‘You would have been proud of me, Watson. Though I say it myself, my performance was of the highest quality. Grown men openly wept as I described my poor widowed mother back in Ulster, waiting for the return of a son whom she would never see again. The Major, too, was evidently an emotional man for he grasped my hand as my words trailed off and promised that his people would help me gain my revenge. “No son of Ireland could refuse to do otherwise,” he said. “But,” he went on, “do you know who did the killing? Have you a name which we might attach to this vile slaughter?”
‘“The only name I have,” I said, “is Sherlock Holmes.”’
* * *
While he had been speaking, Holmes had remained in his disguise, bearded and unkempt as any vagrant. Now, he peeled off his false whiskers with a grimace. He rubbed a hand across the genuine stubble which remained and pinched the bridge of his nose between two long fingers. His tiredness was palpable.
‘What did he say to that?’ I asked. ‘Does he trust you now?’
In reply, Holmes stood and shrugged off the tattered jacket he was wearing. ‘Sure and I can tell you nothing,’ he said in an exaggerated and comic Irish brogue, ‘for have I not sworn to preserve our secrets inviolable?’ He laughed and tossed the jacket over the back of a chair, then reached for his pipe and a fingerful of shag tobacco. Only after he had the two combined to his satisfaction did he touch a glowing cinder to the bowl and continue in his normal voice.
‘I am now a full member of the Brotherhood of Ireland, Watson. I have taken their oath, I have spoken to such of their leadership as is available at present, and I have pledged myself to the overthrow of the British Parliament and Crown. I am—’ he concluded proudly, ‘—a Fenian through and through!’
The sudden change in Holmes’s mood was infectious. I found myself laughing along with him, all irritation at his recent high-handed behaviour dissipated. ‘But how did you achieve that happy state, Holmes?’ I asked. ‘How did this Major react to the name Sherlock Holmes?’
‘He was delighted, would you believe? Mine is a name known to the Brotherhood, it seems. “Sherlock Holmes, is it?” he said. “Now there’s a man we’d be content to see in the grave.”
‘Mention was made of the Kilkenny business last year and of the capture of the man Marsh in New York. More than one republican plan was derailed by that arrest. “It would seem that our interests coincide, Mr Brady,” the Major concluded. “Now tell me of his involvement in your brother’s tragic demise.”’
Comfortable in his chair, wreathed in blue pipe smoke, and warmed by the fire, it was difficult to believe that Holmes had recently been in conference with one of the leaders of a secret society bent on widespread slaughter and then faked his own murder. And yet, there he was, and there he had been, and as I listened to him sketch in the details of the story he had told to the Major, I was impressed once more by the ingenuity and courage of my friend.
‘My tale was not enough in itself to convince him,’ Holmes concluded, ‘but it was sufficient to prevent my throat being cut there and then. When I suggested that I kill Holmes myself, though, that tipped the balance in my favour, and I was engulfed in drunken back-slapping from the other men round the table.’
‘And what of Major Conway?’ I interrupted.
Holmes frowned. ‘He was still not entirely content, but a good leader knows when to give the mob its head, and when to push back, and this was undoubtedly an occasion for the former approach. So he let me explain that I had been following Holmes ever since he betrayed my brother so unfairly, and had overheard him arrange to meet a friend – you, Watson – for dinner this evening. It would be then that I would have my vengeance!
‘I will not say that I was wholly unconcerned as I left the Earl of Dublin. For all the hands slapping my back and gripping my arms in congratulation, I was keenly aware that it would take but one slip on my part, one glimmer of recognition from any of the motley crew which surrounded me, for the mood of celebration to turn to one of retribution. Bear in mind, Watson, that “Revolutionary” is not a full-time position, and that much of the mob through which I now passed was composed of the dregs of the criminal world, with all that sorry type’s tendency to suspicion and paranoia. Exactly the sort of person who might, in fact, see a resemblance between Edmund Brady, hero of the struggle, and Sherlock Holmes, lackey of the English oppressor.
