Secret Archives of Sherlock Holmes, The, The

Although some of you may already know how the collections of hitherto unpublished Sherlock Holmes stories came into the possession of myself and my late uncle, for those of you who are unfamiliar with the details, I will recount them as briefly as possible.

My late uncle, Dr John F. Watson, was a Doctor of Philosophy at All Saints’ College, Oxford. Because of the similarity of his name to that of Dr John H. Watson, Sherlock Holmes’ friend and chronicler, my late uncle made a study of his near-namesake’s life and background and consequently became an authority on the subject. It was through this that a certain Miss Adeline McWhirter, an elderly spinster, approached my late uncle with a proposal which she thought might be of interest to him.

It seemed she was related to Mr Holmes’ Dr Watson on the maternal side of the family and, on Dr Watson’s
death, had inherited his tin despatch box containing manuscript accounts of cases that he and Mr Holmes had investigated but which for various reasons had never been published. Because she found herself in straitened circumstances, she offered to sell the box and its contents which had been deposited by Dr John H. Watson at his bank, Cox & Co, at Charing Cross.

Because she seemed honest and respectable, my late uncle agreed and bought the box and its contents for an undisclosed but apparently large sum of money. However, in view of the international situation – it was September 1939 and Britain had not long before declared war on Germany – he decided to place them in his own bank in London. Before doing so, he copied out the papers in case something happened to the originals.

Unfortunately, something did happen.

In 1942, at the height of the Blitz, the bank suffered a direct hit and, although the box was retrieved from the rubble, its contents were reduced to a mass of indecipherable charred paper. Even the original wording painted on the lid – ‘John H. Watson, MD Late Indian Army’ – was burnt beyond recognition.

Although my late uncle still possessed his own copies of the Watson manuscripts, he had nothing to prove the existence of the originals, nor could he trace Miss Adeline McWhirter who had moved out of the residential hotel in South Kensington where she had been living, leaving no forwarding address.

Lacking, therefore, any proof of the authenticity of the Watson archives and anxious to protect his own reputation as a scholar, my late uncle decided not to publish his copies of them and, on his death on 2nd June 1982, he left them to me in his will. As there was no mention of the despatch box or its charred contents, I can only assume that the staff at the Eventide Nursing Home in Carshalton where he died threw them away as so much rubbish.

I, too, hesitated over the question of whether or not to publish my late uncle’s copies, but as I am an orthodontist and have no scholarly reputation to protect, I have decided to risk rousing the ire of serious Sherlockians and to place them before the public.

However, as I cannot vouch for the authenticity of these manuscripts, I can do nothing more than warn any readers by repeating the old adage:
Caveat emptor.

It was about six years after my old friend Sherlock Holmes returned to London following his apparent death at the hands of Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls
1
and my own return to our shared lodgings in Baker Street that I became associated with him in a curious case of forgery. It began prosaically enough with the arrival of a visiting card which the boy in buttons
2
brought upstairs to our sitting-room
and handed to Holmes who, having studied it with raised eyebrows, passed it to me.

It bore the name of Archibald Cassell followed by the words ‘Art Dealer’ and an address, the Argosy Gallery, Bond Street, London. Below this was a handwritten message which read: ‘I apologise for arriving without an appointment, Mr Holmes, but I have a matter of some urgency about which I wish to consult you.’

‘What do you think, Watson?’ Holmes inquired. ‘Should I agree to see this Archibald Cassell?’

‘The decision is entirely yours, Holmes,’ I replied, secretly pleased that he should consult me about the matter.

‘Very well, then. As we are not overburdened with cases at the moment, I shall say “yes”. Show Mr Cassell up, Billy,’ Holmes instructed.

Moments later the client in question entered our sitting-room. He was a tall, silver-haired gentleman, distinguished-looking in impeccably cut morning clothes and wearing gold-rimmed eyeglasses. A small leather case under his arm suggested he was a businessman of some sort or another. There was, however, a harassed air about him which I judged to be out of character.

Having shaken hands with both of us and seated himself at Holmes’ invitation, he remained silent for a long moment before bursting out, ‘In all my years in business, I have never encountered a similar situation, Mr Holmes! I confess I am baffled by it! That is why I
have come to seek your advice in the matter.’

‘Then pray do so, sir,’ Holmes replied coolly. ‘I suggest you begin at the beginning.’

‘Of course, Mr Holmes,’ Mr Cassell replied, making a visible effort to pull himself together. ‘As my calling card indicates, I am an art dealer and in my time many hundreds of paintings have passed through my hands, some of enormous value, but until this morning I have never been presented with such a dilemma. It is without precedence and, quite frankly, sir, I am at a loss to know how to deal with it.

