Sherlock Holmes- a Duel With the Devil

by Roger Jaynes

  Holding the light before him, Holmes swung open the door and stepped up inside the acrobat’s wagon. He had not gone far into its dark interior, before I heard his groan of abject dismay. ‘We are too late,’ he declared, as we joined him in a trice. ‘Ulric is dead. He has been murdered.’

  In the ruddy glow of the lamp, the body of the gymnast lay before us, sprawled grotesquely across the floor. He was lying on his back and was fully clothed, including his ulster, which hung open at the sides. Both his jacket and shirt beneath were heavily caked with blood.

  ‘He appears to have been stabbed repeatedly,’ I observed, kneeling down beside the corpse. ‘And look here, Holmes! By that bruise across the temple, I’d say he was bludgeoned as well.’

  ‘God help us all! ’ Sanger murmured. I shall send for the police immediately.’

  ‘One moment! ’ Holmes insisted. ‘We shall, I think, be better served by my looking round before the alarm is sounded. Strike more light, but I beg of you both, touch nothing! ’

  ‘What does this mean, Mr Holmes?’ Sanger asked, as my companion was examining the body.

  ‘It means there was no “Sally”. It means that for the past two weeks, Ulric has been the man who so nimbly climbed atop the royal statues in the dead of night, with paint and brush in hand. For which, I’m sure, he was paid a handsome sum – one hundred pounds would be my guess.’

  ‘He also paid with his life. You know who killed him, then?’

  Holmes nodded. ‘It was a confederate,’ he answered. ‘A hired assassin. A man whose speciality is the blade.’

  He rose and strode to the small table on the far side of the chamber, where Sanger had struck another lamp. Beside it lay a bowler hat, a pair of gloves and a folded copy of the Times. My friend eyed them silently for a while, then knelt down and retrieved a charred matchstick from the floor.

  ‘The sequence of events is easy to trace,’ he stated. ‘Ulric and the killer stepped inside the door, at which point Ulric – who was familiar with the room’s interior – removed his hat and gloves, then struck a match and lit the lamp. That done, the killer knocked him senseless. After all, he could hardly risk the sounds of a struggle, or a cry for help, with others in such close proximity. And Ulric, while not a large man, was most certainly strong, and in excellent condition.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I have no doubt he dragged him thus, clamped a hand to his mouth, and finished the deed.’

  I shuddered. ‘The mark of the professional,’ I commented.

  ‘Exactly. Lord George, you may call for the police.’

  A crowd had begun to gather as we stepped down outside the wagon. After instructing the curious to keep their distance, Sanger set off to collar Archie Dennis and send him for the authorities, while we stood guard before the door of the dead man’s trailer.

  ‘Holmes,’ I said, at length, being careful to lower my voice so no one else could hear, ‘there is one point about all this I do wish you would explain.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘Why on earth was Ulric killed? I mean, if your theory is correct, these Vandals must appear at least once more. If so, then who will paint the statue?’

  My companion frowned. ‘Who indeed? Perhaps there will be no more statues; my guess is that they’ve chosen another target instead. They discarded the ladder, after all. And now they have discarded the acrobat.’ Try as he might, Holmes could not conceal the look of disappointment on his face. ‘Things have taken a disturbing turn,’ he admitted, dourly. ‘Whatever Moriarty’s scheme, I sense it is close to its climax. He is about to commit a truly heinous crime, Watson. And yet here we stand, baffled – I can almost hear him laughing.’

  ‘So what will you do?’

  ‘The only thing I can. I shall play my last card, and leave as soon as possible for Calais.’

  An hour later, after conferring with Lestrade (at which time Holmes convinced both him and Sanger that the true facts behind Ulric’s death must, for a time, be concealed), we hailed a cab and hurried back to our lodgings in Baker Street. No sooner was Holmes inside our door, than he quickly packed a bag and – after consulting his handy Bradshaw’s – left for Victoria Station in order to catch the 12:35 express, which would put him in Dover by three. From there, Holmes said, he would board the first available steamer to Calais, where he would then seek out the art dealer, Claude Jarre. Naturally, I offered to accompany him, but Holmes refused. I was needed here, he told me, in case Potter or his sister happened to call, in the hope of securing riches. Should that happen, he said, I was to explain that the solicitor, Gardner (the surname he had given) was presently in Bristol on business, but would return by the afternoon train on Thursday. Might he meet them on that evening? And if so, what would be a convenient time, and where? Thus instructed, I was left to my ruminations.

