Albino's Treasure

by Douglas Stuart

  ‘No, I think not – if you agree to help us with our enquiries. Nor shall I make your Malayan adventure public knowledge.’

  ‘I couldn’t care less what you say about Malaya, Holmes,’ Frogmorton replied, with just a hint of his earlier bravado. He stood just a little straighter as he continued, ‘My wife knows all about that particular blot on my copybook, and besides, as I already explained, I did nothing illegal. Yes, I might be blackballed from a club or two, and cut in the street by the occasional top-hatted fool, but I will not, I assure you, lose sleep over that. But Alexandra knows nothing of my… dalliance with Miss Rhodes. It would break her heart to know I had been untrue, and I see no reason to drag Miss Rhodes’s name through the mud.’

  ‘Cause her to throw you out on the street more like!’ I have served in the army, worked as a doctor and aided Sherlock Holmes for many years, and have come to know the worst side of Man, but there was something altogether repellent about the figure in front of me, wheedling and conniving to save himself. Only the sense that he genuinely cared for the young lady whose youthful trust he had so shamefully abused prevented me from taking two steps forward and knocking him straight down the stairs.

  Fortunately for Frogmorton, Holmes intervened before I could say – or do – anything further. ‘Regardless of your motivations, I will expose you in every respect and to every one if you do not give Watson and myself access to the catalogue Miss Rhodes compiled for you last year. And after viewing the catalogue, we will need to see every painting it lists. Agree to these terms and we will be on our way, and nobody need be any the wiser about your various indiscretions.’

  I do not apologise for the pleasure I felt in Frogmorton’s slumped and disconsolate figure at that moment. His behaviour had clearly been that of a man without honour, and the involvement of Miss Rhodes, for whom I had a great deal of respect, rendered the entire sorry affair even worse. But Holmes had shattered him completely, and even if his perfidious actions could not be made public for obvious reasons, the nature of Frogmorton’s defeat brought me only satisfaction.

  I was surprised, therefore, to see him hesitate as Holmes offered him an escape that did not involve the ruin of his marriage and his current comfortable life. ‘That may not be possible, I’m afraid. It’s not my fault,’ he hurried to add. ‘Jessi… Miss Rhodes did put together a sort of catalogue – more a ledger really – but for her own use, not mine. She said something about it being an invaluable addition to the records of the Gallery and took it with her when she left.’

  Holmes’s voice was icily calm. ‘So you claim to have no records of the provenance of your collection, is that your contention?’

  ‘Well, no. Or rather, yes. That is my contention, as you put it. But it hardly matters, since there’s not much left of the collection now. Most of it went the way of the portrait of King Charles. Sold.’ He shrugged. ‘Had to have the money. Simple as that.’

  ‘In which case, why should I not reveal your tawdry secrets and, at the very least, free your wife from a duplicitous husband?’

  ‘There is no reason, I suppose. But ask yourself this: what’d be the point? True, my life in England would be in tatters, and more than likely I’d have to leave the country. But what of Lady Alexandra, held up to public ridicule? What of Miss Rhodes, labelled a loose woman? Would you really do such harm to two innocent women, Mr Holmes? Dr Watson?’

  Frogmorton’s words were unpleasantly self-serving and venal, but he was correct. Holmes looked discomfited and did not reply. Frogmorton, now entirely restored to his former brash good humour, laughed at our long faces, and bowed low from the waist. ‘Of course I’m happy to show you the paintings we still have, if that’s any help? Not that there’s a great deal left!’

  Without another word he strode out of the library. After a moment’s pause, Holmes and I followed.

  Nine

  The rest of the evening was disappointingly unfruitful. Frogmorton had not been lying when he claimed that most of the Hamblin Collection had been sold. We followed him from room to room, examining familiar patches of darker wallpaper and, now and again, an actual painting, though none of them appeared forged, stolen or otherwise noteworthy, at least to my eyes. Each subsequent room lowered our spirits more until, upon returning full-circle to the entrance hall again, Holmes announced that we were leaving. Frogmorton did not pretend sorrow at our departure. He said that he hoped we would never need to meet again and slammed the door behind us.

