manor house was a variant of Tudor Gothic. There was a central three-story section with two-story wings on each side. The manor was gray stone. Octagonal stone chimneys rose at several points along the slate roof. The gray stone blended into the sullen surroundings and looked rather foreboding. For a brief moment, Ronald imagined that the high windows at the front of the house were watching him arrive.
The SUVs and the limousine stopped in front of a high, carved door fashioned from weather-worn oak. The driver opened Ronald’s door and he stepped out. The chill wind that swept across the desolate landscape stung his cheeks and he turned up the collar of the motorcycle jacket he wore over a black turtleneck and worn jeans. Ronald knew he was underdressed for a stay at a British manor house, but one nice thing about being filthy rich was that he could dress any damn way he pleased.
The limousine parked next to Ronald’s SUV. When the chauffeur opened the rear door, Ronald was surprised to see Peter Burns work his way out of the rear seat and limp around the front of the vehicle, leaning heavily on his cane. Burns was a dealer in rare books and the owner of London’s Great Mystery bookshop. Ronald had met him on a few occasions and he’d had many transatlantic dealings with him by phone or e-mail. Burns had a thin, aristocratic face with high cheekbones, a nose as sharp as a knife, and a narrow, pointed jaw. A pleasant smile and a head of curly gray hair softened his features. He was slightly taller than Ronald but the two men were eye to eye because he was forced to bend forward slightly due to the height of his cane.
“So Hilton invited you, too,” Ronald said.
“Didn’t you know I was coming?” Burns asked.
“Hilton told me there would be other guests, but he didn’t tell me who they were. Do you know why he summoned us?” Ronald asked.
“That’s what I want to know,” said William Escott, who had no compunction about butting into the conversation. Ronald and Peter Burns looked down at the five foot four interloper who seemed to be almost as wide as he was tall.
“I’m also curious, chaps,” chimed in Robert Altamont. “All Hilton told me was that my visit would be one of the most memorable events of my life.”
“I’m afraid I’ve been sworn to secrecy,” Burns said. “But Hilton will explain why you’re here soon enough.”
Before anyone could ask any more questions the front door was opened by Phillip Lester, Cubitt’s butler, a dignified and superbly fit ex-SAS sergeant whose military service records were shrouded in mystery. Lester was flanked by two men who looked like bodybuilders and had the hard eyes of people who have seen the dark side of life. The visitors were beckoned into a cavernous entryway. A massive stone staircase led up to the second floor and suits of armor stood at attention on either side of the bottom step.
“Welcome to Cubitt Hall,” Lester said as the drivers brought in Ronald’s stewardess case, Burns’s golf-club- size duffle bag, Escott’s valises, and Altamont’s monogrammed luggage. “Before I can show you to your rooms I’m afraid the security staff will have to go through your belongings and search you.”
“This is outrageous,” Escott shouted. “No one is going to lay a hand on me.”
“Mr. Escott,” Peter Burns interceded. “Take my word for it, you will think nothing of this search when you discover why you are here.”
Escott looked like he was about to say something else but he snapped his jaws shut.
“Very well,” he said as he raised his hands above his head and let one of the security men pat him down while the other went through his suitcases.
“I’ll show you to your rooms so you may freshen up,” the butler said as soon as the men and their luggage had been searched. “Mr. Cubitt would like you to meet him in the library for drinks before dinner at five.”
“A drink sounds mighty good to me,” Escott said.
Hilton Cubitt was an average-looking man who had made an above average fortune in the stock market, but he had just been through a costly divorce from his fourth wife and Ronald had heard whispers about severe financial reversals. Had Cubitt invested heavily with Bernie Madoff? Was his fortune depleted by the failure of several banks? If so, Cubitt did not show it. He strode into his library dressed in a hand-tailored suit sporting a confident smile.
Cubitt was five-nine with the compact build of the rugby player he’d been at Oxford. He’d parlayed a degree in finance into a fortune as a hedge fund manager and he’d used some of that fortune to build collections that were the envy of everyone who collected in his fields of interest. Cubitt was rumored to own the thirty-fifth Vermeer and he had an antique car museum that housed some of the rarest vehicles ever created, but he had two favorite collections.
Cubitt had spent a year in the States as a graduate student at Columbia. During that year, he had become a fan of American baseball and his favorite team was the New York Yankees. He had an impressive collection of Yankee memorabilia, which was said to include a World Series uniform worn and signed by Babe Ruth and the bat Mickey Mantle used when he hit his longest home run plus the uniform he wore when he hit it. The originals of these items were supposed to be in the Baseball Hall of Fame but there were rumors that Cubitt would neither confirm nor deny that the items in Cooperstown were copies.
Cubitt’s other pride and joy was the world’s largest collection of artwork pertaining to Sherlock Holmes, some two to three thousand pieces.
Cubitt’s guests were seated in his library in upholstered high-back chairs set up in a semicircle in front of a massive stone fireplace. A roaring fire radiated enough heat to counteract the chill and drinks had been provided by the butler. Every inch of wall space on either side of the fireplace was taken up with ornately carved floor-to-ceiling wooden bookshelves. Ronald had inspected some of the spines while waiting for Cubitt to appear and had been impressed by the quality of the collection.
“Thank you for coming, gentlemen,” Cubitt said as he strode to a spot in front of the fireplace. “I am certain that you will find your journey worthwhile.”
“And why is that, Hilton?” Escott asked. “Why did you drag us out here?”
Cubitt smiled. “I’m going to keep you in suspense a little longer, Bill. Please follow me.”
“Any chance I can see your Yankees memorabilia?” Escott asked.
“Perhaps, but I’m reluctant to do so since I hear that you’re a Red Sox fan.”
Cubitt led them down a long hall and stopped in front of a carved wood door while the butler unlocked it. When the door swung open, Ronald could see that the wood covered a thick steel inner door. The guests entered a pitch-black room. When Cubitt threw the light switch Ronald, Altamont, and Escott gasped. Only Peter Burns showed no reaction. He had been guiding Hilton Cubitt since the millionaire began collecting and he had been in this room on many occasions.
The gallery was massive and every square inch was covered by artwork related to Sherlock Holmes. What drew Ronald’s eye was a wall covered by Sidney Paget drawings. Paget was the original illustrator of the Holmes stories in
“Are these …?” Ronald asked.
Cubitt nodded. “All originals.”
“My God,” Ronald said. On the wall were more than twenty Pagets that were not supposed to exist.
Cubitt gestured to four chairs that had been placed in front of the wall with the Pagets.
“Please sit down.”
Ronald could not tear his eyes away from the Pagets as he lowered himself onto his chair. When the men were seated, Cubitt walked in front of them and put his back to the wall.
“Bear with me while I tell you a story. Queen Victoria was born in 1819 and she ruled England from 1837 until her death in 1901. It is not widely known, but the queen was a huge fan of the Holmes stories and she was devastated when Doyle, who had grown tired of his creation, killed him off in ‘The Final Problem’ in 1893.
“On June 20, 1897, England held the Diamond Jubilee to celebrate the fact that Victoria had surpassed King George III as England’s longest-reigning monarch. It is not clear who, but someone close to the queen had the brilliant idea of asking Doyle to write a Holmes story solely for Her Majesty. Paget was asked to illustrate the tale.”
“Everyone knows that never happened,” Escott scoffed. “It’s a legend like the Loch Ness monster, with about
