Holmes discovered no further additions to the paintings before they were re-packed for transport on the Special. Miss Rhodes, for her part, had been unable to confirm that the Hamblin library contained any of the works of Thomas Aquinas, but she was certain that there was an extensive religious section, so our hopes were high as we boarded the train.
Lestrade was scheduled to give evidence in court in the morning and so promised to meet us at Hamblin later in the day, but Holmes had asked Miss Rhodes to accompany us, which made the journey north far more palatable to me than might otherwise have been the case. As soon as we boarded, Holmes became lost in a brown study, staring unblinking out of the window as the city gave way to country, leaving the two of us to converse in privacy.
This was, in fact, the first time we had spent any extended period in one another’s company, and I was delighted to discover that we had more in common than I would have expected. Miss Rhodes’s father had been an army surgeon, though some years before my own service, and she had lived for a time near my first surgery in London. We even had one or two shared acquaintances, to my surprise and pleasure. In such manner we passed the entire journey, and – speaking for myself at least – arrived at our destination in fine good humour.
Even the journey from the railway station to Hamblin Hall, bumping our way along a road seemingly composed more of holes than earth, was not enough to deflate me, and though our conversation was curtailed to a degree by the waking presence of Sherlock Holmes, still I think Miss Rhodes felt similarly buoyed. The day was bright and the air clean and sharp, and I was minded to remark that it was good to be alive.
‘It is certainly agreeable to be in the countryside for a while,’ said Holmes with more feeling than was his wont. He was convinced that the combination of the numeric code that ranked the paintings, and the name ‘Aquinas’ hidden in the first, would prove enough to decipher the whole puzzle.
I hoped he was right. The past weeks had been grim indeed, our path littered with the dead, and Holmes a target for the Albino’s deadly attacks. The sole bright spot had been my meeting with Miss Rhodes, and I was keener than usual for the case to be brought to a satisfactory conclusion, so that we might perhaps get to know one another better. Of course, I said none of this, but simply nodded in agreement and settled myself more comfortably in my seat as the cab pulled up in front of the Hall.
At first, I thought Willoughby Frogmorton would deny us entry. Holmes had asked Miss Rhodes to hang back while we knocked at the door, ostensibly to hold the cab while we made sure there was someone at home. The truth of the matter was made plain as soon as Frogmorton attempted to close the door in our faces.
Holmes put a foot out to block the closure, while at the same time beckoning to the cab driver, who had parked a little way down the drive. At this signal, he brought the carriage right up to the door, and Miss Rhodes stepped out. The change in Frogmorton was immediate. Where before he had claimed that our presence was likely to endanger his marriage, now he threw open the door and hurried us inside.
‘Blast you, Holmes,’ he snarled as soon as the door was closed. ‘My wife, thank God, is not at home, but even so – what possessed you to bring her here?’
It was all I could do not to knock the man down. Miss Rhodes coloured, close to tears, and I had already taken a step towards Frogmorton, my fist clenched, when Holmes spoke.
‘One more word from you, Mr Frogmorton, and I suspect that my associate will do you a bodily injury.’
Our host was at once apologetic. ‘I’m sorry… I did not mean… You must understand… my wife…’
I recalled his unctuous voice with loathing, and wondered anew what Miss Rhodes could ever have seen in him. With his oiled hair and silk cravat he was the epitome of the louche wastrel. Perhaps that was the attraction for an innocent young lady? The thought discomfited me greatly, and I pushed it to one side.
‘Miss Rhodes accompanied Dr Watson and myself for two reasons, Frogmorton,’ Holmes frowned. ‘First, in order to place pressure on you to allow us entry, if needed. And secondly, because she is an art expert with intimate knowledge of Hamblin Hall, its art and its library. I have reason to believe that a book in that very library may be a vital component in the solution to the case I am currently working on.’
Throughout this exchange, Frogmorton’s eyes had never left Miss Rhodes’s. I was reminded of the snakes I had seen in Afghanistan, lying lazily in the sun, almost indistinguishable from the sand that surrounded them, sizing up their prey and calculating the best moment to strike. I broke the spell by stepping between them, and asking Miss Rhodes if she cared to lead the way to the library, while the puzzled cab driver unloaded our collection of paintings.
