We arrived at Master Benford’s spacious studio at high noon and caught him taking his lunch at the big oak table in his dining room. I don’t know what Holmes had in mind but he ordered the two constables to stay outside until he called for them. I could tell immediately that Master Benford, a handsome, tall, muscular, older gentleman with thick, fuzzy black eyebrows and hair the color of an overcast London sky, was surprised and angered at our appearance in his home. He was still wearing his night clothes, slippers and a silver satin robe.
Holmes introduced himself and myself then apologized for the rude interruption of his midday meal. “But I’m sure you want to find Mrs Walsh as quickly as her husband does,” Holmes said.
“Yes, of course, Mr Holmes,” Master Benford said graciously, his dark countenance changed as quickly as the second hand’s ticking position on a clock. “Please sit. Would you care for some tea?”
“Not right now, but thank you,” Holmes said. “I wonder if you’d answer some questions I have concerning the day Mrs Walsh disappeared.”
“I’ll do what I can, Mr Holmes. Though, I’ll have you know I’ve already been questioned by the Detective Inspector here, and quite thoroughly.”
Holmes nodded. “When Mrs Walsh first arrived that day, how was her mood?”
“The same as always,” Benford said. “Dour and melancholy. She hated coming here and sitting for me, even as I neared finishing the sculpture. I’ve never had an unwilling subject before and I must say it disturbed me. Made me wonder if there was something else she was truly unhappy about.”
“Like what?”
Benford blinked his eyelids, took a deep breath, then answered. “Well, perhaps she’s unhappy in her personal life, namely, with her husband.”
“Did she ever say anything of that nature to you?”
Benford shook his head. “No, Mr Holmes, but for two decades many people have sat for me, have opened themselves to me, allowed me to bottle their souls in marble or bronze. I’ve come to know human nature intimately and can puzzle a person out quite quickly. Let’s take you for example... I can tell from your manner with me that you’re a man with few friends, you keep relationships on a professional, distant horizon yet you know the goings on in a new acquaintance’s mind just as intimately as if you’d known him all your life. And since you’re a civilian working by invitation of Scotland Yard, you must be a brilliant thinker or you wouldn’t be here questioning me. Am I close?”
I was draubled. In my mind, Benford had described Holmes perfectly.
This reverse interrogation didn’t seem to ruffle Holmes at all. “Close enough,” he said through a grin. “But let’s get back to the subject of Mrs Walsh. You said you were nearing the completion of her sculpture?”
Benford nodded. “Yes, Mr Holmes. In fact, I didn’t see the need for further sittings after the session on the twenty-seventh, that’s why I suggested we break early that day. I have but some minor alterations left and didn’t need her here any longer. Luckily, she hadn’t gone missing until after that last session or the sculpture might never reach completion.”
“That’s a cold thing to say,” I muttered in shock. “Mrs Walsh is missing and feared dead.”
Benford looked at me with eyes that resembled dead black marbles. “I’m sorry if my attitude upsets you, Doctor Watson, but I’m an artist not a police inspector. I was commissioned to produce a piece of art, nothing more.”
Before I could pursue this damnable subject, Holmes interrupted me. “May we see the piece of art in question, Master Benford?” he asked.
Benford’s gaze returned to Holmes. “I’m afraid not. It’s always been my policy never to show unfinished work to outsiders. Only the client, Ambassador Walsh in this case, has any right to see it.”
“Ambassador Walsh is also a client of mine. I can assure you that, as a hired agent of his, I have his full permission and confidence to see the piece.”
Benford reached forward, picked up his tea cup, took a sip, then placed it down on the plate with such care the porcelain made no noise. I was disliking this man more with each passing moment. Finally, he glanced at Detective Inspector Lestrade. “Is this true?” he asked.
“I referred Mr Holmes to Ambassador Walsh personally,” Lestrade answered.
“Then, the matter is settled. Follow me, gentlemen.”
