“Why, John, what a pleasant surprise. Though I shouldn’t really be surprised at all, I suppose. And Mr. Holmes.” The two men exchanged no more than a nod of assent, for feelings were somewhat cool between them, ever since Holmes had called Cawthorne’s competence into question during our investigation into the shooting of a vagrant on the grounds of Colonel James Moriarty’s Chelmsford home. “You’re here about the late Mr. Molinet, I imagine?”
With his stick, Holmes indicated a corpse beneath a bloody shroud. “This is he?” he asked.
“It is. I’ve more or less finished with him, but you’re welcome to take a look. I confess, there are still a good many questions concerning the nature of his death I’d like answering. You have George’s permission to be here, of course?”
It took a moment before I realized that Cawthorne was referring to the Inspector, with whom, it seemed, he was on first-name terms. To Sherlock Holmes and myself, however, he was simply ‘Lestrade’.
I explained, in the most diplomatic terms, that our mutual acquaintance had chosen to remain behind at Baker Street, rather than view the body once more.
“You won’t judge him harshly, I hope. This is a shocking matter, even for an old war-horse like George. Indeed, your joint experience in examining dead bodies notwithstanding, you should perhaps prepare yourselves for something you may not have seen before.”
He tugged back the sheet, and we found ourselves looking at what had once been a man but had now been transformed into a nightmare. I made no remark; no gasp of astonishment escaped my lips. I seemed, in fact, utterly incapable of speech at that moment.
“Well, well,” Holmes breathed, “you do not exaggerate, Professor.”
“Whoever did this to Mr. Molinet aided my examination considerably. As you can see, I had no need to make a single incision.”
In the moments that followed, I heard only the whistling of my own breath, as we three gazed in silence at the hideously mutilated corpse, his innards visible through the gaping hole in the stomach. I had witnessed something similar when examining the body of the unfortunate Catherine Eddowes, but on that occasion, identification of the weapon had been a simple matter.
“These tears are deep but also ragged,” Holmes observed, without apparent emotion. “This was not done with a blade of any sort. Claws, perhaps … or teeth. Have you ever seen the results of an attack by a wolf, Professor?”
“Very few wolves in London, Mr. Holmes,” Cawthorne replied.
“Not the four-legged variety, in any case.”
“In any event, there is an even greater mystery to be overcome, as you can see, since it would appear that this beast — whatever it may have been — clawed its way out, not in.”
I heard someone say “There is devilry afoot,” and it was a moment before I realized that the words were mine, the first I had uttered since the hideous corpse had been uncovered.
“I have, in the past, voiced the opinion that life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent,” Holmes murmured, “but this is perhaps too strange even for life as we comprehend it.” But I knew that he could not do anything other than proceed with his investigation, for he refused to associate himself with any matter which did not tend towards the unusual and even the fantastic. And I, who share his love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life, could do nothing but follow in his wake.
For Holmes’ sake I attempted, so far as seemed appropriate, to make light of the matter. “Well, Holmes, we have a rare little mystery on our hands,” I commented, as we rattled along in the four-wheeler we had flagged down outside the mortuary.
“Your propensity for understatement never ceases to amaze me, Doctor. We seem to have been presented with someone’s waking nightmare masquerading as a case. Molinet is slashed to pieces in a public place, apparently by a ferocious animal and in a manner that beggars belief … and yet no-one seems to have seen anything.”
“Witnesses to a particularly vicious crime are often unreliable,” I noted. “I’m certain I don’t need to remind you of the conflicting accounts we heard following the Pennington Flash Murder. Shock can play peculiar tricks on the mind.”
“In one or two cases, I might agree, Watson, but surely shock cannot have affected every single diner and member of staff in one of London’s most fashionable restaurants.”
“Perhaps we are approaching the matter from the wrong end,” I suggested. “It may well be that knowing why Molinet was murdered will give us some indication of how it was done.”
