Albino's Treasure

by Douglas Stuart

Holmes, I knew, was only suffering this barrage because without Lestrade he had no access to the paintings, which were securely under lock and key in one of the Yard’s vaults. He shuffled from one foot to the other, the pressure of biting his tongue almost palpable. In the face of such unexpected contrition, Lestrade’s anger had nothing upon which to feed and it quickly dissipated.

  As Lestrade tailed off, Holmes reassured him that, in future, Scotland Yard would absolutely be his first port of call should anyone try to kill him.

  ‘In the meantime, however,’ he continued, as though the idea had just struck him, ‘might the paintings be brought up?’ He smiled. ‘I have a theory that I would like to put to the test.’

  Lestrade, whatever opinion Holmes might hold of him, was no fool, and knew that he had been duped. But he was a policeman first and foremost, and therefore a pragmatist. ‘Very well, Mr Holmes, we’ll say no more on the subject for now, and I’ll have the paintings brought in for you to examine again… but mind what I said, do you hear?’

  Satisfied that he had had the last word, Lestrade left to arrange the movement of our small art collection. Holmes watched him depart with a half-smile on his face.

  Within half an hour, Lestrade’s men had arranged the paintings on five wooden easels in a spacious, well-lit office at the top of the building. Holmes had insisted on as much natural light as possible, and as I watched him stalk from one to the other, a look of monomaniacal concentration on his face, I was strongly reminded of our visit to the restoration company the previous week. In front of each painting Holmes paused and stared, occasionally making a note in a notebook he carried with him, but said nothing and gave no other indication that he was even aware that Lestrade or I existed.

  For hours, long into the night and the following morning, Holmes continued his silent appraisal. Lestrade left at midnight, pleading a busy day to come, and I admit that I was dozing in a chair when Holmes suddenly clapped his hands together and gave out a loud exclamation of pleasure.

  ‘Quickly Watson, come and look at this!’

  Holmes was standing directly in front of the portrait of King Charles, with one long finger pointing at the monarch and his priest. I could see nothing unusual and said so to Holmes.

  ‘Evidently your sleep has left you muddle-headed, Watson,’ he said mockingly. ‘What do you think the two men are doing in this picture? Look closely,’ he warned.

  I bent my head until my nose was all but touching the paint, but still I could see no cause for Holmes’s excitement. The painting was exactly as I recalled, showing the King and his priest standing, reading from the Scriptures, with a large mirror in the background, in which the reflection of a bed could be seen. ‘They’re looking at the Bible, Holmes. What of it?’

  ‘Not a Bible, Watson, though it was once, I imagine. The artistry is exquisite, but I believe that I can see the tiniest thickening in the depth of the paint where the title was changed.’

  ‘Holmes, for pity’s sake, what are you talking about? What blemish?’

  ‘On the book, Watson. On the cover, to be precise. Someone has painted over the front of the book, and replaced whatever was there with something new. Can you not make it out?’

  I stood back a little and concentrated on the tiny cover of the book that the King and priest were admiring. The angle at which the artist had depicted the duo, and the manner in which the priest held the book, the better to point out some theological passage or other, meant that only a portion of the cover could be seen, but now that I took the time I could see quite clearly that rather than being some indicator of a Biblical volume, the word, or part word, which was emblazoned on the brown leather was ‘quin’.

  ‘Five?’ I said. ‘Not Charles the First, but the number five. Well done, Holmes! You really are making progress now.’

  To my surprise Holmes was exasperated, not pleased, by my words.

  ‘I think not, Watson. The other paintings take their numerical position from their subject matter, not from the minutiae of individual items; I doubt that this is any different. And besides, I realised two hours ago that Augustine Hamblin was the fifth of that name. Miss Rhodes told us as much when she showed us the piece. That is our number five.

  ‘No, Watson, the significance of “quin” is two fold. First, and most obviously, it is the name of an author – and I would suggest that the author in question is Saint Thomas Aquinas. Secondly, and far more importantly, the addition was skilfully done, and not done recently.’

