“We are not here to debate why they stole it, Sherlock,” said Mycroft testily. “We are here to determine how it was done.”
“Then tell me the precise details, if you will.”
“The train set out as usual at five minutes past three o’clock,” began Lestrade.
“Do you mean to say that they have regularly transported this highly dangerous substance at a predictable time? That was most careless of them.”
“Yes, I have already brought this to the attention of the Comptroller of the Mills,” interjected Mycroft. “The man pleaded difficulties of avoiding conflicts with passenger trains coming from the north, but that is simply no excuse. This practice has been discontinued effective immediately.”
Holmes nodded. “Pray continue.”
Lestrade continued his narration. “The train passed through Enfield Lock on schedule and without incident. The station master confirms that the brake van was still attached. Same with Brimsdown and Ponders End. The master at Angel’s Road admitted, under some pressure, to being asleep at the time, while the man at Park was occupied by a call of nature. So it was the master at Tottenham Hale who was the one that finally noticed the missing van. He telegraphed ahead to Stratford station, which signaled for the advancing train to stop. An inspection quickly confirmed that the last two vans had been uncoupled. But the van and carriage could not have travelled far under their own power.”
“Was the guard a loyal man?”
Mycroft nodded. “In point of fact, he was a relatively new hand.”
Holmes sat for a moment with his fingers pressed together and then leapt from his seat, his injuries of two nights prior apparently forgotten. He pulled out a few of the drawers built into the bookcases, obviously searching for something.
Mycroft watched him with some consternation. “I say, Sherlock, you do realize that you are ransacking my own library? If you are looking for something in particular, you need only ask.”
“Never mind, Mycroft. I have it here.” Holmes had pulled out a rolled sheet of paper which, when opened, proved to be a map of greater London. He looked at it for a moment and then laughed. “Really, Lestrade, it is one of the elementary principles of practical reasoning that when the impossible has been eliminated, the residuum, however improbable, must contain the truth. It is certain that the train left Ponders End intact, is it not?” He pointed to a spot on the map. “It is certain that the final cars did not reach Tottenham Hale, here,” said he, pointing again. “It is the highest degree unlikely, but still possible, that it may have taken one of the available side rails, though an external source of power must have been supplied. It is obviously impossible for a train to run where there are no rails, and therefore, we may reduce our improbables to any open lines that cross it.”
Mycroft was shaking his head. “We don’t need you to tell us that, Sherlock. There are no open lines. They have all been closed since the printing of that particular map.”
Holmes looked taken aback at this piece of information. He spent a few minutes filling his pipe with shag tobacco and puffed at it silently while contemplating the paper before him. Finally he pulled the pipe out from between his lips and smiled. “But there are closed lines, are there not?” he asked calmly.
“What good are closed lines?” spluttered Lestrade. “Their rails have been pulled up. The train did not fly over them!”
But Mycroft seemed to follow his brother’s train of reasoning. “Are you suggesting that some gang of criminals employed platelayers to replace the rails that previously connected a side-line, making it once more temporarily operational?”
Holmes nodded. “I confess that I am unable to suggest any other solution. I should certainly advise you to direct all your energies towards looking for such a closed line. The criminals would have removed the new rails afterwards, of course, in order to cover their tracks. But that particular stratagem would have afforded them the time required to set a pump-trolley upon the tracks. They could then use it to push the cars onto the side rail, unload the carriage of its contents, and then dispose of the cars themselves. A dredging of the Tottenham Marshes might possibly bring some suggestive facts to light.”
§
Once Lestrade and Mycroft had departed Holmes appeared to be in a better mood, despite these interruptions which had no relevance to the primary matter at hand. Perhaps the intellectual besting of his brother, often acknowledged to be his superior in intellect, sufficed to restore some of his confidence. He rose, and taking up his Stradivarius from the corner, he began to play a Dvořák Humoresque. I have always enjoyed Holmes’ performances when they resulted in an actual tune, and was mildly dismayed when yet another visitor appeared and interrupted him.
