The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures

by Mike Ashley (ed)

"If I can be of service, sir."

  "It is not the sort of thing I would normally broach with someone upon such short acquaintance but you appear to be a singularly astute young man and it may be that Providence has brought us together."

  Holmes waited with carefully suppressed amusement to hear what perplexing problem the eccentric don was about to share.

  "I am convinced that the whole thing is an undergraduate prank. It may be that you have heard about it from the perpetrators."

  "Heard about what, sir?"

  Spooner squinted impatiently through his glasses. "Why the painting, of course — the Dutch Nativity. We've lost it permanently for three weeks."

  "Perhaps, sir, if you were to start from the beginning?"

  "Ah, yes, well Giddings, you see, our senior fellow, brilliant mind, Renaissance scholar, very gracious, not at all put out over the election."

  The story which would have taken any normal narrator ten minutes or so to recite occupied Spooner for the remainder of the journey, involving, as it did, acrobatic leaps from thought to thought and perilous balancing on the high wire of tenuous connections. Holmes was amused as much by the effort of following the disjointed account as by the events to which it referred. Briefly, these were as follows:

  Some eleven years previously there had been an election for the wardenship of New College. The contest had been

  between the then dean and the senior fellow, Dr Giddings. The fellowship had decided on the dean, for Giddings, though highly respected, was already well smitten in years and did not enjoy robust health. The old don had shown his regard for the college by warmly congratulating the warden elect and donating to the chapel a magnificent Nativity by Rembrandt. It was this painting which, in October 1873, had been stolen.

  Holmes asked why the crime had not been reported to the police and received the reply that the fellows were disposed to regard it as an internal university matter. Over the past few months there had been a series of similar incidents in various colleges. Oriel's standard had been removed from its flagpole. A hanging candelabrum had been absconded from the hall at Merton. An ancient sundial had been prised from a quadrangle wall at Magdalen and, more recently someone had walked out of Radcliffe library with a rare incunabulum, deceiving the staff by leaving a superficial fake in its place. The New College authorities attributed these escapades to undergraduate high spirits and were persuing their own enquiries but to Holmes it was evident that Spooner and, probably, his colleagues were more exercised by their loss than they were prepared to admit.

  Having heard his fellow passenger's tale, my friend could only express his condolences over New College's loss and regret that he knew nothing which could be of any help in the recovery of the painting. As a new arrival in Oxford he had yet to acquaint himself with the student grapevine, he explained, and, in any case, he was, himself, of a rather solitary and studious disposition.

  Having arrived at Oxford the two travellers shared a cab into the city centre, where they parted company. Holmes resolved to put the New College painting from his mind but the curious elements of Spooner's narrative no less than the disjointed mode of its delivery declined to be easily banished. Thus he found himself next morning in the chapel of the nearby college gazing at a large area of empty stone wall. A small card pinned to a stall beneath the space read: "the nativity of our lord by rembrandt van ryn, 1661. This painting has been temporarily removed for restoration."

  Holmes climbed onto the wooden seat to inspect the wall more closely. Faint dust marks could be seen where the frame had

  touched the stonework and, using the span of his outstretched right hand, which he knew to be nine and a quarter inches in width, he measured the dimensions of the missing painting. It was as he was stretching upwards as far as he could reach to gauge the height of the absent masterpiece that he heard an outraged voice behind him.

  "Ere! What d'you think you're a-doing of?"

  Calmly Sherlock Holmes stepped down and turned to confront an aged college servant whose faded black gown proclaimed him to be some sort of sexton or verger. "Are you in charge here?" he enquired.

  "That I am and right tired of the antics of you young gentlemen. This is a house of God and not a place for your pranks. Now be off with you, before I call the dean."

  "Oh, there's no need to disturb him," said Holmes casually. "I'm sure you can tell me all I need to know." He produced a half sovereign from his pocket. "I'm interested in your excellent painting and was very sorry not to be able to see it. Do you know where it has gone to be restored?"