“Excellent, Watson! Really, you are coming along! How can I take you for granted when your clarity of mind comes to my rescue?”
Holmes had never said as much before, and I must admit that his words gave me keen pleasure, for I have often been piqued by his apparent indifference to my assistance.
Upon our return to Baker Street, we were advised by Mrs. Hudson that Lestrade had only recently departed, and in a state of some merriment. Our long-suffering landlady was less than cheered, however, to learn that Holmes and I would not be staying for dinner, nor could we say when we were likely to return. Holmes searched through his ever-reliable index until he found the address of the late Anwar Molinet.
My earlier intuition, alas, proved of little use when we were confronted with a locked door. There were no servants at Molinet’s Belgrave Square address, no-one to answer our persistent knocking.
“Our first broken thread, Watson,” Holmes noted, and though there was no malice in his tone, I could not help but redden with shame at the thought of a wasted journey taken at my suggestion.
“You’ll find no-one at home, I’m afraid,” a strident female voice called to us. We looked about, and saw that the voice belonged to the occupant of the house next door. Though not born to the purple, she gave an excellent imitation, save for the fact that she had chosen to lean out of her window in order to address two perfect strangers.
“Anwar’s nephew gave the servants notice as soon as he heard. The place has been locked up ever since. You’re Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, aren’t you? You’re not unlike your pictures, if I might say so.”
I raised my hat. “Madam, you were a friend of Mr. Molinet?”
“An acquaintance would be the better term,” she simpered. “Neighbor, really. The last time I saw him was at the auction. Oh, I’m terribly sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. What on Earth would my husband have said? Mrs. Serracoult is my name. Actually, would you care to come inside? Susan was about to prepare tea.”
I accepted cheerfully. Holmes, whose mistrust of the fair sex seemed to increase in direct proportion to their ebullience, murmured: “Watson, I leave this interview entirely in your hands.”
In an experience of women which extends over many nations and across several continents, I have met none so flighty as Mrs. Serracoult. She rushed about her sitting-room as though in a constant panic, half-remembering some errand before forgetting it once again.
Holmes emitted several loud groans at this very feminine behavior, but our host was far too preoccupied with at least half a dozen things simultaneously, and I am relieved to say she never noticed.
“Mrs. Serracoult,” I said eventually, having sat through several tedious anecdotes regarding her late husband’s social connections, “you mentioned that the last time you saw Mr. Molinet was at an auction?”
“At the Tuttman Gallery, that’s right, Doctor. Which reminds me, I’ve been suffering from an unpleasant burning sensation recently, right here.”
“I’d be happy to examine you, dear lady, but I regret I left my stethoscope at home.” I turned my hat in my hand as I spoke, hoping to conceal the bulge made by the instrument. “Now, this auction..?”
“At the Tuttman Gallery, yes. Do you know the Tuttman Gallery?” I shook my head. “They’re very particular about their customers — perhaps I could put in a good word for you both, next time I’m there. Anyway, there was rather a fierce bidding war over
a Redfern.”
Holmes, who had the crudest notions regarding art, raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Redfern is a painter?” he asked.
“One of London’s most exciting new talents, Mr. Holmes.” Without warning, she shot from her chair, rattling the tea things as she raced to a handsome landscape upon the wall. I knew that my companion could have no appreciation of its excellence, or of the artist’s choice of subject, for the appreciation of nature found no place among his many gifts. “Rather marvellous, isn’t it?” our host enthused. “And hideously expensive, of course. But that fact seems to make the very owning of it even more exciting. And I do so long for excitement. Curious, isn’t it, Doctor, how one can be very, very bored and very, very busy at the same time?”
Despite never having experienced this condition, I expressed my sympathy. I was in the middle of lamenting the state of a society in which such a complaint could be allowed to arise, when Mrs. Serracoult let out what I can only describe as a strangled shriek, and collapsed back into her chair. I did not even have the chance to enquire as to the cause of her distress, before she regained her composure and desire to speak.
