Denis Smith - The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

He took us through to another room, which was as much of an Aladdin’s Cave as Mr Dryson’s drawing-room. Propped up on a chair was The Tomb on the Hill and Dryson at once bent to examine it. ‘Yes, this is undoubtedly my version,’ he said at length.

‘Well, you are welcome to it, I am sure,’ said Tacolstone with a merry chuckle. ‘The tomb inscription on this one is even poorer than the one on my copy and this one also lacks the odd little fountain in the distance.’

‘That is true,’ said Dryson, laughing, ‘but at least this one is not quite so infested with rabbits as your copy!’

Holmes made a brief examination of the picture, including the back, which he indicated to me had been removed and replaced just as the other one had, then for some time he stood in silent thought, as the two art collectors joked about the relative merits of their pictures. ‘I think,’ said he at length, interrupting the flow of their humour, ‘that there is more to this singular business than any of us can know at present. What I propose is that you bring your pictures round to my chambers at six o’clock this evening and leave them with me for twenty-four hours so that I can examine them together more carefully. After that, each can be returned to its rightful owner.’

Both men readily agreed to this proposal and we left them in a jocular discussion of their hobby, their laughter ringing in our ears as we made our way up to the King’s Road.

‘Do you intend to go to see Inspector Lestrade?’ I asked, as we looked for a cab.

‘Later,’ returned my companion. ‘First I should like to have a word with the creator of these singular pictures, Andrew Philips, who may be able to tell us a little more about how they came to be commissioned. Would you care to come?’

‘Most definitely,’ I replied. ‘I am keen to get to the bottom of the mystery!’

We took a cab across Putney Bridge and along the road towards Richmond, alighting some forty minutes later at Barnes station. It was a surprisingly wild and untamed spot, considering its proximity to London. I could see that in the summer months the heath must have presented a very attractive appearance, but now the bare, leafless trees and marshy ground had a desolate, woebegone look, which was not improved by the wraiths of fog that drifted this way and that with every slight movement of the chilly air. For some time we tramped over muddy tracks from one narrow road to another without seeing any sign of life, until rounding a bend we came upon a small cottage, standing in isolation by the side of the road. Our knock at the door was answered by an unkempt and unshaven young man with a small tumbler in his hand. Bluntly, in a slurred voice, he asked us what we wanted.

‘You are Andrew Philips?’ asked Holmes.

‘What if I am?’

‘We wish to discuss your paintings with you.’

‘I am not in the discussing vein this morning.’

‘It will only take a few moments of your time,’ Holmes persisted, ‘and you might be able to help us solve a little mystery.’

‘Oh, very well,’ said the young man in a grudging tone. ‘Come in and make yourselves at home.’

We followed him into the cottage and through to a large room at the back, which was clearly his studio. A couple of easels stood in the centre of the room, although there was nothing on them, and paintbrushes, rags and tubes of paint were scattered about everywhere. Along the back wall of the room, a broad row of windows looked out across the common.

‘Now,’ said Philips, re-filling his glass from a bottle of whisky. ‘What do you want? Do you want a tot of this? No? Well, what do you want, then? The Tomb on the Hill ?’ he repeated in a bored tone, as Holmes explained the purpose of our visit. ‘I don’t remember anything about it – well, perhaps I do: Colonel Sir Spedding Eldersly came home to England about a hundred years ago after a distinguished military career abroad and stipulated that when he died he shouldn’t be buried in the church, but at the very edge of the churchyard, overlooking his estates. So he was. Then, a hundred years later, some esteemed descendant of his decided he’d like a painting of the tomb and the view beyond it, and asked me to do it. So I did. It was quite a decent painting, if I say so myself, and it was accepted for the Royal Academy exhibition that year before disappearing off up to Yorkshire, which is where the Eldersly estates are. There. Is that it?’

‘Someone saw it at the exhibition and asked if he might have a copy,’ Holmes prompted.

‘Oh, him! Some solicitor wanted a copy, Eldersly didn’t mind and I needed the money, so that was that.’

‘But there were two copies made, I believe.’

‘So there were. He came to see me when I was halfway through it and said he’d like a second copy. I didn’t mind. It was a bit boring for me, but the money was good, so I did it.’

‘There were some differences between the two paintings, I think.’

‘That’s true. All three of them were different, in various little ways. “Can I have more rabbits in this one?” he said, and “Can I have more ducks in that one?” Of course, I didn’t care. He could have had six pink elephants in one of them if he’d wanted it. “He who pays the piper calls the tune”, as they say.’

‘And the inscriptions on the tomb?’

‘Yes, he was very particular about those. Load of humbug, really. They didn’t make much sense. Think he fancied himself as something of a poet. If he’d asked my opinion, I’d have told him to stick to the law.’

‘Have you a record of the inscriptions?’

‘I might have,’ Philips replied, springing abruptly to his feet. He yanked open a door at the side of the room, revealing a narrow, twisting staircase. Up this his feet clattered, we heard him moving about upstairs for a few moments, then he clattered back down again with a small note-book in his hand. ‘I’ve got the original inscription here somewhere,’ he said, turning over the pages. ‘Yes, here we are. I copied it off the tomb on the Eldersly estate. I spent a couple of weeks up in Yorkshire and then brought the picture back here to finish it off, which also gave me a better chance of entering it in the Royal Academy exhibition.’

He passed the open book across to us and I read the following:

‘Do you have a record of the tomb inscriptions for the other two pictures?’ asked Holmes.

Philips shook his head. ‘The solicitor had written them out for me, along with a lot of other instructions, but he told me to make sure I brought all the papers back with me when I took the finished pictures to his house in Bethnal Green. I don’t know why he was so fussy about it. Perhaps he was embarrassed at how miserably poor his attempts at poetry were. I know I would have been!’

We thanked him for the information he had provided and he showed us to the door. ‘You’re lucky you’ve found me here,’ he said. ‘I won’t be here much longer. My lease on this old ruin runs out in two weeks and I’m moving somewhere a little more fashionable – Sydney Street in Chelsea, to be precise. I used to think that landscapes were the thing, but they’ve gone right out of fashion, I’m afraid. Society portraits is the field to be in now, so that’s where I’m going – painting flattering pictures of the rich and famous – or those who’d like to be.’

‘Best of luck with that, then,’ said Holmes with a chuckle.

‘We don’t yet seem to have discovered anything of significance,’ I remarked to my companion as we waited for a train on the platform of Barnes station.