by David Marcum
“Then how do you explain the statue’s disappearance?” asked Holmes.
“I did think at first there was something fishy going on,” he admitted. “Here one minute, and gone the next - why, the magician at the end of the pier couldn’t manage a trick like that. Because of that, I had the Museum searched from attic to basement, and there was no trace of it. My thinking then was that some vandals had got into the Museum, smashed the statue into little pieces and carried it off in sacks.”
“Did Mr. Lennox find any broken windows or doors?” I enquired.
“No, they must have had a key and locked up after they did the deed.”
“Most considerate of them!” said Holmes. “Well, Inspector, I think we should speak with this Mr. Lennox. Where would we find him at this hour of the day?”
Parsons looked uncomfortable. “As it happens, Mr. Holmes, he’s here in the cells. He fell off the wagon last night on account of this business and ended up three sheets to the wind. We brought him here to sleep it off. But don’t hold that against him,” he added quickly. “He says this was his first drink in ages and I’ve no reason not to believe him. He took me under his wing when I came here as a constable. I owe him the benefit of the doubt.”
“But we do not,” stated Holmes. “If you will allow us to see him, we can satisfy our own minds on the subject.”
The inspector led the way down a drab, scuffed hall to the cheerless cells. As we approached, a constable was emerging, a tray with a tin cup and plate in one hand and his keys in the other.
“He’s awake,” he told his superior, “and feeling sorry for himself. He’s asked for a beer.”
“Give him water,” said Parsons stiffly. “We don’t want him getting maudlin again.”
He showed us into the cell where a dull-eyed, livid-complexioned older man was sitting on the bed, looking the worse for wear. He started into life and tried to button his collar when the inspector introduced us. Then, leaving us to talk, Parsons left the door ajar and retreated back to his office.
“I didn’t steal that statue, Mr. Holmes,” Lennox insisted. “And I didn’t see who did, neither.”
“Then how do you account for its absence?”
“I don’t. I can’t.”
Holmes regarded him with severity. “Tell me, Mr. Lennox, in your years as Chief Inspector, what would you have made of this story?”
Without hesitation, Lennox replied. “I’d have thought it was a bare-faced lie. But as God is my witness, sir, I swear to you that until yesterday I hadn’t touched a drop of drink for three years. I was as sober as a judge that night when I did my rounds. Every half-an-hour, regular as clockwork, and never missed one. Even when Mr. Warren was there, I went round the outside of the Museum checking the doors and windows. I locked up tight when he left and didn’t see a soul till they came to open up in the morning.”
“You saw and heard nothing out of the ordinary?” Holmes persisted.
A sheen of sweat appeared on Lennox’s forehead as he dredged up the memory. “Nothing, Mr. Holmes. I had to move on a couple of gents who tried to kip down in the Museum porch out of the rain. But it was a quiet night. Except...”
He frowned and shook his head.
“Go on,” Holmes urged.
“It was nothing, a foolish fancy.”
“Allow me to be the judge of that.”
Lennox stared at him for the longest time, and then seemed to make up his mind. “It was the goldfish, sir. There’s an ornamental pool in the main hall of the Museum with a fountain, you see, and they have seven goldfish swimming about in it to keep the children amused. Well, I got into the habit of giving them the crumbs from my sandwiches at the end of my shift. When I came on duty the night the statue went missing, I found one of them floating belly-up at the top. I fished the poor little devil out and threw him to the seagulls. Waste not, want not, as my mother used to say. Then the next morning, before the staff came to open up, I went to give them the rest of my crumbs, the same as always. Only instead of the six fish I was expecting, there were seven again. That dead fish, Mr. Holmes, he was back.”
I started to laugh, but Holmes gave me a sharp look.
“Was there anything else, Mr. Lennox, anything at all?” he asked.
Lennox shook his head. As there was little else to be learned at the police station, we took our leave. I thought our next visit would be to the Museum, but Holmes turned in the opposite direction and we found ourselves on the promenade.
