Sherlock Holmes

by David Marcum

  “Old news,” Richardson snorted, his patience fractured. “I must be about other business. Good morning, gentlemen!” And he turned and left without a backward glance.

  Sir Clive gave a short bark of a laugh – “No great loss!” – and shook his head.

  “You obviously have researched this subject,” I said. “And this painting is connected to the old case that you mentioned, Holmes?”

  But my friend was staring fixedly at the bottom right corner of the painting, where the brown hill rippled as it dropped towards us, away from the subjects, cattle and otherwise. There was a slight crack there, and that corner appeared to be on a somewhat different plane of plaster.

  Sir Clive followed his glance at the corner of the painting as well. “It will be gone in another ten years, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes,” said Holmes. I leaned in to see the object of their comments.

  Low in the corner, near the simple wooden frame that had been constructed around the painting, were a faint series of vertical marks, three rows of them. Each row was quite small, no more than a quarter-inch in height, and there appeared to be no pattern whatsoever. They looked to be composed of some sort of flaked metal, golden colored, that had been pressed on top of the paint.

  “Is that – ?” I asked.

  “Yes,” replied Holmes. “Gold leaf. Although there is less of it there now than there was back in 1875.”

  “Is there gold under the painting? Is that why Mr. K-------- desires it?”

  “No, no. Those markings were put there in 1811, not long after the painting was made, by a man who was staying here in this house at the time.”

  “But why was gold leaf applied onto a painting such as this, with its otherwise unpleasant brownish tones?”

  Sir Clive laughed with surprise. “You haven’t told him, then?”

  Holmes shook his head, replying, “I thought that it would make for an interesting narrative later today. Can you join us ‘round the corner?”

  Sir Clive shook his head. “Much as I would like to, I must get over to Ratham’s. The old scoundrel is auctioning a widow’s estate, and I promised that I would stop by.” He glanced at me. “Just when you thought you’d heard them all, Watson, it’s time for another one!”

  With a last glance at the artwork, he turned to go, leading us back out to the street.

  “Until we meet again, gentlemen,” he huffed as he fit himself back into the brougham. Then, with a lurch, it set off toward Great Russell Street, and so to the right and out of our sight.

  Holmes gestured in the same direction, and I agreed. We set off at a leisurely pace. Mere moments later, after passing in front of the gates of the Museum, we were seated in the back of the Alpha Inn. It was a bit early in the morning for it, but we bravely faced the pints of the landlord’s excellent beer in front of us.

  After taking a swallow, I cleared my throat and said, “I believe there was mention of an interesting narrative? Set back about 1875?”

  Holmes nodded and fished in his coat. Pulling out a packet of folded and worn slips of paper, he flattened them and then tossed two upon the table, retaining the third. “What do you make of these?”

  They were each three or four inches across, and the paper was quite worn. I picked them up. “They are old,” I said.

  Holmes gave a short laugh. “Be careful how you toss around someone else’s dates so easily, my friend,” he smiled. “These are all that I have left of an odd little mystery that took up a day or so when I was but twenty-one, and had only been up to London for less than a year.”

  “You brought them with you today when Sir Clive asked you to drop around at Montague Street.”

  “Obviously. I still look back with fondness at this little case, and when I heard that someone else was considering, yet again, the purchase of the Ward painting from the No. 24 parlour, it seemed to be the perfect opportunity for a bit of reminiscing.”

  I tapped the scrap on the left. “This looks like the gold leaf markings on the corner of the painting.” I lifted the sheets and examined them. “I assume it’s some sort of code. What about this other sheet?” I recalled what the American had said. “Were these other markings on the missing canvas version of the painting?”

  Holmes, in the act of swallowing, lowered his glass and smiled. “Very good, Watson. You are correct. Shall I tell the entire tale wrong-way around, or would you like to hear it from the beginning?”

  I returned the squares of paper to the table and nodded to for him to tell it in his own way. He was correct. This wasn’t some potboiler, after all, to be revealed just for the drama of the thing.

  Settling back, Holmes began. “It was in the fall of ‘75. I had been in London a little over a year, having settled into Montague Street and working to master my new craft. My landlady, the wife of one of my father’s cousins, had several other lodgers, and she’d grudgingly taken me in as well. There were only a few of us regulars there, as more often than not rooms were taken by nearby University students who soon found better or worse accommodations, depending on their prospects, before moving on.

  “It was a late afternoon in early October when there was a knock at my door. I opened to find a man in his thirties, well dressed, and trying to catch his breath from the steep climb to my top-floor rooms. I had observed him on several occasions since his arrival earlier in the week. He was what I considered to be a short-timer, as there had been no indication that he had moved in with more than what would be needed for a few days in the capital. No matter what time I had arrived or departed during the recent days, he had been in the parlour, staring at the painting that you and I were admiring just a quarter-hour ago. I had been curious about the object of his fascination – you have seen that it isn’t the Mona Lisa, after all – but it had been none of my business.

  “‘Mr. Holmes?’ he wheezed. Clearly, climbing six flights of stairs was not part of his normal routine.

