by Mez Blume
Imogen nodded enthusiastically. “I bet that’s why he lied about where he got it. It must have been a gift from her. He finds it too painful to remember!”
If Imogen was right, Phineas Webb’s coldness and hermit tendencies made sense. I felt sorry for him, alone with a broken heart all those years. But my sympathy didn’t rub out the frustration of not knowing where Ramona had gone. Something was missing from the whole picture.
I shut my eyes and rubbed my temples, trying with all my brainpower to find it. “How can we be so close, but still feel so far from finding her?” I muttered. “If we only knew who stole Webb’s painting… who put the magic one in its place… That has to be the missing piece, surely.”
A strange gurgling sound from the oak tree caused Imogen and me to turn. Dobbs’s ears were glowing again, and he was hugging his middle. “Wot?” he said defensively. “Some of us wasn’t offered anyfink to eat with our tea.”
“Oh, sorry Dobbs.” I opened the flap of my bag, dug in and pulled out the bun wrapped in my handkerchief. “Here, I’ve got a bun saved from breakfast in my bag.”
Dobbs took it gratefully and threw Betsy a chunk before cramming the rest into his own mouth. My hand, meanwhile, hovered over my open bag. Something felt off.
“Hang on a minute.” I pried open the bag and peered inside, then reached my hand in again and felt all the way around the inner lining. In a flash of horror, I realised what was missing. “My detective notebook. It’s gone.”
“What?” Now Imogen grabbed the bag off my lap and tried her luck. “But that doesn’t make sense. I saw you put it in there before we left the hostel. And who would take your notebook?”
Without meaning to, both of our heads turned towards Dobbs whose cheeks were swollen to bursting with bun.
“Wot you lookin’ at me for?” he protested, sending bits of bun bursting from his stuffed cheeks. He gulped down his mouthful. “Ain’t that nice. Soon as somefink goes missin’, ol’ Dobbs must be the culprit. Well, you can search me.” He held up his hands. “These ‘ands is clean.”
“Get a grip. We’re not blaming you,” Imogen snapped, though I’m sure she felt as ashamed as I did for suspecting him.
“I’ll bet it was that manservant chap with the towel wrapped about ‘is ‘ead,” Dobbs said confidentially.
Imogen shot him one of her withering glares. “It wasn’t a towel, it was a turban. And that’s a ridiculous idea. What would a famous painter’s manservant want with Katie’s notebook? Only a pickpocket would think to suspect him.”
“Reckon it takes one to know one,” Dobbs muttered hotly.
Imogen rolled her eyes.
I stayed out of the argument and focused on mentally retracing my steps. “It was definitely here when we arrived in the cab,” I said. “I’m absolutely sure of that.”
“Don’t guess you might have left it in the cab?” Imogen suggested.
I shook my head. “I never took it out of the bag.”
“Maybe it fell out. Look, don’t worry. If you try, I bet you can remember most of what you’d written and just copy it down again.”
I closed my eyes, mentally flipping through the pages and pages of notes I’d scribbled. “It was mostly a bunch of notes from the Phineas Webb file… and the photograph of him and his brother… oh yeah,”– I winced as I remembered– “and Inspector Janklow’s card… and the Misses Turveys’ address, so that if the notebook did go missing someone might find it and know where to return it.”
“Oh, well, nothing to worry about, then,” Imogen said with false chirpiness. “Whoever finds it will only know where we’re staying and who we’re working for. No big deal!”
My head found its way once again into my hands. “This has not been a good day for me.”
“Cheer up, Miss Katie,” I felt Dobbs’s hand rest on my shoulder. “It may be that Inspector Janklow’s got some news that’ll brighten you up. Or at least he might ‘ave an idea as to how to find a missing notebook being a detective ’n’ all.”
I nodded but said nothing. Imogen got up to go. I let her and Dobbs walk on a few paces; then, feeling I’d rather just sit there in soggy misery, I pulled myself up and muttered under my breath, “I’m supposed to be one too.”
