“I am a physician,” I said. “Nudity does not bother me, although I am not used to traipsing around naked.”
“Neither am I,” she said. “But I am not shy. I think it shall be…liberating. I dislike wearing corsets.”
Holmes cleared his throat, stood, and went to his pipe stand atop the fireplace mantel.
“Well, Mr. Holmes. Will you accompany me? I will double your usual fee.”
Holmes filled his pipe and spoke to it.
“An unusual predicament.”
I could not resist and said, “We were just discussing our recent lethargy. My good friend Holmes had just commented that our minds were becoming mired in malaise.”
The lady withdrew a white envelope from her purse and put it on the small table next to her teacup.
“An advance,” she said as she stood. “I think this predicament will stimulate your mind, Mr. Holmes.”
And everything else—I thought. Yes, life is full of whimsy.
“I can make reservations for us as soon as you are ready to go, Mr. Holmes,” Emily added.
Holmes took a few moments before clearing his throat.
“Um, yes. Miss Topping.” Holmes looked in her direction, then at me. “Yes, we shall accompany you.”
“The day after tomorrow, then?”
Holmes agreed.
I led her to the door and closed it behind her, smelling her perfume again, the scent swiftly covered by Holmes’s cherry-scented pipe smoke as he sat in his chair.
“A descendant of a lost painter searching for a lost painting,” he said. “I have studied all nine Gowan Gindick paintings. Wrote a paper on them. Published in Crumplehorn’s Art Journal. All of the paintings are here in England. Five in small museums, the others privately owned. Like Vermeer, Gindick’s art is characterized by a compositional balance and special order, illuminated by pearly light. He was a much finer painter than art experts concluded years ago.”
I sat and poured the rest of the tea into my cup, mixed in milk and sugar, and had to say, “I did not realise you were an art expert.”
“I am not. I am a Gowan Gindick expert. There are many talents hidden in me, my dear Watson.”
“How does one authenticate a painting?”
“It is complicated. First and simplest is the visual examination of the art by someone expert in the artist’s work, someone who can recognise the brush strokes, the paints, the use of light. A minute examination of the rear of the canvas can aid in revealing its age and authenticity.”
A thought occurred to me and I said, “In case you fear someone recognising you going around nude, you can wear one of your disguises.”
Holmes shot me a squint-eyed look. He settled back and, after a minute, his voice softened.
“I worry if I see Miss Topping—” He cleared his throat. “And other women in the nude. I may become…”
“What? Erect?”
His lips stiffened.
“I worry I shan’t,” I said.
His eyes opened wide.
“Is that a joke from the eminent doctor?”
“I’m not joking.”
He settled back, and I picked up the volume of Kipling I had been reading. Sometime later, I saw his eyes were closed. Later still, he muttered, “The lost Gindick.”
Miss Emily Topping wore tan jodhpur riding trousers for the trip, with a cream-coloured blouse and short brown boots, topped with a smart Bohemian ranger hat, which she removed before the train left the station.
“More comfortable than a dress with petticoats and a slip and corset and other undergarments. This is an expedition, after all.” She touched her hair, obviously making certain the hat did not alter it. “One hat. One pair of boots. One change of jodhpurs and blouse for the return trip.”
Holmes lifted her suitcase onto the shelf above her head as I sat across from Emily and removed my top hat. Holmes sat next to me and took off his deerstalker hat. Her perfume was there again, light and sweet in the confines of the coach.
“Booby’s Bay lies west of the River Camel estuary, and Halmouth Abbey stands on a rise above the bay. The nudist resort is surrounded by a white wooden fence. Lord Alfred Thelemgotten, Sixth Earl of Aldestowe, established the resort twelve years ago. He and his wife, Lady Prudence, are leading proponents of nudism. We disembark in the village of Bushly, where a carriage will take us to the resort.”
Holmes asked, “How did you learn the missing Gindick was there?”
“A friend visited the resort. She said it was in one of the three libraries. She could not remember which. The painting almost hidden. I find that odd.”
“Why?” I asked after a few moments.
“If I had a Gindick, it would be where everyone could see it.”
“If he wanted to hide it,” Holmes said, “it would be locked away from sight.”
The rain started as soon as we crossed into Cornwall, and we ate in a dining car peppered by rain against the windows. Even dressed in trousers, Emily drew the gaze of nearly every man in the car. One man stopped and asked if he’d seen her on the stage. London.
“No.”
The rain finally relented as the train tracks made a sweeping crescent along the seashore.
“Booby’s Bay,” Emily announced, and we looked out at rolling breakers and bright blue-green water, a rocky shoreline with occasional beaches.
“I say, Holmes, did you know women’s breasts were sometimes called boobies in the late seventeenth century?”
“I missed that fact, Doctor. You are a fount of obscure information on occasion.”
Emily snickered. “You two are funny.”
Which drew a “harrumph” from my good friend.
We disembarked at Bushly, where we found no porters to assist with our luggage. Holmes snatched Emily’s suitcase, along with his portmanteau, and led us to a landau for hire, where I stored my portmanteau and assisted Emily in while Holmes loaded their luggage. Emily informed the driver of our destination, and the old man perked up as he got his horses moving. Cool air, rich with the smells of spring grass, gave way to the thick, salty scents of the sea as the sun beamed down on us.
