The Adventure of the Sleeping Cardinal or The Doctor’s Case
By Jeremy Holstein
This story first appeared in the MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Volume II.
Jeremy Holstein has loved Sherlock Holmes since childhood but is especially fond of listening to his adventures on radio. He currently serves as the Artist in Residence for the Boston based audio drama troupe the Post-Meridian Radio Players (www.pmrp.org) where he has produced new full cast Sherlock Holmes audio dramas every summer for the past eight years. He lives in the Boston area with his wife and daughter, who are very patient with him.
Eddie Mendieta is originally from Union City, NJ, Eduardo has been living in Florida for the last 25 years. His passion for the arts started at a young age, painting graffiti on abandoned buildings and walls. Locally known as EMO, this passion developed into a blend of raw urban art and graphic design that is now known as his signature style. In recent years, Eduardo has gained recognition creating many large-scale murals and curating projects in West Palm Beach and throughout South Florida. Some of the mural programs Eduardo has been a featured artist in are 46 for XLVI Superbowl Indianapolis Mural Project; Downtown West Palm Beach Stairwell Mural Project; Northwood Village Mural Project, West Palm Beach; Downtown Hollywood Mural Project; Broward 100 Mural Project; the Walls Project, Baton Rouge; Canvas West Palm Beach and Biscayne Green, Miami. Eduardo has also painted large-scale public mural for the Cities of West Palm Beach, Lake Worth, Hallandale Beach, Ocala, Delray Beach and Knoxville, Tennessee.
Artwork size: 30” × 20”
Medium: Acrylic on canvas
My name is Watson, Doctor Watson, and it was my privilege to share the adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Throughout the many years I lived with Holmes in Baker Street, I came to know both his many gifts and his many faults. Chief among those faults was an intolerance of dull routine, an impatience that was often tested in the interim between clients when no new problems were available to challenge his active mind. It was during one such lull, in the summer of 1899, that my story begins.
It was early morning, and I was supping upon one of Mrs. Hudson’s excellent breakfasts. Holmes, however, had declined the meal, and was instead pacing back and forth before the mantelpiece in our sitting room. Finally he threw up his hands and bellowed his frustration at the top of his lungs.
“Bah!” he cried. “This is interminable, Watson! Interminable!”
“What’s that, Holmes?” I said, even though I knew the answer.
“This inactivity!” said Holmes. “Has the entire criminal population of London gone on holiday? Give me a case to solve, a problem to unravel! Anything but this endless boredom!”
“Calm down, Holmes,” I said. “Something will turn up soon. Why don’t you have some of Mrs. Hudson’s breakfast?”
“I don’t need food, Watson,” said Holmes. “I need clients! I am a thinking machine, and my mind must be fed problems, lest it wither from languor.”
“Perhaps there’s something in the paper for your mind to chew on.” I picked up the morning paper and leafed through the pages. “Ah,” I said. “Here’s an interesting item. They’ve found Henry Tuttle alive and in hiding! He’d faked his death to avoid his creditors.”
“A cowardly act,” said Holmes, “but far from interesting.”
“I seem to recall you did much the same a few years back,” I said.
“For entirely different reasons, Watson,” said Holmes. “You know that.”
I did my best to hide my smile. “If you say so.” I turned another page, and a new article caught my eye “Ah, here’s something. Apparently the Sleeping Cardinal has been put up for auction.”
“The Sleeping Cardinal?” said Holmes. “Now that is interesting. I believe you were involved in the painting’s recovery a few years back?”
“I played my part, yes,” I said.
“Yet you’ve never told me the full story,” said Holmes.
“It’s never come up before.”
“Well then, Doctor,” said Holmes, “if the criminals of the present cannot challenge my mind, then perhaps the criminals of the past can. Tell me your tale.”
“Are you, Sherlock Holmes, really asking me to tell you one of my stories? You usually dislike my writing in the Strand Magazine.”
Holmes fixed me with the gravest of stares. “It’s either your stories or the needle, Watson,” he said. “I leave the decision to you.”
“Very well,” I said, and pushed my breakfast aside. “Where to begin?”
“You are the storyteller, Watson,” said Holmes. “I place myself in your capable hands.”
“I suppose,” I began, “that the best place would be the summer of 1892. It had been over a year since your disappearance, Holmes, and some months before your reappearance in London. During the intervening time, I had left the world of criminal investigation behind, choosing instead to focus upon my medical practice and the health of my beloved wife Mary, God rest her soul.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes. “Pray continue.”
