False name or no, however, he and Holmes immediately established a rapport. To my surprise, my friend gave every sign of being taken with the man, ostentatious jewellery and all. They spoke animatedly of the architecture of the Hall for a solid half hour, with Frogmorton gesturing expansively at this feature and that, and Holmes following in his wake, nodding and making loud noises of appreciation when appropriate. I trailed behind the two of them as they left the library and went back outside, the better for our host to point out the sixteenth-century oriel windows and, unexpectedly, the great size of the chimney. Presumably the latter was more impressive than I imagined, for Holmes cooed over the grimy protrusion to such an extent that I wondered if he had perhaps lost his senses.
Holmes chose that moment to interrupt Frogmorton’s description of a crow-stepped gable with an apologetic look and a loud cough. ‘I wonder, Mr Frogmorton, if I might trouble you for a glass of water?’ he asked. ‘The trip from the station was a dusty one, and my throat is terribly parched.’
Frogmorton, to give him his due, was at once full of self-recrimination. He suggested we step back inside while he went off to arrange refreshments from the kitchen, leaving us alone in the library once again.
As soon as he was gone, I rounded on Holmes. ‘What on earth is going on?’ I began in a forceful whisper. ‘Why did you give us those ridiculous names? And why hide the reason for our visit? It’s almost as if you know the man!’
‘I do.’ Holmes’s knowledge of the criminal fraternity was second to none, so I was not surprised when he continued, ‘I believe Willoughby Frogmorton actually to be Matthew McCartney, an Ulsterman who migrated to Malaya in the sixties, and who was responsible for the collapse of the Eastern Malay Rubber Company in seventy-one. You may recall the case. McCartney convinced the Birmingham-based owners of several rubber plantations in Malaya and Burma that he had invented a new method for forcing the growth of the trees upon which the industry relies. He received extremely large sums in payment for his process, which, needless to say, proved inefficacious. In fact, over ninety per cent of the trees treated with McCartney’s formula died within a week, the Company filed for bankruptcy within a month and the principal investor was found drowned in the River Severn soon after, his pockets loaded with stones.
‘Unfortunately, McCartney had done nothing that was actually illegal. He was briefly under arrest but disappeared after his release and was thought to have fled to Australia, with an army of angry investors on his heels. Until now.’
‘Were you involved with the case?’
‘No, not at all. Not least because I would barely have been seventeen at the time! But I fear that the name Sherlock Holmes uttered even casually might have caused McCartney – or Frogmorton, I should say – to believe that I am now, with potentially unfortunate consequences. He may have nothing to do with these forgeries, but I am always wary of coincidence. Better to be cautious for the moment.’
Privately I wondered if we might not perhaps be better making our excuses and returning with the police, but Holmes has been right so many times before that I was willing to trust his judgement. ‘Very well, but how does this help us in our actual goal?’
‘It is an unfortunate wrinkle, true. I had intended to use my name to gain the trust of the law-abiding inhabitant of the Hall, but obviously that is no longer an option. Hence my fascination with his home – flattery is as swift a way to gain a foolish man’s trust as any number of good deeds, I have often found. Moving the conversation from the fabric of the Hall to its contents should not be beyond my abilities. I should warn you, though, Watson, that I may be forced to—’
Before Holmes could complete his thought, Frogmorton returned, bearing a tray of drinks.
‘Now, gents,’ he said, ‘where were we?’
As he engaged Holmes in fresh conversation, I considered my friend’s words. Could we have stumbled upon a solution so easily? Could this be our man? And – uppermost in my mind, I admit – what exactly might Holmes be forced to do?
I turned my attention back to the two men just in time to hear Holmes remark that Hamblin Hall was well known for the quality of its artworks. ‘I have noticed one or two smaller pieces which charmed me utterly,’ he was saying, ‘but I believe you have a substantial collection at the Hall. Where are the rest?’
Was it my imagination, or did Frogmorton’s eyes flicker at that moment? ‘Substantial is an overstatement, I’m afraid, Mr Soames. Perhaps once it was true, but no longer. You must understand, neither my wife nor myself are great art lovers and, between you and me, the upkeep of a stately home – even a small one like Hamblin – is an expensive business.’ His smile was wistful but insincere. ‘In fact we decided some time ago that it was foolish to hide works of art here, where they would moulder unappreciated, when we could instead give them to people who would love them.’