  ‘The addition? You believe that the title on the book was not part of the original painting, but was added at a later date? Our forger has been busy, has he not? But why both make a forgery and make a change to the original?’

  Holmes shook his head. ‘You will recall that Miss Rhodes described the forgery of this painting as inferior, whereas this act of vandalism is so well done that I did not notice it for hours, even under a magnifying glass. Though see here – even a master craftsman can overlook a tiny detail.’ He moved the glass slightly so that it magnified the mirror behind the two men. ‘The artist remembered to correct the reflection of the cover, but the paint was too thinly spread just at the edge. Do you see? The last letter of the original title can just be made out. An “E”, from the conclusion of “HOLY BIBLE” I would say. It was that which caused me to examine the cover itself more closely yet.’

  Now that he pointed it out, I could make out a lighter smudge of paint that could well be an E. ‘Could this be the work of whoever forged the portrait of Hamblin senior?’

  ‘A better thought, Watson, but still no – this could not have been the work of the same man,’ Holmes replied. ‘This change was carried out more than two hundred years ago. The paint used to cover up whatever was originally written on the book’s cover is an exact match for the paint used on the cover itself. An exact match. Almost as though the paint came from the same palette.’

  ‘You are saying that Horace Hamblin both created the original and amended it later? But why?’

  Holmes sighed heavily. ‘At some point after painting the original, Hamblin went back and amended his work, obviously, adding the name of Thomas Aquinas. The conclusion is inescapable. The name of Aquinas himself is a clue to England’s Treasure, if only we can decipher it.’

  Holmes’s eyes were sparkling and his long face could barely contain the pleasure I knew he felt as pieces of the puzzle fell into place in his mind. He closed his eyes for a moment then flicked them open again as his extraordinary mind made another link in the chain.

  ‘I must speak with Miss Rhodes, of course. She may be able to confirm the presence of a volume of Aquinas’s works in the library at Hamblin Hall. And you had better make arrangements to hire a special train, too, Watson. We will want to take all of the paintings with us to the Hall, and the thought of carrying four extremely valuable artworks on a public train – not to mention the excellent forgery of Augustine Hamblin – is not one that fills me with joy. While you are doing that I will take the opportunity to examine one or two other elements of the paintings. Perhaps I can find further additions.’

  I left Holmes focussing his magnifying glass on the Magi’s gifts, and set out to find Inspector Lestrade.

  Sixteen

  Holmes discovered no further additions to the paintings before they were re-packed for transport on the Special. Miss Rhodes, for her part, had been unable to confirm that the Hamblin library contained any of the works of Thomas Aquinas, but she was certain that there was an extensive religious section, so our hopes were high as we boarded the train.

  Lestrade was scheduled to give evidence in court in the morning and so promised to meet us at Hamblin later in the day, but Holmes had asked Miss Rhodes to accompany us, which made the journey north far more palatable to me than might otherwise have been the case. As soon as we boarded, Holmes became lost in a brown study, staring unblinking out of the window as the city gave way to country, leaving the two of us to converse in privacy.

  This was, in fact, the
first time we had spent any extended period in one another’s company, and I was delighted to discover that we had more in common than I would have expected. Miss Rhodes’s father had been an army surgeon, though some years before my own service, and she had lived for a time near my first surgery in London. We even had one or two shared acquaintances, to my surprise and pleasure. In such manner we passed the entire journey, and – speaking for myself at least – arrived at our destination in fine good humour.

  Even the journey from the railway station to Hamblin Hall, bumping our way along a road seemingly composed more of holes than earth, was not enough to deflate me, and though our conversation was curtailed to a degree by the waking presence of Sherlock Holmes, still I think Miss Rhodes felt similarly buoyed. The day was bright and the air clean and sharp, and I was minded to remark that it was good to be alive.

  ‘It is certainly agreeable to be in the countryside for a while,’ said Holmes with more feeling than was his wont. He was convinced that the combination of the numeric code that ranked the paintings, and the name ‘Aquinas’ hidden in the first, would prove enough to decipher the whole puzzle.

