SIXTEEN

Alexis Gray Makes a Surprise Visit

On a dark and rainy morning in the middle of May I stood beneath the awning of the news-seller’s shop and watched as old Mrs Cleary passed by carrying an umbrella and leading her two little dogs. The dogs were happy in their puddles and the old woman was talking to them fondly. When I returned to our flat I found Holmes struggling to make breakfast. ‘We ought to get a dog to amuse us,’ I said.

‘Where is the pepper?’ he replied.

I sat by the window, sipping coffee and reading the news of the day. ‘My heavens, Holmes – here is an item that may have a connection with your case!’

He appeared in the doorway, spatula in hand.

‘Two months ago,’ I continued, ‘two men riding in a fox hunt in Gloucestershire were blown out of the saddle by small explosive devices that were, according to people on the scene, apparently planted by animal rights advocates who were protesting the hunt. The explosions occurred just as the bugle blew to signal the beginning of the chase. One man hit his head on a stone when he fell, and for weeks he has been in a coma. Yesterday he died.’

Holmes stalked towards me, looking startled. ‘May I see it, Wilson?’ He stood by the window reading the article, then sank into his chair with an uncharacteristic sigh. He put his right hand to his forehead, as if age had really caught up with him.

‘Well?’ said I.

‘You are quite right,’ said he. ‘These two men,’ – tapping the newspaper – ‘Frank Sweet and Harvey Barnes, fell from their horses just as Alexis Gray, in his Bif Carcanson column of some months ago, said they ought to do. The pattern is identical: someone attacked in his column is then attacked in the world. What a fool I have been, Wilson! I begin to wonder if my brain has begun to degenerate.’

‘Come, now, Holmes! Don’t talk rubbish.’

‘I had beguiled myself into thinking Art was at the centre of this mystery. And to this moment I still hadn’t quite shaken free of that notion.’

‘Certainly one had reason for thinking so,’ I said, ‘when one considers the musical performances disrupted, the murder of that flamboyant artist named Fiero, the destruction of Solveig’s painting, the stolen Shakespeare letter . . .’

‘Misled, utterly misled!’ cried Holmes. ‘Art is only superficially involved with these crimes. As I said the other day, something deeper is going on, my friend.’

‘But what? You mentioned earlier a terrorist plot.’

‘Something very deep and devious. I paid little attention to Gray’s comments on the fox hunt gang, for I was focusing on his criticisms of art and artists. It seemed to me that he was a little off topic in discussing fox hunting, which he said was neither art nor sport, but a cult of cruelty and cowardice. He called Sweet and Barnes “the unfit in unfair pursuit of the unfortunate,” and he recommended that if they had no consideration for the beauties of the fox they might at least stop despoiling the beauty of the countryside by obscuring it with their own chubby and unhandsome figures. He recommended that if they wished to do the world a favour they might, instead of sitting in plain view on their horses, find a comfortable ditch to fall in where they couldn’t be seen. The column struck me as very different from all the others, for it was not about art but sport.’

‘The other attacks took place in London,’ I said. ‘This one took place in Gloucestershire.’

‘And not far from Widcombe Manor,’ he said.

‘Will we be making a journey to talk to the master of the hunt?’

‘Not at present. I have an appointment at St Bart’s with Dr Coleman at ten, an appointment with Lotte Linger at four, and I must call Lestrade immediately to ask what he knows about the Abernetty family.’

‘Come now, Holmes! Surely the criminal Abernetty family of a hundred years ago – if criminals they were – could not be the same . . .’

‘Never proved, that was the problem,’ said Holmes.

‘It seems doubtful they could be connected with the Abernettys of today.’

‘I wonder, I wonder,’ he said, frowning. His mobile flickered in his palm, and he hit the button. ‘Hello, Lestrade . . .?’

I put some bread in the toaster, started a new pot of coffee. When I returned, Holmes was already off the phone.

‘What did you learn?’ I asked.

‘Lestrade must ask permission before he gives me any information on the present-day Abernettys.’

‘What!’ I cried. ‘That means there is information on them in the files of Scotland Yard. I am astounded.’

‘It is no more than I expected,’ said Holmes. He sprang to his feet. ‘Well, I must get ready for Dr Coleman, Lestrade, and Lotte Linger. A busy day!’