We took an omnibus to Charing Cross and walked along the Thames path to St. Paul’s Cathedral to avoid the crowded Strand. Inspector Janklow was waiting for us at the bottom of the cathedral steps. A pipe was clenched between his teeth, and he was just consulting his pocketwatch as we walked up.
“Ah, just in time,” he said. “I’ve an errand for you, Arthur.” I realised he was speaking to Dobbs as the boy came to attention. “You’ll find a certain diminutive man by the name of Mortimer working at the John Soane Museum in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Ask for him and tell him I will meet him at the Seven Stars within half the hour. I owe him a drink.”
“A’ once, sir.” Dobbs tipped the brim of his new woollen cap, turned on his heels like a soldier, and he and Betsy scampered away on their errand.
Janklow watched him go, thoughtfully smoking his pipe, then turned to Imogen and me. “And did you ladies meet with any success on your little off-the-books mission?” He tapped his finger to his nose as he said off-the-books.
“Oh, just a little,” Imogen said, hardly containing her self-satisfaction. “We’ve just had tea with Phineas Webb and a private viewing of his paintings at his home.”
Inspector Janklow lowered the pipe and gave us both a long, hard look. “And what in heaven’s name did you say to charm him so? I do hope no laws were broken in the process?”
“Not unless flattery and little white lies are against the law,” Imogen said innocently. “All part of the detective’s toolbox, right?”
I thought the Inspector looked rather uncomfortable. “As are dignity and self-restraint.”
“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “We just showed a little more interest in patronising his paintings than we could actually afford. No harm was done.”
Janklow raised his eyebrows. “Ingenious, I must say. But, Miss Watson, if you don’t mind my mentioning, you do look a little out of sorts. Was Mr. Webb not the lead to your missing relation that you’d hoped for?”
“Not exactly, but–” I told him about the Camelot paintings and how Webb had been reluctant to say much at all about Ramona. Imogen added her theory of Webb’s having been thwarted in love.
Inspector Janklow listened intently, the ridges on his forehead kneading in thought all the while. “There may be something in all of this. The man is a walking mystery, make no mistake. And speaking of mysteries, shall we inspect the scene of the crime together?”
A man in a long, white robe met us at the door of the cathedral and led us down to the crypt where hung the painting I knew so well by now. An area around the painting had been roped off, but Janklow lifted the rope and invited us to join him inside.
“What we have here, ladies, is a classic ‘locked room’ scenario,” he began. “The cleric assures me that all external doors were locked. He personally bolted the western doors and side exits. He has vouched that The Wedding Feast was there one moment, then gone the very next. The police were sent for immediately, and, as you know, two young ladies were seen moments later running from the western portal.”
Imogen flew to our defence. “That’s because we were locked in. We didn’t–”
Janklow held up his hands. “This is not an interrogation, Miss Humphreys. Reason supports that even two such capable and independent young ladies could not carry away a painting of that magnitude. I am merely stating all the facts of the case.”
Imogen squirmed at my side, but said nothing.
Janklow began to pace back and forth as he continued. “Now, the theft may appear to be the work of a ghost or spirit, but of course the one thing we can be certain of is a rational explanation. You have already dispelled one impossibility by telling me that in fact the cathedral was not empty on the night of the theft. The two of you were inside.
And who is to say someone else was not, unbeknown to you both, lurking in the shadows? At least we can be certain we are dealing with flesh and blood.”
Imogen and I shot a quick glance at one another.
“Look closely, Miss Watson. Do you detect any other signs or clues that might shed light on the crime?” Janklow stood back, giving me an invitation to get closer to the painting.
I took a deep breath to focus. Nervously, I stepped up, trying to think back to all the Sherlock Holmes stories I had read. Imagining what Sherlock would do on the scene of a crime, I raked over the painting with my eyes, left to right, top to bottom. With every sweep of my eyes, my heart raced a little faster. I half expected the painting to come alive at any moment. I hoped it would; then Janklow would see for himself. But it remained still and lifeless like any ordinary painting.
When my eyes reached the bottom of the frame, I squinted to make out a tiny object in the right-hand corner. “There’s something here. A little sketch. A bird, perhaps?” A bird. Ramona drew a kingfisher on all of her sketches. Could it be? “It could be some sort of signature,” I suggested.