‘A lady arrived at my gallery yesterday morning who introduced herself as Mrs Elvira Greenstock, the widow of Horatio Greenstock who died two months ago, leaving all his property to her. Among her late husband’s effects were a number of oil paintings. It appeared Mr Greenstock was an art dealer in a small way; it must have been a very small way, for I have never heard of him, although I pride myself on knowing most of the dealers and collectors in the world of art. It was one of the paintings from this collection which Mrs Greenstock wished me to evaluate. It is not unusual for members of the public to request such a service, for which, incidentally, I charge a small fee. What they have to show me is generally not of any artistic merit and is worth nothing more than a few shillings. However, I tolerate such clients because there is always the rare possibility that what they have brought may be an unknown or lost
work of one of the great masters. It has been known to happen.

‘I should perhaps at this point describe Mrs Greenstock to you because her appearance has as much to do with my decision to consult you as the painting she showed me.’

He paused as if gathering together his recollections of his client, a bemused expression on his face as if he were finding it difficult to recall the lady in any detail, a hesitation which was explained by his next remark.

‘Forgive me, Mr Holmes, but there is very little I can tell you about her except to say that her appearance was most bizarre. She was tall, with an educated voice, but as she was dressed entirely in widow’s weeds, including a long, thick, black veil, I cannot give you any description of her features, not even the colour of her hair or eyes. She was carrying a small leather valise and from it took a painting which she laid before me on my desk and asked me to evaluate.’

As he was speaking, Mr Cassell opened his own portfolio which he had placed at his feet and took from it a canvas which he held up before us so that both of us could see it.

It was an oil painting not much more than eight inches by six depicting a rural scene of trees and hedgerows, richly foliated, as well as meadows and fields of corn stretching back to the horizon, where the spire of a church was just visible. Above was a sky full of sunlit
clouds moving towards the right-hand side of the canvas as if propelled by a light breeze.

I confess I am not an art expert and, given the choice, prefer portraits to landscape paintings. Nevertheless, I thought the picture captured most charmingly the beauty of the English countryside as it must have looked at the beginning of the century. I was therefore much taken aback when Mr Cassell remarked in a dismissive tone of voice, ‘The lady said it was a Constable
3
but it is, of course, a forgery.’

‘Of course,’ Holmes murmured in agreement. ‘The clouds alone suggest it is not authentic, although the artist is competent.’

‘Oh, indeed!’ Mr Cassell concurred. ‘Whoever painted it is no amateur and might have convinced someone of less experience than myself that it is genuine. It lacks that fluid movement in the clouds that Constable was able to convey by a few brushstrokes, as well as the play of light across the leaves and grass.’

‘Given those criticisms,’ Holmes remarked, sitting back in his chair and bringing his fingertips together, ‘I am at a loss to understand, Mr Cassell, what is the dilemma you referred to. As the painting is a forgery, all you need do is send for the lady and tell her the truth.’

‘I agree with you entirely,’ his client replied, ‘and under normal circumstances I would have acted accordingly. Unfortunately, there are two drawbacks to such a suggestion. In the first place, I cannot send for the lady as I have no address for her. She refused to give me one. She would only arrange to call at my gallery again in a week’s time when I shall, of course, act exactly as you suggested.’

As he was speaking, Mr Cassell had laid the little painting face downwards on the table and Holmes glanced across at it as if idly.

I have known Holmes for many years and, although I do not claim to be acquainted with every aspect of his character, I pride myself on being sufficiently familiar with him to recognise signs of excitement on his part, however much he might try to disguise them. They are not glaringly obvious. Indeed, most people would not notice them at all. But on this occasion, a slight lifting of his right eyebrow and a general tightening of the muscles in his shoulders told me that something about the back of the picture had roused his interest.

Aware of this, I looked at it again more closely, trying to gauge what it was that had engaged his attention. But there was nothing that I could see, apart from a piece of quite ordinary brown paper which had been pasted across the edges of the frame, presumably to keep out the dust.

Holmes was saying, ‘You spoke of two drawbacks, Mr Cassell. The first was the lack of any address for Mrs Greenstock. That, my dear sir, can be easily rectified, if
you will allow me to make some simple inquiries. What was the second drawback?’

Mr Cassell looked a little abashed by the question. Giving a deprecatory wave of his hand, he replied, ‘I am almost ashamed to admit it, for it is nothing more than sheer curiosity on my part. Who is this lady who calls herself Mrs Greenstock? As I have already explained to you, she is not to my knowledge the widow of any art collector that I have heard of. And why should she attire herself in a thick black veil, which she never raised once during my interview with her, unless she feared I might recognise her?’

‘Excellent, sir!’ my old friend exclaimed. ‘An admirable piece of deduction on your part!’

His client seemed only partly mollified by this commendation.

