“It doesn’t matter. Gentlemen, may I present Mr. Derek Wilson of the Tate Gallery?”
“We know one another,” said Lucas. “We have called on Mr. Wilson on several occasions to authenticate doubtful paintings.”
“Then you would accept him as an authority?”
“Indubitably. I don’t believe he has an equal, certainly not as far as English paintings are concerned.”
“In that case, Mr. Wilson,” said Holmes, “may we have your opinion on these four?”
“Why, yes, Mr. Holmes,” said Wilson, walking over to the paintings. “Of course I’m familiar with Lady Lydia. I’ve always considered it one of Sir Joshua’s best. And the Constable is one of my favorites. As for the Rubens and the Carvaggio …”
He paused, leaning close to the Reynolds, then stepped back again. Frowning, he took a magnifying glass from his pocket and examined the painting carefully, then did the same with the Constable. He moved on to the Rubens and was just turning his attention to the Carvaggio when Holmes said, “Well, Mr. Wilson?”
“Excellent work,” said Wilson. “At least the Lady Lydia and the Constable are. But clearly copies.”
“Copies?” said Lytell.
“But that’s impossible!” said Lucas, his face pale. “Are you sure?”
“No question about it,” said Wilson. “As I said, they’re very well done, but the brushwork’s all wrong. As for the other two, I’d like a little more time to examine them …”
“I think we can assume that they’re forgeries too,” said Holmes. “Which means that you have another case to solve, Gregory. On the other hand, you can reassure the Prime Minister about the bombings. I don’t believe there will be any more.”
12
Holmes’ Strange Advice and Odd Behavior
“I’m afraid I still don’t understand it,” said Lytell.
“Nor I,” said Watson.
They had come back to Baker Street from Christie and Manson’s and now, for the first time, Holmes seemed ready to answer their questions.
“Part of it’s quite simple,” he said. “Gregory had asked me to look into the bombings, and one of the first things that struck me about them was the fact that they had caused surprisingly little damage.”
“A ticket taker was injured in the first one,” said Watson.
“That, I believe, was an accident. In any case, though, they created a good deal of anxiety—which was their purpose—they could not be compared to the really terrible bombings that took place in the early eighties.”
“Agreed,” said Watson.
“For reasons I won’t go into now, I was convinced that whoever was responsible for the bombings wanted me out of the country, evidently believing that I would be called in to investigate them. So I obliged by pretending to go to Paris. When it appeared that I was gone, the bombings intensified.”
“But what did they have to do with the theft of the paintings?” asked Lytell.
“They were the preparation for it. After all the newspaper headlines, when the spurious bomb squad appeared at Christie and Manson’s, Lucas was quite prepared to believe that the men were from Scotland Yard. The copies of the paintings were of course in the crate that had supposedly been sent there by Cox of Bristol.” He smiled. “Whoever was responsible did show a certain pawky humor there.”
“The play, Cox and Box?” said Lytell.
“Exactly. When the building was cleared, the thieves opened the crate, took out and left the copies, put the originals in the crate and made off with them.”
“And you knew that all the time?” said Watson.
“No. I suspected that the bombings weren’t political, as the earlier ones had been, and I confirmed this during the time I was underground, masquerading as a blind fiddler. Because patriots in Irish circles who might have been involved in bombings and that sort of activity were just as puzzled by what was going on as the police. Well, if the bombings weren’t political, they were part of a criminal conspiracy. I wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but I had some ideas about who might be in it. And from something I overheard—with your stethoscope by the way—I knew that one phase of the plot was going to take place today.”
“But you seemed to know that the paintings that were left were forgeries even before Wilson got there,” said Lytell.
“I was fairly sure they were as soon as Gregory gave me the facts.”
“As I recall,” said Watson, “all he told you was that he was puzzled because the bomb squad wasn’t from Scotland Yard.”
“That was enough. After all, there had to be a reason for a fake squad to go to the auction rooms. And when I asked him about any missing artists and he told me that one had died in a suspicious fire, I had the answer. He must have been the artist who forged the paintings.”
“I don’t follow that,” said Lytell.
“Whoever is behind this plot is not only a very clever but a completely ruthless man. He was not going to risk having the artist who forged the paintings give him away. So he had him killed.”
Lytell stared at him.
“But this is appalling!” he said. “I was upset enough at losing the paintings. But if there’s murder involved in it too …”
“It’s a very complicated plot,” said Holmes grimly. “And we’re not at the end of it yet.”
“But whoever is responsible must be apprehended! I trust you intend to continue on the case.”
“I do.”
“Well, if there’s anything I can do to help …”
“As it happens, there is. Gregory isn’t aware of all the ramifications of the crime as yet. He’s treating it merely as an art theft—though a major one—and he’ll notify dealers here and abroad, watch all known receivers of stolen property. But that will accomplish nothing. For, as I said, there’s more to it than that.”
“You also said that I could help. How?
“I suspect that you’ll be hearing from the thieves in a day or so.”
“Hearing from them?”
