"No, sir."
"It must have taken several people to remove the painting. It is large and heavy."
"That it is," the old man laughed. "Why, when old Dr Giddings presented the picture to the college it took six of us to put it up – an' all the time the dean – that's the former dean who's now warden – hopping and dancing around and shouting at us to be careful."
As they walked the length of the long nave Holmes asked, "You were saying you'd had some trouble with boisterous undergraduates."
"Gentlemen they call themselves!" the aged verger sniffed. "Sacrilegious and heathen hooligans I calls them. First week of term it was. I caught four of 'em in here, scrambling about over the stalls. One of them had a lamp and he was holding it up to that Dutch painting. I was afeared he'd set light to the thing. You can imagine, sir, when I saw you on the same spot it brought it all back. So you'll forgive me if I was a bit sharp with you."
"I quite understand," Holmes replied sympathetically. "Yours is a heavy responsibility. What happened to these rowdies?"
"I fetched Junkin, the senior porter, and a couple of his men. They were more than a match for a bunch of drunken undergraduates. We turfed them out and took their names and I reported them directly to the warden. What happened to them after that, I don't know. They've certainly not been back here."
"Do you remember any of their names?"
"Indeed I-do, sir. They was all Magdalen men and their ringleader was the Hon. Hugh Mountcey, Lord Henley's son. You'd think the aristocracy would know better, wouldn't you, sir?"
They had arrived at the west door and the guardian of the chapel held it open. Holmes thanked his informant and passed into the narrow lane outside.
Back in his rooms Sherlock Holmes abandoned all pretence of pursuing his own studies. The mystery of the missing painting had quite taken hold of his reasoning faculties. He threw himself down on a sofa, lit a pipe and pondered the additional information gleaned from the verger. The Nativity, it appeared, had been scheduled for restoration, a fact which now enabled the fellows, temporarily, to conceal its abduction. It had also seemingly provided excellent cover for the thieves. As to the Magdalen men who had made a nuisance of themselves, that certainly suggested a connection with the earlier outrages perpetrated during the summer and autumn terms.
Clearly this motley assortment of stolen Oxfordiana had common features. Each item was treasured by the establishment which owned it. Abduction of each required audacity and daring. Its removal was designed to create embarrassment for its owners, who, for that reason, were unlikely to call in the police, thus risking scandal and popular ridicule.
Yet, Holmes mused, there were also disharmonies. The stolen objects differed greatly in quality, importance, and size. There seemed to be no pattern to the thefts. The removal of Oriel's flag had demanded mountaineering ability; Magdalen's sundial had been neatly prized from its surrounding stonework by someone well versed in the skills of the mason. Only a scholar with a knowledge of rare printed books could have created the forgery which had, briefly, deceived the Radcliffe library staff.Then there were the elements of difficulty and risk. With each escapade these had become greater. There was a considerable gulf between the nocturnal raid on Oriel to remove its standard and the carrying off of the New College painting. The former certainly had the air of a traditional student rag. The latter was a major crime and had called for elaborate and meticulous planning.
That brought one on to the issue of motive. What did the perpetrators want with this bizarre collection of objects? Three of the items had little monetary value.The incunabulum and the painting were, by contrast, highly prized artefacts which could only be disposed of through specialist underworld channels. Holmes dismissed the idea of student escapades.They were never malicious; they were simply tiresome displays of exhibitionism and high spirits. This series of thefts was different. It had caused distress and embarrassment to the colleges concerned. Had that been the intention?
Holmes knocked out his pipe in the hearth and consulted his pocket watch. There wanted a few minutes to two o'clock. It was time for another call. Donning a light top coat and extracting a cane from a wicker basket beside the sitting room door, he let himself out and ran lightly down the stone staircase.
Twenty minutes brisk walking through the city centre and out along the Banbury Road brought him to the edge of the city's suburbs. Here the substantial houses were well spaced out and overlooked fields and meadows running down to the Cherwell. Holmes found the one he was seeking almost at the end of the row. It was a large double-fronted villa approached by a short gravel drive. A pull upon the bell brought a manservant to the front door.
Holmes handed in his card. "I am an art enthusiast and an amateur collector, currently residing at Grenville College," he explained. "I must apologize for calling without an appointment, but I should deem it a great honour to be permitted to view Dr Gidding's collection."
The major domo admitted my friend to a spacious hall and asked him to wait. Within moments he returned, ushered the visitor into a well furnished library and announced him. Holmes looked around a room which, at first acquaintance seemed empty. Then he espied a bath chair, its back to him, facing a french window giving onto the garden.
"Over here, young man," a voice commanded from the conveyance.
Crossing a parquet floor scattered with Persian rugs, Holmes found himself confronted by a shrivelled figure almost completely bundled-up in a plaid rug. Gidding's greyish skin was drawn tight over his skull and a fringe of white hair protruded from beneath a velvet skull cap. However, if there was an air of quiet decay about the aged scholar this certainly did not extend to his bright, peering eyes or the mind behind them.
"Sherlock Holmes? Never heard of you, sir!" Giddings announced in a high-pitched voice.
"But I have heard of you, Dr Giddings, as has anyone with more than a passing interest in the history of art. Your studies on the northern Renaissance have greatly widened our understanding of the great masters of this side of the Alps."
"Huh!" the old man snorted. "I thought I'd been forgotten long ago."
Holmes affected a shocked tone. "By no means, sir. Quite the reverse. Some of the radical ideas which you advanced in the twenties and thirties are now taken for self-evident truth. As to your private collection…"
"I suppose that's what you're here to see; not me. Well come on then.You can work for the privilege. Push me. We go through that door over there."
Holmes grasped the handles of the invalid carriage and propelled it in the direction indicated. They passed through into a suite of three ground floor rooms interconnected by tall doors. The contents made Holmes gasp in amazement. Every surface from floor to ceiling was covered with paintings on canvas or panel. Scarcely a square inch of papered wall could be seen.
"This is truly remarkable," my friend exclaimed. "I had not prepared myself for such a treat."
"The work of a lifetime, young man. If you start now you might just be able to match it by the time you're eighty."
They made a leisurely tour of the private gallery and Giddings spoke with mounting enthusiasm and excitement about several items. Sherlock Holmes relaxed the aged don with flattery interspersed with pertinent comments and awaited the moment to broach the subject that had taken him thither.
At last he said, "I was devastated not to be able to see the Rembrandt you presented to your college. When I visited the chapel there was a notice saying that it had been sent for restoration but I heard a rumour…"
"Vandals!" The old man became suddenly animated.
"Then it's true, sir, that the painting has been stolen?" Holmes asked in shocked tones.
"They should have looked after it better. It's a priceless painting – magnificent example of the artist's best period. Now they've let some hooligans make off with it. It's probably mouldering in a fenland shed somewhere. It will be ruined! Lost!" Giddings subsided into a fit of coughing and pressed a large spotted handkerchief to his mouth.