The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by Denis O. Smith

  ‘Yes, but where?’

  ‘To learn that, we must consult the inscription on the other picture. This, as you see, is “Death where is thy victory? Peace doth fill these parks While water from the fountain Doth sparkle on the rocks”, and the picture depicts five rabbits and five ducks. We therefore underline every fifth word, beginning with the fifth word itself,’ he continued, suiting the action to the word, ‘which gives us “victory, parks, fountain, rocks”.’

  ‘What on earth is that supposed to mean?’ I asked. ‘Does it refer to the Eldersly estates in Yorkshire?’

  Holmes shook his head. ‘The original painting may have been done upon the Eldersly estate, but I shouldn’t imagine that Henry Cosgrove had the slightest interest in that. All he wanted was some way of conveying information to his brother as to where the diamonds were hidden and he hit on the idea of using these pictures to do it. The diamonds themselves will almost certainly be somewhere in London.’

  ‘Where? And what is the point of the word “victory”?’

  ‘Cosgrove would not have wanted to make the location too obvious, and I think he has taken the opportunity to make his cryptic message read a little like a genuine epitaph by adapting those well-known lines from Saint Paul’s epistle, “O Death, where is thy sting? O Grave, where is thy victory?”. But I strongly suspect that the word “victory” is really standing in for Victoria and that the reference is in fact to Victoria Park in Hackney. He could be confident that his brother would recognise the allusion. The two of them grew up in the East End and probably paid many visits to the park – which, in my experience, incidentally, is often referred to locally as “Vicky Park”. Have you ever been there, Watson?’

  ‘Once, at least, when a rather entertaining brass-band competition was taking place there. It’s a pleasant spot. But the inscription refers to “parks”, in the plural. What does that mean?’

  ‘It certainly appears to be a plural, but that would really make no sense in any context and I suspect, therefore, that although the apostrophe is absent, it is in fact intended to be a possessive. The whole phrase therefore should be read as “Victoria Park’s fountain”.’

  ‘I don’t want to spoil your theory,’ I said, ‘but I am fairly certain that there is no fountain in Victoria Park.’

  ‘You are quite right, Watson. There is no fountain there, at least, not in the obvious meaning of the word. What there is, though, I seem to recall, is an unusually large and highly ornate drinking fountain, donated by some philanthropist several years ago. That, I think, is what is being referred to. I suspect that Henry Cosgrove instructed the artist to add a distant fountain to that version of the picture with the deliberate intention of obfuscating the issue.’

  ‘What about the word “rocks”? There aren’t any rocks in Victoria Park.’

  ‘That, I believe, is mainly there simply to finish the inscription off and make it seem more like a piece of verse, although it is also, of course, common criminal slang for diamonds and other precious stones.’

  ‘You may be right about all this, Holmes,’ I remarked after a moment, ‘but it seems to me to lead to an absurd conclusion. That Cosgrove’s brother would choose to hide an enormously valuable cache of diamonds in a public park seems to me perfectly incredible! Surely that is the very worst place he could choose!’

  ‘Not at all. On the contrary, his choice of hiding-place demonstrates a rare imagination and intelligence. Consider this, Watson: if he buries the diamonds in a private garden, whether his own or someone else’s, he runs the same danger as if he had secreted them under a floorboard, which possibility we discussed earlier with Lestrade, if you recall, in that he cannot possibly know what might happen to it after his death, or who might become the owner of the property. In addition there is the possibility that at any time someone might decide to dig over the spot he has chosen, in order to make a new flower-bed. If, on the other hand, he manages to bury the diamonds beneath the turf of one of London’s great public parks without being observed, he will know for certain that however many times the grass may be mown and however many thousands of feet may pass over that spot, his diamonds will never be disturbed. But here, I take it, is Lestrade,’ he added as there came a sharp ring at the door-bell, ‘so we will see what he has to say about it.’

  Inspector Lestrade listened with interest to Holmes’s analysis of the cryptic inscriptions and the conclusions he had drawn from them. He raised some of the same objections as I had done, but at length was convinced that Holmes was right.