“They will get in touch with you in one way or another, offer to give you back the pictures in exchange for a large sum of money. Part of their instructions will be that you say nothing about it to anyone—the police, me or anyone else. I suggest that you follow their instructions exactly.”
“What? You’re not serious!”
“I’m very serious.”
“You mean, if I do hear from them I should not notify the police or you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“I must say that’s very strange advice coming from you, Holmes.”
“Do you think I give it lightly?”
“I don’t imagine you do anything lightly.”
“You’re quite right. I don’t. As I said, there’s much more involved here—and much more at stake—than you realize. Therefore I do not merely advise or suggest. I urge you to do exactly what you’re told to do.”
Lytell studied him intently for a moment. Then he nodded.
“You’ve made it clear that there are things you are not telling me,” he said. “But if you trust someone, as I do you, you must trust that person completely. Very well, Holmes. I’ll do as you say.”
His hand on the bell pull, Andrew looked at Screamer.
“Why do you want to come up too?”
Screamer dropped her eyes, clutched at her skirt, and twisted the fold.
“Because I’m afraid to wait here alone.”
“Afraid! You’ve never been afraid of anything in your life!”
“I have too!”
She had been strange ever since he had returned to the Wiggins’s rooms that morning, reluctant to let him out of her sight even for a moment. It was only with the greatest difficulty that he could get her to leave the kitchen when he filled the tin tub and took the bath he needed so badly. Now she raised her eyes, looking at him shyly, imploringly, and he gave up.
“All right,” he said and tugged at the bell pull.
The door was opened by a pleasant
looking, middle-aged woman wearing an apron and a lace cap.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “I’m Andrew Craigie. Mr. Holmes sent for me.”
“Yes, he told me,” she said. “It’s the door at the top of the stairs.”
He and Screamer went up the stairs. He knocked, and when Holmes said, “Come in,” he opened the door.
Holmes was standing in front of the fireplace on the far side of the room; the heavy set man with the military mustache was sitting in an armchair to the left of it. A third man, wearing a tweed suit, stood near the door.
“Well, I’ll be running along then, Holmes,” he said. “I gather there’s no point in my saying I’ll keep in touch with you.”
“No,” said Holmes. “I will keep in touch with you.”
The man’s face cleared.
“I think I understand,” he said. “Very well. Goodbye. Goodbye, Dr. Watson.”
He left, and Holmes smiled at Andrew.
“I see you got my message,” he said.
“Yes, sir. Sam gave it to me.”
“And who’s this?” asked Holmes, looking at Screamer.
“Sam’s sister, Sara.”
“Oh, yes. I’ve heard of her.” He turned to the man in the armchair. “Watson, this is Andrew Craigie, whom I believe you’ve seen but never met. The young lady with him is Sam Wiggins’s sister, better known as Screamer.”
“How do you do?” said Watson, nodding gravely.
“Do you feel like undertaking another commission for me, Andrew?” asked Holmes.
“Of course, sir.”
“Very well. I want you to go to a boarding house at Twelve Henry Street in St. John’s Wood and ask for a Mrs. John Harker. Tell her I’ve just returned to London and must see her immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Time’s very important, so take a hansom—here’s ten bob—have him wait and bring her back here.”
“Yes, sir.” Then as Screamer tugged at his coat. “Is it all right if Screamer comes with me?”
“Quite all right. As a matter of fact, it’s a good idea.” He frowned. “One more thing. For reasons I can’t go into, I’d rather Mrs. Harker didn’t know who you are. So if she should ask you any questions, you had better be someone else.”
“Who, sir?”
Holmes looked at Screamer. “What about Sam Wiggins?”
“Right, sir.”
“You needn’t come back up when you’ve brought Mrs. Harker here. And, Andrew …”
“Yes, sir?”
“I haven’t forgotten that we still have some unfinished business. I’ll see you, and we’ll take care of it in a day or so.”
“Yes, sir.”
With Screamer trotting beside him, he left and hurried down the stairs.
“A hansom!” she said when they were outside. “Coo! I’ve never been in one in my life.”
“I have,” he said. “It’s jam!”
He let a four-wheeler go by, waved to a hansom that was close behind it.
“What’s up, young ’un?” said the cabby stopping.
“Twelve Henry Street in St. John’s Wood,” said Andrew. “And we’re in a hurry.”
The cabby stared at him.
“Is this a cod?” he asked.
“If you’re worried about the money … Here,” he said, and he held up the ten-shilling note Holmes had given him.
The cabby looked at it, at him, then grinned.
“All right, guv’ner,” he said, pulling the lever that opened the leather half-door. “In you get.”
They climbed in. The cabby closed the door, slapped the reins on the horse’s back, and they were off, rocking a little but moving swiftly and smoothly north. It took about ten minutes to get to the address, a large and respectable house with a white door.
“We’ll only be a few minutes and then we’ll want to go back,” said Andrew, getting out. “Will you wait?”
“Sure, guv’ner,” said the cabby, smiling. “Take your time.”