  “I observed that he was left-handed, smoked Trichinopoly cigars, had attended Corpus Christi College at Cambridge, hunted with a bow for sport, had written letters both the previous evening and again that morning, as shown by the overlapping ink spots on his fingers. He suffered from digestive complaints, was unmarried but with sweetheart, had a slightly built-up left shoe manufactured by Tundell’s off the Strand, and that he was from north of London. In his hand, he carried a rolled canvas.

  “I nodded to indicate that he had found the right man and motioned for him to enter. He dropped into my sole visitor’s chair near the front window, standing the painting, for it was unrolled just enough to see that that was what it was, beside him.”

  “‘Early 1800’s, I’d venture,’ gesturing toward it.

  He glanced toward it in surprise. ‘Why yes? How did you know?’

  “‘I’ve made a study of both canvas and paints. I can tell from the portion of the sky revealed there that it is from that general period. Does it relate to the painting that you have been pondering so steadfastly downstairs for the past week?”

  He looked at me as if I were some sort of necromancer and nodded. Then he bent and unrolled it upon the floor between us. The setting sun hadn’t quite yet fallen behind the Museum, and there was still enough light to pick out the details. I slid from my chair to the floor, kneeling to lean closer. It was clearly by the same painter as the one downstairs in the parlour, and in many respects, it was the same scene, though perhaps the better of the two. This painting did not have the dingy yellow-browns of the other. Rather, it was brighter, with the clear blue skies giving it a more fresh feeling. However, the man on the horse, the boy, and the cows were practically identical. Yet the background was different – this was a bluer sky, as I said, and instead of a distant dark grove of trees on one side and an old house on the other, there was a manor house in the distance, more centered behind the horseman, as if he had been interrupted by the boy while on his way there. Instead of a hat in the boy’s hand, the rider was curiously handing him a knife. Ignoring the safe
way to do such a thing, the man on the horse had retained a normal grip on the handle, leaving the boy to reach for the blade. In the foreground was a stream with various rocks piled along its banks, looking as if they had been cut and arranged there long ago by masons to prevent the bank from eroding.

  “‘Interesting,’ I muttered, then looked up. ‘I suppose there is some reason that there are two of these paintings. Perhaps a message?’ He nodded, and when I added, ‘A treasure hunt?’ he clapped his hands together.

  “‘That’s it exactly!’ he cried. ‘They told me that you were some sort of detective, and that you know things that others do not. I can see I’ve come to the right place!’

  “I had, in truth, seen a few things already, but I needed to know more. Returning to my seat, I said, ‘What is the history of these paintings?’

  “He nodded, as if that were a fair question, and began. ‘My name,’ he said, ‘is Edward Cavenham, and my people have lived near Bishop’s Stortford since beyond memory.’ He pointed toward the painting on the floor. ‘That’s the family house there in the background. It doesn’t look much different now than when that was painted – ‘

  “‘The year being – ?’

  “‘Early 1800’s. That fits with the story I’m going to relate, as we have learned from letters handed down within our family. In 1810, my grandfather, Richard Cavenham, was serving in the Royal Navy, against the wishes of his father, Lloyd. He was at the battle of Grand Port, when the French forced the British surrender following the failed attempt to blockade the Isle de France. He was taken prisoner, but because he was an officer, he was treated with dignity, even being entertained in some of the finer French homes.

  “‘While there, he became immediately enamored with his host’s daughter, Lisette Duvelle. Within a few weeks, they had wed. It is not recorded what Lisette’s father thought, although there seems to have been no objection, but the upshot was that my father’s release was negotiated, and he returned with his new bride to the family home in Hertfordshire, hard upon the Essex border.

  “‘The fine treatment that Richard received in France was not reflected in England. Lloyd was outraged that his son had married without his permission or influence, and worse – that he had married a French girl to boot. Before long, things became intolerable, and Richard and Lisette departed, indicating that they were returning to France, where their union had been received with acceptance.

  “‘However, when he left, Richard took with him his father Lloyd’s most prized possession, a jeweled dagger that one of the Cavenham’s had received from Charles I after helping the king escape from the Siege of Oxford in 1646. Richard left a note for his father, informing him that he had taken the dagger to pass along to his own child, now being carried by Lisette, as nothing else could be counted upon from Lloyd.

  “‘Lloyd was beside himself, not with rage, but rather with the sudden realization that his narrow-minded reaction had driven his own son, and now future grandchild, from his home. He sent agents to France to look for Richard and Lisette, assuming that they would immediately return to her family’s residence. What Lloyd did not know was that Richard and Lisette had actually first come up to London for a time while they figured out what they wanted to do. In fact, they stayed right here, at No. 24 Montague Street.

  “‘It was while here that Richard encountered a painter who had been commissioned, by the Duke of Bedford, to create the painting that you see down in the parlour. He struck up an acquaintance with the fellow, and then he had a second painting made – ‘ and here he pointed toward the canvas unrolled at our feet – ‘this one.’

  “‘An interesting story,’ I said, ‘but how do you know of all this?’