  The journey back to Baker Street was a silent one, and Holmes went straight to his room the moment we were in our quarters, waving a dismissive hand at my questions as he did so.

  * * *

  The next morning, he was gone before I awoke. A note propped on the mantelpiece informed me that he had received a summons from his brother Mycroft which would brook no delay, and that he would return as soon as he might but certainly before that evening. A scribbled postscript suggested I spend the day in relaxation. ‘Try and stay out of trouble,’ it concluded.

  With no more pressing claim on my time, I tried to take Holmes’s advice and after breakfast I settled myself in an armchair with a historical novel. The weather outside remained foul, and I did not envy Holmes his trip outside, but even so a vague tickling at the back of my mind made concentration difficult and I quickly found myself supremely confused by the plethora of abbots, knights and squires who made up the cast of my novel. Throwing the book aside, I bathed and dressed then stood, irresolute, at the window, watching the rain bounce from the gutterings of the building opposite. Recalling the condescending addendum to Holmes’s note and his dismissal of the previous evening, I found my mood quickly matching the weather outside. It seemed to me, as I contemplated the brewing storm, that Holmes often left me in the dark, and took altogether too much delight in demonstrating that his mental acuity was superior to my own. Within minutes, I had resolved to do something useful of my own volition but could think of nothing suitable.

  It would perhaps be more honest to say that I could think of nothing both suitable and attractive. Obviously, Holmes would want to speak to Miss Rhodes as soon as he had completed whatever task Mycroft had in mind, and I strongly suspected that a kind word from one such as myself would be more efficacious than Holmes’s more robust questioning. But since Frogmorton’s revelations I was nervous of approaching her. As an army doctor I have, of course, been exposed to the more sordid side of life, but even so the recent events at Hamblin were enough to force me to reconsider my view of Miss Rhodes. I am by no means a prude, but if I had understood Holmes’s accusations correctly, my initial view of Jessica Rhodes might well need to be revisited. Dark indeed was my mood as I considered the situation.

  * * *

  In the end, lack of alternatives forced my hand, and within the half hour I found myself sheltering from the downpour under the entrance portico of the National Portrait Gallery. Had I known the day that was to follow would be one of the most terrible in my long friendship with Sherlock Holmes, I might well have turned on my heel and returned to my book.

  Miss Rhodes was directing the relocation of some sculpture when I found her, striking through the name of each piece on a list she held as it was moved to her satisfaction. She had her back to me and failed to notice my entrance for several minutes, time which I spent observing the way in which she managed the team of men who comprised her workforce. A woman in a position of authority was unusual, but the effective and efficient way she directed operations brought it home to me again that this was indeed an unusual woman who should, perhaps, be judged differently to the common herd. Eventually I realised that I was in effect spying on her and, embarrassed, I coughed loudly in order to catch her attention.

  ‘Dr Watson! What a pleasant surprise!’

  As soon as she spoke, any doubts I might have harboured about her role at Hamblin Hall evaporated. There was an openness and honesty about her which did not allow for suspicion of wrongdoing. Whatever had occurred at Hamblin Hall that summer, I was
again certain that Miss Rhodes was entirely innocent of blame.

  With this reassuring conviction in mind, I bade her good morning, and asked if I might have a moment of her time, in private. She smiled her agreement and led me to her office.

  The room fell somewhere between a cubby-hole and a box-room, being considerably smaller than Petrie’s office, yet with enough room for the sort of curios and artefacts which spoke of a lively and enquiring mind. A small window at the far end illuminated a battered desk on which were piled stacks of notes, catalogues and journals. A single chair and a small side table completed the furnishings.

  ‘Have you made progress with your case, then?’ she asked as soon as we were comfortably ensconced within.

  I had hoped to avoid discussion of certain of the specifics of our activities the previous day, but, thus pressed, I confirmed that progress had been made, following our trip to Hamblin Hall. ‘In fact,’ I concluded, ‘it is possible that you can be of assistance to us, if you would not object to answering one or two questions.’