Someone knocked at our door. It was the resident porter with a package for Sherlock Holmes. Holmes opened the package almost with the glee of a child. ‘Sir Hugh Blake has been as good as his word,’ said he, and he held up a very handsome briar pipe.

‘Magnificent,’ I said.

‘It feels fine in hand – as if made for me,’ said Holmes.

‘It was made for you,’ I laughed.

‘Mr Sedley of Hexham, my congratulations!’ cried Holmes, brandishing the pipe in the air. He then slapped it lightly betwixt his teeth and, speaking expertly from one side of his mouth, he said, ‘Professor Blake sent a very gracious note with it, Wilson. Let me read it to you:

My Dear Sherlock Holmes,

The enclosed briar is a token of thanks for your efforts on my behalf. Sorry for the delay, but the pipe went missing for several days after it arrived here from the shop of the excellent Mr Sedley of Hexham, and I only found it again this morning. I fear I am getting forgetful in my old age.

Wishing you all the very best of good fortune in your search for Shakespeare’s letter, I remain,

Ever truly yours,

Hugh Blake.’

‘He sounds most appreciative, Holmes.’

Holmes gazed smiling at the pipe. ‘It is certainly a wonderful piece of craftsmanship – alas that no tobacco is allowed – but ’tis a comfort just to hold it in my hand.’

The day passed quickly and most pleasurably for me, for I spent it in bookshops. I arrived back home at six, and Holmes was already there.

‘I must have a full report, Holmes,’ said I.

‘Easily done,’ said he. ‘Dr Coleman was entirely pleased with my progress and sees no problems. He checked all the regrown organ tissue, believes my mental processes are normal . . .’

‘I presume he meant as normal as they ever were . . .’

‘Touché, Wilson!’ he cried.

‘And Lotte Linger?’

‘Charming woman, most pleasant company. At our early dinner I showed her the pictures of Lars Lindblad and Katrinka Pushkin. She said she had never seen either of them.’

‘And Lestrade?’

‘I met him and he handed me a thick dossier on the Abernetty family, but he said I must read it only in the room where we sat, and that I must take no notes.’ Holmes leant back in his chair with a satisfied look on his face. ‘The case of the stolen letter is still a bit vague, Wilson, but the related case of the exploding artists is now coming into focus.’

‘I am certainly interested in the Abernetty family, Holmes.’

‘In short, the Abernetty family have, ever since 1605, engaged in . . .’

But he was interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. We were startled to hear the voice of Alexis Gray come over the intercom.

‘By all means, come up,’ said Holmes. Instantly he had forgotten about the Abernettys. A new eagerness possessed him.

Alexis Gray stepped into our flat and for a fraction of a minute his eyes darted about almost furiously as he seemed – evidently out of habit – to appraise the decor, the objets d’art, the pictures on the walls.

‘No, I don’t much fancy that landscape painting, either,’ said Holmes.

‘Pardon me?’ said Alexis Gray, looking away from the forest scene that hung over our entry table.

Holmes did not bother to enlighten him as to how he had read his fleeting thought, but only welcomed him.

Alexis was as handsome as ever, but a change had come over him. He was retiringly polite, almost reticent. ‘Good morning, Mr Holmes, Wilson.’

Holmes waved him into a chair and sat down opposite, and I likewise took a chair.

Without further preliminaries Alexis Gray leant suddenly far forward, very earnestly, and said, ‘Mr Holmes, I need your help. Something has been happening which, frankly, terrifies me – though it may be nothing, nothing at all. If you can assure me it is nothing at all, that would be wonderful. I will double your fee, in that case. But if I’m right –’ He shook his head, half closed his eyes and shuddered as if unwilling to face the possibility – ‘then I must know the cause. It is just inexplicable . . . and terrifying.’

‘Compose yourself, Mr Gray,’ said Holmes. ‘Would you like some tea?’

‘No, thank you. No.’

‘Then tell me, what is the terrible thing to which you refer? I will certainly help you if I am able.’

‘You are, in fact, a bona fide detective, are you not? I have been assured of this by several people.’

‘I am,’ said Holmes.

‘I choose you, Mr Holmes, because I am told that you operate below the radar of the official police.’