“Goodness! It just occurred to me, Dr. Watson — the last time I saw Oliver Monckton was also at the Tuttman.”
I had no notion of who Oliver Monckton might be, or whether he had any bearing upon our current investigation, but I persisted nevertheless.
“Did you outbid Mr. Monckton also?”
“Heavens, no! I hadn’t even heard of Redfern then.”
“So Monckton bought a Redfern also?” Holmes asked. Mrs. Serracoult nodded, but before she had time to expand upon the fact, Holmes rose to his feet. “Well, thank-you for the tea, Madam,” — I noted that his cup was untouched — “but our duties require our presence elsewhere.”
“The elusive Professor Moriarty, no doubt.”
He gave a thin-lipped smile. “No doubt. Come along, Watson.”
Our rooms were ankle-deep in newspapers, reference books and crime periodicals. From time to time, Holmes added to the general scene of chaos with another carelessly discarded document. I have made mention of this frustrating anomaly in my friend’s character elsewhere, but under the circumstances, I had little cause for complaint; I had no keener pleasure than in following him on his professional investigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions with which he unraveled the conundrums submitted to him.
“What exactly are you looking for?” I asked in frustration as a crumpled-up copy of something called Police News of the Past flew by my face.
“This!” He announced, triumphantly, presenting me with a copy of the Journal de Geneve.
“Some of us have only the one language, Holmes.”
“Please excuse me, old fellow. This article relates to the sudden death of Englishman Oliver Monckton while holidaying in Switzerland. I recall that the details were few, but I was struck by the journalist’s claims that certain unsavory details were suppressed by the coroner.”
The word ‘unsavory’, which I recalled Holmes had used earlier, certainly suggested to my mind a connection between Monckton and Anwar Molinet, although I wondered whether any description could do justice to the horror I had witnessed in the mortuary.
“And Mrs. Serracoult said that both men had purchased Redferns at the Tuttman Gallery, wherever that may be.”
“It is in Knightsbridge, I believe — formerly the Gaylord Auction Rooms. The question is, if a connection exists, does it relate to the paintings, the artist, or the gallery? We are in unfamiliar territory, Watson; my own art collection consists solely of portraits of the last century’s most notorious criminals.”
“And my army pension would hardly stretch to spending afternoons at the Tuttman Gallery in the company of Mrs. Serracoult,” I added, ruefully.
“Then you must be thankful for small mercies, Doctor.”
“Holmes … I have been thinking.”
“This is turning out to be a day of remarkable occurrences.”
“Really, you’re the most insufferable fellow alive.”
“Quite possibly. Please, go on; I should be grateful to hear your theory.”
I marshalled my thoughts with the aid of a stiff whisky. “Remember the affair of the Christmas Goose, or the busts of Napoleon? Might there not be something hidden away, perhaps within the frame itself?”
“A provocative notion, Doctor. And though it does no harm to theorize, we are at sea without—”
He got no further along his train of thought, however, for at that moment we were interrupted by a knocking on the door. I imagined it might be Mrs. Hudson, and wondered what her reaction to the present state of the room might be, when the door swung open to reveal the familiar figure of Inspector Lestrade, his features more haggard than before, if such a thing can be imagined.
“Our good fortune, Doctor!” Holmes cried. “Inspector Lestrade, here to help us through the morass of officialdom. And with a gift of a somewhat unconventional nature, I see.”
“Hardly that, Mr. Holmes.” I saw that he held in his right hand what had once been a ladies’ shoe. From its charred appearance, I supposed he must have extracted it from a bonfire.
“Where did you come by this singular souvenir, Lestrade?”
The police agent waited a moment before responding. “This shoe, Mr. Holmes … is all that remains of Mrs. Bernice Serracoult.”
My friend has so often astonished me in the course of our adventures that I am ashamed to admit a sense of fascination at witnessing his complete astonishment. A flush of color sprang to his pale cheeks as he listened in silence to the Inspector’s account of Mrs. Serracoult’s demise. Approximately half an hour after our departure, the maid, one Susan Foxley, had been alerted by the screams of her employer.
