The Falling Curtain (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 3) (19 page)

“Certainly.”

“I was wondering if you have had any reason to re-inspect the painting since then?”

He shook his head. “None.”

“And is there a procedure by which the paintings are routinely examined, to ensure that no substitution has been made?”

The curator laughed softly. “First of all, Doctor, as I mentioned before, our security has detected no breaches, so it would be impossible for such an exchange to occur. Secondly, look about you,” he waved his hand around the crowded gallery. “We have thousands and thousands of paintings in our collections. There are far too many to routinely inspect.”

“But there is a method to do so in case of concern?”

Mr. Goldfield shrugged. “Of course. The painting is taken down from view, for reasons ascribed to ‘conservation.’ After a visual inspection of the strokes and the craquelure, we then analyze the age of both the paint used, but also the canvas itself.
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Finally it is transported to University College,
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where it is placed under one of the Röntgen machines.
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That tells us whether the surface painting has been painted over a prior work.”

“A palimpsest?”
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“Very nearly. Some exceptionally skilled forgers are aware of the techniques for dating a canvas, so they paint over some minor work from the same era. While that first work is, of course, destroyed in the process, because of the lead in the paint, its soul is never truly lost, and the miraculous rays of Mr. Röntgen can bring it back to life, or at least a pale shadow of it.”

“And do you have any trepidation about this particular painting?”

Mr. Goldfield paused and removed a pair of pince-nez from his waistcoat pocket. Settling them upon his nose, he studied
La Jeune Fille
for a span of nearly five minutes. He finally turned back to me. “No, I have no fears about its authenticity. Do you?”

“What if I was to tell you, Mr. Goldfield, that my friend has discovered that a particularly skilled forger is currently active in London? And that we have concerns that this painting may have been an especial target?” I blushed at this slight falsehood, suggesting that Holmes shared my concerns, since he had no notion of my impromptu visit to the Gallery.

“In that case, I shall ensure that it is tested forthwith. Where should I send word in the unlikelihood that an irregularity is found?”

I gave Mycroft’s address to the curator, thanked him, and then made my way back out to Trafalgar Square. Once there, I hesitated, unsure of my next move. I cudgeled my brains to find some possible explanation that covered all of the strange happenings that revolved around Holmes. The riddle of the sphinx and the problem at Threadneedle Street were certainly connected to the greater scheme, but what of the Hag of Haybridge Cave, the vanishing brake-van, and the burned man? Were they somehow linked to this monstrous conspiracy? Holmes would not likely return for several more hours. Where else could I go to find some vital clue that might unlock this vast puzzle? Who else could I turn to? Excepting Holmes and his brother, of course, the next smartest individual whom I knew was my old friend Walter Lomax, now head librarian at the London Library. His assistance had been invaluable in several prior cases, and perhaps he could once again see some light in the darkness.
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I therefore turned my steps towards St James Square, which was a short walk away. But I was not to reach Lomax. As I was passing along Charles II Street, an enormous man, nineteen stone of solid bone and muscle, suddenly appeared out of an alleyway to my right and blocked my further progress.
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My feet halted, and I gazed up at the crooked nose upon his craggy face, which was easily six inches above my own. The look that I found in his eyes was as cold as ice, and it dawned upon me that this was just the sort of man whose rock-like biceps could hold a flagstone above his head for the time required to allow mortar to dry. Had I just blundered into one of Mortlock’s assistants at the Bank of England? If so, it was surely no accident.

I quickly spun on my heels hoping to put as much distance between this brute and myself, but when I did so, I found myself staring into the eyes of an even more fearsome individual, who had closed in on me from behind. This adversary was a short, powerful man with a round, fresh, clean-shaven face. His cheeks tended to roundness, such that I once considered him to have a childlike appearance despite his more than fifty years. However, one glance into the dead black color of his pupils made abundantly clear the fact that this was a man devoid of any sense of human decency. His name was ‘Killer’ Evans, and I thought him to be safely ensconced in one of His Majesty’s most secure correctional facilities for his crime of once attempting to kill me.
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At the sight of my dawning recognition, his face split into a cruel grin. His right hand repetitively twirled a heavy sand-bag, which I feared was about to be utilized to smash my head into a pulp.

Over the years of my association with Sherlock Holmes, I have held my own in many a struggle. However, even if my advancing years and increasingly sedentary life were not an unfortunate fact, I little cared for my odds between this veritable Scylla and Charybdis. Before I could even begin to formulate a plan, the giant behind me reached out his massive hands and pinned my upper arms against my side in an iron vise. Despite this predicament, I was glad that he had not thought to go for my throat, or my senses would have swiftly departed. Instead, the nameless giant appeared to be content with merely restraining me, perhaps so that his partner Evans could finish me off. Nonetheless, I had little intention of complying with their nefarious plan and instead managed to reach my hand into my coat pocket, where my fingers clenched around my Eley’s no. 2. Pulling it out as best I could, given the constraints upon my upper arms, I aimed it at Evans and did not hesitate. Although I had carried it upon innumerable dangerous missions with Holmes, there have been only a few instances where I was actually required to fire my trusty service revolver: the islander Tonga,
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the ferocious mastiff Carlo,
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the terrible hound of Stapleton,
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and of course the Gila monster of Eastland,
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marked the limits of the adversaries so dangerous that they required the persuasion only provided by a bullet. And yet, I felt the same of Evans. He had already shot me once before, five years earlier. I had no intention of allowing him to repeat his attempt upon my life.

