The Secret Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes (8 page)

Although the year ’95 was an exceedingly busy period for Sherlock Holmes with such investigations as the tragedy of Woodman’s Lee
*
and the case of Wilson, the notorious canary trainer,
†
engaging his attention, it was one particular inquiry, never brought entirely to a successful conclusion, which occupied much of my old friend’s time and energy in the late summer and early autumn. It concerned a series of burglaries at country houses during which priceless family heirlooms were stolen by an exceedingly clever master-thief, who called himself Vanderbilt, and his accomplice, a professional safe-breaker, known among the criminal fraternity as a yeggman.
†

Holmes had tracked the two villains down and arranged for their arrest by Inspector Gow of the Kent County Constabulary at the residence of a potential victim, where they were caught red-handed while attempting yet another burglary. However, he would not allow me to publish an account of the adventure in case it came to the attention of the man who had organised the thefts and whom Vanderbilt had refused to identify. Because of this unknown individual’s obsession with collecting rare works of art, Holmes gave him the sobriquet of The Magpie. The Magpie had promised, should Vanderbilt be
arrested, that a large sum of money would be waiting for him on his release from prison provided that his own name was not revealed.

It would not be an exaggeration to state that, in the months following Vanderbilt’s arrest in June ’95, Holmes himself became obsessed with the identity of The Magpie. Even while he was still engaged in hunting down Vanderbilt and his yeggman, he had already built up a mental dossier of the man and was convinced that he must be exceedingly wealthy but eccentric, with some shameful secret surrounding his birth or antecedents which persuaded him to collect these
objets
de
vertu,
once owned by eminent individuals, in order to compensate for his own lack of a distinguished pedigree.

Indeed, The Magpie had become so real to him that my old friend, not generally given to imaginative speculation, preferring facts to fancy, had gone to the length of picturing him alone in a room, gloating over these treasures as if they were his own.

At first Holmes’ inquiries had been general and had consisted of asking his well-to-do acquaintances, many of them former clients, if they had any knowledge of such an individual. There, however, he had drawn a blank. In addition, he searched the newspapers for any references to wealthy art collectors which he pasted into a new cuttings-book given over entirely to this subject, while his encyclopaedia of reference for the letter ‘M’ had several pages devoted exclusively to Millionaires.

He also took to attending all the major sales at which family heirlooms were auctioned on the premise that, now that Vanderbilt and his yeggman were safely behind bars and the burglaries had consequently ceased, The Magpie might resort to legitimate means of acquiring those personal
objets
d’art
which he might wish to add to his collection.

It was all to no avail. The identity of The Magpie eluded him.

There is a strong streak of obstinacy in Holmes’ nature. Like a bull-dog, once he has set his teeth into a problem, nothing will persuade him to let go. To my certain knowledge, he refused several important and potentially remunerative cases that summer, including a request from Lady Buttermere to
investigate the curious nocturnal activities of one of her footmen, so engrossed was he in his own inquiries.

It was in September ’95 when, having exhausted all other lines of investigation, Holmes finally resorted to a direct appeal, a stratagem which he had been reluctant to employ as he considered it might betray his hand and rouse the suspicions of his unidentified quarry.

Consequently, he placed the following advertisement in
The
Times
for the 9th of that month:

‘That is all very well, Holmes,’ I said, laying down the newspaper after my old friend had pointed the advertisement out to me, ‘but, even supposing The Magpie replies, which you cannot guarantee, how will you know it is he?’

‘Oh, I have every confidence he will answer,’ Holmes replied nonchalantly. ‘I have deliberately chosen small but rare objects which The Magpie appears to prefer to larger items. I have gone to the trouble of writing to the victims of Vanderbilt and his yeggman and, from their answers, have compiled a list of the stolen objects which includes miniatures and snuff-boxes as well as jewellery caskets and other such personal items of particularly delicate workmanship. As for recognising our quarry, I am quite certain I shall have no difficulty in picking him out from among any other applicants. I know this man, Watson. I have, in a manner of speaking, lived with him for the past few months. Only let him write and I shall recognise his
spoor upon the paper as surely as if he had left his footprint on a patch of freshly dug soil.’

‘Then what of these valuable heirlooms?’ I persisted. ‘The Magpie will wish to examine them before he buys. How will you acquire enamelled snuff-boxes and miniatures, let alone jewelled vinaigrettes?’

‘My dear fellow, do you imagine that I have laid my trap without first making sure that I have the bait to hand? You have not met Viscount Bedminster, I believe? Then let me simply say that he is a former client of mine who had the unfortunate experience of becoming entangled with a lady of dubious reputation. As at the time he had no money to speak of but a career of great promise before him, I waived the fee. However, since then he has inherited not only the title but also a house in Knightsbridge replete with
objets
d’art,
never publicly displayed. He has agreed to lend me certain of these heirlooms which will constitute my bait. All that remains is to await a letter from The Magpie and the trap will be sprung.’

Over the next three days, Holmes visited the Poste Restante in St Martins-le-Grand both mornings and afternoons, returning on each occasion with a small bundle of letters which, after perusing them, he threw impatiently to one side. None was from The Magpie.

Between these daily excursions, he fretted with impatience and became, in consequence, most difficult to live with, prowling restlessly about the sitting-room and sending away his meals virtually untouched.

Mrs Hudson was at her wits’ end.

For my part, I absented myself from our lodgings as often as I could, either taking solitary walks in Regent’s Park or retreating to my club in order to escape for a few hours from my old friend’s black mood which seemed to permeate the whole house.

It was on the third day that his efforts were at last rewarded.

I returned from a game of billiards with Thurston, a fellow-member, to find Holmes standing at his desk, in the act of opening the latest batch of letters, the floor about him strewn with discarded envelopes and sheets of writing paper.

