The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (15 page)

“Holmes!” Philip said, perhaps a bit startled by the encounter. “I want you to meet my friend Milly Hogan.”

I remembered the Everage girl’s description of her as Philip’s blonde doxy who traveled with him but rarely attended the performances. Sherlock Holmes reached out as if to shake her hand, but at the last moment suddenly grabbed her left wrist instead.

“What is this?” she asked with a gasp of fright. Already he was pulling up the sleeve on her forearm, revealing a small scar, faint but visible. We had seen it before.

“I believe we meet again, Miss Hogan. You came to my rooms in Baker Street on Tuesday posing as Vittoria Costello, as part of your plot to murder that young lady.”

Both the Reading police and the Rover Brothers themselves demanded explanations, and Holmes was only too glad to supply them. We had adjourned to Philip’s tent while Milly Hogan was being questioned elsewhere, and he began by describing her visit to us.

“The black wig was nothing to an actress, of course, nor was the assuming of Vittoria’s character. If her plan went well we would never meet the real Vittoria so no comparisons would be made. Perhaps she had even intended to keep her face veiled until I guessed, wrongly, at her identity. As it was, both Watson and I noted how little she resembled the drawing on the posters, but we thought little of it. I believe the death of Diaz was indeed an accident, but it must have suggested the entire plan to her. She came to me two days later with her story of the previous attempts on Vittoria’s life. Her whole point was to have me present the following day when the real Vittoria was killed, supposedly by the tiger the circus had just acquired.”

I remembered his words of the previous evening. “You said the tiger did nothing in the morning, Holmes.”

“And he did not. We established quickly enough that Vittoria was killed before being placed in the cage, but that still meant the murderer had to open the cage to do it. Opening the cage of a strange tiger, only just arrived with its trainer would be a highly dangerous undertaking. The fact that the tiger did nothing to attract attention meant that the person who opened the cage was no stranger to him. The trainer could be ruled out. He only just arrived the night before and would hardly have had a motive for killing Vittoria. But Edith Everage saw you, Philip, along with Milly, playing with the new tiger yesterday morning. That was probably no more than an hour or two before the murder. The tiger knew and remembered Milly.”

“This whole thing is ridiculous!” Philip insisted. “The tiger cage was outside of our tents, in full view. How could Milly or anyone else have killed Vittoria and placed her body in there without being seen?”

“The cage may have been in full view, but it was covered with canvas. I would guess that Milly lured Vittoria out there to see the new tiger. Once under the canvas for a better look, Milly stabbed her in the throat before she could scream, then opened the cage and pushed her in. You told us, Philip, that you had an extra key to the cage in your tent.”

“Why would she do it? What was her motive?”

“The Everage woman told me you were fond of both of them. Jealousy has led to more than one murder. Of course Milly planned to pin the crime on Everage, which is why she came to us impersonating Vittoria.”

I asked a question now. “How did you know, Holmes? After all, you deduced our client was Vittoria and then canceled out your own deduction.”

“I was deceived, Watson, until we pulled Vittoria’s body from the tiger cage and I noticed her tiny feet. The woman who called on us in London had feet as big as yours, as you must have noticed. Foot sizes don’t change overnight, so I knew it was a different woman. When Philip and Charles and others assured us the body was Vittoria’s, that meant it was an impostor who’d visited us. I asked myself who it could have been, and the answer was obvious. The impostor had to be Vittoria’s killer, or a close accomplice. We learned that the extra key to the tiger cage was kept in Philip’s tent, where Milly Hogan also stayed. And we learned that Philip and Milly were playing with the new tiger yesterday morning. Milly had been an actress, performing at the Lyceum Theatre in London. And Milly had reason to be jealous of Vittoria. Such a motive made it unlikely that you were involved, Philip. If the two of you were close enough to plot a murder, she would have had no reason for jealousy in the first place. I also felt certain that if you had wanted to kill Vittoria you would have done it away from the circus grounds so as not to harm business. And surely you would not have insisted Diaz’s death was accidental if you were party to a plot to link the two deaths as a double murder.”

