The Lost Files of Sherlock Holmes (2 page)

Montpelier Square was a typical example of the modern, inner-suburban back streets, built specifically for the newly wealthy, who required easy access to the City, but had taste and class enough to demand a quiet, more genteel home environment than was available in a more cramped central position.

The lines of the houses were simple, but dignified, exuding an impression of wealth, without being austere. Trees lined the Square in abundance and small front lawns were visible behind the lush greenery of mature hedges and lilac trees.

We ascended a short flight of steps and rang the bell, which was answered by a petite young maid. We were shown into a large, airy, drawing-room, its walls adorned by a large number of fine oil paintings, as one would have expected.

Ryan examined each painting in turn, scornful of some, wistfully envious of others, whilst I was merely awestruck by their beauty. At precisely six o’clock the chimes of a large, elegant carriage clock announced the arrival of our host. His tall, severe, figure seemed to cast an air of tension over the previously relaxed atmosphere.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, disdainfully, gazing down the full length of his nose at the dishevelled Ryan. ‘I see your
colleague is late, Dr Watson, I trust this does not reflect on the precision of his work.’

I assured him it did not, and that I was sure he would be but a few moments. In this I proved to be inaccurate and noticed Graves become increasingly agitated. Indeed, we waited twenty minutes before the bell at the front door sounded again. The icy glare that greeted the arrival of my friend would have frozen the blood of many a business adversary or unco-operative client, but not Sherlock Holmes. He raced into the room, a positive gleam in his eye, and stole a questioning glance towards Ryan.

‘Timothy Ryan, the artist,’ I replied to his unspoken query.

‘You have surely surpassed yourself, Watson,’ he exclaimed, rubbing his long sinewy hands together, ‘and now I should be glad to view your gallery, Mr Graves. I take it, it is on the upper floor?’ He spoke these last few words as he hurried from the room.

‘Well, upon my word,’ Graves protested. ‘This will not do. This will not do at all.’

I merely shrugged. ‘The gallery then?’ I suggested.

Slowly, reddening with suppressed rage, Graves
tightened
his thin, colourless lips and strode from the room, Ryan and I following closely behind.

‘I have enjoyed a most productive afternoon,’ Holmes announced to me as soon as we had gained entrance into the gallery, which, as Holmes had correctly surmised, was situated in an airy, well lit room on the uppermost floor.

‘So I perceive,’ I said attempting to suppress my own indignation at his repeatedly shoddy treatment of our client. Holmes had, however, detected my anger but merely laughed.

‘Oh Watson, you should know my methods well enough by now.’

At this, Holmes halted, for he had just noticed an area of wall, approximately three foot square, where the previous presence of a painting was obvious by the discolouration of the wall.

In an instant, Holmes was lying on his stomach,
scanning
the large, rich Persian carpet with his lens. He was as dexterous in this position as a snake seeking its prey, and repeatedly a cry of triumph, occasionally, a groan of dismay, sounded from the floor. On one occasion I noticed him extract a small particle of dust, or even, ash, with a fingernail. This he examined minutely. Then, finally he dusted this away and leaped to his feet like a recoiling spring.

‘My examination of this room has been most informative, and confirms the evidence I received at the gallery this afternoon. Yet, I fancy the height of this floor will have prevented the thief from making his entrance up here.’

‘The thief gained access through the window of the first floor parlour, the security of which I have, to date,
unfortunately
, neglected,’ Graves reluctantly informed us.

‘Unfortunate indeed!’ Holmes gravely observed. ‘I should like to examine this window if I may.’

‘Very well, but I cannot see where all this tomfoolery is getting you.’

Holmes however was already descending the stairway to the first floor, leaving us there in his wake and still none the wiser.

By the time we had reached the parlour, Holmes had all but concluded his examination of the window and sill and gestured us to be seated before him.

‘My already tenuous indulgence is now done to
exhaustion
, Mr Holmes,’ Graves announced. ‘This leaping about the room like some jack-in-the-box does not impress me a jot.’

Holmes was arrogantly dismissive of these protestations from Graves, regarding, as he often did, his client merely as his introduction to his own private contest with the elusive truth. That he was now close to this truth was evident to me at least, in the certain gleam of his eye and a strange half smile that would not be subdued.