‘And I’m sure the money has come in handy,’ Holmes interjected, with just a hint of steel in his voice.
Frogmorton endeavoured not to rise to this jibe, but again his eyes gave him away as they flashed a warning at Holmes. ‘Yes indeed. Killing two birds with one stone, as it were. We’ve moved nearly all of the collection on now, releasing those pictures back into the world. I feel that we have given them life again.’ He paused theatrically and tilted his head to one side, as though considering some weighty matter. ‘You obviously have a keen eye, though. I’ll wager you’ve not been completely honest with me, Mr Soames…’
For a moment I was certain that Holmes’s charade had been unmasked, and that Frogmorton had seen through our attempts at legerdemain. I braced myself to hold him until Holmes could send a servant to fetch the local constabulary, but as it happened, I need not have concerned myself.
‘…you’re really an art collector, aren’t you?’ he concluded with a thin smile.
‘You have me.’ Holmes allowed himself to be unmasked – in this minor respect at least – with aplomb, smiling ruefully at Frogmorton, and shaking his head as though not entirely surprised.
Frogmorton on the other hand exhibited only delight, though delight run through with a form of triumphalism that was unattractive in the extreme, even without knowing the man’s previous history.
‘I knew it!’ he exclaimed. ‘I knew it from the off. I pride myself on my ability to read my fellow man, and the moment I saw you I thought, this is no architectural historian, not this one.’ He turned briefly to me, almost the first attention I had warranted since arriving at the Hall. ‘Of you, Dr Munro, I could believe it; you seem designed for dusty tomes and constant note-taking, but you, Mr Soames? No, not you!’
His laughter was loud and protracted, allowing Holmes to expand his part from rue to embarrassment. ‘How did you know, might I ask?’ he enquired humbly. ‘We thought we had been so clever.’
Frogmorton eagerly pounced on this further opportunity for self-congratulation. ‘Simplicity itself, my dear fellow. I admit my curiosity was first aroused when the maid informed me that you had arrived in the village cab, without bags. No gentleman would spend days away from home lacking even the bare minimum of clean clothes and toiletries. Then I kept a close eye on the two of you. Dr Munro clearly had no interest in, or knowledge of, the Hall, while your eyes kept flicking about the walls, examining every painting, even while I was describing the most spectacular architectural aspects of the building. For two gentlemen about to write a guidebook, well… London collectors, I thought, and it seems I was right.’ He held his hands out, palm up, and shrugged with false modesty.
Holmes nodded in capitulation. ‘However you spotted us, I congratulate you most sincerely, Mr Frogmorton. You are, of course, quite correct; we are not engaged on a research trip for a guidebook. That is simply a cover, naturally, but one which has – until now – served us well. Indeed you are the first person to have seen through our deception, and yes, I congratulate you again on your superior intellect!’
Holmes’s flattery was shameless, but Frogmorton appeared to see nothing a
miss. Indeed, he had entirely regained his composure and had taken our deception in surprisingly good humour. Where before he had been determined to show James Soames all the best features of his home, now he showed equal fascination in discussing the remnants of the Hall’s art collection. He showed no sign of irritation as he asked Holmes if there were a particular painting he had in mind, or if this was more by way of a scouting trip.
Thus encouraged, Holmes could hardly fail to move the conversation from the general to the specific.
‘You believe in coming straight to the point, I see,’ he said. ‘And yes, there is a particular item which I had heard whispers about and which I hoped to see today.’ He leant in and gestured to Frogmorton to come closer, as though there were a great secret he wished to impart. For myself, I thought Holmes was overdoing matters, but there was no sign that Frogmorton suspected anything.
When Holmes finally spoke, his voice was so quiet that I could barely make it out. ‘I have heard rumours that a second work by Sir Horace Hamblin may exist, and may be stored here, at the Hall!’