I gathered my thoughts, and began.
It was a beastly hot summer, as I recall, and my list of clients had swelled as a result. I had just finished treating a patient for heat exhaustion over near Covent Garden when I, quite literally, ran into an old friend. I was walking home and so consumed with thoughts of my wife and her health that I didn’t even see the gentleman until I had barreled into him.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” I said.
The gentleman, however, did not want to give pardon and began to yell back at me. “Why don’t you watch where you’re . . .” he began, but then stopped, his eyes widening in surprise and his mouth spreading into a grin. “Well, if that doesn’t beat all,” he said. “Is that you, Doctor Watson?”
My heart burst with joy at the sight of the man. “Why, it’s Inspector Lestrade!” I said. “My dear fellow. It’s good to see you.”
“What brings you down to Covent Garden?” said Lestrade.
“Oh, I’ve just finished up with a patient,” I said. “And you?”
“Business, I’m afraid.”
“Ah!” I said. “A case?” I could not help but feel a tingle of the old excitement at the prospect.
“Still investigating crimes, Doctor?” said Lestrade.
“No, of course not. Not since Holmes’s death at Reichenbach.”
“Of course.”
“I still follow crime in the paper, though,” I said. “Try to puzzle them out as Holmes would have done.”
Lestrade regarded me with a curious expression. “Actually,” he said, “it’s funny running into you like this. This robbery I’m looking into. It’s exactly the sort of case your Mr. Holmes would have enjoyed.”
“Really?” I said.
Lestrade considered me for a moment, and then said, “See here, Doctor, this is a bit irregular, but are you busy? I could use a fresh set of eyes on this one.”
I smiled. “For old time’s sake?” I said. “Why, Inspector, I’d be honored.”
“Capital,” said Lestrade. “Then follow me, and I’ll outline the details of the case en-route.”
“Lead the way,” I said. “I’m your man.”
We set off together down St. Martin’s Lane, Lestrade talking as we walked.
“It’s like this, Doctor,” he said. “Last night, one Lady Margaret checks into the Hotel Metropole, carrying with her a very expensive painting, called . . .” Lestrade pulled a notebook from his pocket, and consulted his notes. “. . . The Sleeping Cardinal,” he finished.
“I’m not familiar with it,” I said.
“Neither was I before now,” said Lestrade, “but they say it’s a masterpiece and worth a king’s ransom. Lady Margaret had brought the framed painting into town for an exhibition. Not wanting to leave it in her room, she asks the manager . . .” Lestrade checked his notebook again. “. . . one Patrick Pardman, if he’d store it in the hotel safe for the night. Mr. Pardman agrees, and locks the painting up in his office before heading home. You follow me so far?”
“Perfectly,” I said.
“Well, Doctor,” said Lestrade. “Imagine Pardman’s surprise when he arrives the next morning, goes to open the safe, and finds the painting gone!”
“Stolen!” I said.
“One would think so, but there’s no evidence of a break-in at all! The safe is stored in Pardman’s office, a small room with no windows and only one entrance in or out, a door just behind the main desk of the hotel.”
“And the desk was manned all night?” I asked.
Lestrade nodded. “They assure me it was. By one . . .” He checked his notebook again. “. . . James Ryder, I believe.”
“James Ryder,” I said. “I know that name from somewhere.”
“Do you now?” said Lestrade. “Well, this Ryder claims no one else entered the office between the time Pardman left for the night and when he returned the next morning. So how did the painting disappear?”
“Was the office locked at night?” I asked. “Could someone have slipped in while Ryder wasn’t looking? Or perhaps it could have even been Ryder himself?”
Lestrade shook his head. “Mr. Pardman assures me he locks the door when he leaves at night, and only unlocks it first thing in the morning.”
“No sign of tampering, I suppose.”
“None.”
I thought about the problem as we walked. “This is a bit of a stretch,” I said after a time, “but could Pardman himself have taken the painting?”
“Pardman was seen last night leaving the hotel by both Ryder and the porter,” said Lestrade. “He wasn’t even carrying a bag, let alone a framed painting.”
“You’re right, Lestrade,” I said. “This is exactly the sort of case Holmes would have enjoyed.”
“I thought as much,” said Lestrade, “As you can imagine, Lady Margaret is quite distraught and demanding the hotel cover the value of her painting in currency. If we can’t find the culprit and recover the Sleeping Cardinal, the hotel will find itself in quite a financial bind! Ah, here we are,” he said, stopping on the street before the Hotel Metropole. “This way, Doctor,” he said.
