The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [50]
Our visitor beamed. “I do hope so.”
“Watson and I will call around tomorrow morning to examine the scene of the crime and see if we can glean some suggestive facts.”
“Won’t you come now, gentlemen?”
Holmes yawned and stretched. “It is late, Lord Darlington. There is no danger in waiting for a new day before commencing our investigation. Shall we say at ten o’clock tomorrow morning? Watson will show you out.”
When I returned, my friend was standing by the fireplace lighting up his pipe with a cinder from the grate clamped in the coal tongs. “You treated your new client in a rather cavalier fashion, Holmes,” I said.
His head was momentarily enveloped in a cloud of grey smoke. When it cleared, I could see that he was smiling. “I object to being treated like a pet dog who will fetch and carry at the owner’s whim. The privileged classes all too often forget the niceties of please and thank you. On this occasion it satisfied me to exercise my perogative to act when I saw fit.” He threw himself down in his chair. “Besides, it is a straightforward matter and I’m sure that we shall clear it up within the next twenty-four hours.”
In this instance, Sherlock Holmes was wrong. The disappearance of Lord Darlington’s painting turned out to be far from a straightforward matter.
The following morning we arrived as arranged at Lord Darlington’s Mayfair town house a few minutes after ten. We were shown into the drawing room where his lordship greeted us in a most jovial manner. His demeanour was quite different from that of the night before. He introduced us to his wife, Sarah, a small, blonde-haired woman of about the same age as her husband. She seemed nervous in our company and soon made an excuse to leave us to our “business”.
“I am sorry to have troubled you last night, Mr Holmes,” said his Lordship, “and it was remiss of me not to wire you this morning to save you a wasted journey. Nevertheless I am happy to pay whatever fees you deem appropriate for the services rendered.”
“Indeed. Then the painting has reappeared.”
“Yes. It is wonderful. I went into the gallery this morning and almost out of habit I pulled back the curtain and the de Granville was back in place as though it had never been missing.”
“But it was missing yesterday,” said my friend sternly, not sharing his client’s glee.
“Yes, yes, it must have been, but that hardly matters now.”
“I would beg to differ,” snapped Holmes.
“You are sure that it is the genuine article?” I asked.
Lord Darlington looked puzzled for a moment. “Why, yes,” he said slowly, with faltering conviction.
“What my friend is suggesting,” said Holmes, “is that it is possible that the thief who stole the painting may well have replaced it with a very good copy, unaware that you knew of its disappearance. You were due to be in France when you discovered its loss, were you not?”
“Why, yes, but …”
“Come, come, Lord Darlington. There has been a theft. There must have been a reason for it. You cannot disregard the felony just because your painting has been returned to you.”
Some of the sparkle left our client’s eyes and he sat down on the sofa. “I suppose you are right. However, I am convinced that the picture resting in my gallery at this moment is the genuine article, but I will contact my friend Hillary Stallybrass, the art expert at the Royal Academy who verified the painting originally, to confirm my belief.”
“You would be wise to …”
Holmes was cut short by the sudden entrance into the room of a tall young man with wavy blond hair and young, eager eyes. “Father, I must …” he cried and then on seeing us he faltered.
“Not now, Rupert. I am sure whatever it is you wish to see me about can wait.”
The young man hesitated, uncertain whether to heed his father’s injunction or proceed. His mouth tightened into a petulant grimace and he turned