Jalankan Xampp Control Panel

Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
About the Authors
Other Books by J.R. Rain
SHERLOCK HOLMES
and the Lost da Vinci
by
J.R. RAIN
and CHANEL SMITH
Acclaim for the Stories of J.R. Rain:
“Be prepared to lose sleep!”
—James Rollins, international bestselling author of The Doomsday Key
“I love this!”
—Piers Anthony, bestselling author of Xanth
“Dark Horse is the best book I’ve read in a long time!”

—Gemma Halliday, award-winning author of Spying in High Heels
“Moon Dance is a must read. If you like Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum, bounty hunter, be
prepared to love J.R. Rain’s Samantha Moon, vampire private investigator.” —Eve Paludan,
bestselling co-author of Witchy Business
“Impossible to put down. J.R. Rain’s Moon Dance is a fabulous urban fantasy replete with
multifarious and unusual characters, a perfectly synchronized plot, vibrant dialogue and sterling
witticism all wrapped in a voice that is as beautiful as it is rich and vividly intense as it is relaxed.”
—April Vine, author of Unbound
“Is it possible to redefine two genres in one book? I don’t know, but J.R. Rain has left a
lasting impression for the vampire and mystery genres.” —P.J. Day, author of The Sunset
Prophecy
STANDALONE NOVELS
Winter Wind
Bound By Blood
Silent Echo
The Body Departed
The Grail Quest
Elvis Has Not Left the Building
The Lost Ark
The Journey (with Piers Anthony)
The Worm Returns (with Piers Anthony)
Lavabull (with Piers Anthony)
Jack and the Giants (with Piers Anthony)
Dolfin Tayle (with Piers Anthony)
Dragon Assassin (with Piers Anthony)
Glimmer (with Eve Paludan)
Lost Eden (with Elizabeth Basque)
Judas Silver (with Elizabeth Basque)
The Vampire Club (with Scott Nicholson)
Cursed (with Scott Nicholson)
The Black Fang Betrayal (with multiple authors)
VAMPIRE FOR HIRE SERIES

Moon Dance
Vampire Moon
American Vampire
Moon Child
Christmas Moon
Vampire Dawn
Vampire Games
Moon Island
Moon River
Vampire Sun
Moon Dragon
Moon Shadow
Vampire Fire
Midnight Moon
Moon Angel
SAMANTHA MOON CASE FILES

with Rod Kierkegaard
Moon Bayou
SAMANTHA MOON BONUS MATERIAL

Moon Extras
SAMANTHA MOON SHORT WORKS

Teeth
Vampire Nights
Vampire Blues
Vampire Dreams
Halloween Moon
Vampire Gold
Blue Moon
Dark Side of the Moon
Vampire Requiem
Moon Love
Vampire Alley (poem)
JIM KNIGHTHORSE SERIES

Dark Horse
The Mummy Case
Hail Mary
Clean Slate
Easy Rider (short story)
THE WITCHES SERIES

The Witch and the Gentleman The Witch and the
Englishman The Witch and the Huntsman (with Rod
Kierkegaard)
THE PSI SERIES

with A.K. Alexander
Hear No Evil
See No Evil
Speak No Evil
NICK CAINE SERIES

with Aiden James
Temple of the Jaguar
Treasure of the Deep
Pyramid of the Gods
DEAD DETECTIVE SERIES

with Rod Kierkegaard
The Dead Detective
Deadbeat Dad
Ghosts of Christmas Present (short story)
THE ACCIDENTAL SUPERHEROINE

with Kris Carey
The Accidental Superheroine
My Big Fat Accidental Superheroine Wedding
THE WATSON FILES

with Chanel Smith
Sherlock Holmes and the Missing Shakespeare
Sherlock Holmes and the Lost da Vinci
ICE WOLF SERIES

