‘Spectacles,’ Crabtree repeated, as if repelled by the very mention of the word. ‘That would be a different proposition entirely.’
‘Entirely different?’ questioned Macintosh. ‘Are they not simply two monocles with the convenience of a connecting bridge?’
‘That would be like saying that by connecting two unicycles you could produce a bicycle. A monocle is more like a glove: each must be individually fitted to the eye - delicate and unique in its own way.’
‘You will tell me next that you shop in different places for each trouser leg.’
‘I fail to see the connection.’
‘As do I!’ cried Macintosh.
‘You would not think of joining your shoes together,’ Crabtree countered, ‘so why your eye-glasses?’
‘As you wish, as you wish,’ said Macintosh, conceding defeat ‘you are the expert.’
When I say that Crabtree was small, he was barely five feet. He had no doubt spent the greater part of his adult life convincing people that he was indeed a fully grown adult. This endeavour would have been further hampered by his boyish enthusiasm. Holmes explained that on more than one occasion he had desired more than anything to be embroiled in one of our adventures.
‘As you know, I have been waiting,’ said Holmes with a masterful air, ‘for a case that could make use of your singular talents.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Crabtree eagerly.
‘I believe,’ my friend said, ‘that I have finally found it.’
While waiting for Crabtree we had imbibed a higher than recommended dose of the ‘green fairy’ and I was entering something of a heightened state. Holmes had furnished Macintosh with the details of his scheme and of the role he intended our diminutive friend to play. The critic was highly sceptical of Holmes’ theory, but in the interests of entertainment alone, was prepared to play along.
Now Crabtree was standing before us, Macintosh seemed to warm to the idea. ‘Won’t you have a drink, dear boy?’ he asked and without waiting for an answer sloshed a finger or two of absinthe into a glass and handed it to Crabtree. The man looked at me uncertainly. I hoisted my own glass into the air and grinned.
‘Chin, chin!’ I cried. Holmes then outlined the plan.
Crabtree peered at us with dismay. ‘You want me to spend the night at the National Gallery inside a porcelain vase?’
‘That’s it,’ said Holmes. Crabtree swallowed carefully, glanced at his glass, then nodded.
‘Very well,’ he said.
‘Good man!’ I shouted and then charged our glasses for the next toast.
It would be fair to say that we had a slow start the next day. When I finally stumbled into our sitting room it was with a cold compress on my forehead and a stifled groan on my lips. Holmes was brooding in his armchair, holding open a copy of The Times, keeping movement to a minimum. The room was thick with smoke.
From what I recalled of the remainder of the evening, we had celebrated Crabtree’s willingness to take part with several more mugs of absinthe. We then made various preparations, none of which I could now remember. I did have a recollection of Macintosh re-enacting an unlikely, but colourful story of how he and Oscar Wilde staged an impromptu performance of Hamlet for the King of Denmark. Wilde had played Hamlet and he Gertrude. This was all before Macintosh had encouraged us to sample some his Lloyds’ Cocaine Tooth Drops, which he recommend highly to us, toothache or no. Holmes had required no encouragement to try them out. We had returned home by unfathomable means.
I collapsed into my chair and took several deep breaths. The only bright spot of hope was the smell of eggs cooking downstairs, accompanied by what I suspected to be devilled kidneys. Suddenly breakfast did not seem such a good idea after all.
‘Have you any idea what happened to Crabtree?’ I asked Holmes after regaining my composure.
‘Mm?’
‘Crabtree? Did he find his way home?’
‘Yes, I expect so. He fell out of the brougham at Wardour Street. That should have been close enough.’ We sat for a moment in silence.
‘I must confess,’ I said, ‘that I am in the most astonishing pain.’
‘Physician, heal thyself!’ muttered Holmes. He held up the newspaper and shook it out in front of him.
‘Now, Watson, what do you make of this?’ he asked. ‘I’ve just spotted this in the small ads:
Lost: small red glass elephant; of sentimental value only. Reward. Apply to 14 Caledonian Road.’