  I hoped he was right. The past weeks had been grim indeed, our path littered with the dead, and Holmes a target for the Albino’s deadly attacks. The sole bright spot had been my meeting with Miss Rhodes, and I was keener than usual for the case to be brought to a satisfactory conclusion, so that we might perhaps get to know one another better. Of course, I said none of this, but simply nodded in agreement and settled myself more comfortably in my seat as the cab pulled up in front of the Hall.

  At first, I thought Willoughby Frogmorton would deny us entry. Holmes had asked Miss Rhodes to hang back while we knocked at the door, ostensibly to hold the cab while we made sure there was someone at home. The truth of the matter was made plain as soon as Frogmorton attempted to close the door in our faces.

  Holmes put a foot out to block the closure, while at the same time beckoning to the cab driver, who had parked a little way down the drive. At this signal, he brought the carriage right up to the door, and Miss Rhodes stepped out. The change in Frogmorton was immediate. Where before he had claimed that our presence was likely to endanger his marriage, now he threw open the door and hurried us inside.

  ‘Blast you, Holmes,’ he snarled as soon as the door was closed. ‘My wife, thank God, is not at home, but even so – what possessed you to bring her here?’

  It was all I could do not to knock the man down. Miss Rhodes coloured, close to tears, and I had already taken a step towards Frogmorton, my fist clenched, when Holmes spoke.

  ‘One more word from you, Mr Frogmorton, and I suspect that my associate will do you a bodily injury.’

  Our host was at once apologetic. ‘I’m sorry… I did not mean… You must understand… my wife…’

  I recalled his unctuous voice with loathing, and wondered anew what Miss Rhodes could ever have seen in him. With his oiled hair and silk cravat he was the epitome of the louche wastrel. Perhaps that was the attraction for an innocent young lady? The thought discomfited me greatly, and I pushed it to one side.

  ‘Miss Rhodes accompanied Dr Watson and myself for two reasons, Frogmorton,’ Holmes frowned. ‘First, in order to place pressure on you to allow us entry, if needed. And secondly, because she is an art expert with intimate knowledge of Hamblin Hall, its art and its library. I have reason to believe that a book in that very library may be a vital component in the solution to the case I am currently working on.’

  Throughout this exchange, Frogmorton’s eyes had never left Miss Rhodes’s. I was reminded of the snakes I had seen in Afghanistan, lying lazily in the sun, almost indistinguishable from the sand that surrounded them, sizing up their prey and calculating the best moment to strike. I broke the spell by stepping between them, and asking Miss Rhodes if she cared to lead the way to the library, while the puzzled cab driver unloaded our collection of paintings.

  Frogmorton proved to know more about the contents of the library than he had the art on the walls and, once he realised that we had no intention of betraying him to his wife, settled down enough to slip once more into the attitude of false bonhomie with which he had greeted us on our initial visit.

  ‘Now, gentlemen, what can I do for you? You mentioned a vital book?’

  For all his newfound amity, he had directed his question squarely at Holmes and me, carefully ignoring Miss Rhodes, though whether his motivation was guilt or fear was impossible to say. Whatever the cause, he frowned his displeasure when she answered.

  ‘Mr Holmes and Dr Watson wish to examine any copies of the works of Thomas Aquinas that might be held in the library,’ she said. Her voice, though quiet, was clear and steady, but a flicker of revulsion crossed her face as she spoke, and I could tell that the scales had fallen from her eyes with respect to Willoughby Frogmorton.

  Again, Frogmorton addressed himself to Holmes. ‘Aquinas, you say? There’s a collection of sixteenth-century religious volumes just over here.’ He gestured to a crowded shelf towards the rear of the room. ‘It’s a handsome set, but incomplete, so I’ve never been able to sell it.’

  Holmes hurried over to the shelf, with Miss Rhodes and I following close behind. Frogmorton hung back, however, then disappeared through the library door without another word. I admit I was not sorry to see him go.