‘That may be so, Mr Holmes. However, that still fails to answer the question as to her identity. Are you prepared to look into the matter? To be frank, I am uneasy about the whole situation. I shall, of course, not buy the painting from her. But supposing she manages to persuade another dealer or a collector less experienced than myself to do so? I realise the old warning
caveat
emptor
should apply to all business transactions, but there is the reputation of the art world to consider. I feel I cannot allow someone whom I know is a forger to pass off her work, or if not hers then someone else’s, as a genuine old master. Apart from the aesthetic
consideration, it would be condoning a criminal act.’

‘I see your point,’ Holmes replied suavely. ‘To set your mind at rest, I will certainly look into the matter. You said the lady will call again at your gallery in a fortnight’s time?’

‘That was the arrangement.’

‘At what time?’

‘At eleven o’clock.’

‘Then, with your permission, Dr Watson and I will also present ourselves at your gallery on the same day but a little earlier, at a quarter to the hour. In the meantime, may I keep the painting?’

Mr Cassell seemed a little taken aback by this request but acquiesced with a bow and, having shaken hands with both of us, took his leave.

As soon as he had gone, Holmes gave a delighted chuckle.

‘To work, Watson!’ he cried.

‘On what, Holmes?’

‘On the painting, of course! But before I make a start on that, I shall look into the curious matter of the lady’s identity. Be a good fellow and run downstairs and ask Billy to bring up a bowl of warm water, a towel, a small sponge and some clean white linen rag while I find the entry I need in my encyclopaedia of reference.’
4

He was taking the volume in question from his bookshelves in the chimney alcove as I left the room, surprised by his instructions. To what use was he proposing to put the articles he had listed?

I did not find the answer to this question immediately, for when I returned to the room, followed by Billy carrying the requested items, Holmes was standing by the fireplace, his encyclopaedia in his hands, ready to read out the particulars of the entry he had found as soon as the pageboy had left the room.

‘Now, Watson,’ said he, ‘our client suggested the lady in question, Mrs Greenstock, failed to raise her veil in case he should recognise her features. But if, as he himself said, he knew no art collector of that name, it is highly unlikely he has ever met her. It therefore occurred to me that the lady wished to cover up some disfigurement which she preferred not to display in public.

‘The thought recalled to mind a newspaper report of a tragic accident which happened four years ago in which a woman suffered dreadful injuries and which I noted with particular attention because it occurred near Paddington station, where you had your first private practice as a doctor. The name of the lady was also very unusual; in fact, I had never come across it before. I therefore cut out the report from the
Daily News
and pasted it into my encyclopaedia. Here, Watson, you may read it for yourself,’ he concluded, handing me the volume of reference open at the relevant page. It was a report under
a headline ‘
TERRIBLE ACCIDENT IN PADDINGTON
’ and read: ‘A lady pedestrian, Mrs Lavinia Conk-Singleton, of Coombe Street, Bayswater, was knocked down and badly injured yesterday afternoon by a runaway hansom cab in Praed Street, Paddington.

‘The lady, widow of Mr Horace Conk-Singleton, a retired banker and amateur art collector, suffered severe cuts and bruises to her face. She was taken to the nearby hospital, St Mary’s, for treatment. The cab driver, Mr George Packer of Bethnal Green, who was rendered unconscious, was also treated at St Mary’s.’

‘So her husband
was
an art collector!’ I exclaimed.

‘Whom our client may have known had she given him her real name. He might even have recognised her, although I doubt that. She wore that thick veil, I believe, to hide her face, which is almost certainly still scarred from her injuries. We might be able to prove that supposition when we meet her in a week’s time. Now Watson, we must proceed with the next step in our inquiry. If you would be so kind as to spread the towel over the table, I shall start my investigation of the painting.’

As requested, I spread out the towel and placed the bowl of warm water, the sponge and the clean linen beside it, to which Holmes added a scalpel from his workbench. I assumed his intention was to wipe over the surface of the painting to remove any dirt. To my surprise, however, he laid the picture face down, exposing the back of it and, dipping the sponge into the water, began to dab
it along the edges of the brown paper which had been pasted over the frame.

‘Holmes!’ I expostulated. ‘Should you be doing that? I know the picture is a forgery but, even so, it belongs to Mrs Conk-Singleton.’

‘Indeed it does,’ Holmes replied. ‘But I shall not harm the painting itself. I merely want to remove the brown paper which someone, presumably Mrs Conk-Singleton, has recently stuck across the back of it.’

‘Recently?’

‘In the past few weeks, I believe, judging by its almost pristine condition. But why should she wish to cover up the back of the canvas?’

As he was speaking, he continued to dampen the paper until it was loose enough for him to run the scalpel under the edges and lift the whole sheet away, revealing what lay behind it.

It was another painting, also in oils, but so darkened by dirt and old varnish that it was difficult to make out its subject matter. It seemed to be an interior, for on the left-hand side I could vaguely discern a window through which discoloured sunlight was falling on two figures standing in the middle of the canvas. They were female, for I could just make out their dresses, one a muddy green, the other a dirty blue.