At first glance, it seemed as though a rainbow had descended on Bighelmbury. Young men, looking as perky as farmyard cockerels, were ruffling their feathers for the benefit of their pretty companions, who were gaily clad in ribbons and silks and bearing parasols of every colour. With the tide out, in the distance a procession of donkeys, each bearing a giggling child, was making its way across the broad stretch of sands, whilst the glinting waves kept their distance and lapped lugubriously at the pillars at the end of the pier.
I assumed this detour was intended to take us elsewhere, but Holmes seemed inclined to linger.
“Should we not make our way to the Museum?” I urged. “Sir Charles is expecting us.”
“Let him wait,” he murmured. An intense look had crept into his pale eyes, as he stared out across the gathering of families sitting in chairs and on blankets on the beach. “There is a confidence about this crime that troubles me. Sir Charles has no objection to my being here, because he believes I cannot make any headway in the case. That is cause for concern.”
“Did you believe Lennox’s story?”
“If a man is to involve himself in crime, Watson,” said he with a sigh, “he takes pains to manufacture a sounder alibi than that.”
There was more I wanted to know, but Holmes’s reticence gave me pause. Instead, I took a seat on the low stone wall, burning to the touch beneath the blazing sun. Down on the sand below, several children were attempting to build a castle, watched by a younger child holding a melting ice in a cup, which had left a sticky residue over his chin and fingers.
It occurred to me that if we were to be staying, refreshments might be in order. Then, as I rose to my feet, I felt the quick brush of feathers on my face. My hat was swept away as a seagull wheeled and descended on the children below, snatching the last of the ice from the infant’s hand.
Stunned momentarily, his small face then creased into a mask of impotent fury as he railed against the injustice of the theft. In his rage, he took up a bucket of water and dashed it over the burgeoning sandcastle. His older sister pushed him away, sending him reeling and inspiring his tears anew, but the damage was done. The proud turrets melted away and the crenellations crumpled until all that was left was a misshapen lump of sand.
No sooner had I retrieved my hat than Holmes gripped my arm. The eyes that met mine were alive with the light of triumph, and suddenly he gave forth a noisy, unselfconscious laugh, much to the mystification of the never-ending human tide that ebbed and flowed around us.
“By the Lord Harry!” he declared. “This is one for the annals, Watson! But how to prove it? Aye, there’s the rub. Well, perhaps all is not lost. Now I know what to look for, it is only a question of finding it. Come, let us not delay another moment!”
It was all I could do to keep him in sight as he pressed his way through the crowds. I followed as closely as I could and, after entanglements with small dogs on leads, ladies with perambulators and children with hoops, I finally caught up with him as he emerged from a confectionery shop, bearing a paper packet in one hand and a penknife in the other. Without explanation, he thrust these items into his pocket and led the way to a squat, porticoed building, streaked with rust and grime from the hovering gulls, which nevertheless proudly bore the name, ‘The Royal Victoria Museum’.
Inside, an impatient Sir Charles Drake was pacing to and fro. A tall, w
ell-made, rubicund man in his late fifties, our delay had caused his face to take on a peculiar shade of puce, which our arrival did nothing to lessen. With him were Mr. Warren, a smaller, slim individual with an air of quiet assurance and serious countenance, and the Chief Curator of the Museum, Mr. George Glossop, a stringy, hoary-headed gentleman with an excessively preening manner.
“Now see here, Mr. Holmes,” said Sir Charles, “I’ve been waiting here for nigh on an hour on the word of that insurance agent, Mr. Pettigrew. I’m not accustomed to being kept waiting by the hired help.”
The offence intended made no impression on my companion, who maintained an admirable calm under the circumstances. “You must forgive us, Sir Charles,” said he. “We took a turn about this charming town. It is a favoured area indeed, both by nature and your generosity.”
The man’s ire cooled when fanned by flattery. “It’s little enough to do, Mr. Holmes. My late mother loved this place.”
