent need to send a telegram concerning another case of mine which is coming to fruition. If you will pardon me one moment, I will arrange for our cab-driver to deliver the message.”

Before Lady Darlington had the opportunity to reply, Holmes had rushed from the room.

“What extraordinary behaviour,” she observed, sitting stiffly upright, clutching her reticule.

“I am sure my friend will return shortly,” I said, surprised as she was at at Holmes's sudden departure.

“I presume that you are not in a position to enlighten me as to the purpose of Mr. Holmes's visit.”

“Not precisely,” I replied lamely. “But I am sure he will not be many minutes.”

Her ladyship sighed heavily and I sat in embarrassed silence, awaiting Holmes's return. Thankfully, he was as good as his word and in less than five minutes he was sitting opposite our client's wife once more.

“Now, Mr. Holmes, as you have already wasted some of my time, I beg you to be brief.”

“My business here will take but a short time, but I thought it would be best if I consulted you first before I told your husband the truth behind the disappearing and reappearing painting and the roles that you and your son played in the mystery.”

Lady Darlington gave a startled gasp. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Oh yes you do,” asserted my friend coldly. “The time for pretence and dissembling is over. You cannot go on protecting your son any longer.”

“Mr. Holmes, I will not tolerate any more of your nonsense. Would you please be kind enough to leave.”

“I will leave, certainly, taking the key with me.”

“The key?”

“I am afraid that I played a little trick on you just now. On leaving the room I did not go to instruct our waiting cabman as I intimated. Instead, I slipped upstairs to your son's room where it did not take me very long to discover the hiding place where he secreted the key.” Holmes reached into his waistcoat pocket as though to retieve some small object. “The duplicate key that gains him access to your husband's gallery.”

Lady Darlington's face turned white. “That is impossible,” she cried in some agitation, snapping open her reticule.

“I agree,” said Holmes, stepping forward and extracting a small golden key from her ladyship's bag. “I told you a tissue of lies in order for
you
to reveal the real hiding place of the duplicate key. It was a simple subterfuge engineered to reveal the truth.”

At this, Lady Darlington broke down and sobbed uncontrollably. I was moved by her obvious distress and watched helplessly as her body shook with sorrow but Holmes remained stony-faced and waited until the lady had controlled herself enough to speak to him. “How much do you know?” she asked at last, dabbing her watery eyes with her handkerchief.

“I know all. I know your son has built up a series of very large gambling debts at the Pandora Club. In an endeavour to keep these from
your husband you helped pay for them at first, but when the amounts became too great for you to contend with, you aided and abetted your son in his scheme of replacing the paintings in Lord Darlington's gallery with fakes while your son's crony Lord Arthur Beacham sold the originals.”

“The situation as you portray it is more damning than the real circumstances,” said Lady Darlington, regaining some of her composure. “Rupert is the son of my first marriage and has never been accepted by Hector. He even denied him the common courtesies. Certainly Rupert was never shown any love by his step-father. I suppose in a reaction to this I lavished love upon him. I gave him liberties and freedoms that were perhaps inappropriate for such a headstrong youth. He lacked a father's controlling guidance. When he formed a friendship with Lord Arthur Beacham I was pleased at first. I believed that the influence of this older man would be good for him. Alas, I did not know what a scoundrel the fellow was. The truth only emerged when it was too late and Rupert was completely under his evil spell. Beacham led my son into reckless habits. Yes, there were the gambling debts which, despite my pleas to Rupert to abandon the game, grew and grew. I knew that if Hector found out he would disinherit him and cast him out of the house. What would become of the boy then? How could I let that happen?”

Lady Darlington paused for a moment as though she was waiting for an answer to her questions, although she avoided our glances. Holmes remained silent.

“When the amounts became too great to deal with out of my allowance, Rupert presented me with the plan regarding the paintings. It had been suggested by Beacham of course. He knew of a skilled painter who could copy the pictures so that only an expert could tell the difference and he also had contacts who could provide eager customers for the original canvases. Beacham, of course, demanded a large fee for his ‘services.' To my eternal shame, I agreed, believing it would be only the one painting. One night when my husband was asleep, I took the gallery key from his chain and made a wax impression of it so that a copy could be made.