The landau turned through the open gate of a white fence and moved up a rise to Halmouth Abbey, hovering tall against the blue sky. Small groups of naked people stood on either side of the three-story fieldstone building. The landau pulled up in front, and a young man wearing only a tie and boat shoes came out for our luggage. Holmes paid the driver as four nudists came around the side of the abbey, led by two buxom women.
“Aye,” said our landau driver as he watched the group approach. “Always a pleasure to come here.”
A lean naked man who appeared to be around forty sat behind a desk in the foyer. He wore a tie as well. He looked up our names in the reservation registry.
“Ah, yes. Mr. Reynolds, Mr. Shane, and Miss Guard.”
Emily stepped forward and presented the man with a white envelope, and he checked the bills inside as Emily stepped back to us and whispered, “Do you really want to be registered as Sherlock Holmes?”
“I am Reginald,” said the man as he held up their keys. “Billy will show you to your rooms. The gentlemen in a double room, the lady in a single room. I am certain you will enjoy our accommodations. To summon staff, pull the purple sash next to your beds. Lunch is served in a half-hour.” As we turned away, he added, “Once you unclothe upstairs, remember clothing is not permitted. We revel in our nudity.”
On our way up the wide, spiral staircase, Emily said she would meet us at the bottom of the staircase in a quarter-hour.
Our spacious room had two large beds with nightstands, a long dresser, two standard dressers, three cushioned chairs, a small writing desk with chair, two wash basins, two closets, and windows overlooking the wide lawn behind the abbey. Three small groups of nude people strolled
there, several with umbrellas to protect them from the sun. Peering down, I observed a wide awning covering the area at the rear of the abbey. Three white gazebos dotted the lawn, two occupied by more naked people.
“I thought there might be only a dozen people here at most,” Holmes said as he stood next to me.
I stepped to my side of the room and began disrobing. Holmes moved to his side of the room and began taking off his clothing.
“If you write this tale,” he said, “please be good as to leave out your usual detailed description of me.”
We waited at the bottom of the stairs, keeping our gazes focused on the faces of those who passed until two young men stopped and looked past us up the stairs. Both let out long breaths, and we turned to view Emily in all her naked beauty descending the stairs on the balls of her small feet, a hand on the rail.
I shall not describe Holmes in the buff, but the reader should not be cheated out of envisioning one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. Her golden hair, still in a bouffant, picked up the sunlight streaming through the front windows, her face trying to hide a little smirk as she descended. She indeed needed no corset with such a narrow waist, her full breasts rose high with pale pink areolas and small nipples, her belly flat, her pubic bush a shade darker than the hair on her head, her legs long and slim.
“Hello,” she said as she arrived, and Holmes and I turned to lead her to the dining room.
“Hello,” I said, and stopped. I had no idea which way lay the dining room.
Holmes called out to a young woman wearing only a maid’s white bonnet on her head. She was lovely as well, a full-figured young woman with a broad smile. She directed us to the dining room as Emily stepped between us, and I realised the fear of my body not reacting as any man would to such a vision was wrong. Holmes stepped up the pace and moved stiffly in front of us.
During our lunch of mutton and new potatoes, I noticed Holmes did as I did and kept focused on Emily’s face as we spoke. Of course I could not telescope my eyesight so narrowly and found myself looking at those marvelous breasts. Halfway through our meal, a couple who had been moving between the tables and greeting diners stepped up to our table.
“Do not let us interrupt your meal,” said the man.
They were in their fifties, the man stocky with brown hair gone grey, the woman full-figured with reddish hair.
“I am Lord Thelemgotten, and this is Lady Prudence.”
“We came to welcome you,” said the lady.
“Excited to meet new temporary members of our society,” said the lord.
“We hope you enjoy your stay and return many times.”
“Lord Alfred,” said Emily. “Do you know how Booby’s Bay got its name?”
“No.”
“I would think,” Lady Prudence said, “it was named for the bird. The seabird. The booby.”
“But boobies are not native to the British Isles,” said Holmes.
“That may be so.” Lady Prudence stiffened her back. “But they can visit.”
Emily asked his lordship, “I’ve heard you have an excellent art collection here at Halmouth. Is there anyone who can show us around, so we do not miss anything?”
The lord smiled down at her. “My secretary Rosamonde conducts tours of our art and other treasures upon request. I shall make sure she contacts you prior to tea time.”
After our meal, Emily declared she would walk around. “I want to feel cool grass underfoot. Care to join me?”
“I’ll be in our room,” said Holmes.
I was about to agree to accompany our lovely client until she rose and eased around the table, stood next to me and raised her hands to touch her bouffant, her breasts rising, and I told her I would return to the room as well. My libido threatened to rise. I thought maybe Holmes and I should snoop around, maybe find this small library, maybe locate the lost Gindick. I waited until we were up in the room to mention this to Holmes as he filled his pipe.
“I shall wait to traipse around when we are taken on the tour.”
