A Study in Sherlock Page 7

  The limousine parked next to Ronald’s SUV. When the chauffeur opened the rear door, Ronald was surprised to see Peter Burns work his way out of the rear seat and limp around the front of the vehicle, leaning heavily on his cane. Burns was a dealer in rare books and the owner of London’s Great Mystery bookshop. Ronald had met him on a few occasions and he’d had many transatlantic dealings with him by phone or e-mail. Burns had a thin, aristocratic face with high cheekbones, a nose as sharp as a knife, and a narrow, pointed jaw. A pleasant smile and a head of curly gray hair softened his features. He was slightly taller than Ronald but the two men were eye to eye because he was forced to bend forward slightly due to the height of his cane.

  “So Hilton invited you, too,” Ronald said.

  “Didn’t you know I was coming?” Burns asked.

  “Hilton told me there would be other guests, but he didn’t tell me who they were. Do you know why he summoned us?” Ronald asked.

  “That’s what I want to know,” said William Escott, who had no compunction about butting into the conversation. Ronald and Peter Burns looked down at the five foot four interloper who seemed to be almost as wide as he was tall.

  “I’m also curious, chaps,” chimed in Robert Altamont. “All Hilton told me was that my visit would be one of the most memorable events of my life.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve been sworn to secrecy,” Burns said. “But Hilton will explain why you’re here soon enough.”

  Before anyone could ask any more questions the front door was opened by Phillip Lester, Cubitt’s butler, a dignified and superbly fit ex-SAS sergeant whose military service records were shrouded in mystery. Lester was flanked by two men who looked like bodybuilders and had the hard eyes of people who have seen the dark side of life. The visitors were beckoned into a cavernous entryway. A massive stone staircase led up to the second floor and suits of armor stood at attention on either side of the bottom step.

  “Welcome to Cubitt Hall,” Lester said as the drivers brought in Ronald’s stewardess case, Burns’s golf-club-size duffle bag, Escott’s valises, and Altamont’s monogrammed luggage. “Before I can show you to your rooms I’m afraid the security staff will have to go through your belongings and search you.”

  “This is outrageous,” Escott shouted. “No one is going to lay a hand on me.”

  “Mr. Escott,” Peter Burns interceded. “Take my word for it, you will think nothing of this search when you discover why you are here.”

  Escott looked like he was about to say something else but he snapped his jaws shut.

  “Very well,” he said as he raised his hands above his head and let one of the security men pat him down while the other went through his suitcases.

  “I’ll show you to your rooms so you may freshen up,” the butler said as soon as the men and their luggage had been searched. “Mr. Cubitt would like you to meet him in the library for drinks before dinner at five.”

  “A drink sounds mighty good to me,” Escott said.

  Hilton Cubitt was an average-looking man who had made an above average fortune in the stock market, but he had just been through a costly divorce from his fourth wife and Ronald had heard whispers about severe financial reversals. Had Cubitt invested heavily with Bernie Madoff? Was his fortune depleted by the failure of several banks? If so, Cubitt did not show it. He strode into his library dressed in a hand-tailored suit sporting a confident smile.

  Cubitt was five-nine with the compact build of the rugby player he’d been at Oxford. He’d parlayed a degree in finance into a fortune as a hedge fund manager and he’d used some of that fortune to build collections that were the envy of everyone who collected in his fields of interest. Cubitt was rumored to own the thirty-fifth Vermeer and he had an antique car museum that housed some of the rarest vehicles ever created, but he had two favorite collections.

  Cubitt had spent a year in the States as a graduate student at Columbia. During that year, he had become a fan of American baseball and his favorite team was the New York Yankees. He had an impressive collection of Yankee memorabilia, which was said to include a World Series uniform worn and signed by Babe Ruth and the bat Mickey Mantle used when he hit his longest home run plus the uniform he wore when he hit it. The originals of these items were supposed to be in the Baseball Hall of Fame but there were rumors that Cubitt would neither confirm nor deny that the items in Cooperstown were copies.