We entered into an opulent hotel lobby, empty save for a constable guarding three people by the main desk. The woman, who I took to be Lady Margaret, for she was well dressed and ample, stood beside the two gentlemen who could not have looked more different from one another. One, who I soon learned was Patrick Pardman, was a tall, handsome fellow. The other, James Ryder, was short and rat-faced.
Lady Margaret wasted no time in pouncing upon Lestrade. “At last!” she said. “What took you so long?”
Lestrade was ever the professional. “My apologies, Lady Margaret,” he said, impassively. “Yard business.”
Lady Margaret huffed at this. “I don’t understand what could possibly be more important than my compensation.”
Lestrade ignored her indignation, and instead introduced me. “This is my colleague, Doctor Watson,” he said. “He’ll be assisting me with the investigation. Doctor, this is Lady Margaret, Patrick Pardman and James Ryder.”
We all mumbled, “How do you do?” to each other.
“Excuse me,” said Pardman, “but are you the same Doctor Watson who works with Sherlock Holmes?”
I considered correcting his grammatical tenses, but decided to let it pass. “I am,” I said.
Pardman seized me by my hand and began to shake vigorously. “Bless me!” he said. “It’s an honor sir. An honor.”
“You’ve read my stories?” I asked.
Pardman let my hand go, somewhat sheepishly. “Well, not as such, no,” he said. “But you’re quite popular among the hotel guests. They’re always chattering on about your friend’s exploits. Is he here with you now? It would be a privilege to meet him.”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Pardman,” I said. “Holmes is . . .” I paused, searching for the right word. “. . . away,” I finished.
“If we can get back to the business at hand, please,” said Lestrade, never one to let a sentimental moment remain uninterrupted. He pulled out his notebook yet again, and flipped open to an empty page. “Now, let’s review the details for Doctor Watson’s benefit. Lady Margaret. You checked in to the hotel last night around seven. Is that correct?
“Correct,” said Lady Margaret.
Lestrade recorded this in his notebook. “And while checking in, you turned the painting over to Mr. Pardman for safe-keeping?”
“Well, of course!” said Lady Margaret. “I couldn’t have such a priceless masterpiece of art lying around my room, now could I? You never know who works at these sorts of places.”
“Madame,” began Pardman, with the greatest indignity. “The Metropole is among the top hotels in London—”
Lady Margaret interrupted him. “The top hotels in thievery, you mean.”
“If I can continue?” said Lestrade, waving his notebook about for emphasis. “Now then. Lady Margaret, can you describe the painting in question?”
“Certainly,” said Lady Margaret. “It is a particularly lovely piece of impressionistic artistry by the painter Flemming. With sublime brush strokes, Flemming depicting a priest at rest upon an altar—”
Lestrade cut her off. “Just the size of the painting will do.”
Lady Margaret looked as if she might explode, but she answered with even precision. “Two by three feet, Inspector, mounted in a mahogany frame.”
Lestrade wrote this down in his notebook. “Thank you. Now, Mr. Pardman. You put the painting immediately into your safe, is that correct?”
“Immediately, sir,” said Pardman. “Security is a top priority.”
“And you locked the safe thereafter?” asked Lestrade.
“Of course,” said Pardman. “I even double-checked the lock.” His lip trembled at this, as some of his professional composure broke. “Oh, Inspector, how could this have happened?” he said. “I’ll be out of a job!”
“Have some faith in the force, Mr. Pardman,” said Lestrade. “We’ll recover the painting, never fear. Now what time did you leave the hotel?”
“Just after eight that night,” said Pardman. “Ryder had come on to work the desk shortly before Lady Margaret checked in, and I retired to my office to finish some paperwork. When I was done, I locked the office and bid Ryder good night.”
“Ryder,” said Lestrade, “can you confirm the time?”
Ryder, who had been very quiet up until now, nodded his head. “Indeed, sir,” he said. “Eight o’clock.”
“And you’re absolutely certain,” said Lestrade, “that no one entered the office between eight that evening and when Mr. Pardman arrived for work the next morning?”
“On my honor, sir,” said Ryder. “It was a quiet evening, and I never left my post at the desk.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Ryder,” I asked, “but you look very familiar. Have we met before?”
“I don’t believe so, sir,” said Ryder, but he never met my eyes. I could tell he was lying.
Lestrade noticed none of this. “What time did Mr. Pardman return?” he asked.