  The old man's tone changed at the sight of the gleaming coin. "Yes, sir," he said, holding out his hand for the unexpected gratuity. "I've got a note of the address in my vestry. If you'd care to step this way. I take it you're a student of art, sir."

  "That's right," Holmes agreed.

  "Well, I don't know as you'll learn much from that painting. Right dark and gloomy it is. You can't scarcely make out any of the figures in it. They say it's very valuable, but I wouldn't give it house room. If you wouldn't mind waiting there a moment, sir." He unlocked a small door and shuffled into a chamber scarcely larger than a broom cupboard. Seconds later he re-emerged bearing a card.

  "Ah yes, Simkins and Streeter," Holmes said, nodding approvingly. "I know them well. They'll do a first class job. When did they take it?"

  "It was three weeks ago."

  "Was it Mr Simkins or Mr Streeter who called to supervise the removal?"

  "That I couldn't say, sir. I wasn't here."

  "You mean these people came from London and removed this valuable college treasure without your personal supervision?"

  Holmes asked with an air of concerned astonishment. "That was not very courteous of them."

  The verger visibly warmed to his visitor. "Well, that same thought did strike me, sir. Apparently it was all a rushed job. They was due to come in the afternoon but they never showed up. On the Thursday morning when I came in there was the picture gone. I was a bit worried, I don't mind telling you and I rushed straight to the dean. He set my mind at rest straight away. 'Not to worry, Tavistock,' he said. 'The restorers came for the painting quite late. It seems they'd had some trouble on the road with a lame horse and, by the time they'd changed it over they were running well behind time.' "

  "So you never saw the men who collected it?"

  "No, sir."

  "It must have taken several people to remove the painting. It is large and heavy."

  "That it is," the old man laughed. "Why, when old Dr Giddings presented the picture to the college it took six of us to put it up — an' all the time the dean — that's the former dean who's now warden — hopping and dancing around and shouting at us to be careful."

  As they walked the length of the long nave Holmes asked, "You were saying you'd had some trouble with boisterous undergraduates."

  "Gentlemen they call themselves!" the aged verger sniffed. "Sacrilegious and heathen hooligans I calls them. First week of term it was. I caught four of 'em in here, scrambling about over the stalls. One of them had a lamp and he was holding it up to that Dutch painting. I was afeared he'd set light to the thing. You can imagine, sir, when I saw you on the same spot it brought it all back. So you'll forgive me if I was a bit sharp with you."

  "I quite understand," Holmes replied sympathetically. "Yours is a heavy responsibility. What happened to these rowdies?"

  "I fetched Junkin, the senior porter, and a couple of his men. They were more than a match for a bunch of drunken undergraduates. We turfed them out and took their names and I reported them directly to the warden. What happened to them after that, I don't know. They've certainly not been back here."

  "Do you remember any of their names?"

  "Indeed I-do, sir. They was all Magdalen men and their ringleader was the Hon. Hugh Mountcey, Lord Henley's son. You'd think the aristocracy would know better, wouldn't you, sir?"

  They had arrived at the west door and the guardian of the chapel held it open. Ho
lmes thanked his informant and passed into the narrow lane outside.

  Back in his rooms Sherlock Holmes abandoned all pretence of pursuing his own studies. The mystery of the missing painting had quite taken hold of his reasoning faculties. He threw himself down on a sofa, lit a pipe and pondered the additional information gleaned from the verger. The Nativity, it appeared, had been scheduled for restoration, a fact which now enabled the fellows, temporarily, to conceal its abduction. It had also seemingly provided excellent cover for the thieves. As to the Magdalen men who had made a nuisance of themselves, that certainly suggested a connection with the earlier outrages perpetrated during the summer and autumn terms.

  Clearly this motley assortment of stolen Oxfordiana had common features. Each item was treasured by the establishment which owned it. Abduction of each required audacity and daring. Its removal was designed to create embarrassment for its owners, who, for that reason, were unlikely to call in the police, thus risking scandal and popular ridicule.