‘No success?’ I inquired as I entered, considerably cast down at the thought of spending the evening alone with Holmes in his present bad humour.

‘It is extraordinary,’ he replied peevishly, ‘although the advertisement states quite positively “No dealers”, how many of those rapacious gentlemen, no doubt hoping for a bargain, have written, trying to pass themselves off as private collectors.’ Breaking off to tear open yet another envelope, he quickly scanned its contents, his brow contracted while I quietly retreated to a seat by the fire from where I observed his features with some anxiety, assuming from his expression that this last letter was from another dealer.

Then suddenly his countenance cleared and, waving the sheet of paper like a banner above his head, he gave a great shout of exultation.

‘Watson, The Magpie has taken the bait!’

‘Let me see!’ I cried eagerly, scrambling to my feet from my chair.

The letter, which was written on good quality paper, bore no address, only the previous day’s date, and read:

There was no signature.

I was a little disappointed by this curt, businesslike communication although Holmes, who was chuckling and rubbing his hands together, seemed delighted by it.

‘You see!’ he exclaimed. ‘It bears all the marks of The Magpie. No private address and no name, apart from Wesson. Smith and Wesson! Pistols for two, one might say. The man has a sense of humour, Watson. I am looking forward exceedingly to making his acquaintance.’

‘But where, Holmes? You can hardly arrange the meeting to take place here.’

‘Of course not, my dear fellow. That would be the height of folly. We shall meet at Claridge’s Hotel where I shall engage a suite of rooms for you.’

‘For me?’ I exclaimed, somewhat alarmed at the prospect.

‘I can hardly be expected to confront him myself. My features are too well known from the illustrated papers.’

‘But couldn’t you wear one of your disguises?’

‘Quite out of the question. I shall have to be on hand to follow him or any agent he sends in his place. The Magpie is clever enough to employ such a ruse. You noticed, of course, the postmark on the envelope?’

‘No; I am afraid I did not.’

‘It was West Central. But do not be taken in by that either, my dear fellow, and assume he lives in London. It is easy enough to bring a letter to town and to post it in some convenient pillar-box. Now, to work! There is plenty to be done. I must write to The Magpie, engage the rooms at Claridge’s and call on Freddy Bedminster to collect the
objets
de
vertu.
And you, my dear Watson, must begin your studies.’

‘What studies?’ I inquired.

‘Into Bilston enamels, silver hallmarks and the art of the English miniaturist. I have the necessary volumes of reference here. Before you meet The Magpie or his agent, you must be fully conversant with the subjects.’

Seating me down at the table, he placed several large books of art in front of me, before, having hurriedly written a reply to The Magpie’s letter, he bustled out of the room.

It was well over an hour before he returned, late for dinner, much to the discomposure of Mrs Hudson who had to keep the meal hot for him, although she was considerably mollified, after his earlier abstinence, by his appetite once the dishes were brought to the table.

‘Everything is arranged, Watson,’ he said, cutting with enthusiasm into the steak and kidney pudding. ‘The letter is posted, the rooms engaged at Claridge’s for the day after tomorrow and I have the Bedminster family heirlooms in that morocco case.
You shall examine them after dinner. How have your studies progressed?’

‘Quite well, Holmes,’ I said cautiously, a little daunted by the task he had set me. ‘You know I have a limited knowledge of art and am quite hopeless at remembering dates.’
*

‘I shall assist you,’ Holmes assured me which was exactly what I had feared. I was not sure if Holmes in this ebullient mood would be any easier to live with than he had been in his former low spirits, especially as I should have little opportunity of escaping for a few hours to my club until my part in the investigation was completed.

After dinner, he brought the morocco case to the table and, opening it up, displayed the curios it contained which even I had to admit were particularly fine. They consisted of several tiny, silver bottles, cunningly hinged to contain fragments of aromatic sponge and fashioned into ingenious shapes, from a miniature book to a rosebud, and all of them elaborately chased and decorated with seed pearls or minute gems; four enamelled and gold-mounted snuff-boxes, their colours as brilliant as the precious stones; and lastly, two miniature portraits, one of a gentleman in a powdered wig, the other of a young lady.

I have to confess that it was the latter portrait which I found the most appealing. Half-turned, she gazed out of the oval frame directly at the observer with a smile of such winsome charm that it was irresistible. Tendrils of fair hair fell about her shoulders, the delicate skin tones of which were enhanced by a strand of pearls about her throat and the lacy folds of her bodice.

‘I see,’ Holmes remarked with an amused air as I picked the portrait up in order to study it more closely, ‘that you are running true to form, my dear fellow, and that it is the young lady who has caught your attention.’

‘She is charming, Holmes.’

‘Indeed she is. Her name, by the way, is Lady Amelia Bedminster and she is an ancestress of the present Viscount. However, her beauty probably owes as much to paint as it does to Nature which is so often the case in real life although, in this instance, we have the skill of Samuel Cooper, the miniaturist, to thank rather than the rouge-pot. His dates, by the way, are 1609 to 1672. Pray note the tiny monogram, S.C., in gilt, the sign of this particular artist. The portrait is painted on vellum, known by the expert as a “table”, and is executed in gouache, that is opaque colours thickened with honey and gum. Ivory, on which the second portrait was painted, was not introduced until the early eighteenth century.’

So began a catechism such as I had not had to endure since my school days when I was constrained to repeat aloud Latin declensions or the dates of English kings and queens during question and answer sessions which, at the time, had seemed interminable.

Holmes employed much the same methods. Sitting opposite me at the table, he held up each individual object in turn as he subjected me to a lengthy cross-examination regarding its date, the techniques employed in its manufacture and the merits of its workmanship. If I failed to answer correctly, I was sent back to the volumes of art.