The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [53]
“But the painting was returned unharmed.”
“It had to be. That is Rupert Darlington’s problem.”
Holmes loved to throw enigmatic statements at me to catch my reaction. I had long since learned that no matter how I responded he would not impart any information he held until he thought it the appropriate moment to do so. I had no conception of what Rupert Darlington’s problem might be but I knew that should I press my friend to explain this conceit he would in some manner refuse. Therefore I tried to take our conversation in another, more positive direction, only to find it blocked by further enigma.
“What is our next move?” I asked.
“We visit ‘the dog man’,” he replied with a grin.
Within the hour we were rattling in a hansom cab eastwards across the city. I had heard Holmes give the cabbie an address in Commercial Street near the Houndsditch Road, a rundown and unsavoury part of London. He sat back in the cab, his pale, gaunt features wrapped in thought.
“Who or what is ‘the dog man’ and what is the purpose of our visit? Since you requested my company on this journey it would seem sensible to let me know its purpose,” I said tartly.
“Of course, my dear fellow,” grinned my companion, patting my arm in an avuncular fashion, “what am I thinking of, keeping you in ignorance? Well now, ‘the dog man’ is my own soubriquet for Joshua Jones whose house is over-run with the beasts. His fondness for canines has driven both his wife and children from his door. He lavishes love and attention on the various mutts he takes in, far more than he does upon his own kith and kin. However he has a great artistic talent.” Holmes leaned nearer to me, dropping his voice to a dramatic whisper. “He is one of the greatest copy artists of all time. Only the keenest of experts could tell the real ‘Mona Lisa’ from a Jones copy. I have used the fellow on a couple of occasions myself when fake works of art were required to help clear up a case. You see where he might fit into our mystery?”
“Not precisely.”
“I suspected Jones was involved in the matter yesterday morning. You may recall that when I examined the de Granville, I asked if Darlington kept a dog?”
“Yes. I do.”
“That was because through my lens I observed several dog hairs adhering to the frame – hairs of at least three different breeds. It seemed quite clear to me that the painting had at some time recently been lodged in premises where several dogs had been able to brush past the canvas. Where else could this occur but in the home of Joshua Jones?”
“Because he was copying the canvas …”
Holmes nodded.
“I see that, but why then was the real painting returned and not the copy?”
“Ah, that is the crux of the matter and I wish to test my theory out on my friend Mr Joshua Jones.”
Commercial Street was indeed an unpleasant location. The houses were shabby and down-at-heel with many having boarded windows. The cab pulled up at the end of the street and Holmes ordered the cabbie to wait for us. With some reluctance he agreed. We then made our way down this depressing thoroughfare. A group of ragged, ill-nourished children were playing a ball game in the street and ran around us with shrill cries, taking no notice of our presence, their scrawny bodies brushing against us.
“If this Jones fellow is such a succesful artist,” I said, “why does he not live in a more salubrious neighbourhood?”
“I believe he has another house in town where his wife and two children reside but she has forbidden him to bring a single dog over the threshold, so he seems quite content to stay here for most of the time with his horde of hounds. Ah, this is the one.”
We had reached number 23: a house as decrepit as the rest with a dark blue door and a rusty knocker. The curtains at the window were closed, shunning the daylight and the outside world. Holmes knocked loudly. As the sound echoed through the house it was greeted by a cacophony of wailing, yapping and barking cries as