Fic for capt_facepalm: Masterpiece, PG
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acdholmesfestTitle: Masterpiece
Recipient:capt_facepalm
Author:capt_facepalm - and Happy April Fools Day to all!
Beta: [redacted]
Rating: PG
Characters: Holmes and Watson and Lestrade (and Mrs Hudson cameo)
Summary: A rambling casefic featuring Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson
Warning: History, art history, architecture and generous creative license
Bonus Warnings: Not British; not Brit-picked; not even close; written in a huge rush
Word Count: 9000 - go pour yourself a drink
Author's Notes:
Terms in common usage in this work include:
The Academy – refers to the Royal Academy of the Arts, Somerset House
The Gallery – refers to the National Gallery, at the time of this setting, recently opened in Trafalgar Sq.
The Museum – refers to the British Museum, Bloomsbury, near The University
The Times – refers to the Times of London, a reputable newspaper
The University – refers to University College of the University of London
Historical Personages:
Turner – John Mallord William Turner, the famous British artist
Ruskin – John Ruskin, an art critic at the forefront of promoting British artists, including Turner
Masterpiece
It was a dark and stormy night but that was usually the case in London’s late autumn. And while wind and rain dampened the city’s streets, and the lampposts offered only small islands of illumination, Mr Sherlock Holmes and I enjoyed a celebratory meal, as was our custom, at Simpsons. The successful, if not astounding, Adventure of the Egyptologiste, Her Father, and Her Mummy had been solved to everyone’s satisfaction, barring the culprits’, of course, and my friend and fellow-lodger was ebullient.
“Surely, dear boy, that is not going to be the title you publish it under,” Holmes exclaimed.
“If I publish it at all, you mean.” It had been an interesting puzzle, but even so soon after its resolution, I had my doubts as to whether the details would entertain sufficiently The Strand’s readership.
Auguste, the maître-de and a friendly acquaintance of Holmes, topped off our glasses thus draining the bottle of a fine red vintage which has perfectly complemented our meal, and the dessert to a lesser degree.
“Gentlemen, the rain shows no sign of letting up. If you wish it, I shall hail a taxi for you.”
“Merci, Auguste, that would be splendid.” Holmes replied.
A few minutes later, Auguste returned with a nod indicating that our conveyance had been secured so we retrieved our hats and coats and started for the four-wheeler. So intent on avoiding the rain, we failed to note the figure standing just outside the prestigious establishment.
“Mr. Holmes, a word please!” called out the familiar voice of Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.
Lestrade was not one to consult my friend on frivolities and something in his demeanour told us that we were in for a long night. We all piled into the taxi.
“Perhaps we should head directly to the morgue, Mr. Holmes. There’s been a body found.”
“Bodies being found in London is commonplace enough so I deduce there must be some extraordinary facets to this one.”
“Indeed, Mr. Holmes, he was found in the Thames at low tide and he had been decapitated. No sign of the head, so far. Perhaps he shouldn’t be seen on a full stomach.”
Holmes tapped the taxi’s ceiling and told the driver to change course for the city morgue. I sighed inwardly. Yet another poor wretch adding to the misery of the world.
***
The morgue was located in the bowels of the Charing Cross Hospital near Trafalgar Square. Regrettably, we were all too familiar with its chill and dim recesses, and we kept our voices low out of respect rather than necessity: the inhabitants here could no longer be disturbed by earthy concerns.
“Here he is,” Lestrade gestured to a sheet-covered figure on the far table. “They will do an autopsy in the morning and I thought you might want to have a look now, you know, before they—”
“Destroy all the surface evidence, yes. I assume you will want to identify the victim and you are concerned that he may be someone of consequence.”
“Indeed! How did you guess?”
“I never guess, Lestrade. Although you would be dismayed by any unfortunate death, you would not be so concerned about a vagrant or a common labourer as to summon me. Remove the sheet and bring the lamps. Doctor, your observations will be an asset if you would be so kind.”
And so the night proceeded: Holmes examining the corpse with his lens, Lestrade adjusting the lamps as requested, and I jotting down the salient details Holmes wished recorded and supplying what medical commentary as was relevant. Truly, my experience would be more helpful at the autopsy stage, but I was not likely to be asked to assist the Police Surgeons, and that was fine with me.
The victim was in his late twenties or early thirties and of average height, assuming that his missing head was proportional. His physique was lean and lacking the musculature of those involved with heavy labour. He bore no distinguishing marks or tattoos. His bare, headless body had been found in the river by a bargeman that afternoon. Constables summoned to the scene had ‘Headless Harry’, their sobriquet for him, transported to the morgue. Inspector Lestrade had been on duty at the time.
Other than the obvious severing of the head, messily done with a less-than-sharp blade, we found only one other post-mortem wound, likely caused by a barge pole or some other implement used to retrieve him from the river. In life, ‘Harry’ would have been of pale complexion, perhaps prone to sunburn, and had some variation of brown hair. His feet indicated he was used to walking and wearing well-fitting footwear. Holmes took particular interest in the hands which were well-manicured and were speckled with what appeared to be pale yellow paint, more so on the right than the left. I took up the lens to see if there was anything further of interest and noted the lack of tan lines about his wrists.
“Your thoughts, Doctor?” asked Holmes.
I shook my head. “Someone like him will be missed. Do you plan to advertise?” I asked Lestrade.
“Not immediately. I’ll wait to see if anyone comes asking after missing persons.”
Holmes nodded and returned to his observations and I gladly took to the stool Lestrade had offered me. It was nearly 2 am when I barely stifled my latest yawn and checked my chronometer; too early to find a taxi, and the weather was too foul to walk to Baker St.
Lestrade looked at me with evident concern. “If you’re done here, Mr. Holmes, I think we had better adjourn upstairs to the orderlies’ room. I’m sure they can spare us some coffee.”
“I will take scrapings from under his fingernails and some of these paint flecks too. I’ll let the Police Surgeon know if I find anything.”
“As you wish. I know for a fact that Harry’s identification will not be Dr. Phillips’ priority. He will only concern himself with the cause of death and all the gory bits inside.”
***
Once the city woke the next morning, Holmes and I took a cab back to Baker St. My friend has the amazing ability to withstand the draw of Morpheus whenever his minds is engaged in intellectual pursuits and while I could barely keep my eyes open long enough to climb the additional steps to my bed chamber, Holmes began arranging his philosophical instruments at his chemical table. It had gone past noon when I woke once more. Not willing to face the day without a wash and a shave, I performed my regular ablutions before heading down to the sitting room.
“Ah, Watson,” Holmes greeted me. “I trust you are well-rested. There was nothing of interest in the fingernail scrapings but I have successfully analyzed those paint flecks. Take a look and tell me what you see.”
When I peered through the microscope at the slide Holmes had prepared, I saw several flecks of different shades of light yellow.
“He wasn’t a colorman, surely; not with the uneven mixing of paint?”
“Close, Watson, he was most likely an artist. The paint is linseed oil-based.”
“Oh well, knowing that, identifying him should be easier. There cannot be too many missing artists. Do you have any contacts in those circles?’
“Sadly, no. Although my family had some artistic connections in the past, the present generation has been more concerned with affairs of state, science, and criminology. I have sent my deductions in a note to Lestrade. Perhaps he will join us later once the autopsy report is complete.”
We spent the rest of the afternoon at home. Holmes continued with his microscope while I read the newspapers in the futile quest to spot anything concerning London’s artistic community. Inspector Lestrade did not make an appearance in person but a messenger showed up in the evening, bearing a copy of Dr. Phillips’ results.
Harry’s stomach had been empty to the point that Dr. Phillips concluded he had not eaten in at least two days. His liver showed signs of deterioration usually associated with people in the early stages of alcoholism, water in the lungs was consistent with that of the Thames, but lungs themselves showed none of the signs usually associated with drowning. As Holmes had noted earlier, the head had been severed, with the softer tissues unevenly cut with an undetermined type of blade, and the remaining skull twisted from the vertibrae.
“Did you note his knees?” Holmes asked. I indicated that I had not. “Don’t feel bad, old man. I missed it too. Dr. Phillips says they were heavily callused, likely from constant kneeling. What does that suggest to you?”
“Kneeling and fasting? Perhaps our man was a devout follower of some faith.”
“He was not circumcised, so I believe we can rule out Judaism.”
“That’s not much to go on, Holmes. I fear we will just have to wait to see if anyone reports his absence to the police.”
“I am loath to have to wait but I agree. In the meantime, we can entertain ourselves with the agony columns.”
***
Days passed without any news from Lestrade, nor was there any clue to be found in the private advertisements in the papers. Once Harry had been buried in a pauper’s grave, Holmes’s interest became focused on other things; primarily a cryptic crossword puzzle containing a hidden message which had nothing whatsoever to do with Harry’s identity.
“Blast! It’s just a mundane hidden love poem from the crossword’s creator to his lover.”
“Ever the romantic, wot, Holmes?” I chuckled.
“Unless the fool is secretly a woman, and I for a fact he is not, the lover he is entreating is another man.”
“Foolhardy and dangerous. Surely the puzzle will be solved by many.”
“The puzzle, yes. Far fewer will have also decrypted the message.” Holmes fixed me with one of those glares. For my own part, I did not feel up to a battle of wits with London’s finest intellectual mind so I let the matter go.
***
I am all for solving a mystery, but “Headless Harry” was an obscurity. One night I happened to mention this to some of my fellows at my club. I asked my comrades if any of them had any ties to either the artistic community or to the Church, but the circles they travelled in yielded no close connections. There was Portland Street in Soho where a number of artists might be found, and any clergyman could, in theory, be approached to answer questions. I decided to bring the matter to Holmes the next day to see if he was interested in pursuing any of these avenues. Billiards and whisky occupied the rest of my evening.
By the time I roused myself the next morning, Holmes had already left our flat, leaving no word or note to his destination or to when he might return, so it was in the evening that I managed to discuss Harry’s case with him.
“Watson,” he sighed. “We might have to let this one go. There has been no lead from any front. Lestrade has been conspicuously silent, probably more from embarrassment, than from industry, but since I have no new case to inspire me, and since you are at loose ends, we may as well visit Portland St. and ask a few questions.”
And so, it was the next morning when Sherlock Holmes and I hailed a hansom to Soho. Portland St. was lined with a great variety of small shops servicing the mundane needs of the local residents. There were pawn shops, milliners, a very seedy pub called “The Mutineer”, and other small businesses. Since this was also an artists’ quarter, colorful watercolors, sketches, and oil paintings were on display outside several ateliers.
I entered one establishment, Vole & Ferretti – Tobacconists, in order to purchase some cigarettes, leaving Holmes to make discreet inquiries amongst the street vendors. Suddenly a great commotion could be heard in the street and I left the shop without concluding my transaction. To my mild surprise, and imminent relief, the affray did not involve my friend, who stood in another doorway with an amused look on his face, but was a row between two screeching women. Most of the onlookers were happy to stand by and watch the proceedings but I stepped in, trying to separate the two hellcats before they could seriously harm one another. A stray elbow caught me in the eye and I confess to losing any charitable thoughts I once held as I hauled one combatant away from the other who was being likewise constrained. The rapid, heavy footfalls heralded the arrival of the police.