“The substitution of the first painting could not have been smoother. The exchange was carried out while my husband was away for two days on government business. Rupert took the picture early in the evening and returned the following morning with the forgery. My husband never suspected a thing. The apparent ease with which the plan had been carried out made Beacham bolder and greedier. He led my son into greater debt so that the substituition of another painting was needed. And so it became a regular process every two months or so.”

“Until the de Granville fiasco when your husband's trip to France was postponed and he returned earlier than expected.”

“It was Beacham's idea to take the de Granville. He said it would bring the greatest fee yet, but the copier required more time since it was an unknown painting. As you know, my husband discovered the masterpiece missing…” Lady Darlington's eyes watered afresh and she dabbed them with her handkerchief.

“Both your son and Beacham knew it would be foolish to place the forgery where the original had hung now that its absence had been discovered. They were aware that your husband would, as a matter of course, call in an expert to verify that it was the original.”

Lady Darlington nodded mutely.

“You have been a foolish woman, Lady Darlington. Although you may have acted with the best of intentions towards your son, you have allowed a situation to develop that cannot fail but to bring pain and disgrace to those two men whom you hold dear.”

“I beg you not to tell my husband.”

“Your husband is my client. He must be told. Besides, we are not dealing with a family squabble here. This matter concerns the theft of a series of master paintings. Two of the culprits are the son and wife of the owner, who is a minister of the crown. A scandal now is inevitable.”

“I appreciate that the truth has now to come out. But I want to be the one to tell Hector. It is
the least I can do to atone for my sins. Give me a day—twenty-four hours—to do this and also to try and persuade my son to give himself up to the authorities.”

Holmes hesitated. He was somewhat moved by the woman's plight.

“Please be merciful,” she begged.

My companion consulted his watch. “It is now approaching four o'clock. I will send a telegram to reach Lord Darlington in the morning, indicating that I shall call on him at four in the afternoon to convey information of the greatest moment.”

“Bless you, Mr. Holmes.”

As events turned out, Holmes was never to make that visit. The following morning I was late down to breakfast and I found my friend slumped in his armchair perusing the paper. His face bore a grim expression.

“Violent delights have violent ends,” he said, more to himself than me.

“Bad news?”

He shrugged. “Fate has entered the lists and we have effectively been relegated, old fellow.” He waved the paper in my direction. “I refer to a report in here. Two bodies were washed up on the shingle below Tower Bridge late last night. They were bound and gagged and their brains had been blown out. They have been identified as Lord Arthur Beacham and Rupert Darlington, the son of the Minister for Foreign Affairs, Lord Hector Darlington.”

“Great heavens what a tragedy. What happened?”

“It was no doubt the work of Alfredo Fellini and his cronies. Obviously Beacham, in his frustration regarding the de Granville painting, tried, foolishly, to pass the fake off as the original to the American. His treachery received the usual rough justice of the gangland courts. Rupert Darlington was seen as part of the conspiracy—which he may well have been. Ah, Watson, Scott had it aright: ‘Oh what a tangled web we weave when we practise to deceive.' ”

JAMES C. IRALDI
(1907–1989) will always be remembered as the Sherlockian whose private library served as one of the foundations of the world's largest and most diverse collection of Sherlock Holmes material. In 1974, Iraldi sold to the University of Minnesota his collection of first-edition Sherlockiana, including about 160 early editions of the canon, as well as memorabilia, photographs, newspaper and magazine clippings, and more. Iraldi's cornerstone volumes would later be added to by many more collectors, paving the way for the University of Minnesota's holdings to grow from fewer than two hundred to over sixty thousand pieces of Holmes and Conan Doyle materials.

Though born in England, Iraldi resided in New Jersey for most of his life and was a prominent member of the Baker Street Irregulars, where his investiture, bestowed upon him in 1952, was “The Blanched Soldier.”

