A Study in Sherlock

as much truth to it.”

Cubitt smiled. “That is the majority opinion.”

“You’re not saying it really happened, are you?” Altamont asked with raised eyebrows and a smirk that broadcast his opinion of the tale.

“Why don’t you let me finish. Then you can draw your own conclusions,” Cubitt answered. “Those of us familiar with this so-called legend know that the story and the illustrations were alleged to have been individually bound in leather and presented to the queen. That is where the story usually ends, but some years ago Peter went to an estate on the North Shore of Long Island, New York, and bought a collection from Chester Doran, a distant relative of John Jacob Astor. Over dinner the conversation turned to Holmes. Doran asked Peter if he was aware that Astor had once owned the only copy of a short story Doyle had written for Queen Victoria and the original artwork Paget had created for it.”

Ronald turned toward Burns but the dealer’s face showed no emotion.

“Peter told Doran that the story in question was not believed to have actually existed, but his dinner partner assured him it was real. According to Doran, Astor heard the rumor while visiting England in 1912. Using contacts in the royal family he learned that the story was still in Buckingham Palace.

“Doran grew reluctant to continue his tale at this point but Peter persuaded him to complete it. Doran told Peter that Astor paid a huge sum to a servant to steal the story and the artwork, which he received the day before he was to sail back to the States.”

“Didn’t Astor go down with the Titanic?” Ronald asked.

Cubitt nodded. “He was one of the poor souls who sailed on that doomed ship in April 1912. Those scholars who heard the rumor that Astor possessed the story and artwork believe that they joined him at the bottom of the sea. But Doran claimed that he had discovered a Paget drawing in a leather case in a trunk belonging to John Jacob Astor that had been mistakenly left behind in England when the Titanic sailed and was shipped to Astor’s estate a month after the ship sank.”

“You’re saying you have the Paget?” Ronald asked incredulously.

Cubitt walked to the wall on the far side of the room and took down a painting that concealed a wall safe. He spun the dial, opened the steel door, and took out a framed fifteen-by-twenty-inch drawing. Escott leapt to his feet but Altamont and Ronald were too stunned to move. Cubitt placed the drawing on an easel that had been set up in front of the safe.

“Gentlemen,” Cubitt said.

Ronald and Altamont stood slowly and stared at the drawing like men in a trance. The three collectors edged forward with the same reverence priests would show if they were approaching the Holy Grail. Ronald’s heart beat furiously. The drawing was a full-length portrait of Holmes in a long coat and his famous deerstalker hat smoking a pipe in front of the fire at 221B Baker Street. It was signed SP, as Paget always signed his drawings, and dated June 20, 1897. There was no known Paget this large and the date under the signature was something no Sherlockian collector had ever seen on a Paget drawing.

“My God,” Altamont gasped. “How much did you pay for this?”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to keep that information confidential.”

Escott snorted. “Whatever you paid was money down the drain. This has got to be a forgery.”

“Peter vetted it thoroughly,” Cubitt said. “Before I bought it he had the paper tested, the ink tested. He had it examined by Paget experts. I’ve seen the documents. It is authentic.”

Escott tore his eyes away from the drawing and cast a sly glance at his host.

“Why are we here, Hilton? I reckon there’s more to this than an art show.”

“There’s no fooling you, Bill,” Cubitt answered. “With the acquisition of this Paget I have completed my collection of Holmes memorabilia and I’ve decided to sell it off. Collecting Holmes has no interest for me now that I have the whole set. I’m going to have Peter handle the sale of my collection but I wanted to give you three a chance to bid for the most important piece of Holmes memorabilia ever discovered because you are the only Holmes collectors with the financial resources to buy it. Tomorrow morning I will hold an auction for the Queen Victoria Paget.”

Hilton Cubitt’s personal chef produced a dinner worthy of the best French restaurant but Ronald and Altamont were too distracted to do more than pick at their food. William Escott devoured his meal with gusto and drank with even greater enthusiasm. Ronald was exhausted from the flight, the long drive, and the excitement caused by Cubitt’s startling surprise. As soon as it was socially acceptable, he called it a night and went to his room, but he found that he was too excited to sleep. He was also troubled by a question of ethics.

If the Paget was genuine, it was in truth the most important discovery in the history of Holmes collecting. But it was also stolen goods. If the existence of the Paget was made known, along with the manner in which it was acquired, the British government would demand its return. Neither he nor Altamont nor Escott had brought this up to Cubitt.

Robert Altamont was a genius and Ronald was certain he had considered the moral and legal conundrums the owner of the Paget would face. Ronald would not have been surprised if Escott had failed to think through the problem presented by the drawing’s provenance. The Texan wasn’t very bright. His morals were also suspect. If he did realize that the owner of the Paget would be in possession of stolen property, Ronald doubted that it would spoil his sleep.

Ronald had always prided himself on being an honest man. If he bought the Paget he would have to keep it hidden. If he hoarded his treasure so the British government didn’t learn of the Paget’s existence would he be able to look himself in the eye whenever he looked in a mirror?

Ronald’s bedroom was large and dominated by a king-size canopy bed in which he tossed and turned while visions of the Paget kept sleep away. A little after midnight, he finally gave up any idea of getting a good night’s sleep and got out of bed. Ronald had started a legal thriller on the plane ride from New York to London and he fished his e-book reader out of his traveling bag, hoping that reading would tire him out. There was a comfortable armchair next to a high window with a view of the moor. Ronald settled in and turned on the lamp on the side table.

Forty-five minutes later, the words were swimming in front of his eyes and he turned off the light. The reflection from the lamp had made it difficult to see through the window. The moment the light went off Ronald saw another light bobbing up and down on the moor. The fear he felt when he read The Hound flooded him and he took an involuntary step away from the window. Then he caught his breath and leaned forward.

The quarter moon provided little illumination and thick, fast-moving clouds frequently blocked even those feeble rays. For a second, Ronald thought he could make out a silhouette moving across the moor, whether man or woman he could not be sure. Then the light disappeared and he guessed that the person had moved behind a hummock or rock formation that was blocking the light.

What would possess someone to venture out on the moor in the cold and dark? Ronald could not imagine anything that would send him out into that trackless, merciless waste with its quicksand bogs and God knew what else. But the puzzle intrigued him and he decided to sit again and keep a vigil in hopes that the phantom would return and he could discover its identity.

Ronald jerked awake. At first, he had no idea where he was. Then he realized that he had fallen asleep in the chair by the window. The sun was just rising over the moor and he could make out stunted trees, barren ground, low hills, and rocky prominences. Nothing about the place in daylight changed his mind about his desire to avoid it.

Ronald’s Franck Muller wristwatch was on his nightstand. It was just shy of seven A.M. He showered and shaved before dressing in pressed jeans, a tight black T-shirt, and a Harvard sweatshirt. Unlike Robert Altamont, he had actually gone to Harvard for two years before dropping out to work full-time developing Death’s Head.

The table where they had eaten dinner was set. Silver serving dishes had been laid out on a long credenza. Phillip Lester asked him if he’d like some coffee. While Ronald poured a glass of orange juice and filled his plate with bacon, scrambled eggs, and a scone, the butler brought him a cup of the best black coffee he’d ever tasted. Ronald asked where it was from and Lester told him that the blend had been specially created for Mr. Cubitt but that was all he was at liberty to say.

“Did you sleep?” Robert Altamont asked from the doorway soon after Ronald had dug into his eggs. He was