‘The tangled strands of this case have provided me with a wealth of deductive and analytical opportunities which I could hardly have expected from such a seemingly, innocuous burglary. Yet my investigations and deductions have led me to a conclusion that seems to satisfy all the facts.’

‘It is to be hoped that you, Mr Ryan, will provide me with the final clue, with Mr Graves’s co-operation and enable us to bring this affair to its natural conclusion.’

‘It is still a mystery to me why this scoundrel is in my house at all, much less how he can possibly be of any
assistance
,’ Graves snarled, peering down his nose once more.

‘By sketching an exact duplication of the missing painting,’ Holmes continued quickly, before Graves could resume his tiresome jibes. ‘The possibility that the theft of a relatively worthless painting, in the midst of such artistic treasures, could have been a mishap born of ignorance did occur to me initially. My examination of this parlour window, however, indicates that an experienced
professional
had been at work. Such an expert would hardly have preferred a nondescript landscape over, say, the Goya, unless there was a far deeper motive for its theft.’

‘The owner of the gallery, from which you made the purchase, paid a heavy price for violating the artist’s instructions to him. I understand you persuaded him to sell the painting to you rather than to the person that had originally ordered it, by almost doubling the asking price?’ Holmes queried.

‘Indeed I did, yet it was still only a trifling amount when weighed against the pleasure gained from the
reminiscences
that it provided. A heavy price you say?’

‘Alas, yes. The anger of the intended buyer was such that the hapless gallery owner was hospitalised for some time, the marks of the injuries to his face and head still most evident. Yet he was able to provide me with the name and whereabouts of the artist.’

‘Indeed, so at least some progress is being made,’ Graves conceded.

‘Most definitely. The individual in question is one James Tyler, currently enjoying accommodation at Her Majesty’s pleasure in Wormwood Scrubs, having committed a most violent robbery. Fortunately his victim survived and, for good behaviour, his governor has allowed him the privilege of oil and canvas, which, as you know, he has put to most excellent use.

‘My further enquiries, at the Yard, have revealed the existence of an accomplice, in all probability his brother, John, who evaded capture and is still at large. Since the description of the gallery owner’s assailant coincides with that of the Yard’s description of John Tyler, there can be little doubt as for whom the painting was intended, nor, indeed, as to the perpetrator of your own theft. Doctor Watson and I will wait in another room, while you describe the missing picture to our friend Ryan, here.’ Turning
from Graves to Ryan, Holmes continued, ‘Your commission, Mr Ryan, will not earn you a reputation in the art world, but the reward that might be forthcoming, will certainly start you on your way. Come, Watson.’

Leaving Graves and Ryan as bemused and taken aback as myself, I descended with Holmes to the ground-floor drawing-room to await the outcome of Ryan’s artistic endeavours.

‘I must say, Holmes, the rapidity with which you have solved this confounded mystery has surpassed many of your past achievements. I confess, however, that the nature of the importance these brothers attach to the picture and how Ryan’s sketch will assist us is still a mystery to me.’

‘The first point is obvious, Watson. The proceeds of Tyler’s robbery were never recovered by the police,
therefore
it is a reasonable assumption to make that Tyler hid these prior to his arrest, without the knowledge of his brother. This landscape that he was so intent on his brother gaining possession of, is nothing more than an elaborate treasure map. I am certain that upon discovering the painting’s secret we will unearth the booty, hopefully before Tyler does. The first step towards finding its location is a relatively easy one and one I am sure John Tyler will also be equal to.

‘I discovered, from the unfortunate gallery owner, that the title of this painting is Bowen Bridge Farm. John Tyler’s arrest took place just under thirty-six hours after the crime was committed. The robbery took place in North West London, therefore we must make enquiries at the Ministry of Agriculture and obtain a list of farms in the surrounding area. I should not be surprised if Bowen Bridge Farm appears as one of these.’

‘The exact location of the booty however, will, I fear, be harder to calculate and I merely hope it takes Tyler longer to work it out than me. Ha! Here comes our sketch.’