***
Holmes, Lestrade and I followed Benford out of the dining room, past the parlour, across the foyer and through two large French doors leading to Master Benford’s studio. Immediately upon entering the large, rectangular space, I was overwhelmed by the heavy odor of dirt and paint.
The floor consisted of white stained and very worn wood slats, I could tell it had been swept thoroughly very recently. There were tables all around jam packed with small clay and marble studies of the male and female bodies in different poses. Against the plastered wall to my right, or the north wall, were a row of life sized, marble sculptures of the common British man toiling in his every day labors; a sailor shoveling coal into an imaginary boiler, a chef preparing an imaginary meal and a stone mason wearing an apron, holding a brick in one hand and a trowel thick with mortar in the other. They were extremely realistic interpretations of their subjects and could, in my opinion, be readily displayed in any museum. Alongside those were several large, virgin blocks of square and rectangular marble underneath aged canvas sheets, waiting to be cut and formed.
We passed through a path made by the cluttered tables, through the center of the studio, going towards the far wall, or west wall, where a sink and the huge opened steel doors of a kiln resided in the corner, a pair of steel rails came out from the depths of the kiln, inside I saw a flat surfaced cart on steel wheels covered in what looked like piles of melted white clay. Next to the kiln was an unlit hearth with old, dented cans of paint collected about it. The entire wall beside the hearth was covered completely by the dusty tools of the sculptor’s trade, hanging by nails and screws, so thick in some places I couldn’t see the white plaster of the wall underneath. Benford had them labeled with wooden signs hung crookedly; Violin Drills, Calipers, Chisels, Hammers, Mallets, Carving Sets, Riffler Rasps. Some looked to me like the enlarged dental instruments of some giant’s hellish dental office and were well used, worn to grotesque points and abstract angles. What their proper appliance was, I could only guess. Holmes seemed very interested in them, his gaze was long and narrowed in their direction as we walked through the room.
Against the south wall were marble sculptures of shapes resembling twisted, malleable things, tall and short, thick and wide, the capacity for my mind to describe them properly is beyond its limits. I was amazed, though, at how Benford could make something as hard and dead as marble seem rubbery and alive. Another double French door stood closed but present on that wall, outside I could see the new, flat, thin, misshapen patio the cabby had spoken about earlier that morning.
Benford led us to the southwestern corner of the studio where a sculpture stood by itself under a red paisley, silken sheet. This alone denoted the sculpture’s specialness. Peeking out from the bottom of the sheet were a row of small, white toes, naked as a baby’s. Without saying a word, he reached up, grabbed the sheet and pulled it off.
There she stood, Mrs Walsh in all her mesmerizing, naked beauty. She seemed to be sleeping while standing up, her skin was as smooth as glass, her proportions were perfectly executed. The details of her face, her mouth, nose and around her eyes were attempted with such skill, I half expected her to open her eyes and begin breathing. It was an amazingly realistic, breathtaking work. Not even the faint spidery veins of gray running through the entire surface took that realism away.
Holmes’ voice awoke me from my deep admiration. “What’s that, Master Benford?” he asked. He was pointing at a small, thumb-sized triangular pit centered in the area between Mrs Walsh’s breasts, right where her heart would
be if she were a real person. The pit resembled an inverted three-sided pyramid, its sides perfectly smooth, its edges sharp and fresh. This was a detail Ambassador Walsh had left out during our first interview. I wondered why? Perhaps he’d been so taken with the face he’d missed it completely.
“An imperfection. That’s one of those minor alterations I have to correct, Mr Holmes,” Benford answered, his dark eyes were large and entranced on the sculpture’s eyes as he spoke.
“Hmmm,” Holmes murmured as he looked over the entire sculpture. “Stunning indeed, Master Benford. Ambassador Walsh was right, you have miraculously captured his wife’s unique beauty. Your reputation is confirmed.”
“Thank you, Mr Holmes,” Benford said, still staring at the sculpture’s face. His eyes were glassed over now. “May I cover her up? I don’t want to risk any peripheral damage.”
