The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by Denis O. Smith

  ‘Indeed. I remember it well,’ returned Appleby. ‘The Tomb on the Hill. Is there some problem with it?’

  ‘No, but he has recently learnt that there is another version of the same painting, also sold by you, I believe, and he is curious as to who owns that one.’

  ‘It is not our policy to divulge the names and addresses of our private clients.’

  ‘Of course, I understand that. But in this case, Mr Dryson simply wishes to examine the two paintings together, out of artistic curiosity. He is sure the other gentleman would be as interested as he is to see them displayed side by side.’

  ‘That might prove somewhat difficult to arrange,’ said Appleby.

  ‘Why is that?’ asked Dryson. ‘Is the owner away?’

  Appleby shook his head. ‘Have you not heard?’ said he in surprise. ‘It was in the local paper. The other version of the painting was stolen last week. Two men forced their way into the owner’s house while he was out, overpowered his housekeeper and left with the painting. The matter is now in the hands of the police, so I understand.’

  ‘Do you know which police station is dealing with the case?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Chelsea, I believe,’ returned Appleby, ‘as that is where the owner lives.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Holmes. ‘As you will imagine, we are curious to know how you came to be selling two very similar copies of the same painting.’

  ‘They both happened to come on the market at the same time.’

  ‘From different sellers?’

  ‘No, the same seller – the widow to whom I referred in a previous conversation with Mr Dryson.’

  ‘It seems odd that she should have had two copies of the same painting. Might we know her name?’

  Appleby hesitated. ‘Ordinarily, my client’s wish for privacy would preclude my giving you that information. As it happens, however, the lady in question has an appointment to see us this morning.’ He glanced at a clock on the wall. ‘She is due here in about ten minutes’ time. If you wish, you may wait and put your questions to her yourself.’

  For a few minutes, we ambled round the gallery, idly examining the various objets d’art on display there, then Holmes indicated that we should join him in the street outside.

  ‘There is something odd here,’ said he, as we stood on the kerb, a short distance from the shop. ‘Did you feel it, Watson?’

  ‘Mr Appleby is very stiff and formal in his manner,’ I remarked, unsure what my companion had in mind.

  ‘Yes,’ said he; ‘but I fancy there is something more than mere formality. It seemed to me that there was a distinct look of apprehension in his eye when I began to question him, as if there were something else, other than simply names and addresses, that he did not wish us to know.’

  He broke off as a smartly dressed woman approached the door of the Marchmont Gallery. She was, I suppose, nearer fifty than forty, but her face was an attractive, almost youthful one, and her carriage was erect and graceful. As this appeared likely to be the seller of Mr Dryson’s picture, we followed her into the shop, where Appleby introduced us.

  ‘There is not much I can tell you about the paintings,’ said she, when Holmes had explained our interest. ‘My late husband was the great collector of such things, not I.’

  ‘It seems odd that your husband should have had two paintings of the same scene,’ observed Holmes.

  The lady smiled and shook her head. ‘I quite agree; but for some reason he seemed very keen on it – I don’t know why. We had a large house at the time, near Bethnal Green, with a large room on either side of the front door, and my husband hung a copy of The Tomb on the Hill in both of them. When I asked him about it, he just said he wished to be able to look at the picture whichever of the rooms he was in. The artist, a charming young man by the name of Andrew Philips, whom I met on several occasions, had originally painted the scene for the Eldersly family, who have estates in Yorkshire, I believe. The tomb is apparently that of some ancestor of theirs who soldiered abroad for much of his life. Anyway, they gave Mr Philips permission to enter it for the Royal Academy exhibition, and it was there that my husband saw it and was so taken with it that he asked if he might have a copy. Neither the Eldersly family nor Mr Philips raised any objection to this, nor, evidently, to there being two copies, which was what Mr Philips brought to our house in due course. That was about three years ago. Perhaps there was something in the theme of the tomb that appealed to my husband, but it seems a little morbid to me, for it was about that time that my husband first fell ill – a long illness to which he finally succumbed last summer.’

  ‘Might we know your husband’s name?’ enquired Holmes. ‘Then we can look out for any more of his collection which might come on to the market.’

