The Lost Files of Sherlock Holmes

A
s the more avid among my, thankfully, many readers will have observed over the years, it has been with extreme difficulty that I have striven to apply chronology to the narratives concerning my good friend Mr Sherlock Holmes and his amazing powers of deduction.

It has been equally arduous to obtain his approval, for my humble literary efforts, and, indeed, his permission for me to publish them. However, over the years, I have managed to extricate various case notes from my metal box, secured within the vaults of Cox’s & Co. Bank and Holmes has allowed me to feed them slowly to my public.

Those examples that have, hitherto, remained within the box have been held back for a variety of reasons. Some for reasons of diplomacy, others because of the pain their publication might have caused to those people directly involved at the time of their occurrence, and there are those that Holmes insisted remain unpublished for his own personal reasons. The category that each story falls into will become apparent upon being read.

That these tales have now seen the light of day at all can be attributed to a short, terse message that I received a few months ago, from Holmes at his Sussex retreat. It read as follows:

I smiled at Holmes’s self-deprecating humour, but could not help but wonder at the chain of thought that had prompted his message to me. This, I was sure, I would never discover, notwithstanding that, however, I wasted no time in reclaiming my box from its vault and set to reassembling my notes into some sort of coherent order before Holmes had a chance to change his mind once more.

These stories have not been released in any form of chronology, nor in an order of priority. They are simply, further examples of the powers and rare gifts with which my good friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, has been endowed.

J.H. WATSON.

T
HE
A
DVENTURE
OF THE
C
ONNOISSEUR

‘T
here is something almost soothing in the gentle line of the brush strokes of the great impressionist artists.’ Holmes began, most surprisingly, after breakfast on a bright spring morning. I say surprisingly because in all the years of our association this was the first occasion on which he had initiated a conversation on the arts.

Still more surprising was his affable, almost cheerful mood for it had been some weeks since the last noteworthy problem had been concluded and normally a long period of inactivity produced in Holmes a dark, brooding malaise.

Scanning the all too familiar walls of our sitting room, Holmes continued, ‘The simple beauty of Renoir, the clever use of colour of Monet, totally different in style, yet somehow embodying the same love of nature. Our room could certainly benefit from the addition of some pictures, eh Watson?’

I was so astonished by this line of conversation that I could not, for the life of me, think of any sort of reply. I, instead, lit a cigarette and studied my friend’s
countenance
. For a brief instant a mocking, almost mischievous smile played on Holmes’s lips and by applying his own methods, I reached my conclusion.

‘You have a case,’ I blurted out, ‘involving an artist or art dealer!’

Lighting his after-breakfast pipe, Holmes replied, ‘My dear Watson, you absolutely scintillate at this early hour.’ As he said this he tossed me a white printed calling card.

As I took the card, I could not help smiling at his use of the word ‘early’ for it was just past the hour of ten. It was true to say, however, that when not gainfully employed, Holmes kept most Bohemian hours and my own schedule did not preclude me from keeping them also.

The size of the card was standard, the print, sharp, black italic. It announced a Nathaniel Graves of the ‘Reform and Connoisseur Clubs, Montpelier Square’. On the reverse had been written, in neat precise handwriting, ‘an eleven o’clock appointment would be most convenient’.

‘Mr Graves is obviously not a man who bandies words or begs favours, merely a statement of fact and not a request. Yet how can you be so sure he wishes to consult you on a matter concerning art?’ I asked.

‘Bottom of column four, page six,’ Holmes replied, as he threw across a badly mangled copy of
The Times
. A tiny article provided me with my answer.

It described, in the barest detail, an art theft from a town house in Montpelier Square, belonging to a renowned connoisseur and collector.

‘It says here,’ I read aloud, ‘
The only item missing from an otherwise fine and balanced collection, was a relatively worthless landscape
. You surprise me, Holmes, the theft of so insignificant an item is hardly to your taste.’

‘Yet a man of his obvious standing in the art world wishes to consult me on this matter. There is the minutest of difference between value and worth, Watson. The fact
that Nathaniel Graves attaches value to an item of little worth, will, I trust, provide us with a most singular little problem. Come now! We barely have time to dress before our appointment.’

‘Our appointment?’ I queried, taking Holmes to task, once again, for taking my assistance for granted.