‘Fortunately, though I had thought it unlikely that I would be accepted so quickly by the Brotherhood, I had made certain contingency plans just in case, and Ewing had been primed to impersonate me if the occasion demanded. The rest you witnessed outside the restaurant. You will forgive me, I hope, for not telling you beforehand, but there really was no time and, besides, it was important that your reactions were as natural as possible, else the whole charade might have been for nothing. I had not,’ he concluded ruefully, ‘allowed for the speed with which you pursued and apprehended me. Really, Watson, you have an unexpected turn of pace when the occasion demands it.’
I laughed with pleasure at this good-humoured jibe. ‘I concede that I am more sedentary now than I was in my youth, Holmes, but I was a gifted runner as a youngster, you know. And besides, I thought you dead. My blood was up!’ Remembering the body in the cab sobered me in an instant, however. ‘So, where do this evening’s events leave you, Holmes?’ I asked.
Holmes, equally serious now, considered the question carefully before answering. ‘It was a test, but an important one. The attack on Sherlock Holmes will have reached the newspaper offices by now, and there were one or two observers from the Brotherhood amongst the crowd at the restaurant.’ He nodded once, sharply, to himself as he leant forward and knocked the detritus from his pipe onto the hearth. ‘Yes, having passed the necessary assessment, I envisage a warm welcome for the conquering hero when I return to the Earl of Dublin later tonight.’
‘Later tonight?’ I was incredulous, and made no attempt to hide that fact. Holmes had been up and busy since dawn and was obviously exhausted; that he intended to go out again, without rest, was madness, and I said as much. Holmes, however, tutted his lack of interest in my opinion, and calmly began reapplying his whiskers in front of the mirror, which hung over the fireplace.
Within minutes, the suave consulting detective had disappeared, and a sullen, grimy Irish navvy stood in his place. Only when he was satisfied with his appearance did Holmes deign to reply.
‘Yes, tonight, I’m afraid, Watson. At the moment I have a certain standing with the Brotherhood, which I hope to barter for information about the threat to Her Majesty. That standing will not last forever – indeed it will evaporate completely once it becomes known, as it shall, that Sherlock Holmes is very much alive – and the safety of the Queen requires me to strike while the iron is hot.’ He shrugged on his filthy jacket, pulled an equally disreputable cap down on his head, and took one final look in the mirror.
‘Yes, that will do,’ he said in his familiar tone then, ‘Another time, Englishman!’ in a soft Irish brogue, and he was through the door and away before I could respond.
It was only half an hour later that I realised I had failed to mention the peculiar forged painting.
Four
The next few days were uneventful. Scotland Yard had announced that Sherlock Holmes, though injured, yet lived, but otherwise the case was moribund, and Holmes himself had not been in touch. I busied myself as much as I could with my practice, but in truth it too was quiet, and by the third morning I found myself at a loose end. The weather being unseasonably mild, I was loath to spend the days indoors but with Holmes absent there was nothing I could do to aid with the current case. But perhaps there was another associated problem to which I might apply myself. Though not formally a case as yet, I was sure Holmes would be interested in the forged painting upon his return.
Within the hour, therefore, I found myself pushing open the entrance of the National Portrait Gallery. A combination of a brisk walk through London’s sunlit streets and, I admit, the po
ssibility of renewing my acquaintance with Miss Rhodes, had put me in an excellent mood, such that I bounded up the steps two at a time. I may even have been whistling as I strode down the corridor to the office of Donald Petrie, the Secretary.
The door was ajar, so I knocked and entered. To my surprise, sitting across the desk from Petrie with his back to me was the unmistakable figure of Sherlock Holmes. He was dressed not in the near rags in which I had last seen him, but in his more usual gentleman’s attire. Without turning in his seat, he said ‘Good morning, Watson.’
‘Holmes! What are you doing here?’
‘I came to find you, of course. I am delighted that your walk here has done you such good.’