  ‘It does seem very strange, I must say,’ he remarked with a shake of the head, ‘to try to hide such valuable goods in the middle of a public park, but I have come across stranger things in the course of my work, so I’m not saying it’s impossible.’

  ‘Thank you for that ringing endorsement,’ said Holmes in a dry tone. ‘Now, what I propose is this: it will be getting light shortly before seven o’clock tomorrow morning, so if we meet up at Broad Street station at half past six and take the first train which offers, we shall be able to put our theory to the test at the earliest opportunity. You still have Cosgrove under observation?’

  Lestrade nodded. ‘He can’t do anything without our knowing about it and, although he evidently got some cronies of his to steal those paintings for him, I don’t think he would trust anyone but himself to get hold of the diamonds.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Holmes. ‘We shall turn in early this evening then, so we are fresh for our morning’s research. I have a long surveyor’s tape-measure and a pocket compass, so if you could provide a sharp-edged spade and a trowel we shall be fully equipped!’

  We met in the morning at Broad Street as arranged and Lestrade informed us that he had asked for a couple of men from Hackney Police Station to meet us by the park gates with a van and the necessary equipment, but he also brought some bad news.

  ‘We have lost Cosgrove,’ he said, his face grave. ‘One of my plain-clothes men followed him to the Bull in Whitechapel last night, but he never came out again, and when my man went in to look for him, he’d vanished. He must have realised he was being followed and climbed out of a back window.’

  ‘Let us hope he has not beaten us to the diamonds,’ said Holmes.

  ‘The park would have been locked up at night,’ I remarked.

  ‘No doubt, but to a determined man with a ladder, park railings do not present an insuperable obstacle.’

  ‘There is more bad news,’ said Lestrade. ‘I mentioned to you that we had an informant among Cosgrove’s cronies. That was Billy Padgett, but his body was found last night in an alley off Whitechapel High Street. He had been strangled.’

  ‘This is looking bad,’ said Holmes in a grave tone. ‘Let us be off at once!’

  In half an hour we were at Victoria Park. It was a raw, cold morning, with a thick fog in the streets and all across the broad expanse of the park. The park gates were still closed and we waited, shivering at the cold, as the park-keeper emerged from his lodge and unlocked them for us. Then, as a weak grey daylight struggled against the fog, we made our way across the park to the drinking fountain.

  ‘This must be the westernmost corner,’ said Holmes, consulting his compass and indicating the edge of a raised slab of stone that surrounded the structure. ‘I’ll hold one end of the tape-measure, Watson, if you will draw it out that way. We must be as precise as possible. One degree out of true at this end and we will miss the mark by several feet at the other.’

  I did as my friend instructed, adjusting my position to right or left as he directed me according to his compass. At length he was satisfied and I stood thirty feet exactly due south of his own position. In a moment he and Lestrade had joined me.

  ‘Now let us see what we can find here,’ cried Holmes in a tone of excitement. ‘But, wait,’ he said abruptly, with a groan of dismay. ‘Someone has been here before us!’ He bent down and grasped a clump of grass and a six-inch square piece of turf came away in his hand. ‘This turf has been carefully cu
t away and then replaced,’ he continued, as piece after piece came away with no resistance and he tossed them to one side. ‘I fear we are too late, but push your spade in there, Lestrade, and let us see if there is anything to be found.’

  The policeman pressed his spade into the bare earth and levered up a heavy clod. ‘You are right,’ said he. ‘This ground is soft. It has been turned over very recently.’ He cast aside the clod and three or four more, then, as he pushed his spade in again, he paused. ‘There is something here!’ he cried, and leaning back on his spade he levered up a loose clod, which crumbled away to disclose a small tin box with a hinged lid. ‘Perhaps we are not too late, after all,’ said he, as Holmes took the box from the spade. A moment later, however, our hopes were dashed, as Holmes opened the lid of the box and we could see it was perfectly empty. ‘What now?’ asked Lestrade, leaning on his spade. ‘You were right, Mr Holmes, but too late; and to be right but too late is no better, I’m afraid, than being wrong.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Holmes, his brows drawn down in thought. ‘We know at least what has happened, even if we were too late to prevent it. At the moment we trail behind the leader in this race, but the game is not yet over.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘That we fill in this hole and pay a visit to Mrs Cosgrove at once. You have her address at Higham’s Park, I take it? We know that Cosgrove has already been to see her at least once and your information suggests he intends to see her again. I had the impression when we spoke to her at the Marchmont Gallery that she perhaps knows more than she cares to admit.’