‘Assuming, of course, you will honour me with your
valuable
expertise and experience in this matter. If however any pressing matters at your surgery prevent your
participation
….’ Despite the half mocking tone of his voice, I needed to hear no more.

‘No, not at all, things have been quiet of late and I should be delighted to assist you in any way that I can.’ So, laughing, we both went off to dress.

The entrance of Nathaniel Graves, shown upstairs by Mrs Hudson, took us both aback, not only by his precise punctuality, it was exactly eleven o’clock, but also by his striking appearance. For there, standing before us, was the very embodiment of middle-class, late Victorian austerity. He stood around six foot two inches, but was made to look taller by his slimness of build and the lines of his black frock coat. His features were rigid and stern, his brow prematurely furrowed for a man in his early forties, his nose and chin were both prominent and strong. To complete this picture, his black shoes and tall hat shone brilliantly and spoke clearly of his position and rank in society.

‘Mr Holmes?’ He glanced disdainfully at my friend, his speech clipped and precise, his lips barely moving. Holmes nodded and politely showed our client to a chair.

‘I should rather stand. Now I will not bandy words, Mr Holmes, I shall state my intentions clearly and precisely
from the outset. I want this matter cleared up as quickly as possible with little or no publicity …’

‘Mr Graves!’ Holmes shouted, ‘I am not in the habit of raising my voice unduly, nor of being dictated to in such a manner, especially by a stranger whose case I have not yet agreed to undertake. Assuming I do, I shall require clear, precise facts and information, not demands.’

Graves was clearly taken aback by this outburst, for his white face visibly reddened and his furrows deepened.

‘Well I don’t know, I must say!’ Graves protested. ‘I am not accustomed to being addressed in such a fashion.’

‘That, indeed, is a wonder in itself.’ Holmes retorted, turning his back on Graves and taking up a position by the window.

Clearly determined to engage Holmes’s services at
whatever
cost, Graves collected himself.

‘Now, look Mr Holmes, there is no need to carry on so, really there is not. I simply wish to make my position clear from the outset.’

This drew no response from Holmes, who still had his back to Graves.

‘I can assure you, I employ investigators all the time in my line of work, it is just that in matters of a personal nature, I require the best. Nonetheless, I shall seek
assistance
elsewhere if need be.’ At this Graves put on his hat and turned to leave.

I was sure that Graves’s last comment would appeal to Holmes’s delight as a compliment and his natural vanity, which at times he took small pains to conceal. A slight smile played on his lips, which told me my judgement was a correct one. He turned towards us once more.

‘Mr Graves, kindly provide me with the details of your
strange theft.’ He said quietly. ‘That you are a successful solicitor, who specialises in company law, I am in little doubt, the other details I shall require from you,’ Holmes added, nonchalantly.

‘I am at a loss as to how you reached your conclusion, I really cannot tell.’ Graves said returning once more to the centre of the room.

‘Yes really, Holmes!’ I began, also at a loss.

‘Tut, tut, come, Watson.’

Reluctantly Holmes explained. ‘The briefcase you left by the door is one most commonly used by men of the law. Your company address, inscribed faintly on the back of your card, is a side street to the rear of Threadneedle Street, an area that proliferates in bankers and solicitors, yet, I have not heard, to date, of a banker who employs investigators. The fact that you have accrued sufficient wealth to enable you to collect art at so young an age
indicates
that you are not a run-of-the-mill conveyancer, therefore, you are involved in the City.’ Holmes shrugged, as if this should have been as clear to me also and was pleased to note that Graves was suitably impressed.

‘I must confess, your reputation does not seem to be entirely unfounded,’ Graves offered reluctantly.

‘Ha! A fine compliment indeed!’ Holmes exclaimed. ‘Now the details of this robbery of yours please…!’

‘Mr Holmes, as you so correctly concluded, my years in the City have not been financially unkind to me. I have always worked diligently and am also gratified to note that during these years and the hundreds of transactions I have been a part of, I have accrued a reputation for honesty and straight dealing. Though, not unique, such a reputation in this day and age is somewhat of a rarity and therefore
something to be cherished by the holder of such and sought after by those seeking his advice. Without wishing to sound conceited, it is true to say that, as a consequence of this, a successful future in my career is now assured me.’

‘On the basis of this solid foundation, I now feel able to indulge my only passion in life, namely the acquisition of fine works of art. To be frank, gentlemen, though I am a great admirer of beauty and the skills of a great artist, the collecting of pictures is not for me at least, purely aesthetic, it is also a sound investment.’