Iraldi also was a collector of Jules Verne's work and collaborated with a number of other contributors on a reference work on the famous author,
The Jules Verne Encyclopedia
, published in 1996.

“The Problem of the Purple Maculas” is a previously untold case hinted at by Watson in “The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter,” in which Holmes says, “and there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang.” It was originally published as a chapbook (Culver City, California, Luther Norris, 1968).

IT WAS TOWARDS
the end of November, 1890, that I had a note from Sherlock Holmes, couched in his usual laconic style.

“Interesting problem at hand. Will expect you before noon. S. H.”

Needless to say, I gave my patients a rest and eagerly went to keep the appointment. It was a pouring wet day when I set off, after making hurried arrangements at home, for the familiar address which had been the starting-point of so many of those adventures which were the normal condition of my friend's existence. Even an aching limb, protesting against the damp spell, failed to temper my enthusiasm as I hailed a cab, prepared to assist him in any way my slow methods and natural limitations permitted.

I found Sherlock Holmes seated near the hearth, his brier aglow and a pile of discarded newspapers crumpled on the floor beside him.

“Ah, come in, Watson, come in!” he cried cheerfully. “Draw up the basket-chair to the fire and take the seasonal chill out of your limbs!”

His keen, ever-active eyes scanned me meanwhile in that characteristic introspective fashion of his with which I was well familiar.

“I see Mrs. Watson is indisposed. Nothing serious I hope?”

“No. A slight chill. I've advised a few days in bed,” I replied as I seated myself in the chair he had indicated with his pipe. I glanced over at him. “May I ask how you knew? You have not taken to pumping my maid, have you?”

“No, no, my dear Watson,” he answered with a hearty chuckle which caused his grave, hawklike features to relapse into more kindly lines. “Never that! It was a simple deduction, based upon the flour smeared on the underside of your left sleeve.”

I raised my arm. It was as he said. A thin film of white still adhered to the fabric in spite of the chafing from my waterproof.

“Your explanation is equally obscure,” I said, somewhat testily as I brushed it off. “I have no doubt that the connection between this and my wife's ailment is self-evident to a logical mind. Since I do not possess your gift, and am somewhat slow in my logical faculties…”

“Not slow, Watson,” he broke in quickly, and quite seriously, “but merely undeveloped in so far as deducing from cause to effect. I have had occasion before to say that you possess faculties which though not sparkling nevertheless serve to illumine the qualities of keener minds. A by no means common gift, and one which I value highly, I assure you.”

I shook my head dubiously. “I still fail to…”

“You still fail to grasp the connecting link between your sleeve and your wife? Yet the inference is clear. You no doubt had good reason for entering the kitchen this morning?”

I nodded. “Quite true. But how…?”

“You could scarcely have gathered up flour in your dispensary,” he cried, with an impatient wave of his arm. “Why does a solid British G.P.
enter the culinary domain? To speak to the cook; to arrange for this evening's supper—better still, to suggest a fitting meal for the ailing one. Why did not your wife undertake this typical household task? Because she herself is the bedridden one. I shall venture even further and add that in all probability you bid her good-bye simply by poking your head through the bedroom door.”

It was quite so. Upon receiving Holmes's message I had hurried to the kitchen to leave instructions with our cook, hastened upstairs to tell my wife and had then flung myself out of the house without a further glance at my clothing.

“As usual,” I said, “you have made it all seem absurdly simple. That final inference being based upon the fact that she would assuredly have noticed the sleeve had I presented myself to her before leaving.”

“Quite so.”

“Since you did not send me that note,” I went on, “simply to tell me that I had got flour on my garments, you have, evidently, an enquiry afoot at this time?”

By way of reply, Holmes tossed over an envelope which contained the following message:

“Dear Mr. Holmes
,

I have a splendid opportunity for you to utilize your methods in helping us identify the body of a man found yesterday morning in the river. No signs of violence. Thought you might be interested
.

Patterson.”

