Sherlock Holmes and the Four Corners of Hell

by Seamas Duffy

‘How did he explain having sent the fourth letter before the reports reached the press?’

  ‘It turns out he had been to the City Press Syndicate in St John Street early on the morning of the murder and got the story from one of the reporters. He explains that was how he was able to send the fourth letter so quickly.’

  ‘But it was sent from the City, not Kensington,’ I said. ‘He had not the time to get back home, write the letter, and post it.’

  ‘No, that’s right; but he said he had worked out where the fourth murder would happen and knew it was only a matter of time. He had written the letter beforehand and kept it in his pocket. It turns out he was standing amongst that little crowd which had gathered. He wanted to see my reaction when I opened the letter,’ he said.

  ‘Good lord!’ I expostulated, ‘do you mean to say he was watching us all the time?’

  Lestrade nodded, tapping the side of his forehead. ‘Come to examine the effect of his handiwork! He said he had only written the letters to make his point about the vice and iniquity in the City, and how the police were not only turning a blind eye to it, but were implicated in it. Raved on about Sodom and Gomorrah, then he actually told me that he was glad that someone was punishing them for their wickedness – I must say it was all I could do to restrain myself. I put the fear of death into him and told him he was the prime suspect for the four murders and he went to pieces. I took a bit of a gamble and asked him straight out about the ears of corn, but he looked completely blank. I don’t believe he has anything to do with the murders at all, and I can always tell when that type is lying. He has no record of any criminal activity, though he was one of the suspects in the Whitechapel case.’

  ‘Yes, but so was half of London, if I recall,’ replied Holmes.

  ‘Well, he’ll get a night in the cells and six months’ hard for misleading the police in a murder case,’ said Lestrade as he stood up to leave, ‘but I think we have to eliminate him as a suspect in our inquiries.’

  The daily report from Wiggins lay on the table. ‘Not much here,’ Holmes said, shaking his head in frustration once he had read it, ‘the Earl appears to have spent his time going about some very mundane business.’

  ‘Entirely unaware, of course, that his footsteps are being dogged.’

  ‘Yes, though there is one small point which I may follow up. Wiggins reports that Titchfield had made a visit to an address in Cleveland Street yesterday morning, number nineteen, in fact. It seems to have been the only vaguely unusual departure from the predictable round of Whitehall, his club, his home and church.’

  He reached for the trade directory and flicked through the pages. ‘This gives the address as the premises of the Soho Picture Gallery. I have told Wiggins to leave a few of his band to keep an eye on the house at Mayfair, whilst he and Simpson have taken up surveillance at Cleveland Street.’

  ‘I suppose in the absence of anything really useful to do at the moment, we really ought to satisfy our curiosity by taking a walk over there after breakfast tomorrow,’ I suggested.

  A short stroll next morning took us along New Cavendish Street to the corner of Upper Marylebone Street, where we turned right into a narrow thoroughfare of tall, dull-looking, terraced houses leading down from Fitzroy Square. Number 19 stood opposite the Strand Union workhouse, from which the unmistakeable odour of wet laundry wafted across the pavement. The four-storied house was identical to many others in the street. A brass plate bore the name ‘Soho Picture Gallery. Private: Members and Invited Guests Only. Prop. Chas Newland.’ To the side, was the narrow frontage of a seedy-looking shop, number 19a, around which an enclosure of low railings prevailed.

  ‘We are looking for a painting,’ Holmes whispered to me as he rang the bell. We waited some time before a seedy-looking, shabbily-dressed character of late middle-age appeared. He seemed surprised to see us and kept us at the street door.

  ‘Are you Mr Newland?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘No, I’m his caretaker,’ the man answered gruffly.

  ‘I’m trying to find a—’

  ‘You are not members,’ the caretaker interrupted, looking at us suspiciously, ‘you can’t come in unless you have an invitation.’

  ‘I have a recommendation,’ said Holmes brightly. ‘My name is Mortimer Harris, and I was advised to try this gallery by a chap I met last week at Christie, Manson & Woods in St James’s, you know of the place?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He said that it might just be worth making a visit here. I am looking for a painting by Lusignan called Phoebe Et Coeus – I have a client who would be prepared to pay well above the market value to lay his hands on it.’