“Of course,” Holmes said. As Benford draped the sheet over the sculpture, Holmes’ gaze fell upon the patio outside. “New patio, Master Benford?”
At those words, Benford’s entire body became like one of his sculptures, frozen in time. Holmes had struck a nerve, though I had no idea why. Then, after a nearly imperceptible moment, he removed his hands from the sheet and shared Holmes’ gaze. “Why, yes, Mr Holmes,” he said calmly. “Nice of you to notice. Laid it myself only a few days ago.”
“It looks a very competent job. May I go out and see it?”
What a strange request coming from Holmes, I thought. Here we were trying to figure out where Mrs Walsh may have gone off to and he was impressed by a simple patio.
“I-I,” Benford stammered. “Oh, all right, but it’s nothing really. I’m not satisfied with it and plan on having a professional replace it.”
Holmes grinned. I’d seen that grin many times before, when he was about to spring a trap. “Oh, come now, Master Benford,” he began. “I couldn’t have done a better job of it myself. Inspector, have a look with me, won’t you?”
Lestrade shrugged dutifully, following Holmes’ lead. Holmes opened the door and we all stepped outside to admire the patio. The yard was completely lined with a ten foot high wooden fence, blocking the view of every house surrounding it. There was a gate at the northeast corner of the house and countless piles of jagged, useless marble rubble sat all over the yard, very little grass showed through. We stood around the perimeter of the patio, quietly staring, as Holmes slowly went to and fro, inspecting every inch of it. I watched Benford watching Holmes, he’d caught a slight tremble and his face turned pale as his hair.
“As you can see it’s nothing special, Mr Holmes,” Benford said, his voice had suddenly acquired a soft vibrato.
“On the contrary, Master Benford,” Holmes said. “It’s a very special size... just large enough to cover a corpse!”
So that was what Holmes was after! Benford’s eyes went so wide they nearly popped out of his skull. Lestrade quickly grabbed the sculptor’s wrists, put cuffs on them then called out for his constables. They came through the rear gate immediately, sledgehammers and shovels in their hands.
Holmes turned to the artist. “You won’t mind if we look under the rug, do you, Master Benford?”
“What-what’s this all about?” Benford asked angrily, his face had regained some of its color.
“It’s about the disappearance and murder of one Mrs Walsh,” Holmes explained. “Whom you buried under this block of concrete to conceal your crime.”
“Murder?” Benford repeated. “That’s preposterous! I have no reason to have killed her! Her husband has paid my commission fully!”
As the constables tore into the concrete with their sledgehammers, throwing dust and cement chips into the air, Holmes responded to Benford’s claim. “It wasn’t about the money, Benford. You’ve got enough of that to last a hundred lifetimes. It was about love.”
“Love? Are you crazy, man?”
“You can’t deny it, Benford,” Holmes said. “You had motive, means and opportunity. Mrs Walsh was a remarkably beautiful woman, a blind man could see the way you looked at her sculpture a few minutes ago. Did you kill her because she refused to return your sentiment? Did she threaten to tell her husband about your feelings? Spill it!”
“I have nothing more to say, Mr Holmes,” Benford spat defiantly.
“Wise policy, Benford,” Holmes agreed. “Save it for the jury.”
The concrete broke up rather easily, in most places it was only a few inches thick. The constables threw the larger pieces on top of one of the nearby piles of rubble then, when the area was completely cleared of concrete, they began digging into the soft, moist black soil. Down into the dirt they went, huffing and puffing, for many minutes until they had gone so deep they couldn’t climb out without help.
It appeared that there was nothing “under the rug,” as Holmes had put it. Mrs Walsh’s corpse was not to be found there.
Chapter Four: Holmes in Error?
Holmes appeared frustrated and despondent in the cab on the way back to Baker Street. I knew it would be my death if I said anything so we rode home in silence. A few blocks from Baker Street, Holmes ordered the driver to stop.
He turned his mercurial head and looked me right in the eyes. “I apologize for any humiliation I’ve brought upon you today, my friend,” he said.