Frogmorton proved to know more about the contents of the library than he had the art on the walls and, once he realised that we had no intention of betraying him to his wife, settled down enough to slip once more into the attitude of false bonhomie with which he had greeted us on our initial visit.
‘Now, gentlemen, what can I do for you? You mentioned a vital book?’
For all his newfound amity, he had directed his question squarely at Holmes and me, carefully ignoring Miss Rhodes, though whether his motivation was guilt or fear was impossible to say. Whatever the cause, he frowned his displeasure when she answered.
‘Mr Holmes and Dr Watson wish to examine any copies of the works of Thomas Aquinas that might be held in the library,’ she said. Her voice, though quiet, was clear and steady, but a flicker of revulsion crossed her face as she spoke, and I could tell that the scales had fallen from her eyes with respect to Willoughby Frogmorton.
Again, Frogmorton addressed himself to Holmes. ‘Aquinas, you say? There’s a collection of sixteenth-century religious volumes just over here.’ He gestured to a crowded shelf towards the rear of the room. ‘It’s a handsome set, but incomplete, so I’ve never been able to sell it.’
Holmes hurried over to the shelf, with Miss Rhodes and I following close behind. Frogmorton hung back, however, then disappeared through the library door without another word. I admit I was not sorry to see him go.
There were perhaps a dozen books, each bound in brown leather, and stamped with a title and a roman numeral in gold leaf on the spine and front cover. As I ran a finger quickly along the row, it was clear to me that Frogmorton had told the truth. The collection as published had obviously consisted of at least twenty volumes, but this library contained only the first eight, and numbers seventeen to twenty. I cast a quizzical look at Holmes, unsure where to begin and loath to do any damage to the books, but he had no such qualms and began pulling them out, throwing them onto a nearby table. More cautiously, Miss Rhodes and I collected what remained and placed them carefully beside the others.
‘Any more?’ Holmes asked the room in general. He walked a brisk circuit of the library, examining the contents of each shelf quickly but carefully until he returned to the spot from which he had started, standing directly in front of us. He rubbed his hands together with pleasure. ‘Shall we see what we can discover in these dusty tomes?’ he asked, but the question was a rhetorical one, for he was already flipping through the thick pages of the first book. I chose another and Miss Rhodes the next, and we sat and examined every page with an intensity which belied the fact that we had no real idea what we were looking for.
The cab driver brought the artworks into the library, then left us to our search. An hour passed, then a second, but we had made no progress.
Outside the sun was setting, bathing our surroundings in a pearl wash which delighted Miss Rhodes, though I believe it was only Holmes’s unfailing courtesy towards the fairer sex that prevented him from asking her to leave when she loudly declared her love of the countryside. Eager to avoid any disagreement, I asked whether she cared to take a stroll round the grounds with me. I cannot deny the warmth of feeling I experienced when she smiled her consent and took my arm. We left Holmes holding a book up to the gas light with a scowl on his face. I doubt he realised we were gone.
Walking across the lawn, warm from the sunny day just ending, we talked about everything that came to mind, though not about the treasure we sought. She told me more about her early life as the daughter of an army doctor, and in return I recounted some tales of my younger days. Perhaps it was the pleasure that I felt in her company, or the still perfection of the evening, but for whatever reason, I allowed myself to become distracted and so was not prepared when, coming round the east side of the house, she suddenly cried out and pointed to a stand of trees on the opposite side of the lawn.
For a moment I was unsure of her meaning, before the shifting evening light briefly illuminated a small, dark shape scuttling from the shade of one tree to another, the unmistakable silhouette of a man against the evening sky. It was impossible to discern any facial features at such a distance and in such poor light, but when I shouted a hallo, one of the figures waved a hand in friendly greeting.
‘Some sort of farm gang, I expect,’ I remarked to Miss Rhodes as we turned the corner. ‘I imagine the estate requires a reasonable amount of upkeep.’