“And she would no doubt be saddened to hear of this misfortune. Dear me, it is a perplexing business.”
“It seems perfectly straightforward to me,” came the grumbled reply. “Stolen by one of my rivals, mark my words.”
“It is their methods which interest me,” said Holmes, drawing out his glass. “An examination of the scene may yet yield some small detail that the police have overlooked.”
Mr. Glossop led the way to the locked gallery. Along the way, we passed the pool of which Mr. Lennox had spoken. Seven fish swam lazily beneath the bubbling fountain, the startling orange and red of their scales enhanced by the sapphire blue of the tiles. I noticed Holmes glance at the plumbing of the feature, in particular to the drain set in the floor of the pool and the tap beneath the fountain.
At the end of the hall, Mr. Glossop withdrew a large bunch of keys and fiddled with the lock on the gallery door. As Pettigrew had said, it was impossible to see what lay beyond; the blinds on the glass were heavy and obscured the view entirely from sight. The door was opened to reveal a spacious gallery, newly decorated, in a separate wing of the Museum. Set around the walls were broken specimens of antique sculpture set on plinths, and in the centre of the room, a lone marble podium indicated where the missing statue had once stood.
Holmes took a turn about the gallery, closely watched by the three men. He caught my eye and I understood his meaning. What was needed was a diversion.
“I understand you had a death here recently,” I spoke up, drawing their attention. “A goldfish, so your guard was telling me.”
Mr. Glossop sniffed disdainfully, making the end of his nose twitch. “Mr. Lennox is imagining things. He drinks, you know.”
“Like a fish,” Warren said with grunt of amusement at his own joke.
“The man is a fool,” said Sir Charles. “A statue was stolen under his very nose and all he can talk about is a dead goldfish.”
“On the contrary,” I returned, “he said it came back to life. You did not replace the deceased fish without informing him, Mr. Glossop?”
“Certainly not. If you have ever had any dealings with goldfish, you’ll know they are messy creatures. We have to have the pool cleaned every month. When the last one dies, the pool will be removed. The savings in water rates alone will be worth the expense of demolition.”
I had been watching Holmes out of the corner of my eye. At one point, I was certain I had seen him run his finger over the top of the podium and then lick it. From there, he dropped to the floor, where I saw him perform the same action after running his finger along the grouting of the tiles, before moving on to an examination of the other items on display.
I had exhausted my conversation on the alleged death of the Museum’s fish and was wondering where to lead the discussion next. But just at that moment, Holmes let out a cry and jumped to his feet, holding aloft what appeared to be a sliver of marble.
“A piece of your statue, unless I am much mistaken,” he declared. “It appears to be the stalk of the Apple of Discord.”
Mr. Warren started forward. “But that’s impossible. I accounted for...” He trailed off, realising his mistake. Sir Charles’ face drained of colour, whilst Mr. Glossop appeared baffled by this discovery.
“You accounted for all parts of the statue after you broke it up,” Holmes finished for him. “Yes, you were most careful, Mr. Warren. Except for this.”
Warren rushed forward and tried to grab the shard from his hand. Holmes stepped away and raised his hand beyond Warren’s reach. Defeated, the man withdrew, his expression one of ill-concealed fury, and could only watch as Holmes lifted the piece to his lips and licked it.
“Salt,” said he. “As I suspected. But for this tiny remnant, no one would have been any the wiser.”
“I don’t understand,” said Mr. Glossop, his brow knotted in bemusement. “Why would a marble statue taste of salt?”
“Because it was not marble, but solid salt. The technique is not unknown. I had the opportunity of visiting the World’s Columbian Exposition when I was in Chicago in the June of 1893. There was a representation of the Statue of Liberty standing at over twelve foot tall, created by a British sculptor and made entirely from white salt. I should have been alerted by Sir Charles’ refusal to let anyone touch the Venus. A salt sculpture has a different texture to that of marble, although the effect of stone may be fairly replicated. It would also explain the lack of support given to the arm; I imagine the salt was moulded around a metal bar inside the body.”