‘Good Lord,’ I shouted. ‘He’s taken to public appeals. Surely this means Snitterton is becoming desperate.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Holmes, ‘and perhaps not. It could of course be a lure. He knows we’re on to him. Who knows what is waiting for us at 14 Caledonian Road.’
There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Mrs Hudson appeared with a tray laden with breakfast things.
‘You don’t deserve this,’ she tutted, ‘not after the racket you made last night. Dr Watson, I had no idea you were possessed of such a fine voice. I heard your rendition of Polly Perkins of Paddington Green before you had even turned into Baker Street.’
‘Really, Mrs Hudson,’ I began. ‘I’m most awfully...’
‘It’s a bit late for that now,’ she said. ‘Now eat this while it’s still hot.’
She poured the tea while Holmes and I tucked into our devilled kidneys.
‘Most frightfully good,’ I said admiringly, between mouthfuls and sips of tea. Mrs Hudson shook her head, then disappeared back downstairs.
‘Do you think we ought to postpone our investigation at the gallery?’
‘Postpone?’ spluttered Holmes. ‘Nonsense.’
‘But what of this advertisement?’
‘Let him wait a day or so. I can’t imagine he will be inundated with callers. No, this evening must proceed as planned. I have a strong inclination, as yet unsupported by fact, that the business at the National Gallery is of some wider significance. Pass the Worcestershire Sauce, Watson.’
At four in the afternoon, Holmes, Crabtree and I found ourselves standing in the long shadows of the Doric columns of the National Gallery. To avoid unwanted attention, Macintosh had stayed away. Perhaps this was just as well given the state we had left him in the previous evening. There was no way of knowing whether he was even out of bed. I rather lamely sipped at a flask of water still not entirely myself from the night’s misadventures.
‘So, Crabtree,’ said Holmes. ‘Are you quite clear on the order of events?’
‘I have two questions,’ he said, glancing anxiously at the mighty stone building, ‘possibly three.’
‘Throw the spear!’ invited Holmes.
‘How certain are you that the original thieves will not make a return visit?’
‘I’m not certain at all,’ said Holmes. ‘But while it is not impossible, it is unlikely. After the break in, the gallery will be on a heightened state of alert.’
‘If that is the case’ said Crabtree, adjusting one of his monocles, ‘is it not possible that I will be discovered and detained?’ It was a perfectly valid point.
‘Of course that remains a possibility,’ admitted Holmes.
‘This takes me to my last question. If I am discovered, what is there to prevent them arriving at the conclusion that I am the original thief?’
Holmes and I glanced at each other.
‘Crabtree, my friend,’ Holmes laughed. ‘They will never believe it! And besides, we will vouch for you. However my strong suspicion is that they have discounted the possibility of a small person hiding themselves inside a vase as an absurdity. But as we know, simply because something is absurd, does not render it impossible.’
We strode in through the main doors at intervals to avoid suspicion, some ten minutes to closing time, taking special care not to attract th
e attention of the security guard. Assembling in front of Turner’s Dido Building Carthage, we made our final battle plans.
‘At two minutes to five,’ explained Holmes, ‘the warden will leave Room 35 to lock rooms 30 to 34. That will be our cue.’
At three minutes to five, there was only one visitor remaining. He was standing before The Shrimp Girl: a noble faced young man in his middle thirties, with fashionably long hair, a purple tail coat and a slightly sad look about the eyes.
‘Astonishing, isn’t it?’ the man said to no one in particular, leaning forward to inspect the painting, his hands joined behind his back. ‘If it’s a fake, it is the work of a singularly gifted criminal. I might even say it is an improvement. Constable was never quite sure whether he had finished this work.’
‘But never having seen the subject,’ I reasoned, ‘we will never know whether it is a likeness.’ He gave me a long, penetrating look.
‘No great artist sees things as they really are,’ he said. ‘If he did, he would cease to be an artist.’