It was later, on the train back to London, after Milly Hogan had confessed, that I remarked to Holmes, “We never did meet Vittoria, the Circus Belle.”

“No,” he agreed. “But we met Milly Hogan twice, and in my profession I find a murderess more fascinating than a Circus Belle.”

The Darlington Substitution Scandal

David Stuart Davies

By late 1886 Holmes’s caseload was increasing substantially, allowing him to be more selective in the work he took on, and this occasionally made him rather cavalier to those clients whom he felt were wasting his time. Some of these cases Watson did not write up, either because they seemed trivial or because Holmes wished to keep his clients’ details confidential. Occasionally certain incidents were later remembered and one such case was “The Darlington Substitution Scandal” which Holmes refers to in “A Scandal in Bohemia”. This case has been highly problematic to restore and even now the story may not be complete. Holmes was reminded of the case by his use of a fire alarm to unearth items of value, but it transpires it wasn’t fire but a similar cause for alarm that helped Holmes resolve the matter.

Sherlock Holmes and I returned late one evening to our Baker Street rooms after spending some time in the realms of Wagner. My friend was still singing Siegfried’s horn call even as we let ourselves in through the door of 221b. His recital was interrupted somewhat abruptly by the appearance of Mrs Hudson at the foot of the stairs. She was wearing a long grey dressing gown and appeared to be quite perturbed.

“You have a visitor, Mr Holmes,” she whispered with a kind of desperate urgency. “He refuses to leave until he sees you. He is most insistent.”

“Is he?” said Holmes, “Then we had better oblige the gentleman. Off to bed with you. Friend Watson and I will deal with the matter.”

She gave an understanding nod, threw a brief smile in my direction and disappeared behind her door.

The visitor was a short, burly figure of some sixty years. He possessed a high, bald forehead, a shiny face and fierce blue eyes. He almost ran towards us as we entered our sitting room. “At last,” he cried.

Holmes gave a gentle bow of the head in greeting as he flung off his coat and scarf. “Had his Lordship taken the courtesy to arrange an appointment he would not have had to wait over two hours to see me – the cigar butts in my ashtray indicate the length of time.”

“You know me?”

“It is my business to know people. Even in this dim light it is not difficult to recognize the Queen’s minister for foreign affairs, Lord Hector Darlington. Now, pray take a seat and tell me about the theft.”

Lord Darlington dropped open-mouthed into the wicker chair. “Who has told you?”

Holmes gave a brief chuckle. “A brandy night cap for us all, eh, Watson?” he said, before replying to his Lordship’s question. “You would not be here alone at this time of night if your errand concerned government business. Therefore, it is a private affair which brings you to my door. A
very
private affair if the official police are not to be involved. It is well known that you are an avid collector of priceless paintings and possess a very rich collection. It does not need Sherlock Holmes to deduce that the matter on which you wish to consult me concerns your paintings or more likely one of your paintings. The matter is urgent and so therefore it relates to loss rather than damage. Ah, thank you Watson.” He retrieved a brandy from the tray and took a sip.

Lord Darlington shook his large head in disbelief. “By Jove, you are right, sir. If only you can unravel the mystery as easily as you have guessed at its nature, I will be in your eternal debt.”

Holmes raised an admonishing finger. “I never guess. It is an impractical pastime. Now, if you would be so kind as to familiarize me with the facts of the matter, I may be able to shed some light on your particular darkness.” So saying he sat back in his chair, both hands cradling the brandy glass, and closed his eyes.

Lord Darlington cleared his throat and began his narrative. “As you rightly stated, my passion in life is art and over the years I have built up what I believe is an enviable collection, one of the finest private galleries in Europe. It is not for their financial value that I treasure my canvases, you understand: it is for their beauty and power, their vivid interpretation of life.”

“Quite,” remarked Holmes dryly.

“Recently I took possession of a seventeenth-century painting by Louis de Granville, his ‘Adoration of the Magi.’ It is the most magnificent painting.”

“Louis de Granville – didn’t he die very young?” I said.