  ‘What’s this chap’s name?’ he barked, ‘the one you met.’

  ‘Dash it, I’ve forgotten now; he is not a close acquaintance, but a fellow dealer whom I bump into from time to time. You’ve heard of the painting, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ the man stammered, ‘we don’t have it.’

  ‘Nothing at all by Lusignan?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘My friend here, Mr Grenville Price, is a dealer, too; an agent for Binghams, in fact,’ said Holmes, gesturing to me.

  ‘Indeed,’ I smiled, ‘a collector and a connoisseur. I’m looking for anything at all by the Barbizon school.’

  ‘Perhaps Mr Price and I could come in and have a browse around,’ Holmes continued ingratiatingly.

  ‘Not possible,’ he shook his head. ‘As the sign says, invitation only. If you don’t have a card, you can’t come in.’

  ‘Oh, I see. That’s very disappointing,’ replied Holmes. ‘How does one go about obtaining a card?’

  ‘By recommendation from an existing member.’

  ‘May I make an application to the proprietor at this address?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what to do,’ the man said abruptly, closing the door in our faces. Holmes laughed silently as we retraced our steps up the street.

  ‘It’s obvious that the fellow knows nothing about art, as I suspected from the moment he opened the door. There is no such painting and no such artist; I simply made the names up. I am intrigued by what it is that brings the Earl of Titchfield to a picture gallery where they won’t let you see the pictures. Well, this is hardly the time and place to engage in speculation. Let us go across to the street corner over there – I have had a sudden desire to have my boots polished,’ he said.

  ‘But you had them done only this morning, didn’t Billy—’

  ‘You may recognize the shoe blacking boy, incidentally,’ my friend interrupted.

  There was indeed something familiar about the young fellow who had set up a stall at the street corner. ‘Why, it’s Wiggins!’ I said, surprised as he raised his head to greet us.

  ‘No need to shout it all over the street!’ Holmes whispered in an amused tone.

  ‘Why, he even has a badge!’ I said as I noticed the green and white enamelled numbers on the boy’s lapel.

  ‘Of course, Watson, you do not think I am such a fool as to allow our strategy to be scuppered by the mere curiosity of a passing constable!’

  ‘Made one an’ six already, Sir,’ said Wiggins grinning.

  ‘Any sign of your aristocratic friend today, Wiggins?’

  ‘Yes, he came about ten o’clock and left about half an hour later, Mr Holmes.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘The place is full o’ toffs, not just the one whose coach we’re followin’. I seen some o’ their faces in the papers. Another well-heeled gentlemen came in just as he left. A couple o’ military-looking came yesterday afternoon and Simpson says there was a vicar too, last night. Sometimes they are in and out in a couple o’ minutes, sometimes a bit longer. The place gets ever such a lot of mail. There seems to be a delivery wiv’ every post, and telegraph boys comin’ and goin’ all day.’

  Holmes thought for a moment, ‘Does the caretaker admit the mail boys to the Gallery?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hm. Strange that he was so insist
ent on keeping us out, Watson. Do these boys bring any large parcels?’

  Wiggins furrowed his brows for a moment. ‘Not especially,’ he replied.

  ‘Hmm, perhaps that part is done elsewhere,’ said Holmes inexplicably.

  ‘Elsewhere? D’you mean the other house?’ said Wiggins.

  ‘The other house! What do you mean?’

  ‘The one down the street – number thirty-two; Simpson seen it.’

  ‘During the night?’

  ‘Well, about nine o’clock last night, just after he came on, he said.’

  Holmes’s eyes brightened, ‘What did he see?’

  ‘A bloke comes along wiv a handcart and an’ takes the stuff in, then goes away again. Happened twice. Simpson thought he must be a costermonger comin’ home from Berwick Street after the market closed.’

  ‘What exactly is this stuff like?’

  ‘Dunno exactly what it is; comes in boxes but Simpson follered him the second time an’ says it didn’t look like greengrocers’ stuff. It was all covered up wiv a tarpaulin so he couldn’t see what was inside.’