  “Cavenham removed a few folded sheets from his pocket. ‘The story has come down through the family through my great-grandfather Lloyd, who wrote down what he learned after the fact. It seems that, after Richard had the canvas painting made, he sent it, along with a cryptic message, to his father Lloyd. Then, he and Lisette left Montague Street and continued their delayed journey to France, where they did return to live with her family – although after Lloyd’s agents had initially searched for them there, thus missing them.

  “‘However, Lloyd had previously convinced Lisette’s parents of his good will, and that he was truly penitent for his earlier reactions. They secretly sent word to Lloyd of the arrival of Richard and Lisette. But this was the spring of 1811, and Anglo-French relations were even worse. The British had defeated the French at the Battle of Lissa just a few months earlier, and it was difficult for Lloyd to arrange passage to France so that he could apologize in person. When he finally arrived, he found a newborn grandson, and also that his son Richard had recently passed away due to a sudden fever.

  “‘Amazingly, Lloyd was able to convince Lisette to leave her family and return with her baby to England with him, where he would be raised in the house of his ancestors. That child was my father, William Cavenham, and he grew to be a very fine man indeed. His own grandfather, Lloyd, accepted them completely, and he was raised with every advantage. And yet, throughout his life, the circumstances of his own father Richard’s departure, and the question of where the jeweled dagger was, hung like a shadow over our house. It still does, to the present day. For when Lloyd found Lisette, he learned that she did not have the dagger, and it wasn’t discovered in Richard’s effects. They came to believe that perhaps the painting sent to Lloyd, along with the cryptic letter, gave some sort of clue to the dagger’s location. It has haunted my father William throughout his life, even now as he approaches his final days.’

  “‘May I see the documents from your great-grandfather, as well as the message from Richard?’ I asked. He handed them to me silently, and I flipped rapidly through them. They were quite old and faded, a mixture of Lloyd’s own summary of events, as well as communications between Lloyd Cavenham and Lisette’s parents, all confirming my client’s story. I set them aside and looked at Richard’s communication with his father.

  “It was a quarto-sized sheet on cheap rag paper. Both it and the faded ink were consistent with that manufactured in the early nineteenth century. The message consisted of four stanzas. This is a copy I made at the time.” He pushed the third folded sheet toward me, joining the two already on the table. I read:

  Top to bottom

  Side to side

  Bitter old man

  Family divide

  Treasure loved more

  Than faithful son

  Now lost both

  ‘Til puzzle is done

  For future heirs

  Right under your nose

  Preserved for them

  From time’s flows

  Not to be found

  ‘Til divide is combined

  The paintings are key

  The treasure you’ll find

  I raised an eyebrow. “Treasure hunt indeed.”

  “Exactly.”

  “It mentioned paintings, plural. Had they never questioned that fact before discovering that there was a second painting?”

  “It had apparently escaped them.”

  “And how did the paintings relate?”

  “That is what I attempted to find out from my visitor. ‘This painting,’ I said, pointing toward the floor, “was sent with that message.’ He nodded. ‘How did you find out about the one downstairs? I assume that you only recently learned of it, which explains why you’ve come up to London to study it.’

  “He looked surprised that I had determined this, but said, ‘That is true, Mr. Holmes. For years, the poem and this painting have been in our family, as we’ve all had a go at trying to figure out Richard’s intentions. Of course, old Lloyd died long before I was born, but I still remember how my grandmother Lisette would puzzle over it. Quite frankly, it’s haunted my father, William, his whole life. Obviously, Richard meant for his father Lloyd to be able to solve it, taunting him to recover the dagger. He must have hidden it somewhere, since he didn’t have it in France when h
e died, and Lisette knew nothing about it. The poem says that the painting is the key, but we could see nothing in it that would tell us anything. What could we discover from a man on a horse, or a boy, or three cows?

  “‘But just a few weeks ago, we had a man that came down to work on some of the gas jets, and he happened to notice the canvas painting lying out on one of the desks in the library. I confess that I’ve often studied it and the riddle over the years, trying to get behind Richard’s thinking, and more so recently, since my father’s health has started to fail. I’d dearly love to find the dagger and restore it to his hands before he passes. He hasn’t been well, you see.’

  “‘And this man saw the painting, and remembered where he had seen one very much like it.’

  “‘Exactly. He mentioned it to the cook while taking some refreshment in the kitchen, she told the butler, and he told me. I questioned the workman, and he said that the other painting was here, just a stone’s throw from the British Museum. I quickly decided to come up to London and see it for myself. I’ve stayed longer than I initially intended, hoping each day to find a clue to the dagger’s location. But I have no idea where the setting in the painting downstairs is located, and there is no more to be learned from the man, the horse, the boy, or the cows in that painting than there is in this one.’

  “I confess, Watson, that up to that time, I hadn’t paid much attention to the painting in the parlour. It isn’t very attractive, as you’ll agree, and in general, my time in that room was generally spent in deep thought when I could no longer stand to be in my top-floor chambers. I felt that further study was required, and also a second opinion was needed. I sent word – ”

  “ – to Sir Clive,” I interrupted.

  He nodded. “Just Clive Bartleby then. A relatively new acquaintance that I’d made at the Museum while carrying out my diverse studies. Even then, he was making a name for himself. I sent a message around to his office, asking him to step over if convenient.”