The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories, Part VI

by David Marcum

  To Mr. Pettigrew, however, must go the distinction of pitching head-first from a hansom cab and knocking himself insensible in the gutter at our feet. As introductions went, it set the tone for the investigation which was to follow. Absurd, perhaps; audacious, certainly, but as a test of my friend’s particular skills in the field of observation and deduction, it was a case without equal.

  So it was that in the late August of the blistering summer of 1896, with Mrs. Hudson absent for several days, we were about to forsake our rooms to take breakfast at my club. No sooner had we closed the door than a voice called out to us and a cab came to a clattering halt at the kerb. A small, twittering man emerged, a bag clutched in one hand and a newspaper in the other. In his haste, he caught his toe on the footplate and pitched headlong onto the pavement. There he lay, quite insensible, bleeding profusely from his brow. His bag had burst open, disgorging papers, which the slight breeze caught and drifted into the road under the wheels of a passing omnibus.

  Whilst Holmes gathered up the man’s scattered belongings, I endeavoured to ascertain his condition. The blood on his forehead made the wound appear worse than it was, and, much to the relief or disappointment of the crowd, depending on the nature of their interest, he was soon groaning and awaking from his stupor. Under the circumstances, we decided it was best to take him inside. The cabman made some small fuss about his fee and, having sent him on his way, I helped our guest to his feet and, with my arm about his shoulder, half-carried him over the threshold.

  I set him down at the bottom of the stairs, where he remained, head in hands, softly moaning to himself, and trying to gather his wits.

  “Well, well,” said Holmes, “it is no small matter that brings Mr. Edwin Pettigrew to our door.”

  “You know him?” I asked.

  “As the senior agent of the Wales and West Insurance Society. Additionally, he is a member of the Nonsuch Club, where the members wear only grey or black, except on the last Thursday in the month when they are obliged to carry a red handkerchief. I know it by reputation. The committee found itself in the news several months ago when a member was excluded for wearing brown shoes on a Saturday. A peculiar institution, by all accounts.”

  “More peculiar than the Diogenes?” I said in good humour.

  “Without doubt. There one may wear brown on any day of the week and no one will bat an eyelid as long as it is done in silence. As for Mr. Pettigrew,” Holmes continued, “he is a bachelor, owns three cats, and is a keen gardener. Roses, I fancy, are his particular hobby.”

  “You have deduced this from an observation of his person, no doubt.”

  “The lack of a ring is noticeable, as are the white, black, and ginger hairs on his trousers.”

  “It could be the same cat. A tortoiseshell, I believe they call it.”

  Holmes shook his head. “The ginger cat has rubbed itself up against his master’s legs, whilst the white animal prefers to sit upon his lap. The black cat keeps his distance; observe the few hairs that have adhered to Mr. Pettigrew’s cuff and sleeve where he has had to reach out to pet the creature.”

  “And the roses?”

  “The scratches on the hand and wrist, Watson, tell of a recent struggle with a climbing variety of the species. It is not the cats, for the marks are random and irregular. You will note too, that the scratches continue under his cuff, indicating that he was reaching up at the time of the injury, and thus the sleeve was drawn back. Mr. Pettigrew has been preoccupied of late, and forgot to wear his gloves when undertaking the task. No doubt it relates to the matter that has brought him here.”

  I drew my attention away from the shaken man. “Is that how you knew his name? There has been some mention of it in the papers?”

  “I know nothing of Mr. Pettigrew save what I have already told you,” Holmes declared. “As for his name, that I obtained from his card.”

  He held out the item in question, now smeared with the grime of the street. The name, occupation, and club of its owner were just legible.

  “As for the nature of his visit, Mr. Pettigrew would not have reached so exalted a position if he had not exhibited a degree of conscientiousness. Now, I ask you, would such a man, who pins a five-pound note to the inside of his waistcoat pocket in case of an emergency, be so careless as to desert his post in the middle of the working day to visit a detective on personal business? Mark my words, Watson, there has been an incident, and a rare one at that! Ah, Mr. Pettigrew, are you quite recovered?”