His Lordship gave me a brief smile. “Indeed. He died of consumption at the age of twenty-seven. There are only thirty known canvases of his in existence and ‘The Adoration’ is regarded as his best. I was so fortunate to acquire this wonderful painting.”

“Where did you obtain it?” asked Holmes

“For years it was deemed a lost masterpiece and then it turned up in a Paris auction house last spring. The bidding was fierce but I was determined to have it. One American bidder chased me all the way, but I managed to shake him off in the end.”

“And now it has disappeared.”

Lord Darlington’s face crumpled at this reminder of his loss. “I use my gallery as some men use tobacco or alcohol. Sitting alone with my pictures I am able to relax and allow the stresses and strains of the day flow out of me. Today I was due to make a visit to see my counterpart in the French government but at the last moment the trip was called off, so instead of catching the night train to Paris, I went home. Both my wife and my son were out on various social engagements, so I took myself to my gallery for a few hours peace and relaxation. Imagine my horror when I pulled back the cord on my beloved de Granville to find that it was missing.”

“The frame also?”

“Yes. There was no signs of forced entry and nothing else was disturbed. All my other pictures were there.”

“How big is the painting?”

“It is about two foot by sixteen inches.”

“Who has a key to the gallery besides yourself?”

“No one.”

“No one?” I found myself repeating our visitor in surprise.

“My wife and son have no interest in my paintings and I welcome that. The gallery is my private domain.”

“Who cleans and tidies the room?” asked Holmes languidly. It was clear that Lord Darlington’s dilemma did not excite a great deal of interest within his breast.

“I do. It is a simple task. I perform it once a week.”

“When did you last see the painting?”

“The previous evening. The charm of it is still so fresh for me that I rarely let a day go by when I don’t spend some time with it. I know you may find it strange, gentlemen, but I was actually dreading my trip to France, knowing I would be deprived of my paintings for some days.”

Sherlock Holmes drained his brandy glass and rose to his feet. “It is my experience that when the situation is so mysterious with no apparent clues, the solution must be quite simple. Do not lose sleep over it. I feel sure that we can recover your painting.”

Our visitor beamed. “I do hope so.”

“Watson and I will call around tomorrow morning to examine the scene of the crime and see if we can glean some suggestive facts.”

“Won’t you come now, gentlemen?”

Holmes yawned and stretched. “It is late, Lord Darlington. There is no danger in waiting for a new day before commencing our investigation. Shall we say at ten o’clock tomorrow morning? Watson will show you out.”

When I returned, my friend was standing by the fireplace lighting up his pipe with a cinder from the grate clamped in the coal tongs. “You treated your new client in a rather cavalier fashion, Holmes,” I said.

His head was momentarily enveloped in a cloud of grey smoke. When it cleared, I could see that he was smiling. “I object to being treated like a pet dog who will fetch and carry at the owner’s whim. The privileged classes all too often forget the niceties of please and thank you. On this occasion it satisfied me to exercise my perogative to act when
I
saw fit.” He threw himself down in his chair. “Besides, it is a straightforward matter and I’m sure that we shall clear it up within the next twenty-four hours.”

In this instance, Sherlock Holmes was wrong. The disappearance of Lord Darlington’s painting turned out to be far from a straightforward matter.

The following morning we arrived as arranged at Lord Darlington’s Mayfair town house a few minutes after ten. We were shown into the drawing room where his lordship greeted us in a most jovial manner. His demeanour was quite different from that of the night before. He introduced us to his wife, Sarah, a small, blonde-haired woman of about the same age as her husband. She seemed nervous in our company and soon made an excuse to leave us to our “business”.

“I am sorry to have troubled you last night, Mr Holmes,” said his Lordship, “and it was remiss of me not to wire you this morning to save you a wasted journey. Nevertheless I am happy to pay whatever fees you deem appropriate for the services rendered.”

“Indeed. Then the painting has reappeared.”

“Yes. It is wonderful. I went into the gallery this morning and almost out of habit I pulled back the curtain and the de Granville was back in place as though it had never been missing.”

“But it was missing yesterday,” said my friend sternly, not sharing his client’s glee.

“Yes, yes, it must have been, but that hardly matters now.”