  There were perhaps a dozen books, each bound in brown leather, and stamped with a title and a roman numeral in gold leaf on the spine and front cover. As I ran a finger quickly along the row, it was clear to me that Frogmorton had told the truth. The collection as published had obviously consisted of at least twenty volumes, but this library contained only the first eight, and numbers seventeen to twenty. I cast a quizzical look at Holmes, unsure where to begin and loath to do any damage to the books, but he had no such qualms and began pulling them out, throwing them onto a nearby table. More cautiously, Miss Rhodes and I collected what remained and placed them carefully beside the others.

  ‘Any more?’ Holmes asked the room in general. He walked a brisk circuit of the library, examining the contents of each shelf quickly but carefully until he returned to the spot from which he had started, standing directly in front of us. He rubbed his hands together with pleasure. ‘Shall we see what we can discover in these dusty tomes?’ he asked, but the question was a rhetorical one, for he was already flipping through the thick pages of the first book. I chose another and Miss Rhodes the next, and we sat and examined every page with an intensity which belied the fact that we had no real idea what we were looking for.

  The cab driver brought the artworks into the library, then left us to our search. An hour passed, then a second, but we had made no progress.

  Outside the sun was setting, bathing our surroundings in a pearl wash which delighted Miss Rhodes, though I believe it was only Holmes’s unfailing courtesy towards the fairer sex that prevented him from asking her to leave when she loudly declared her love of the countryside. Eager to avoid any disagreement, I asked whether she cared to take a stroll round the grounds with me. I cannot deny the warmth of feeling I experienced when she smiled her consent and took my arm. We left Holmes holding a book up to the gas light with a scowl on his face. I doubt he realised we were gone.

  Walking across the lawn, warm from the sunny day just ending, we talked about everything that came to mind, though not about the treasure we sought. She told me more about her early life as the daughter of an army doctor, and in return I recounted some tales of my younger days. Perhaps it was the pleasure that I felt in her company, or the still perfection of the evening, but for whatever reason, I allowed myself to become distracted and so was not prepared when, coming round the east side of the house, she suddenly cried out and pointed to a stand of trees on the opposite side of the lawn.

  For a moment I was unsure of her meaning, before the shifting evening light briefly illuminated a small, dark shape scuttling from the shade of one tree to another, the unmistakable silhouette of a man against the ev
ening sky. It was impossible to discern any facial features at such a distance and in such poor light, but when I shouted a hallo, one of the figures waved a hand in friendly greeting.

  ‘Some sort of farm gang, I expect,’ I remarked to Miss Rhodes as we turned the corner. ‘I imagine the estate requires a reasonable amount of upkeep.’

  She seemed unconvinced. ‘I don’t recall gangs of men working so late when last I stayed at the Hall,’ she said uncertainly. ‘But perhaps things have changed since then.’

  I was keen that she should not dwell on her previous visit and so suggested we return to the Hall, for there was a growing chill in the air, and I feared she would catch cold. She agreed happily, and so we strolled slowly back to the house, for all the world like two people without a care. Appearances, as I long ago learned, can be deceiving.

  The instant we were inside we hurried to the library, where Holmes had not moved from his seat. As we entered and pulled the door shut behind us, he looked up.

  ‘Watson, take a look at this,’ he cried, jubilantly. ‘Miss Rhodes, too.’

  He had singled out a slim volume of Aquinas’s writings and spread it out on the table. Like the others we had examined, this was a glorious leather-bound book, debossed with gold leaf.

  ‘This little volume was tucked away at the back of the shelf, Watson,’ he said. ‘Observe the inscription!’

  He handed me the book already open at the correct place. In an ornate hand someone had written ‘Horace Hamblin, 14th November 1647’.

  ‘I’m sorry, Holmes,’ I said, conscious that again I was unable to match Holmes’s brilliance, and more conscious still that Miss Rhodes was again witnessing my intellectual failure, ‘but wonderful though this discovery may seem to you, it hardly strikes me as terribly unusual that a library that once belonged to Horace Hamblin should contain a book which at one point also belonged to him.’

  ‘Look at the date, Watson—’ Holmes began, but got no further before Miss Rhodes excitedly interrupted. ‘The fourteenth of November! The day before Hamblin was killed!’