  The gentleman in question had ceased his murmurings and had managed to rise unsteadily to his feet. With one hand on the banister to steady himself, he gingerly probed the cut on his head, wincing when the slightest pressure was applied to the wound. If nothing else, it served to rouse him from his confusion and, as he looked from one to the other of us, I saw the light of desperation come to his eyes.

  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” he asked earnestly. “For pity’s sake, tell me I have found the correct address.”

  “I answer to that name,” said my companion. “This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson.”

  “Heavens be praised!” Pettigrew exclaimed, surging forward to shake him by the hand. “Mr. Holmes, I am in need of your assistance. Something terrible has happened, sir, and - ”

  Holmes deftly extracted his hand from the fellow’s grasp. “The hall is no place for such discussions, Mr. Pettigrew. I think we would all be more comfortable upstairs, where Dr. Watson can tend better to your injury.”

  So saying, he led the way, leaving me to follow Mr. Pettigrew to ensure that he kept his balance on the stairs. Once I had him installed on the sofa, I found him a brandy for his nerves and a bandage for his head.

  “Well, Mr. Holmes,” began our visitor, suddenly self-conscious now that his moment had arrived, “I am the senior agent of the Wales and West Insurance Society. As the name suggests, our clients are mostly based...”

  “In Wales and the West Country,” said Holmes impatiently when Pettigrew lost his train of thought.

  “Quite so.” Pettigrew’s hands were trembling as he took another sip from his glass. “We specialise in providing insurance for public institutions: Libraries, museums, and the suchlike. Recently, we were approached by one of our clients, the Royal Victoria Museum at Bighelmbury-on-Sea on the Somerset coast, with a view to insuring a particular item. They have made similar requests in the past, so we saw no reason to refuse them. The sum in question, however, was somewhat out of the ordinary.”

  Holmes, who had had his eyes closed whilst he listened to Pettigrew’s tale, now looked across at him, inviting him to continue. When still he hesitated, Holmes pressed him for more information.

  “How much, Mr. Pettigrew?”

  The unhappy fellow licked his lips nervously. “Thirty-thousand pounds.”

  “Good heavens,” I said, unable to contain my surprise. “What was this item?”

  “It is a little difficult to explain,” said Pettigrew uneasily. “I have an illustration which I drew myself. I have endeavoured to include as much fine detail as possible. Consideration for the minutiae is the cornerstone of my profession.”

  “A sentiment with which I have sympathy,” Holmes remarked dryly.

  Whilst he had been speaking, Pettigrew had delved into his bag, murmuring to himself as he dismissed paper after paper, until finally he located the page in question. With that, he passed it across to Holmes. When I saw his mouth twitch with amusement and the slight rise of his brow, I knew that the case had taken a new turn.

  “What do you make of it, Watson?” said he, turning the page to face me.

  I could not fault Pettigrew’s draughtsmanship. The illustration was of a statue of a woman shown from the front, back and both sides. Her wavy hair was caught back from a handsome face, as half-turning, she sought with one hand to keep the drapery that covered her lower body
from falling from her hips. In her other, outstretched hand, she held a small round object, which appeared to be an apple, judging from the small stalk protruding from its top. There was something about it which seemed familiar, although I struggled to place it.

  “You recognise it, of course,” said Holmes.

  When I shook my head, he laid the illustration on his chest and placed his hands over the arms of the statue.

  “Why, it is the Venus de Milo!” I exclaimed.

  “The Museum prefers the new appellation of Venus Discordia,” said Pettigrew, earnestly. “She holds The Golden Apple of Discord, you see, awarded to her by Paris as the fairest of the goddesses after she promised him the most beautiful woman in the world if he chose her. The woman was Helen, thus precipitating that tragic series of events that led to the fall of Troy. The statue in the Louvre, of course, does not have arms, so it has never been known for certain what she held until now.”