“Around six this morning, I think,” said Ryder.
“Six on the dot, sir,” said Pardman. “Punctuality is my motto.”
“And it was then you discovered the painting missing?” said Lestrade.
“Well,” said Pardman, “not immediately. It wasn’t until Lady Margaret came down and asked to check on her painting that I opened the safe. But when I did, the painting was gone!”
“No sign of a break-in?” said Lestrade.
Pardman shook his head. “None that I could see, sir.”
“And Lady Margaret,” said Lestrade. “What time did you come down?”
“Just past six-thirty,” said Lady Margaret. “I’d had a bad dream, and woke up convinced something had happened to my painting!”
Lestrade rubbed his chin. “A dream, eh?” he said. “That’s quite a coincidence.”
“Mr. Pardman,” I said, “could we have a look at this safe?”
“Of course,” said Pardman. “Anything I can do to help. This way, gentlemen.”
We left Lady Margaret and Ryder behind in the lobby as Pardman ushered us into a spartan office, devoid of any charm or character. No pictures adorned its windowless walls, and the only furniture was a single desk, two chairs and the large safe pushed into the far corner. The only luxury the room offered was its fireplace; a prize, I was sure, during the cold London winters.
“As you can see, gentlemen,” said Pardman, “the door is the only way in or out.”
Lestrade studied the safe. “I see no signs of tampering. What about you, Doctor?”
I studied the safe, looking for the scratches and dents that might indicate foul play. “None that I can see,” I said at last. “Who knows the combination to the safe?”
“Only myself,” said Pardman, “although I do keep it recorded on my desk ledger.”
“Isn’t that a security risk?” said Lestrade.
“Maybe,” said Pardman, “but I’ve got a terrible memory, so it’s better to have it written down than not. Besides, the office is locked at all times when I’m not here.”
Lestrade turned away, whispering aside to me so that Pardman could not hear, “Little doubt how the thief got into the safe, is there Doctor?”
“Indeed, Inspector,” I whispered back. “But there still remains the question of how he got into the office in the first place.”
Lestrade turned back to Pardman. “Who all has the key to your office?” he asked.
“There’s only one key, Inspector,” said Pardman. “I keep it with me at all times.” From his pocket he withdrew a keyring, singling one out.
“That’s a rather unusual looking key, Mr. Pardman,” I said.
“A Roman design, Doctor,” said Pardman. “A trick for my memory to know which key fits my office lock.”
“Now then, this Ryder,” said Lestrade. “How long has he been with the hotel?”
“Less than a year,” said Pardman, “but he came with references from the Hotel Cosmopolitan. I know the manager over there personally.”
“And how long have you been with the Metropole, Mr. Pardman?” I asked.
“It’ll be twenty years this January,” said Pardman. “I’m second only to the hotel’s owner, Mr. Saul.”
I knew the name of Zacharias Saul very well. He was reputed to be one of the richest men in London.
I looked around the room, trying to think beyond the obvious, searching for any clues for how the thief might have entered the office. “This fireplace,” I said. “Is it possible someone could have entered the office by the chimney?”
Lestrade shook his head. “I thought of that, Doctor,” he said, “but if they had entered by the fireplace, they would have left traces in the ashes, and as you can see the ashes are undisturbed.”
“Besides, the chimney’s only a foot wide,” said Pardman. He began to chuckle. “We joke about it around here. Say that it makes it very difficult for Father Christmas.”
“What did you say?” I whispered.
“Father Christmas,” said Pardman. “He’s supposed to come down the chimney . . .”
Memories rushed into my head. “Ryder!” I said. “James Ryder! Of course!”
I rushed out into the lobby, pointing my finger in accusation.
“Constable,” I cried. “Seize that man!”
The constable seemed surprised, but did as he was told, seizing Ryder by him arm. Ryder struggled, but soon realized the constable was too much for him and his resistance evaporated into pitiful wails.
“Please, Doctor Watson!” he cried. “I haven’t done anything this time! Have mercy!”
“Holmes gave you mercy once, Ryder,” I said, “but he’s not here to do it again.”
Lestrade barged back into the Lobby, followed by Pardman. “Explain yourself, Doctor!” said Lestrade.
“Certainly,” I said. “It was several Christmases past that Holmes and I investigated the theft of the Blue Carbuncle from the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Holmes’s investigation determined the thief to be this man! James Ryder!”
Lestrade blinked in disbelief. “Ryder stole the Carbuncle?” he said. “And Holmes just let him go?”
