the wall of his drawing room, we may also learn a great deal about his own state of mind. Did you remark, for example, on the art on display at Ridgeway Hall?’
‘A great deal of it was French. There was a view of Brittany, another of a bridge crossing the River Seine. I thought the works very fine.’
‘You admired them but you learned nothing from them.’
‘You mean in respect of the character of Edmund Carstairs? He prefers the countryside to the city. He is drawn to the innocence of childhood. He is a man who likes to be surrounded by colour. I suppose that something of his personality could have been surmised from the pictures we saw on his walls. But then again, we cannot be sure that every piece had been chosen by Carstairs himself. His wife or his late mother could have been responsible.’
‘That is very true.’
‘And even a man who kills his wife may have a gentler side to his nature which finds expression in his choice of art. You will recall that business with the Abernetty family. Horace Abernetty had hung his walls with many fine studies of local flora, as I recall. And yet he himself was an individual of the most loathsome and thuggish sort.’
‘My own memory is that much of the fauna depicted was of the poisonous variety, since you mention it.’
‘And what of Baker Street, Holmes? Are you telling me that a visitor to your sitting room will find clues to your psychology through a contemplation of the works that hang around you?’
‘No. But they might tell you a great deal about my predecessor, for I can assure you, Watson, that there is hardly a single picture in my own lodgings which was not there when I arrived. Do you seriously imagine that I went out and purchased that portrait of Henry Ward Beecher which used to stand over your books? An admirable man by all accounts and his views on slavery and bigotry are to be recommended, but it was left behind by whomever had the room before me and I simply chose to leave it in its place.’
‘Did you not purchase the picture of General Gordon?’
‘No. But I had it mended and reframed after I accidentally fired a bullet into it. That was at the insistence of Mrs Hudson. You know, I may very well write a monograph on this subject; the use of art in matters of detection.’
‘Holmes, you insist upon seeing yourself as a machine,’ I laughed. ‘Even a masterpiece of impressionism is to you nothing more than a piece of evidence to be used in the pursuit of a crime. Perhaps an appreciation of art is what you need to humanise you. I shall insist that you accompany me on a visit to the Royal Academy.’
‘We already have the gallery of Carstairs and Finch on our agenda, Watson, and I think that will be enough. The cheeseboard, waiter. And a glass of Moselle, I think, for my friend. Port is too heavy for the afternoon.’
It was but a short distance to the gallery, and once again we strolled together. I have to say that I took immense satisfaction in these moments of quiet sociability and felt myself to be one of the luckiest men in London to have shared in the conversation which I have just described and to be walking in such a leisurely manner at the side of so great a personage as Sherlock Holmes. It was about four o’clock and the light was already fading when we arrived at the gallery which was not, in fact, in Albermarle Street itself, but in an old coaching yard just off it. Apart from a discreet sign, written in gold letters, there was little to indicate that this was a commercial enterprise. A low door led into a rather gloomy interior with two sofas, a table and a single canvas — two cows in a field painted by the Dutch artist, Paulus Potter — mounted on an easel. As we entered, we heard two men arguing in the adjoining room. One voice I recognised. It belonged to Edmund Carstairs.
‘It’s an excellent price,’ he was saying. ‘And I am certain of it, Tobias. These works are like good wine. Their value can only rise.’
‘No, no, no!’ replied the other voice in a high-pitched whine. ‘He calls them seascapes. Well, I can see the sea… but precious little else. His last show was a fiasco and now he has taken refuge in Paris where, I hear, his reputation is in rapid decline. It’s a waste of money, Edmund.’
‘Six works by Whistler—’
‘Six works we shall never be rid of!’
I was standing at the door and closed it more heavily than was strictly necessary, wishing to signal our presence to the two men inside. It had the desired effect. The conversation broke off and a moment later a thin, white-haired individual, immaculately dressed in a dark suit with a wing collar and black tie, appeared from behind a curtain. A gold chain hung across his waistcoat and a pair of pince-nez, also gold, rested at the very tip of his nose. He must have been at least sixty years old, but there was still a spring in his step and a certain nervous energy that manifested itself in his every move.