My aim proved to be true, and a blossom of red erupted upon his chest. Evans stared dumbly down at the wound, lifted one hand to it, perhaps in a vain attempt at staunching his life’s blood, and then collapsed upon the street. Although I could not see my other opponent’s face, this turn of events clearly enraged the giant who held me from behind. He threw me against the side of the closest building with such great force that I felt a wave of pain burst from my right shoulder. As I slumped to the ground, I lost my grip upon the revolver, which rattled out of my reach. I wearily looked up and saw the giant advancing upon me. Attempting to ignore the agony lancing from my shoulder, I scrambled towards my weapon, certain that I would not make it in time, but that the effort nevertheless needed to be attempted.

My salvation came in the form of a passing blue-uniformed constable, his attention likely attracted by my gunshot. His brass police whistle blew excitedly as the man ran in our direction, though for a moment, I feared that the constable might prove to be an insufficient relief force. However stalwart the man and his gutta-percha truncheon, I was concerned that they were no match for the mighty fury of the giant’s arms.
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But my opponent hesitated and, for reasons only known to him, decided to disengage. Leaving me slumped against the wall, the giant took to his heels and fled in the direction away from the advancing constable. Although my rescuer continued to blow his whistle, I little doubted that my assailant would make good on his escape.

§

A span of two hours later found me in the accident ward of St. Thomas’ Hospital, having renewed my acquaintance with Dr. Penrose Fisher. He ensured that the head of my humeral bone was properly relocated in the shoulder joint. That procedure was not without some degree of discomfort, but now that my arm was immobilized in a sling, it had settled down to a dull ache.

Constable Jenkins had, at my request, passed word along to Inspector Lestrade, who in turn agreed to notify Holmes. As soon as my friend returned from Charlton, he immediately diverted his steps to the infirmary, where his concern for my well-being was most gratifying.

He had sat quietly as the final adjustments were made to the sling, but as soon as the nurse had departed, Holmes sprang from his chair and paced about the room in uncontrollable agitation. A flush rose upon his sallow cheeks and his long thin hands clasped and unclasped spasmodically. “I will not stand for it, Watson!” he exclaimed. “To think that Killer Evans would have the gall to attack you again, after I warned him!
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It is a good thing for him that your shot proved fatal, or he would need answer to me.” His face set like granite as he contemplated our deceased adversary.

“At least it’s over, Holmes, and no permanent harm done. I will be right as rain in two weeks,
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if not sooner.”
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He frowned at me. “Whatever are you talking about, Watson? What is over?”

“Evans was also known as ‘James Winter,’” I explained. “But was his other alias not ‘Morecroft?’”

“Yes, what of it?”

“Surely he was the sender of the notes? Morecroft? Mortlock? The similarities…”

“A coincidence, Watson,” interjected Holmes.

“I did not think you believed in such things, Holmes.”

“Normally I would concur with that assessment. But these are not normal times. Much like Holy Peters, Killer Evans was a man not without a certain measure of low cunning. But how long did it take me to expose his ridiculous Garrideb identity? Five minutes? No, this conspiracy is far too vast for the mind of Killer Evans, may he rest in peace,” he said with no small degree of acerbity.

“And his partner – the giant – what of him?”

“I believe that I recognize him from your description, Watson. His name is Mathews, and I believe I once mentioned to you that he knocked out my left canine in the waiting room at Charing Cross.
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What I failed to report, in an attempt at modesty that some might claim I do not possess, is that I not only permanently rearranged his nose, but that my right hook left him in a stupor for three weeks. After he recovered, Mathews spent a considerable stint in gaol for the assault upon Major Broughton, and I sincerely doubt that he has forgiven me.
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We will ask Lestrade to send over a picture from the Rouges’ Portrait Gallery for you to confirm it, but I think it is a safe supposition that very few malignant giants are roaming the streets of St James’s Square.”

“So we now need to track down Mathews?”

“No, Watson. We must, of course, first send an urgent telegram to your wife informing her of your safety. A man was shot and killed on the Haymarket. That will have attracted the attention of the evening papers, and your name is certain in some way to be attached to the incident. If they report that you were injured, she will have a chill pass through her heart when she opens the morning edition and lays eyes upon that particular heading.”

“That is an excellent point, Holmes.”

“And it is far too late for you to catch a train to Southsea tonight, but we will tell her to expect you tomorrow.”

I did not understand his logic. “Is there some clue that points us to Southsea?”

He laughed sharply. “No, Watson. No clue, but I am afraid that it is past time for you to retire from the field. This is not your fight. Mortlock, whoever he may be, is determined to revenge himself upon me. He knew that an attack upon you would be a simple way to wound me. He is trying to weaken me, like a picador injures a bull before the matador delivers the fatal blow.”

I shook my head. “I will not hear of it, Holmes. You and Mortlock may consider me to be but a piece upon your metaphorical chessboard, but this chessman has yet to be captured. And I too am more than ready to extract some measure of revenge for the harm dealt to me by Mortlock.”

“Watson, with your shoulder in a sling, you cannot even properly aim a gun,” Holmes pointed out.

“I would prefer to think, Holmes, that my contributions to the firm over the years have not solely been on the physical side of things. Have I not provided an idea or two in my time?”

Holmes smiled. “My dear Watson, you really are a wonder. So you propose to continue the fight, despite your wounds?”

“Did Nelson hide at Merton after he lost both an eye and an arm?
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This is but a mere strain. I can do no less.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “You have on occasion, Watson, remarked that my self-esteem was not small. But I do believe that you just compared yourself to one of the greatest heroes of our nation.”
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§

The telegraph to my wife duly dispatched, Holmes and I sat in the hansom cab back to Pall Mall, when he began to chuckle appreciatively. “It is very good of you, Watson, to refuse to depart. It makes a considerable difference to me, having someone with me on whom I can thoroughly rely.”