with H.P. Mallory
Ice Wolf
ALAN QUATERMAIN ADVENTURES

with Randy Keys
The Spear
WINTER SOLTSICE SERIES

with Matthew S. Cox
Convergence
THE SPINOZA TRILOGY

The Vampire With the Dragon Tattoo
The Vampire Who Played Dead
The Vampire in the Iron Mask
The Vampire on the Train (short story)
THE ALADDIN TRILOGY

with Piers Anthony
Aladdin Relighted
Aladdin Sins Bad
Aladdin and the Flying Dutchman
THE WALKING PLAGUE TRILOGY

with Elizabeth Basque
Zombie Patrol
Zombie Rage
Zombie Mountain
THE SPIDER TRILOGY

with Scott Nicholson and H.T. Night
Bad Blood
Spider Web
Spider Bite
SHORT STORY SINGLES

Vampire Road
Skeleton Jim
The Bleeder
Vampire Rain
The Santa Call
AS J.K. DREW - YOUNG ADULT AUTHOR

STANDALONE NOVELS
The Emerald River
The Angel and the Gift
Forever Silent
Dare to Enter a Distant World
The Enchantress (with Randy Keys)
Spirit Mountain (with Alexandra Swan)
YOUR CHOICE ADVENTURES
Deep Sea Danger
The Legend of Eagle Eye Mountain
Playoff Pressure
THE ROBOT TWINS

The Mystery of the Walking Statue
The Secret of Stonehead Island (with Randy Keys)
KID QUEST ADVENTURES

The Secret of the Sphinx
J.R. RAIN PRESENTS - SELECT TITLES

NOVELS
Little Wolf (by K.T. Tomb)
The Stargoose (by Robert Siegel)
Dracula Rising (by Jackson Stein)
VAMPIRE NATION
by H.T. Night
Vampire Nation
Enemy of the Nation
BROTHERHOOD OF THE BLADE

by Eve Paludan
Burning
Afterglow
Radiance
THE MEDIUM MYSTERIES

Echo Park (by Elizabeth Basque)
Silver Lake (by Elizabeth Basque)
Hollywood Hills (by Eve Paludan)
City of Angels (by Chanel Smith)
THE HUNTRESS TRILOGY

by Chanel Smith
The Vampire With the Golden Gun
The Vampire in the High Castle
The Vampire Who Knew Too Much
Published by Rain Press
Copyright © 2017 by J.R. Rain
All rights reserved.
Ebook Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given
away to other people. All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
About the Authors

