Gaslight Grimoire_ Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Barbara Hambly [48]
“Did you outbid Mr. Monckton also?”
“Heavens, no! I hadn’t even heard of Redfern then.”
“So Monckton bought a Redfern also?” Holmes asked. Mrs. Serracoult nodded, but before she had time to expand upon the fact, Holmes rose to his feet. “Well, thank-you for the tea, Madam,” — I noted that his cup was untouched — “but our duties require our presence elsewhere.”
“The elusive Professor Moriarty, no doubt.”
He gave a thin-lipped smile. “No doubt. Come along, Watson.”
Our rooms were ankle-deep in newspapers, reference books and crime periodicals. From time to time, Holmes added to the general scene of chaos with another carelessly discarded document. I have made mention of this frustrating anomaly in my friend’s character elsewhere, but under the circumstances, I had little cause for complaint; I had no keener pleasure than in following him on his professional investigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions with which he unraveled the conundrums submitted to him.
“What exactly are you looking for?” I asked in frustration as a crumpled-up copy of something called Police News of the Past flew by my face.
“This!” He announced, triumphantly, presenting me with a copy of the Journal de Geneve.
“Some of us have only the one language, Holmes.”
“Please excuse me, old fellow. This article relates to the sudden death of Englishman Oliver Monckton while holidaying in Switzerland. I recall that the details were few, but I was struck by the journalist’s claims that certain unsavory details were suppressed by the coroner.”
The word ‘unsavory’, which I recalled Holmes had used earlier, certainly suggested to my mind a connection between Monckton and Anwar Molinet, although I wondered whether any description could do justice to the horror I had witnessed in the mortuary.
“And Mrs. Serracoult said that both men had purchased Redferns at the Tuttman Gallery, wherever that may be.”
“It is in Knightsbridge, I believe — formerly the Gaylord Auction Rooms. The question is, if a connection exists, does it relate to the paintings, the artist, or the gallery? We are in unfamiliar territory, Watson; my own art collection consists solely of portraits of the last century’s most notorious criminals.”
“And my army pension would hardly stretch to spending afternoons at the Tuttman Gallery in the company of Mrs. Serracoult,” I added, ruefully.
“Then you must be thankful for small mercies, Doctor.”
“Holmes … I have been thinking.”
“This is turning out to be a day of remarkable occurrences.”
“Really, you’re the most insufferable fellow alive.”
“Quite possibly. Please, go on; I should be grateful to hear your theory.”
I marshalled my thoughts with the aid of a stiff whisky. “Remember the affair of the Christmas Goose, or the busts of Napoleon? Might there not be something hidden away, perhaps within the frame itself?”
“A provocative notion, Doctor. And though it does no harm to theorize, we are at sea without—”
He got no further along his train of thought, however, for at that moment we were interrupted by a knocking on the door. I imagined it might be Mrs. Hudson, and wondered what her reaction to the present state of the room might be, when the door swung open to reveal the familiar figure of Inspector Lestrade, his features more haggard than before, if such a thing can be imagined.
“Our good fortune, Doctor!” Holmes cried. “Inspector Lestrade, here to help us through the morass of officialdom. And with a gift of a somewhat unconventional nature, I see.”
“Hardly that, Mr. Holmes.” I saw that he held in his right hand what had once been a ladies’ shoe. From its charred appearance, I supposed he must have extracted it from a bonfire.
“Where did you come by this singular souvenir, Lestrade?”
The police agent waited a moment before responding. “This shoe, Mr. Holmes … is all that remains of Mrs. Bernice Serracoult.”
My friend has so often astonished me in the course of our adventures that I am ashamed