  ‘Why, certainly,’ said the lady. ‘His name was Henry Cosgrove. You may have heard of him, as he was a prominent lawyer in his day, with a well-known and busy practice in Whitechapel.’

  ‘Thank you. And the artist’s address, in case we wish to look him up?’

  ‘He has a cottage to the west of Putney. I can’t remember the name of it, but you can’t miss it, as it stands all by itself. He says the air there is the clearest in the whole of London, which is why he chose it. The nearest station is the one on Barnes Common.’

  ‘What a very charming woman,’ said Dryson when the three of us were out in the street once more.

  ‘Indeed,’ I agreed. ‘What a delightful voice she has! And what poise!’

  ‘And yet,’ said Holmes with a chuckle, ‘all the time she was discoursing in so charming a manner, her fingers were clutching the bag she was carrying as a drowning man might clutch at a straw. What, you did not observe it? So tightly was she gripping it that I thought she might rend it in two.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘I don’t know, Watson. Perhaps there was something that Mrs Cosgrove was anxious we might ask her, something she would rather not discuss. But, come! I wish to make a few enquiries at Chelsea police station.’

  Dryson asked if he might accompany us, to which Holmes raised no objection, and in twenty minutes we had reached the police station. Our visit there was but a brief one. The officer on duty informed us that a Mr Gerald Tacolstone of Oakley Street had reported the assault upon his housekeeper and the theft of his painting the previous week. ‘But,’ he said, ‘we have had a message from him this very morning, to say that his picture has been returned. It seems that someone rang at his door-bell early this morning and when his housekeeper went to answer it she found there was no one there, but a large packing-case had been left, leaning up against the railings. She and Mr Tacolstone took it into the house and, when they opened it, found it contained his painting.’

  ‘Unharmed?’

  ‘Apparently so. In any case, the matter is out of our hands now. The day after the robbery, we had a message from Scotland Yard to say that one of the detective officers there, Mr G. Lestrade, would be taking over the case. If you wish to know any more about the matter, Mr Lestrade is probably the man to ask.’

  ‘I wonder why Lestrade became involved,’ murmured Holmes, as we stood for a moment on the street outside the police station. ‘As you now have a different version of the painting, Mr Dryson, it seems very likely that the one you have is Mr Tacolstone’s and the one he has is yours. But I think we ought to verify this curious transposition of paintings by paying that gentleman a visit.’

  Twenty minutes later, therefore, we presented ourselves at Mr Tacolstone’s house in Oakley Street. A stout, rubicund gentleman, with a glint of humour in his eye, he listened with interest as we described to him Mr Dryson’s experience and our subsequent enquiries.

  ‘Do you know,’ said he at last, ‘I am very glad that you have come, for it has quite taken a weight off my mind. I had begun to think I must be going mad. When my picture was returned, so I thought, I rushed to send a note round to the police station, telling them as much. I didn’t want them to waste any more time on enquiries now that
I had the stolen item back. But I hadn’t looked at the picture properly when I sent off my note and, when I did so, I discovered to my astonishment that although the picture was largely the same as before, certain small details in it had been changed. I didn’t feel that I could bother the police again over the matter – I thought they would consider me a perfect idiot – and then I began to doubt my own memory of how the picture had been before. I had no reason to suppose, you see, that there was more than one copy of the picture. But now, although the mystery is not cleared up, it is at least a different mystery from what I had at first supposed and does not reflect on my own sanity in any way.’

  He took us through to another room, which was as much of an Aladdin’s Cave as Mr Dryson’s drawing-room. Propped up on a chair was The Tomb on the Hill and Dryson at once bent to examine it. ‘Yes, this is undoubtedly my version,’ he said at length.

  ‘Well, you are welcome to it, I am sure,’ said Tacolstone with a merry chuckle. ‘The tomb inscription on this one is even poorer than the one on my copy and this one also lacks the odd little fountain in the distance.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Dryson, laughing, ‘but at least this one is not quite so infested with rabbits as your copy!’

  Holmes made a brief examination of the picture, including the back, which he indicated to me had been removed and replaced just as the other one had, then for some time he stood in silent thought, as the two art collectors joked about the relative merits of their pictures. ‘I think,’ said he at length, interrupting the flow of their humour, ‘that there is more to this singular business than any of us can know at present. What I propose is that you bring your pictures round to my chambers at six o’clock this evening and leave them with me for twenty-four hours so that I can examine them together more carefully. After that, each can be returned to its rightful owner.’