Janklow took a monocle from his breast pocket and leaned in for a look. “I confess I hadn’t noticed it before. Very good, Miss Watson. You might be on to something there. Anything else?”
My eyes moved outside the painting, wandering about the wall. “There,” I said, pointing to a mark in the plaster just above the picture frame. “Looks like the thief was in a hurry to hang the painting and left a scratch.”
Janklow nodded approvingly. “Just so. We might conclude from a scratch of that depth that our thief either has long, thick fingernails or…”
“Wears a ring,” I finished, feeling more exhilarated with each discovery.
“So we are looking for a person of considerable height – a man, most likely – who wears a ring. As I see it, two questions emerge.” Janklow lifted one finger. “Firstly, who of that description would wish to steal the painting?”
As I thought about what sort of person our culprit could be, Imogen blurted out “Anyone who wanted to make a lot of money,” as if the answer were obvious.
“Ah yes, Miss Humphreys, the motive of money often comes into play. But we must weigh it up with the second question: Who would wish to steal the painting, and,” he lifted a second finger, “why replace it with this particular, unknown picture?”
I had been asking myself the same two questions for the past two days, but as I had not succeeded in coming up with any answers, I kept quiet.
Imogen spoke up again. “Maybe the thief hoped no one would notice?”
Janklow considered this. “Possible,” he answered. “But that implies our crook is an idiot. This does not appear to be the work of an idiot; therefore, I believe the choice is significant.”
I hadn’t thought of it like that before. “So, you think whoever did it was trying to send a message about Mr. Webb?”
Janklow tapped his nose. “My thinking precisely, Miss Watson.”
I bit my lip, trying not to beam at his praise.
Janklow continued. “I’ve asked Mr. Webb to provide me with a list of all of his rivals, enemies and patrons. Meanwhile, I’ve asked my contact, an art dealer by the name of Mortimer, to go digging through some more obscure archives from London’s lesser-known galleries.” He paused to consult his pocketwatch. “If we leave now, we should be right on time to meet him. I am hoping he will have some tasty little morsel of information to offer us. Shall we?”
I could have walked on air. Collecting clues, meeting agents, collaborating with a real London detective. If only Charlie could be here to see me now, I thought as I followed Janklow through the cathedral doors and watched him fix his bowler hat on again. This was the stuff Charlie and I used to pretend in our make-believe detective games. Now it was real, and I was right where I wanted to be: in the thick of it.
16
The Game is On
It was a short walk down Fleet Street back to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Inspector Janklow led us to a poky pub behind the Royal Courts of Justice called the Seven Stars. The place was packed with men dressed in black robes and white wigs. Through the fumes of their cigars, the strange sight of a black cat wearing a white ruff collar caught my eye as it paced along the bar and occasionally rubbed up against a drinker. As I watched it, a startlingly loud sneeze erupted from somewhere behind.
Janklow held up a finger. “I dare say that’s our man.”
Sure enough, Janklow followed the sound of the sneezes and forged his way to a table in a private little bay. There sat Dobbs and Betsy, accompanied by a funny-looking little balding man. He wore round wire spectacles, and his thin moustache moved up and down like an inchworm with every twitch of his nose.
Seeing the Inspector approach, the man stuffed his handkerchief into his pocket and stood to shake hands with Janklow. The top of his glassy head did not even reach the Inspector’s shoulder.
“Penrose Mortimer, at your service,” he said, offering us each a firm, fast handshake.
“This head you see here,” – Janklow spoke to Imogen and me, but referred to Mr. Mortimer’s head – contains more specialist knowledge of the visual arts than all of London’s libraries put together.”
“Now now now, Inspector,” the man said in a voice that made me think of Munchkin Land. “You really oughtn’t exaggerate my talents. But as it happens,” he paused and pulled out his handkerchief just in time to catch a stupendous sneeze. “Cats,” he sniffled. “Where was I? Oh yes. I was going to say that I did manage to dig up some information on–”
He was interrupted again by a barmaid who swished up to the table, flashing a glinting, gold-toothed smile. “What’ll you and your friends ‘ave, Inspector?”