“What’s all this, then?” wheezed Hunter, the elder of the two constables.
The two women resumed their heated exchange.
“One at a time, if you please!” roared the other, one Constable Clarke, who Holmes and I happened to know.
The petite blonde spat, and with language I have rarely heard outside the army, and which I am certainly not going to repeat here, accused the other of being a whore and allowing her husband to hide away and therefore not pay his child’s maintenance money to her.
The unnatural redhead responded with equal fury, that she was a model and not a prostitute, and she did not know where the man in question might be. She also added that he should not have to pay support for a child which was clearly not his. I followed her glare which indicated a runny-nosed boy of about three years with dark curls and, upset by the fight, tears in his dark brown eyes, now clinging to the blonde. Thankfully, the child was too young to understand her meaning.
“You would do well to summon Inspector Lestrade,” Holmes advised Constable Clarke. “If I am not very much mistaken, this may pertain to one of his cases.”
***
Inspector Lestrade arrived within one half hour and by that time the women’s tempers had cooled somewhat. Each, in turn, had answered his queries and by the end of their questioning, as Holmes had suspected, Lestrade and I were also certain we had discovered Harry’s true identity. We were all careful to not reveal that was a dead body behind our investigations and everyone thought we were being overly concerned about a fight between two low women over some unfaithful blighter.
Daisy Lefranc, the blonde, had been looking for her estranged husband, Gerry Lefranc, a painter of portraits, for over a fortnight. He owed her money for the care of their son. Moira, the redhead, who often posed for Lefranc, swore that she did not know his whereabouts and that he too owed her money for a sitting fee.
“Sitting fee!?! Is that what you calls it?” shrieked Daisy, and the two once again had to be forcibly separated.
Lestrade once again took control and continued his questioning, assisted by Holmes asking for clarification of some detail or other from time to time. The two women’s description of Gerry Lefranc fit Headless Harry. He had last been seen nearly three weeks ago and had not displayed any behavior that caused either woman to question. Gerry, who was actually called Gervais, was originally from Paris and had come to London to paint portraits. He had married Daisy, who also modelled for him, some years ago when she became pregnant. Apparently he had not been loyal to her and had been sexually (if not romantically) linked to several women, the latest of which was Moira, and because divorce was not an option, they were estranged. Moira said that Lefranc knew he was not the father of Daisy’s son, Benno, and that Daisy was as promiscuous as he is.
Moira directed us to Lefranc’s studio, located on the upper storey of a building off Portland St. Its size was considerable considering Lefranc’s relative obscurity. A half dozen newly-completed portraits hung about the walls while two others, still in the final stages of finishing sat on easels. His finished works were mostly of children; one of which was of Benno. Paint on the artist’s palette had hardened on the surface although thicker blobs still held liquid paints within. Lefranc had a good eye for expression which imbued his portrait subjects with warmth and liveliness. One of the unfinished portraits was of a man, who Holmes declared was a professor of mathematics by the cut of his clothes and the items in the background. The other was of an elderly woman with a cat of whom she was particularly fond.
“When was the last anyone saw this Lefranc?” asked Lestrade who only received vague responses. Neither of the women had seen him in the past week and neither could put an actual date to the last time they had. “Well, ladies, the police are now involved. We will keep an eye out for your man, but you must cease your brawling, or the next time you can cool off in Pentonville!”
Both replied with mumbled thanks and refused to look at each other.
“We will need a description. What does he look like?”
“That’s him,” said Moira, pointing to one of the finished works. “Well, his self-portrait at any rate.”
The painting depicted a young man at an easel painting. His unkempt hair was a reddish-brown and his eyes were the same blue-ish grey as the clouds in the stormy seascape in progress. He had regular features and his face seemed to express his contentment in his craft. This handsome rogue could very well be our Harry.
“He speaks English good,” added Daisy. “But you will still hear the French in ‘im.”
There was no food in the larder save a bottle of wine, half of which was gone. One sniff of the remainder told Holmes that it had been uncorked some time ago. The living quarters were divided from the rest of the studio by movable screens, and contained a poorly-made bed, and sparse yet serviceable furnishings. The floor could have used a good sweeping, but otherwise, all was well-kept.
“How could Monsieur Lefranc afford such a studio, even in Soho?”
“ ‘E couldn’t,” said Daisy. “It belongs to ‘is sponsor, some toff with the Museum. Brought Gerry over from Paris and set ‘im up here. I suppose ‘e gets some referrals. Gerry’s work’s not ‘alf bad, as you can see.”
“This sponsor, do you recall his name?” asked Holmes with all the innocence he could muster to disguise his intense interest.
“Don’t know if I ever knew it,” replied Daisy. “Must be rich, tho – he supports some others too: Mitchell from the next street over and Duguid the carver in Spitalfields, are the one I know of. There may be more.”
“Does Lefranc have any known enemies? Someone who he would need to hide from? Creditors, perhaps?” asked Lestrade.
“Enemies, no, not our Gerry” said Moira. “He owed money to lots of people, and was slow to pay, but he usually came through in the end. Money’s been tight lately and he’s been angry that he had to take a job for wages and not commission. I asked him about it and he all he said was he was ‘going to heaven.’ I don’t take him half serious when he’s been drinking.”
“Does he ever get violent?”
“No, he’s not an angry drunk… more of a piss himself giggling and fall asleep type.”
Lestrade look around to Holmes and myself to see if we had anything to add, and since we did not, he concluded his interviews and dismissed the two women with the reminder to leave each other alone. Constable Clarke followed, carrying the portrait.
***
“Watson, what say you to a spot of lunch before we track down this mysterious benefactor? I trust Lestrade to have his men canvas the neighborhood for sightings of Lefranc and an accounting of anyone he owed money to.”
The bread was hard and the cheese even harder at The Mutineer. Although gin was their main trade, I found my half pint of ale more than passable, and thus fortified, Holmes and I sought out Mitchell, who specialized in watercolor still life, and worked nearby.
People we spoke to assured us that we would find Mitchell in his garret on Pinnock Street and so we did. The ground floor residents told us to ascend the darkened stairwell and knock on the green door on the top landing.
“Coming! Coming!” a voice answered and as daylight flooded out from within we were greeted by an old man in his mid-fifties, balding, and wearing thick spectacles. “William Mitchell, at your service, please do come in! Excuse the mess. As you know, I am preparing for a showing.”
“I’m afraid we are not whom you expected,” said Holmes and made our formal introductions.
“Ah, that is of little matter. The gallery men should be ‘round tomorrow afternoon, and having company will make a nice change. I don’t get out much and am further loathe to do so as winter approaches.”
We were ushered into a room which was both studio on the end with the slanted windows and a parlor with rudimentary pantry near the entrance. Mr. Mitchell put the kettle on the coal stove which heated the garret and urged us to sit if we could find a flat surface. I picked up a folio and came face to face with a small tabby cat who instantly fled. Holmes removed a framed landscape from a wingback armchair and leaned it against the wall with several others.
“We are looking for Gervais Lefranc, also called Gerry. I was told you know him.”
“Oh yes,” our host replied, setting the tea to steep. “Gerry’s a good sort. He’s not in any trouble is he?”
“Not with us, he’s not. His wife is another matter. He has vanished and hasn’t left her any support. Do you have any idea where he might be?”
“He sometimes goes to the country to paint, but that’s in the spring; not at this time of the year. Do you take sugar? I’m sure this is sugar. One time it was salt! Augh, what a disaster! Help yourself to cream if you wish, but watch for the cat: sneaky little thief. Forgive my manners; my eyesight is not what it used to be.”
I volunteered to pour and serve up the tea while Holmes got on with his questions.
“Does Lefranc have any enemies? Some reason or someone he might be hiding from?”
“Gerry’s a great one for the ladies… perhaps an irate husband. Something like that happened last year but it seemed to blow over when they moved out. The woman’s name was Violet. I cannot recall her man’s name, or where they went.”
I opened the folio and perused its contents, all watercolors mostly featuring still life, but also several of a the same secluded brook.
“I hear you and Lefranc share the same sponsor, can you tell me his name?”
“Oh, that would be Mr. Roger St. Charles, you may have heard of him. Lovely man. He organized my upcoming showing.”
“Yes, his name is familiar. What is the nature of his sponsorship?”
“Mr. St. Charles is a patron of the arts. Professionally, he is a curator and on the Board at the Museum, and a member of The Academy. Privately, he finds promising artists, and supports them in various ways. For Lefranc and myself, he subsidizes our studios and arranges our shows. I do not require supplies, but some of the sculptors do, and Mr. St. Charles has connections for stone and metal. He has taken good care of me, especially now that I am less productive.”
“Does Lefranc owe you any money?”
“If you mean hard cash, then the answer is no, but he borrowed some paint brushes last year and I don’t expect he will replace them. Still, he brings a bottle of wine and some cheese from time to time and we make an evening of it. He has a good heart, even if he is a bit of a rascal. Doctor, do any of those catch your eye? They are all for sale,” he added, shyly.
“I am quite taken by this one of the scallop shell necklace,” I admitted.
“That’s one of my early works. I’ll make you a good price!”
“Won’t you miss it?”
Mr. Mitchell drew upon the thin cord around his neck which held the shell. “Not at all; I still have the original!”
***
“I have seen you haggle with more vigor, Watson,” Sherlock Holmes chided me upon our way home. My experience of markets upon three continents certainly armed my with that skill, but I felt I had paid a fair price and one that I could easily afford. I regarded my paperbound parcel with affection. I would likely pay the same amount again just for its framing.
“What next, Holmes? Shall we cherchez la femme and see if her husband still bears a grudge?”
“If you are suggesting we track down every Violet in England, I will remind you the average lifespan of the British male is only 68.39 years. I have other plans for my remaining time! No, I will give Lestrades’ troops some time to report their findings about Lefranc, and in the meantime, I will look into Mr. Roger St. Charles. We will do well to meet him, but not without knowing more about him first. Men of power and influence are not to be trusted.”
“Holmes! You don’t trust women, the rich, the poor, academics, bankers, doctors, most children—“
“I trust one doctor.”
“Remember that the next time you fall ill!”
“Touché, mon frère,” he replied with his bark of a laugh, and waved down a passing cabbie.
***
“Gerry Lefranc owed a lot of people money,” declared Inspector Lestrade as he entered our sitting room later that evening.
“Good evening to you too, Lestrade!” replied Holmes from behind the evening edition of The Times.
“Forgive my manners, Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson, but it is frustrating to follow so many blind alleys. Mr. Lefranc was in the pockets of most of his neighbors in one way or another— ”
“But nothing worth killing him over,” concluded Holmes.
“Correct. He was such a charmer, that nobody seems to bear grudges against him. What is it, Dr. Watson?”
“Could Lefranc still be alive?” I wondered aloud. “Could he have found a look-a-like and murdered him in order to escape his situation?”