  The afternoon passed quickly enough. Holmes’s absence finally allowed me a chance to devote my attention to Boothby’s A Brighton Tragedy, a book I had hoped to get to for some time. A little after four, I put down my volume and lit the lamps, as the grey skies outside were darkening, then donned hat and coat and stepped out to purchase the evening papers, which I felt certain would carry accounts of Ulric’s death. Lestrade and Sanger I found, had done their job well, for nowhere was any connection between the murdered acrobat and the Crimson Vandals mentioned. Globe, News, Standard and Pall Mall Gazette all carried lengthy stories on the ‘Circus Murder’ – but all were rather lurid accounts, hinting at a love affair gone wrong and a mysterious woman named Sally, whom the police were said to be seeking in connection with the case. Both Lestrade and Archie Dennis were quoted at length, while Sanger’s name (no doubt, upon his instruction) was barely mentioned. Knowing Holmes would want to peruse the reports upon his return, I left them on his desk.

  As was her habit, Mrs Hudson did her best to cheer me up at dinnertime, serving my favourite curry, juicy roast beef, and a crisp, light Yorkshire pudding, accompanied by a carafe of Burgundy. Upon conclusion of the meal, and braced by yet another glass of wine, I decided to try Holmes’s methods, drawing my chair before the crackling fire with pipe in hand to cogitate a little on the facts of this most intriguing, yet puzzling, case. What, I wondered, could Moriarty possibly be up to? Clearly, the activities of the Crimson Vandals were a screen for some other plan, as yet not carried out. But what? A crime of immense -importance, surely, else Holmes’s life would not have been attempted. Had he been wrong for once? Was a member of the Royal House in danger? Based on all that had transpired thus far, I felt certain that some sort of destructive deed loomed before us. But where? Would we next find runic scrawls on the pillars of All Souls Church, or the cloistered -entrance of the Inner Temple? Or (God help us?) splayed across the fountains at Buckingham Palace? Whatever the spot, I deduced that it must be close to home and within easy reach, as the services of the once-nimble Ulric were no longer required. And what of Potter, who had also sold his soul to the devil for one hundred pounds? By now, he must certainly know of the deaths of both Jacobsen and Ulric. If so, must he not fear for his own life as well? If only we could lay hands upon the man! And what had all this to do with Jacobsen, anyhow? What was the extent of his involvement with Moriarty? Holmes, I hoped, would be able to supply those answers upon his return from Calais. For the next few hours, my mind hashed and rehashed the facts as we now knew them, but the more I pondered (and refilled my glass) the less I was able to form any kind of concrete conclusion as to Moriarty’s intent, or where he would strike next. This affair, I concluded, was certainly a convoluted one. As our mantel clock chimed ten, I considered filling another pipe and continuing with my book, but put the idea aside. The Burgundy, I found, had made me drowsy, and become warm and harsh upon my tongue. It was, I hoped, not a portent of things to come. As I dutifully extinguished the lamps and stoked down the fire, I realised that my best course would be to secure a good night’s sleep, be of stout heart, and pray for better on the morrow. Should Holmes require my assistan
ce, I vowed, he would find me ready.

  The following day, Holmes returned from Calais shortly after three in the afternoon, having caught (he said) an 11:45 special from Dover that allowed him to make Victoria Station by two. The sharp winter air, I noted, had brought a healthy flush to his normally pale complexion. But my heart sank at the look of disappointment on his face.

  ‘You have learned nothing, then?’ I ventured, prepared to accept the worst.

  ‘On the contrary, Watson,’ he replied, as he put down his bag and removed his coat and hat. ‘I have learned much. But not enough, I fear.’

  ‘Well, pray, tell me what you do know, at any rate. You have my full attention.’

  Holmes moved before the fire, rubbing his hands together briskly. ‘Monsieur Jarre, I found, was commissioned by Jacobsen to secure a painting, a canvas entitled “Student at Leisure” by Paul Galpin. Which he did – it was, he said, for a Mr Cornelius.’