There was no doubting the flicker of unease that crossed Frogmorton’s face this time. It disappeared as quickly as it arrived, however, and in its stead our host exhibited every sign of incomprehension. ‘Sir Horace Hamblin? Presumably some ancestor of Lady Alexandra? Can’t say I’ve heard of him. Are you sure that was the name?’
‘Certain, Mr Frogmorton. Sir Horace’s striking portrait of King Charles the First hangs in the National Portrait Gallery in London and was, I believe, purchased for that most excellent enterprise only last year—’
‘King Charles?’ Frogmorton interrupted. ‘I can’t for the life of me bring to mind such a work at Hamblin Hall. We tend to go more for heavy-jowelled members of the family and various stags at bay.’
I had been watching Frogmorton closely as Holmes spoke, alive for signs of duplicity. When Holmes initially mentioned art, he appeared a man who knew little of the subject, and cared less, but who appreciated the worth of money and suddenly saw an opportunity to make more. Now that the topic had switched to a specific example, however, something had changed. I was sure he was lying, but could see no way in which we could prove the painting had ever been here at all, never mind get the man to allow us to inspect the remainder of the collection.
Holmes, however, seemed to have no such concerns. Gesturing for Frogmorton and me to follow, he bounded out of the library, into the entrance hall and up the main staircase, we trailing in his wake.
Halfway up he pointed to a spot on the wall. He called down to where we stood, at the foot of the staircase. ‘It hung there, I would suggest. I noticed this discoloured area earlier and though it is not the only such blemish on the walls of Hamblin Hall…’ He pulled a tape measure from his pocket and used it to calculate the dimensions of the darker area. ‘This section is the exact same size as Hamblin’s painting of King Charles the First,’ he concluded.
Frogmorton’s aura of calm had received another blow. He tugged at the collar of his shirt and pushed a distracted hand through his hair before he spoke. ‘Oh, that was King Charles, was it? I do remember selling that dusty old painting, and glad to do so, but I always took it to be one of Lady Alexandra’s forebears. It had hung in that spot since the day I arrived, and for centuries prior to that, I shouldn’t be surprised. And you say it’s valuable? I wish I had never… sold it, now.’
The hesitation was unmistakable, and Holmes pounced on it, though only obliquely at first. ‘Perhaps your wife could advise us?’ he asked sweetly.
Frogmorton’s face flushed and he wiped a hand across his brow. ‘She is unavailable, unfortunately. She has been staying with her sister for the past fortnight.’ He grimaced as he spoke. ‘But you say that the King Charles was by some great-great-and-so-on-grandfather of Lady Alexandra?’ He visibly rallied as he spoke, regaining his composure. ‘I’m afraid that doesn’t entirely help. I couldn’t tell you who painted what on the walls of the Hall. As I said, I’m a Philistine when it comes to art, and Alexandra, as with most things, is of little assistance.’
His tone was bitter. Evidently, there was no great love lost in the marriage. While I considered that fact, Holmes walked back down the stairs to us, and spoke again.
‘I’m sure it must be very difficult to keep track of all your possessions, Mr Frogmorton. It would require a prodigious feat of memory instantly to recall every single painting in Hamblin Hall. I am surprised that you do not have a catalogue, in fact. In our experience, most stately homes have such a document nowadays. Isn’t that so, Munro?’ I nodded dumbly, wondering where Holmes intended to take the discussion. I did not have long to wait. As Holmes reached the foot of the staircase he delivered the final blow. ‘Did Jessica Rhodes not think to create one for you when she was in your… employ… last summer? I have heard that she is very meticulous in her work and was a particular… intimate of yours.’ Holmes’s crudely insinuating words fell with the thick slap of a whip.
The change in Frogmorton was astonishing. Until that moment he had been an excellent host, showing us his home, offering us his hospitality, even overlooking the deception we had carried out in order to gain entrance. Had Holmes not issued his warning, I doubt I would have thought any ill of the man at all.
Now, though, he was transformed. No longer the suave and fashionable householder, his face had turned a deep red, and he turned towards Holmes with a snarl on his lips. ‘What do you mean by that, sir! How dare you! Why I… I should… Get out at once!’ He made to lay hands on Holmes, but for all his unwillingness to exercise, heavy tobacco consumption and at times Bohemian lifestyle, Sherlock Holmes was a man who could have boxed for England. He batted Frogmorton’s hands away with ease then, when his opponent attempted a flailing punch, slipped underneath the blow, threw a thunderous right hook and knocked him to the hallway floor.