‘I do not merely purchase and hoard. When I feel the time is right, I will sell a work, which I consider has reached the zenith of its value. Therefore, I study the works of new and rising artists, make a purchase relatively cheaply and bide my time. Thankfully, I have enjoyed some success in my art ventures and now command a certain respect amongst gallery owners and other dealers.’

‘The point I am making, gentlemen, is that while these peripheral works are continually coming and going, the core of my collection, those works whose value I can never see declining, is comprised of the choicest paintings. I possess, for example, a fine example of Goya and a
magnificent
Fragonard. The only exception was the stolen picture, an insignificant and worthless landscape, the value of which was purely of personal sentiment.’

At this Holmes’s eyes, previously languid and bereft of emotion, suddenly burst into life and he leaned forward, fingertips pressed together.

‘A point that is immediately suggestive, wouldn’t you say, Watson?’

‘Oh indeed,’ I confirmed, but without my friend’s
enthusiasm
.

‘I find your levity somewhat surprising, Mr Holmes.’ Graves began. ‘Whilst this business may strike you as a trifling matter, I can assure you I do not share your opinion. The landscape is reminiscent of my first home, but, that aside, a crime has been committed and being a servant of the law, I intend to see justice done, at whatever cost and inconvenience.’

‘Well said indeed, Mr Graves, but your impressions of my own feelings on the matter are entirely erroneous. I very much doubt that this affair is at all trifling, equally, I feel we must act with all speed. Therefore Watson and I will join you at your home at six o’clock this evening, where, I trust, you will describe the circumstances of the theft. In the meantime, if you will furnish me with the name of the gallery where you purchased the picture, I will pursue my enquiries in the interim period. Good day, sir.’

At that, Holmes strode to the mantelpiece, picked out his cherry wood and began filling it with tobacco from the Persian slipper, whilst I, in turn, ushered the bemused connoisseur through the door.

‘Really, Holmes, considering the dearth of noteworthy problems we are experiencing at present, I consider your behaviour towards Mr Graves to be most off-hand, almost downright rude!’ My indignation was wasted, however, for, as I turned from the door, I observed my friend sitting crossed legged on his chair, eyes closed, arms folded, whilst endless streams of smoke drifted from his pipe. Whatever thoughts or reasoning had triggered this deep
contemplation
of his, there was little doubt that this would continue for some time and any further attempts at conversation would be futile.

I sat, for the next hour, in a somewhat disgruntled mood,
scanning my paper, without digesting its contents. The occasional glance I might shoot at Holmes from behind my paper, revealed no change in his attitude or position. Indeed, as his pipe died away, the unknowing observer might have presumed that he was asleep.

I was in the process of lighting my own second pipe when a most piercing cry from Holmes prompted me to drop the unlit pipe altogether.

‘Watson! We will not resolve this matter by sitting around here all day, I am off to Wesbourne Park Grove. Please be at Graves’s home promptly at six o’clock. Our new client seems to value punctuality.’

‘Am I to be redundant then, all afternoon?’ I asked, not intending to hide my hurt feelings.

‘Not at all, old fellow, your task is to locate and employ a talented landscape artist, and ensure he is with us at Montpelier Square this evening. Come along, Watson.’ He cajoled me into action. It was a strange task he had set for me, but resolving to begin my enquiries at a college of art, I pursued Holmes from the room at all speed. We snatched our hats as we careered down to the street to find our cabs, almost injuring Mrs Hudson as we did so.

The profusion of aspiring landscape artists yet to be discovered and consequently, near to starvation, made my task far easier than I would have expected, so my offer of a commission, despite its modesty, was eagerly accepted. I chose a dark-haired young man, in his early twenties, whose intentness of observation and open smile, belied his ragged attire and unshaven face. The samples of his work, that had escaped his discontented destruction, convinced me of his talent. Consequently, we arrived at Montpelier Square some twenty minutes before the appointed hour.

I put this time to good use by inviting the young man, who went by the name of Timothy Ryan, to do a rough sketch of Montpelier Square itself. Initially I was
disappointed
that the task was completed in so short a time, we still had ten minutes before our expected arrival, but this was transformed into amazement when I observed the accuracy, detail and beautiful effect that Ryan had achieved.