  ‘Why, I would be delighted to help you in any way I can, Dr Watson! Though I’m not sure I can, really. I was only a guest at the Hall for a short period, after all.’

  I was certain that her desire to help was not feigned, and that her eagerness was genuine, but she had begun with a clear untruth, which emboldened me sufficiently to ask the difficult question that needed to be asked.

  ‘I am afraid, Miss Rhodes, that my first question is one that will seem ungentlemanly to you, appearing as it does to cast doubts upon your recollection of certain events.’ I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. ‘It has been… brought to the attention of Sherlock Holmes and myself that you were more than just a fleeting visitor to Hamblin Hall last year. We have learned, in fact, that you spent enough time at the Hall to become an invaluable aide and confidante to Mr Frogmorton, and may even have compiled a sales ledger for him?’

  I was aware of the creeping note of pomposity in my voice, which made my respect for Miss Rhodes all the greater as she met my accusations with a quiet and becoming dignity. I had feared she would deny everything, leaving me no choice but to call her a liar, but instead she showed no outward sign of distress other than an almost imperceptible quickening of breath. Before saying another word, she opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a thin, paper-covered notebook of the sort sold in every stationer in the land. She laid it down in front of me.

  ‘I should have known that there was no point in dissimulation with Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson. Yes, I did become more than simply a houseguest while at Hamblin Hall. I don’t even know why I pretended otherwise.

  ‘I was happy to help Mr Frogmorton in any way I could, you see, after he had been so kind to my friend and me. His wife was often away, my friend slept a great deal and as a result we were thrown together more than would otherwise have been the case. So yes, in answer to your question – we did become confidantes, I suppose. And when I had made my own purchases from the Hamblin Collection it seemed only courteous to offer to help him sell the remainder, as he had often mentioned he wished to do. I sent a telegram or two to art dealers and collectors of my acquaintance, supervised a clean-up of some of the better pieces, and helped Mr Frogmorton obtain good prices for each painting.’ She pushed the notebook towards me. ‘And this is the ledger to which you referred. I should warn you, however, that it is not a catalogue of the Hamblin Collection, but rather my own personal reminders book, in which I am in the practice of noting every work of art that passes through my hands. Every sale made at Hamblin is in there, however.’

  Her voice throughout this speech was measured and calm. There was no question in her mind of any wrongdoing, that much was clear. As I took the notebook she asked whether we had discovered more forgeries at Hamblin Hall.

  I could see no reason not to tell her the truth. ‘No, unfortunately we did not. The coincidence of two forged paintings from a single source may turn out to be exactly that – a coincidence.’ Seeing her face fall, I hurriedly went on, ‘But we have hopes that your ledger can provide further fuel for our investigation!’

  She smiled at that. I flipped open the notebook and cast an eye down the first page. A fine hand had inscribed a year at the top in an ornate calligraphy, and underneath had listed over a dozen paintings, each described in detail, with a location and a specific date noted beneath. ‘These dates are those upon which you worked on the paintings, broken down by year?’ I asked and, receiving confirmation by way of a short nod, continued to flick through the little book. For such a young woman, Miss Rhodes evidently had a great deal of experience in and knowledge of her chosen field, and as the date which headed each page grew closer and closer to the current year, the number of paintings on each page increased. I turned one page dated some two years previously, in every expectation of reaching Hamblin Hall within a page or two. But instead, the next page was headed 1896 – the current year – with nothing in between. It was as though her country sojourn had never taken place.

  I showed her the successive pages. It seemed to me that she hesitated for the briefest of moments, then shook her head, her confusion and distress plain for all to see. ‘There should be two pages here, Dr Watson. Two pages that cover my entire time at Hamblin and record every sale in which I was involved.’ She handed the notebook back, and I turned it over in my hands. I knew how Holmes would approach the problem, and I could see no reason why I should not apply his methods. Moving over to a light on the wall, I held the book up, turning it first one way then the other, allowing the flame to illuminate the pages. There was something…

  ‘Quick, Miss Rhodes,’ I exclaimed, ‘come here!’

