by Otto Penzler
“Is his name by any chance Steele?” asked Holmes.
“Seems like it was. But he calls himself Seymour Haden now.”
“Seymour Haden!” I exclaimed. “That is the name of a great etcher.”
“Precisely,” said Holmes dryly. “He used to itch too.”
—
Dreading a possible shock to our friend’s mind, we approached him cautiously. He sat at a table in his little house, bent over a metal plate immersed in some villainous blue acid.
“Do you know us, Steele?” I asked timidly.
After a moment he turned his head toward us and we saw a wild gleam in his bloodshot eyes. His disheveled hair and beard and his grimy clothes made him uncouth, even repulsive in appearance. “I can’t get up now. I’m biting a plate,” he said.
“Another mystery solved,” observed Holmes quietly.
“Don’t you know us?” I repeated. “We have come all the way from London to find you.”
“Sure I know you. You probably want me to illustrate another crime. I killed a man for less than that,” said the artist vehemently.
“I daresay. I daresay,” Holmes said soothingly. “But we’re not hunting crimes now. We just want to help you.”
“But you can’t help me!” he shouted. “I have been a doomed man for thirty years. Ever since I began making pictures for your damned stories, those editors have called me a crime artist. No matter what else I do, they still try to feed me raw blood. But I got square with ’em. They made a criminal of me, and now, by Heaven, I’ve committed a perfect crime on one of them. And there are more to come, Mr. Holmes, more to come!”
After this outburst he turned his back on us again.
“Come, come,” said Holmes gently, “we mustn’t get excited. Think a minute. Is that why you have come off here and left all your friends—hidden from the world?”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes. And that is why I have had this old well cleaned out: I am going to fill it with editors’ blood. It will take quite a lot of editors to fill it, but I have hopes.”
We saw that it was useless to pursue the conversation further and rose to depart.
“Well, then, go take a walk,” he said, “take the path straight over Light House Hill to White Head. After that you’d better come back here. I can give you a crust and perhaps a bit of short lobster if you’re not too legally minded.”
We crossed the island to the cliffs and stood for a time looking into the blue haze. “Strange, isn’t it, Watson,” Holmes reflected, “that crime and madness can lurk in so peaceful a spot….I hate to do it, but I must question him further.”
“But I say, Holmes, would it be quite sporting,” I protested, “now that we are his guests?” But Holmes was resolute.
When we returned to the little house at sunset, we found its owner composed. We talked quietly together of his life on the island, where, he said, he meant to end his days. Only one subject seemed to bring on a return of abnormality,—the subject of editors.
“There is a big cavern up the shore,” he said, “that I’ve got filled solid full of dynamite. There’s a big boulder over it, and if an editor ever comes to this island, I’m going to pry it loose….”
“But these editors,” said Holmes gently. “Aren’t they human beings?”
“Not after they become editors,” was the reply. “They are machines. Machines that buy merchandise by the yard, put it in pigeon holes, label it…”
“Look here, my dear fellow,” said Holmes, “you are happy here, aren’t you? You are not bloodthirsty about other people—fishermen for example?”
“Oh, no.”
“Well, then, I think Watson and I will go back to England and leave you in peace. You will be safe here. No one need ever know.”
—
Two weeks later we were back in the old rooms in Baker Street. There had been no further developments in the Grootenheimer case. The police had given up the search for the missing artist, and now thought that the editor might have been killed by some Modernist or other deranged person.
But Holmes’s watchful eye had caught this curious PERSONAL advertisement in the New York Times: “WANTED, an Art Editor, as companion for a summer vacation in Maine. All expenses paid. Must be full-blooded American.”
“Poor soul,” I said musingly, “no doubt his sorrows have driven him mad. But somehow I am not convinced that his crime is real. It may be entirely imaginary.”
“Quite,” said Holmes.
“No one could blame him, of course.”
“Hardly.”