  Both men readily agreed to this proposal and we left them in a jocular discussion of their hobby, their laughter ringing in our ears as we made our way up to the King’s Road.

  ‘Do you intend to go to see Inspector Lestrade?’ I asked, as we looked for a cab.

  ‘Later,’ returned my companion. ‘First I should like to have a word with the creator of these singular pictures, Andrew Philips, who may be able to tell us a little more about how they came to be commissioned. Would you care to come?’

  ‘Most definitely,’ I replied. ‘I am keen to get to the bottom of the mystery!’

  We took a cab across Putney Bridge and along the road towards Richmond, alighting some forty minutes later at Barnes station. It was a surprisingly wild and untamed spot, considering its proximity to London. I could see that in the summer months the heath must have presented a very attractive appearance, but now the bare, leafless trees and marshy ground had a desolate, woebegone look, which was not improved by the wraiths of fog that drifted this way and that with every slight movement of the chilly air. For some time we tramped over muddy tracks from one narrow road to another without seeing any sign of life, until rounding a bend we came upon a small cottage, standing in isolation by the side of the road. Our knock at the door was answered by an unkempt and unshaven young man with a small tumbler in his hand. Bluntly, in a slurred voice, he asked us what we wanted.

  ‘You are Andrew Philips?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘What if I am?’

  ‘We wish to discuss your paintings with you.’

  ‘I am not in the discussing vein this morning.’

  ‘It will only take a few moments of your time,’ Holmes persisted, ‘and you might be able to help us solve a little mystery.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ said the young man in a grudging tone. ‘Come in and make yourselves at home.’

  We followed him into the cottage and through to a large room at the back, which was clearly his studio. A couple of easels stood in the centre of the room, although there was nothing on them, and paintbrushes, rags and tubes of paint were scattered about everywhere. Along the back wall of the room, a broad row of windows looked out across the common.

  ‘Now,’ said Philips, re-filling his glass from a bottle of whisky. ‘What do you want? Do you want a tot of this? No? Well, what do you want, then? The Tomb on the Hill?’ he repeated in a bored tone, as Holmes explained the purpose of our visit. ‘I don’t remember anything about it – well, perhaps I do: Colonel Sir Spedding Eldersly came home to England about a hundred years ago after a distinguished military career abroad and stipulated that when he died he shouldn’t be buried in the church, but at the very edge of the churchyard, overlooking his estates. So he was. Then, a hundred years later, some esteemed descendant of his decided he’d like a painting of the tomb and the view beyond it, and asked me to do it. So I did. It was quite a decent painting, if I say so myself, and it was accepted for the Royal Academy exhibition that year before disappearing off up to Yorkshire, which is where the Eldersly estates are. There. Is that it?’

  ‘Someone saw it at the exhibition and asked if he might have a copy,’ Holmes prompted.

  ‘Oh, him! Some solicitor wanted a copy, Eldersly didn’t mind and I needed the money, so that was that.’

  ‘But there were two copies made, I believe.’

  ‘So there were. He came to see me when I was halfway through it and said he’d like a second copy. I didn’t mind. It was a bit boring for me, but the money was good, so I did it.’

  ‘There were some differences between the two paintings, I think.’

  ‘That’s true. All three of them were different, in various little ways. “Can I have more rabbits in this one?” he said, and “Can I have more ducks in that one?” Of course, I didn’t care. He could have had six pink elephants in one of them if he’d wanted it. “He who pays the piper calls the tune”, as they say.’

  ‘And the inscriptions on the tomb?’

  ‘Yes, he was very particular about those. Load of humbug, really. They didn’t make much sense. Think he fancied himself as something of a poet. If he’d asked my opinion, I’d have told him to stick to the law.’

  ‘Have you a record of the inscriptions?’

  ‘I might have,’ Philips replied, springing abruptly to his feet. He yanked open a door at the side of the room, revealing a narrow, twisting staircase. Up this his feet clattered, we heard him moving about upstairs for a few moments, then he clattered back down again with a small note-book in his hand. ‘I’ve got the original inscription here somewhere,’ he said, turning over the pages. ‘Yes, here we are. I copied it off the tomb on the Eldersly estate. I spent a couple of weeks up in Yorkshire and then brought the picture back here to finish it off, which also gave me a better chance of entering it in the Royal Academy exhibition.’

