by David Marcum
Elliott hesitated, and Holmes chimed in. “Yes, Mr. Elliott. Your presence would be of immeasurable help.”
Taking a reluctant step forward, Elliott glanced at Holmes, a dubious expression on his face. He let out a squawk of surprise as Hopkins took his arm and urged him forward.
We foregathered in the studio, where Holmes waved the women to the settee and the men to the chairs, while he stood before the defaced painting, his hands clasped behind his back as he regarded his audience. Energy suffused his lean form and imbued even the simplest gesture with purpose, a stark contrast to the languishing man I witnessed this morning.
“Let me reconstruct the events of last night,” he began. “After showing his painting and receiving a negative reaction from his friends and colleagues, Edgar Tice remained alone in his studio. The fire had burned bright, the whisky flowed freely, and therefore the room was stuffy, so he opened a window. Then he pulled up a chair and sat contemplating his work while finishing off another glass.”
Elliott snorted. “Come, now. You cannot know this, Mr. Holmes.”
“Indeed I can,” he replied. “The evidence is before us. One must learn to observe and interpret it, however.”
At Elliott’s dubious look I spoke. “Holmes speaks the truth, for I have witnessed it many times. If you do not believe me, just ask any of his many clients.”
“Thank you, Watson,” Holmes said with a smile. “As I was saying: Tice sat dozing in a whisky-soaked stupor when a member of the party who had been in the studio earlier returned. This person crept into the room, expecting it to be empty, only to discover a slumbering Tice still there. They walked to the portrait, careful not to wake Tice, picked up a brush and began their mission of destruction.
“At this point, Tice awoke and leapt to his feet, enraged by this wanton act. Our visitor, startled by his actions, turned. Tice stumbled forward and was shoved away. He tripped over the hem of his dressing gown, crashed against the partially open window, and tumbled to the pavement below.”
“Horrible,” murmured Lady Georgiana. The color had drained from her face, and when she lit a cigarette, her hands shook.
“Oh, Mr. Holmes!” Miss Daphne choked out a sob and bowed her head.
“That’s enough!” cried Plunkett, his fists clenched. “You are upsetting Daphne and Georgie!”
“I insist on continuing, Mr. Plunkett,” said Holmes, his collected calm rebuking Plunkett’s ire. “I am certain that Lady Georgiana and Miss Beaufort have sufficient strength and courage to hear the truth.”
“Yes, of course,” said Lady Georgiana, putting her cigarette to her pale lips and inhaling deeply.
Miss Daphne raised her head and gave Plunkett a tremulous smile. “I am anxious to hear what Mr. Holmes has to say. Please continue.”
After giving a theatrical bow, Holmes regarded the group of expectant faces.
“Who was this visitor? One of the most difficult aspects of this case was the surfeit of suspects, each with a sufficient motive.” He gestured toward Lady Georgiana. “Was it Her Ladyship, who exerted so much artistic influence on Tice?”
“I knew it!” cried Elliott. “I knew she was responsible!”
“Quiet, Mr. Elliott,” said Hopkins.
Muttering, Elliott subsided.
Holmes waited a moment, then continued. “Perhaps it was his brother Randolph, who also admires Lady Georgiana?” He turned to Elliott. “Or Thomas Elliott, whose unbridled admiration of his patron may have led to disillusionment and hatred? Or could it have been Charles Plunkett, defending his muse and object of interest?”
He paused, ignoring the general outcry and exclamations of defense. At that moment he reminded me of a coiled serpent, waiting to lash out.
“Or...” The serpent reared and struck. “...was it Miss Daphne Beaufort? After all, in many ways she had the most to lose, for Tice’s portrait would have purportedly revealed her soul to the world and ruined her reputation.”
“Nonsense!” cried Plunkett, while Elliott assumed a pugilistic stance, muttering about thrashing Holmes. Elliott subsided when Hopkins clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. Lady Georgiana cried, “Ridiculous!”, and Randolph Tice remained silent, yet watchful.