The Darlington Substitution Scandal
DAVID STUART DAVIES
BEST KNOWN IN the Sherlockian community for his many fictional and nonfictional works about the great detective and Arthur Conan Doyle, David Stuart Davies (1946– ) is also an internationally successful author of the popular Johnny One Eye private eye series.
Born in England, Davies worked as an English teacher before dedicating his life full-time to editing, writing, and theater. He is the editor of the Crime Writers’ Association’s monthly in-house publication, Red Herrings, editor of a crime fiction magazine titled Sherlock, one of three members of the literary performance group the Mystery Men, and, in his own words, an “all around good egg.”
While Davies is generally best known for the detective series that records the adventures of Johnny Hawke, a private investigator in London who was medically discharged from the army after losing an eye to a rifle that exploded in his face, he has also written half a dozen Sherlock Holmes adventures throughout the 1990s and the early 2000s.
His love for Holmes and Conan Doyle started early on; in school he attempted to write his thesis on the famed author, but his university turned down his request because they deemed the subject “not of sufficient importance.” Davies’s passion was not deterred, and he went on to publish several nonfiction works on the author and his most famous creation, including Holmes of the Movies: The Screen Career of Sherlock Holmes (1976), Bending the Willow: Jeremy Brett as Sherlock Holmes (1996), Starring Sherlock Holmes: A Century of the Master Detective on Screen (2001, updated 2007), Clued Up on Sherlock (2004), and Dancing in the Moonlight: Jeremy Brett—A Celebration (2006). In 1999, his award-winning one-man play, Sherlock Holmes, premiered; it is still in production in the United Kingdom, France, Canada, the United States, Hong Kong, and Malta. Davies’s Sherlockian pastiches include Sherlock Holmes and the Hentzau Affair (1991), The Tangled Skein (1992), The Scroll of the Dead (1998), and The Veiled Detective (2004).
“The Darlington Substitution Scandal” was originally published in The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures, edited by Mike Ashley (London, Robinson Publishing Company, 1997).
THE DARLINGTON SUBSTITUTION SCANDAL
David Stuart Davies
SHERLOCK HOLMES AND I returned late one evening to our Baker Street rooms after spending some time in the realms of Wagner. My friend was still singing Siegfried’s horn call even as we let ourselves in through the door of 221B. His recital was interrupted somewhat abruptly by the appearance of Mrs. Hudson at the foot of the stairs. She was wearing a long grey dressing gown and appeared to be quite perturbed.
“You have a visitor, Mr. Holmes,” she whispered with a kind of desperate urgency. “He refuses to leave until he sees you. He is most insistent.”
“Is he?” said Holmes. “Then we had better oblige the gentleman. Off to bed with you. Friend Watson and I will deal with the matter.”
She gave an understanding nod, threw a brief smile in my direction, and disappeared behind her door.
The visitor was a short, burly figure of some sixty years. He possessed a high, bald forehead, a shiny face, and fierce blue eyes. He almost ran towards us as we entered our sitting room. “At last,” he cried.
Holmes gave a gentle bow of the head in greeting as he flung off his coat and scarf. “Had his Lordship taken the courtesy to arrange an appointment he would not have had to wait over two hours to see me—the cigar butts in
my ashtray indicate the length of time.”
“You know me?”
“It is my business to know people. Even in this dim light it is not difficult to recognize the Queen’s minister for foreign affairs, Lord Hector Darlington. Now, pray take a seat and tell me about the theft.”
Lord Darlington dropped open-mouthed into the wicker chair. “Who has told you?”
Holmes gave a brief chuckle. “A brandy night cap for us all, eh, Watson?” he said, before replying to his Lordship’s question. “You would not be here alone at this time of night if your errand concerned government business. Therefore, it is a private affair which brings you to my door. A very private affair if the official police are not to be involved. It is well known that you are an avid collector of priceless paintings and possess a very rich collection. It does not need Sherlock Holmes to deduce that the matter on which you wish to consult me concerns your paintings or more likely one of your paintings. The matter is urgent and so therefore it relates to loss rather than damage. Ah, thank you Watson.” He retrieved a brandy from the tray and took a sip.