Having already witnessed the sketch Ryan did of Montpelier Place in under ten minutes, I was not surprised to see that he had completed his task in such a short time. I was once more, awestruck at my friend’s sharp, analytical mind at work.

‘Excellent, Holmes!’ I exclaimed, ‘Once again your reasoning is amazingly sound.’

Graves caught my words as he and Ryan enter the room. ‘That, sir, remains to be seen,’ Graves remarked with disdain. ‘Though what assistance this poor sketch will be to you, I really cannot tell!’

Holmes ignored Graves’s comments once again. ‘Come, Watson! Mr Graves, as and when we have news of your painting and its recovery, you shall be duly informed. Good-day to you.’ So saying, Sherlock Holmes ushered Ryan and myself out into the gathering darkness.

After we had compensated Ryan with a most welcomly received five guineas, he went on his way. The interior of our cab was too dark, by this time, for us to study the sketch, but upon reaching 221b, we immediately turned up the gas and spread the picture flat on the table.

Though the technique was undoubtedly brilliant, the content was sadly lacking in any singular features and left me in grave doubt as to our ever being able to unlock its secret. The foreground featured a flat stretch of grass chewed by a pair of quite ordinary cows. To the left stood a large group of full-grown cherry trees and to the right stood a distant square-built farmhouse. In the central background were grouped three quite attractive small
cottages, whilst the sky contained two lonely white clouds and a brace of swallow.

In silence we two leaned over the table for a full ten minutes till, despairing of ever discovering anything
significant
, I straightened myself and lit a cigarette.

‘I am so sorry, Holmes,’ I said by way of consolation. ‘After so masterful a piece of deduction we appear to have run into a blind alley. I can see nothing in this sketch to draw our attention.’

I turned to my friend for confirmation, but instead found he had not heard a word I had said. His eyes had taken on a steely gaze, his features were quite inscrutable. In an instant he had snatched up the sketch and took it to his chair, in front of which he positioned a high-backed dining chair. On this he propped up the sketch.

Taking his tobacco from the Persian slipper, he lit up his black clay pipe and sitting cross-legged, his knees almost up to his chin, he stared at the picture, his eyes never once leaving the study of this drawing.

‘Will you retire soon, Holmes?’ I asked. ‘A clear head in the morning may help to solve this puzzle.’ The only reply was Holmes drawing long and hard on his shag and I reluctantly went to my room.

My anxiety for Holmes’s well-being was not unfounded, for I found his position unchanged the following morning, only now his hair was in disarray, his complexion quite ashen and his eyes seemed heavy and lined with dark circles. His black clay pipe had evidently been discarded at some stage during his long night, for the floor about his chair was littered with the tiny butts of well smoked
cigarettes
.

‘This is really inexcusable, Holmes! To abuse yourself so,
for the sake of a solitary picture, a worthless one at that. You must take to your bed at once.’

Slowly Holmes raised his tired eyes towards me. ‘There is considerably more at stake here than a mere landscape which, by the way, I am sure, will soon cease to exist. Tyler’s robbery, which took place at a bank in Highgate, involved the death of a guard. Our real quarry, therefore, is an accessory to murder and our other priority, the recovery of the not inconsiderable proceeds.’

‘Yes, but even so.’

‘I trust you are ready for your visit to the ministry?’ Holmes asked wearily.

‘I am. I must insist, however, that you rest yourself at least while I am out.’

Holmes merely waved me away, with a languid, almost distorted movement of his hand and resumed his scrutiny of the sketch while lighting yet another cigarette.

Reluctantly and with a heavy heart I took my leave.

My morning’s work was long and tiresome, the
bureaucracy
of the British Civil Service being as slow and clumsy as it is. Nonetheless, by lunch-time my efforts were at last rewarded and a smallholding, just north of Borehamwood, emerged as our likely destination.

I hurried back to Baker Street with my news, flushed with success. I found to my amazement that a miraculous transformation had come over Holmes. Gone was the dishevelled wreck I had left behind and there, dressed and ready for action, was the Holmes I knew only too well. Shaved and immaculate in black frock coat he smiled broadly as I entered, rubbing his hands contentedly together.