‘I take it you are Mr Finch,’ Holmes began.
‘Yes, sir. That is indeed my name. And you are…?’
‘I am Sherlock Holmes.’
‘Holmes? I don’t believe we are acquainted and yet the name is familiar—’
‘Mr Holmes!’ Carstairs had also come into the room. The contrast between the two men was striking; the one old and wizened, belonging almost to another age, the other younger and more dandified, his features still displaying the anger and frustration that were doubtless the result of the conversation we had overheard. ‘This is Mr Holmes, the detective I was telling you about,’ he explained to his partner.
‘Yes, yes. Of course I know. He has just introduced himself.’
‘I did not expect to see you here,’ Carstairs said.
‘I came because it interested me to see your professional place of work,’ Holmes explained. ‘But I also have a number of questions for you, relating to the Pinkerton’s men whom you employed in Boston.’
‘A dreadful affair!’ Finch interjected. ‘I won’t recover from the loss of those paintings, not until the end of my days. It was the single greatest calamity of my career. If only we had sold him a few of your Whistlers, Edmund. They could have been blown to pieces and no one would give a jot!’
Once the old man had started, there seemed to be no stopping him. ‘Picture-dealing is a respectable business, Mr Holmes. We deal with a great many aristocratic clients. I would not wish it to be known that we have been involved with gunmen and murder!’ The old man’s face fell as he saw that he was involved with more besides, for the door had just opened and a boy had rushed in. I at once recognised Wiggins, who had been in our room only that morning but to Finch it was as if the worst assault were being committed. ‘Go away! Get out of here!’ he exclaimed. ‘We have nothing for you.’
‘You need not concern yourself, Mr Finch,’ Holmes said. ‘I know the boy. What is it, Wiggins?’
‘We’ve found ’im, Mr ’olmes!’ Wiggins cried, excitedly. ‘The cove you was looking for. We saw him with our own eyes, me and Ross. We was about to go in the jerryshop on Bridge Lane — Ross knows the place for ’e’s in and out of there often enough ’imself — when the door opens and there ’e is, clear as daylight, wiv ’is face cut livid by a scar.’ The boy drew a line down his own cheek. ‘It was me what saw him. Not Ross.’
‘Where is he now?’ Holmes asked.
‘We followed ’im to ’is ’otel, sir. Will it be a guinea each if we take you there?’
‘It will be the end of you if you don’t,’ replied Holmes. ‘But I have always played you fair, Wiggins. You know that. Tell me, where is this hotel?’
‘In Bermondsey, sir. Mrs Oldmore’s Private Hotel. Ross will be there now. I left ’im there to act as crow while I hiked all the way to your rooms and then ’ere to find you. If your man steps out again, ’e’ll watch where ’e goes. Ross is new to the game but ’e’s as canny as they come. Are you going to come back with me, Mr ’olmes? Will you take a four-wheeler? Can I ride with you?’
‘You can sit up with the driver.’ Holmes turned to me and I saw at once the contracted eyebrows and the intensity of expression that told me that all his energies were focused on what lay ahead. ‘We must leave at once,’ he said. ‘By a lucky chance, we have the object of our investigation in our grasp. We must not let him slip between our fingers.’
‘I will come with you,’ Carstairs announced.
‘Mr Carstairs, for your own safety—’
‘I have seen this man. It was I who described him to you, and if anyone can be sure that these boys of yours have correctly identified him, it is I. And I have a personal desire to see this out, Mr Holmes. If this man is whom I believe he is, then I am the cause of his presence here and it is only right I see it to the end.’
‘We have no time for argument,’ Holmes said. ‘Very well. The three of us will leave together. Let us not