“A thief!” cried Pardman with indignation. “A thief working the desk of my hotel!”
“Why’d you do it, Ryder?” I said. “You promised Holmes you’d flee the country and never steal again!”
Ryder stifled back a sob. “I tried to leave, Doctor Watson,” he said, “but London’s the only home I’ve ever known! I even tried to stick it out at the Cosmopolitan, but the manager came to suspect me, so I had to leave. I was trying to make a fresh start here at the Metropole. I didn’t steal the painting! Honest I didn’t!”
“We’ll see about that,” said Lestrade. “Constable, hold him tight while I search his pockets.” Lestrade turned Ryder’s pockets out, and searched through their meager contents. Unsatisfied, he looked about the lobby for more. “Where’s his coat?”
“I believe I saw it behind the lobby desk, Inspector,” said Pardman.
Lestrade strode around to the back of the lobby desk, seized the coat and raised it aloft like a prize. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets and fished about until he seized upon an object which he pulled out with a flourish of triumph. “Ah-hah!” he said. “What’s this, then? Do you recognize this little beauty, Mr. Pardman?”
In Lestrade’s hand was a metal key with the same distinctive Roman design we had seen only moments before.
“Of course I do,” said Pardman. “That is a duplicate of the key to my office.”
“I thought as much,” said Lestrade. “James Ryder, you are under arrest for the theft of the Sleeping Cardinal!”
“But that key isn’t mine!” said Ryder. “I’ve never seen it before in my life!”
“That’s what they all say,” said Lestrade, but then he began to laugh.
“What’s so funny, Inspector?” I asked.
“It looks like your Mr. Holmes was finally wrong about something!” said Lestrade. “Letting a criminal go free like that. Mercy, indeed! Just goes to show you; once a thief, always a thief.”
Despite Ryder’s protests Lestrade led him away, assuring both Pardman and Lady Margaret that he would procure the painting’s location during interrogation at the Yard. I watched Lestrade escort Ryder away down the Strand with the nagging suspicion that I had missed something, some detail that would turn this case around, but I couldn’t then put my finger on it.
Holmes interrupted me, taking me away from my tale. “Leave the dramatics for your readers at the Strand, Watson,” he said. “Please limit yourself to the facts.
“If you’d rather I stopped . . .” I began.
“Oh, not at all, Doctor!” said Holmes. “While your prose may be overly colorful the problem is to my liking. Pray continue.”
The following evening I spent in the manner which had become my custom: working on my memoirs in the company of my beloved wife. Mary was seated by my side reading the evening paper, and cried aloud as she came across something that sparked her interest.
“Did you see that you’re in the paper tonight, John?”
“Hm?” I said, putting my pen aside. “No, I didn’t. What does it say?”
Mary cleared her throat and began to read. “‘Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard arrested James Ryder for the theft of the painting, the Sleeping Cardinal, from the Hotel Metropole. Assisting in the investigation was the long-time associate of Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson!’ My famous husband.” She smiled at me, but that smile crumbled as a fit of coughing overwhelmed her.
I poured Mary some water, which she gratefully accepted. “Mary,” I said as she drank, “you should get to bed. You know you aren’t well.”
“I’ll be all right, John,” she said, putting the water glass aside. “I’m just so happy for you. There’s a sparkle in your eye when you’re involved in a mystery. It’s just like you used to say about Sherlock Holmes; you’re happiest when there’s a problem to unravel.”
“Perhaps so,” I said. “I just can’t get this Cardinal business out of my mind. Something doesn’t feel right about it.”
“But you have the right man, surely!” said Mary. “Ryder’s a thief twice over.”
“He certainly had ample opportunity,” I said. “Although the idea that he thought he’d be able to get away with it strikes me as incredible.”
“If Scotland Yard is happy,” said Mary, “then you should be too.”
“I suppose you’re right,” I said. “But I’d be even happier if we can get you well again, Mary.”
Mary put her arms around me. “I’d like nothing better, John.”
I kissed her then, relieved that her coughing had, for the moment, subsided.
In the days following Lestrade was kind enough to keep me informed of his progress, or lack thereof, with the investigation. James Ryder continued to insist he was innocent, but Lestrade assured me it would only be a matter of time before he’d crack and give up the location of the painting. And that would likely have been the end of my involvement in the matter if not for a message that arrived at our doorstep a week later.
I was writing again in my study when I felt Mary’s slender hand upon my shoulder. “John?” she said. “A telegram’s arrived for you.”