“We may have a clear field in which to start our inquiries. The papers have not yet got hold of it. What do you say, Watson? Care to join forces?”

My momentary hesitation, brief as it was, did not fail to catch his eye. He frowned. “Your wife?”

“No, no, Holmes, she will be perfectly all right without me.”

“I may have need of a man of medicine.”

“Oh, you need have no fears on that score. I shall come and with pleasure, you know that.”

“Then why did you hesitate just now when I proposed having you along?”

“I have made no arrangements with my locum tenens…In the event that the case be of some duration.”

The shadows fled from his brows. He smiled cheerfully. “Oh, in that case, it can easily be arranged. A telegram or two…”

And thus it came about that on that rainy November day we set off upon one of our most singular investigations, never dreaming that before it was over, it would become a “cause celebre” which would make all England ring.

We made a brief detour to the Wigmore Street Post Office where I sent off a telegram to my wife and another to Dr. Anstruther. Then we proceeded to Scotland Yard.

Inspector Patterson greeted us on our arrival in his customary dour fashion, and without wasting any time went along with us to the chill, dank mortuary wherein unknown derelicts are quartered until disposed of. On a sign from him, an attendant removed the shroud which covered one of the several stark figures lying on rough deal tables in various sections of the room. Revealed to our sober gaze lay the rigid form of a young man in his early twenties, with a clean-shaven face, thick black hair surmounting a high brow, dark eyes now bulging dimly from their sockets, a well-cut nose and full lips twisted in a dreadful grin which revealed even rows of sound teeth.

Here and there the white skin bore scratches and bruises and small irregular patches a deep purple in colour. The contusions and abrasions were most in evidence about the chest and shoulders; while the dark blemishes covered various portions of the trunk and face. That silent and pathetic figure with its blotched and contorted features gave even my professionally tempered nerves a jolt, but they failed to affect my friend's.

“These contusions,” he remarked, pointing to the bruised form, “were most probably caused at the time of death, or very shortly afterwards.
But those purple marks are most peculiar. Any theory as to their cause, Inspector?”

Patterson stopped in the act of lighting a cigar. “Body was in the water most of the night,” he said evasively. “May have got knocked about by the currents and eddies. There are a lot of piles and posts along Chelsea Reach, you know. Cadogan Pier isn't too far away from where the body was found.”

“How long has he been dead?”

“The police surgeon says about ten hours before the grappling-irons brought him in. He was found by the river police at about nine yesterday morning, near the new Chelsea Bridge.”

“Hum, that would place the time of death between eleven o'clock and midnight on Monday,” mused Holmes. Then in a louder voice he asked, “Did the surgeon explain these discolourations?”

“Said they were simply scrapes most likely, caused perhaps by the fall into the river.”

“Any indication as to the actual cause of death?”

“Well,” said Patterson guardedly, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, “he didn't want to commit himself until after the inquest and autopsy. No water was found in the lungs; but neither have we uncovered any evidence of foul play. So far, the verdict seems to be ‘Death by misadventure.' ”

Holmes glanced towards me. “This is your territory, Doctor. What do you make of it?”

A gleam in his eye, a tensing of his attitude as he had spoken, served to put me on my guard. After another careful examination, I spoke cautiously.

“A sudden fall into cold water from a height,” I said, “with the resultant shock and fear, might bring on a heart attack. Especially in in a person suffering from a cardiac condition.” I pointed to the twisted features. “Such convulsions are sometimes indicative of painful, violent death, which might easily have been caused by heart failure.”

“In other words, Watson, the man might have died in sheer panic before having even struck the water?”

“That's it exactly,” I replied, pleased that he had accepted my theory without question. “It also explains,” I concluded somewhat rashly, “the total absence of water in the lungs.”

“But not the purple blemishes,” observed Sherlock Holmes very quietly.

“The police surgeon,” broke in the Inspector irrascibly at this moment, “didn't consider them to be serious at all, or in any way connected with the man's death. It's a clear case of accidental death caused by a fall into the river. The autopsy may clear up that aspect of it. What we would like to find out, before proceeding any further, is the man's identity. There's not a paper or personal identification of any description amongst his things. No one has yet come forward to claim the body. The lists of missing persons have been consulted, but no one answering his description has been reported.”