“A doppelgänger? Implausible, yes; impossible, no. Lefranc seemed perfectly comfortable swimming in these waters, if you will excuse the pun. His encumbrances did not seem to slow him down. That is to say, as far as we know. I suspect that Mr. Roger St. Charles might see Lefranc in another light, if you will excuse the additional pun.”
Lestrade and I shared the look that we always shared when Holmes attempted to use humor deliberately. I saw the Inspector to the door and wished him a good night.
“The Who’s Who entry for Roger St. Charles is very light,” Holmes informed me. “ It only mentions his curator’s position at The Museum. I will have to consult other, non-conventional resources tomorrow morning. I should be back by noon, and thus forearmed, be ready to request an appointment with him. If you want to be of use, could you please visit the museum in the morning and make discreet inquiries into Mr. St. Charles’s availability?”
I gave him my assurances and retired for the night.
***
I always appreciate the opportunity to visit the great British Museum in Bloomsbury and have spent countless hours in the reading room, or admiring the great wonders collected from all over the Empire. I devoted some time to appreciating the Norse collection before continuing my assignment.
St. Charles’s museum hours were from opening to closing, Mondays through Wednesdays, and Thursday mornings. He reserved Thursday afternoons and Fridays for meetings and gallery visits away from The Museum. The young clerk who supplied me with this information also hinted that St. Charles would often meet at his country club was fond of golf.
“Very good, Watson, but considering what I have found out from my sources—”
“Professional gossip columnists!”
“Quite. One must not disregard valid data just because you do not like its source. Considering my new understanding of St. Charles, I would rather call upon him at his residence along the Serpentine. I have dispatched a boy with my calling card and a request for an interview tomorrow evening.”
“Lestrade has nothing new to add?”
“He will find no criminal activities, if that’s what you mean. Roger St. Charles has no record of dubious acts. He was born Roger Charles Tweed, and was raised in Durham. He showed early artistic promise as a child and was sent to Italy to study painting and architecture. During this time, he began to style himself as Roger St. Charles and made something of a splash with his line-work and print-making. He returned to England and finished his training under The Royal Academy’s tutelage. His oils were deemed passable but his eye for art and his deep knowledge of the fundamentals, not to mention his fluency in Italian and French, could not be denied. He was retained by The Academy in an administrative capacity until he was offered a position with The Museum.
“It was there that he discovered a literal treasure trove of undiscovered paintings by Turner. Yes, that Turner. The provenance could not be disputed. The artist himself had gifted twelve paintings to The Museum several years before formalizing his great bequest to The Academy. The artistic community rejoiced; they would always welcome more Turners, even if those paintings had been ones the artist was only clearing out to make way for newer works. St Charles became the darling of the British arts. His opinion mattered more than ever and he could influence the shape of major collections as well as guiding private collectors with their purchases.
“It was through those connections that he met Ella Raybourn, the future Mrs. St. Charles, and heiress to a vast Raybourn textile fortune. They married and currently live in the fashionable house I hope to visit tomorrow. Their only child, Roger Tweed Raybourn St. Charles, is studying law in Geneva.
“St. Charles, Sr., makes no effort to cover his humble roots, and has even spoke proudly of them in public. In recent years he has devoted his energies to seeking out new talent, and supporting artists such as Lefranc, in the ways that corroborate what William Mitchell told us. He receives a token share from any works sold, and there have never been any complaints by the artists for being unfairly compensated. St. Charles may have received gifts in the forms of cash and artwork by both artists and collectors, but on the whole, his outlay outstrips any gain of consequence.”
“He seems to be highly esteemed. Your friends had nothing against him?”
“Not a jot!”
“How very disappointing for you.”
“Quite! It is for that reason I want to observe him in his own environs.”
***
Conspicuous opulence is the only way I can describe the genteel and stately home of Roger St. Charles. We were granted entry by the butler. Soon Mr. St. Charles joined us and bid us welcome. Once pleasantries were exchanged, Holmes got to the point.
“Do you know the whereabouts of the Soho artist, Gervais Lefranc?”
“Ahh, Gerry! Does he owe you money, too?” our host responded with a chuckle.
“No. He hasn’t been seen in weeks is wife is looking for him for the maintenance of their son.”
St. Charles’s face regained a serious composure. “I thought they were estranged. Gerry has a new woman now; another one of his models, I believe. Even so, it is not like him to abandon his paternal responsibilities.”
“The child is not his,” Holmes pressed.
St. Charles shrugged. “I believe he was fully aware of that fact and married the girl anyway. Until their estrangement, he treated the babe as his own. Perhaps things changed between them.”
“Not according to her. How long have you known Lefranc?”
“I met him three or four years ago in Paris. He was restless and had an obvious talent for faces. I offered to sponsor him in London. He jumped at the chance and has done well for himself here.”
“He is not doing well now.”
“Art is a fickle mistress. The work comes in waves. Popularity and styles change as the tides. That is one of the reasons I am keen to sponsor talent like Lefranc: an artist can be more productive when they are not worried where their next meal is coming from or whether they will be evicted at a moment’s notice. I have never believed that producing great art requires suffering. In my experience, all that suffering produces is more suffering. I may be comfortable now, but that has not always been the case.”
“And what of Mitchell? Surely you realize his potential has run its course.”
“Billy Mitchell is a special case. He’s losing his vision, you know. I want him to be able to get by once he stops painting. I expect that sometime in the future I will have to move him to a smaller flat and supply him with a pension in order to support himself. Giving him his last show will give him a sense of accomplishment.”
“Only if his works sell.”
“They will. His work is very good, in an understated way, and—”
“A recommendation from you can ensure his success.”
“That is also true. What is the use of having influence if you do not use it to help others? When I was a child, I was compared to Turner who had also been a prodigy. But I was no Turner. I can see the genius in the work but cannot reproduce it in my own. That was a hard realization, but it made me think: if I cannot be a Turner, perhaps I can be a Ruskin, and promote the Turners of the world. You will have to admit it has turned out quite well so far.”
“Indeed, it has but can you recall the last time you saw Lefranc?”
“It will be easier if I consult my ledgers. They are in my other study. This way, gentlemen, if you please.”
“He has two studies?” I whispered to Holmes.
“Actually, I have three, Dr. Watson!” St. Charles said as he lead us through a hallway lined with fine landscapes which made me want to stop and examine them. He opened the door into a small room with broad, north-facing windows and opened a drawer in the large bureau and retrieved a ledger book.
The walls were opulently papered with dark wooden half panels rising from the floor. It was the object at the foot of the eastern wall that most caught my eye. It was unmistakably the wheel from an old sailing ship, preserved and mounted on a stock of wood. Above it hung a painting of a storm-bound ship at sea. A small ink drawing of a right hand holding a quill pen held pride of place over the western wall’s fireplace. An easel stood empty near the door.
“I have no time to paint anymore,” St. Charles said with obvious regret. “But it is useful when I examine smaller works. I see you were admiring the sketch. Here’s my lens. Have a closer look.”
St. Charles handed me a magnifier so substantial that I could read envy on the Holmes’s face, and with it I made a closer study of the hand. When I read the tiny name at the bottom, I must have made an exclamation.
“Yes, Doctor, that’s one of mine! Do you like it? Most people are only interested in the other one,” by which he gave a dismissive gesture to the ship painting.
“That’s a Turner,” Holmes stated.
“Yes; a study for one of his minor pieces, but I am quite fond of it.” His face was glowing with pride. “Doctor, take a closer look. How does that painting make you feel?”
“Sea-sick, I suppose… No, I feel challenged… like I am about to enter a battle with the very elements themselves.”
“Yes! I saw you inhale as though you were bracing yourself! That is the artistry in a Turner,” St. Charles exclaimed. “Very few people realize there is a visceral reaction to his pieces and while they examine brushstrokes and the use of specific colors and materials when trying to authenticate his works, I also look for an emotional response.”
Holmes rolled his eyes, and urged our host to return to the ledger. I turned my attention back to the Turner while they examined the accounts.
“So, as you can see, Mr. Holmes, dear Gerry owed me for much of his supplies. The last time I saw him was about two months ago when he submitted the invoices for his expenditures. At that time he was complaining that he was selling fewer portraits.
“It’s photography, you see. I could commission Lefranc to paint a portrait, such as the one of my family in the foyer. We would spend days, if not weeks, sitting for him, he would spend another month or more finishing it, and the result would be an excellent and artistic rendering of ourselves.
“On the other hand, we could visit a photographer’s studio, sit for 10 minutes and have an exact likeness created and delivered in under a week for a fraction of price of the better product. I for one, would choose a painted portrait over a photograph, but that is not the case with most people these days.
“A great artist’s work will always be in demand, and Lefranc’s portraits rate amongst the best of this generation so I understand his frustration. He asked me to finance a Mediterranean painting retreat. In light of his debts and his present frame of mind, I had to decline. Instead, I promised to refer more clients his way in the future. Furthermore, I also mentioned a project which would earn him a steady wage until the commissions came.
“St. Paul’s is in the process of cleaning and restoring the artwork throughout the church, including the Thornhill dome. It was not the type of work he wanted to do but he left with my letter of introduction. Hopefully, he applied, otherwise he may have taken flight and may now be bothering the ladies in Spain. I have been too busy of late and I have not followed up with my contacts to see how the matter stands.”
“Busy with what, if I may be so bold,” asked Holmes.
“You will forgive my discretion in not naming names, but I can tell you that a private collector wishes to sell some pieces of potentially great value to The Museum. It is my job to use my specialized expertise to authenticate these paintings and decide if The Museum should, or even could, entertain the notion of acquiring them.”
“More Turners?” I asked and was answered with only an enigmatic smile.
“If, and I emphasize, only if that were the case, I’m afraid that the affairs of a struggling Soho portrait painter hardly matter in comparison.”
“What happens if you decide that The Museum will not purchase the paintings?”
“Then I will put the seller in contact with The Academy or another private collector, depending on their wishes.”
“And accept a commission?”
“Perhaps. It would depend on many factors which I do not care to discuss.”
***
“So, what do you make of Mr. St. Charles, Watson?”
“I feel that I should like him. He is gracious and non-pretentious— not at all what I was expecting.”
“And yet you do not like him. That is very telling. You are my bellwether when it comes to judging personalities. I too am uneasy. Either he is an absolutely genuine philanthropist, or else the smoothest character I have ever met. Nevertheless, we should visit St. Paul’s Cathedral and see if Lefranc indeed was working there.”
“Did you find any discrepancies in the accounts?”
“There was no invoice for paint mixing supplies for the month of May when Lefranc was out of the city and painting watercolors. In the meantime, St. Charles has given me a letter to take to the bank. It will support Daisy and Benno, until Lefranc returns.”
“He must believe Lefranc is still alive,” I said. Holmes was slow to reply.
“So it would seem. And yet, this Mediterranean business strikes me as odd. All other accounts indicate Lefranc was happy enough in London.”
“Perhaps this was a matter he could only discuss with his financier.”
