He went to stand at the window, frowning down at the street.
“There is just one point I am not clear about. Pons. Why would Carstairs himself not have recognised his new secretary as Venner the designer?”
Solar Pons shook his head.
“You do not know the theatre, Parker. I said Venner was an unsuccessful designer. Though brilliant. Brilliancy and success do not always go together, unfortunately. Venner was obscure. I know that he has not designed for any major London production. Carstairs is a famous and successful actor who appears only in major plays and films. Their paths would not have crossed. Incidentally, Venner served a short term of imprisonment some years ago, in connection with an art fraud which is why his photograph was in my files.”
“And the fact that nothing happened after the first warning, Pons?”
Solar Pons smiled enigmatically.
“I had not forgotten that, my dear fellow. I made some inquiries of the L.M.S. On the date in question, when the performance of Othello was being given, there was a major subsidence of the line in the Midlands which completely disrupted and for a time cancelled the train services between London and Edinburgh. For that reason Venner was unable to travel to Scotland to help in his mistress’ scheme. Without his support she had no option but temporarily to abandon the plan as being too risky to attempt on her own. Ironically, it was something like the situation in one of Carstair’s major films two years ago.”
Pons traversed the room and languidly looked at the clock.
“Talking of films, Parker, there is a new Valentino at the London pavilion. Are you free to go? He is no great actor but he has a certain animal grace which I find irresistible.”
The Adventure of the Persecuted Painter (Sherlock Holmes)
1
It was a dreary evening in early March when I returned to our familiar rooms in Baker Street. I was soaked to the skin for it had been raining earlier and I could not find a cab, and the dark clouds and louring skies promised a further downpour. As I opened the door to our welcoming sitting room, which was in semi-darkness, a familiar voice broke the silence.
“Come in my dear Watson. Mrs Hudson will be up with a hot meal in a few minutes, as I had already observed you from the window, my poor fellow.”
“Very good of you, Holmes,” I mumbled. “I will just get into some dry things and rejoin you.”
“It must have been very damp down Hackney way,” my friend observed with a dry chuckle.
“How could you possibly know that. Holmes?” I said in some surprise.
He burst into a throaty laugh.
“Because you inadvertently left your engagement pad on the table yonder.”
When I returned to the sitting room the lamps were alight and the apartment transformed, with the motherly figure of Mrs Hudson, our amiable landlady, bustling about laying the table, the covered dishes on which were giving off an agreeable aroma.
“Ah, shepherd’s pie!” said Holmes, rubbing his thin hands together and drawing up his chair.
“You have excelled yourself this evening, Mrs Hudson.”
“Very kind of you to say so, sir.”
She paused at the door, an anxious expression on her face.
“Did your visitor come back, Mr Holmes?”
“Visitor, Mrs Hudson?”
“Yes, sir. I was just going out, you see, and he said he would not bother you now. He said he would be back between six-thirty and seven-thirty, if that was convenient. I hope I have done right.”
“Certainly, Mrs Hudson.”
Holmes glanced at the clock over the mantel.
“It is only six o’clock now so we have plenty of time to do justice to your excellent meal. What sort of person would you say?”
“A foreign-looking gentleman, Mr Holmes. About forty, with a huge beard. He wore a plaid cape, a wide-brimmed hat and carried a shabby-looking holdall.”
I paused with a portion of shepherd’s pie halfway to my mouth.
“Why, you would make an admirable detective yourself, Mrs Hudson.”
Our good landlady flushed.
“Kind of you to say so, sir! Shall I show him up as soon as he arrives. Mr Holmes?”
“If you please.”
Holmes was silent as we made inroads into the excellent fare and it had just turned seven when he produced his pipe and pouch and sat himself back in his chair by the fire.
“A foreign gentleman with a beard and a shabby case, Homes,” I said at length, after the debris of our meal had been cleared and the room had resumed its normal aspect.
“Perhaps, Watson. But he may be an Englishman with a very mundane problem. It is unwise to speculate without sufficient data on which to base a prognosis.”
“As you say, Holmes.” I replied and sat down opposite him and immersed myself in the latest edition of The Lancet. It was just half-past seven and we had closed the curtains against the sheeting rain when there came a hesitant tap at the sitting room door. The apparition which presented itself was indeed bizarre and Mrs Hudson’s matter of fact description had not prepared me for such a sight.
He was of great height, and his dark beard, turning slightly grey at the edges, now flecked with rain, hung down over his plaid coat like a mat. His eyes were a brilliant blue underneath cavernous brows and his eyebrows, in contrast to the beard, were jet- black, which enhanced the piercing glance he gave to Holmes and myself. I had not time to take in anything else for I was now on my feet to extend a welcome. He stood just inside the door, water dripping from his clothing on to the carpet, looking owlishly from myself to Holmes, who had also risen from his chair.
“Mr Holmes? Dr Watson?” he said hesitantly in a deep bass voice.
“That is he,” I said, performing the introductions.
He gave an embarrassed look to both of us.
“I must apologise for this intrusion, gentlemen. Aristide Smedhurst at your service. Artist and writer for my pains. I would not have bothered you, Mr Holmes, but I am in the most terrible trouble.”
“This is the sole purpose of this agency — to assist,” said Holmes, extending a thin hand to our strange guest.
“Watson, would you be so kind? I think, under the circumstances, a stiff whisky would not come amiss.”
“Of course, Holmes,” I said, hastening to the sideboard.
“That is most gracious of you, gentlemen,” said Smedhurst, allowing himself to be led to a comfortable chair by the fire.
As I handed him the whisky glass his face came forward into the light and I saw that he had an unnatural pallor on his cheeks.
“Thank you, Dr Watson.”
He gulped the fiery liquid gratefully and then, seeing Holmes’ sharp eyes upon him, gave an apologetic shrug.
“Forgive me, Mr Holmes, but if you had been through what I have experienced, it would be enough to shake even your iron nerve.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes in reassuring tones. “Pray do not apologise, my dear Mr Smedhurst. I observed when you first entered that your cape and trousers were covered in mud, as though you had fallen heavily. You have come all the way from Dorset today, I presume, so the matter must be serious.”
Our strange visitor gazed at Holmes open-mouthed.
“I did indeed have a nasty fall in my anxiety to catch my train. But how on earth could you know I come from Dorset?”
My old friend got up to light a spill for his pipe from the fire.
“There was nothing extraordinary about my surmise, I can assure you. Watson and I attended your exhibition at the Royal Academy last summer. Those extraordinary oils, water colours and pencil sketches of those weird landscapes remained long in my memory…”