  Lestrade agreed, and we set off in the police van at a great rate. Through the busy streets of Hackney and Clapton we rattled, along the open, windswept road across the marshes of the Lea valley and into the distant suburbs beyond. Eventually, perhaps forty minutes later, our driver reined in his horses by Higham’s Park station. ‘This will do,’ called Lestrade, springing down. ‘It is only a short walk from here.’

  He led the way along a side-road and round a corner to where a terrace of substantial houses stood back a little from the road. ‘This is the one,’ he began as we approached a wooden gate, but even as he spoke, the front door of the house was opened and a tall, thin man in a black frock-coat and top hat emerged, carrying a leather case. He came down the steps from the front door and stood in the gateway, deliberately blocking our way.

  ‘Who might you be?’ he asked, making no attempt to get out of our way.

  ‘We are the Metropolitan Police,’ answered Lestrade in his best official manner, showing his card to the other man, who took it and examined it closely for a moment. ‘And who are you, if I might ask?’

  ‘My name is Sherwood. I’m a doctor. There’s a woman in there in a pretty poor state, Inspector. Apparently some roughs broke in during the night or early this morning and beat her very badly. They’d tied her maid up, but she eventually managed to free herself and come for me. I was going to report the matter at the local police station, but seeing as you’re here, I’d be obliged if you’d deal with that side of it for me.’

  ‘I certainly will,’ said Lestrade. ‘Are any bones broken?’

  ‘No, luckily for her; but she’s badly bruised. I’ve done what I can for her and I’ll call back later.’

  Dr Sherwood went on his way and a few moments later we were admitted to the house and conducted up to Mrs Cosgrove’s bed-chamber. She was sitting up in bed, reclining on a mound of cushions. Her face was a mass of bruises, one eye being almost completely closed by the swelling about it, there was a dressing on her neck and one of her arms was heavily bandaged up. Lestrade introduced himself, but her eyes wandered past him to Sherlock Holmes, whom she evidently recognised.

  ‘You were at the Marchmont Gallery yesterday,’ she said to him in a weak voice.

  ‘Indeed,’ returned Holmes. ‘We were endeavouring to solve a little mystery involving two paintings formerly in the possession of your late husband. It is his brother, Albert Cosgrove who has done this to you, I take it.’

  Mrs Cosgrove hesitated a moment, then nodded her head in silence.

  ‘I had the impression when we spoke yesterday,’ continued Holmes in a soft tone, ‘that you were holding something back, something you did not wish us to know.’

  ‘You are correct,’ said she. ‘But the chief thing I did not wish you to know is what I never wish anyone to know, that my husband’s brother is a vicious criminal who has spent some years in Dartmoor Prison. Such information would scarcely be a welcome addition to the genteel conversation of a Bond Street picture gallery.’

  ‘I think there was also something else, more particular to our enquiry.’

  ‘Yes. I was about to tell you. Albert Cosgrove came to see me shortly after his release from prison and asked me specifically about those paintings you were interested in, The Tomb on the Hill. I told him I had sold them, at which he cried out angrily.

  ‘“You had no right to sell them,” he shouted in a violent rage. “Henry said that they were for me.”

  ‘“I did not know that,” I said. “Henry never told me.”

  ‘Eventually I managed to convince him that I was speaking the truth, but he forced me to tell him where I had sold them and to whom. I told him I did not know the purchasers, that he would have to enquire at the Marchmont Gallery. I assume he did so, but I know no more about that than you.’

  ‘Now,’ said Holmes, ‘if you would cast your mind back a dozen years: did your brother-in-law call at your house shortly before he was arrested?’

  Mrs Cosgrove nodded. ‘He came late one night. Henry hadn’t seen anything of him for several months. They sat talking for a long time in the study. What passed between them, I don’t know. Eventually Albert left by the back way, about midnight. I said to my husband “Whatever you and Albert were talking about, I don’t want to know.”