She seemed unconvinced. ‘I don’t recall gangs of men working so late when last I stayed at the Hall,’ she said uncertainly. ‘But perhaps things have changed since then.’
I was keen that she should not dwell on her previous visit and so suggested we return to the Hall, for there was a growing chill in the air, and I feared she would catch cold. She agreed happily, and so we strolled slowly back to the house, for all the world like two people without a care. Appearances, as I long ago learned, can be deceiving.
The instant we were inside we hurried to the library, where Holmes had not moved from his seat. As we entered and pulled the door shut behind us, he looked up.
‘Watson, take a look at this,’ he cried, jubilantly. ‘Miss Rhodes, too.’
He had singled out a slim volume of Aquinas’s writings and spread it out on the table. Like the others we had examined, this was a glorious leather-bound book, debossed with gold leaf.
‘This little volume was tucked away at the back of the shelf, Watson,’ he said. ‘Observe the inscription!’
He handed me the book already open at the correct place. In an ornate hand someone had written ‘Horace Hamblin, 14th November 1647’.
‘I’m sorry, Holmes,’ I said, conscious that again I was unable to match Holmes’s brilliance, and more conscious still that Miss Rhodes was again witnessing my intellectual failure, ‘but wonderful though this discovery may seem to you, it hardly strikes me as terribly unusual that a library that once belonged to Horace Hamblin should contain a book which at one point also belonged to him.’
‘Look at the date, Watson—’ Holmes began, but got no further before Miss Rhodes excitedly interrupted. ‘The fourteenth of November! The day before Hamblin was killed!’
‘Well done, Miss Rhodes,’ Holmes exclaimed. ‘I hope that spending time in your company sharpens Watson’s wits to a similar degree.’ He turned to me, with a small smile on his lips to demonstrate that he was speaking in jest. ‘You see, Watson, Hamblin died on the following day, and if you glance at the other books in the series, you will note that none of them have a similar date on their flyleaves. There is significance in this marking.’
‘Still,’ I said, unwilling to cede the point too readily, ‘a name and date in a book do not bring us any closer to solving the riddle, do they?’
‘Ignore the inscription then, Watson,’ said Holmes, curtly. ‘Look below that, instead.’ He stabbed a long finger at the bottom of the page, where someone had scribbled a string of nonsense letters. I had noticed but dismissed them before, but now I saw that Holmes had copied the letters down on a clean sheet of paper:
WXYUQFSGAGTSRMZ
‘You believe there is some meaning in this jumble?’ I asked.
‘Without doubt. I believe this is a Vigenère cipher encryption, a method by which a phrase can be encoded and then only translated by means of a key, which is made up of the repetition of another word or phrase entirely, mapped against a third set of letters. The trick is to find the key to this, as you rightly say, jumble. Unfortunately, at the moment we do not have that key or any idea how to find it.’
He sighed heavily, the temporary elation of discovery already dissipating.
I cast about for some crumb with which to comfort him. ‘The key must be in the paintings, you said so yourself. All we need do is winkle it out. Give me a hand moving them. Perhaps if they are arranged in a row, so that you can study them in order, something may become apparent.’
I was not confident, but having contributed so little to date, and with no other potential action presenting itself, it was the best I could suggest. Holmes and I propped each painting against the back wall, then stood back and examined them.
Nothing resembling a key phrase was evident. Each painting remained stubbornly as it had always been, and none provided any fresh insight.
At that moment, Frogmorton appeared in the library doorway. The expression on his face was a mixture of sheepish embarrassment and defiant annoyance but when he spoke he appeared sincere enough. ‘My wife is away until the weekend so I suppose it does no harm to have you people rummaging around. Towards the end of Jessica’s previous stay, Alexandra became displeased by our friendship, but since there’s not a soul on the estate in her absence bar myself, I suppose the odds of her finding out are pretty long. Anyway, I came to ask if you’d care for refreshments. Tea and whatnot, or something stiffer if you’d prefer?’