  ‘Moriarty! ’

  ‘Connection number three, Watson. And here is number four: Galpin was an imitator of Jean Baptiste Greuze.’

  ‘Greuze? – Hold on, I remember! Greuze is Moriarty’s favourite painter! One of his works hangs over his desk.’ At that instant, something else about the name jangled in my brain, but for the life of me, I could not recall it.

  ‘Jarre was told that the price was not an object,’ Holmes continued, ‘though a Galpin would hardly command a princely sum. There was one condition on the sale, however: if the painting was not delivered by the twentieth of this month, any offer was null and void.’

  ‘The twentieth? Why, that was yesterday.’

  ‘Precisely, Watson! It is that very fact which worries me most! ’

  Holmes began to drum his long fingers upon the mantel. It was, I knew, a sign of his deep frustration, and discontent.

  ‘And why is that?’ I asked.

  ‘Because, obviously, such a condition suggests some sort of deadline. And that deadline has been met! It means, whatever Moriarty’s scheme, that the final act may now occur at any time – perhaps even today! ’

  It was then, as Holmes reached despondently for his pipe and the Persian slipper, that his final word caused me to remember what had slipped my mind just moments before.

  ‘Today,’ I predicted smugly, ‘Moriarty will have other things upon his mind. I suspect he will visit the National Gallery.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Quite so, if he is the admirer of Greuze that you say. Two of his paintings have gone on display there. I read it in the Times this morning.’

  Holmes’s reaction to my words was hardly what I expected. For a long moment, he stared blankly past me, as if I were not even present. ‘The National Gallery,’ he murmured, finally.

  ‘That is what I said,’ I rejoined, reaching for the paper beside my chair. ‘Here, read for yourself: Head of a Girl and Boy with Lesson Book are both on loan from the French.’

  For another instant, my friend stood as if transfixed, though I could tell from the steely look in his eyes that his mind was racing feverishly. Clearly, my observation had struck a chord, although what I could not imagine. ‘I have it, Watson! ’ he cried, suddenly, tossing aside his pipe and pouch. ‘Boy with Lesson Book! Don’t you see? “Truth, red says, is what is not”! ’

  ‘My dear Holmes, whatever do you mean?’

  Holmes rushed across the room, and proceeded to throw on his coat and hat again. ‘The cunning devil! ’ he exclaimed. ‘He’s going to steal a Greuze – and no one will ever suspect! ’

  ‘Where are we off to, then?’ I asked, as I hurried for my things as well. ‘Scotland Yard, I presume?’

  ‘There is no time to inform Lestrade,’ my friend replied. ‘Fate has left this in our hands alone. Arm yourself, Watson – but hurry. We must make Trafalgar Square at once! The doors of the gallery close at dusk! ’

  Moments later we were bouncing along in a hailed conveyance through the snowy streets of London. Holmes had promised our cabbie an extra guinea if we made Trafalgar Square by four o’clock, and the fellow was doing his best with whip and reins to earn it, despite the heavy traffic.

  ‘As usual, you are a step ahead of me, Holmes,’ I confessed, hanging on for dear life as our vehicle lurched wildly round a corner, drawing angry cries from the startled pedestrians whom we had just narrowly missed. ‘However, then, did you deduce that Moriarty plans to steal a Greuze?’

  ‘From the rhyme, Watson. And that gem of knowledge which you so off-handedly provided.’

  ‘You mean, that the paintings were on display?’

  ‘Yes. When you mentioned the National Gallery, and the thought of Moriarty being there, it was as if a shaft of light had cut through the darkness! The outline of his malevolent scheme suddenly became clear. He orders a Galpin – a fake Greuze, if you will – which must be delivered by the twentieth. The following day, the real thing goes on display. And! – in a place where the Crimson Vandals would need no acrobat or ladder in order to strike. The conclusion was inescapable: Moriarty would substitute the cheap Galpin for the valuable Greuze, leaving no one else the wiser.’

  ‘But, Holmes, that is impossible! Any art critic worth his salt would immediately know the difference.’

  ‘Not after the Crimson Vandals had done their work. Remember the line, Watson! “Truth, red says, is what is not.” That was the Vandals’ final task – to make it appear that both Greuzes had been destroyed. When, in actuality, one was a cheap Galpin.’

