The rest of the evening was disappointingly unfruitful. Frogmorton had not been lying when he claimed that most of the Hamblin Collection had been sold. We followed him from room to room, examining familiar patches of darker wallpaper and, now and again, an actual painting, though none of them appeared forged, stolen or otherwise noteworthy, at least to my eyes. Each subsequent room lowered our spirits more until, upon returning full-circle to the entrance hall again, Holmes announced that we were leaving. Frogmorton did not pretend sorrow at our departure. He said that he hoped we would never need to meet again and slammed the door behind us.
The journey back to Baker Street was a silent one, and Holmes went straight to his room the moment we were in our quarters, waving a dismissive hand at my questions as he did so.
* * *
The next morning, he was gone before I awoke. A note propped on the mantelpiece informed me that he had received a summons from his brother Mycroft which would brook no delay, and that he would return as soon as he might but certainly before that evening. A scribbled postscript suggested I spend the day in relaxation. ‘Try and stay out of trouble,’ it concluded.
With no more pressing claim on my time, I tried to take Holmes’s advice and after breakfast I settled myself in an armchair with a historical novel. The weather outside remained foul, and I did not envy Holmes his trip outside, but even so a vague tickling at the back of my mind made concentration difficult and I quickly found myself supremely confused by the plethora of abbots, knights and squires who made up the cast of my novel. Throwing the book aside, I bathed and dressed then stood, irresolute, at the window, watching the rain bounce from the gutterings of the building opposite. Recalling the condescending addendum to Holmes’s note and his dismissal of the previous evening, I found my mood quickly matching the weather outside. It seemed to me, as I contemplated the brewing storm, that Holmes often left me in the dark, and took altogether too much delight in demonstrating that his mental acuity was superior to my own. Within minutes, I had resolved to do something useful of my own volition but could think of nothing suitable.
It would perhaps be more honest to say that I could think of nothing both suitable and attractive. Obviously, Holmes would want to speak to Miss Rhodes as soon as he had completed whatever task Mycroft had in mind, and I strongly suspected that a kind word from one such as myself would be more efficacious than Holmes’s more robust questioning. But since Frogmorton’s revelations I was nervous of approaching her. As an army doctor I have, of course, been exposed to the more sordid side of life, but even so the recent events at Hamblin were enough to force me to reconsider my view of Miss Rhodes. I am by no means a prude, but if I had understood Holmes’s accusations correctly, my initial view of Jessica Rhodes might well need to be revisited. Dark indeed was my mood as I considered the situation.
* * *
In the end, lack of alternatives forced my hand, and within the half hour I found myself sheltering from the downpour under the entrance portico of the National Portrait Gallery. Had I known the day that was to follow would be one of the most terrible in my long friendship with Sherlock Holmes, I might well have turned on my heel and returned to my book.
Miss Rhodes was directing the relocation of some sculpture when I found her, striking through the name of each piece on a list she held as it was moved to her satisfaction. She had her back to me and failed to notice my entrance for several minutes, time which I spent observing the way in which she managed the team of men who comprised her workforce. A woman in a position of authority was unusual, but the effective and efficient way she directed operations brought it home to me again that this was indeed an unusual woman who should, perhaps, be judged differently to the common herd. Eventually I realised that I was in effect spying on her and, embarrassed, I coughed loudly in order to catch her attention.
‘Dr Watson! What a pleasant surprise!’
As soon as she spoke, any doubts I might have harboured about her role at Hamblin Hall evaporated. There was an openness and honesty about her which did not allow for suspicion of wrongdoing. Whatever had occurred at Hamblin Hall that summer, I was again certain that Miss Rhodes was entirely innocent of blame.
With this reassuring conviction in mind, I bade her good morning, and asked if I might have a moment of her time, in private. She smiled her agreement and led me to her office.
The room fell somewhere between a cubby-hole and a box-room, being considerably smaller than Petrie’s office, yet with enough room for the sort of curios and artefacts which spoke of a lively and enquiring mind. A small window at the far end illuminated a battered desk on which were piled stacks of notes, catalogues and journals. A single chair and a small side table completed the furnishings.
‘Have you made progress with your case, then?’ she asked as soon as we were comfortably ensconced within.
I had hoped to avoid discussion of certain of the specifics of our activities the previous day, but, thus pressed, I confirmed that progress had been made, following our trip to Hamblin Hall. ‘In fact,’ I concluded, ‘it is possible that you can be of assistance to us, if you would not object to answering one or two questions.’
‘Why, I would be delighted to help you in any way I can, Dr Watson! Though I’m not sure I can, really. I was only a guest at the Hall for a short period, after all.’