Sir Charles said nothing, whilst Warren glowered at him.
“On the night in question,” Holmes continued, “whilst Mr. Warren was here alone, he smashed the statue into pieces and dissolved it in the pool outside. The evidence was then washed away down the drain. Mr. Lennox may enjoy his drink, but it did not diminish his capacity for observation. Well may you ask, Watson, how a dead fish may live again. I tell you it is because they were different fish. The original six died when the salt was introduced into the water. Mr. Warren brought another seven fish with him, not knowing that one had died earlier. Had it been any other night, you might have got away with it. But then you were pressed for time. The rain that evening would have caused the humidity to rise, which would have damaged the statue.”
“Nonsense, absolute nonsense!” exclaimed Warren, full of indignation. “That piece of salt proves nothing.”
“It would take some time, but I believe I could discover the identity of the artist who created this sculpture for you. Working in salt is a specialised field - the practitioners must be limited. Perhaps you expect Professor Marshfield to support your story? Well, I fear you will be disappointed. The professor has a talent for saving his own hide. I believe he could be persuaded to testify against you in exchange for immunity from prosecution.”
Warren would have continued to protest had not Sir Charles laid his hand upon his shoulder and restrained him.
“There is little use in denying it, Henry,” said he heavily, squaring his shoulders to take the burden of the blame. “The responsibility lies with me, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Warren has only acted in accordance with my instructions. I never expected matters to go this far. I expected the insurance company to pay the claim without question.”
“Then you should have chosen a less well-known subject and settled for a smaller sum,” Holmes countered.
“Would that my creditors have permitted it. Such a situation may make a man behave unwisely.” Sir Charles shook his head. “What will you do now, Mr. Holmes?”
Holmes considered. “That depends on you, Sir Charles. Withdraw your claim, and say that the statue was a forgery planted at the excavation by your rivals with the intention of ruining your reputation. Tell the insurance company that you destroyed it in order to protect yourself and the good name of the Royal Victoria Museum. I can assist in assuring them that you meant to discover the culprits before any money was paid out. Desp
ite your folly, I dare say the Town Council will not want Bighelmbury drawn into a scandal and will keep your secret. You have only to rearrange your exhibits and show them to the press without reference to the statue to satisfy their interest. And then, Sir Charles, you should find yourself a hobby that suits your purse. Unless the Royal Victoria could be persuaded to fund your excavations.”
Mr. Glossop swallowed hard. “We have limited funds, Mr. Holmes. We could probably raise enough to buy Sir Charles’ collection. At the right price, of course, for our consideration in overlooking this incident. Perhaps two hundred pounds?”
“A capital arrangement. That should go some way to clearing your debts.”
Sir Charles gave Holmes a dull look. “What of my legacy?”
“We would give you the credit for the discoveries, naturally,” Glossop assured him.
“A brief mention on a few dusty tickets is to be preferred over finding one’s name in the national newspapers,” said Holmes briskly. “Now, if you will excuse us, the last train back to London leaves on the hour, and if we hurry we should just make it. As delightful as your town is, the lack of accommodation leaves something to be desired. Good day, gentlemen.”
Outside once more in the stifling heat of the late afternoon, we took a brisk walk back to the station. Along the way, I examined Holmes on the details of the case.
“The goldfish was on my mind when we witnessed that incident with the children,” he explained. “As the water washed away the sandcastle, I was exploring the reasons why a fish might come back to life. The obvious answer was that it was not the same fish, but a replacement. Who then would have effected the deed, given that the Museum was locked from Mr. Warren’s departure to the arrival of the staff in the morning? Why, Mr. Warren, of course. I then had to ask myself why he would concern himself with the Museum’s goldfish. Because he did not replace one, but all. There are any number of substances that would poison the water, but few suitable for masquerading as statuary. After that, it was simply a case of testing for traces of salt on the plinth and the floor.”