“She described being conscious of a peculiar odor for several minutes — an odor we now know to have been burning flesh. When she reached the sitting room, Mrs. Serracoult was fully ablaze.”
Holmes had been on the point of reaching for his pipe, but evidently thought better of it. “How much of the house was destroyed in the fire?” he asked.
“None, Mr. Holmes.”
“None?”
“Mrs. Serracoult was burned to a crisp, but the chair she sat upon was not even singed.”
“Impossible,” I protested. “Such things might occur in Dickens novels, but never in real life.”
“And yet it happened,” Holmes noted, “suggesting that it is simply a badly-observed phenomenon. I have said many times that life is infinitely stranger than anything the mind of man could invent, but we must stick to reason, or we are lost.”
“Unlike Mr. Holmes here, I don’t believe in coincidences,” interrupted the haggard policemen. “I can’t explain it, but when the neighbor of a man who died a horrible death suddenly bursts into flames … I don’t know, gentlemen — it beats anything I’ve ever seen, and Lord knows, I’m no chicken.”
Holmes hurried Lestrade from our rooms, and a few moments later, we were in a cab, on our way to the Tuttman Gallery.
I attempted to draw Holmes into conversation about our present investigation. When he would not be drawn, I sought to engage his power to throw his brain out of action and switch his thoughts to lighter things by changing the topic to Cremona violins, warships of the future and the obliquity of the ecliptic.
“It … hurts my pride, Doctor,” he said eventually. “It should have occurred to me that, as the owner of a third Redfern, she might be in as much danger as Molinet and Monckton. I’m a foolish old man. How long can it be before I must retire to that farm of my dreams?”
So accustomed was I to his invariable success that the very possibility of his failure had ceased to enter my head until that very moment. “But surely … there’s still a chance … a chance to save anyone else who’s become entangled in this sinister web. If any man can untangle it, that man is Sherlock Holmes.”
Holmes gave a weak chuckle — he was always accessible upon the side of flattery. A moment l
ater, he was the cold and practical thinker once again. “And faithful old Dr. Watson, of course,” he added.
I knew at heart that he would not give up so easily. It was when he was at his wits’ end that his energy and versatility were most admirable. “May I ask what our present objective might be?”
“Firstly, to ascertain whether anyone at the Tuttman Gallery might have a reason to wish harm to these three persons; secondly, to discover the names of anyone else who might have purchased a painting by Redfern; lastly, to locate the artist himself. It may be at odds with my method of observation and deduction, but I have an intuition that he might be at the center of this pattern of events.”
And so it proved. Crabtree, the proprietor of the Tuttman Gallery, was a gentleman of amiable disposition, who was extremely distressed to hear of the deaths of three of his most frequent customers, and allowed us free reign to search his store, question his staff and examine his records. Given the outré nature of the deaths, I had no clear idea of what we might be looking for, but Holmes seemed satisfied that no-one at the Gallery was acting with malicious intent. It appeared from Crabtree’s register that he had sold only one other Redfern, to a Mr. Phillimore. Holmes advised me that he had been consulted by Inspector Stanley Hopkins after Phillimore returned to his house one morning to fetch his umbrella and was never again seen in this world.
“I dislike ever having to hazard a guess,” remarked Holmes, “but I think we have a fair idea of the reason for his disappearance, although I very much doubt whether even now we can count that case as one of my successes. Tell me, Mr. Crabtree, have you had any dealings with Mr. Redfern?”
“None personally, Mr. Holmes,” the proprietor replied in a nasal whine. “All his paintings come to us through Mr. Milhause. You know him, I trust?”
“By reputation only. But it seems that we must make ourselves known to him. Mr. Crabtree, might we rely upon you to provide us with an introduction?”
Gaslight Grimoire: Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes Page 11
