'Precisely. And the conversation was animated, not to say acrimonious at times. And all the while that sly cove Lord
Arthur Beacham hovered in the background like a concerned mother hen.'
'What does it all mean, Holmes?'
'To use a painting metaphor, which in this case is somewhat appropriate, I have sketched the outlines of the composition but I still need more time to fill in the detail and work on the light and shade. However, it is clear that Rupert Darlington is involved in some underhand deal which involves the unscrupulous Beacham
'But the painting was returned unharmed.'
'It had to be. That is Rupert Darlington's problem.'
Holmes loved to throw enigmatic statements at me to catch my reaction. I had long since learned that no matter how I responded he would not impart any information he held until he thought it the appropriate moment to do so. I had no conception of what Rupert Darlington's problem might be but I knew that should I press my friend to explain this conceit he would in some manner refuse. Therefore I tried to take our conversation in another, more positive direction, only to find it blocked by further enigma.
'What is our next move?' I asked.
'We visit 'the dog man',' he replied with a grin.
Within the hour we were rattling in a hansom cab eastwards across the city. I had heard Holmes give the cabbie an address in Commercial Street near the Houndsditch Road, a rundown and unsavoury part of London. He sat back in the cab, his pale, gaunt features wrapped in thought.
'Who or what is 'the dog man' and what is the purpose of our visit? Since you requested my company on this journey it would seem sensible to let me know its purpose,' I said tartly.
'Of course, my dear fellow,' grinned my companion, patting my arm in an avuncular fashion, 'what am I thinking of, keeping you in ignorance? Well now, 'the dog man' is my own soubriquet for Joshua Jones whose house is over-run with the beasts. His fondness for canines has driven both his wife and children from his door. He lavishes love and attention on the various mutts he takes in, far more than he does upon his own kith and kin. However he has a great artistic talent.' Holmes leaned nearer to me, dropping his voice to a dramatic whisper. 'He is one of the greatest copy artists of all time. Only the keenest of experts could tell the real 'Mona Lisa' from a Jones copy. I have used the fellow on a couple of occasions myself when fake works of art were required to help clear up a case.You see where he might fit into our mystery?'
'Not precisely.'
'I suspected Jones was involved in the matter yesterday morning.You may recall that when I examined the de Granville, I asked if Darlington kept a dog?'
'Yes. I do.'
'That was because through my lens I observed several dog hairs adhering to the frame – hairs of at least three different breeds. It seemed quite clear to me that the painting had at some time recently been lodged in premises where several dogs had been able to brush past the canvas. Where else could this occur but in the home of Joshua Jones?'
'Because he was copying the canvas…'
Holmes nodded.
'I see that, but why then was the real painting returned and not the copy?'
'Ah, that is the crux of the matter and I wish to test my theory out on my friend Mr Joshua Jones.'
Commercial Street was indeed an unpleasant location. The houses were shabby and down-at-heel with many having boarded windows.The cab pulled up at the end of the street and Holmes ordered the cabbie to wait for us. With some reluctance he agreed. We then made our way down this depressing thoroughfare. A group of ragged, ill-nourished children were playing a ball game in the street and ran around us with shrill cries, taking no notice of our presence, their scrawny bodies brushing against us.
'If this Jones fellow is such a succesful artist,' I said, 'why does he not live in a more salubrious neighbourhood?'
'I believe he has another house in town where his wife and two children reside but she has forbidden him to bring a single dog over the threshold, so he seems quite content to stay here for most of the time with his horde of hounds. Ah, this is the one.'
We had reached number 23: a house as decrepit as the rest with a dark blue door and a rusty knocker. The curtains at the window were closed, shunning the daylight and the outside world. Holmes knocked loudly. As the sound echoed through the house it was greeted by a cacophony of wailing, yapping and barking cries as though a pack of hounds had been let loose.
'I trust these dogs are not dangerous' I said with some unease.
'I trust so too,' replied Holmes, knocking loudly again and setting off a further fusillade of canine cries. Mingled with these came the sound of a human voice. Within moments the lock turned and the door creaked open a few inches; a beady eye and a beaky nose appeared at the crack.
'What do you want?' demanded the man.
'A little information, Joshua, if you please.'
'Why it's Mr Holmes,' came the voice again, this time softer and warmer in tone. 'Give me a moment to settle my little 'uns down. I don't want any of them to get out. Dog meat's at a premium around here.' So saying he shut the door and he could be heard shepherding his pack of dogs back into the recesses of the house.
After a while the door opened again, this time wide enough to reveal the occupant, who was a scrawny individual of around seventy years of age, or so his wild white hair, rheumy eyes and fine dry skin led me to believe. He was dressed in a pair of baggy trousers, a blue collarless shirt and a shapeless green paint-spattered cardigan.
'Come in gentlemen, come in.'
Only two dogs appeared at their master's heels as he led us down a dingy corridor and into an equally dingy sitting room. The air was oppressive with the smell of hound. In a nearby room one could hear barking and yelping accompanied by the occasionally frantic scratching as some fretting dog attempted to burrow out.
Jones gave a throaty chuckle at the sound of the muted row 'The little 'uns don't like being separated from their daddy,' he grinned, revealing a row of uneven brown teeth. With a casual wave of the hand he indicated we should take a seat on a dilapidated old sofa. 'Well, Mr Holmes, what can I do for you?'
'I need information.'
A thin veil of unease covered Jones's face. 'Ah, well,' he said slowly, 'I am reticent in that department, as you well know. I cannot be giving away the secrets of my clients or, soon enough, I'd have no clients.'
'I have no wish to compromise you, Jones,' said Sherlock Holmes evenly. 'Indeed, it is not fresh information I require, merely confirmation of my deductions, confirmation which will allow me to proceed further in my case.'
Jones frowned. 'What you're asking is something I cannot give you. I treat all who cross over my threshold, be it man or dog, with the same regard and assurance of discretion.'
Holmes appeared unperturbed by Jones's intransigence. 'I am glad to hear it,' he said. 'I have no intention of asking you to betray anyone's trust, even that of such a lowly character as Lord Arthur Beacham.'
Jones blanched somewhat at the mention of this name and his eyes flickered erratically. 'Then what do you want from me?' he asked, his voice lacking the earlier assertiveness.
'I wish to present a series of suppositions to you regarding my current investigation which concerns the theft of Lord Darlington's painting the 'Adoration of the Magi' by de Granville – a work I understand you know intimately. All I require from you is a slight inclination of the head if you believe that I am in the possession of the correct interpretation of events and a shake of the head if you perceive my suppositions to be incorrect. There is no need for verbal confirmation. This would help me tremendously in the same way I believe I have helped you in the past.'
Jones, who was by now sitting opposite us on a wicker chair with one of the dogs perched on his lap, bent over and kissed the creature on the nose and ruffled its fur. 'As you know, I never ask questions of my clients. However I cannot prevent you from expressing your views in my company, Mr Holmes,' he said, as though he were addressing the dog.
