Gaslight Grimoire_ Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Barbara Hambly [51]
“Forgive me for not shaking hands,” he said, jovially, displaying his paint-smeared palms.
“How does it come about that you were expecting us?” I enquired.
He smiled, and I observed a row of uneven yellow teeth. “Perhaps as an artist, I have a keener instinct than most, Doctor. Or, a telegram might have reached me before your carriage. Then again, I might have that marvelously convenient invention, the telephone, installed somewhere on the premises. Pick any one you prefer. Cigarette?”
Under a copy of the Pall Mall, a plain cigarette box rested upon the small table. He brushed the newspaper to the floor and opened the box, revealing just one cigarette within.
“No thank-you, Mr. Redfern,” Holmes replied.
“As you like,” said the artist. In one swift movement, he placed the cigarette in his mouth and lit it. “This will probably be my last one, anyway. Plays hell with my chest. Is there any medical basis for swearing off them, Doctor?”
I must own that during my explanation — which took in findings made a century earlier regarding the connection between snuff-taking and certain nasal polyps, as well as my friend’s frequent three-pipe sessions — I rambled more than a little, distracted as I was by Redfern’s voice. That he was attempting to conceal his own nationality beneath a somewhat flawed English accent was clear.
“Well, Mr. Holmes,” he said, jovially, “to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
“What does your keen artist’s instinct tell you?” Holmes asked, dryly.
Redfern chuckled. “Most assuredly, not that you are interested in having your portrait painted. From what I know of you from Dr. Watson’s stories, I would not have said you were so vain.”
“If you are an admirer of the Doctor’s work, you have my condolences,” said Holmes with, I felt, unnecessary relish. “But you are correct in stating that I have not come here today on my own account. I am more interested in your connection to James Phillimore, Anwar Molinet, Oliver Monckton and Mrs. Bernice Serracoult.”
Redfern expelled a long, luxurious cloud of smoke before responding: “Sorry to say, I’ve never heard of any of them. Who are they?”
“They each bought one of your paintings,” I explained.
The artist shrugged, before stubbing out his cigarette on the lid of the box and picking up a pad and pencil. “I only paint them,” he said. “The charming Mr. Milhause handles the business side of things. You’ve met him, of course. Quite unbearable isn’t he?”
“They are also, as Dr. Watson is too discreet to mention, all dead — Mrs. Serracoult as recently as this afternoon.”
Algernon Redfern appeared unperturbed by this news. “I should call that a rather extreme reaction to my work.” He began to scribble absent-mindedly on the pad.
“Are you English by birth, Mr. Redfern?” Holmes asked.
“How could you doubt it? I’m not native to London, however, but I’ve been here a while. And I’ll remain until I’ve done what I came here to do.”
“And that is?” I asked.
He looked up from his pad. “To sell my paintings, naturally. What else?”
I coughed to attract Holmes’ attention.
“Your friend seems to have rather a nasty chest. Or is there something on your mind, Doctor?”
“You said … you said that Mr. Milhause dealt with the sale of your works. And I would not have imagined that a true artistic soul would be interested in such vulgar matters.”
“I don’t play any part in the sales — I couldn’t even tell you where they’re sold. But as a professional writer, you must know that any artist who says they’re not interested in public acceptance is a liar. That’s what it’s all about. And money, of course. Only the air is free, gentlemen, and I have some doubts as to its quality.”
“Dr. Watson likes to say that my pipe does little to add to the city’s atmosphere.”
“Another persuasive argument in favor of my giving up the cigarettes.” Redfern dropped the pad at his feet,