by Darrell Pitt
“Of course,” she responded.
“It means we will have to search your own private effects.” Mr Doyle blushed slightly. “Even your clothing.”
“I have nothing to hide,” she said firmly. “I am a modern woman.”
Jack and Mr Doyle searched the apartment for the next hour, peering under furniture and going through each item one by one. Jack pointed out how difficult it was to actually find the object of their quest when they were unsure as to what it actually was.
“We will know it when we see it,” Mr Doyle said.
After some time Mr Doyle started tapping the walls of the apartment. He began in Scarlet’s room, then moved to her fathers and then finally the common rooms. After a time he called Jack into Joseph Bell’s study.
“My boy,” he said. “Would you be so kind as to pace out the length of this room?”
“Yes sir,” Jack said.
He started at the far end where a bookcase ran the whole length of the room and walked from that end to the opposite wall.
“Seven paces,” Jack said.
“Now come to the next room,” Mr Doyle instructed.
They walked down the hall to the adjacent room which was Scarlet’s bedroom. Jack paced from one end to the other and announced the distance to be ten paces. Finally Mr Doyle took him back to the hallway and asked him to pace the distance of the two rooms.
“Twenty,” Jack said, frowning.
“I thought so,” Mr Doyle said. “Either the builders did not know their maths or something is not quite right.”
They returned to the study. Every book had been ripped off the shelves and flung onto the floor by the perpetrators who had broken in. It took some time for Jack and Mr Doyle to clear the floor. Finally Mr Doyle stood in front of the bookcase, examining the shelves.
“This seems solid enough. And this.” He stood on a chair and ran his hand along the top edge. “Now there’s something –.”
A click sounded from the bookcase and it moved slightly towards them.
“A secret room,” Jack said in astonishment.
“Not any more,” Mr Doyle climbed down from the chair. “I suspected as much.”
He pulled on the edge of the bookcase and it swung open like an enormous door. Scarlet chose that moment to enter the room.
“What have you –. Oh!”
“Oh, indeed,” Mr Doyle said.
The interior of the room measured three feet deep by six feet across. It contained shelving and a single hanging light. The room appeared empty except for an item sitting on the middle shelf. A painting.
Jack was no judge of art, but he could tell good from bad. The painting showed a small group of men on horseback in the midst of battle. The scene looked so realistic Jack felt he could step right into the heart of the action.
“That’s amazing,” he breathed.
“Amazing is an understatement,” Mr Doyle said. “It’s a painting called The Battle of Anghiari by Leonardo da Vinci. I don’t believe the history books have ever previously mentioned it.”
“Are you sure?” Scarlet asked.
“I’m as certain as I can be,” Mr Doyle replied. “The brush stroke is Leonardo’s. The only known copies of this are a few sketches and what was to be the final finished work – a fresco in the Hall of Five Hundred in Florence, Italy. That work has since been lost.
“This is a previously unknown smaller version painted by the master. Possibly he painted it in preparation prior to attempting the final piece.”
A clap of thunder rumbled overhead as Jack stared at the masterpiece. He heard the soft static of falling rain emanating from beyond the building as the storm began in earnest. The bright light entering through the windows had dimmed to twilight.
“But what is it doing here?” Scarlet asked, her face turning almost as red as her name. “How did it come into my father’s possession?”
“Well, that’s the mystery, isn’t it?” The detective tilted his head. “It reminds me of a case I once had involving a sketch by Rembrandt and a South American shrunken head –.”
Jack interrupted. “Is it valuable?”
“Valuable?” Mr Doyle mused. “Hmmm. Jack, you understand the value of a pound? You know what you can buy with it?”
Jack had never had so much money in his possession. “Yes. A lot.”
“Well, you would probably need about ten million of them to purchase this masterpiece,” Mr Doyle said. “Possibly a lot more.”
Jack’s mouth fell open. “For a painting?”
“Leonardo’s paintings are exceedingly rare. Only a handful of them are known to exist.”
They stood in silence looking at the amazing piece. The half light of the storm seemed to give more verisimilitude to the battle scene. Jack had not seen many paintings in his life, and most of them seemed to depict men or women standing around in rooms looking like they wanted to either drink tea or break into a ballroom waltz.
This painting was different. It almost seemed…alive. Jack nodded to himself. Mr da Vinci had certainly known how to paint.
“Wait a moment,” Mr Doyle said. “There is something else.”
“Another painting?” Jack asked.
“No,” he said. “Hopefully something that may provide us with a lead.”
A writing pad lay on one of the lower shelves. None of them had noticed it before because of the gloom.
Mr Doyle picked up the pad. “I think we need to examine this in the light.”
They exited to the main parlour. Mr Doyle held the paper up to the light and placed his goggles over his eyes. He activated the magnification switch. “I can make out some impressions on this page. I believe it is an address, a date and a time. Scarlet, could you please hand me a pencil?”
“Of course.”
Mr Doyle continued to peer at the page. “I believe a pencil will bring out the impression on this piece of stationery.”
Scarlet suddenly sneezed.
“Bless you, my dear,” Mr Doyle said.
“It’s turned right cold,” Jack said.
