Anthony Horowitz - The House of Silk

Wiggins snapped a command and, with a great deal of noise and bustle, our unofficial police force marched out, watched by a hawk-eyed Mrs Hudson who would spend the rest of the morning counting the cutlery. As soon as they had gone, Holmes clapped his hands and sank into a chair.

‘Well, Watson,’ he proclaimed. ‘What do you make of that?’

‘You seem to have every confidence that we will find O’Donaghue,’ I said.

‘I am fairly certain that we will locate the man who broke into Ridgeway Hall,’ he replied.

‘Do you not think that Lestrade will also be enquiring at the pawnbrokers?’

‘I somehow doubt it. It is so obvious that it will not have crossed his mind. However, we have the whole day ahead of us and nothing to fill it so, since I have missed breakfast, let’s take lunch together at Le Cafe´ de l’Europe beside the Haymarket Theatre. Despite the name, the food is English and first rate. After that, I have it in mind to visit the gallery of Carstairs and Finch in Albemarle Street. It might be interesting to acquaint ourselves with Mr Tobias Finch. Mrs Hudson, should Wiggins return, you might direct him there. But now, Watson, you must tell me what you thought of The Martyrdom of Man . I see that you have finally finished it.’

I glanced at the book which was lying innocuously on its side. ‘Holmes…?’

‘You have been using a cigarette card as a bookmark. I have watched its tortuous progress from the first page to the last and I see it is now lying on the table, finally released from its labours. I will be interested to hear your conclusions. Some tea, perhaps, Mrs Hudson, if you will be so kind?’

We left the house and strolled down to the Haymarket. The fog had lifted and, although still very cold, it was another brilliant day with crowds of people pouring in and out of the department stores and street sellers wheeling their barrows and calling out their wares. At Wimpole Street a great throng had gathered round an organ grinder, an old Italian playing some mournful Neapolitan tune which had also drawn in an assortment of shammers who moved among the spectators, relating their pitiful stories to anyone who would listen. There was barely a corner that did not have a street performer and, for once, nobody was inclined to move them on. We ate at Le Cafe´ de l’Europe where we were served an excellent raised game pie and Holmes was in an effusive mood. He did not speak of the case, at least, not directly, but I remember him musing on the nature of pictorial art and its possible use in the solving of crime.

‘You remember Carstairs telling us of the four lost Constables,’ he said. ‘They were views of the Lake District painted at the start of the century when, apparently, the artist was sombre and depressed. The oils on the canvas, therefore, become a clue to his psychology and it follows that if a man chooses to hang such a work on the wall of his drawing room, we may also learn a great deal about his own state of mind. Did you remark, for example, on the art on display at Ridgeway Hall?’

‘A great deal of it was French. There was a view of Brittany, another of a bridge crossing the River Seine. I thought the works very fine.’

‘You admired them but you learned nothing from them.’

‘You mean in respect of the character of Edmund Carstairs? He prefers the countryside to the city. He is drawn to the innocence of childhood. He is a man who likes to be surrounded by colour. I suppose that something of his personality could have been surmised from the pictures we saw on his walls. But then again, we cannot be sure that every piece had been chosen by Carstairs himself. His wife or his late mother could have been responsible.’

‘That is very true.’

‘And even a man who kills his wife may have a gentler side to his nature which finds expression in his choice of art. You will recall that business with the Abernetty family. Horace Abernetty had hung his walls with many fine studies of local flora, as I recall. And yet he himself was an individual of the most loathsome and thuggish sort.’

‘My own memory is that much of the fauna depicted was of the poisonous variety, since you mention it.’

‘And what of Baker Street, Holmes? Are you telling me that a visitor to your sitting room will find clues to your psychology through a contemplation of the works that hang around you?’

‘No. But they might tell you a great deal about my predecessor, for I can assure you, Watson, that there is hardly a single picture in my own lodgings which was not there when I arrived. Do you seriously imagine that I went out and purchased that portrait of Henry Ward Beecher which used to stand over your books? An admirable man by all accounts and his views on slavery and bigotry are to be recommended, but it was left behind by whomever had the room before me and I simply chose to leave it in its place.’

‘Did you not purchase the picture of General Gordon?’

‘No. But I had it mended and reframed after I accidentally fired a bullet into it. That was at the insistence of Mrs Hudson. You know, I may very well write a monograph on this subject; the use of art in matters of detection.’

‘Holmes, you insist upon seeing yourself as a machine,’ I laughed. ‘Even a masterpiece of impressionism is to you nothing more than a piece of evidence to be used in the pursuit of a crime. Perhaps an appreciation of art is what you need to humanise you. I shall insist that you accompany me on a visit to the Royal Academy.’

‘We already have the gallery of Carstairs and Finch on our agenda, Watson, and I think that will be enough. The cheeseboard, waiter. And a glass of Moselle, I think, for my friend. Port is too heavy for the afternoon.’

It was but a short distance to the gallery, and once again we strolled together. I have to say that I took immense satisfaction in these moments of quiet sociability and felt myself to be one of the luckiest men in London to have shared in the conversation which I have just described and to be walking in such a leisurely manner at the side of so great a personage as Sherlock Holmes. It was about four o’clock and the light was already fading when we arrived at the gallery which was not, in fact, in Albermarle Street itself, but in an old coaching yard just off it. Apart from a discreet sign, written in gold letters, there was little to indicate that this was a commercial enterprise. A low door led into a rather gloomy interior with two sofas, a table and a single canvas — two cows in a field painted by the Dutch artist, Paulus Potter — mounted on an easel. As we entered, we heard two men arguing in the adjoining room. One voice I recognised. It belonged to Edmund Carstairs.

‘It’s an excellent price,’ he was saying. ‘And I am certain of it, Tobias. These works are like good wine. Their value can only rise.’

‘No, no, no!’ replied the other voice in a high-pitched whine. ‘He calls them seascapes. Well, I can see the sea… but precious little else. His last show was a fiasco and now he has taken refuge in Paris where, I hear, his reputation is in rapid decline. It’s a waste of money, Edmund.’

‘Six works by Whistler—’

‘Six works we shall never be rid of!’

I was standing at the door and closed it more heavily than was strictly necessary, wishing to signal our presence to the two men inside. It had the desired effect. The conversation broke off and a moment later a thin, white-haired individual, immaculately dressed in a dark suit with a wing collar and black tie, appeared from behind a curtain. A gold chain hung across his waistcoat and a pair of pince-nez, also gold, rested at the very tip of his nose. He must have been at least sixty years old, but there was still a spring in his step and a certain nervous energy that manifested itself in his every move.