Patterson snorted with exasperation, then turned to look at my friend who had listened with rapt attention to his words.

“Perhaps that's where you can help us, Mr. Holmes,” he added. “Your scientific methods might give us a clue to his trade or profession, or some indication as to where he hails from. Any sort of lead which might put us on the track of his relations or his friends.”

Holmes's eyes gleamed. A slight colour now tinged his cheek. The problem was a challenge: his analytical methods against the regular police investigation procedure. His present demeanor was that of a master-craftsman who sees his work ready at hand, called in after others less gifted had failed.

He was now standing over the lifeless form, examining it with swift appraising glances. After closely surveying the twisted, mottled features, he turned to the tightly clenched hands, then to the rest of the body. In silence, broken only by his rapid, nervous pacings, we watched his every move so intently that the sound of his voice, high-pitched and querulous, made us all start up in surprise when he asked:

“Where are his clothes, boots?”

Patterson was prepared for this, and a pile
of garments was quickly brought forward and spread out on a convenient work-bench. Again we relapsed into silence as my friend, completely oblivious of of our presence, quickly yet expertly examined the personal effects of the dead man. He turned out the pockets and scanned the water-matted dross and wool fragments which usually accumulate in the lining. Nothing escaped those keen bright eyes as he concentrated his attention on coat and shirt, then trousers and boots. This completed, he turned again to the Scotland Yard Inspector.

“Was a hat found?”

“No.”

“Waterproof or outer coat?”

Patterson shook his head once more. “None.”

Holmes pursed his lips, nodded thoughtfully. “I see,” he murmured, before directing his attention to the articles found in the pockets.

These were more or less the customary things the average man carries about with him in his everyday life: a bunch of keys, some coins, a pencil and nail file, a comb, a water-soaked billfold which still retained some sodden paper currency, and a large, old-fashioned silver watch.

Holmes picked it up and eyed it intently. Glancing over his shoulder, I could see that it was one of those heavily engraved time-pieces of foreign manufacture, bearing the name of its maker on the enamelled dial. The ornate hands had stopped at exactly three minutes past 2:30. It carried no marks of blows or dents, and had evidently suffered no ill effects other than from immersion.

“This might be suggestive, Watson,” he muttered, “most suggestive. Notice that it is quite undamaged. The crystal is still intact.” He raised his head. There were traces of repressed excitement in his voice when he asked, “Has this watch been opened, Inspector? Or the hands moved or tampered with?”

“No, sir. That's exactly the way it was when we removed it from the man's waistcoat pocket. We don't consider it of any importance. It may have stopped days before, or the fellow just forgot to wind it.”

“You may be right,” said Holmes with a slight shrug. “Let us see what else there is….Ah! What have we here?”

He was holding up a circular piece of glasslike substance, light brown in colour, of about an inch in thickness. After eyeing it speculatively for some seconds, he snapped off a small fragment and ground it to powder between his strong, lean fingers. These he carried first to his nose, then to his lips. The experiment appeared to satisfy him for I saw him nod to himself, a quick light coming to his eyes. Swiftly he walked back to the body, re-examined the dead man's hands, even to the extent of forcing open the rigid fingers of the left hand. Again he nodded as he gave vent to a grunt of satisfaction. Once more he returned to the work-bench, selected the trousers and submitted them to another rigorous inspection. When he had finished I could see that the light of triumph shone in his eyes as he said, “That is all. There is nothing else to be learned here.”

To Patterson he asked, “Have you got a room where we can talk and smoke?”

The Inspector nodded. “This way, gentlemen.”

Without another word we filed out of that sombre chamber and followed him up a flight of steps to a small room which, though bare of ornaments and sparsely furnished, nevertheless looked cozy and cheerful by comparison.

It was Inspector Patterson himself who first spoke after we had found chairs and charged our pipes.