“Good old Watson; always playing the Angel’s Advocate!”
***
It was said that God may have built the world in 6 days, but it was men who built St. Paul’s. In all my years in London I have only visited the cathedral on rare occasions, and yet each time I was filled with awe and wonder at its magnificence. Inside, beneath the great cathedral’s dome rose a virtual forest of scaffolding.
“Stop right there!” shrieked an officious young cleric as he ran to impede our way. “Do not get too close to the cordon!”
Holmes gave him a baleful look as the warning echoed about the cavernous space.
Once the churchman stopped wheezing he said “The cleaners… filthy creatures… will drop… things… on you!”
“Like paint?” I asked.
“Once they’re up there,” he said, gesturing to the upper reaches. “They don’t like to come down. (sigh) Do I have to spell this out? (another sigh) They relieve themselves in a bucket.”
His words echoed but thankfully, nothing more than chorus of giggles and guffaws rained down upon us.
“If they will not come down, then we will have to ascend. Coming, Watson?”
I declined politely and was glad I had. It turned out that I could hear quite clearly Holmes’s discussion with the craftsmen.
“Sure, we know Frenchy Lefranc. He joined us five or six weeks ago. He gave a letter to the boss and was hired on the spot. We’ve been cleaning up these old murals. Tedious work, kneeling all day. Hard on the knees, and the back, it is. Frenchy grumbled a bit, but we all do, don’t we, boys? (chorus of agreement)
"We’ve got most of the soot off now and should start painting soon. No, we haven’t used paint so far and we will be matching the grisaille so we won’t be using any colors. We all liked him. He would talk about painting and was keen to share his color mixing preferences. Kept a whole list of what he called “his recipes” in the back of a notebook filled with sketches. Portraits? There were some, and he did one of me, but they were mostly landscapes and sailing ships.
"One of his commissions must have come through because he stopped coming two weeks ago. Yes, he did borrow a few shillings, but the next day he brought enough wine and the long French loaf for all of us, so I’m not hurting. I hope he’s doing well. If you see him, please give him our regards. Take care on your way down, Mr. Holmes and tell Father Jeremy we have something for him, though I don’t think he will fall for that a third time!”
“They were a mix of general laborers and art students,” Holmes replied. “All young and agile, and possessing some degree of skill. They are mischievous, as Father Jeremy has had the misfortune to find out. There were a couple of things that stand out as suggestive: Lefranc’s sketchbook and the lack of colored paint.”
“The yellow paint did not come from here, plus Lefranc has not returned since three weeks ago. We are missing a head, a sketchbook, and about two weeks of Lefranc’s timeline from when he was last seen, until his body came ashore. Since this is the first we have heard of a sketchbook, let us return to Lefranc’s studio and do a complete search.”
We went directly to Soho and, since no door lock is proof against a significantly motivated consulting detective with a set of picks, we easily gained entry to Lefranc’s studio. All seemed as we had left it. There were no signs of a sketchbook, and the artist’s last pallet featured the deep red that was evident in the work-in-progress on the easel. Yellow had not recently been used.
Holmes looked dejected. He might claim to enjoy when a path runs cold as it eliminates several possibilities, but I know he is much more satisfied when there is a trail to follow.
The return ride to Baker St. was a silent one.
***
Early that evening, Mrs. Hudson, our long-suffering landlady, announced the return of Inspector Lestrade.
“I’ve just come to return this,” he said. “We no longer need Lefranc’s portrait. We circulated a photograph of his painting and I’m confident we questioned all the relevant people. I believe we have reached what you might call an impasse.”
I poured three glasses of whisky while Holmes removed the brown paper wrapping from the painting.
“To Gerry ‘Frenchy’ Lefranc,” said Holmes as we three raised our glasses. “I’m sorry to have let you down.”
The young man’s face smiled back at us as we drained our glasses.
‘Just a minute!!!” Holmes exclaimed. “I’ve been such a fool! It’s been in front of us all along!”
“What is it? What is it?” pleaded Lestrade and I together.
Holmes assumed that supercilious expression that, from long exposure to it, told me that we were in for either a lecture, or a denouement.
“Look at the picture. Do you see it? How can you not? (sigh) Ask yourselves: Why does a portrait artist’s self-portrait portray him painting a ship?”
“Good heavens!” I could see it all now.
“I don’t understand…” said the Inspector.
“Yes, Watson?” prompted Holmes, his eyes gleaming with expectation.
“Lefranc was forging Turners for Roger St. Charles.”
“Bravo, Doctor! I expect that got him killed.”
***
“That’s a bold accusation,” said Lestrade. “Mr. St. Charles is the darling of London’s artistic community and is known to have friends in high places. You better be able to prove it.”
Holmes went into deep concentration. From time to time he would seem to want to make a statement, but would either shake his head or frown and return to his cogitations.
“Sadly, I cannot prove it. Leave it with me for a day, Inspector, before you seek a warrant for his arrest.”
“Very good, Mr. Holmes. Considering the thin nature of your conjecture, I would not want to take this higher without more to go on. Good night to you both.”
I showed him to the door and when I returned, Holmes handed me my winter coat and proceeded to re-wrap the Lefranc self-portrait.
“We’re paying Roger St. Charles a visit tonight,” he said as he withdrew a revolver from his desk, checked that it was loaded, and handed it to me. “We might need insurance.”
***
Our bell was answered by the butler who seemed not surprised by unannounced evening visitors.
“Please excuse our calling at this late hour, but we have found something that may be of great interest to Mr. St. Charles.”
The door closed only to be opened a moment later and we were invited into the foyer. Mr. St. Charles’s amiable welcome stalled when he saw the parcel Holmes was carrying and he suggested we retire to his private office. Holmes unnecessarily gave me a look telling me to be on my guard as we repaired to the now familiar room.
“Mr. St. Charles,” Holmes began. “I want you to look at this painting and then tell me why you murdered Gervais Lefranc.”
St. Charles’s protestation was short-lived as Holmes unveiled Lefranc’s self-portrait and placed on the empty easel.
“I did not murder him. Lefranc fell while attacking me. I would claim self-defence and as it happened, neither of us landed a single blow. There had been some linseed oil on the floor and he happened to smash his face on the edge of a table. It caused a horrible wound that he could not possibly survive, yet his heart continued to beat. I stayed with him until the end. I tried to make him comfortable but he lived for three days and he never regained consciousness.”
“Perhaps you should start at the beginning,” said Holmes.
Roger St. Charles composed himself and began his tale.
“I found Gerry in Paris. His work was very good and he had a special talent. His techniques were excellent and his paintings could evoke an emotional response. I brought him to London with only the best intentions. Sometime later, I was approached be a gentleman who wanted to quietly liquidate some of his assets by selling one or two items from his collection. Fearing their disappearance might cause a stir, he asked if I knew anyone who could paint replacements. I immediately thought of Lefranc.
“My illustrious client delivered his originals to me to have them restored, I bought them and paid Lefranc to make the copies. The ‘refreshed’ paintings were returned to my client’s house. The Museum purchased the originals, and I paid Lefranc out of my commission.
“As time went by, similar ventures arose, and I again would contact Lefranc whose skills as a copyist were only getting better and better. I took great pains to make sure everything was legal so nobody would be tempted to make a false insurance claim. The records of all the transactions are filed with The Museum, and I retain a copy for myself as well.
“Lately, though, these opportunities have become few and far between. I told you the truth about how photography has been taking work away from painters, and Lefranc was feeling the pinch. I also tried to find him work in the restoration trade because I wanted to keep him satisfied since another copyist opportunity was imminent.”
A look of profound regret passed over Mr. St. Charles as he regarded the Lefranc portrait.
“Why could he have not waited?” he bemoaned.
“He forged a Turner,” supplied Holmes.
“No. Not exactly. He invited me to cottage near Richmond where he had been secretly painting. There he unveiled his masterpiece: a typical Turner-esque scene of boats in the harbor near Margate. It was magnificent. The colors, the use of light, the emotional weight were perfect. This was no mere copy; Lefranc had achieved the unachievable. He had painted a Turner as good as any original. He was so proud, and rightly so, but for Turner’s sake, I could not allow such things to exist. It was with deep sorrow that set it ablaze. Lefranc attacked me and in his haste and fury, slipped and fell, sustaining the dire wound that would claim his life.”
“Why mutilate his body?” I asked.
“To obscure both his identity and the way by which he perished,” replied Holmes.
“I was taught anatomy when I was young and I had attended several autopsies to make sketches, but it is a different thing altogether to remove a man’s head from his body, especially when it is someone you know. I sewed Lefranc’s corpse into an old blanket and once weighed down stones, I slipped him into the Thames. I did the same with his head. Somehow his body became free of its shroud and was found in London. It has haunted me ever since.
“I have told you the whole story, Mr. Holmes. Will you have me arrested?”
“You’re a clever man and you have covered your tracks quite well, Mr. St. Charles. I doubt I would be able to find any substantial proof against you. Your confession to Dr. Watson and myself, as you well know, would not stand up in court. You also count many influential members of Society amongst your friends. No, I will not take this to the police, but know this: I will be watching you and your actions closely in the future. If I sense any wrongdoing, you will not be able to withstand the intense commitment I will bring to bear to prove your involvement.”
“Thank you, Mr. Homes! You have my assurances. I will continue in my role in acquisitions for The Museum, but I will cease the practice of offering replacements.”
“You will also continue to support Mrs. Lefranc and her son.”
“It was already my intention to do so.”
“As I expected since the moment you gave me the letter for the bank. I will be retaining Lefranc’s self-portrait and keeping it somewhere safe. Good night Mr. St. Charles.”
***
The night, although without wind, was cold but neither Holmes nor I seemed to mind as we strode towards our flat. The excitement of solving the case kept us from feeling the chill.
“What will you tell Lestrade?” I asked.
“The truth, of course. That there is no proof to be found, and that I do not consider St. Charles a murderer. That should be good enough for him. The Inspector is a good man but knows when to cut his losses.”
Epilogue:
I do not know whatever became of Lefranc’s self-portrait, though it would not surprise me if it hangs today in one of the numerous recesses of The Diogenes Club.
William Mitchell’s “Still Life with Scallop Shell Necklace” holds pride of place in my dining room and is often admired and commented upon by my guests. I am told it is quite valuable.
John H. Watson
1897
Recipient:
capt_facepalmAuthor:
capt_facepalm - and Happy April Fools Day to all! Beta: [redacted]
Rating: PG
Characters: Holmes and Watson and Lestrade (and Mrs Hudson cameo)
Summary: A rambling casefic featuring Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson
Warning: History, art history, architecture and generous creative license
Bonus Warnings: Not British; not Brit-picked; not even close; written in a huge rush
Word Count: 9000 - go pour yourself a drink
Author's Notes:
Terms in common usage in this work include:
The Academy – refers to the Royal Academy of the Arts, Somerset House
The Gallery – refers to the National Gallery, at the time of this setting, recently opened in Trafalgar Sq.