I admit to a degree of pique at Holmes’s airy greeting, and decided to avoid giving him the satisfaction of explaining how he could have known that I had walked from Baker Street to the Gallery. My intention was rendered moot, however, as Petrie eagerly asked Holmes that very question. ‘Dr Watson’s good humour is evidenced by his whistling in the corridor just now, of course,’ the Secretary allowed, with a small smile of self-satisfaction, ‘but how did you deduce that he walked here, rather than taking a hansom? I have long followed your career in the newspapers, Mr Holmes, and am always astonished at your perspicacity.’ He suddenly frowned in my direction. ‘You did walk, I take it, Dr Watson?’
Such good humour as I had heretofore displayed was in grave danger of leaking away as Petrie addressed himself to me, but I had the grace at least to nod in the affirmative. I availed myself of a chair alongside Holmes, who now turned and gave me his full attention before answering.
‘I cannot in faith take any credit whatsoever in the matter of Watson’s perambulations, I am afraid, Mr Petrie. No real deduction was involved, you see. I had hoped to meet up with the good Doctor at Baker Street, but upon my arrival there at a little after the hour, Mrs Hudson informed me that he had left for the Gallery some ten minutes previously. Since I took a cab here and arrived a good half hour since, it is plain as day that Watson must have walked, hence his somewhat delayed arrival.’ He shrugged. ‘Had I known that was his intention I would have hurried to catch up with him on foot; it is an excellent day for a stroll through town with a friend.’
My good humour was entirely restored by this closing remark, for Holmes was not a man given to even such slight declarations of affection. Thus, it was with genuine concern that I enquired if all was well with his current investigation. I knew that he would not discuss the matter specifically in front of Petrie, but hoped that he might give me some indication of his progress.
I was not surprised, therefore, when Holmes murmured ‘All is well, Watson, I assure you,’ and said no more. Mr Petrie, however, evidently retained his devotion to Holmes and his methods, for he recognised at once that we had something private to discuss and, with the excuse that he had to check on a delivery, left us alone in his office.
‘Well?’ I asked, the moment the door closed behind him. ‘Where have you been, Holmes? What have you learned? Do those scoundrels trust you now?’
Perhaps I imagined it, but it seemed to me that Holmes’s reply had an air of disappointment about it. ‘Oh, they trust me completely now – for all that that matters!’
I knew that tone of voice well from previous occasions when a promising case had turned out, in Holmes’s opinion, to be of less interest than he had initially hoped. ‘There was nothing there to learn, Watson!’ he continued, and now he made no attempt to disguise the bitterness in his voice. ‘I returned to that filthy drinking den as the conquering hero, but to no real purpose. We drank gallons of the cheapest of rot-gut whiskey, and toasted Emmet and Wolfe Tone – and my own assault on the inestimable Sherlock Holmes, of course – but that was the sum of our revolutionary fervour. Even the slashing of the former Prime Minister’s portrait turns out to be nothing more than the result of an evening of hard drinking and a bet taken ill-advisedly.
‘No, Watson, what at first I took to be a genuine armed rebellion in the making turned out to be nothing of the kind. Merely a collection of paper revolutionaries, youthful hotheads and misguided patriots whose “best” days were half a century ago. The slashing of the painting is as far as they are likely to go, now or ever. It is all rather dispiriting,’ he concluded.
‘But what of the Major?’ I asked, half perplexed by this unexpected news, and half amused by Holmes’s irritation at the absence of a genuine threat.
Holmes shook his head. ‘Perhaps he will amount to something of note, but I did not see him again after our first meeting, and my activities over the past few days have achieved very little, other than a certainty that without him the Brotherhood amounts to nothing but hot air and drinking songs.’ He brightened as a thought struck him. ‘My feeling is that the Major was not part of the Brotherhood at all, but rather he was weighing them up, judging their usefulness to the cause – and finding them lacking, he has departed. I thought that he would contact me – Mr Brady, that is – but there has been no word.’ Once more, his long face fell. ‘Perhaps he knew who I was from the beginning, and he was toying with me, as a cat would with an inconsequential mouse.’