I lay down my pen. “Oh? Who’s it from?”
“It doesn’t say,” answered Mary. “Just an initial at the bottom. The letter ‘M’.”
“M?” I said, excitement building within me, spurred by the possibilities of that initial. “Let me see that.”
Mary handed me the telegram and I read it aloud.
WHERE IS THE PAINTING? CONSULT SHERLOCK’S CONTACTS. CONSIDER THE ASHES.
— M
I confess to being puzzled. “Consider the ashes . . . ?” I mused.
“What does it mean, John?” asked Mary. “Who are Sherlock’s contacts?”
“Holmes kept numerous sources among London’s criminal class,” I said. “They helped him in his investigations.”
“And you know these gentlemen?” I could hear the disapproval in her tone.
“A few of them.” I saw no reason to scare my wife with the number of miscreants who I had come into acquaintance with during my time in Baker Street.
Mary was not fooled for a moment. “John,” she said. “It might be dangerous.”
“It might be at that.”
Mary sighed. “But there’s no stopping you, is there? I know that look in your eye. All right, John. Just be careful.”
“I will, Mary,” I said. “For your sake.”
The telegram had reawakened the case in my mind. What had happened to the Sleeping Cardinal? There seemed two possibilities; either it had been hidden within the hotel prior to Ryder’s arrest, or it had been secreted away from the hotel to be sold on the black market. Seeing as the police had conducted a thorough search of the hotel, I decided to pursue the second possibility. To that end, I sought out a man I only knew as ‘Jones,’ a shady sort I had seen frequently in our rooms at 221B Baker Street. His information had been instrumental in solving the Darlington substitution case several years ago.
I found him drinking in a disreputable pub in the lower-east end of London. I sidled up beside him at the bar.
“Is that you, Jones?” I said.
Jones looked askance at me. “Who wants to know?”
“My name is Doctor Watson. You might remember from the times you visited Sher—”
Jones clamped his hand over my mouth, silencing me mid-name. “Shhh! Shhh!” he said. “Not so loud! You want everyone in the pub to know who you is? Yeah, I remembers you, Doctor.” He dropped his tone to a whisper. “Did Mr. H. send you? Haven’t seen him around lately.”
“No,” I said. “Mr. H. is not in London at this time.”
“Pity,” said Jones, turning his attentions back to his drink. “He owes me money, he does.”
“I’m looking for information,” I said. “I was wondering if you can help me.”
“Well, guv,” said Jones, “help ain’t cheap. It’ll cost you.”
“And just how much will it cost me?” I said.
“Depends on just how helpful you want me to be,” said Jones.
“I’m looking for a painting.”
Jones chuckled. “Oh! And not just any paintin’! You be lookin’ for the Sleepin’ Cardinal that got lifted out of the Metropole last week.”
“Why, yes,” I said, surprised. “How did you know that?”
“’Cause you ain’t the only one,” said Jones. “Scotland Yard’s been down here lookin’ for it too.”
I felt a tinge of excitement. “You have it, then?”
“Good lord, no, guv!” said Jones. “You think I’m going to touch somethin’ that hot?”
My excitement withered. “Then this has been a wasted journey,” I moaned.
“Aw, cheer up, Doctor,” said Jones. “I might not be able to help you find the paintin’, but I might be able to give you a hint as to who took it.” He looked around to make sure no one was listening, and then spoke to me in low tones. “There’s this fellow, see?” he said. “Works at the Hotel Metropole, and he’s in for some serious money with the local bookies. They say he likes the ponies and isn’t the luckiest man in the world.”
“Can you describe this fellow?” I said.
Jones smiled. “Course I can,” he said. “But not until I see some coin.”
“How much?”
Jones rubbed his chin, considering his options. “For information that valuable?” he said. “Well, now. Let me see. Five pounds might loosen my lips.”
“Five pounds?” I cried. “That’s outrageous!”
Jones shrugged. “Well, you think it over, Doctor,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere. Not with it being so blasted hot outside.”
I couldn’t help but agree. “It certainly is that,” I said. “It hasn’t been this warm since . . .” I broke off mid-sentence as something fell into place within my mind. “Good lord!” I said. “I have it!”
“What’s that, then?” said Jones, sensing his fish had fallen off its hook.
“The ashes!” I cried. “Consider the ashes! I know who took the Cardinal!”
“Calm down there, Doctor,” said Jones. “You’re not makin’ any sense.”