Presently, the three of us were alone again.
‘There’s no time to be lost!’ urged Holmes in a stage whisper. ‘Crabtree - now!’
Sherlock Holmes pressed a set of cards and a small hip flask into the man’s hands. I lifted the lid of the vase and together we bundled the diminutive shopkeeper inside, feet first. It was a close fit around Crabtree’s waist where he was perhaps a little stouter than we had anticipated, but with a concerted effort we pushed him down through the neck and into the vase itself. Soon, only the top of his head was visible.
‘You are quite sure,’ he asked Holmes with great seriousness and something of an echo, ‘that this is useful to your investigation?’
‘Profoundly so,’ my friend assured him. I had only just replaced the lid when the guard remerged.
‘Gentlemen, please,’ he said, frowning. ‘The museum is now closed.’ He glanced around the room, then back at us. ‘If you would be so good as to make your way to exit. Thank you.’
We caught our breath outside on the stone steps. It seems loathsome now, but l could not help but laugh at the thought of Crabtree quivering in his pot. Holmes was watching the Londoners crossing the square.
‘Who knows whether our city will still be here in a hundred years,’ he mused. ‘Did the Romans believe their civilization would ever end?’ he asked. ‘Not two years before Rome fell, the citizens still believed themselves to be the greatest people on Earth.’ He bit the stem of his pipe and looked up at Nelson on his column. I see the barbarians coming up Pall Mall. They will topple the great men of the Empire, pull Nelson from his plinth and drag Wellington from Copenhagen. They will burn our art and raze Parliament to the ground. They will charge across Hyde Park and our Queen will flee to the East.’ He appeared to be in something of a trance. I hailed a hansom and we set off in the direction of Baker Street.
I was awoken the next morning by a loud banging on the door.
‘Mr Holmes! Mr Holmes!’
I ran in my nightclothes to the sitting room and pulled open the window.
‘Wiggins!’ I shouted, ‘what’s the meaning of this infernal racket?’ I peered down at the grubby features of the most irregular of the Baker Street Irregulars.
‘It’s Sir William, sir,’ he called back, ‘he wants you and Mr Holmes to come down to the National Gallery quick smart! It’s kicking up a shine down there and his dander is right up!’
Holmes appeared behind me, tying his dressing gown.
‘I won’t pretend I understand everything you’ve said, Wiggins,’ my friend said calmly, ‘but we will proceed directly.’
‘Fank you, Mr Holmes!’
Wiggins lingered expectantly for a moment until I realised he wanted payment for his services. I found a shilling and dropped into his filthy mitt.
A crowd had gathered at the gallery entrance and we were ushered through a corridor of policemen.
At the end of line was our old friend, Inspector Gregson.
‘Have you been assigned to every crime in London?’ I asked.
‘So it would seem,’ he said drolly. ‘When you gain a reputation for competency,’ he added rather immodestly, ‘it does rather lead to more than your fair share of the chores.’
‘Competency?’ Holmes repeated a little scornfully, once out of Gregson’s earshot.
Sir William advanced towards us with the hollow look of a ghost. His white face and hair seemed twice as blanched as the day before.
‘They have returned,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘The place was alive with guards last night and yet and yet...’ He trailed off, his face filled with fear and bewilderment. ‘If I didn’t know better, I would say that supernatural forces are at work. Gentlemen, we are dealing with an invisible menace.’
Sir William stood aside and we were met with the most astonishing sight.
As far as the eye could see, small cards were attached to the frames of paintings throughout the gallery. On each card was printed a single word: FAKE.
‘I cannot begin to explain this,’ said Sir William in dismay. ‘Not least to my board.’
‘Then are you prepared to admit that the painting may have been switched?’ asked Holmes.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Someone has made us look like fools. We may as well leave the doors wide open at night and put tea and cake out for the thieves. Naturally you will help us and inspect the crime scene, Mr Holmes?’