“No one is perfect, Holmes,” I said. “Don’t worry about me. I don’t care about myself one whit.”
“That’s awfully good of you,” he murmured then sat back and closed his eyes. “The thing is, I know Benford did it. Every arrow of the compass comes back to him, I just haven’t all the facts yet.”
“What are you going to do?”
Holmes thought about it a moment then sat up again. “I’m going to figure it out, my dear Watson. Don’t wait up for me.” And with that he was up and out of the cab, hurrying south down New Bond Street. There was a confidence in his steps I found encouraging.
***
When I got back to Baker Street, Mrs Hudson noticed my dark mood and made me a nice, warm, chicken breast dinner with onion soup. She ate with me at the dining table Holmes and I usually shared and did her best to cheer me up with shallow conversation, but unfortunately, my mood had decided to remain stubborn. And it became even more so when a telegram arrived from Master Benford, demanding Holmes and Detective Inspector Lestrade come to his studio the next morning at nine and give him a public apology for what was almost his false arrest, defamation of character and for destroying his newly laid patio. Every crime reporter from every city newspaper had also been invited, which meant that the cat had been let out of the bag concerning the disappearance of Ambassador Walsh’s wife. The missive continued on, stating that the Ambassador himself was invited to collect the sculpture of his missing wife at the same time, thereby ensuring even more publicity for Benford. With the great sympathy the newspapers would surely generate for him among the commonwealth, Benford would have new commissions lined up for years to come.
Clever bastard, this suspicious artist!
After Mrs. Hudson left, I lit a cigar and ruminated in my chair in front of the fire with a glass of brandy. Then I pulled out a hardbound leather book from off the shelf, a series of short dramas of horror and intrigue by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and read until the heaviness of sleep fell over me like a ten tonne weight.
When I awoke the next morning I was still in my chair. The sun had just cleared the dark rooftops of the city and delivered another predictably gray November day through the open curtains of the parlour window. I heard a crinkling noise and found Holmes standing near the now extinct fire reading the telegram.
“Oh! Where have you been, Holmes?” I grumbled through a yawn.
Without removing his eyes from the telegram, he answered: “Educating myself, Watson.”
“About what?”
“Many, many things.”
“I see you found Benford’s invitation,” I said as I pushed myself out of the chair. “Are you game?”
Holmes forced the telegram into his coat pocket and faced me. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, my friend,” he said.
***
When we arrived at Master Benford’s studio promptly at nine, chaos was the order of the day. Reporters and curious onlookers spilled out of Benford’s front door like confused ants on an ant hill.
“Are you sure you’re up to this, Holmes?” I asked as we sat in the cab, watching them through the window.
“Of course, Watson,” he replied. “I will do this with dignity and as much humility I can raise.”
This certainly didn’t sound like the Holmes I’d grown to know and respect over the past three years. He opened the door and I followed him out into the melee. Questions were thrown at Holmes as we cut our way through the crowd: What evidence made you suspect Master Benford? Where do you think you first went wrong about Master Benford? Will you work with Scotland Yard again? Is this your first failure? And on and on. Holmes didn’t answer a single query, he just stoically charged his way up the stairs, into the foyer and through the doors of Benford’s studio.
There were so many people in the studio their body heat negated the need for a lit hearth. The din of countless voices, the odor of sweat, cigarette breath and cheap cologne swirled around in the air in thick swatches of invisible fog. Thankfully, more to show the reporters what Holmes and Lestrade had done to his patio rather than bring any fresh air into the room, Benford had the rear French doors open. A gentle, cool breeze equaled things up nicely.
We found Benford, Ambassador Walsh and Detective Inspector Lestrade standing in the corner in front of Mrs Walsh’s sculpture, which was still covered by that red paisley sheet. Detective Inspector Lestrade stared at us with a low grimace, his eyes set under the deep shadows of his dark eyebrows. I noticed he gave Holmes a quick nod, though his facial expression remained the same. The Ambassador extended a hand to Holmes and they shook.
Sherlock Holmes Page 5