“It has rather, hasn’t it?” Mr Doyle said. “Is the front door –.”
Scarlet, looking past them, screamed.
Chapter Six
A figure stood in the doorway behind them. He wore a long coat, a scarf across his face so that only his eyes were visible and a hat pulled down over his brow.
“Give me that!” he growled.
He crashed into Mr Doyle and grabbed the piece of paper.
The detective fell sideways onto the floor as the assailant turned and ran towards the open door.
“The paper!” Mr Doyle yelled. “We must not lose it!”
Jack gave chase.
The assailant ran down the stairs two and three at a time and Jack matched him step for step.
He’s so fast, Jack marvelled. The man was taller than Jack and amazingly agile.
The assailant reached the bottom of the stairs before Jack and immediately sprinted away.
Jack reached the street and saw the thief moving away from him at a great speed. The storm had now properly broken and the rain fell in a mighty downpour. Jack splashed through enormous puddles, sending sprays of the water in all directions as he chased the assailant. The man raced through a tunnel ahead. An old drunk wandering in the opposite direction got in his way and the thief gave him a shove, sending him flying.
Jack willed himself to run faster. He was determined to retrieve the page. Unfortunately running had never been his strong point – it was a skill he had never needed to hone – and to make matters worse, two years at the orphanage had left him a little out of shape. Still, he was determined to catch up with the man. The thief had assaulted Mr Doyle and the detective had only been good to Jack. Now he had to repay that kindness.
The thief raced up a set of stairs. Jack followed him. He realised the stairs led up to a railway platform. The man pushed his way through a crowd that had just disembarked from a train. A whistle sounded up and down
the platform.
No! The train was due to depart!
He would not make it through the entrance gate with so many people pushing through, so he only had one chance. Building up speed, he ran directly at the metal railing fence surrounding the platform. Leaping, he pulled himself over the top and landed lightly on his feet on the other side of the platform.
The automatic steam powered doors of the train slid shut.
Blooming hell!
A station attendant yelled at him, but he ignored the man as he ran towards the train. Steam and smoke billowed out from the train as it started to pull away from the station. Jack raced towards the nearest set of sliding doors.
Landing on the small ledge before the doors, he pulled hard at one of the handles and the door drew back a few inches. It shut again – steam pistons and cogs were designed to keep the doors shut during transit. He pulled back on the door again with all his might and this time it opened enough to push his shoulder through the gap.
Open up!
Open, damn you!
A large hand gripped the edge of the door.
“What’re you up to, mate?” A big factory worker – a man clad in blackened overalls and a cap – jerked the door open, allowing Jack to spill into the vestibule of the carriage. “In a bi’ of an ‘urry?”
“Yes. Sorry. Thanks.”
Breathing hard from the chase, Jack stumbled past the man and peered down the hall of the carriage. He was in second class. Rows of seats facing each other all the way down the carriage. His heart pounding, Jack slowly navigated the aisle.
What would he do when he saw the man? Grab him? Try to wrestle him to the ground? Jack shook his head. What a ridiculous idea. Maybe he could cause a ruckus. Tell everyone about the theft and start yelling for someone to call a constable. Jack swallowed hard. Would they believe a kid, or would –.
A door slammed shut behind him.
Jack turned around. The thief stood at the far end of the carriage. Obviously he had just stepped through and now stood staring at Jack in amazement.
Do something, Jack’s brain commanded.
But instead of launching into some sort of daring plan that would bring the thief down, Jack found himself staring dumbly at the man as his mind went blank.
An instant later the thief turned and disappeared through the door.
Bazookas! Jack cursed himself. I’m an idiot! Jack raced after the man. A woman started to rise from her seat and Jack tumbled into her.
“Sorry,” he grunted.
“Excuse me –!” the woman began.
Jack raced on. He reached the end of the carriage and stepped onto the open walkway leading to the next carriage. The path, made from metal planks, swayed under him as the train screamed along the track. He gripped the chain link hand railing on both sides to steady himself as he crossed.
Pushing the door open ahead of him, he stumbled into the vestibule of the next carriage.
He was just in time to see the back of the thief disappearing through the opposite door.
Too late. Again.
Jack sprinted down the corridor with surprised faces staring at him as he passed. Pulling the door open, he entered the vestibule, hurried across to the door exiting the carriage and threw himself through.
He was half way across the swaying path leading to the next carriage when the door opposite him flew open. A fist appeared out of nowhere and slammed into his eye. Jack cried out dazed. As he fell sideways the top half of him fell over the railing. He struggled to upright himself. A pair of hands gripped the seat of his pants.
“No!” he screamed.
The rattling of the steam engine swallowed his scream.
He felt his legs lifted as he was tipped head first over the railing.
His parents had taught him how to roll – by curling into a ball – and now he drew himself together as he fell and grabbed blindly. One hand found purchase on the base of the metal bridge as he brought his knees up to his chin. He swung from the pathway, trying to bring his other hand up.
Jack’s fingers slipped.
No!
His other hand grabbed the bridge and for a long moment nothing else existed – not the chuffing of the train, not the bang of the door as his assailant slammed the door shut, not even the rattling as the train charged along the tracks at full pace.
