Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(20)

“Copley, I think,” Holmes said. His eyes were wide and slightly unfocused, his usual way of drinking in the entirety of a view—usually a crime scene.

I grunted.

“Really, Watson, the National Gallery is free. If you would only spend an afternoon improving yourself—”

“What will seeing this picture do to help us?” I broke in. “A lady, some books, a view overlooking a house—it’s all quite ordinary.”

It was an unsubtle strategy, but I was eager to see him engaged in this new project. His want of diversion affected me, threatening to unbalance the equilibrium I fought to maintain. Holmes, understanding my intent precisely, scowled at me.

But he took the proffered bait—how could he resist? It was precisely to his taste.

I breathed a sigh of relief as he continued.

“If you’ll promise to spend time with the images of the great and the good, you’ll soon learn that portraits often show the sitters’ most valued possessions—books, maps of their estate, ships, family jewels. Therefore, Anna Hoyt’s hand gesturing to the window indicates her land and the source of her wealth; the map behind her suggests that she’s here in England. From the books on the table, we see she is literate; that table was new and fashionable at the time, and her dress is also quite rich. Very wealthy indeed, to judge from this picture.”

“We know she’s wealthy, because she left a fortune,” I retorted. Sometimes Holmes took the long way round to a point.

“We also know she’s wealthy because she had this portrait made,” he said, with some asperity, “and had it done by a very sought-after artist. She knew people, Watson, and knew how to move through society—if she was able to elevate herself from running a tavern to traveling in these circles.”

“Wait—Holmes!” An inspiration took me. “The house she’s pointing to! Might that not be the location of the inheritance?”

He smiled absently. “It seems almost too obvious, does it not? But we must not count the house out, though we do not yet know its whereabouts. No, Watson, the thing that is puzzling me is that we see this English house—not her ships. Far more traditional either to show the ships themselves, as her main business, or the expensive goods she traded. No, this is odd . . .”

I turned to examine the picture. “That chatelaine-thingummy she’s wearing is entirely too bulky for that dress. She should have fine little sewing implements or a locket or vinaigrette hanging from that hook, all in silver or gold. Not that heavy bunch of keys and such.”

Holmes looked up. “What—thingummy?”

“The chatelaine—that hook at her waist?” And then I could not resist. “Honestly Holmes, there was a new embroidery pattern for a chatelaine purse in the Ladies’ New Journal just last number, I, er, happen to know. If you’d only spend an hour or two educating yourself with the popular press, you would learn a great deal.”

“No, no, I know what it is. Watson, it’s your eye for the ladies that has once again proved so useful, as well as your—”

My pistol, my ability to stitch a wound, or my sangfroid? I wondered which he’d choose. My companionship, my fists? My contributions to our living situation?

“—your proclivity for reading Mrs. Hudson’s periodicals. You are quite right: the woman who would wear that dress, and be painted by Copley, would not wear an ornament so out of place. I had attributed it to a quirk of colonial taste. But it is a clue.”

I sighed. But he put his hand absently on my shoulder; I knew that gesture was all I should expect, in terms of a compliment, and took it as such.

We turned back to Mr. Deering. “Has anyone else been here to see this, apart from Mr. Sewall?”

“Just the other young gentleman,” he said. “Sent by Mr. Sewall.”

“But we are surely his sole representatives?” I said to Holmes.

“No, this was the paintings expert,” Mr. Deering explained. “Or rather, Mr. Attenborough’s son.”

“Mr. Earnest Attenborough?” came the incredulous response from Holmes.

“His son,” repeated the lawyer, who seemed to have no idea of the effect he’d just had on Holmes. “Said that his father was ill and confined to the house, and he was to make a sketch and bring it back to him. I was surprised by this, but Attenborough junior certainly knew what he was talking about and made an excellent copy, quickly, in crayon.”

Holmes and I shared a look. “Can you describe this young man?”

Mr. Deering finally understood that something was wrong. A sheen of sweat broke out on his bald pate. “Yes. He was well dressed, quiet, stout, red-haired. One of those soft, studious fellows. I was hoping to hear from Attenborough today—by now in fact.”

“You will not.”

I looked up from the portrait. “Holmes?”

“Attenborough has no children,” Holmes said. “The young man probably forged that letter, and was sent to copy the painting for an interested party. Which means that you are in danger, Mr. Deering, for I am convinced there is wickedness at work. Send a message to Scotland Yard, tell them I said to post a guard of their least inept constables. You must make certain no one else who hasn’t the right sees this painting.”

“I will, I will!”

Holmes turned to me. “Watson, we need reinforcements.”