Gaslight Grimoire_ Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Barbara Hambly [50]
“None personally, Mr. Holmes,” the proprietor replied in a nasal whine. “All his paintings come to us through Mr. Milhause. You know him, I trust?”
“By reputation only. But it seems that we must make ourselves known to him. Mr. Crabtree, might we rely upon you to provide us with an introduction?”
“As if you needed one, Mr. Holmes,” said a refined if somewhat effected voice behind us. We turned, and found ourselves facing a fellow I deduced to be Mr. Bartholemew Milhause himself. If I could have pictured a more suitable brother for the rotund Mycroft Holmes than my colleague, then it would surely have been Milhause. He was only slightly smaller than the obese civil servant I had encountered during the affair of the Greek Interpreter and the business of the stolen submarine plans, but in all other respects — the thinning hair, the deep-set grey eyes — he might have been his twin. However, where I commonly associated Mycroft with the faint odor of expensive cigars, Milhause had apparently drenched himself in a perfume better suited to a vulgar music hall artiste than an alleged patron of the arts.
He shook Holmes by the hand with an enthusiasm I considered unseemly. “An honor, sir, an honor!” he cried. “And you must be the other one,” he observed caustically, eyeing me with distaste. I pretended to ignore the obvious slight.
“Mr. Milhause, you act for the artist Redfern, do you not?” Holmes enquired.
“A true talent, Mr. Holmes — a young fellow of genuine ability. An oasis in the desert of mediocrity that passes for culture in modern London. I make an exception for the items to be found in the Tuttman Gallery, of course.” Crabtree, to whom this remark was directed, responded in similarly fawning terms. I glanced at Holmes, but he did not return my grimace.
“It just so happens, Mr. Milhause, that I am interested in sitting for a portrait.”
“But surely Mr. Paget—”
“That was some years ago, and I am no longer the man I once was. I thought that if any artist in London might be capable of capturing my — well, my spirit…”
“That artist is Algernon Redfern!” Milhause declared, with a tiresome flourish. “Excellent, Mr. Holmes, excellent! Portrait work is not really in his line, you understand, but I doubt that he could pass up such a fascinating commission. Mr. Sherlock Holmes himself — how very unique!”
“It is simply ‘unique’, Mr. Milhause,” I pointed out.
“But it is, my dear fellow — simply unique!”
Like every Londoner, I had, of course, heard of the artists’ studios to be found off the long lean artery of the King’s Road, but I had never seen them. Finding myself on that dark flagged alley, I must confess that I was not impressed by my surroundings. Indeed, the only hint of a bohemian air to the district was supplied by two disreputably-dressed young gentleman, no doubt on the way to their own studio. As they passed us, I heard the taller man say, “Honestly, Bunny, you really are the most frightful ass…” in a cultured fashion greatly at odds with his attire.
We halted at an unlatched door, and Holmes raised his hand to knock.
“It’s open, Mr. Holmes, do come in!” called a male voice. My friend’s expression betrayed none of the surprise I was sure he must have felt, and he pushed the door open.
I had imagined that the residence of a successful artist would be crammed to the rafters with sketches and paintings in various stages of preparation. But the lofty room in which we found ourselves betrayed little evidence of the tenant’s occupation, save for an easel at the far side of the room and a small table in the center. The painting upon that easel faced away from us, but had, in any case, been covered by a stained towel. A completed work, rolled-up, rested against the easel.
As for Algernon Redfern himself, again my expectations were crushed. Given his flamboyant agent, and his apparent connection with a string of bizarre murders, I had begun to