  Cubitt’s other pride and joy was the world’s largest collection of artwork pertaining to Sherlock Holmes, some two to three thousand pieces.

  Cubitt’s guests were seated in his library in upholstered high-back chairs set up in a semicircle in front of a massive stone fireplace. A roaring fire radiated enough heat to counteract the chill and drinks had been provided by the butler. Every inch of wall space on either side of the fireplace was taken up with ornately carved floor-to-ceiling wooden bookshelves. Ronald had inspected some of the spines while waiting for Cubitt to appear and had been impressed by the quality of the collection.

  “Thank you for coming, gentlemen,” Cubitt said as he strode to a spot in front of the fireplace. “I am certain that you will find your journey worthwhile.”

  “And why is that, Hilton?” Escott asked. “Why did you drag us out here?”

  Cubitt smiled. “I’m going to keep you in suspense a little longer, Bill. Please follow me.”

  “Any chance I can see your Yankees memorabilia?” Escott asked.

  “Perhaps, but I’m reluctant to do so since I hear that you’re a Red Sox fan.”

  Cubitt led them down a long hall and stopped in front of a carved wood door while the butler unlocked it. When the door swung open, Ronald could see that the wood covered a thick steel inner door. The guests entered a pitch-black room. When Cubitt threw the light switch Ronald, Altamont, and Escott gasped. Only Peter Burns showed no reaction. He had been guiding Hilton Cubitt since the millionaire began collecting and he had been in this room on many occasions.

  The gallery was massive and every square inch was covered by artwork related to Sherlock Holmes. What drew Ronald’s eye was a wall covered by Sidney Paget drawings. Paget was the original illustrator of the Holmes stories in The Strand Magazine, where the stories first appeared. There were only supposed to be thirty-five existing originals out of the hundreds of drawings Paget had completed. The most famous Paget was from “The Final Problem.” It showed the fight at Reichenbach Falls between the detective and his archenemy, Professor Moriarty, and had sold for more than $200,000 at auction.

  “Are these …?” Ronald asked.

  Cubitt nodded. “All originals.”

  “My God,” Ronald said. On the wall were more than twenty Pagets that were not supposed to exist.

  Cubitt gestured to four chairs that had been placed in front of the wall with the Pagets.

  “Please sit down.”

  Ronald could not tear his eyes away from the Pagets as he lowered himself onto his chair. When the men were seated, Cubitt walked in front of them and put his back to the wall.

  “Bear with me while I tell you a story. Queen Victoria was born in 1819 and she ruled England from 1837 until her death in 1901. It is not widely known, but the queen was a huge fan of the Holmes stories and she was devastated when Doyle, who had grown tired of his creation, killed him off in ‘The Final Problem’ in 1893.

  “On June 20, 1897, England held the Diamond Jubilee to celebrate the fact that Victoria had surpassed King George III as England’s longest-reigning monarch. It is not clear who, but someone close to the queen had the brilliant idea of asking Doyle to write a Holmes story solely for Her Majesty. Paget was asked to illustrate the tale.”

  “Everyone knows that never happened,” Escott scoffed. “It’s a legend like the Loch Ness monster, with about as much truth to it.”

  Cubitt smiled. “That is the majority opinion.”

  “You’re not saying it really happened, are you?” Altamont asked with raised eyebrows and a smirk that broadcast his opinion of th
e tale.

  “Why don’t you let me finish. Then you can draw your own conclusions,” Cubitt answered. “Those of us familiar with this so-called legend know that the story and the illustrations were alleged to have been individually bound in leather and presented to the queen. That is where the story usually ends, but some years ago Peter went to an estate on the North Shore of Long Island, New York, and bought a collection from Chester Doran, a distant relative of John Jacob Astor. Over dinner the conversation turned to Holmes. Doran asked Peter if he was aware that Astor had once owned the only copy of a short story Doyle had written for Queen Victoria and the original artwork Paget had created for it.”

  Ronald turned toward Burns but the dealer’s face showed no emotion.