“Mr. Holmes!” Miss Daphne rose, her delicate hand pressed to her breast, the picture of wounded womanhood. “This is the merest conjecture.”
With a shake of his head, Holmes stepped forward. “I am afraid the evidence against you is marked and compelling. While you defaced the painting some of the wet paint transferred to your hands, and when you shoved Edgar Tice traces of color were left on his dressing gown and shirt. Although you attempted to wash away the paint on your hands, you could not completely remove it all - there is a smudge of carmine on your ring finger, and a trace of black on the side of your thumb.”
“That is easily explained. I model for several painters,” she said, her lovely blue eyes blazing in indignation. “It is not unusual for me to discover smudges of paint on my hands and garments.”
Holmes raised a brow and continued. “In addition, you did not notice that a lock of your hair brushed against the canvas, not only leaving behind several tell-tale strands, but also picking up a little of the wet paint.” His long fingers lifted a lock of her hair, and even from a distance I could see a trace of dark color on her blond tresses.
She hurriedly stepped away from Holmes, only to meet the solid wall of Inspector Hopkins. With a flutter of her lace-edged handkerchief, she dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “How can you be so ungallant, Mr. Holmes?”
“On the contrary, I am being gallant, Miss Beaufort. I do not believe you intended to kill Edgar Tice when you pushed him. He startled you, and you reacted in fright. Unfortunately, the window behind him was open, and when Tice tripped over the hem of his dressing gown, he fell. It was a series of unfortunate circumstances that led to his death.”
“That’s for a jury to decide,” said the inspector, his large hand closing around her wrist. “Come with me, miss.”
Miss Daphne let out a little cry and tugged ineffectually against his grasp.
Lady Georgiana hurried to her side. “That is not necessary, Inspector. I will accompany Daphne to ensure she is properly treated.”
Hopkins bristled for a moment, then sighed and reluctantly released Miss Daphne’s wrist. “Very well, Your Ladyship,” he said. “I suppose there’s nothing I can do to convince you otherwise? No, I didn’t think so.” With another heartfelt sigh, he ushered the two women from the room.
“Well!” Plunkett shook his head. “I can scarce believe it, Mr. Holmes. That Daphne would do such a thing...”
“It’s inconceivable,” said Elliott. “Why, she’s such a meek little thing, a womanly woman.”
Holmes smiled briefly. “Desperation can stiffen the resolve of even the most mild temperament, gentlemen. And remember, she has lived with Lady Georgiana for many years - no doubt Her Ladyship’s example of courage and fortitude influenced Miss Beaufort.”
Randolph Tice looked around the studio. “I suppose I must thank you for resolving the mystery of my brother’s death, Mr. Holmes, but the knowledge brings no peace. Merely sadness at the loss of one life and the ruin of another.” He quickly crossed the room and followed after Hopkins and the women.
“Such a tragic loss of Edgar’s talent,” muttered Elliott. “All because of a weak woman. Excuse me. I must ask Mr. Tice about his intentions regarding my tenancy.” He hurried out the door.
Plunkett came over to Holmes, hand outstretched. “I will thank you if no one else will, Mr. Holmes. It is better to know the truth than remain blinded by falsehood, but I cannot find it in my heart to condemn Daphne for her actions. After all, she did not mean to kill Edgar. I pray the jury absolves her of a charge of murder, and when she’s a free woman, I hope she will accept my offer of marriage.”
/> Holmes shook Plunkett’s hand. “I will do my best to convince them.”
Once we were alone in the studio, Holmes returned to the defaced portrait and regarded it for several moments.
“It is unfortunate,” he said, “that Edgar Tice’s artistic abilities were so limited and his attempts to paint a masterpiece so ill-conceived. I’m afraid his jealousy and resentment of Lady Georgiana’s abilities inadvertently led to his downfall.”
“Miss Beaufort can hardly be blamed for reacting so when he approached,” I said. “I hope, when all this is over, she and Plunkett are happy together.”
“I shall do my best to ensure that is the case, as least as regards her trial.” Holmes pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it. “Ah well, Watson. Not every resolution is a happy one, even when we have solved the case. Now I believe we have time for an early supper at Romano’s before attending Ysaÿe’s concert.”