  ‘“Good,” said he, “because I wasn’t going to tell you.”

  ‘“Why do you have anything to do with him?” I asked.

  ‘“I don’t want to,” said Henry, who, I could see, was very agitated about something, “but he’s my own flesh and blood and I can’t turn him away.”

  ‘The very next day, I believe, Albert was arrested, down Limehouse way. Henry never mentioned him again and nor did I. Of course, I read the newspapers, like everyone else, and I heard that the Bellecourt diamonds had never been found and wondered once or twice if my husband knew anything about them. But he never mentioned the matter and I never asked him about it.’

  ‘And the events of this morning?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘I was awakened suddenly some time before five, to find a candle lit in my bedroom and a man standing there with a knife in his hand. I opened my mouth to scream, but he clamped his free hand over my mouth and pushed the knife into my neck, and I saw then it was Albert Cosgrove. He said if I let out a sound he would slit my throat. He said he had followed Henry’s instructions, to find something that belonged to him, but had found nothing there. I told him if he meant the diamonds, I didn’t know anything about them, but he wouldn’t believe me and I got a blow for my troubles.

  ‘He asked me if I knew Billy Padgett and I said I didn’t. “He’s a police spy,” he said, “but he won’t spy no more. I dealt with him last night good and proper. Now, if you don’t tell me where you’ve hidden the diamonds, I’m going to throttle you like I throttled Billy Padgett and then I’ll find them anyway, so you may as well tell me now.” His tone was one of evil menace and I knew he meant what he said, but, of course, I couldn’t tell him because I simply didn’t know.

  ‘I pleaded with him, begged him to spare me, and told him over and over again that I knew nothing about the diamonds, but every response I made to his questions brought only more blows, as he hit me, again and again, more viciously each time. At length he paused and I could see that he was thinking about something. I had the impression that he had had a fresh idea, but he didn’t say anything about it to me. He gave me one last blow wh
ich knocked me down and I knew no more. When I came to my senses, I was lying on the floor, the room was empty and the house was in complete silence. He had gone.’

  ‘The unspeakable brute,’ I said, as we were leaving the house.

  ‘Don’t you worry, Dr Watson,’ said Lestrade. ‘We’ll get him and he’ll pay for what he’s done to that poor woman. But where he might be right now is anyone’s guess.’

  ‘I think I know where he might be,’ said Holmes, ‘and where the diamonds are, too.’

  ‘Where?’ cried Lestrade in surprise.

  ‘In Philips’s cottage on Barnes Common. We must make all haste to get down there.’

  ‘What makes you think that Philips knows anything about the diamonds?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s partly a matter of elimination, Watson: Albert Cosgrove clearly hasn’t got them, his sister-in-law hasn’t got them, the proprietor of the Marchmont Gallery would have had no reason to suspect that there was anything special about the paintings until Albert Cosgrove came enquiring after them, by which time they’d already been sold. That only leaves Philips. He’s not stupid and probably realised there was something odd afoot when Henry Cosgrove supplied him with those eccentric tomb inscriptions in place of the original conventional epitaph, and with the specific instructions about the number of animals to be included. And if his suspicions weren’t already aroused, they surely would have been when Cosgrove later insisted that all these instructions be returned to him.

  ‘When we spoke to him, Philips claimed that he couldn’t remember any details of Cosgrove’s instructions, but that doesn’t really ring true. Cosgrove would not have simply requested “more rabbits” or “more ducks”, but must have specified a precise number, in order for the cipher to work properly, and Philips would surely have remembered Cosgrove’s precision on the point, even if he couldn’t remember the exact number requested. I was also struck by the way Philips avoided mentioning Henry Cosgrove’s name, as if to ensure we made no connection between “the solicitor”, as he referred to him, and the notorious jewel thief – which of course suggests that Philips himself was aware of the connection. Then there is the notable fact that Philips appears to be living comfortably enough and is, indeed, about to move from what are probably relatively cheap premises to a much more fashionable and therefore more expensive address in Chelsea, despite appearing to have no work.’