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

‘Who might you be?’ he asked, making no attempt to get out of our way.

‘We are the Metropolitan Police,’ answered Lestrade in his best official manner, showing his card to the other man, who took it and examined it closely for a moment. ‘And who are you, if I might ask?’

‘My name is Sherwood. I’m a doctor. There’s a woman in there in a pretty poor state, Inspector. Apparently some roughs broke in during the night or early this morning and beat her very badly. They’d tied her maid up, but she eventually managed to free herself and come for me. I was going to report the matter at the local police station, but seeing as you’re here, I’d be obliged if you’d deal with that side of it for me.’

‘I certainly will,’ said Lestrade. ‘Are any bones broken?’

‘No, luckily for her; but she’s badly bruised. I’ve done what I can for her and I’ll call back later.’

Dr Sherwood went on his way and a few moments later we were admitted to the house and conducted up to Mrs Cosgrove’s bed-chamber. She was sitting up in bed, reclining on a mound of cushions. Her face was a mass of bruises, one eye being almost completely closed by the swelling about it, there was a dressing on her neck and one of her arms was heavily bandaged up. Lestrade introduced himself, but her eyes wandered past him to Sherlock Holmes, whom she evidently recognised.

‘You were at the Marchmont Gallery yesterday,’ she said to him in a weak voice.

‘Indeed,’ returned Holmes. ‘We were endeavouring to solve a little mystery involving two paintings formerly in the possession of your late husband. It is his brother, Albert Cosgrove who has done this to you, I take it.’

Mrs Cosgrove hesitated a moment, then nodded her head in silence.

‘I had the impression when we spoke yesterday,’ continued Holmes in a soft tone, ‘that you were holding something back, something you did not wish us to know.’

‘You are correct,’ said she. ‘But the chief thing I did not wish you to know is what I never wish anyone to know, that my husband’s brother is a vicious criminal who has spent some years in Dartmoor Prison. Such information would scarcely be a welcome addition to the genteel conversation of a Bond Street picture gallery.’

‘I think there was also something else, more particular to our enquiry.’

‘Yes. I was about to tell you. Albert Cosgrove came to see me shortly after his release from prison and asked me specifically about those paintings you were interested in, The Tomb on the Hill . I told him I had sold them, at which he cried out angrily.

‘“You had no right to sell them,” he shouted in a violent rage. “Henry said that they were for me.”

‘“I did not know that,” I said. “Henry never told me.”

‘Eventually I managed to convince him that I was speaking the truth, but he forced me to tell him where I had sold them and to whom. I told him I did not know the purchasers, that he would have to enquire at the Marchmont Gallery. I assume he did so, but I know no more about that than you.’

‘Now,’ said Holmes, ‘if you would cast your mind back a dozen years: did your brother-in-law call at your house shortly before he was arrested?’

Mrs Cosgrove nodded. ‘He came late one night. Henry hadn’t seen anything of him for several months. They sat talking for a long time in the study. What passed between them, I don’t know. Eventually Albert left by the back way, about midnight. I said to my husband “Whatever you and Albert were talking about, I don’t want to know.”

‘“Good,” said he, “because I wasn’t going to tell you.”

‘“Why do you have anything to do with him?” I asked.

‘“I don’t want to,” said Henry, who, I could see, was very agitated about something, “but he’s my own flesh and blood and I can’t turn him away.”

‘The very next day, I believe, Albert was arrested, down Limehouse way. Henry never mentioned him again and nor did I. Of course, I read the newspapers, like everyone else, and I heard that the Bellecourt diamonds had never been found and wondered once or twice if my husband knew anything about them. But he never mentioned the matter and I never asked him about it.’

‘And the events of this morning?’ asked Holmes.

‘I was awakened suddenly some time before five, to find a candle lit in my bedroom and a man standing there with a knife in his hand. I opened my mouth to scream, but he clamped his free hand over my mouth and pushed the knife into my neck, and I saw then it was Albert Cosgrove. He said if I let out a sound he would slit my throat. He said he had followed Henry’s instructions, to find something that belonged to him, but had found nothing there. I told him if he meant the diamonds, I didn’t know anything about them, but he wouldn’t believe me and I got a blow for my troubles.

‘He asked me if I knew Billy Padgett and I said I didn’t. “He’s a police spy,” he said, “but he won’t spy no more. I dealt with him last night good and proper. Now, if you don’t tell me where you’ve hidden the diamonds, I’m going to throttle you like I throttled Billy Padgett and then I’ll find them anyway, so you may as well tell me now.” His tone was one of evil menace and I knew he meant what he said, but, of course, I couldn’t tell him because I simply didn’t know.

‘I pleaded with him, begged him to spare me, and told him over and over again that I knew nothing about the diamonds, but every response I made to his questions brought only more blows, as he hit me, again and again, more viciously each time. At length he paused and I could see that he was thinking about something. I had the impression that he had had a fresh idea, but he didn’t say anything about it to me. He gave me one last blow which knocked me down and I knew no more. When I came to my senses, I was lying on the floor, the room was empty and the house was in complete silence. He had gone.’

‘The unspeakable brute,’ I said, as we were leaving the house.

‘Don’t you worry, Dr Watson,’ said Lestrade. ‘We’ll get him and he’ll pay for what he’s done to that poor woman. But where he might be right now is anyone’s guess.’

‘I think I know where he might be,’ said Holmes, ‘and where the diamonds are, too.’

‘Where?’ cried Lestrade in surprise.

‘In Philips’s cottage on Barnes Common. We must make all haste to get down there.’

‘What makes you think that Philips knows anything about the diamonds?’ I asked.

‘It’s partly a matter of elimination, Watson: Albert Cosgrove clearly hasn’t got them, his sister-in-law hasn’t got them, the proprietor of the Marchmont Gallery would have had no reason to suspect that there was anything special about the paintings until Albert Cosgrove came enquiring after them, by which time they’d already been sold. That only leaves Philips. He’s not stupid and probably realised there was something odd afoot when Henry Cosgrove supplied him with those eccentric tomb inscriptions in place of the original conventional epitaph, and with the specific instructions about the number of animals to be included. And if his suspicions weren’t already aroused, they surely would have been when Cosgrove later insisted that all these instructions be returned to him.

‘When we spoke to him, Philips claimed that he couldn’t remember any details of Cosgrove’s instructions, but that doesn’t really ring true. Cosgrove would not have simply requested “more rabbits” or “more ducks”, but must have specified a precise number, in order for the cipher to work properly, and Philips would surely have remembered Cosgrove’s precision on the point, even if he couldn’t remember the exact number requested. I was also struck by the way Philips avoided mentioning Henry Cosgrove’s name, as if to ensure we made no connection between “the solicitor”, as he referred to him, and the notorious jewel thief – which of course suggests that Philips himself was aware of the connection. Then there is the notable fact that Philips appears to be living comfortably enough and is, indeed, about to move from what are probably relatively cheap premises to a much more fashionable and therefore more expensive address in Chelsea, despite appearing to have no work.’