The Case of the Temperamental Terrier
by Narrelle M. Harris
“I swear, Mrs. Hudson, some days after the park, it’s like he’s a different animal!”
These words, overheard as Mrs. Hudson spoke to her friend on the front step of 221b Baker Street, were the herald of one of Sherlock Holmes’s oddest cases. In fact, Holmes and I, on our way to a programme of violin concertos, would have passed both women by had Mrs. Rees not added, “Though the next day, he’s always back to being Charlie the snap-hound again, more’s the pity. Miss Darrow likes him better with some snap, she says. Of course, he doesn’t snap at her. ”
Holmes abruptly ceased his stroll and regarded the white Aberdeen Terrier at Mrs. Rees’s feet with curiosity. Charlie was a common sight each morning as Mrs. Rees, the housekeeper from 189 Baker Street, took her mistress’s pet to the park. The dog was notorious for his dour disapproval of the street boys who frequented Baker Street and his stern persecution of the park squirrels.
Charlie cocked his head and regarded Holmes with as much impudent curiosity as that with which Holmes regarded the dog.
“And which animal does he seem to be today?” Holmes asked.
Mrs. Rees, startled at being addressed by her famous neighbour, clutched nervously at the dog’s brown leash. “Beg pardon?”
“Is he the snap-hound after this morning’s walk?”
“He started out crabby as you please.”
“And now?” Holmes’s tone was so studiously patient that I knew he was becoming thoroughly impatient.
“Oh, Charlie’s our darling just now, aren’t you Charlie?” She cooed at the beast and bent to tickle his ears. With great dignity, Charlie nudged up into the tickle and thumped his tail on the ground.
“A child could play with him,” I said drily, earning a reproving look from Mrs. Hudson. I was not fond of Miss Darrow’s proud terrier, having tended to one or two of the nips he’d inflicted on passers-by, including young Wiggins. Nor, it must be said, was Charlie fond of me. Yet here the wretched animal was, wagging his tail as though he hadn’t lunged at my ankles only last week.
“Is the little fellow adjusting to the changes in the household?” Holmes asked.
“It’s hard to say,” said Mrs. Rees, “He didn’t take to Miss Nancy when she moved in with her aunt, but this last week he’ll sit outside her door some days after the park like Patience on a monument. It’s almost like he’s guarding her in her sickbed, before he’s back to disliking everyone but his mistress the next day.”
Holmes’s brow furrowed, but we were almost late for our concert, so we took our leave.
“I’d no idea Miss Darrow’s niece had come to live with her,” I noted as our hansom took us away. “When did she arrive?”
I had distracted Holmes from a train of thought, and he waved his hand. “I had no more notion than you, Watson.”
“Then how did you know there had been a change in the household?”
“A change in a pet’s behaviour is often a reflection of a change in the home,” he said, “Though not usually such a radical change for the better.”
“Yes,” I agreed morosely, “Especially when you consider how often dogs are like their owners.”
“Does Miss Darrow growl at you, my dear boy?”
I folded my hands haughtily over my cane and sniffed, because he knew full well the reason for the disharmony. Holmes only laughed at my affectation.
“Your fanciful romances about our cases are not to everyone’s taste, Watson.”
“I don’t see why she has to go out of her way to tell me so in such detail,” I complained mildly, “All she need do is not read them.”
“But then, Watson, she wouldn’t have the pleasure of growling at you about them.”
I fetched up a long suffering sigh. “I suppose one must allow a spinster her little pleasures.”
“That’s it, Watson. Bear up.”
Any concerns I had about Miss Darrow and her temperamental dog were lost in an afternoon of splendid music. Holmes was as rapt as I by the charming and lively performance, and I thought no more of the encounter with the housekeeper until we were returning across Regent’s Park. Several people were escorting their dogs around the grounds, though no Aberdeen Terrier was in sight.
“The question really,” said Holmes, “is why.”
“Why what?”
“Why substitute the dog?”
“What dog?”