I was certain that her desire to help was not feigned, and that her eagerness was genuine, but she had begun with a clear untruth, which emboldened me sufficiently to ask the difficult question that needed to be asked.
‘I am afraid, Miss Rhodes, that my first question is one that will seem ungentlemanly to you, appearing as it does to cast doubts upon your recollection of certain events.’ I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. ‘It has been… brought to the attention of Sherlock Holmes and myself that you were more than just a fleeting visitor to Hamblin Hall last year. We have learned, in fact, that you spent enough time at the Hall to become an invaluable aide and confidante to Mr Frogmorton, and may even have compiled a sales ledger for him?’
I was aware of the creeping note of pomposity in my voice, which made my respect for Miss Rhodes all the greater as she met my accusations with a quiet and becoming dignity. I had feared she would deny everything, leaving me no choice but to call her a liar, but instead she showed no outward sign of distress other than an almost imperceptible quickening of breath. Before saying another word, she opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a thin, paper-covered notebook of the sort sold in every stationer in the land. She laid it down in front of me.
‘I should have known that there was no point in dissimulation with Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson. Yes, I did become more than simply a houseguest while at Hamblin Hall. I don’t even know why I pretended otherwise.
‘I was happy to help Mr Frogmorton in any way I could, you see, after he had been so kind to my friend and me. His wife was often away, my friend slept a great deal and as a result we were thrown together more than would otherwise have been the case. So yes, in answer to your question – we did become confidantes, I suppose. And when I had made my own purchases from the Hamblin Collection it seemed only courteous to offer to help him sell the remainder, as he had often mentioned he wished to do. I sent a telegram or two to art dealers and collectors of my acquaintance, supervised a clean-up of some of the better pieces, and helped Mr Frogmorton obtain good prices for each painting.’ She pushed the notebook towards me. ‘And this is the ledger to which you referred. I should warn you, however, that it is not a catalogue of the Hamblin Collection, but rather my own personal reminders book, in which I am in the practice of noting every work of art that passes through my hands. Every sale made at Hamblin is in there, however.’
Her voice throughout this speech was measured and calm. There was no question in her mind of any wrongdoing, that much was clear. As I took the notebook she asked whether we had discovered more forgeries at Hamblin Hall.
I could see no reason not to tell her the truth. ‘No, unfortunately we did not. The coincidence of two forged paintings from a single source may turn out to be exactly that – a coincidence.’ Seeing her face fall, I hurriedly went on, ‘But we have hopes that your ledger can provide further fuel for our investigation!’
She smiled at that. I flipped open the notebook and cast an eye down the first page. A fine hand had inscribed a year at the top in an ornate calligraphy, and underneath had listed over a dozen paintings, each described in detail, with a location and a specific date noted beneath. ‘These dates are those upon which you worked on the paintings, broken down by year?’ I asked and, receiving confirmation by way of a short nod, continued to flick through the little book. For such a young woman, Miss Rhodes evidently had a great deal of experience in and knowledge of her chosen field, and as the date which headed each page grew closer and closer to the current year, the number of paintings on each page increased. I turned one page dated some two years previously, in every expectation of reaching Hamblin Hall within a page or two. But instead, the next page was headed 1896 – the current year – with nothing in between. It was as though her country sojourn had never taken place.
I showed her the successive pages. It seemed to me that she hesitated for the briefest of moments, then shook her head, her confusion and distress plain for all to see. ‘There should be two pages here, Dr Watson. Two pages that cover my entire time at Hamblin and record every sale in which I was involved.’ She handed the notebook back, and I turned it over in my hands. I knew how Holmes would approach the problem, and I could see no reason why I should not apply his methods. Moving over to a light on the wall, I held the book up, turning it first one way then the other, allowing the flame to illuminate the pages. There was something…
‘Quick, Miss Rhodes,’ I exclaimed, ‘come here!’
I held the notebook out in front of her, and gently pulled the two halves of the cover away from each other. ‘If you look carefully at the inner spine of the book, it’s possible to just make out an irregularity where pages have been removed. Cut out, in fact, I’d say.’
She blanched. ‘But this means that someone has been in my office. Someone has…’ Her voice trailed off. ‘I don’t understand, Dr Watson. Why would anyone be interested in my notes? Who would be interested in them? And what has this to do with the King Charles and Augustine Hamblin forgeries? Should we not inform Mr Petrie?’