  ‘But why go to all the trouble to purchase a Galpin? It would seem to me that any painting of the same approximate size would do as well.’

  ‘Hardly, Watson. Moriarty is well aware that the charred remains would come under close examination. The surviving pieces of canvas and frame must have the proper age. I also suspect he plans to leave behind a fragment or two, in which the colouring is similar. Oh, yes! – He has thought this all out quite thoroughly.’

  ‘How diabolical! I cannot imagine any person so evil as to conceive of such a plan.’

  ‘The evil of man is as inventive as it is immeasurable, Watson. That is what makes Moriarty so unique. He has turned wickedness into a science.’

  ‘I must ask again, Holmes: would we not be far better off to alert the police?’

  ‘What, and sound the alarm? No, no. Moriarty, I’m sure, has taken pains to place one or two confederates inside the building. The sudden sight of uniforms would only cause them all to fly.’

  ‘Still –’

  Holmes motioned me to silence. ‘It is, I realise, an enormous risk we take,’ he admitted, ‘but think of the reward: Should we catch the professor in the act, we shall finally place him in the dock.’

  ‘He won’t be there in person, surely?’

  My companion gave me a knowing look. ‘With something so close to his evil heart at stake,’ he stated, firmly, ‘I cannot believe he would stay away.’

  At precisely one minute to four, our cab rolled to a halt before the broad façade of the National Gallery, not ten yards from the spot where we had alighted with Lestrade two days before. How much had happened, I mused, since then. Stepping into the street, we were immediately dwarfed by the towering row of Corinthian columns and the large black tympanum which marked the main entrance to the building, facing Trafalgar Square. The grey winter sky, I noted, with a chill, had already begun to darken. A few snowflakes laced the air, and a cold wind whipped angrily at my cheeks.

  After settling with our driver (including the promised guinea), we climbed the three wide flights of concrete stairs leading to the Gallery’s huge front portico, where we paused a moment to catch our breath, then hurried on inside. To my surprise, large numbers of people were milling about the ornately-decorated vestibules, which lined the outer hall and opened into the various wings of the museum; more so, I knew, than was usual for that hour. Tours, I observed, were also still under way. I could only conclude that the arrival of the two French masterpieces had sparked a considerable interest among the art-lovers and p
atrons of the city. Including, I thought grimly, one particularly demented academic, whom Holmes and I had somehow to thwart at any cost.

  ‘Well, Holmes,’ I asked, as my friend paused before the directory, ‘what is our plan?’

  ‘We shall first locate the Greuze display, and then view the works in that vicinity,’ he replied. ‘We must appear as inconspicuous as possible, while I search for a place to hide.’

  ‘Hide?’

  ‘But of course, Watson. How else to surprise Moriarty, save from a nearby place of concealment? We can hardly wait for him in the lobby, hat in hand – Ah, here we are! The French School, Room twenty-eight. In the West Wing. Come along.’

  In a trice we had whisked our way out of the West Vestibule, and then continued on through two rooms of the British School, which along with the French, Parmesan, Bolognese and Spanish, occupied the entire West Wing of the building. The first, I glimpsed as we hurried along, was devoted mainly to Hogarth, including his famous Marriage à la mode, and the second featured early English landscapes by Scott, Gainsborough, Crome and others. Turning to our right, we soon found ourselves at the entrance to Room twenty-eight, on whose walls, I observed, hung works of French Primitives such as Marmion and de Lyon; my attention was immediately drawn to Carmontelle’s fine watercolour of Mozart as a child, but before I could linger, Holmes gently tugged the sleeve of my coat and urged me on.

  In the far corner of the room, an elegant dark green drapery had been hung, and before it, displayed on handsome easels of polished red mahogany, were the two borrowed portraits by Jean Baptiste Greuze. Silently, we took our places behind a dozen or so people who stood before the canvasses in rapt attention, listening to a dissertation on the painter and his works being given by a uniformed guide.

  ‘We have cut this decidedly close,’ Holmes whispered, glancing at the skylights above. ‘The light is fading fast. I doubt they will remain open another quarter-hour. Wait here, while I have a quick look about.’