  He passed the open book across to us and I read the following:

  For thirty years I soldiered far

  Now here I lie at rest.

  Of all the corners of this world

  My own land is the best.

  ‘Do you have a record of the tomb inscriptions for the other two pictures?’ asked Holmes.

  Philips shook his head. ‘The solicitor had written them out for me, along with a lot of other instructions, but he told me to make sure I brought all the papers back with me when I took the finished pictures to his house in Bethnal Green. I don’t know why he was so fussy about it. Perhaps he was embarrassed at how miserably poor his attempts at poetry were. I know I would have been!’

  We thanked him for the information he had provided and he showed us to the door. ‘You’re lucky you’ve found me here,’ he said. ‘I won’t be here much longer. My lease on this old ruin runs out in two weeks and I’m moving somewhere a little more fashionable – Sydney Street in Chelsea, to be precise. I used to think that landscapes were the thing, but they’ve gone right out of fashion, I’m afraid. Society portraits is the field to be in now, so that’s where I’m going – painting flattering pictures of the rich and famous – or those who’d like to be.’

  ‘Best of luck with that, then,’ said Holmes with a chuckle.<
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  ‘We don’t yet seem to have discovered anything of significance,’ I remarked to my companion as we waited for a train on the platform of Barnes station.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ he replied, ‘but that in itself is instructive. It suggests that all those little things that we have discovered – that Henry Cosgrove’s pictures were not only different from the original painting, but also from each other, and that the backs of both these pictures have been recently removed and replaced – will only reveal their true significance when some fresh fact, as yet unknown, presents itself. These things are like the inner parts of a lock, those pieces of metal of different shapes which are of no significance whatever until one particular key is inserted, when the significance of both their shape and their position at once becomes apparent. I am hopeful that Inspector Lestrade can supply us with that key.’

  When we reached Scotland Yard, Lestrade was out, but he was not long in returning and it was with a look of surprise that he showed us into a small cramped office. ‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’ he asked as he closed the door.

  In a few words, Sherlock Holmes described to him Mr Dryson’s odd experience and the trail of enquiry which had taken us from the Marchmont Gallery, via Chelsea to Barnes Common. ‘And now, Lestrade,’ said Holmes, ‘you must tell us why you are taking such an interest in the matter.’

  ‘Our interest goes back far beyond the present business, to something else,’ the policeman replied after a moment. ‘It was somewhat before your time, Mr Holmes, but I know you have studied some of our old records, so I think if I were to say just three words to you, you would understand.’

  ‘And those three words are?’ said Holmes, raising his eyebrow as Lestrade paused.

  ‘The Bellecourt diamonds.’

  I saw a look of recognition come upon Holmes’s features, but Lestrade’s words meant nothing to me and I told him so.

  ‘You see, Dr Watson,’ said the policeman, who appeared to be enjoying his position of superior knowledge, ‘our interest doesn’t go back just a few days, or even a few months, but many years. I know that some people enjoy making merry at the police’s expense for our not acting quickly enough on occasion, but although we cannot always act as swiftly as a private individual might, our reach, let me tell you, is a very long one. The Metropolitan Police never close a case until it is finally and completely settled. Now, it was, as I say, well before your time, but in the spring of 1871 there was a daring robbery at Bellecourt & Co, the great diamond house in Hatton Garden. The night-watchman was very badly beaten and the thieves got away with a large quantity of stones, valued at the time at nearly twenty thousand pounds. We eventually caught every member of the gang, but we never recovered any of the gems. The ringleader claimed he had passed them to a Dutch confederate, who was supposed to dispose of them in Amsterdam and bring the proceeds back to London, but as the name he gave us was completely unknown to the Dutch police and could not be traced, we concluded that the story was untrue and that the diamonds were still in this country. The newspapers filled their columns with it for some time – ‘‘Where are the Bellecourt diamonds?’’ and so on – and encouraged half the population of London to look for them. But although a large reward was offered for their discovery, the diamonds were never found.