  Yet, Holmes mused, there were also disharmonies. The stolen objects differed greatly in quality, importance, and size. There seemed to be no pattern to the thefts. The removal of Oriel's flag had demanded mountaineering ability; Magdalen's sundial had been neatly prized from its surrounding stonework by someone well versed in the skills of the mason. Only a scholar with a knowledge of rare printed books could have created the forgery which had, briefly, deceived the Radcliffe library staff.Then there were the elements of difficulty and risk. With each escapade these had become greater. There was a considerable gulf between the nocturnal raid on Oriel to remove its standard and the carrying off of the New College painting. The former certainly had the air of a traditional student rag. The latter was a major crime and had called for elaborate and meticulous planning.

  That brought one on to the issue of motive. What did the perpetrators want with this bizarre collection of objects? Three of the items had little monetary value.The incunabulum and the painting were, by contrast, highly prized artefacts which could only be disposed of through specialist underworld channels. Holmes dismissed the idea of student escapades.They were never malicious; they were simply tiresome displays of exhibitionism and high spirits. This series of thefts was different. It had caused distress and embarrassment to the colleges concerned. Had that been the intention?

  Holmes knocked out his pipe in the hearth and consulted his pocket watch. There wanted a few minutes to two o'clock. It was time for another call. Donning a light top coat and extracting a cane from a wicker basket beside the sitting room door, he let himself out and ran lightly down the stone staircase.

  Twenty minutes brisk walking through the city centre and out along the Banbury Road brought him to the edge of the city's suburbs. Here the substantial houses were well spaced out and overlooked fields and meadows running down to the Cherwell. Holmes found the one he was seeking almost at the end of the row. It was a large double-fronted villa approached by a short gravel drive. A pull upon the bell brought a manservant to the front door.

  Holmes handed in his card. "I am an art enthusiast and an amateur collector, currently residing at Grenville College," he explained. "I must apologize for calling without an appointment, but I should deem it a great honour to be permitted to view Dr Gidding's collection."

  The major domo admitted my friend to a spacious hall and asked him to wait. Within moments he returned, ushered the visitor into a well furnished library and announced him. Holmes looked around a room which, at first acquaintance seemed empty. Then he espied a bath chair, its back to him, facing a french window giving onto the garden.

  "Over here, young man," a voice commanded from the conveyance.

  Crossing a parquet floor scattered with Persian rugs, Holmes found himself confronted by a shrivelled figure almost completely bundled-up in a plaid rug. Gidding's greyish skin was drawn tight over his skull and a fringe of white hair protruded from beneath a velvet skull cap. However, if there was an air of quiet decay about the aged scholar this certainly did not extend to his bright, peering eyes or the mind behind them.

  "Sherlock Holmes? Never heard of you, sir!" Giddings announced in a high-pitched voice.

  "But I have heard of you, Dr Giddings, as has anyone with more than a passing interest in the history of art. Your studies on the northern Renaissance have greatly widened our understanding of the great masters of this side of the Alps."

  "Huh!" the old man snorted. "I thought I'd been forgotten long ago."

  Holmes affected a shocked tone. "By no means, sir. Quite the reverse. Some of the radical ideas which you advanced in the twenties and thirties are now taken for self-evident truth. As to your private collection ..."

  "I suppose that's what you're here to see; not me. Well come on then.You can work for the privilege. Push me. We go through that door over there."

  Holmes grasped the handles of the invalid carriage and propelled it in the direction indicated. They passed through into a suite of three ground floor rooms interconnected by tall doors. The contents made Holmes gasp in amazement. Every surface from floor to ceiling was covered with paintings on canvas or panel. Scarcely a square inch of papered wall could be seen.

  "This is truly remarkable," my friend exclaimed. "I had not prepared myself for such a treat."

  "The work of a lifetime, young man. If you start now you might just be able to match it by the time you're eighty."

  They made a leisurely tour of the private gallery and Giddings spoke with mounting enthusiasm and excitement about several items. Sherlock Holmes relaxed the aged don with flattery interspersed with pertinent comments and awaited the moment to broach the subject that had taken him thither.