“I have to go to Scotland Yard at once!” I said. I seized Jones by his hand, shaking it vigorously. “Thank you very much, Jones. You’ve been most helpful.” I fished a coin from my pocket. “Here’s a crown for your trouble.”
Jones snatched the coin from my hand before I could even blink. “Why, thank you, Doctor.” I turned to leave, and heard Jones call after me. “You’re welcome!” he cried, followed by a mumbled, “I think . . . ?”
As I left the disreputable pub behind, my mind buzzed with excitement. I could see it all now; exactly who had taken the painting and how.
“Absolutely scintillating, Watson,” said Holmes, who was pacing back and forth again within our sitting room. “You had of course noticed that the ashes . . .”
I interrupted my friend before he could ruin my tale. “Holmes, please. Let me tell my own story.”
“Of course,” said Holmes. “Do forgive me, Doctor. Pray continue.”
I rushed to Scotland Yard and sought out Lestrade. Together, we then made out way back to Covent Garden and were soon standing before a small set of rooms near the Hotel Metropole. We knocked at the door, and a tall, handsome man answered.
“Yes?” said Patrick Pardman. “Ah, Inspector. And Doctor Watson! What a surprise.”
“May we come in?” asked Lestrade.
“Of course, of course,” said Pardman.
He stepped aside, and ushered us within.
Pardman’s quarters were spartan, devoid of the luxury the Hotel Metropole provided. It was a single room, with a small bed, a dresser and side table. A decanter, some bottles and glasses were perched on top of dresser, and Pardman poured himself a drink.
“May I offer you gentlemen some brandy?” asked Pardman.
Lestrade shook his head. “I’m afraid we’re here on business.”
“Oh?” said Pardman. “You have news of the Sleeping Cardinal?”
“We do,” said Lestrade.
“Well, that is welcome news,” said Pardman. “Mrs. Margaret is demanding her compensation by no later than noon tomorrow. Mr. Saul is most unhappy with the situation.”
“I can imagine,” I said.
“Then don’t keep me in suspense, gentlemen,” said Pardman. “Have you located the painting?”
“We have information that points us in a direction,” said Lestrade.
“Well, that is encouraging!” said Pardman. “And where is the Cardinal presently?”
“That is what we’ve come to ask you, Mr. Pardman,” I said.
Pardman blinked in surprise. “Me?” he said. “But it was Ryder who took the Sleeping Cardinal!”
“No,” I said, “but that’s what you wanted us to think.”
“You knew of Ryder’s suspected involvement in the disappearance of the Blue Carbuncle from your discussions with the manager of the Hotel Cosmopolitan,” said Lestrade, “and knew he’d make a perfect scapegoat should a robbery ever occur at the Hotel Metropole.”
“All you had to do was somehow mention Ryder’s involvement with the Blue Carbuncle theft to the proper authorities,” I said, “and Ryder’s arrest for the new robbery would be almost assured. My appearance at the scene must have seemed an early Christmas to you. Why raise the affair of the Blue Carbuncle to the authorities when a known associate of Sherlock Holmes could do it for you?”
“The spare key was a nice touch in the frame-up,” said Lestrade. “Only you made a small slip up there.”
“Really,” said Pardman.
“You said you never let the key of your sight,” I said. “How then could Ryder have made a copy? I suspect if we were to check with locksmiths in the area of the hotel, they’d remember making a copy for you, Mr. Pardman, and not for Mr. Ryder.”
“That proves nothing,” said Pardman. “I have keys made for the hotel all the time.”
“But the rest of the hotel uses standard keys,” I said, “while the key to your office is Roman. Something with that unique a design is bound to stick out in a locksmith’s mind.”
“You slipped the duplicate into Ryder’s coat so I could find it,” said Lestrade, “which completed your frame-up. A very clever touch, but not clever enough for an officer of the Yard.”
Pardman drained his glass, and regarded us calmly. “An entertaining tale, gentlemen,” he said, “but you still haven’t told me where the painting is.”
“The painting’s disappearance is really only a mystery if we assume it was ever in the safe to begin with,” I said, “and we only have your word for that. If, however, the opposite were true and the painting were never in the safe, then the solution becomes obvious.”
“You walked out of the Hotel Metropole that evening with the painting in hand,” said Lestrade, “determined to sell it on the black market.”
“That’s ridiculous!” said Pardman. “How could I walk out with a painting that size and not be seen? The idea’s ludicrous!”