‘Of course,’ said Holmes. ‘But first are you willing to publicly restore the reputation of Mr Abercrombie Macintosh
‘Yes,’ Sir William muttered. ‘Yes, very well. There may well be some truth in his observations.’
‘Very good,’ said Holmes brightly. ‘Now perhaps we could begin in Room 35?’
Holmes swept imperiously through the gallery following by a posse consisting of Sir William, Gregson, numerous officers and museum staff until we arrived in front of The Shrimp Girl.
‘Would you be so good as to pick up the card, Sir William,’ invited Holmes. ‘Now please turn it over.’
‘Twenty seven of your art works are fakes,’ he read aloud. ‘They have been stolen, one at a time, under your very nose.’
‘But how could they have done such a thing?’
‘You might say, by pot luck,’ quipped Holmes.
‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘No less,’ said Holmes, ‘than by letting the genie out of the bottle.’
He strode over to the vase.
‘Genie,’ he cried, throwing his arms wide. ‘Show thyself!’
At first, there was nothing, then a slight reverberation; the wooden base began to wobble until the whole vase began to dance across the floor.
‘Villainy!’ Sir William shouted.
Gregson drew his pistol and took aim at the vase, but not before Sir William had thrown himself in the way.
‘For God’s sake, man,’ he yelled. ‘It’s ninth century!’
The vase continued to teeter until finally it toppled over.
With a superhuman effort Holmes caught hold of the thing. I rushed across and together we restored it to the upright.
‘Thank you doctor,’ my friend congratulated. ‘A small practice such as ours would not be covered for such a breakage.’ He surveyed the room of astonished faces, each one agog.
‘May I present,’ said Holmes, lifting the lid from the vase, ‘the bravest man in London, Mr George Crabtree.’ There was a groan from inside the pot, followed by the emergence of a tuft of unkempt dark hair, which promptly disappeared again.
‘Are you in there, Crabtree?’ asked Holmes, taking a peep inside. ‘Gentlemen, would you be so good as to lend me a hand?’
Together, four of us lowered the vase to just below the horizontal and gently tipped out the unfortunate Crabtree
. He slithered onto the gallery floor and lay there a moment gathering his wits. He was as pale as a condemned prisoner, his hair matted with sweat.
‘Quick,’ I said, ‘fetch some water.’
‘The other vase,’ Crabtree murmured, ‘look inside the other vase.’ With this, he passed out. Holmes frowned, then rushed over to the far corner of the room.
‘Don’t touch that vase, Holmes!’ cried Gregson, warding the great detective away with his revolver. Instead, the inspector cautiously approached the vase himself.
‘Jones,’ he shouted to his men, ‘Biggins. Get behind me and shoot anything that comes out of that pot.’
‘Don’t shoot the pot!’ cried Sir William. He darted forward and in his haste knocked over the vase himself, which wavered, then fell and shattered on the ground into a thousand pieces. Everything was still. Amongst the broken porcelain lay the bloodied body of Wenceslas Chatburn.
ELEVEN - The Leopard
We were used to strange messages arriving at 221b Baker Street, both by telegram and especially in person, but none were as singular as the one that arrived that summer morning in July. There was a scene of considerable excitement in the street as a horse and cart, the sort that would normally transport flour or sugar, stopped outside our rooms.
Holmes was still in his dressing gown stoking his first pipe of the day despite the fact that it was well past eleven. I peered down into street.
‘Are you expecting a delivery, Holmes?’ I asked.
‘None I have requested. I am only waiting for delivery from this infernal boredom.’
‘But we are in the middle of a case, are we not?’
‘A case with several closed doors. We are awaiting a development.’
‘You don’t consider the discovery of Chatburn’s body a development?’
‘Not especially.’
There was a commotion at the bottom of the stairs as Mrs Hudson negotiated with the tradesman, no doubt attempting to persuade him that he had the wrong address.
‘Perhaps I should see if I can be of assistance,’ I muttered, and trotted down the seventeen steps to settle the matter.
Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Ruby Elephants Page 13