Lord Darlington shook his large head in disbelief. “By Jove, you are right, sir. If only you can unravel the mystery as easily as you have guessed at its nature, I will be in your eternal debt.”
Holmes raised an admonishing finger. “I never guess. It is an impractical pastime. Now, if you would be so kind as to familiarize me with the facts of the matter, I may be able to shed some light on your particular darkness.” So saying he sat back in his chair, both hands cradling the brandy glass, and closed his eyes.
Lord Darlington cleared his throat and began his narrative. “As you rightly stated, my passion in life is art and over the years I have built up what I believe is an enviable collection, one of the finest private galleries in Europe. It is not for their financial value that I treasure my canvases, you understand: it is for their beauty and power, their vivid interpretation of life.”
“Quite,” remarked Holmes dryly.
“Recently I took possession of a seventeenth-century painting by Louis de Granville, his ‘Adoration of the Magi.’ It is the most magnificent painting.”
“Louis de Granville—didn’t he die very young?” I said.
His Lordship gave me a brief smile. “Indeed. He died of consumption at the age of twenty-seven. There are only thirty known canvases of his in existence and ‘The Adoration’ is regarded as his best. I was so fortunate to acquire this wonderful painting.”
“Where did you obtain it?” asked Holmes.
“For years it was deemed a lost masterpiece and then it turned up in a Paris auction house last spring. The bidding was fierce but I was determined to have it. One American bidder chased me all the way, but I managed to shake him off in the end.”
“And now it has disappeared.”
Lord Darlington’s face crumpled at this reminder of his loss. “I use my gallery as some men use tobacco or alcohol. Sitting alone with my pictures I am able to relax and allow the stresses and strains of the day flow out of me. Today I was due to make a visit to see my counterpart in the French government but at the last moment the trip was called off, so instead of catching the night train to Paris, I went home. Both my wife and my son were out on various social engagements, so I took myself to my gallery for a few hours’ peace and relaxation. Imagine my horror when I pulled back the cord on my beloved de Granville to find that it was missing.”
“The frame also?”
“Yes. There was no signs of forced entry and nothing else was disturbed. All my other pictures were there.”
“How big is the painting?”
“It is about two foot by sixteen inches.”
“Who has a key to the gallery besides yourself?”
“No one.”
“No one?” I found myself repeating our visitor in surprise.
“My wife and son have no interest in my paintings and I welcome that. The gallery is my private domain.”
“Who cleans and tidies the room?” asked Holmes languidly. It was clear that Lord Darlington’s dilemma did not excite a great deal of interest within his breast.
“I do. It is a simple task. I perform it once a week.”
“When did you last see the painting?”
“The previous evening. The charm of it is still so fresh for me that I rarely let a day go by when I don’t spend some time with it. I know you may find it strange, gentlemen, but I was actually dreading my trip to France, knowing I would be deprived of my paintings for some days.”
Sherlock Holmes drained his brandy glass and rose to his feet. “It is my experience that when the situation is so mysterious with no apparent clues, the solution must be quite simple. Do not lose sleep over it. I feel sure that we can recover your painting.”
Our visitor beamed. “I do hope so.”
“Watson and I will call around tomorrow morning to examine the scene of the crime and see if we can glean some suggestive facts.”
“Won’t you come now, gentlemen?”
Holmes yawned and stretched. “It is late, Lord Darlington. There is no danger in waiting for a new day before commencing our investigation. Shall we say at ten o’clock tomorrow morning? Watson will show you out.”
When I returned, my friend was standing by the fireplace lighting up his pipe with a cinder from the grate clamped in the coal tongs. “You treated your new client in a rather cavalier fashion, Holmes,” I said.