This proved to be Inspector Alec MacDonald, who was one of Holmes’ favorites upon the force. In the years since we first met, his deep set, lustrous eyes still conveyed a keen intelligence from beneath the bushy eyebrows of his great cranium. Only his brown hair, now dusty with grey, and his tall, bony figure had changed, the latter now conveying a sad sense of declining physical strength.
“Mr. Mac!” cried Holmes, as he steered the man to one of the armchairs. “What can a poor retired consulting detective do for you?” he asked as he sank into the settee opposite.
The silent, precise man hesitated a moment before speaking with his hard Aberdonian accent. “Well, it seems to be but a trifle, Mr. Holmes, but there was something about it that suggested I should notify you, given that you are back in town.”
“Very good, pray proceed.”
“This morning, Scotland Yard was called by the hospital at Blackheath to come take a look at a man who had been burned in a house fire down near Charlton. When we arrived, we found a horrific scene. The poor chap was more mummy than man, with nary an inch of his skin that had not been torched and subsequently wrapped by the doctors. The only parts of him that were unharmed were his hands.”
“Both of them?” asked Holmes.
“Yes.”
“That is most remarkable,” said Holmes, eagerly leaning forward in his seat.
“Was it?” remarked the inspector. “I thought it an interesting coincidence, nothing more.”
“I assure you, Mr. Mac, that it is not an easy task to burn every part of your body while sparing your hands,” said Holmes, gravely.
I shook my head sadly. “Burns of that size are likely to prove fatal.”
The inspector nodded. “Yes, that is just what they told me, Doctor. The man had, of course, been given strong doses of morphine in an attempt to make him comfortable, but he refused to rest. Instead, he continued to murmur one word over and over again. His lips were burned to such a degree that the word was hardly intelligible, but at last they realized what exactly he was saying. That’s when they called the C.I.D.”
“And what was the word?” asked Holmes, eagerly leaning forward in his seat.
Inspector MacDonald looked peculiarly at him for a moment, and his voice dropped to almost a murmur as he answered. “It was ‘Holmes!’”
“Ah,” said Holmes, settling back, his brows furled as he considered this new piece of information. He finally smiled at the inspector. “So, Mr. Mac, are you here to ask me my whereabouts during the time of the crime? For I presume that the house fire was not natural?”
“Yes, I was just getting to that, Mr. Holmes. But I can assure you that you are not considered a suspect. There is not a man of the Yard who would suppose you to be responsible.”
Holmes smiled innocently. “So what was unusual about the fire?”
“The speed.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
Before the inspector could answer, Holmes provided the explanation. “The brave men of the city fire brigades are no fools, Watson. They do not rush blindly into burning buildings without a reasonable expectation that they will be able to make their way out again. In order to make such a calculation, they have turned to science. There are formulas, not precise ones, mind you, but fair estim
ates of how long a certain type of building is expected to burn, based on various factors, such as the number of floors, approximate age, predominant materials, etcetera.” He turned back to the inspector. “So how discrepant was the estimate?”
Inspector MacDonald shook his head. “Very much so, Mr. Holmes. The fire superintendent tells me that a fire at Hornfair House ought to have lasted at least an hour, and given the amount of brick, a sizable proportion should have still been left standing when all was said and done. He cannot explain why the entire house burned to minuscule ashes within fifteen minutes of the first sounds and notice of smoke.”
“Fascinating,” said Holmes. “So who is the burned man?”
“That’s an excellent question, Mr. Holmes, and one we hoped you would be able to answer, since it appears that he may be an acquaintance of yours.”
“But surely you can tell me the name of the owner of the house?” asked Holmes crossly.
