"And are there not international gangs operating to satisfy the cravings of such collectors?"
"Sadly, that is the case, Mr Holmes."
"And would you know how to make contact with just such a gang?" Holmes asked the question in a casual, disarming tone and watched its effect on the other man.
Simkins's ample frame seemed to swell still further with indignation. "Mr Holmes, whatever are you suggesting?"
"Simply that someone in your position might well be approached, from time to time, by unscrupulous men – men requiring, perhaps, a convincing forgery or confirmation of a false attribution. I am sure that Simkins and Streeter would never knowingly be associated with such rogues but I would be surprised if you were not able to identify some of them."
"We know who to steer clear of, if that's what you're suggesting, young sir," Simkins admitted, only partially mollified.
"That and nothing else," Holmes said with a smile. "I wonder if I might trouble you for the names of some of these reprobates." As the other man firmly shook his head, he continued. "You see, someone deliberately deceived you and then passed off himself and his associates as representatives of Simkins and Streeter. That someone was highly professional. Ergo, I deduce that he is no stranger to the business of stealing and disposing of works of art."
"Well, sir, since you put it that way, there are a handful of men who might bear investigation. The police could do worse than question them – not, mind you, that I make any accusations." He found a scrap of paper among the confetti scattering before him and, taking up a pen from the holder, jotted down three names. "Well, Mr Holmes, I hope they may lead to the recovery of New College's Nativity, though I fear it has disappeared for many a long year."
Sherlock Holmes spent the return journey to Oxford recalling with total accuracy, every piece of information with a bearing on this case. It all pointed to one bizarre, though inescapable conclusion. Could it be proved, though? He resolved that prove it he would if it were humanly possible.
With that fixed intention he set out from Grenville after dark clad in tennis shoes, old trousers and shirt and carrying a hand lantern and a copy of The Times. He was gone for two hours and he returned in triumph. He had one more call to make and that would have to wait until the following evening.
The clock high on Grenville chapel's tower was chiming six as Holmes set out to walk the short distance to Magdalen College. When he reached Hugh Mountcey's apartments the outer door was open and there were sounds of conversation within. He tapped smartly and the portal was opened by a raffish, ginger-haired young man in evening dress and clutching a glass of champagne. "Yes?" he enquired languidly. Holmes proffered
his card. The other held it up fastidiously. "I say, Huffy," he called out to someone inside, "do we know anyone by the name of Sherlock Holmes?" He uttered the name with an air of faint amusement. "No. Send him on his way," came the reply from within. "Be off with you, fellow," the sandy-haired man said, returning Holmes's card.
Before the door closed completely, Holmes handed over an envelope. "Please see that Mr Mountcey receives this."
Holmes stood on the landing and began counting. He had reached thirty-two when the door was re-opened by the same guardian. "Mr Mountcey says you'd better come in," he said.
"I rather thought he might," Holmes rejoined.
The chamber he now entered was opulently furnished. A table at one end was laid for four with sparkling silver and crystal and crisp knappery. Armchairs were drawn around the fire and in one the resident of this suite was sprawled. The Honourable Hugh Mountcey was a gangling, dark-haired young man, with a florid complexion. He held Holmes's letter by one corner between thumb and forefinger. "What's the meaning of this nonsense?" he demanded.
Holmes stood staring down at the aristocrat and recalled the verger of New College's disparaging comments on certain degenerate members of the upper class. "If it were nonsense you would scarcely have invited me in," he observed.
"Who the devil are you," Mountcey sneered.
"All that matters is that I know the truth about the New College Rembrandt. Apart from anything else I have identified your role in the business."
Mountcey's companion stepped across the room and grabbed Holmes by the sleeve. "Shall I teach this fellow some manners, Huffy?" he enquired. The next instant he was lying flat on his back holding a hand to his nose from which a trickle of blood was oozing.
Holmes rubbed the knuckles of his right hand. "I assure you that I have no interest in making life difficult for you. My only concern is to clear up this tiresome business of the missing painting so that I can resume my own studies. If you will be good enough to answer a few questions I will take my leave."
"And what do you intend doing with your information?"
"I shall place such items as are relevant before the authorities at New College."
"That might not suit my book at all. I certainly have no intention of informing on my friends."
"By friends I take it that you mean those responsible for the escapades at Oriel, Merton and here in Magdalen."
Mountcey nodded.
"I don't think it will be necessary for me to reveal their identity."
The dark-haired young man stared at Holmes for several seconds.Then a smile slowly suffused his features. He crumpled the letter he was still holding and tossed it into the fire. "No, Mr Holmes, you are a nobody and I am inclined to tell you to go to hell. Report whatever you like to the New College people. You have no proof. If it comes to a contest between you and those of us who count for rather more in this life it's pretty obvious who will end up being sent down, isn't it?" He waved his visitor towards the door and his friend held it open.
Holmes stood his ground. "But it isn't just you and your friends who are involved is it? It's your father and his associates."
Mountcey was caught off guard. "You can't possibly know…" he blurted out, leaping to his feet.
Holmes took a pencil and paper from his pocket, wrote a few words and passed the paper across to the Honourable Hugh. "Damn!" Mountcey sank back onto the chair.
"So, sir, about those questions," said Holmes.
Sherlock Holmes called upon Mr Spooner shortly after eleven the following morning as the latter was returning from lecturing.
The don came up close and peered through his thick lenses. "Ah, Mr Grenville of Holmes, is it not? Come in, sir. Come in. Do sit down. I suggest you will find the seat in the window more than comfortable."
Holmes deposited himself upon the cushions in the window embrasure. "I have come to report the successful conclusion of my investigation," he announced. "About the theft of the painting from the chapel," he added as Spooner gazed vacantly into space.
"Ah, yes, excellent." The fellow's pallid features broke into a smile. "So you have discovered who was responsible. Was it Rembrandt?"
"No, sir." By now Holmes had discovered that the way to prevent Spooner's train of thought running into frequent sidings was to keep him concentrating hard on the matter in hand. "Perhaps it would be best if I explained, from the beginning, the sequence of events which led to the disappearance of the painting."
"Excellent idea, young man. Play the part of Chorus and leak your spines clearly."
Holmes began his explanation, hurrying on when his audience showed signs of wishing to question or interrupt. "First, I must suggest to you that your reading of Dr Giddings's character owes more to charity than objective observation. I fear that the senior fellow was furious at being passed over for the wardenship and that that is why he gave his painting to New College."
"But, surely…"
Holmes scarcely paused for breath. "It was to be his revenge. You see, the painting was a fake, or more probably the work of an inferior artist touched up by the hand of an improver. I realized this when I spoke with Mr Simkins. He was puzzled because the painting which another of his clients had seen about the time Giddings bought it was "vibrant" with "warm, glowing colours" as he described it. Yet when Simkins, himself, viewed it in the chapel it was apparently obscured with ancient varnish. Now Giddings was the only one who could so have misused the picture and for only one reason: he realized, after adding it to his collection that it was not a work from the hand of the master. To avoid the humiliation of having to admit that he had been duped he had the picture varnished over, and waited for an opportunity to get rid of it. His exclusion from the wardenship provided the excellent chance to kill two birds with one stone. He disembarrassed himself of the fake Rembrandt and put one over on the fellows of New College. Giddings knew that, eventually, the painting would be cleaned and that, from beyond the grave, he would have his revenge.