‘That is an apt characterization,’ said Holmes. ‘Although, of course, if I become aware of crimes . . .’

‘Of course, of course,’ said Mr Gray. ‘That goes without saying. But the terrible thing I refer to, Mr Holmes, is related to that very point: I have begun to look like a criminal, even to myself. Yet I know perfectly well that I am not. First of all, I must tell you that I spend most of my time writing books but I supplement my income by writing a column for a weekly arts magazine, using a nom de plume. It is this arts column that is causing me all the trouble and consternation. Several months ago I began noticing something odd, and it was this: whenever I severely criticized anyone in that column, that person soon suffered some sort of inexplicable attack – I mean a physical attack, in the real world. The first time this happened I was certain it was a coincidence, and no serious damage was done to the person, and in fact I even laughed and said to friends, “Well, it couldn’t have happened to a worse musician.” But then it happened again, to someone else I had criticized, and I was a little astonished, but, you know, coincidences do happen. The same thing happened repeatedly, and as time went by the attacks became less and less trivial and more and more dangerous, until finally one was fatal. A man was killed. In short, Mr Holmes, at first I knew these things were just coincidences. Later, I thought they must be just uncanny coincidences. Still later, the horrible realization came upon me that they couldn’t be coincidences – though still I tried to convince myself that the coincidence explanation was possible . . . which of course it was, since anything in this world is possible. But today, Mr Holmes, when I read about a fox hunter who died – a man named Sweet, whom I’d criticized in my column several months ago – a cold hand gripped my heart. It was almost as if I had killed him myself. I laid down the newspaper and came straight to you. I want you, Mr Holmes, to find out who is doing this.’

‘Have you any idea who might be doing it, or why?’

‘No!’ cried Alexis Gray, regaining some of his customary energy. ‘I can think of no reason whatever. That is what is so maddening and frightening. That is what prevented me for so long from seeing what has been happening – because what has been happening makes no sense whatever. There is no point to it. Nobody gains by it.’

‘Perhaps someone who wants to hurt you would gain by it,’ said Holmes.

‘Yes, I thought of that, and it is true that there are many in this town who would like to have my guts for garters,’ said Gray. ‘Making enemies is my stock in trade. But for someone to maim and kill people I mention in my column, in hopes of making me a suspect, or in hopes of preventing me from daring to be critical – no, it is just too fantastic, Mr Holmes.’

‘As it happens, Mr Gray, this case has already interested me. Have you ever seen this man?’ Holmes handed him a photograph.

Alexis Gray shook his head. ‘Never.’ He handed it back.

‘Or what about this woman?’ asked Holmes, handing him a drawing.

‘Don’t know her – though perhaps I’d like to.’

‘She is quite beautiful, isn’t she,’ said Holmes. ‘But I don’t think you’d want to know her, Mr Gray.’

‘I will take your word for it, Mr Holmes.’

‘Mr Gray, there is most definitely a motive behind this series of attacks. Someone is lavishing a great deal of money, time and resources on carrying them out. What the motive may be is still a mystery. Let me ask you this: as you have thought about the problem over the last few weeks, has any person at all popped into your mind – however quickly you discarded the thought, however ridiculous it might later have seemed – as being possibly involved?’

‘Well, no,’ said Alexis Gray, slowly. He touched his own cheek. ‘Certainly my brother would have no reason to do something like this. And when it comes to . . .’

‘Then why did you mention him?’ asked Holmes.

‘I . . . I don’t know,’ said Gray. ‘I suppose because he’s . . . well, he has looked up to me all his life, and believed I was right in everything I said. Even when he was a little chap he fiercely defended my opinions, even when I didn’t need defending. That’s why the thought occurred that he might be involved – but I quickly realized that I was foolish to think such a thing. I was just grasping for some sort of explanation.’

‘Would your brother be willing, do you think, to steal the Shakespeare letter in order to prevent it from contradicting your forthcoming book?’

‘That is quite out of the question. For one thing, the letter, if it were made public, might well increase sales of my book by spurring new interest in the whole subject of Shakespeare’s life. The only way it would hurt sales of the book would be if it turned out to be a genuine letter written by Shakespeare in Florence, and if it turned out that in that letter he mentioned some of his own plays, mentioning them in such a way that it was unequivocally clear he was claiming to have written the plays, and was presuming his recipient shared that assumption. And for all that to be true of the missing letter, Mr Holmes, is most unlikely.’

