evening dress and clutching a glass of champagne. 'Yes?' he enquired languidly. Holmes proffered
his card. The other held it up fastidiously. 'I say, Huffy,' he called out to someone inside, 'do we know anyone by the name of Sherlock Holmes?' He uttered the name with an air of faint amusement. 'No. Send him on his way,' came the reply from within. 'Be off with you, fellow,' the sandy-haired man said, returning Holmes's card.
Before the door closed completely, Holmes handed over an envelope. 'Please see that Mr Mountcey receives this.'
Holmes stood on the landing and began counting. He had reached thirty-two when the door was re-opened by the same guardian. 'Mr Mountcey says you'd better come in,' he said.
'I rather thought he might,' Holmes rejoined.
The chamber he now entered was opulently furnished. A table at one end was laid for four with sparkling silver and crystal and crisp knappery. Armchairs were drawn around the fire and in one the resident of this suite was sprawled. The Honourable Hugh Mountcey was a gangling, dark-haired young man, with a florid complexion. He held Holmes's letter by one corner between thumb and forefinger. 'What's the meaning of this nonsense?' he demanded.
Holmes stood staring down at the aristocrat and recalled the verger of New College's disparaging comments on certain degenerate members of the upper class. 'If it were nonsense you would scarcely have invited me in,' he observed.
'Who the devil are you,' Mountcey sneered.
'All that matters is that I know the truth about the New College Rembrandt. Apart from anything else I have identified your role in the business.'
Mountcey's companion stepped across the room and grabbed Holmes by the sleeve. 'Shall I teach this fellow some manners, Huffy?' he enquired. The next instant he was lying flat on his back holding a hand to his nose from which a trickle of blood was oozing.
Holmes rubbed the knuckles of his right hand. 'I assure you that I have no interest in making life difficult for you. My only concern is to clear up this tiresome business of the missing painting so that I can resume my own studies. If you will be good enough to answer a few questions I will take my leave.'
'And what do you intend doing with your information?'
'I shall place such items as are relevant before the authorities at New College.'
'That might not suit my book at all. I certainly have no intention of informing on my friends.'
'By friends I take it that you mean those responsible for the escapades at Oriel, Merton and here in Magdalen.'
Mountcey nodded.
'I don't think it will be necessary for me to reveal their identity.'
The dark-haired young man stared at Holmes for several seconds.Then a smile slowly suffused his features. He crumpled the letter he was still holding and tossed it into the fire. 'No, Mr Holmes, you are a nobody and I am inclined to tell you to go to hell. Report whatever you like to the New College people. You have no proof. If it comes to a contest between you and those of us who count for rather more in this life it's pretty obvious who will end up being sent down, isn't it?' He waved his visitor towards the door and his friend held it open.
Holmes stood his ground. 'But it isn't just you and your friends who are involved is it? It's your father and his associates.'
Mountcey was caught off guard. 'You can't possibly know…' he blurted out, leaping to his feet.
Holmes took a pencil and paper from his pocket, wrote a few words and passed the paper across to the Honourable Hugh. 'Damn!' Mountcey sank back onto the chair.
'So, sir, about those questions,' said Holmes.
Sherlock Holmes called upon Mr Spooner shortly after eleven the following morning as the latter was returning from lecturing.
The don came up close and peered through his thick lenses. 'Ah, Mr Grenville of Holmes, is it not? Come in, sir. Come in. Do sit down. I suggest you will find the seat in the window more than comfortable.'
Holmes deposited himself upon the cushions in the window embrasure. 'I have come to report the successful conclusion of my investigation,' he announced. 'About the theft of the painting from the chapel,' he added as Spooner gazed vacantly into space.
'Ah, yes, excellent.' The fellow's pallid features broke into a smile. 'So you have discovered who was responsible. Was it Rembrandt?'
'No, sir.' By now Holmes had discovered that the way to prevent Spooner's train of thought running into frequent sidings was to keep him concentrating hard on the matter in hand. 'Perhaps it would be best if I explained, from the beginning, the sequence of events which led to the disappearance of the painting.'
'Excellent idea, young man. Play the part of Chorus and leak your spines clearly.'
Holmes began his explanation, hurrying on when his audience showed signs of wishing to question or interrupt. 'First, I must suggest to you that your reading of Dr Giddings's character owes more to charity than objective observation. I fear that the senior fellow was furious at being passed over for the wardenship and that that is why he gave his painting to New College.'
'But, surely…'
Holmes scarcely paused for breath. 'It was to be his revenge. You see, the painting was a fake, or more probably the work of an inferior artist touched up by the hand of an improver. I realized this when I spoke with Mr Simkins. He was puzzled because the painting which another of his clients had seen about the time Giddings bought it was 'vibrant' with 'warm, glowing colours' as he described it. Yet when Simkins, himself, viewed it in the chapel it was apparently obscured with ancient varnish. Now Giddings was the only one who could so have misused the picture and for only one reason: he realized, after adding it to his collection that it was not a work from the hand of the master. To avoid the humiliation of having to admit that he had been duped he had the picture varnished over, and waited for an opportunity to get rid of it. His exclusion from the wardenship provided the excellent chance to kill two birds with one stone. He disembarrassed himself of the fake Rembrandt and put one over on the fellows of New College. Giddings knew that, eventually, the painting would be cleaned and that, from beyond the grave, he would have his revenge.
'Then, long after the whole matter had been pushed to the back of his mind, he was alarmed to hear that the fellows had decided upon the immediate restoration of their Rembrandt. He knew Simkins and Streeter could not fail to discover the truth and that both his folly and his vendetta would be exposed.
What could he possibly do to prevent the closing days of his life being lived under this double shame? Only the disappearance of the picture could save him but he could not encompass that. He would need accomplices. It was then that he bethought himself of his friend and fellow collector, Lord Henley.'
'Lord Henley? Why on earth should that highly respected nobleman be a party to such a notorious escapade?'
'I confess that I, too, was puzzled on that score. Eventually I had to prize the truth from his son, Mr Mountcey.'
'That young man is a scoundrel.'
'Quite so, sir.' Holmes rushed on. 'It seems that not only did the two collectors share common interests, but Lord Henley owed a considerable debt of gratitude to Dr Giddings. A few years ago a crooked dealer attempted to implicate his lordship in a colossal art fraud. Had he been successful the scandal would have been terrible. Giddings was largely responsible for exposing the syndicate behind the imposture. Lord Henley now felt duty bound to assist his saviour. The two old friends planned the robbery together. Giddings found out through his college contacts the precise day on which Simkins and Streeter were to collect the painting. Then Lord Henley arranged for the fake telegram postponing the appointment and had one of his underworld contacts pose as the restorers' agent. Just in case anyone from the college who watched the removal became suspicious he arranged for the work to be done under cover of darkness when the chapel was almost certain to be empty.'
'But what about the other thefts?'
'A fortuitous sequence of events that enabled the conspirators to muddy the water. Lord Henley's son was involved in a rather stupid society the object of which was to plan and execute ever more audacious 'japes', as they call them. The Oriel and Merton escapades were carried out by other members of the club and it was Mountcey and his friends who defaced the walls of Magdalen by removing the sundial. It seems that Lord Henley knew of these ridiculous revels and, being an over-indulgent parent, was not disposed to regard them seriously. It