  “I take it,” said Holmes, “that the Royal Victoria Museum is claiming this as a complete example of the study, which explains the high valuation.”

  “Quite so, although I dare say others would say it was priceless.”

  Holmes snorted and rose briskly to his feet. “Everything has its price, Mr. Pettigrew. We live in a world that is increasingly defined less by merit and more by worth. How did the Museum come by the statue?”

  “They have a particular benefactor. You may have heard of him: Sir Charles Drake.”

  “The celebrated amateur archaeologist?” I said. Holmes turned his gaze with interest in my direction and waited for me to explain. “He discovered the Rufus Jewel in the New Forest in 1891. He donated it to one of the Cambridge colleges, as I recall.”

  Pettigrew nodded. “Sir Charles has sponsored numerous excavations both at home and abroad over the past thirty years. On his last visit to Egypt, he took tea at the top of the Great Pyramid in Giza. He is something of an eccentric.” He cleared his throat. “However, it seems he has been most generous of late in donating his finds to the Royal Victoria. Although it is a small institution, Sir Charles has stated his intention of leaving his entire collection to the Museum for the benefit of the good people of Bighelmbury on his death, on condition that it is to be kept intact, properly cared for, and labelled and exhibited. The Board of Trustees, as you can understand, is happy to accommodate his wishes.”

  “But a find of such significance,” I said. “Surely the Venus Discordia would have been better placed at one of the major institutions.”

  Pettigrew shook his head. “Sir Charles had a disagreement with certain scholars here in the capital over the Rufus Jewel. They questioned the dating of the piece to the reign of William Rufus at the end of the eleventh-century. Sir Charles gave it to Cambridge instead, by which time the dating had been confirmed as accurate. Since then, he has had no liking for London museums, and stated his refusal to enter into discussions with any of them ever again. Their loss is Bighelmbury’s gain, as it were.”

  “Why Bighelmbury in particular?” asked Holmes.

  “His late mother had a fondness for the town. She is buried there, I believe.”

  “A plausible explanation,” he murmured, although I noticed there was something about his tone which suggested he thought otherwise. “I take it you took advice about the authenticity of the statue?”

  Pettigrew appeared offended. “Why, that was the first order of business, Mr. Holmes. Sir Charles recommended Professor Erasmus Marshfield, an expert on the art of the Classical world.”

  “You are acquainted with the professor?”

  “No, it was Sir Charles who made the arrangements for his attendance.” Pettigrew hesitated. “I know him by reputation, of course. His credentials are impeccable. I met him in person for the first time when he came to the Museum to appraise the statue. He believes this to be an original work by the Greek sculptor Praxiteles dating to the fourth-century BC. I have a duplicate of his report.”

  “High praise indeed.” Holmes finished glancing over the transcript Pettigrew had handed him and considered for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Marshfield was clearly satisfied as to its provenance. It says here that it was discovered on Sir Charles’ estate some twenty miles outside Chichester.”

  Pettigrew nodded. “The ruins were initially excavated by his grandfather some forty years ago, but it was only last year that Sir Charles decided to reopen the dig. Initial evidence suggested the ruins were once the country retreat of the Roman governors of Britannia. It is a large site of over an acre, with the remains of formal gardens and intricate mosaics in the principal rooms. Marshfield assured me that it would have been quite in order for such a high-status settlement to have appropriate decoration and statuary. According to Sir Charles’ director of excavations, Mr. Henry Warren, the statue had fallen into the remains of the hypocaust system, which had protected it when the walls of the villa collapsed.”

  “I am somewhat surprised that Sir Charles was granted permission to remove the statue to his own collection, given its importance.”

  “Sir Charles has many influential friends. He was given a special licence, Mr. Holmes. The documents were quite in order. I verified them myself.”

  “And now this statue has gone missing.”

  Pettigrew blanched. He dabbed the sweat from his brow, causing the cut to ooze blood again.