The Museum – refers to the British Museum, Bloomsbury, near The University
The Times – refers to the Times of London, a reputable newspaper
The University – refers to University College of the University of London
Historical Personages:
Turner – John Mallord William Turner, the famous British artist
Ruskin – John Ruskin, an art critic at the forefront of promoting British artists, including Turner
Masterpiece
It was a dark and stormy night but that was usually the case in London’s late autumn. And while wind and rain dampened the city’s streets, and the lampposts offered only small islands of illumination, Mr Sherlock Holmes and I enjoyed a celebratory meal, as was our custom, at Simpsons. The successful, if not astounding, Adventure of the Egyptologiste, Her Father, and Her Mummy had been solved to everyone’s satisfaction, barring the culprits’, of course, and my friend and fellow-lodger was ebullient.
“Surely, dear boy, that is not going to be the title you publish it under,” Holmes exclaimed.
“If I publish it at all, you mean.” It had been an interesting puzzle, but even so soon after its resolution, I had my doubts as to whether the details would entertain sufficiently The Strand’s readership.
Auguste, the maître-de and a friendly acquaintance of Holmes, topped off our glasses thus draining the bottle of a fine red vintage which has perfectly complemented our meal, and the dessert to a lesser degree.
“Gentlemen, the rain shows no sign of letting up. If you wish it, I shall hail a taxi for you.”
“Merci, Auguste, that would be splendid.” Holmes replied.
A few minutes later, Auguste returned with a nod indicating that our conveyance had been secured so we retrieved our hats and coats and started for the four-wheeler. So intent on avoiding the rain, we failed to note the figure standing just outside the prestigious establishment.
“Mr. Holmes, a word please!” called out the familiar voice of Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.
Lestrade was not one to consult my friend on frivolities and something in his demeanour told us that we were in for a long night. We all piled into the taxi.
“Perhaps we should head directly to the morgue, Mr. Holmes. There’s been a body found.”
“Bodies being found in London is commonplace enough so I deduce there must be some extraordinary facets to this one.”
“Indeed, Mr. Holmes, he was found in the Thames at low tide and he had been decapitated. No sign of the head, so far. Perhaps he shouldn’t be seen on a full stomach.”
Holmes tapped the taxi’s ceiling and told the driver to change course for the city morgue. I sighed inwardly. Yet another poor wretch adding to the misery of the world.
***
The morgue was located in the bowels of the Charing Cross Hospital near Trafalgar Square. Regrettably, we were all too familiar with its chill and dim recesses, and we kept our voices low out of respect rather than necessity: the inhabitants here could no longer be disturbed by earthy concerns.
“Here he is,” Lestrade gestured to a sheet-covered figure on the far table. “They will do an autopsy in the morning and I thought you might want to have a look now, you know, before they—”
“Destroy all the surface evidence, yes. I assume you will want to identify the victim and you are concerned that he may be someone of consequence.”
“Indeed! How did you guess?”
“I never guess, Lestrade. Although you would be dismayed by any unfortunate death, you would not be so concerned about a vagrant or a common labourer as to summon me. Remove the sheet and bring the lamps. Doctor, your observations will be an asset if you would be so kind.”
And so the night proceeded: Holmes examining the corpse with his lens, Lestrade adjusting the lamps as requested, and I jotting down the salient details Holmes wished recorded and supplying what medical commentary as was relevant. Truly, my experience would be more helpful at the autopsy stage, but I was not likely to be asked to assist the Police Surgeons, and that was fine with me.
The victim was in his late twenties or early thirties and of average height, assuming that his missing head was proportional. His physique was lean and lacking the musculature of those involved with heavy labour. He bore no distinguishing marks or tattoos. His bare, headless body had been found in the river by a bargeman that afternoon. Constables summoned to the scene had ‘Headless Harry’, their sobriquet for him, transported to the morgue. Inspector Lestrade had been on duty at the time.
Other than the obvious severing of the head, messily done with a less-than-sharp blade, we found only one other post-mortem wound, likely caused by a barge pole or some other implement used to retrieve him from the river. In life, ‘Harry’ would have been of pale complexion, perhaps prone to sunburn, and had some variation of brown hair. His feet indicated he was used to walking and wearing well-fitting footwear. Holmes took particular interest in the hands which were well-manicured and were speckled with what appeared to be pale yellow paint, more so on the right than the left. I took up the lens to see if there was anything further of interest and noted the lack of tan lines about his wrists.
“Your thoughts, Doctor?” asked Holmes.
I shook my head. “Someone like him will be missed. Do you plan to advertise?” I asked Lestrade.
“Not immediately. I’ll wait to see if anyone comes asking after missing persons.”
Holmes nodded and returned to his observations and I gladly took to the stool Lestrade had offered me. It was nearly 2 am when I barely stifled my latest yawn and checked my chronometer; too early to find a taxi, and the weather was too foul to walk to Baker St.
Lestrade looked at me with evident concern. “If you’re done here, Mr. Holmes, I think we had better adjourn upstairs to the orderlies’ room. I’m sure they can spare us some coffee.”
“I will take scrapings from under his fingernails and some of these paint flecks too. I’ll let the Police Surgeon know if I find anything.”
“As you wish. I know for a fact that Harry’s identification will not be Dr. Phillips’ priority. He will only concern himself with the cause of death and all the gory bits inside.”
***
Once the city woke the next morning, Holmes and I took a cab back to Baker St. My friend has the amazing ability to withstand the draw of Morpheus whenever his minds is engaged in intellectual pursuits and while I could barely keep my eyes open long enough to climb the additional steps to my bed chamber, Holmes began arranging his philosophical instruments at his chemical table. It had gone past noon when I woke once more. Not willing to face the day without a wash and a shave, I performed my regular ablutions before heading down to the sitting room.
“Ah, Watson,” Holmes greeted me. “I trust you are well-rested. There was nothing of interest in the fingernail scrapings but I have successfully analyzed those paint flecks. Take a look and tell me what you see.”
When I peered through the microscope at the slide Holmes had prepared, I saw several flecks of different shades of light yellow.
“He wasn’t a colorman, surely; not with the uneven mixing of paint?”
“Close, Watson, he was most likely an artist. The paint is linseed oil-based.”
“Oh well, knowing that, identifying him should be easier. There cannot be too many missing artists. Do you have any contacts in those circles?’
“Sadly, no. Although my family had some artistic connections in the past, the present generation has been more concerned with affairs of state, science, and criminology. I have sent my deductions in a note to Lestrade. Perhaps he will join us later once the autopsy report is complete.”
We spent the rest of the afternoon at home. Holmes continued with his microscope while I read the newspapers in the futile quest to spot anything concerning London’s artistic community. Inspector Lestrade did not make an appearance in person but a messenger showed up in the evening, bearing a copy of Dr. Phillips’ results.
Harry’s stomach had been empty to the point that Dr. Phillips concluded he had not eaten in at least two days. His liver showed signs of deterioration usually associated with people in the early stages of alcoholism, water in the lungs was consistent with that of the Thames, but lungs themselves showed none of the signs usually associated with drowning. As Holmes had noted earlier, the head had been severed, with the softer tissues unevenly cut with an undetermined type of blade, and the remaining skull twisted from the vertibrae.
“Did you note his knees?” Holmes asked. I indicated that I had not. “Don’t feel bad, old man. I missed it too. Dr. Phillips says they were heavily callused, likely from constant kneeling. What does that suggest to you?”
“Kneeling and fasting? Perhaps our man was a devout follower of some faith.”
“He was not circumcised, so I believe we can rule out Judaism.”
“That’s not much to go on, Holmes. I fear we will just have to wait to see if anyone reports his absence to the police.”
“I am loath to have to wait but I agree. In the meantime, we can entertain ourselves with the agony columns.”
***
Days passed without any news from Lestrade, nor was there any clue to be found in the private advertisements in the papers. Once Harry had been buried in a pauper’s grave, Holmes’s interest became focused on other things; primarily a cryptic crossword puzzle containing a hidden message which had nothing whatsoever to do with Harry’s identity.
“Blast! It’s just a mundane hidden love poem from the crossword’s creator to his lover.”
“Ever the romantic, wot, Holmes?” I chuckled.
“Unless the fool is secretly a woman, and I for a fact he is not, the lover he is entreating is another man.”
“Foolhardy and dangerous. Surely the puzzle will be solved by many.”
“The puzzle, yes. Far fewer will have also decrypted the message.” Holmes fixed me with one of those glares. For my own part, I did not feel up to a battle of wits with London’s finest intellectual mind so I let the matter go.
***
I am all for solving a mystery, but “Headless Harry” was an obscurity. One night I happened to mention this to some of my fellows at my club. I asked my comrades if any of them had any ties to either the artistic community or to the Church, but the circles they travelled in yielded no close connections. There was Portland Street in Soho where a number of artists might be found, and any clergyman could, in theory, be approached to answer questions. I decided to bring the matter to Holmes the next day to see if he was interested in pursuing any of these avenues. Billiards and whisky occupied the rest of my evening.
By the time I roused myself the next morning, Holmes had already left our flat, leaving no word or note to his destination or to when he might return, so it was in the evening that I managed to discuss Harry’s case with him.
“Watson,” he sighed. “We might have to let this one go. There has been no lead from any front. Lestrade has been conspicuously silent, probably more from embarrassment, than from industry, but since I have no new case to inspire me, and since you are at loose ends, we may as well visit Portland St. and ask a few questions.”
And so, it was the next morning when Sherlock Holmes and I hailed a hansom to Soho. Portland St. was lined with a great variety of small shops servicing the mundane needs of the local residents. There were pawn shops, milliners, a very seedy pub called “The Mutineer”, and other small businesses. Since this was also an artists’ quarter, colorful watercolors, sketches, and oil paintings were on display outside several ateliers.
I entered one establishment, Vole & Ferretti – Tobacconists, in order to purchase some cigarettes, leaving Holmes to make discreet inquiries amongst the street vendors. Suddenly a great commotion could be heard in the street and I left the shop without concluding my transaction. To my mild surprise, and imminent relief, the affray did not involve my friend, who stood in another doorway with an amused look on his face, but was a row between two screeching women. Most of the onlookers were happy to stand by and watch the proceedings but I stepped in, trying to separate the two hellcats before they could seriously harm one another. A stray elbow caught me in the eye and I confess to losing any charitable thoughts I once held as I hauled one combatant away from the other who was being likewise constrained. The rapid, heavy footfalls heralded the arrival of the police.
“What’s all this, then?” wheezed Hunter, the elder of the two constables.
The two women resumed their heated exchange.
“One at a time, if you please!” roared the other, one Constable Clarke, who Holmes and I happened to know.
The petite blonde spat, and with language I have rarely heard outside the army, and which I am certainly not going to repeat here, accused the other of being a whore and allowing her husband to hide away and therefore not pay his child’s maintenance money to her.
The unnatural redhead responded with equal fury, that she was a model and not a prostitute, and she did not know where the man in question might be. She also added that he should not have to pay support for a child which was clearly not his. I followed her glare which indicated a runny-nosed boy of about three years with dark curls and, upset by the fight, tears in his dark brown eyes, now clinging to the blonde. Thankfully, the child was too young to understand her meaning.