  ‘Did Simpson say whether the man went to the picture gallery?’

  ‘No, cos I asked him.’

  ‘And you haven’t seen anyone going between the two houses?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Most remarkable. Do you know if the gallery is occupied during the night?’

  ‘Yes, there’s quite a few comin’s an’ goin’s, but the old caretaker, the one you spoke to just now, never leaves.’

  ‘And number thirty-two?’

  ‘No, the house is empty most of the time, just the man wiv the cart.’

  ‘Excellent. If anything else comes up, let me know immediately,’ said my friend, as he turned to leave.

  ‘Deeper and deeper, Holmes,’ I remarked once we had returned to Baker Street. ‘You think there is some connection between the two houses?’

  ‘It is difficult to interpret it as mere coincidence, though one never knows. I am coming round to a view as to the reason for both the exaggerated caution at the gallery and as to the possible contents of the handcart.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘I think that it may be a racket in fake art.’

  ‘Forged paintings?’

  ‘It begins to look like it. Perhaps the work is done at number thirty-two and the transactions are conducted at number nineteen.’

  ‘It seems rather exaggerated caution.’

  ‘The stake are high, Watson, very high.’

  ‘High enough to be connected with the murder of four innocent people?’

  ‘The amount of money which changes hands in that game nowadays would astonish one. The law of supply and demand ordains an enormous financial value for the limited number of the most famously-celebrated works of art, especially those whose creator is dead. You will recall the great substitution scandal, which involved forgeries of works by artists from the Darlington School, where the judge took a very stern view of the matter, and for which my old friend Matthews ended up doing five years. It hasn’t put a stop to it, though: we put that clever young Stamford behind bars; then there was Victor Lynch, and I have heard dark rumours of the Honourable Aubrey Conk-Singleton’s collection that defy belief. The situation is, if anything, worse in France and the Pays-Bas. In the celebrated Trouillebert case, the forger made his entire living out of making forgeries of one man’s work: Jean-Baptiste Corot. Indeed, some wag once said that of the three-hundred-odd paintings which the late Corot made, over a thousand were sold in London! There is great competition amongst auction houses, dealers, galleries and private collectors: the arbiters of taste and judgment. But as long as avarice continues to surpass expertise, the business of forgery will thrive and increase.’

  ‘I seem to recall reading a year or so ago about one of the big Bond Street galleries having failed after they had bought paintings that were later discovered to be forgeries.’

  ‘Yes, that was Cochrane & Mertens’ Salon Parisien and I think it was some of Van Beers’s works which were involved. Now to return to the practical, the immediate priority is to discover what is going on at number thirty-two by the most direct means; that is, by taking advantage of the fact that the house appears to be unoccupied for most of the time. I have my jemmy, my dark lantern and—’

  ‘And you have your faithful Watson!’ I added.

  ‘No, my good fellow,’ said Holmes shaking his head, ‘I should not think of embroiling you in anything which would endanger your life or your reputation. For one thing, there is your neighbour’s practice to consider, and your arrest and conviction as a burglar would weigh heavily upon my conscience. After the Drury Lane business, I feel far less inclined these days to expose you to any—’

  ‘I won’t hear of it, Holmes!’ I interrupted. ‘If you are about to step into the gap of danger, I shall be there with you as ever before. Jackson returns tomorrow in any case, and besides, it is merely a spot of housebreaking – nothing that we have not done before; and it is ultimately in the cause of justice.’

  Holmes flushed with pleasure and grasped me by the hand.

  ‘Splendid, Watson, there is not one person whom I should rather have at my side in such an enterprise. It is not much more than a half mile or so, though we shall need to be all the more cautious in broad daylight.’