Pleased though I was with my discovery, I had no answers to these questions. It seemed likely that someone wanted to hinder Holmes’s investigations, but other than that, I was at a loss. Miss Rhodes’s distress was clear to see, but there was no light she could shed on the vandalism we had discovered, nor anyone she could bring to mind who might have reason to carry out such an act. I was keen to continue our conversation and, remembering the criminal Lestrade had mentioned earlier, I rather impulsively asked whether she knew any albinos, though with little expectation of a positive reply. Consequently, I was not disappointed when she shook her head, a look of confusion on her face.
‘An albino? No, I’m afraid not. I don’t believe I have ever seen such a man, in fact. Why do you ask?’
‘It is nothing to concern yourself about, my dear,’ I hastened to reassure her. ‘Just a stray thought. Would you mind if I borrowed your notebook? Holmes will want to examine it, I suspect, though I doubt if even he can conjure a list of names from pages that do not exist.’
We sat for a moment or two, each of us silently considering the impossible situation we found ourselves in until, with a start and a small sound of surprise, Miss Rhodes looked up and exclaimed that she knew something that might help.
‘I do know the location of one item that was contained in those pages, Dr Watson! It was a very minor part of the Hamblin Collection, a miniature depicting Jacob and Esau, the twin sons of the Biblical Isaac, but it had a certain charm that I thought might be of interest to the Gallery. Unfortunately, though, when I brought it to London, it was judged to be too small for effective display here, but I was able by sheer chance to sell it on Mr Frogmorton’s behalf to a local collector of my acquaintance. It is only one sale amongst many, but it is at least something, is it not?’
I was inclined to think it a very small something indeed, but even so it was better than nothing at all, and I was grateful to note down the details of the purchaser, a Miss Eugenie Marr, of 11 Craven Street, London. The address was close by, and I initially considered investigating straight away. But I knew that Holmes would wish to be involved and, besides, I feared I might overlook something of vital import that my companion would undoubtedly notice. I took my leave of Miss Rhodes, therefore, and resolved to check our lodgings for Holmes before proceeding any further along this fresh investigative path.
* * *
Our rooms were in darkness when I arrived at Baker Street, and I very nearly told the hansom driver to continue on, but I had intended to pick up my revolver in any case, and there was always the possibility that Holmes, even if he himself were not present, might have left a note. I paid the cabman and, running through the unceasing rain, dashed indoors.
The sitting room was cold and dim and heavy with the stench of stale pipe smoke. I moved towards the windows and tugged at the closed curtains, intending to allow in some light and air, but before I could do so, a voice spoke from the shadows.
‘Leave the curtains closed, Watson, if you don’t mind, and the lamps unlit. I would rather not advertise our presence just at the moment.’
Holmes emerged from behind the door, staring at me in the gloom with a fierce intensity. In his hand he held my revolver.
‘Holmes! What’s happened?’ My natural surprise quickly gave way to concern as I moved closer and realised that there was a splash of dried blood on his forehead and abrasions on his cheek. ‘How did you come by these injuries? And the revolver…’
Holmes waved my help away with a grimace. ‘The revolver is simply a precaution. Now, I have a great deal to tell you, Watson, and little time to do so. Save your medical ministrations for later and take a seat, there’s a good fellow.’
I did as I was bidden, but not before soaking a cloth in water and handing it to him. ‘At least clean your face, Holmes. No matter what tale you have to tell, it will not be delayed by that.’
Holmes shrugged and grudgingly dabbed away the blood on his face. ‘Very well,’ he said as he completed this rudimentary toilet. ‘And now that I have done as you asked, will you sit still and listen?’
‘Of course, Holmes,’ I said, and settled back in my seat, intrigued to hear what had occurred.
‘Mycroft had a report which he wished to show me,’ Holmes began. ‘Not knowing I had moved on from that element of the case, he believed the Brotherhood of Ireland remained of paramount interest to me, and that the discovery of the bodies of several prominent members of the group was something I would wish to know about. It appears that there has been a cull amongst the republicans – by a rival gang perhaps – leaving a round dozen men dead, each executed with a single bullet to the head and their bodies burned on waste ground near Streatham. A message pour encourager les autres, in Mycroft’s estimation.’
‘Was your mysterious Major one of the dead men?’
‘Impossible to say, such was the degree of damage caused by the flames. In any case, whatever happened is of no concern to us at present. The case has evolved far beyond simple vandalism, or even the vainglorious sloganeering of a horde of drunken Irishmen, and so I thanked Mycroft for the thought, and hurried back here. I have been meaning to check my records for mention of albino criminals, but nothing I did not already know came to light. In one volume, there is a clipping regarding an Eastern European albino who arrived in London five years previously, but it cannot be the same man. This albino is rumoured to be an exiled prince and a pleasure-loving dilettante, far more likely to be glimpsed at a Society ball than at a robbery.