“You would do well to summon Inspector Lestrade,” Holmes advised Constable Clarke. “If I am not very much mistaken, this may pertain to one of his cases.”
***
Inspector Lestrade arrived within one half hour and by that time the women’s tempers had cooled somewhat. Each, in turn, had answered his queries and by the end of their questioning, as Holmes had suspected, Lestrade and I were also certain we had discovered Harry’s true identity. We were all careful to not reveal that was a dead body behind our investigations and everyone thought we were being overly concerned about a fight between two low women over some unfaithful blighter.
Daisy Lefranc, the blonde, had been looking for her estranged husband, Gerry Lefranc, a painter of portraits, for over a fortnight. He owed her money for the care of their son. Moira, the redhead, who often posed for Lefranc, swore that she did not know his whereabouts and that he too owed her money for a sitting fee.
“Sitting fee!?! Is that what you calls it?” shrieked Daisy, and the two once again had to be forcibly separated.
Lestrade once again took control and continued his questioning, assisted by Holmes asking for clarification of some detail or other from time to time. The two women’s description of Gerry Lefranc fit Headless Harry. He had last been seen nearly three weeks ago and had not displayed any behavior that caused either woman to question. Gerry, who was actually called Gervais, was originally from Paris and had come to London to paint portraits. He had married Daisy, who also modelled for him, some years ago when she became pregnant. Apparently he had not been loyal to her and had been sexually (if not romantically) linked to several women, the latest of which was Moira, and because divorce was not an option, they were estranged. Moira said that Lefranc knew he was not the father of Daisy’s son, Benno, and that Daisy was as promiscuous as he is.
Moira directed us to Lefranc’s studio, located on the upper storey of a building off Portland St. Its size was considerable considering Lefranc’s relative obscurity. A half dozen newly-completed portraits hung about the walls while two others, still in the final stages of finishing sat on easels. His finished works were mostly of children; one of which was of Benno. Paint on the artist’s palette had hardened on the surface although thicker blobs still held liquid paints within. Lefranc had a good eye for expression which imbued his portrait subjects with warmth and liveliness. One of the unfinished portraits was of a man, who Holmes declared was a professor of mathematics by the cut of his clothes and the items in the background. The other was of an elderly woman with a cat of whom she was particularly fond.
“When was the last anyone saw this Lefranc?” asked Lestrade who only received vague responses. Neither of the women had seen him in the past week and neither could put an actual date to the last time they had. “Well, ladies, the police are now involved. We will keep an eye out for your man, but you must cease your brawling, or the next time you can cool off in Pentonville!”
Both replied with mumbled thanks and refused to look at each other.
“We will need a description. What does he look like?”
“That’s him,” said Moira, pointing to one of the finished works. “Well, his self-portrait at any rate.”
The painting depicted a young man at an easel painting. His unkempt hair was a reddish-brown and his eyes were the same blue-ish grey as the clouds in the stormy seascape in progress. He had regular features and his face seemed to express his contentment in his craft. This handsome rogue could very well be our Harry.
“He speaks English good,” added Daisy. “But you will still hear the French in ‘im.”
There was no food in the larder save a bottle of wine, half of which was gone. One sniff of the remainder told Holmes that it had been uncorked some time ago. The living quarters were divided from the rest of the studio by movable screens, and contained a poorly-made bed, and sparse yet serviceable furnishings. The floor could have used a good sweeping, but otherwise, all was well-kept.
“How could Monsieur Lefranc afford such a studio, even in Soho?”
“ ‘E couldn’t,” said Daisy. “It belongs to ‘is sponsor, some toff with the Museum. Brought Gerry over from Paris and set ‘im up here. I suppose ‘e gets some referrals. Gerry’s work’s not ‘alf bad, as you can see.”
“This sponsor, do you recall his name?” asked Holmes with all the innocence he could muster to disguise his intense interest.
“Don’t know if I ever knew it,” replied Daisy. “Must be rich, tho – he supports some others too: Mitchell from the next street over and Duguid the carver in Spitalfields, are the one I know of. There may be more.”
“Does Lefranc have any known enemies? Someone who he would need to hide from? Creditors, perhaps?” asked Lestrade.
“Enemies, no, not our Gerry” said Moira. “He owed money to lots of people, and was slow to pay, but he usually came through in the end. Money’s been tight lately and he’s been angry that he had to take a job for wages and not commission. I asked him about it and he all he said was he was ‘going to heaven.’ I don’t take him half serious when he’s been drinking.”
“Does he ever get violent?”
“No, he’s not an angry drunk… more of a piss himself giggling and fall asleep type.”
Lestrade look around to Holmes and myself to see if we had anything to add, and since we did not, he concluded his interviews and dismissed the two women with the reminder to leave each other alone. Constable Clarke followed, carrying the portrait.
***
“Watson, what say you to a spot of lunch before we track down this mysterious benefactor? I trust Lestrade to have his men canvas the neighborhood for sightings of Lefranc and an accounting of anyone he owed money to.”
The bread was hard and the cheese even harder at The Mutineer. Although gin was their main trade, I found my half pint of ale more than passable, and thus fortified, Holmes and I sought out Mitchell, who specialized in watercolor still life, and worked nearby.
People we spoke to assured us that we would find Mitchell in his garret on Pinnock Street and so we did. The ground floor residents told us to ascend the darkened stairwell and knock on the green door on the top landing.
“Coming! Coming!” a voice answered and as daylight flooded out from within we were greeted by an old man in his mid-fifties, balding, and wearing thick spectacles. “William Mitchell, at your service, please do come in! Excuse the mess. As you know, I am preparing for a showing.”
“I’m afraid we are not whom you expected,” said Holmes and made our formal introductions.
“Ah, that is of little matter. The gallery men should be ‘round tomorrow afternoon, and having company will make a nice change. I don’t get out much and am further loathe to do so as winter approaches.”
We were ushered into a room which was both studio on the end with the slanted windows and a parlor with rudimentary pantry near the entrance. Mr. Mitchell put the kettle on the coal stove which heated the garret and urged us to sit if we could find a flat surface. I picked up a folio and came face to face with a small tabby cat who instantly fled. Holmes removed a framed landscape from a wingback armchair and leaned it against the wall with several others.
“We are looking for Gervais Lefranc, also called Gerry. I was told you know him.”
“Oh yes,” our host replied, setting the tea to steep. “Gerry’s a good sort. He’s not in any trouble is he?”
“Not with us, he’s not. His wife is another matter. He has vanished and hasn’t left her any support. Do you have any idea where he might be?”
“He sometimes goes to the country to paint, but that’s in the spring; not at this time of the year. Do you take sugar? I’m sure this is sugar. One time it was salt! Augh, what a disaster! Help yourself to cream if you wish, but watch for the cat: sneaky little thief. Forgive my manners; my eyesight is not what it used to be.”
I volunteered to pour and serve up the tea while Holmes got on with his questions.
“Does Lefranc have any enemies? Some reason or someone he might be hiding from?”
“Gerry’s a great one for the ladies… perhaps an irate husband. Something like that happened last year but it seemed to blow over when they moved out. The woman’s name was Violet. I cannot recall her man’s name, or where they went.”
I opened the folio and perused its contents, all watercolors mostly featuring still life, but also several of a the same secluded brook.
“I hear you and Lefranc share the same sponsor, can you tell me his name?”
“Oh, that would be Mr. Roger St. Charles, you may have heard of him. Lovely man. He organized my upcoming showing.”
“Yes, his name is familiar. What is the nature of his sponsorship?”
“Mr. St. Charles is a patron of the arts. Professionally, he is a curator and on the Board at the Museum, and a member of The Academy. Privately, he finds promising artists, and supports them in various ways. For Lefranc and myself, he subsidizes our studios and arranges our shows. I do not require supplies, but some of the sculptors do, and Mr. St. Charles has connections for stone and metal. He has taken good care of me, especially now that I am less productive.”
“Does Lefranc owe you any money?”
“If you mean hard cash, then the answer is no, but he borrowed some paint brushes last year and I don’t expect he will replace them. Still, he brings a bottle of wine and some cheese from time to time and we make an evening of it. He has a good heart, even if he is a bit of a rascal. Doctor, do any of those catch your eye? They are all for sale,” he added, shyly.
“I am quite taken by this one of the scallop shell necklace,” I admitted.
“That’s one of my early works. I’ll make you a good price!”
“Won’t you miss it?”
Mr. Mitchell drew upon the thin cord around his neck which held the shell. “Not at all; I still have the original!”
***
“I have seen you haggle with more vigor, Watson,” Sherlock Holmes chided me upon our way home. My experience of markets upon three continents certainly armed my with that skill, but I felt I had paid a fair price and one that I could easily afford. I regarded my paperbound parcel with affection. I would likely pay the same amount again just for its framing.
“What next, Holmes? Shall we cherchez la femme and see if her husband still bears a grudge?”
“If you are suggesting we track down every Violet in England, I will remind you the average lifespan of the British male is only 68.39 years. I have other plans for my remaining time! No, I will give Lestrades’ troops some time to report their findings about Lefranc, and in the meantime, I will look into Mr. Roger St. Charles. We will do well to meet him, but not without knowing more about him first. Men of power and influence are not to be trusted.”
“Holmes! You don’t trust women, the rich, the poor, academics, bankers, doctors, most children—“
“I trust one doctor.”
“Remember that the next time you fall ill!”
“Touché, mon frère,” he replied with his bark of a laugh, and waved down a passing cabbie.
***
“Gerry Lefranc owed a lot of people money,” declared Inspector Lestrade as he entered our sitting room later that evening.
“Good evening to you too, Lestrade!” replied Holmes from behind the evening edition of The Times.
“Forgive my manners, Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson, but it is frustrating to follow so many blind alleys. Mr. Lefranc was in the pockets of most of his neighbors in one way or another— ”
“But nothing worth killing him over,” concluded Holmes.
“Correct. He was such a charmer, that nobody seems to bear grudges against him. What is it, Dr. Watson?”
“Could Lefranc still be alive?” I wondered aloud. “Could he have found a look-a-like and murdered him in order to escape his situation?”
“A doppelgänger? Implausible, yes; impossible, no. Lefranc seemed perfectly comfortable swimming in these waters, if you will excuse the pun. His encumbrances did not seem to slow him down. That is to say, as far as we know. I suspect that Mr. Roger St. Charles might see Lefranc in another light, if you will excuse the additional pun.”
Lestrade and I shared the look that we always shared when Holmes attempted to use humor deliberately. I saw the Inspector to the door and wished him a good night.
“The Who’s Who entry for Roger St. Charles is very light,” Holmes informed me. “ It only mentions his curator’s position at The Museum. I will have to consult other, non-conventional resources tomorrow morning. I should be back by noon, and thus forearmed, be ready to request an appointment with him. If you want to be of use, could you please visit the museum in the morning and make discreet inquiries into Mr. St. Charles’s availability?”
I gave him my assurances and retired for the night.
***
I always appreciate the opportunity to visit the great British Museum in Bloomsbury and have spent countless hours in the reading room, or admiring the great wonders collected from all over the Empire. I devoted some time to appreciating the Norse collection before continuing my assignment.
St. Charles’s museum hours were from opening to closing, Mondays through Wednesdays, and Thursday mornings. He reserved Thursday afternoons and Fridays for meetings and gallery visits away from The Museum. The young clerk who supplied me with this information also hinted that St. Charles would often meet at his country club was fond of golf.
“Very good, Watson, but considering what I have found out from my sources—”
“Professional gossip columnists!”
“Quite. One must not disregard valid data just because you do not like its source. Considering my new understanding of St. Charles, I would rather call upon him at his residence along the Serpentine. I have dispatched a boy with my calling card and a request for an interview tomorrow evening.”
“Lestrade has nothing new to add?”
“He will find no criminal activities, if that’s what you mean. Roger St. Charles has no record of dubious acts. He was born Roger Charles Tweed, and was raised in Durham. He showed early artistic promise as a child and was sent to Italy to study painting and architecture. During this time, he began to style himself as Roger St. Charles and made something of a splash with his line-work and print-making. He returned to England and finished his training under The Royal Academy’s tutelage. His oils were deemed passable but his eye for art and his deep knowledge of the fundamentals, not to mention his fluency in Italian and French, could not be denied. He was retained by The Academy in an administrative capacity until he was offered a position with The Museum.
“It was there that he discovered a literal treasure trove of undiscovered paintings by Turner. Yes, that Turner. The provenance could not be disputed. The artist himself had gifted twelve paintings to The Museum several years before formalizing his great bequest to The Academy. The artistic community rejoiced; they would always welcome more Turners, even if those paintings had been ones the artist was only clearing out to make way for newer works. St Charles became the darling of the British arts. His opinion mattered more than ever and he could influence the shape of major collections as well as guiding private collectors with their purchases.
“It was through those connections that he met Ella Raybourn, the future Mrs. St. Charles, and heiress to a vast Raybourn textile fortune. They married and currently live in the fashionable house I hope to visit tomorrow. Their only child, Roger Tweed Raybourn St. Charles, is studying law in Geneva.
“St. Charles, Sr., makes no effort to cover his humble roots, and has even spoke proudly of them in public. In recent years he has devoted his energies to seeking out new talent, and supporting artists such as Lefranc, in the ways that corroborate what William Mitchell told us. He receives a token share from any works sold, and there have never been any complaints by the artists for being unfairly compensated. St. Charles may have received gifts in the forms of cash and artwork by both artists and collectors, but on the whole, his outlay outstrips any gain of consequence.”
“He seems to be highly esteemed. Your friends had nothing against him?”
“Not a jot!”
“How very disappointing for you.”
“Quite! It is for that reason I want to observe him in his own environs.”
***
Conspicuous opulence is the only way I can describe the genteel and stately home of Roger St. Charles. We were granted entry by the butler. Soon Mr. St. Charles joined us and bid us welcome. Once pleasantries were exchanged, Holmes got to the point.
“Do you know the whereabouts of the Soho artist, Gervais Lefranc?”
“Ahh, Gerry! Does he owe you money, too?” our host responded with a chuckle.
“No. He hasn’t been seen in weeks is wife is looking for him for the maintenance of their son.”
St. Charles’s face regained a serious composure. “I thought they were estranged. Gerry has a new woman now; another one of his models, I believe. Even so, it is not like him to abandon his paternal responsibilities.”
“The child is not his,” Holmes pressed.
St. Charles shrugged. “I believe he was fully aware of that fact and married the girl anyway. Until their estrangement, he treated the babe as his own. Perhaps things changed between them.”
“Not according to her. How long have you known Lefranc?”
“I met him three or four years ago in Paris. He was restless and had an obvious talent for faces. I offered to sponsor him in London. He jumped at the chance and has done well for himself here.”
“He is not doing well now.”
“Art is a fickle mistress. The work comes in waves. Popularity and styles change as the tides. That is one of the reasons I am keen to sponsor talent like Lefranc: an artist can be more productive when they are not worried where their next meal is coming from or whether they will be evicted at a moment’s notice. I have never believed that producing great art requires suffering. In my experience, all that suffering produces is more suffering. I may be comfortable now, but that has not always been the case.”
“And what of Mitchell? Surely you realize his potential has run its course.”
“Billy Mitchell is a special case. He’s losing his vision, you know. I want him to be able to get by once he stops painting. I expect that sometime in the future I will have to move him to a smaller flat and supply him with a pension in order to support himself. Giving him his last show will give him a sense of accomplishment.”
“Only if his works sell.”
“They will. His work is very good, in an understated way, and—”
“A recommendation from you can ensure his success.”
“That is also true. What is the use of having influence if you do not use it to help others? When I was a child, I was compared to Turner who had also been a prodigy. But I was no Turner. I can see the genius in the work but cannot reproduce it in my own. That was a hard realization, but it made me think: if I cannot be a Turner, perhaps I can be a Ruskin, and promote the Turners of the world. You will have to admit it has turned out quite well so far.”
“Indeed, it has but can you recall the last time you saw Lefranc?”
“It will be easier if I consult my ledgers. They are in my other study. This way, gentlemen, if you please.”
“He has two studies?” I whispered to Holmes.
“Actually, I have three, Dr. Watson!” St. Charles said as he lead us through a hallway lined with fine landscapes which made me want to stop and examine them. He opened the door into a small room with broad, north-facing windows and opened a drawer in the large bureau and retrieved a ledger book.
The walls were opulently papered with dark wooden half panels rising from the floor. It was the object at the foot of the eastern wall that most caught my eye. It was unmistakably the wheel from an old sailing ship, preserved and mounted on a stock of wood. Above it hung a painting of a storm-bound ship at sea. A small ink drawing of a right hand holding a quill pen held pride of place over the western wall’s fireplace. An easel stood empty near the door.
“I have no time to paint anymore,” St. Charles said with obvious regret. “But it is useful when I examine smaller works. I see you were admiring the sketch. Here’s my lens. Have a closer look.”
St. Charles handed me a magnifier so substantial that I could read envy on the Holmes’s face, and with it I made a closer study of the hand. When I read the tiny name at the bottom, I must have made an exclamation.
“Yes, Doctor, that’s one of mine! Do you like it? Most people are only interested in the other one,” by which he gave a dismissive gesture to the ship painting.
“That’s a Turner,” Holmes stated.
“Yes; a study for one of his minor pieces, but I am quite fond of it.” His face was glowing with pride. “Doctor, take a closer look. How does that painting make you feel?”
“Sea-sick, I suppose… No, I feel challenged… like I am about to enter a battle with the very elements themselves.”
“Yes! I saw you inhale as though you were bracing yourself! That is the artistry in a Turner,” St. Charles exclaimed. “Very few people realize there is a visceral reaction to his pieces and while they examine brushstrokes and the use of specific colors and materials when trying to authenticate his works, I also look for an emotional response.”
Holmes rolled his eyes, and urged our host to return to the ledger. I turned my attention back to the Turner while they examined the accounts.
“So, as you can see, Mr. Holmes, dear Gerry owed me for much of his supplies. The last time I saw him was about two months ago when he submitted the invoices for his expenditures. At that time he was complaining that he was selling fewer portraits.
“It’s photography, you see. I could commission Lefranc to paint a portrait, such as the one of my family in the foyer. We would spend days, if not weeks, sitting for him, he would spend another month or more finishing it, and the result would be an excellent and artistic rendering of ourselves.
“On the other hand, we could visit a photographer’s studio, sit for 10 minutes and have an exact likeness created and delivered in under a week for a fraction of price of the better product. I for one, would choose a painted portrait over a photograph, but that is not the case with most people these days.
“A great artist’s work will always be in demand, and Lefranc’s portraits rate amongst the best of this generation so I understand his frustration. He asked me to finance a Mediterranean painting retreat. In light of his debts and his present frame of mind, I had to decline. Instead, I promised to refer more clients his way in the future. Furthermore, I also mentioned a project which would earn him a steady wage until the commissions came.
“St. Paul’s is in the process of cleaning and restoring the artwork throughout the church, including the Thornhill dome. It was not the type of work he wanted to do but he left with my letter of introduction. Hopefully, he applied, otherwise he may have taken flight and may now be bothering the ladies in Spain. I have been too busy of late and I have not followed up with my contacts to see how the matter stands.”
“Busy with what, if I may be so bold,” asked Holmes.
“You will forgive my discretion in not naming names, but I can tell you that a private collector wishes to sell some pieces of potentially great value to The Museum. It is my job to use my specialized expertise to authenticate these paintings and decide if The Museum should, or even could, entertain the notion of acquiring them.”
“More Turners?” I asked and was answered with only an enigmatic smile.
“If, and I emphasize, only if that were the case, I’m afraid that the affairs of a struggling Soho portrait painter hardly matter in comparison.”
“What happens if you decide that The Museum will not purchase the paintings?”
“Then I will put the seller in contact with The Academy or another private collector, depending on their wishes.”
“And accept a commission?”
“Perhaps. It would depend on many factors which I do not care to discuss.”
***
“So, what do you make of Mr. St. Charles, Watson?”
“I feel that I should like him. He is gracious and non-pretentious— not at all what I was expecting.”
“And yet you do not like him. That is very telling. You are my bellwether when it comes to judging personalities. I too am uneasy. Either he is an absolutely genuine philanthropist, or else the smoothest character I have ever met. Nevertheless, we should visit St. Paul’s Cathedral and see if Lefranc indeed was working there.”
“Did you find any discrepancies in the accounts?”
“There was no invoice for paint mixing supplies for the month of May when Lefranc was out of the city and painting watercolors. In the meantime, St. Charles has given me a letter to take to the bank. It will support Daisy and Benno, until Lefranc returns.”
“He must believe Lefranc is still alive,” I said. Holmes was slow to reply.
“So it would seem. And yet, this Mediterranean business strikes me as odd. All other accounts indicate Lefranc was happy enough in London.”
“Perhaps this was a matter he could only discuss with his financier.”
“Good old Watson; always playing the Angel’s Advocate!”
***
It was said that God may have built the world in 6 days, but it was men who built St. Paul’s. In all my years in London I have only visited the cathedral on rare occasions, and yet each time I was filled with awe and wonder at its magnificence. Inside, beneath the great cathedral’s dome rose a virtual forest of scaffolding.
“Stop right there!” shrieked an officious young cleric as he ran to impede our way. “Do not get too close to the cordon!”
Holmes gave him a baleful look as the warning echoed about the cavernous space.
Once the churchman stopped wheezing he said “The cleaners… filthy creatures… will drop… things… on you!”
“Like paint?” I asked.
“Once they’re up there,” he said, gesturing to the upper reaches. “They don’t like to come down. (sigh) Do I have to spell this out? (another sigh) They relieve themselves in a bucket.”
His words echoed but thankfully, nothing more than chorus of giggles and guffaws rained down upon us.
“If they will not come down, then we will have to ascend. Coming, Watson?”
I declined politely and was glad I had. It turned out that I could hear quite clearly Holmes’s discussion with the craftsmen.
“Sure, we know Frenchy Lefranc. He joined us five or six weeks ago. He gave a letter to the boss and was hired on the spot. We’ve been cleaning up these old murals. Tedious work, kneeling all day. Hard on the knees, and the back, it is. Frenchy grumbled a bit, but we all do, don’t we, boys? (chorus of agreement)
"We’ve got most of the soot off now and should start painting soon. No, we haven’t used paint so far and we will be matching the grisaille so we won’t be using any colors. We all liked him. He would talk about painting and was keen to share his color mixing preferences. Kept a whole list of what he called “his recipes” in the back of a notebook filled with sketches. Portraits? There were some, and he did one of me, but they were mostly landscapes and sailing ships.
"One of his commissions must have come through because he stopped coming two weeks ago. Yes, he did borrow a few shillings, but the next day he brought enough wine and the long French loaf for all of us, so I’m not hurting. I hope he’s doing well. If you see him, please give him our regards. Take care on your way down, Mr. Holmes and tell Father Jeremy we have something for him, though I don’t think he will fall for that a third time!”
“They were a mix of general laborers and art students,” Holmes replied. “All young and agile, and possessing some degree of skill. They are mischievous, as Father Jeremy has had the misfortune to find out. There were a couple of things that stand out as suggestive: Lefranc’s sketchbook and the lack of colored paint.”
“The yellow paint did not come from here, plus Lefranc has not returned since three weeks ago. We are missing a head, a sketchbook, and about two weeks of Lefranc’s timeline from when he was last seen, until his body came ashore. Since this is the first we have heard of a sketchbook, let us return to Lefranc’s studio and do a complete search.”
We went directly to Soho and, since no door lock is proof against a significantly motivated consulting detective with a set of picks, we easily gained entry to Lefranc’s studio. All seemed as we had left it. There were no signs of a sketchbook, and the artist’s last pallet featured the deep red that was evident in the work-in-progress on the easel. Yellow had not recently been used.
Holmes looked dejected. He might claim to enjoy when a path runs cold as it eliminates several possibilities, but I know he is much more satisfied when there is a trail to follow.
The return ride to Baker St. was a silent one.
***
Early that evening, Mrs. Hudson, our long-suffering landlady, announced the return of Inspector Lestrade.
“I’ve just come to return this,” he said. “We no longer need Lefranc’s portrait. We circulated a photograph of his painting and I’m confident we questioned all the relevant people. I believe we have reached what you might call an impasse.”
I poured three glasses of whisky while Holmes removed the brown paper wrapping from the painting.
“To Gerry ‘Frenchy’ Lefranc,” said Holmes as we three raised our glasses. “I’m sorry to have let you down.”
The young man’s face smiled back at us as we drained our glasses.
‘Just a minute!!!” Holmes exclaimed. “I’ve been such a fool! It’s been in front of us all along!”
“What is it? What is it?” pleaded Lestrade and I together.
Holmes assumed that supercilious expression that, from long exposure to it, told me that we were in for either a lecture, or a denouement.
“Look at the picture. Do you see it? How can you not? (sigh) Ask yourselves: Why does a portrait artist’s self-portrait portray him painting a ship?”
“Good heavens!” I could see it all now.
“I don’t understand…” said the Inspector.
“Yes, Watson?” prompted Holmes, his eyes gleaming with expectation.
“Lefranc was forging Turners for Roger St. Charles.”
“Bravo, Doctor! I expect that got him killed.”
***
“That’s a bold accusation,” said Lestrade. “Mr. St. Charles is the darling of London’s artistic community and is known to have friends in high places. You better be able to prove it.”
Holmes went into deep concentration. From time to time he would seem to want to make a statement, but would either shake his head or frown and return to his cogitations.
“Sadly, I cannot prove it. Leave it with me for a day, Inspector, before you seek a warrant for his arrest.”
“Very good, Mr. Holmes. Considering the thin nature of your conjecture, I would not want to take this higher without more to go on. Good night to you both.”
I showed him to the door and when I returned, Holmes handed me my winter coat and proceeded to re-wrap the Lefranc self-portrait.
“We’re paying Roger St. Charles a visit tonight,” he said as he withdrew a revolver from his desk, checked that it was loaded, and handed it to me. “We might need insurance.”
***
Our bell was answered by the butler who seemed not surprised by unannounced evening visitors.
“Please excuse our calling at this late hour, but we have found something that may be of great interest to Mr. St. Charles.”
The door closed only to be opened a moment later and we were invited into the foyer. Mr. St. Charles’s amiable welcome stalled when he saw the parcel Holmes was carrying and he suggested we retire to his private office. Holmes unnecessarily gave me a look telling me to be on my guard as we repaired to the now familiar room.
“Mr. St. Charles,” Holmes began. “I want you to look at this painting and then tell me why you murdered Gervais Lefranc.”
St. Charles’s protestation was short-lived as Holmes unveiled Lefranc’s self-portrait and placed on the empty easel.
“I did not murder him. Lefranc fell while attacking me. I would claim self-defence and as it happened, neither of us landed a single blow. There had been some linseed oil on the floor and he happened to smash his face on the edge of a table. It caused a horrible wound that he could not possibly survive, yet his heart continued to beat. I stayed with him until the end. I tried to make him comfortable but he lived for three days and he never regained consciousness.”
“Perhaps you should start at the beginning,” said Holmes.
Roger St. Charles composed himself and began his tale.
“I found Gerry in Paris. His work was very good and he had a special talent. His techniques were excellent and his paintings could evoke an emotional response. I brought him to London with only the best intentions. Sometime later, I was approached be a gentleman who wanted to quietly liquidate some of his assets by selling one or two items from his collection. Fearing their disappearance might cause a stir, he asked if I knew anyone who could paint replacements. I immediately thought of Lefranc.
“My illustrious client delivered his originals to me to have them restored, I bought them and paid Lefranc to make the copies. The ‘refreshed’ paintings were returned to my client’s house. The Museum purchased the originals, and I paid Lefranc out of my commission.
“As time went by, similar ventures arose, and I again would contact Lefranc whose skills as a copyist were only getting better and better. I took great pains to make sure everything was legal so nobody would be tempted to make a false insurance claim. The records of all the transactions are filed with The Museum, and I retain a copy for myself as well.
“Lately, though, these opportunities have become few and far between. I told you the truth about how photography has been taking work away from painters, and Lefranc was feeling the pinch. I also tried to find him work in the restoration trade because I wanted to keep him satisfied since another copyist opportunity was imminent.”
A look of profound regret passed over Mr. St. Charles as he regarded the Lefranc portrait.
“Why could he have not waited?” he bemoaned.
“He forged a Turner,” supplied Holmes.
“No. Not exactly. He invited me to cottage near Richmond where he had been secretly painting. There he unveiled his masterpiece: a typical Turner-esque scene of boats in the harbor near Margate. It was magnificent. The colors, the use of light, the emotional weight were perfect. This was no mere copy; Lefranc had achieved the unachievable. He had painted a Turner as good as any original. He was so proud, and rightly so, but for Turner’s sake, I could not allow such things to exist. It was with deep sorrow that set it ablaze. Lefranc attacked me and in his haste and fury, slipped and fell, sustaining the dire wound that would claim his life.”
“Why mutilate his body?” I asked.
“To obscure both his identity and the way by which he perished,” replied Holmes.
“I was taught anatomy when I was young and I had attended several autopsies to make sketches, but it is a different thing altogether to remove a man’s head from his body, especially when it is someone you know. I sewed Lefranc’s corpse into an old blanket and once weighed down stones, I slipped him into the Thames. I did the same with his head. Somehow his body became free of its shroud and was found in London. It has haunted me ever since.
“I have told you the whole story, Mr. Holmes. Will you have me arrested?”
“You’re a clever man and you have covered your tracks quite well, Mr. St. Charles. I doubt I would be able to find any substantial proof against you. Your confession to Dr. Watson and myself, as you well know, would not stand up in court. You also count many influential members of Society amongst your friends. No, I will not take this to the police, but know this: I will be watching you and your actions closely in the future. If I sense any wrongdoing, you will not be able to withstand the intense commitment I will bring to bear to prove your involvement.”
“Thank you, Mr. Homes! You have my assurances. I will continue in my role in acquisitions for The Museum, but I will cease the practice of offering replacements.”
“You will also continue to support Mrs. Lefranc and her son.”
“It was already my intention to do so.”
“As I expected since the moment you gave me the letter for the bank. I will be retaining Lefranc’s self-portrait and keeping it somewhere safe. Good night Mr. St. Charles.”
***
The night, although without wind, was cold but neither Holmes nor I seemed to mind as we strode towards our flat. The excitement of solving the case kept us from feeling the chill.
“What will you tell Lestrade?” I asked.
“The truth, of course. That there is no proof to be found, and that I do not consider St. Charles a murderer. That should be good enough for him. The Inspector is a good man but knows when to cut his losses.”
Epilogue:
I do not know whatever became of Lefranc’s self-portrait, though it would not surprise me if it hangs today in one of the numerous recesses of The Diogenes Club.
William Mitchell’s “Still Life with Scallop Shell Necklace” holds pride of place in my dining room and is often admired and commented upon by my guests. I am told it is quite valuable.
John H. Watson
1897
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Date: 2020-03-23 06:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-03-24 01:27 am (UTC)A wonderfully twisty mystery, and there's something so appropriate about a counterfeiter's body having its identity obscured.
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Date: 2020-03-24 10:07 pm (UTC)I also loved accompanying them around London. You conjured the settings so beautifully. Thank you!!
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Date: 2020-03-29 03:23 am (UTC)A case fic, wow! The characterization is great and I just love that this story is a pastiche about pastiches.
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Date: 2020-03-30 04:32 pm (UTC)Thank you so much for this story. You must be very well-versed in Victorian London and the art scene of the time. I adore Turner. And I also adore some of the little details you have included. I think I would also like to read the Adventure of the Egyptologiste, Her Father, and Her Mummy! I also loved the scene in St Paul's with the mural restorers. Poor Father (should be Reverend) Jeremy!
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Date: 2023-06-24 07:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-04-02 08:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-06-24 07:58 pm (UTC):D I certainly want to read this adventure now…
Headcanon: Mycroft Holmes knows one million trivial facts about art but he has never once spoken to an actual artist because that would require him to talk to people
Or perhaps there’s a more sinister explanation…
The hidden love poem bit is cute! And almost certainly related to the murder, sadly.
Oh dear.
I would like to pet the sneaky little thief
I don’t know — given the propensity of the average Violet to come into contact with Sherlock Holmes, it seems like tracking all of them down might actually save time!
:D
his last name was Tweed? fr
Nice! I hadn’t predicted this.
This is sweet <3
I found out about this work via the comments on Holmestice's Summer 2023 guessing post, and I must say: What a magnificent prank!