“It is ludicrous,” I said, “until you remember the ashes in your fireplace.”
Pardman blinked at me in surprise. “I beg your pardon?” he said.
“Lestrade noted the ashes in your office as evidence that no one had snuck down the chimney,” I said, “but what we should have been asking is why you were burning a fire at all during the hottest summer in recent memory? The answer is that you were burning the frame upon which the Cardinal was mounted!”
“With the frame removed, the painting was much easier to conceal beneath your coat,” said Lestrade. “You wrapped the canvas around your body and walked out of the hotel, right in front of both Ryder and the porter, with neither the wiser.”
“But this is madness!” cried Pardman. “Why should I do such a thing? I’ve been loyal to that hotel for twenty years! Ryder’s your man! He’s a thief, I tell you, a thief!”
“Yes,” I said, “I wondered about that too. Why would you steal from your own hotel? But then I did some checking with Holmes’s criminal contacts and discovered a very interesting fact.”
“We know about the bookies,” said Lestrade. “We know about the gambling, and we know how much you owe them. The game’s up Pardman. Why don’t you give us the canvas and be done with it?”
Pardman stared back at us in defeat. “Fine,” he said at last. “You can have the blasted thing. No one’s buying it anyway. They say it’s too hot! But you have to protect me, Inspector! If I don’t have the money by tomorrow, they’ll kill me!”
“Then it’s a good thing you’re going to the safest place I know,” said Lestrade. “A jail cell at the Yard.”
Pardman retrieved the Sleeping Cardinal from its hiding place, and Lestrade took him away to an awaiting cell. That evening, with the painting in hand, Lestrade and I visited Lady Margaret to return her property. She seemed oddly cold to the Cardinal’s recovery. In fact she hardly even bothered to thank us! But justice had been served, and I felt satisfied.
“And that, Holmes,” I said, “is the story of how we recovered the Sleeping Cardinal.”
Holmes, who had been smoking as he listened, opened his eyes and laid his calabash pipe on the mantle. “An entertaining tale, Doctor,” he said. “I’m sure the readers of the Strand Magazine will enjoy it.”
“Oh, I’ll never write it up,” I said. “It’s your adventures they want, not mine.”
Holmes smiled. “Ah, but perhaps I had more to do with the case than you realize.”
“How do you figure, Holmes?”
“Did you never wonder who sent you the mysterious telegram?”
“Well,” I said, “I had always assumed the message came from your brother, Mycroft.”
“You are only partly correct,” said Holmes. “The telegram was indeed from Mycroft. The message, on the other hand, was from me.”
“You?” I said, astonished.
“I had requested that my brother keep tabs on you during my absence,” said Holmes, “along with sending me full reports of your progress. When he sent me Lestrade’s police report on your involvement with the robbery of the Sleeping Cardinal, I could not help but smile.”
I sighed. “At how poorly I performed the investigation?”
“My dear fellow,” said Holmes, “you underestimate yourself. You had the tenacity to question the obvious while Lestrade rushed toward the easiest conclusion. I knew if we provided you a small push in the right direction you would find the truth. No, I smiled as, despite my absence, you were still in the game.”
“Ah,” I said. “Well, thank you, Holmes.”
“You did, however, miss one avenue of investigation.”
“Oh? And what’s that?”
“I find it difficult to believe,” said Holmes, “that a woman who has just had her priceless painting stolen would immediately demand compensation rather than the canvas’ recovery. I find it very probable that she planned the theft together with Mr. Pardman.”
“Now, Holmes, that really is too much!”
“Consider the facts,” said Holmes. “Consider that Pardman knew immediately how to smuggle the painting out of the hotel, almost as if he’d had advance warning. Consider that Lady Margaret chose not to store her painting in the gallery where it was to be exhibited, but instead to store it in a hotel safe. Consider also that she chose not to stay in a hotel near the exhibition, but instead a hotel owned by the richest man in London?”
“Good Lord,” I said. “I have been blind all these years.”
“Ah, but we shall never know for certain,” said Holmes. “It was her estate sale you saw in the paper. Lady Margaret died last week. But cheer up, Watson. You did find the thief and recover the Sleeping Cardinal. As good an outcome as could be hoped for.”
“Well,” I said, “after your telegram provided a thread to follow, the solution was . . . er . . .” I hesitated, wondering if I should dare.
“Go ahead and say it, Watson,” said Holmes. “You’ve earned it.”
“Why, it was elementary, my dear Holmes,” I said. “Elementary.”