  “Peter told Doran that the story in question was not believed to have actually existed, but his dinner partner assured him it was real. According to Doran, Astor heard the rumor while visiting England in 1912. Using contacts in the royal family he learned that the story was still in Buckingham Palace.

  “Doran grew reluctant to continue his tale at this point but Peter persuaded him to complete it. Doran told Peter that Astor paid a huge sum to a servant to steal the story and the artwork, which he received the day before he was to sail back to the States.”

  “Didn’t Astor go down with the Titanic?” Ronald asked.

  Cubitt nodded. “He was one of the poor souls who sailed on that doomed ship in April 1912. Those scholars who heard the rumor that Astor possessed the story and artwork believe that they joined him at the bottom of the sea. But Doran claimed that he had discovered a Paget drawing in a leather case in a trunk belonging to John Jacob Astor that had been mistakenly left behind in England when the Titanic sailed and was shipped to Astor’s estate a month after the ship sank.”

  “You’re saying you have the Paget?” Ronald asked incredulously.

  Cubitt walked to the wall on the far side of the room and took down a painting that concealed a wall safe. He spun the dial, opened the steel door, and took out a framed fifteen-by-twenty-inch drawing. Escott leapt to his feet but Altamont and Ronald were too stunned to move. Cubitt placed the drawing on an easel that had been set up in front of the safe.

  “Gentlemen,” Cubitt said.

  Ronald and Altamont stood slowly and stared at the drawing like men in a trance. The three collectors edged forward with the same reverence priests would show if they were approaching the Holy Grail. Ronald’s heart beat furiously. The drawing was a full-length portrait of Holmes in a long coat and his famous deerstalker hat smoking a pipe in front of the fire at 221B Baker Street. It was signed SP, as Paget always signed his drawings, and dated June 20, 1897. There was no known Paget this large and the date under the signature was something no Sherlockian collector had ever seen on a Paget drawing.

  “My God,” Altamont gasped. “How much did you pay for this?”

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to keep that information confidential.”

  Escott snorted. “Whatever you paid was money down the drain. This has got to be a forgery.”

  “Peter vetted it thoroughly,” Cubitt said. “Before I bought it he had the paper tested, the ink tested. He had it examined by Paget experts. I’ve seen the documents. It is authentic.”

  Escott tore his eyes away from the drawing and cast a sly glance at his host.

  “Why are we here, Hilton? I reckon there’s more to this than an art show.”

  “There’s no fooling you, Bill,” Cubitt answered. “With the acquisition of this Paget I have completed my collection of Holmes memorabilia and I’ve decided to sell it off. Collecting Holmes has no interest for me now that I have the whole set. I’m going to have Peter handle the sale of my collection but I wanted to give you three a chance to bid for the most important piece of Holmes memorabilia ever discovered because you are the only Holmes collectors with the financial resources to buy it. Tomorrow morning I will hold an auction for the Queen Victoria Paget.”

  Hilton Cubitt’s personal chef produced a dinner worthy of the best French restaurant but Ronald and Altamont were too distracted to do more than pick at their food. William Escott devoured his meal with gusto and drank with even greater enthusiasm. Ronald was exhausted from the flight, the long drive, and the excitement caused by Cubitt’s startling surprise. As soon as it was socially acceptable, he called it a night and went to his room, but he found that he was too excited to sleep. He was also troubled by a question of ethics.

  If the Paget was genuine, it was in truth the most important discovery in the history of Holmes collecting. But it was also stolen goods. If the existence of the Paget was made known, along with the manner in which it was acquired, the British government would demand its return. Neither he nor Altamont nor Escott had brought this up to Cubitt.

  Robert Altamont was a genius and Ronald was certain he had considered the moral and legal conundrums the owner of the Paget would face. Ronald would not have been surprised if Escott had failed to think through the problem presented by the drawing’s provenance. The Texan wasn’t very bright. His morals were also suspect. If he did realize that the owner of the Paget would be in possession of stolen property, Ronald doubted that it would spoil his sleep.