  Chapter 6

  We left Baker Street just before midday, our nefarious intentions well camouflaged by loose clothing, for Holmes had his dark lantern, his drill, and his jemmy concealed under his cloak. Inevitably, we took the quieter byways of which Holmes, like his counterparts in the criminal fraternity, had the most intimate knowledge. We crossed Manchester Square and plunged into a labyrinth of empty cobbled lanes – of which the existence I had previously been entirely oblivious, though they were barely five minutes from my doorstep. Indeed after a few minutes, had it not been for the fact that the day had remained bright and clear with a brilliant sun overhead, I could scarcely have told in which direction we were moving, but Holmes enumerated each place as we passed: Bentinck Mews, Queen Anne Lane, Deacon Close, past the rear entrance of the Langham, on through Riding House Passage and finally to a narrow passage leading off Ogle Square, which faced across to the house at number thirty-two.

  ‘Hold on to these,’ he said, handing me his tools, ‘until I have had a word or two with Wiggins.’ He returned quickly and iterated to me his plans.

  ‘What if our man with the cart should return unexpectedly?’ I asked.

  ‘It is highly unlikely: according to our information, nothing happens there during the day. But should the man make an unscheduled return, then in extremis, Wiggins will set up a commotion which will delay him until we are safely removed from the scene. The main difficulty will be in avoiding the attention of the inquisitive public or a passing constable whilst getting through the front door, but we shall simply have to take our chances in that respect. In any case, we have a clear view up and down the street and with the aid of these,’ he flourished a prodigious assortment of skeleton keys which he had drawn from the voluminous pockets of his cloak, ‘we should be able to avoid the use of force.’

  The front of the house was recessed slightly from the passageway. Holmes fiddled with the lock for a moment or two as a distant buzz of voices floated over from the open windows of the King and Queen on the other side of the street, then the door slid noiselessly open. We passed inside quickly and saw by what light the grimy windows allowed that the house was in a somewhat dilapidated condition. Even on this warm summer afternoon, there hung about the place the reek of damp and an atmosphere of decay, and some of the wallpaper had begun to peel away below the cracked yellow ceiling. A narrow hall led past two rooms, which opened on the left and right to the foot of the uncarpeted stairs. It did not require my friend’s acute powers of observation to discern that a succession of feet had recently worn a path down the dusty stairway towards the lower floor.

  ‘Well, let us see what hidden delights the cellar hol
ds,’ said my friend, as we picked our way down the creaking steps. The lantern shone into a corner of the lower area where a number of plain cardboard boxes were stacked. Holmes sprang across the floor, withdrew his penknife and sharply slit the cover of the uppermost box. He pulled back the cover and gave an exclamation. I looked over his shoulder and saw that inside the heavy cardboard box were a number of smaller packages, on top of which a slip of paper bore the legend: ‘Handle With Care. Penistone Explosives Company, West Riding, Yorkshire.’

  Holmes and I looked at each other in surprise and horror.

  ‘Dynamite!’ I exclaimed. ‘This is what came in the handcart?’

  ‘This was not at all what I had expected to find, Watson.’ I had rarely seen such a picture of bewilderment upon his features. He laid down the lantern and began to pace up and down the floor. Finally he said, ‘My chain of reasoning has been faulty, but I think I am beginning to understand now. Let us recall our steps and return to the upper air, for I feel there may be more interesting discoveries ahead.’

  Neither of the doors we had passed on the ground floor were locked and we found the first room empty. The second had been a kitchen, where a dusty old dresser, with shelves containing some ancient dusty crockery, and a chipped sink were the only adornments. We went swiftly up the staircase to the first floor, on which there were three further rooms; only one was locked. Holmes produced another key and in a moment we were inside a large, airy single apartment. The room was situated at the corner of the house and its main window, albeit heavily curtained, faced the houses opposite, whilst a narrower side window possessed an unobstructed view northwards along Cleveland Street. It was spare and tidy, and showed some signs that it had recently been used for living purposes. There was a bed, a wardrobe and a dresser in one corner, and in the other a writing-desk with inkpot and pen and three drawers. Holmes walked over to the bureau and in a few seconds had the drawers opened. Two of these were empty, but the third drawer held a stock of writing materials and a large envelope. From Holmes’s eager expression, I could tell this had immediately excited his interest. He withdrew the envelope from the drawer, and carefully opening it, he drew from it various slips of paper covered in writing which at first I took to be some foreign language – a European one I hazarded, for I recognized the Latin characters but not the words. The first line read: