“But it is, my dear fellow — simply unique!”
Like every Londoner, I had, of course, heard of the artists’ studios to be found off the long lean artery of the King’s Road, but I had never seen them. Finding myself on that dark flagged alley, I must confess that I was not impressed by my surroundings. Indeed, the only hint of a bohemian air to the district was supplied by two disreputably dressed young gentlemen, no doubt on the way to their own studio. As they passed us, I heard the taller man say, “Honestly, Bunny, you really are the most frightful ass...” in a cultured fashion greatly at odds with his attire.
We halted at an unlatched door, and Holmes raised his hand to knock.
“It’s open, Mr Holmes, do come in!” called a male voice. My friend’s expression betrayed none of the surprise I was sure he must have felt, and he pushed the door open.
I had imagined that the residence of a successful artist would be crammed to the rafters with sketches and paintings in various stages of preparation. But the lofty room in which we found ourselves betrayed little evidence of the tenant’s occupation, save for an easel at the far side of the room and a small table in the centre. The painting upon that easel faced away from us, but had, in any case, been covered by a stained towel. A completed work, rolled up, rested against the easel.
As for Algernon Redfern himself, again my expectations were crushed. Given his flamboyant agent, and his apparent connection with a string of bizarre murders, I had begun to imagine him as a curious cross between Oscar Wilde and Edward Hyde; but such was not the case. Redfern was a man of approximately five-and-twenty, tall, loose-limbed, with black close-cropped hair and a pockmarked face.
“Forgive me for not shaking hands,” he said, jovially, displaying his paint-smeared palms.
“How does it come about that you were expecting us?” I enquired.
He smiled, and I observed a row of uneven yellow teeth. “Perhaps as an artist, I have a keener instinct than most, Doctor. Or, a telegram might have reached me before your carriage. Then again, I might have that marvellously convenient invention, the telephone, installed somewhere on the premises. Pick any one you prefer. Cigarette?”
Under a copy of the Pall Mall, a plain cigarette box rested upon the small table. He brushed the newspaper to the floor and opened the box, revealing just one cigarette within.
“No thank you, Mr Redfern,” Holmes replied.
“As you like,” said the artist. In one swift movement, he placed the cigarette in his mouth and lit it. “This will probably be my last one, anyway. Plays hell with my chest. Is there any medical basis for swearing off them, Doctor?”
I must own that during my explanation — which took in findings made a century earlier regarding the connection between snuf-ftaking and certain nasal polyps, as well as my friend’s frequent three-pipe sessions — I rambled more than a little, distracted as I was by Redfern’s voice. That he was attempting to conceal his own nationality beneath a somewhat flawed English accent was clear.
“Well, Mr Holmes,” he said, jovially, “to what do I owe the honour of this visit?”
“What does your keen artist’s instinct tell you?” Holmes asked, dryly.
Redfern chuckled. “Most assuredly, not that you are interested in having your portrait painted. From what I know of you from Dr Watson’s stories, I would not have said you were so vain.”
“If you are an admirer of the Doctor’s work, you have my condolences,” said Holmes with, I felt, unnecessary relish. “But you are correct in stating that I have not come here today on my own account. I am more interested in your connection to James Phillimore, Anwar Molinet, Oliver Monckton and Mrs Bernice Serracoult.”
Redfern expelled a long, luxurious cloud of smoke before responding: “Sorry to say, I’ve never heard of any of them. Who are they?”
“They each bought one of your paintings,” I explained.
The artist shrugged, before stubbing out his cigarette on the lid of the box and picking up a pad and pencil. “I only paint them,” he said. “The charming Mr Milhause handles the business side of things. You’ve met him, of course. Quite unbearable, isn’t he?”
“They are also, as Dr Watson is too discreet to mention, all dead — Mrs Serracoult as recently as this afternoon.”
Algernon Redfern appeared unperturbed by this news. “I should call that a rather extreme reaction to my work.” He began to scribble absent-mindedly on the pad.
“Are you English by birth, Mr Redfern?” Holmes asked.
“How could you doubt it? I’m not native to London, however, but I’ve been here a while. And I’ll remain until I’ve done what I came here to do.”
“And that is?” I asked.
He looked up from his pad. “To sell my paintings, naturally. What else?”
I coughed to attract Holmes’s attention.
“Your friend seems to have rather a nasty chest. Or is there something on your mind, Doctor?”
“You said... you said that Mr Milhause dealt with the sale of your works. And I would not have imagined that a true artistic soul would be interested in such vulgar matters.”
“I don’t play any part in the sales — I couldn’t even tell you where they’re sold. But as a professional writer, you must know that any artist who says they’re not interested in public acceptance is a liar. That’s what it’s all about. And money, of course. Only the air is free, gentlemen, and I have some doubts as to its quality.”
“Dr Watson likes to say that my pipe does little to add to the city’s atmosphere.”
“Another persuasive argument in favour of my giving up the cigarettes.” Redfern dropped the pad at his feet, seeming not to notice. “I’m sorry I can’t help you, Mr Holmes, but as I told you, I’ve never met or even heard of those people you mentioned. And I’m certain that as a professional detective, you must have all sorts of ways of telling whether I’m telling the truth or not.” Again, he flashed a sickly yellow grin, and I had the certain feeling that we were being manipulated, as a cat toys with a wounded mouse.
Holmes scratched his long nose. “Well, it was a long shot at best. Thank you for your time, Mr Redfern.”
We made to leave, but the young man bounded across the length of the room, the rolled-up painting in his hand. “Wait!” he cried. “Mr Holmes, as an... admirer of your work, I should very much like you to have this.”
Holmes chuckled. “My services are charged at a fixed rate, Mr Redfern. I doubt that I could afford one of your paintings.”
“I’m not selling it — I’m giving it to you. It’s mine to do with as I wish, and I wish you to have it. Take it, please.”
I was already on my guard, and should never under any circumstances have accepted a gift from a man so patently false as Algernon Redfern, so I was astonished by my friend’s reaction, unrolling the picture with an almost childish enthusiasm of which I would never have imagined him capable. Holmes’s eyes glittered as he examined the picture.
“Why, this is really very fine!” he exclaimed.
“If I have captured the colour of the mudstains, I take it you can identify the precise area of London depicted?”
“No need, Mr Redfern, I am quite familiar with Coptic Street; I had lodgings not far from there some years ago, and it has featured in one of our recent investigations. Watson, you recall the case of the Coptic Patriarchs?”
I attempted to convey my concerns to Holmes in a surreptitious manner by means of a loud cough, but he seemed completely oblivious.
“Well, goodbye, Mr Holmes,” said the young man, his unhealthy grin now even wider. “It was nice to have known you, if only for a brief time. Goodbye, Dr Watson — paregoric is the stuff.”