  At last he said, "I was devastated not to be able to see the Rembrandt you presented to your college. When I visited the chapel there was a notice saying that it had been sent for restoration but I heard a rumour ..."

  "Vandals!" The old man became suddenly animated.

  "Then it's true, sir, that the painting has been stolen?" Holmes asked in shocked tones.

  "They should have looked after it better. It's a priceless painting — magnificent example of the artist's best period. Now they've let some hooligans make off with it. It's probably mouldering in a fenland shed somewhere. It will be ruined! Lost!" Giddings subsided into a fit of coughing and pressed a large spotted handkerchief to his mouth.

  "It must be very distressing to you, sir. I imagine the Rembrandt was the crowning item of your collection."

  The old man nodded vigorously. "Yes, I bought it privately in The Hague a quarter of a century ago. It had impeccable provenance. It was quite a sacrifice to part with it but I thought it would make a suitable parting gift, to mark a lifetime of service to New College. They might not have appreciated me but at least they had something to remember me by. Now, however ..." Giddings shrugged and seemed to shrink even further into his wrappings.

  "You don't think the crime might be the work of professional thieves? The art world, as I understand is not without its share of unscrupulous men."

  "Out of the question," the old man wheezed. "Too well known. Too difficult to sell."

  Holmes propelled the chair towards the next door but stopped when Gidding's frame was convulsed by a fresh bout of violent coughing.

  "Should I fetch your man?" Holmes enquired anxiously.

  The invalid nodded by way of reply and my friend retraced his steps to the library where a tug on the bell pull quickly brought the servant. He conveyed his master back into the library. The old man had recovered from his fit but announced that he was rather tired and begged Holmes to excuse him. He invited the young student to return another day to conclude the tour. Holmes thanked his host volubly and withdrew.

  His next call was upon Mr Spooner in his New College rooms. He informed the don that he had become intrigued by the theft and that, with Spooner's permission, he would like to follow up certain ideas which had occurred to him. He pressed the fellow for some details on certain points and asked him
for a letter of introduction to Messrs Simkins and Streeter. Thus armed, Holmes travelled next day to London. A cab dropped him at the entrance of a narrow alley leading off Jermyn Street by way of which Holmes discovered a painted signboard and a flight of stairs which led to the restorers' second-floor premises. These consisted of a single, long room illumined by sunshine

  entering through large skylights. Easels and wide tables were scattered throughout the workshop and at these men in their shirtsleeves were working singly or in pairs upon an assortment of old paintings. On enquiring for the proprietors, Holmes managed to distract one of these craftsmen just long enough to elicit a nod in the direction of a partitioned-off cubicle at the far end of the room.

  The man who stood behind a desk untidy with scattered papers to greet him as he stepped in through the open door was stocky and of middle .years. He was, Holmes judged, a touch overdressed; his suit a shade flamboyant of cut; his diamond-fastened necktie slightly too bright of hue. "Henry Simkins at your service, sir," the man announced. "Whom have I the honour of addressing?"

  Holmes handed over his card with Spooner's letter and carefully observed Simkin's reaction. The man displayed momentary alarm but quickly covered it up. "Well, Mr Holmes sit down, sit down do. I'll help you all I can, though I fear you've had a wasted journey, for Mr Spooner knows all there is to be known about this sad business."

  Holmes dusted the proffered chair and sank down upon it. "I'm grateful to you for your time, Mr Simkins. There were just one or two details that Mr Spooner wanted me to check."

  "Why then, fire away, Mr Holmes."

  "When was it that you were invited by the warden and fellows of New College to carry out restoration work on their painting?"

  "Well, now, that would be about the end of August. I can give you the exact date if you'll bear with me a moment." He swivelled his chair until he was facing an open roll-top desk against the back wall. From one drawer he lifted a bundle of papers tied with string, undid the knot and began to leaf through the sheets. To the precise-minded Holmes it seemed that the exploration would occupy more than "a moment" but within seconds Simkins uttered a little cry of triumph and flourished a sheet of embossed notepaper. "There we are, Mr Holmes," said he, laying it on the table before my friend.