The sky outside darkened and clouds hovered overhead. I moved to a window and spotted Emily walking to a gazebo followed by a young man, then another and a young couple. Lightning forked in the distance.
“A most difficult case.” My friend sat back in his chair in his robe, his eyes closed.
“Yes.” I thought about it, then asked, “Why? We simply locate the painting and you examine it.”
“I do not mean that part of the matter.”
I moved to my dresser, where’d I’d emptied my small suitcase, and put on my robe.
Holmes spoke, but I missed what he said and asked him to repeat it.
His voice came soft. “When she came down the stairs.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Walking around like this is difficult.”
“But you shall rise to the occasion.”
His eyes snapped open.
“More humour? I was going to say the case has challenges both mental and physical simultaneously.”
“Indubitably.”
“Indubitably?” He shook his head and closed his eyes again. “I do not believe I will read whatever you write about this adventure.”
A thunderclap turned me to the window to see Emily and the others hurrying back to the abbey. A few seconds after they disappeared from view, a wall of rain washed in from the sea.
At a quarter until four o’clock, a rap at our door drew me to answer to find a young, dark-haired woman with her hands behind her back. I tried to focus on her pretty face as she smiled and said, “I am Rosamonde.” She leaned so she could see into the room. “His lordship asked me to take you on a tour after tea.” She went up on her toes. “I am thrilled to meet Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” She waved at Holmes and put a finger over her lips.
“Mum’s the word on your secret identity, Mr. Holmes. His lordship recognised you and has informed no one beyond Lady Prudence and me.”
Rosamonde looked back at me and rolled her shoulders, her breasts moving in a mesmerizing sway before she turned and walked away.
I was a physician. Yes. But this was no medical examination. This was a pretty woman standing naked in a hall, and I remembered that my grandfather once commented we had Norman French blood in our ancestry.
Holmes gave me a weary look.
“It appears our cover is blown,” I told my friend.
“Indubitably.”
At tea, Holmes stared at me sitting across from him—no doubt hoping no one else recognised him. It seemed to me a few looked our way more than once, but it was most likely Emily who drew their attention. After tea, Rosamonde led us to the foyer. Emily moved next to Holmes and asked him what was wrong.
“They know who I am.”
I almost said it, but gritted my teeth, almost reminded him I suggested he wear one of his infamous disguises. A wig, a moustache, a limp. We had a few canes back home.
Rosamonde led us into a large room across from the dining room, a room filled with books on two walls and paintings on the wall facing a line of windows. A mix of paintings from ornate Rococo art to neo-classical to the English Norwich School, even Japanese paintings of ducks and other birds. The only names I recognised were John Crome and watercolour artist John Thirtle. In the smallest library upstairs, Holmes spotted the lost Gindick on a wall between two bookcases. He moved straight to it as Rosamonde began her tour of the room near the door. Emily followed Holmes, and I stepped over as he went up on his toes for a better look.
The painting was the largest in the abbey, a blueish-purple sky above a dark blue sea with whitecaps breaking over turquoise water near a tan beach creeping up to grey rocks, a steep headland along the right side, all bathed in a pearly light. The View of Bay near Trevose Head stood nearly a yard square.
When Rosamonde reached our area, Holmes asked if the painting
could be brought down for a closer look.
“Oh. Oh, no. His lordship does not allow examinations of his paintings.”
“Why not?” Emily asked.
“I do not know.”
Rosamonde shrugged and led us away with, “I saved the best for last.”
We held back until Emily grabbed Holmes’s arm and, in a low voice, said we’d return after midnight.
The final room had only two paintings, and Rosamonde explained that this was the room with his lordship’s greatest treasures. She led us to a glass case and stood over it until we collected around the case, filled with four gold bracelets, gold rings, silver rings, necklaces, and his lordship’s most prized possession, a nine-inch Saracen dagger in a solid gold scabbard encrusted with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds.
“This is astonishing,” Holmes declared.
It occurred to me as we departed that, while the case seemed formidable—thick glass and what appeared to be an excellent lock—the jewelry inside should be in a safe.
Emily invited us to join her outside, as the weather had cleared, but Holmes said he faced a three-pipe problem and I went upstairs with him, opening the windows as Holmes filled the room with pipe smoke.
“I could simply ask his lordship,” said Holmes as he sat in his chair, his robe wrapped around him. I donned my robe and stepped to the window to look down at the nudists milling behind the abbey. A large black dog raced from one gazebo to the next and back again in a frolicking gait, tail wagging.
“I could ask his lordship for a closer look at the Gindick.” Holmes took a hit from his pipe. “But I feel something is amiss, my dear Watson. Why will he not allow examinations of his paintings?” He looked at me. “I wonder if his jewels are real?”
“His estate is real enough.”
Rain returned in the early afternoon, and we had a delicious dinner of beef soup, roast goose, and green peas, followed by a tart lemon blancmange. Emily insisted we dine at a larger table, where Holmes and I sat at the quiet end while she and two young couples conversed, the young men talking of rugby and diamond mines in Natal and the young women talking of Parisian fashions and the Rational Dress League, explaining to one of the men how the league professed to rid women of corsets and extra undergarments.
The Return of Sherlock Holmes Page 12