It took more than a few minutes because, unlike Mrs. Hudson, the landlady here was not accustomed to having boys in ragged, badly fitting clothes knock at her door, and Andrew had some difficulty, in persuading her to get Mrs. Harker for him. She was, when she finally appeared, an attractive, dark-haired woman with troubled blue eyes. Andrew gave her Holmes’s message, and her pale, drawn face became even paler.
“He wants me to come there now?”
“Yes, ma’am. I have a hansom waiting.”
She hesitated and, for a moment, Andrew thought she was going to refuse. But finally she said, “Very well. Let me get my things.”
When she came down the stairs again, she was wearing a hat and dark jacket and carrying a purse and her gloves. Andrew helped her into the hansom, told the cabby to take them back to Baker Street, and got in himself.
Sitting on the far side of the hansom, Mrs. Harker stared straight ahead of her. It was obvious that she was not only troubled but anxious, for she kept pulling at her gloves, first loosening them, then drawing them tighter. It seemed to Andrew that there was something familiar about her, but he couldn’t tell what it was. Suddenly she turned, looked at him, at Screamer, then at him again.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m afraid I’ve been rather rude. Who are you?”
“Sam Wiggins, ma’am. This is my sister, Sara.”
“How is it that Mr. Holmes sent you to get me?”
“I sometimes do things for him.”
“Do things?”
“Run errands, carry messages.”
“He does more than that,” said Screamer. “He’s one of the Baker Street Irregulars, and he helps Mr. Holmes on his cases.”
“Does he?” Mr. Harker smiled faintly. “You’re very fond of your brother, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am. I am.”
“It must be very exciting working with Mr. Holmes.”
“It is,” said Andrew. “He’s not only the greatest detective in the world—he’s a wonderful man.”
“So I’ve heard. When did he get back from Paris?”
“I think … this morning.”
“Oh.” She looked at Andrew again. “How old are you, Sam?”
“Fourteen, ma’am.”
“Fourteen.” She sighed. “I don’t know much about boys, but I would have thought you were older.”
“No, ma’am.”
“And where are you from?”
“Why, here. London.”
“Are you? Somehow you don’t sound like a Londoner. At least …” She glanced at Screamer.
“He’s been to school a lot more than me,” said Screamer. “That’s why he talks better than me.”
“I see. Well …”
The hansom drew up in front of 221B. Andrew helped Screamer and Mrs. Harker out and started to hand the cabby the ten shillings.
“No, no,” said Mrs. Harker. “I’ll pay for it.”
“But Mr. Holmes gave me the money for it.”
“It doesn’t matter. I insist.”
She paid the driver, and he touched his hat and drove off.
Mrs. Harker stood there for a moment, pulling nervously at her gloves again, then said, “Thank you very much for coming to get me, children,” and went in.
Holmes opened the door for her himself.
“Come in, Mrs. Harker,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I understand you just got back from Paris this morning.”
“That’s correct.”
“And … do you have any word for me?”
“I think so. I believe I’ve found your husband and your daughter.”
She started. “You have?”
“Yes. As you suspected, they’re no longer at the Claridge. However, I did find an American and his young daughter at a hotel on the Left Bank where they’ve been for about a week. They seem to fit the descriptions you gave me, but since the man is using a different name and I must be certain that the child is your daughter before I take any further
steps, I suggest that you come to Paris with me tomorrow and identify them.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“But … but I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“It’s such short notice.”
“If I’m prepared to go when I’ve just returned, I should think you would be also.”
“I am. It’s just …”
“Mrs. Harker,” said Holmes sternly, “do you want your child back or not?”
Her eyes filled with tears. “There’s nothing … nothing in the world … I want more!”
“Then …?”
“Very well. I’ll go.”
“Good. We’ll take the noon train from Victoria station. I’ll meet you there.”
When Holmes had seen her out, he sat down opposite Watson and raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“You seem even more puzzled now than you were before, Watson,” he said.
“I confess I am. You claimed you were in Paris when you weren’t there, talked of people you could not have seen. And now you seem actually going there with Mrs. Harker, about whom—and about whose case—you expressed serious misgivings.”
“Admirably put. Everything you say is true, Watson.”
“And you still do not feel like explaining?”
“Not yet. I can only tell you what I told Lytell. That we are playing for very high stakes in a devious and complicated game. Therefore I must be devious also.”
“I see. Well, I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Amen to that. But,” as Watson rose and went to the window, “at the moment I’m interested in what Mrs. Harker is doing. Can you see her?”
“Yes,” said Watson. “She’s just left the house and is walking north.”
“And now is she crossing Baker Street and going into the telegraph office?”
Watson turned and looked at him in astonishment.
“Yes, she is.”
“Good.” Holmes took out his watch. “Ten of six. We should still be able to catch him. Would you care to come out for a short stroll with me, Watson?”
“Why, yes. Where to?”
“To Jonathan Walker’s shop.”
Walker’s languid assistant was just beginning to put out the lights when Holmes and Watson reached the shop. He said something over his shoulder, and Walker came out of his office and opened the door.
The Case of the Baker Street Irregular (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 1) Page 11