His head was momentarily enveloped in a cloud of grey smoke. When it cleared, I could see that he was smiling. “I object to being treated like a pet dog who will fetch and carry at the owner’s whim. The privileged classes all too often forget the niceties of please and thank you. On this occasion it satisfied me to exercise my prerogative to act when I saw fit.” He threw himself down in his chair. “Besides, it is a straightforward matter and I’m sure that we shall clear it up within the next twenty-four hours.”
In this instance, Sherlock Holmes was wrong. The disappearance of Lord Darlington’s painting turned out to be far from a straightforward matter.
The following morning we arrived as arranged at Lord Darlington’s Mayfair town house a few minutes after ten. We were shown into the drawing room where his lordship greeted us in a most jovial manner. His demeanour was quite different from that of the night before. He introduced us to his wife, Sarah, a small, blonde-haired woman of about the same age as her husband. She seemed nervous in our company and soon made an excuse to leave us to our “business.”
“I am sorry to have troubled you last night, Mr. Holmes,” said his Lordship, “and it was remiss of me not to wire you this morning to save you a wasted journey. Nevertheless I am happy to pay whatever fees you deem appropriate for the services rendered.”
“Indeed. Then the painting has reappeared.”
“Yes. It is wonderful. I went into the gallery this morning and almost out of habit I pulled back the curtain and the de Granville was back in place as though it had never been missing.”
“But it was missing yesterday,” said my friend sternly, not sharing his client’s glee.
“Yes, yes, it must have been, but that hardly matters now.”
“I would beg to differ,” snapped Holmes.
“You are sure that it is the genuine article?” I asked.
Lord Darlington looked puzzled for a moment. “Why, yes,” he said slowly, with faltering conviction.
“What my friend is suggesting,” said Holmes, “is that it is possible that the thief who stole the painting may well have replaced it with a very good copy, unaware that you knew of its disappearance. You were due to be in France when you discovered its loss, were you not?”
“Why, yes, but…”
“Come, come, Lord Darlington. There has been a theft. There must have been a reason for it. You cannot disregard the felony just because your painting has been returned to you.”
Some of the sparkle left our client’s eyes and he sat down on the sofa. “I suppose you are right. However,
I am convinced that the picture resting in my gallery at this moment is the genuine article, but I will contact my friend Hillary Stallybrass, the art expert at the Royal Academy who verified the painting originally, to confirm my belief.”
“You would be wise to—”
Holmes was cut short by the sudden entrance into the room of a tall young man with wavy blond hair and young, eager eyes. “Father, I must—” he cried and then on seeing us he faltered.
“Not now, Rupert. I am sure whatever it is you wish to see me about can wait.”
The young man hesitated, uncertain whether to heed his father’s injunction or proceed. His mouth tightened into a petulant grimace and he turned on his heel, leaving the room as swiftly as he had entered it.
“The impatience of youth,” observed Lord Darlington mirthlessly.
“I should like to see your gallery,” said Holmes as though the brusque interruption had not occurred.
With some reluctance Lord Darlington took us into his inner sanctum. It was a long chamber whose ceiling was studded with skylights, none of which, we were informed, could be opened. Down the two long walls were a number of red velvet curtains covering a series of paintings. In the centre of the room was a comfortable swivel chair and a table containing a tantalus and an ornate cigar box.
“May we see the de Granville?” asked Holmes.
Without replying, his Lordship pulled back the cord on one of the curtains to reveal the masterpiece. I have only a layman’s appreciation of art, but even I could see that this was a work of great beauty and skill.
“It is magnificent,” said Lord Darlington, almost caressing the frame.
“Indeed,” said Holmes, examining the canvas closely with his lens. “Tell me, Lord Darlington, do you keep a dog?”
“A dog?” Our client’s mouth dropped open. “No. Why do you ask?”
Holmes shrugged. “It is no matter at the moment.”
Lord Darlington seemed irritated at Holmes’s vague response. He consulted his watch. “Gentlemen, I have an important appointment in the House at eleven-thirty…”