Holmes waved the offer away impatiently and returned to his work. He had written the nonsensical letter series from Aquinas’s book in large letters on a sheet of paper, and was scribbling what appeared to be random words underneath – ‘KING’, ‘STUART’, ‘HAMBLIN’ – repeating each word until the number of letters in each row matched, before scoring them out in obvious irritation. The current iteration read:
WXYUQFSGAGTSRMZ
CHARLESCHARLESC
With a snarl he crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it across the room.
‘This is pure guesswork!’ he complained. ‘I am no better than a third-rate mesmerist in a fleapit of a theatre, or a Scotland Yard detective at the scene of a murder! “CHARLES” is too obvious a key; Hamblin would have chosen something more complex than that which could be guessed by a mere child!’
I have known Sherlock Holmes for many years, and in many moods, and as he looked up at me, I recognised the driven, obsessive demeanour which had, on more than one occasion in the past, presaged a period of intense study, devoid of rest or sustenance, culminating in the solution to some almost intractable conundrum. There was nothing I could do on such occasions but stand by, ready to provide whatever service Holmes required. In the meantime, I accepted Frogmorton’s offer of tea, as did Miss Rhodes. There was no point in being thirsty while we waited for Holmes to uncover some new avenue to explore.
‘I should perhaps offer to help Mr Frogmorton, since he has no servants at present,’ Miss Rhodes suggested, innocently. I was on the verge of insisting she stay in the library while I went to help, when the significance of her words struck home.
‘He said he was the only person on the entire estate, didn’t he?’ I asked the room in general. Miss Rhodes nodded her agreement a bare second before I saw the same look cross her face as, I assumed, had very recently crossed my own.
‘He did,’ she said, quietly. ‘But if that is the case, then who waved to us from the copse of trees in the grounds?’
The conclusion was inescapable. Whoever had been following us throughout our investigations, whoever had tried to run Holmes down, and shot at us through the windows of Baker Street, whoever had killed Mr and Mrs Boggs, and murdered Miss Eugenie Marr, whoever they were, they were outside Hamblin Hall right now.
‘Holmes!’ I cried in horror. ‘The Albino has men in the grounds!’ I hurried to explain about the ‘servants’ in the trees, but Holmes was preoccupied, still mired in the problem of the cipher, and dismissive of anything that did not immediately touch upon that puzzle.
‘That is fascinating, but worthless, information,’ he remarked with ill grace. ‘We could not have hoped to keep ahead of them forever, Watson, and at least here we are behind good thick walls. Lestrade will be with us shortly and, if I am correct in some recent conclusions of mine, we have less to worry about from the Albino than we at one point believed. In the meantime, perhaps I can return to the puzzle of the paintings? I am so close that I can taste it, Watson. It is as though Horace Hamblin is speaking to me across the centuries.’
I looked at my friend, quizzically. ‘That may make sense to you, Holmes, but I admit it leaves me baffled. Would you care to explain – and quickly, if possible? For all your talk of good thick walls, we do not know the strength of the Albino’s forces nor their intentions, and in the event of an attack I would prefer Miss Rhodes at least to be far from here.’ Holmes made a vague noise of agreement, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere, and I would need to be more forceful if I were to get through to him. ‘Holmes, the Albino could be at the door any second. We must either create a defensive barrier, or leave while we can!’
As though he had been summoned by my words, the door to the library slowly opened and a dark figure stepped through. It was obviously not the Albino, however, though it was clear that Holmes recognised him.
The newcomer was an average young man in every respect. Almost boyish in appearance, he was approximately five foot eight inches tall, clean shaven, with short brown hair. He wore a plain brown suit with an open collar, and a light overcoat, as befitted the season. The only peculiar things about him were his eyes, which were so dark as to appear violet. Something about that fact nagged at me for a moment, before I realised that the pistol he held was pointed in the direction of Miss Rhodes, who stood closest to the entrance. I slid my hand into my pocket and wrapped my fingers round my revolver, but before I could move, Holmes stepped forward.
‘Major Conway,’ he said evenly. ‘Why, I thought you were dead – or returned to Ireland, at the very least.’