“Mozart has driven the snap-hound completely from your memory,” he said, laughing.
“Oh, Miss Darrow’s awful terrier,” I exclaimed, “I think as infrequently of him as I can, when he’s not threatening the wellbeing of my trouser cuffs.”
“Did he strike you as being, as Mrs. Hudson’s friend claimed, a different dog?”
“This morning he was the friendliest I’ve ever seen him,” I said, “Perhaps the presence of this niece agrees with the brute.”
“Watson,” he admonished me good humouredly, “I assure you that the dog we met today is a completely different animal to the one who terrorised your trousers four days ago.”
“Nonsense,” I said, but at his sardonic expression amended my reply. “But it’s identical in every respect.”
“It may well be its physical twin, though I don’t recall ever meeting Charlie before today.”
“Then how could you possible know it’s a different dog?”
“Because Mrs. Hudson’s friend said it was. One dog may look very much like another, but personalities are distinctive. Aberdeen Terriers are notorious for stubbornness, wilfulness, and brusqueness, but an ill-mannered terrier is unlikely to become a tail-wagger overnight, and will never switch from snap-hound to sweetheart several times in succession in a fortnight.”
I considered this. “But if the dog has been substituted and restored several times, what on earth could be the reason?”
“And now we return to my question,” said Holmes cheerfully, taking my arm and encouraging a brisk pace towards home. He took us past our own front door and down to 189 Baker Street. He paused briefly to examine the front of the house - a climbing vine, withered where it clung to an attic-room windowsill, grew otherwise healthy from the area to the eaves along the whitewashed wall. The property was neatly kept, though shabby with age and lack of funds for repairs to damaged shingles and shutters.
Holmes rapped on the door. Mrs. Rees opened it.
“A few words with your mistress,” Holmes said, already stepping across the threshold, so that Mrs. Rees had to stand aside to let him through or be forced to close the door in his face.
“Through here, to the parlour,” said Mrs. Rees, dashing to keep up and take our hats and coats.
“Ah, Miss Darrow! I’m so pleased we caught you!” Holmes declared on seeing our churlish neighbour. She was a small woman, a shade under five feet in height. What beauty she may have possessed
in her youth had been sacrificed to a disapproving mouth and eyes that narrowed and accused at the smallest provocation. Any fondness she’d ever had for the world was focused solely on the prim maintenance of her home and on her Aberdeen Terrier.
“Have you come about the burglars?” she demanded.
Holmes was hard-pressed to disguise his gleam of animated interest as concern.
“Yes, indeed,” he stated, “What has been stolen?”
“Nothing yet,” she said, giving him a hard look, “But I’ve heard them on the roof several nights this week. Creeping about up there. Looking for weaknesses.”
“I trust they haven’t found any,” I offered. The look she gave me was reminiscent of Charlie’s the day he took to my ankle.
“I keep the upstairs room barred since my fool housekeeper lost the key,” she said firmly. “The attic window has warped and won’t open any more. Should thieves get in through the skylight, there’s no way down here.”
“You appear to be safe enough from the gang.” Holmes was solicitous. Miss Darrow was not. He ignored her inhospitable glare to continue. “But we’ve heard of your niece’s poor health. The sounds on the rooftop must have been alarming, with her room up in the attic. Doctor Watson, go and see to the young lady and make sure she’s well.”
With that, he placed a hand on my shoulder and firmly propelled me into the hall.
“Miss Garner has her own doctor, Mr. Holmes!” protested Miss Darrow.
“Well, of course she does, but you know, a second opinion is always valuable, and Doctor Watson has a great gift for second opinions. Just up the stairs here?”
Holmes chivvied me ahead of him. I hadn’t a clue what he wanted from me, but obeying his sudden whims while on a case was an old game with us and I quickly ascended.
“No! You mustn’t bother...”
“It’s no bother at all,” Holmes assured her, “Further up I think, Doctor Watson.”
Further up we went, nearing the attic room that we’d seen from the street. At the head of the stairs stood Charlie, his square little body bristling with keen interest at our intrusion. He was wagging his tail.