“Thank you, Bonnie. The usual sherry for me and, erm, tea for the young ladies?”
We nodded. Bonny swished off to the bar and we all turned eagerly back to Mr. Mortimer’s information.
“As I was saying, it took a great deal of digging, but I did manage to find a record of the mysterious little painting in the end. I am astonished I knew nothing of it before, as it was exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1848, and is the work of the Academy’s most promising student at that time.”
I was on the edge of my seat to hear the name of the person, but Mr. Penrose Mortimer carried on in his squeaky, excited way.
“The reviews suggest that the painting caused quite a stir at the time, and several offers of purchase were made. But it never went up for auction, and the promising young artist tragically threw away his future in dissolute living. He disappeared from good society altogether.”
“Who was he?” I asked, unable to wait another second.
Mr. Mortimer slid a piece of paper across the table towards the Inspector. Imogen and I both leaned in. It was a magazine clipping with a tiny engraving of the painting. The heading on the article read, ‘Celebrated Round Table Artist Gabriel Webb Shows New Side with Latest Work, On the Steps of St. Paul’s.’
After scanning the article, Inspector Janklow leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, well, Penrose. Looks like you’ve pinpointed our culprit.” That look came into his eyes, as if he were focused on some distant vision only he could see. “Rival brothers. Why, it all fits like clockwork! Gabriel had all the promise but lost it. He has suffered his brother’s success all these years in silence, and it’s driven him mad. So what does he do? He replaces Phineas’s greatest work with a forgotten, overlooked one of his own. How very elegant.”
I listened carefully to his deductions. It all made sense, I couldn’t disagree; but a heavy feeling of dread outweighed the excitement of discovery. Cautiously, I voiced my concern. “But if no one has seen Gabriel Webb in years, how do we find him?”
“Ah, Miss Watson,” Inspector Janklow surfaced from his far-off place and looked me keenly in the eye. “Mr. Mortimer never said that Gabriel Webb had not been seen. Only that he had disappeared from good society. In this city, good so
ciety is but one stone in a thousand to turn over.”
“But what if he’s not in London anymore?” I asked.
Janklow tapped his nose with a wry smile. “Leave it to me, Miss Watson. I’m like a hound when it comes to sniffing out criminals. There is no distance too great for this nose of mine to follow.”
A dense mist had fallen on the dark London streets when we left the Seven Stars. Janklow bid us goodnight and turned towards his office. I could easily imagine him, elbows rested on his immaculate desk, his fingertips lightly touching, stewing over the case through the long night.
As tired as we all were from the day’s business, there was now so much to think about. The three of us – Dobbs, Imogen and I – could talk of nothing but Gabriel Webb on the walk back to the Misses Turveys’.
“Do you think he knew about the paints he used? That they were…” Imogen stopped short when I gave her a look and raised my eyebrows towards Dobbs. He was listening carefully to every word. “Special?” she finished.
“Wha’s so special ‘bout ‘em?” Dobbs asked. “Paints is paints, ain’t they?”
We both pretended not to hear the question.
“The one thing we can be almost sure of is that he got the paints from Ramona, one way or another.” I said.
“Then we’re one giant leap closer to solvin’ it!” Dobbs’s impish face was full of excitement as it moved in and out of the lamplight. “We know who dunnit now. All we ‘ave to do is find Gabriel, and I’ll bet we find your missin’ lady.”
“Yeah, simple,” I said a little more flatly than I meant to. In one way, he was right. We had taken a giant leap forward by unmasking the thief. But we had gained another missing person in the process, which felt like two giant leaps backwards.
We carried on talking as we turned onto Long Acre. I noticed that, except for the odd cab, the street was dead quiet now the dark had chased home the merchants and shoppers … all except for one lone figure leaning against a lamppost just across the street from the hostel. The lamp’s light flooded over him, leaving his face in shadow, but revealing a stunted, hulking shape in a brown, battered trench coat. The shadowy figure spat noisily, and Betsy began to growl deep in her throat.