I will hold on, he told himself. I will not fall. I will be alright.
Maybe his head believed it, but his heart was still pounding so hard against his ribcage it felt ready to burst through his chest. Finally he glanced upwards. Alright, his hands were secure. He judged the distance to the swaying hand rail and reached up with his free hand. When he knew his grip was sturdy, he pulled himself up and climbed back onto the metal path.
He was alive. But he had forgotten how to breathe. Now he sucked in lungfuls of air as his legs threatened to collapse under him. He thanked his parents wherever they were.
“Practice, practice, practice,” his father had told him. “One day it will save your life.”
Today was that day.
Jack steadied himself and pushed the door open ahead of him. His legs were shaking as if he was hovering on stilts, but he felt more determined than ever to continue onwards.
For as long as Jack would live – and he was presently quite unsure how long that might be – he knew he would never forget the expression of shock in the eyes of the thief. The man sat in the furthest seat away, the scarf still pulled up around his face. He was staring straight ahead into space, obviously contemplating his cleverness at throwing a sixteen year old boy under the wheels of a moving train. As Jack entered the carriage, the man’s eyes snapped open, wide with astonishment.
That’s right, Jack thought. I don’t die that easily.
The man leapt to his feet, turned tail and exited through the end door. As Jack started down the aisle, another train came alongside as the tracks drew parallel to each other. Jack heard the faraway sound of a door being yanked open.
The thief was opening the door to the outside of the train!
A terrible suspicion started to form in the back of Jack’s mind. He hoped he was wrong.
Running the length of the carriage, Jack opened the door leading to the vestibule area. He was right. There was no door at the opposite end. Jack threw himself at the exit door to his right and tugged it open with all his strength.
He looked across to the opposite train. Passengers often complained about the condition of the exit doors – the closing mechanism frequently failed, leaving the doors to slide open and shut without warning.
The door in the train running parallel to his carriage was wide open.
Oh dear, he thought. I was afraid of that.
The thief had jumped across the gap from one train to the other. Jack had performed somersaults, double and triple hundreds of times, but always with a net. Jumping between moving trains was like asking for a trip to the hospital – or more likely the morgue.
He cautiously stuck his head out – and jerked it back in again. An upright metal stanchion whizzed past him at great speed. He peered back out again. Both trains were about to pass through separate tunnels.
It was now or never.
If the trains headed off in two different directions he would never catch the thief. A wall clad in black soot flashed past him. The two train lines drew parallel again – but now the other train had pulled ahead slightly. It started to increase speed again.
No!
Jack undid his belt and dragged it from his pants. Looking to his left, he drew back again, struggling to hold the door open with his free hand. Another metal stanchion flew past. This time he leant out of the train and swung the belt in a tight loop.
Come on!
Now!
He cracked his belt like a whip at the last moment and the end wrapped around the hand railing of the open door. He pulled down hard on it, creating a tighter grip, glanced to his left again.
He jumped.
His whole foc
us lay on the hand railing as he pulled tightly on the length of leather. For an instant he saw his mother’s face as she smiled at him from the top of the trapeze, encouraging him toward her. A second later his free hand grasped the outside hand railing of the other train. He swung himself through the doorway and slammed into the opposite wall.
A hand rolled cigarette fell out of the mouth of a man standing nearby.
“Blimey,” he said. “Are you people completely daft?”
Jack picked himself up. “Where did the other fellow go?”
The man pointed behind him. Jack retrieved his belt and cautiously glanced down the corridor. The train was almost empty, but two seats before him, immediately to his left, he saw the hat of the thief projecting above the top of the seat. The man had obviously assumed he had left him back on the other train.
No such luck.
His heart pounding, Jack opened the door of the carriage and stepped in. He moved into the seat behind the thief. Caught a glimpse of the piece of paper clasped between the man’s slim fingers.
Jack sat down. Alright, he had made it this far. Now what? He had his doubts about handling a fist fight with a grown adult, especially since the fellow had already knocked him down with a single punch.
Breathing shallowly, he sat back in the seat. A drizzle of sweat traced a path down his face. This reminded him of an act he had once seen at the circus. Two clowns – Oscar and Toby – did a performance involving a series of chairs one behind each other. Jack realised he did not have to attack the thief. He only had to retrieve the page.
Jack slowly slid down in the seat onto the floor. Ahead of him the carriage seats were attached to the floor with metal braces. He reached under the seat and gently looped his belt around the right shoe of the thief. Careful, he thought. Careful. He gently secured the belt to the nearest metal brace. He climbed back onto his seat, sweat now dripping down his face like a flood.
The train slowed. It started to pull into a platform. Time to go, Jack thought. He stood. The thief glanced out the window, but obviously did not intend to exit the train. He returned his gaze to the sheet, angling it towards the light.
The train stopped. Jack bent forward and in one smooth action pushed the man’s hat down low over his face and snatched the paper from his hand. The man gave a cry of surprise. Jack stepped quickly into the aisle and dragged open the door to the vestibule. He caught sight of his assailant falling face first onto the floor as he attempted to leap from his seat.