‘Or perhaps he was scared off by the facility with which you subdued Sherlock Holmes? Might he perhaps contact you in the near future, once any furore has died down?’
Holmes shrugged his shoulders, without interest. I have already mentioned Holmes’s self-poisoning attraction to cocaine, and as he sat opposite me, mired in dejection, I feared his return to that insidious vice. Desperate to focus his mind on some new puzzle, I cast about for anything that might rouse his interest – and was delighted to recall my reason for being at the Gallery at all.
‘Did Petrie explain about the forged painting?’ I asked, and was rewarded by a raise of the head and a quizzical look from my friend.
‘I have only just made that gentleman’s acquaintance, Watson. He scarcely had time to tell me his name and babble some overly fulsome praise of your scribblings for the popular papers before you arrived.’
I decided to allow the insult to pass, so pleased was I to see a glimmer of interest in Holmes’s eye.
‘Well, don’t keep me on tenterhooks, Watson! To what painting do you refer? Certainly not the Salisbury. I would have had news of that, at least.’
‘No, not the portrait of Lord Salisbury, Holmes. Another from the collection. King Charles the First, if I recall correctly. That’s actually why I came here this morning, to check whether any progress had been made. From the manner in which Miss Rhodes – one of the Gallery employees – spoke, it would have been child’s play for anyone with eyes in his head to spot the deception, once the painting was down from the wall.’
‘Down from the wall? And why – but no, let us call Mr Petrie back inside and discover what has been happening while I was wasting my time amongst the bog Irish.’
As was often the case, Holmes had switched from torpor to action in moments. He leapt to his feet and pulled open the office door with a sharp tug, then called to Petrie, who was evidently only a few yards down the corridor. That done, he paced impatiently across the carpet until the Secretary had explained the events of the past few days.
‘An unexpected development,’ Holmes remarked when he had finished. ‘You will not object if I ask you a few questions, Mr Petrie? It may be that I cannot shine any new light on the issue, but after your earlier flattering remarks about Dr Watson’s jottings and my own work, it would be remiss of me not to make the attempt.’
Mr Petrie smiled up at Holmes’s tall figure with obvious enthusiasm and pleasure. ‘Why, Mr Holmes, of course, of course! It would be a great honour – and pleasure – to hear your opinion!’ He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a thin folder which, when opened, revealed a single sheet of typewritten paper. ‘A portrait of Charles the First by Sir Horace Hamblin,’ he read, ‘dated to the mid to late 1640s, purchased for the collection in June. The frame was badly cracked during the apprehension of the intruder, as you know
, Dr Watson, and upon being removed for repair the painting within was discovered to be a forgery. Not a terribly good one, either! Our fellows spotted it straight away!’
Holmes leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin in his customary manner. ‘A poor-quality forgery, you say?’ he said with a frown.
‘Apparently so, Mr Holmes. I am no expert myself, but I am told that nobody who is could possibly have mistaken this for a seventeenth-century work.’
‘Could the painting always have been so?’ Holmes asked. ‘Could the forgery have been purchased in good faith and not been noticed as such until now?’
I rather fear that Petrie’s professional pride was stung by Holmes’s suggestion, and he hurried to reassure us that several prominent members of the Gallery staff had examined and vouchsafed the authenticity of the piece upon its arrival. ‘There is no possibility of that sort of error, Mr Holmes!’ he announced with some vehemence.
‘Very well, then. We must accept that a genuine painting arrived at the Gallery. Was it hung immediately? I am aware that a gallery of this size, particularly a relatively new one, will have more artworks than display space. Was this particular portrait placed in storage for any time?’
I immediately grasped Holmes’s meaning and – keen, I must admit, to demonstrate to Mr Petrie that I was more than a mere scribe for another man’s genius – I took the opportunity to interject. ‘You think that perhaps the original painting was removed whilst in storage, and replaced with this counterfeit?’
Albino's Treasure Page 5