  I held the notebook out in front of her, and gently pulled the two halves of the cover away from each other. ‘If you look carefully at the inner spine of the book, it’s possible to just make out an irregularity where pages have been removed. Cut out, in fact, I’d say.’

  She blanched. ‘But this means that someone has been in my office. Someone has…’ Her voice trailed off. ‘I don’t understand, Dr Watson. Why would anyone be interested in my notes? Who would be interested in them? And what has this to do with the King Charles and Augustine Hamblin forgeries? Should we not inform Mr Petrie?’

  Pleased though I was with my discovery, I had no answers to these questions. It seemed likely that someone wanted to hinder Holmes’s investigations, but other than that, I was at a loss. Miss Rhodes’s distress was clear to see, but there was no light she could shed on the vandalism we had discovered, nor anyone she could bring to mind who might have reason to carry out such an act. I was keen to continue our conversation and, remembering the criminal Lestrade had mentioned earlier, I rather impulsively asked whether she knew any albinos, though with little expectation of a positive reply. Consequently, I was not disappointed when she shook her head, a look of confusion on her face.

  ‘An albino? No, I’m afraid not. I don’t believe I have ever seen such a man, in fact. Why do you ask?’

  ‘It is nothing to concern yourself about, my dear,’ I hastened to reassure her. ‘Just a stray thought. Would you mind if I borrowed your notebook? Holmes will want to examine it, I suspect, though I doubt if even he can conjure a list of names from pages that do not exist.’

  We sat for a moment or two, each of us silently considering the impossible situation we found ourselves in until, with a start and a small sound of surprise, Miss Rhodes looked up and exclaimed that she knew something that might help.

  ‘I do know the location of one item that was contained in those pages, Dr Watson! It was a very minor part of the Hamblin Collection, a miniature depicting Jacob and Esau, the twin sons of the Biblical Isaac, but it had a certain charm that I thought might be of interest to the Gallery. Unfortunately, though, when I brought it to London, it was judged to be too small for effective display here, but I was able by sheer chance to sell it on Mr Frogmorton’s behalf to a local collector of my acquaintance. It is only one sale amongst many, but it is a
t least something, is it not?’

  I was inclined to think it a very small something indeed, but even so it was better than nothing at all, and I was grateful to note down the details of the purchaser, a Miss Eugenie Marr, of 11 Craven Street, London. The address was close by, and I initially considered investigating straight away. But I knew that Holmes would wish to be involved and, besides, I feared I might overlook something of vital import that my companion would undoubtedly notice. I took my leave of Miss Rhodes, therefore, and resolved to check our lodgings for Holmes before proceeding any further along this fresh investigative path.

  * * *

  Our rooms were in darkness when I arrived at Baker Street, and I very nearly told the hansom driver to continue on, but I had intended to pick up my revolver in any case, and there was always the possibility that Holmes, even if he himself were not present, might have left a note. I paid the cabman and, running through the unceasing rain, dashed indoors.

  The sitting room was cold and dim and heavy with the stench of stale pipe smoke. I moved towards the windows and tugged at the closed curtains, intending to allow in some light and air, but before I could do so, a voice spoke from the shadows.

  ‘Leave the curtains closed, Watson, if you don’t mind, and the lamps unlit. I would rather not advertise our presence just at the moment.’

  Holmes emerged from behind the door, staring at me in the gloom with a fierce intensity. In his hand he held my revolver.

  ‘Holmes! What’s happened?’ My natural surprise quickly gave way to concern as I moved closer and realised that there was a splash of dried blood on his forehead and abrasions on his cheek. ‘How did you come by these injuries? And the revolver…’

  Holmes waved my help away with a grimace. ‘The revolver is simply a precaution. Now, I have a great deal to tell you, Watson, and little time to do so. Save your medical ministrations for later and take a seat, there’s a good fellow.’