As he stood over his defeated opponent, Holmes’s face was as composed and analytical as ever. ‘I have a confession to make,’ he said after a moment’s reflection. ‘I have another untruth to confess, in fact. I am not the man I claimed to be when first you made us welcome in your home. I can only apologise for our deception.’ He turned and indicated me. ‘This gentleman is Dr John Watson, my good friend and colleague, and I am Sherlock Holmes.’
For a moment nobody spoke. Holmes looked down at his opponent after making his extraordinary admission, while Frogmorton stared up at him in shock. For myself, I was at a loss as to what to say. Regardless of the circumstances, it is invariably awkward to find oneself unmasked as an imposter.
‘Sherlock Holmes, the detective?’ Frogmorton asked uncertainly, but with an unmistakable edge of fear. ‘But how…?’
‘Your skin has the permanent, ingrained bronze of long-term exposure to high temperatures,’ Holmes said, this non sequitur apparently in response to Frogmorton’s confusion. ‘Far more than would be the case for a short visit to such a locale, or even a protracted period spent working in, say, southern Europe. Admittedly, you could have passed your younger years in the Americas or Australia, but on balance India or Malaya are considerably more likely.’
‘Malaya,’ Frogmorton muttered distractedly. ‘Plantations.’
‘Please do not misunderstand me. I ask no question and require no confirmation. I not only know of your time in Malaya’s rubber plantations, but also exactly what you did there. It is not a pretty story, Mr McCartney.’
He was not easily cowed, I’ll say that for Frogmorton (I still could not think of him as McCartney). He pulled himself to his feet and glared at Holmes. ‘So that’s it, eh? I did nothing illegal, you know. My treatment proved less effective than I’d hoped, but such things happen in business, and science, all the time. There’s nothing you can do to me, great detective. I have committed no crime.’
‘Quite so.’ Holmes was unperturbed, though speaking for myself I could see no fault in Frogmorton’s reasoning. ‘But I cannot help but wonder whether Lady Alexandra knows of your past… or the full extent
of your relationship with Miss Rhodes.’
Frogmorton blanched and took an involuntary step backwards as Holmes’s accusations hit him with the force of a blow. I too mentally recoiled at his words, and at the thought of the repellent Frogmorton and the delightful Miss Rhodes engaged in an affaire de coeur, as Holmes was clearly suggesting.
Holmes, however, was relentless, driving Frogmorton back across the hallway and towards the open door of the library, one step at a time, with the impact of his words. ‘You and she spent last summer in a romantic relationship, did you not, Mr McCartney? I am sure it began innocently enough, just as Miss Rhodes describes it in fact, with she and her companion arriving in the teeth of a storm, and the other young lady falling ill. In such a position it is only natural that you should attempt to entertain your guest while her friend recovers. Did your wife also become attached to your two new acquaintances? No? She looked after the invalid, perhaps, while you and Miss Rhodes became close?’
Frogmorton said nothing, but glowered from beneath thunderous brows. Holmes pressed on without mercy.
‘In fact, if I remember correctly, Miss Rhodes remarked on the attentiveness of your wife towards her friend. Was it while she was thus engaged in an act of Christian charity that you inveigled yourself into the affections of the unworldly Miss Rhodes? Well, was it?’
All pretence fell away from Frogmorton now as Holmes slowly walked towards him, his every step punctuated with accusation. Only when his back was against the library fireplace did he bring his retreat to a sudden halt.
‘It was not like that at all,’ he blustered. From the shaking of his hands to the whitening of his face, it was clear that Holmes’s words had pierced him to his very soul, and filled him with the terror of exposure which every guilty man carries within himself. The transformation from the confident dandy we had first met to the fear-stricken wreck that now cowered before us was hard to credit, but symptomatic of a certain type of bullying personality. He held out a hand imploringly. ‘You won’t tell my wife, will you?’
Albino's Treasure Page 10