  “Has word reached London already?”

  Holmes summoned a wintry smile. “Calm yourself, Mr. Pettigrew. It was a logical conclusion under the circumstances. You would not be here were the statue safe within the Museum’s walls.”

  Pettigrew swallowed hard and his voice quavered. “As you say, Mr. Holmes, it has vanished, completely and without trace. The police are at a loss to explain the disappearance.”

  “Undoubtedly. Do go on, Mr. Pettigrew.”

  “Well, there is not too much to tell. Sir Charles was most solicitous of it. Why, he would allow no other to touch it save himself and Mr. Warren. Then there was his insistence on secrecy. Very few knew of its existence.”

  “A wise precaution,” said Holmes. “Acknowledgement of its existence would have made it desirable to men for whom possession is paramount and the means of acquisition less so.”

  “It was with that concern in mind that I urged the Board to have one man on guard at all times. The Venus is no small thing to steal, I grant you. It is a little larger than life-size and made of the finest white marble, with a peculiar sparkle to the stone. Not the sort of thing one might slip into one’s pocket. It was housed in a room on its own, with the door always locked. The guards did not know what they were protecting. They were never given a key to the room, and the blinds were always drawn.”

  Pettigrew now wore a look of extreme mental anguish. Having come to the climax of the drama, he wetted his dry lips and weighed his words with care.

  “Three days ago, when the staff came to open the Museum in the morning, the statue was found to be missing. The guard said he had done his rounds as usual the night before and had seen and heard nothing out of the ordinary. Certainly it was there when Mr. Warren left the previous evening.”

  “He was the last to leave?” asked Holmes.

  “He was there to ensure that everything was in place for the grand unveiling. It was to have been yesterday. The Board had to make an excuse about water damage to the gallery. They cannot keep the press at bay forever. Much speculation has been generated about the nature of the Museum’s latest acquisition. If the statue cannot be recovered, the truth will come out eventually.”

  Pettigrew looked appealingly to Holmes for an indication that such a prospect might be avoided. But my companion was lost in thought, and his expression offered little by way of consolation to our client.

  “I can make no promises, Mr. Pettigrew,” said he at last. “It may be that you have come to me too late after the ev
ent for any definite conclusion to be reached. By now, the statue may have left the country, bound for a private collection.”

  “I fear you are correct,” said the unhappy fellow. “Sir Charles is convinced that we shall never see the statue again.”

  “From what you have told me, that is a distinct possibility. What avenues have the police been following?”

  “They arrested the guard, Mr. William Lennox, but later released him without charge.” Pettigrew shuffled uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers twitching on his sheaf of papers. “That is part of the reason why I have come to you, Mr. Holmes. The Wales and West are reluctant to pay out on the claim without further investigation. The blame has already been laid at my door. I was responsible for the final recommendation that we insure the statue. I also recommended Mr. Lennox for the position of guard. I had no doubts about his trustworthiness.”

  Holmes looked at him enquiringly. “Why was that?”

  “Mr. Lennox was a former Chief Inspector of Police before he became an enquiry agent. It was only after the event that I discovered he had been obliged to leave his duties due to insobriety. Who can say what crimes a man may commit under its influence? If it should be discovered that he was involved in the disappearance of the statue, then I shall appear complicit.”

  “Courage, Mr. Pettigrew, I doubt it shall come to that. Are you returning to Bighelmbury?”

  He shook his head dejectedly. “There is little else for me to do but wait for news. I can do that equally well at my office in Cheapside as anywhere.”

  “Then that is where we shall send word when we have something to report. Good day, Mr. Pettigrew.”

  With that, the interview was at an end. With Holmes turning his back on him, Pettigrew was thrown into a paroxysm of indecision, knowing not whether to stay or leave. I ushered him to the door and saw him installed in a cab, with instructions to rest and not to overexert himself. Returning upstairs, I found Holmes in exuberant mood, talking rapidly as he darted about the room, gathering up his things.