‘What makes you think it unlikely?’

‘First, because I know Bacon wrote the plays. Second, because even if I am wrong, and Shakespeare wrote them, seldom is a piece of evidence so unequivocal that it is sufficient to prove a case beyond doubt.’

‘I am very keen to get the letter back,’ said Holmes. ‘Have you seen it?’

‘No,’ said Gray. ‘My stepfather, Sir Hugh, was very careful not to let me catch so much as a glimpse of it. I believe Marianne, my half-sister, has read it.’

‘She told me she has not,’ I said.

‘Ah, well.’ He shrugged. ‘Then I guess she hasn’t.’

‘Let us imagine for a moment, Mr Gray,’ said Holmes, ‘that your brother Bart did steal the letter. Let us imagine that the letter is, at this moment, in his care and keeping. You know your brother better than I. What do you think? Would he destroy it, or hide it?’

‘Well, he does like to destroy things,’ mused Alexis Gray. ‘But . . .’

‘Why do you say that!’ asked Holmes, sharply.

‘I wonder myself why I say it,’ said Alexis, and his blue eyes opened wide. ‘He is a complicated little brother. He was always very cute, as a child, but he liked to blow up frogs with firecrackers.’ Alexis laughed. ‘I can’t say he had a temper, really. More a smouldering resentment. And you never quite could guess who it was he resented until his resentment exploded in some angry action.’ Alexis laughed. ‘Like the time he knocked Grandpa Linger – that was my mother’s father – off his crutches. Little Bart just stood there, watching silently, as Grandpa Linger rolled down the embankment. Why did he do it? I can’t even remember. Some small thing, no doubt. Grandpa Linger had reprimanded Bart, perhaps. Something trivial. Mostly, though, we had lovely times when we were children.’

‘So he might destroy it,’ said Holmes.

‘Probably not, Mr Holmes. No. My guess would be that he would not destroy it, but keep it. I think he would prefer to hide it. That is his nature. Secretive as a schoolgirl.’

‘And is there a particular place where he would hide it – if, for instance, he were still a child. Now that he is an adult he has the whole world in which to hide it. But if he were a child, was there a place he hid things – known only to you and him, perhaps?’

‘How perceptive you are, Mr Holmes!’

‘It is only that I and my own brother, Mycroft, had a secret hiding place when we were young. So I thought . . .’

‘Yes, there is one, Mr Holmes.’

‘Where?’

‘It is in our castle in Scotland, Castle Mornay, where we used to spend summers when we were young. No one has been up there for years – Mother closed the place in 2004 and since then she has only had a caretaker who looks in once a week. In fact, it is unlikely he would have travelled to the Highlands to hide a letter.’

‘Ah, but still. Just for the sake of thoroughness, Mr Gray, would you be good enough to give me the details of the hiding place? After all, it is a Shakespeare letter. We must leave no stone unturned.’

‘Amazingly enough, Mr Holmes, you have guessed the spot without meaning to. The hiding place is under a particular stone, a stone in the Great Hall of the castle. Let me think a bit about how best to describe the precise spot for you. Why don’t I draw a diagram, and type out some instructions, and send them to you in the morning?’

‘Excellent,’ said Holmes, rising from his chair. ‘If that is all, Mr Gray, I will be in touch with you soon.’

Gray rose also, but held up his hand. ‘That is not quite all, I fear, Mr Holmes.’ He wiped his forehead with the middle three fingers of his right hand, took a deep breath. ‘I must tell you something, Mr Holmes, that bothers me greatly. In my last column in Arts Weekly I wrote a snide comment about you and your friend Wilson. A criticism, frankly. It was quite an unfair criticism, I now realize. But it’s done. As a result, I worry that you may be in danger. I am terribly sorry and, frankly, I am not only chagrined at my unkindness, but frightened for your safety.’

‘Not to worry,’ said Holmes.

‘But I do worry,’ said Gray.

Holmes took the handsome new briar pipe out of his mouth, and gestured with it. ‘I’ll try to make very certain, Mr Gray, that no one slips me a microbomb.’