A Study in Sherlock

wearing gray slacks, a white silk shirt, and a blazer.

“Not until the wee hours. I was too wound up. What about you?”

“I caught a few winks but thinking about the Paget kept me up most of the night. I’ve been collecting forever but I’ve never been in a position to own something like this.”

William Escott walked in before Ronald could reply and made straight for the food. He stacked his plate so high that Ronald waited for it to collapse like a building brought down by a demolition expert.

“When’s the auction?” Escott asked the butler, though it was difficult to understand what the Texan had said because his mouth was stuffed with food.

“Mr. Cubitt should descend shortly.”

“Can we see the Paget again or do we have to wait for Hilton?” Ronald asked.

“Last night, Mr. Cubitt instructed me to take you to the gallery if you requested a viewing.”

“Well, I certainly do,” Escott said. He pulled a magnifying glass out of his pocket. “I’m not buying unless I get a chance to inspect the damn thing. Personally, I think this picture is just too good to be true.” He snorted. “Queen Victoria, the Titanic, John Jacob Astor. The whole thing sounds like a plot for a comic book.”

After everyone had eaten, Lester led them to the gallery. The door was closed but there was a key jutting out from the lock.

“That’s odd,” Lester said. He tried the door and it opened. The butler stepped into the pitch-black room. As soon as the light went on he tensed. Ronald looked over Lester’s shoulder to see what had prompted the reaction. His eyes widened.

Hilton Cubitt was sprawled on the floor, staring at the ceiling with dead eyes. There was a bullet hole in his forehead. Ronald stared, transfixed by the grisly scene. Then William Escott’s shout jerked him out of his trance.

“It’s gone!”

Ronald followed Escott’s pointing finger and found himself staring at an empty easel. The Paget was missing.

Ronald was shaken by the sight of Cubitt’s corpse. While Phillip Lester called the police, he returned to his room and collapsed in the chair by the window. Ronald had confronted death every day while he was developing Death’s Head. His digital victims had been stabbed, decapitated by chain saws, riddled with machine gun bullets, and fed to sharks. His game contained a copious amount of animated blood that flowed and spouted from hundreds of grisly wounds, but nothing he’d dealt with in the world of his video game had prepared him for the sight and smell of real death.

Ronald wanted nothing more than to be allowed to run home to the safety of his penthouse, but he knew he was going nowhere until he had spoken to the police. That prospect was unnerving, but not nearly as unnerving as the realization that the person who had murdered Hilton Cubitt was probably near enough to kill again.

Inspector Andrew Baynes had been dispatched to Cubitt Hall as soon as Hilton Cubitt’s death had been reported by Phillip Lester. He was six feet tall with thinning black hair and a wiry build. After organizing the crime scene and making certain that his forensic experts were hard at work in the gallery, Baynes had Ronald Adair, Peter Burns, Robert Altamont, William Escott, and Phillip Lester escorted into the library.

The inspector studied them as they filed into the room. Baynes was an exercise fanatic and something about the short, fat Texan repulsed him. Maybe it was the smirk on Escott’s face or his nonchalance in the middle of a murder investigation or the fact that he had not shaved and was dressed in a maroon track suit, but Baynes was certain he would not like the man.

The butler was all business. He was dressed in a suit and tie and had been extremely helpful from the beginning.

Peter Burns was also dressed in business attire and limped in using an elegant cane. It was clear that walking was a chore for him. The rare book dealer being the tallest of the five men, the inspector could look him straight in the eye. Burns didn’t flinch under Baynes’s intense scrutiny, but returned the inspector’s stare without blinking.

Ronald Adair looked impossibly young to be as rich as he was rumored to be but he also looked very nervous.

Finally, there was Robert Altamont, who entered the room cautiously and looked ill at ease.

After having the men sit in the seats they had taken the night before, Baynes asked them to explain why they were at Cubitt’s manor house. Then he asked Phillip Lester to tell him about the discovery of the body.

“And no one heard a shot?” the inspector asked when Lester was through.

“That’s not surprising, sir,” the butler said. “Mr. Cubitt’s art collection is very valuable and the gallery was constructed like a vault. The doors are thick steel and the walls are also steel lined. The room is quite soundproof.”

“Did any of you hear anything that might be useful?” the inspector asked.

Ronald hesitated. Then he raised his hand timidly.

“Yes, Mr. Adair?” Baynes prompted.

“I didn’t hear anything, but … Well, I was so wound up by Mr. Cubitt’s revelation that I couldn’t sleep. So I read in a chair by the window in my bedroom in hopes that I would grow tired. At some point I started to yawn so I closed my book and turned out the lamp. That’s when I saw something on the moor.”

“Something?”

“I couldn’t make it out. Whoever it was had a light of some sort because that’s what attracted me.”

“What time was this?” the inspector asked.

“I can’t say with certainty but I began reading a little after midnight and probably continued for half an hour to forty-five minutes. I never looked at my watch.”

“So sometime around one in the morning?”

“That would be a good guess.”

“We’ll see what the medical examiner has to say about time of death but you may have seen our murderer if he puts it in that neighborhood.”

“Unless Adair is making up this ghostly apparition on the moor,” Escott said. “It sounds like something out of The Hound of the Baskervilles.”

“I assure you this is no fabrication,” Ronald snapped, “and you’ve some nerve to suggest that it is.”

“Take it easy, Adair,” Escott answered. “No need to get excited unless you have a guilty conscience.”

“Call me a liar again and you’ll see how excited I can get.”

“Gentlemen,” Baynes cautioned sternly. “I insist that you calm down.”

Ronald and Escott glared at each other but they held their tongues.

“Can someone explain why this stolen drawing is so important?” Baynes asked. Then he listened intently while Peter Burns related the background of the missing Paget.

“And it’s valuable?” the inspector asked when Burns was through.

“Very,” Burns answered.

“What does that mean?”

“The Paget is the rarest piece of Holmes memorabilia in existence and would fetch several million dollars at auction.”

Baynes whistled. “Now that’s a motive for murder. But I have a question for you, Mr. Burns. If this painting —”

“Drawing, Inspector,” Burns corrected.

“Right, drawing is so unique, why was Mr. Cubitt selling it?”

“He said he had collected everything he could of Holmes and wasn’t interested anymore,” Altamont said.

“Actually,” Burns said, “Mr. Cubitt wasn’t completely honest about his motive. His fortune had taken quite a hit lately and he was forced to sell off his collection. I tried to talk him out of it but his back was to the wall.”

“What are you doing to find the Paget?” Escott demanded. “I’m still ready to bid if the thing is real.”

“Can’t you wait for Hilton to be buried?” Altamont asked with disgust.

“No one will be able to do a thing with Cubitt’s estate until it’s probated,” Ronald said.

“You should search the help. One of the servants probably took it,” Escott said.