‘All in all, it had been a wasted morning. Finding you absent from Baker Street, I presumed that you had taken a cab to the Gallery to speak to Miss Rhodes, and resolved to follow, hoping to intervene before you asked any particularly foolish questions, but I had no sooner stepped out of the front door than I was almost run down by a four-horse carriage. Fortunately, I had noticed the stationary carriage out of the corner of my eye as I stepped onto the road, and the sound of the driver’s whip cracking was sufficient to alert me. I was able to dive out of the way, though not, as you can see, without some damage to my face as I struck the ground. The carriage did not stop, but turned in the road, then hurtled away down the street before finally taking the corner into Marylebone Road while my senses remained scrambled.’
I believe I was as astonished by Holmes’s composure as by the assault itself. ‘Holmes, this is monstrous! An attack in broad daylight!’ Holmes did not respond, so I continued. ‘You might have been killed!’
‘That was assuredly the intention. I did catch a glimpse of the driver before I was forced to throw myself aside, however.’
‘And?’
‘And there was nothing to see. He wore a hat pulled down low, and dark glasses, and covered the bottom half of his face with a scarf. Even his hands were gloved. Beyond the fact that he was of below average height, left-handed, fond of extremely poor-quality mutton pie and unfamiliar with the area, I could tell very little about the man.’
‘Mutton pie?’ I queried. ‘The height of a man, even sitting, can be ascertained, and presumably he held the whip in his left hand and the reins in his right, but how could you know his eating habits?’
‘A greasy mark on his overcoat, upon which clung several strands of the stringy meat used in cheap mutton pies across London. Another, similar but drier, stain on his lapel suggested that he was in the habit of eating such delicacies.’
‘And his familiarity or otherwise with Baker Street?’
‘The carriage turned in the street and returned whence it came, along Baker Street and as far as Marylebone Road before turning. Someone more familiar with the area would not have needed to retrace his steps, and would have known that a switch into any of the smaller, and considerably nearer, side streets would allow the vehicle to be safely out of sight far more quickly. Instead, had I not been quite so winded, I would have had plenty of time to observe its escape.’
‘A man so completely hidden surely has something to hide. The albino himself, do you think?’
‘Possibly, Watson. It would certainly fit with the admittedly small amount of evidence we have.’
‘Perhaps he believes that your meeting with Mycroft concerned his own activities? That we are closer to England’s Treasure than is in fact the case?’
‘Perhaps.’ Holmes was non-committal. He passed me my revolver. ‘Keep this close to hand for now, as a precaution.’
Suddenly I remembered that I too had information to impart. I dropped the gun into my overcoat pocket, before telling Holmes about the missing notebook pages, and the single customer Miss Rhodes had identified. He examined the book in the dim light for a moment, and I was pleased to see that he could garner little more from it than I had myself.
‘Carefully cut out, not torn, Watson, you agree?’ he said, holding the book wide open. ‘The knife had a small nick in its blade, and has left a nub of paper behind. The vandal did not wish his theft to be known, clearly. But he was working with at least a modicum of haste, hence the overlooked paper stub.’
‘Hardly surprising, given the location of the notebook, Holmes,’ I interjected. ‘Perhaps the miscreant had limited time in which to remove the pages? If his intention was to hinder our investigations then perhaps he had no choice, but nonetheless it was a risky business, cutting the book up in Miss Rhodes’s very office.’
‘I think you may have wandered from the path of strict accuracy now, Watson, and after such a promising beginning, too. The main aim of the theft was surely to provide information to the thief, and only tangentially to prevent our own access to that information. He must have known that we would find out soon enough by other means to whom the Hamblin pictures were sold – as indeed we have.’
‘In one instance only, Holmes!’ I protested, but I knew from experience that there was no point in arguing, and that Holmes would, in due course, turn out to be in the right.
‘One instance may well prove to be enough, Watson,’ he said, smiling. ‘It takes but a single worm to catch the fish, so long as the line is sufficiently well cast.’
He strode across to the window and threw open the curtains. ‘Enough of this skulking in the shadows, Watson. Let us pay a visit to your lady collector, shall we?’
I almost insisted that we first contact Lestrade and inform him of recent events, but Holmes was already halfway down the stairs and, besides, I knew he would do no such thing. The sole result of such a suggestion would be Holmes lecturing me all the way to Craven Street on the incompetence of the police in general and Lestrade in particular.
I held my tongue, and picked up my hat and coat.