Inspector MacDonald shrugged. “The owner is Sir Wilson Maryon, but he hasn’t been near it in years. His estate agents lease it, and about two months ago it was taken by a Mr. John David Moore. However, by all accounts, Mr. Moore was a man of at least seventy years, stooped and hard-of-hearing. He claimed to be a retired botanist. The estate is quite private, and the neighbors are uncertain if he was home at the time of the fire. And even if he was, as I said, the fire burned so hot that we may not even be able to find any remains.”
“But how do you know that the scorched man is not Mr. Moore?” I asked.
“By his hands, Watson,” said Holmes.
“Exactly, Mr. Holmes,” said Inspector MacDonald, smiling. “The burned man has no liver spots or other signs that they belong to a man of more than forty years of age. Though there are some unusual features that might help you identify him, Mr. Holmes.”
“Such as?”
“There are innumerable old scars on them, though I am unable to precisely determine what profession would have caused them.”
“Excellent, Mr. Mac,” cried Holmes. “I have often said that the hands are the key to a man. It is most fortunate that they were preserved in this situation. It is of no matter that you could not identify them, Mr. Mac. I would be happy to go down to Charlton and investigate.”
“You mean ‘we,’ Holmes,” said I.
“No, Watson, I am afraid that would be impossible. For now, we must hope that our adversary believes that I am still incapacitated. I will utilize one of the disguises that you did not record in your adventures, perhaps that of a Southwark costermonger looking for new wares. Mortlock will not be expecting that.”
“Do you think this course of action wise in your current condition? You only recently received several serious blows to the head. What if you are set upon again?”
“I think it a reasonable risk, Watson. Mr. Mortlock has proved to be a man of many resources, but he cannot be everywhere and see everything. I still have a few tricks up my sleeve that will permit me to avoid being followed.”
“Very well,” I acquiesced.
Holmes bade farewell to Inspector MacDonald, promising to wire if he learned anything of note and vanished to his room. When he returned, he was wearing the apron, cap, silk neckerchief, and bright yellow, pointed boots that typified the guise of a costermonger. I shook my head in mild disproval of his premature stirrings before his body was fully healed. “Take care, Holmes. If the police see a man dressed in an outfit like that poking around a burned house they will assume you are a looter. Inspector MacDonald may not have considered you a suspect, but you might still see the inside of a Bow Street cell before the day is done.”
Holmes laughed sharply. “I will take care to avoid notice both official and unofficial, such as those posted by our friend Mortlock.” He paused and grinned at me. “Mr. Mac is as fine a detective as can be found in the C.I.D., but he is far too trusting. For I have upon occasion been forced to veer outside the narrow scope of the law in order to right a greater injustice. Do you not recall, Watson, the odious tale of Charles Augustus Milverton, or the repulsive story of the Red Leech?”
“I prefer not to think of them, Holmes. For the one almost landed me in the clink, while the other…” I could not find the words.
“Yes, of course, say no more of it, Watson.” He clasped my hand and vanished out of the door.
§
Despite the fact that Holmes did not see the hand of Professor Moriarty in this elaborate plot against him, I was less certain. This suspicion led my feet in the direction of the close-by Trafalgar Square. I knew that within the hallowed walls of the National Gallery lay an item once inexorably linked to the evil Professor.
The neo-classical building appeared like a Greek temple that had developed massive arms projecting off to the sides, and it dominated the northern elevation of the square. I climbed the grey steps up to its porticoed entrance and once inside, I obtained a map from the information stand. I studied it for the most probable location of works by late 18th Century French artists. Making my spot, I ascended to the upper level and made my way to a room in the far eastern corner of the building. There on the south wall, past several fine works by Corot and Bouguereau, I found the painting that I sought. It depicted a young woman, with her head on her hands, peering sideways out at me. She wore a translucent shawl, part of which formed a halo over her dark curls, while a cloudy sky sweltered in the background. It was a most lovely composition by an obvious master.
“‘La Jeune Fille,’ by Jean Baptiste Greuze,” said a voice near my right shoulder.