  Ronald had always prided himself on being an honest man. If he bought the Paget he would have to keep it hidden. If he hoarded his treasure so the British government didn’t learn of the Paget’s existence would he be able to look himself in the eye whenever he looked in a mirror?

  Ronald’s bedroom was large and dominated by a king-size canopy bed in which he tossed and turned while visions of the Paget kept sleep away. A little after midnight, he finally gave up any idea of getting a good night’s sleep and got out of bed. Ronald had started a legal thriller on the plane ride from New York to London and he fished his e-book reader out of his traveling bag, hoping that reading would tire him out. There was a comfortable armchair next to a high window with a view of the moor. Ronald settled in and turned on the lamp on the side table.

  Forty-five minutes later, the words were swimming in front of his eyes and he turned off the light. The reflection from the lamp had made it difficult to see through the window. The moment the light went off Ronald saw another light bobbing up and down on the moor. The fear he felt when he read The Hound flooded him and he took an involuntary step away from the window. Then he caught his breath and leaned forward.

  The quarter moon provided little illumination and thick, fast-moving clouds frequently blocked even those feeble rays. For a second, Ronald thought he could make out a silhouette moving across the moor, whether man or woman he could not be sure. Then the light disappeared and he guessed that the person had moved behind a hummock or rock formation that was blocking the light.

  What would possess someone to venture out on the moor in the cold and dark? Ronald could not imagine anything that would send him out into that trackless, merciless waste with its quicksand bogs and God knew what else. But the puzzle intrigued him and he decided to sit again and keep a vigil in hopes that the phantom would return and he could discover its identity.

  Ronald jerked awake. At first, he had no idea where he was. Then he realized that he had fallen asleep in the chair by the window. The sun was just rising over the moor and he could make out stunted trees, barren ground, low hills, and rocky prominences. Nothing about the place in daylight changed his mind about his desire to avoid it.

  Ronald’s Franck Muller wristwatch was on his nightstand. It was just shy of seven A.M. He showered and shaved before dressing in pressed jeans, a tight black T-shirt, and a Harvard sweatshirt. Unlike Robert Altamont, he had actually gone to Harvard for two years before dropping out to work full-time developing Death’s Head.

  The table where they had eaten dinner was set. Silver serving dishes had been laid out on a long credenza. Phillip Lester asked him if he’d like some coffee. While Ronald poured a glass of orange juice and filled his plate with bacon, scrambled eggs, and a scone, the butler brought him a cup of the bes
t black coffee he’d ever tasted. Ronald asked where it was from and Lester told him that the blend had been specially created for Mr. Cubitt but that was all he was at liberty to say.

  “Did you sleep?” Robert Altamont asked from the doorway soon after Ronald had dug into his eggs. He was wearing gray slacks, a white silk shirt, and a blazer.

  “Not until the wee hours. I was too wound up. What about you?”

  “I caught a few winks but thinking about the Paget kept me up most of the night. I’ve been collecting forever but I’ve never been in a position to own something like this.”

  William Escott walked in before Ronald could reply and made straight for the food. He stacked his plate so high that Ronald waited for it to collapse like a building brought down by a demolition expert.

  “When’s the auction?” Escott asked the butler, though it was difficult to understand what the Texan had said because his mouth was stuffed with food.

  “Mr. Cubitt should descend shortly.”

  “Can we see the Paget again or do we have to wait for Hilton?” Ronald asked.

  “Last night, Mr. Cubitt instructed me to take you to the gallery if you requested a viewing.”

  “Well, I certainly do,” Escott said. He pulled a magnifying glass out of his pocket. “I’m not buying unless I get a chance to inspect the damn thing. Personally, I think this picture is just too good to be true.” He snorted. “Queen Victoria, the Titanic, John Jacob Astor. The whole thing sounds like a plot for a comic book.”

  After everyone had eaten, Lester led them to the gallery. The door was closed but there was a key jutting out from the lock.

  “That’s odd,” Lester said. He tried the door and it opened. The butler stepped into the pitch-black room. As soon as the light went on he tensed. Ronald looked over Lester’s shoulder to see what had prompted the reaction. His eyes widened.