I turned and found a man gazing expectantly at me. He was a small, balding man of about fifty years. His face was pleasant, though his eyes were much wrinkled, as if permanently affected by great periods of time spent squinting closely at objects. He wore a modest brown suit with a neat bow tie.
The man smiled benignly and spoke again. “I am most sorry to bother you, sir, but I thought I recognized you from your likenesses in The Strand. You are Dr. Watson, are you not? I am Joshua Goldfield, the Assistant Curator of the Gallery.”
“I am sir,” I replied, somewhat flattered that a portion of Holmes’ deserved fame had brushed off onto me.
“If I may ask, Dr. Watson, are you particularly attracted to that painting?”
“How did you know that?”
“I saw you pass straight through the prior gallery. One can be forgiven perhaps for skipping the Kneller or the Reynolds, but it is a rare individual who can walk through past Turner’s Temeraire or Odysseus without pausing.”
“You are, in fact, correct. This painting interests me greatly. You are most observant, Mr. Goldfield.”
“Yes, well, it comes from years of studying the minutiae of my paintings,” he shrugged modestly. “A connoisseur must train himself to patiently observe the entire work in order to determine precisely what secret meaning the artist had intended for us to comprehend.”
I smiled wanly. “You sound much like a certain friend of mine. Do all works of art contain hidden meanings?”
“No, of course not. But the works of the great masters? Definitely. They all, even the simplest portrait or still-life, tell some story that may not be apparent to the untrained eye. Take this painting for example. Most visitors simply glance at it briefly, see a pleasant depiction of a young girl, and move on to the next work. It is one of the great disadvantages to having such a rich collection – people feel they have to see everything, and in consequence they observe nothing. In this case, Monsieur Greuze is contrasting the vitality of childhood with the stormy gale that is developing behind her. It is a metaphor for the ephemeral nature of youth, soon to be embroiled in the tempests of adulthood.”
“That is most interesting, Mr. Goldfield. But I thought that perhaps you meant that your eye for detail was to be used to search out possible counterfeits?”
“Of course, Dr. Watson, that is a secondary object of any scrutiny. The smallest brush-stroke out of place, or a crack in the varnish where none should be, can serve to indic
ate that a painting is a fake. Of course, that is rarely an issue here at the Gallery. The provenances of our various works are impeccable, and our security is exceptional.”
“And this painting here, are you aware of its provenance?”
“Of course, Doctor. It was purchased during an auction at Sotheby’s. It had previously been owned by a man whose estate was confiscated, as everything had been purchased with money obtained illegally. I think you know of whom I speak, since it was Mr. Holmes who brought about the end of his empire of crime. I wonder if it is on Mr. Holmes’ behalf that you have come, Doctor? I hope this is a sign that he is recovering from his wounds?”
“I am afraid that I cannot comment on Mr. Holmes’ ongoing investigations.”
The man nodded. “Of course, I completely understand. But was there some particular purpose to your visit? Some way that I may be of assistance?”
What was my motive for this visit? It had been a mere hunch that led my steps to Trafalgar Square. A desire to seek out some connection to the one man who seemed capable of coordinating such a series of brilliant thefts and attacks, even if he had in truth passed beyond the veil. And then a thought occurred to me. “Yes, now that you mention it, Mr. Goldfield, there is one thing you could do. The Gallery inspected this painting to certify its authenticity before it was purchased, did it not?”
“Certainly.”
“I was wondering if you have had any reason to re-inspect the painting since then?”
He shook his head. “None.”
“And is there a procedure by which the paintings are routinely examined, to ensure that no substitution has been made?”
The curator laughed softly. “First of all, Doctor, as I mentioned before, our security has detected no breaches, so it would be impossible for such an exchange to occur. Secondly, look about you,” he waved his hand around the crowded gallery. “We have thousands and thousands of paintings in our collections. There are far too many to routinely inspect.”
The Falling Curtain (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 3) Page 4