Chapter One
It was a sad affair that I was attending. It was a wake for a dear friend of mine, which was not
sitting well with me, but it was made all the more peculiar because Sherlock Holmes had asked to
tag along.
“To what end?” I had asked when he had first brought up the idea. I was partly insulted by the
request and was perhaps more surly with the words which followed the question. “My
understanding is that Brigadier Buffington died of natural causes.”
The look on his face was as if I had just slapped him. “My motives are pure and, though you
ought not to need an explanation, I will provide one if you truly desire it.”
“Very well,” I responded, feeling guilty for questioning my friend. I chalked up my response to
the state of irritability which had overtaken me since I had heard of the Brigadier’s passing. We had
been chums when younger and quite inseparable. Though we had lost touch when Reggie joined the
Royal Marines, the deeper connection forged between the two of us was one that would not easily
pass away. More out of curiosity than any other reason, I responded to Holmes in a more peaceful
tone. “Though it is certainly not required of you, I would not mind hearing your explanation.”
“It is quite simple, really. With your wife out of town, I wish to accompany my friend in a time
of great need.”
Nothing could have baffled me more than such a statement coming from Sherlock Holmes, who
was not exactly the type to show support and sentiment in the way that most are accustomed. Though I
was unsure how much value there would be in his show of support, there was no tactful way of
refusing him. And so, he joined me in a rented carriage the following morning and the two of us
proceeded to the modest home of the late Brigadier Reginald Buffington and his grieving widow.
When we entered the parlor of Buffington House, it was quite obvious, given the crowd
gathered there, that the late Brigadier had been well thought of by a good many persons. Most of
those present had the bearing of military men of rank, which was not surprising, given the career of
the deceased. I was acquainted with very few of them and was immediately grateful that Holmes
had come along. I was also painfully aware of how wide the separation between our two lives had
become. I swallowed a lump of regret which had risen up in my throat.
“A rather distinguished display of Her Majesty’s finest, wouldn’t you say, Watson?” Holmes
said in a quiet tone.
“Reginald was well respected,” I replied.
“The Boer Wars, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Royal Marines Light Infantry.”
“Very difficult duty,” he said.
“One he nearly did not fulfill,” I responded. “Though he fared better in his military service than
I; a great deal better.”
When I was getting myself shot up in Afghanistan, Buffington was in South Africa between
engagements with Zulu warriors and the Boers. About the time I was becoming acquainted with
Sherlock Holmes, war in the South Africa region had begun in earnest. In spite of a number of close
brushes with death within the span of a month during the worst fighting of the First Boer War,
Buffington’s cool head and natural affinity to command caused him to rise rapidly through the ranks
of the Royal Marines. Reginald Buffington was at the head of a brigade of light infantry when the
Royal Marines returned to South Africa.
It seemed that the Crown had seen fit to send every living soul in uniform to South Africa for
the second attempt at putting down the Boers. The vicious fighting claimed close to 50,000
casualties on Her Majesty’s forces over the two-and-a-half years’ span of the war before the
rebellion was put down and 24,000 prisoners of war were shipped off of the African continent to
prevent the possibility of a third uprising.
Brigadier Buffington had retired only a few years before from Her Majesty’s Royal Marines
with a much better daily pension than the 11 shillings and 9 pence I’d received after my brief stint
as an assistant surgeon in Her Majesty’s Armed Forces. We had only just begun to renew our
childhood friendship, which was somewhat strained, given the different routes our lives had taken.
“Fascinating,” Holmes whispered, interrupting my thoughts.
“What is fascinating?” I asked, knowing the eccentric tastes of my companion. I was quite
curious to learn what bauble, among those in the Brigadier’s home, had commanded such alacrity.
“Dry eyes throughout the entire room, save one,” he responded.
It wasn’t the response I had expected, so I asked for him to clarify. “Dry eyes?”
“I have to admit that I expected such stoicism among the military men who make up the
preponderance of attendees, but you’ll note that a single personage, who appears to be a
housekeeper of sorts, presents every sign of grief.”
I was about to dismiss what I surely felt was an irrelevant observation, but caught myself.
Sherlock Holmes rarely made an irrelevant observation. I was just deciding the appropriate
response when I heard my name.
“Doctor Watson,” a voice called out in a low tone as one of the few persons in the house with
whom I was acquainted approached.
“Edwin,” I responded with a curt nod.
“It was good of you to come.” Buffington’s nephew took my hand.
“I could not have missed paying my respects to my oldest friend,” I said. I raised a hand toward
Holmes. “Might I introduce Sherlock Holmes. Mister Holmes, this is Edwin Meriwether, nephew to
the deceased.”
“Grandnephew,” Edwin corrected. “I have not had the pleasure of making your acquaintance,
Mister Holmes, though I have heard plenty about you.”
“The pleasure is mine; I wish only the introduction had been made under more favorable
circumstances,” Holmes responded with a slight bow.
“You might be familiar with some of Edwin’s work…” I began before being cut off by Holmes.
“The Realm of Rhydderch Hael,” Holmes blurted.
Edwin’s eyes widened. “I am flattered and quite humbled.”
I, too, was taken aback by Holmes’ knowledge of Edwin’s work, though I probably should not
have been. Holmes had a tendency to surprise me with fountains of information about things which
I might have long forgotten–or never known.
“You have a talent for such a young man. I look forward to seeing your development,” Holmes
responded. “Though, more often than not, those works of an artist’s youth tend to be their best.
There always seems to be a raw intrigue in earlier works before they become more callused with
life; I suppose.”
“I would hate to think that my best is already behind me,” Edwin responded with a grim smile.
I decided that I ought to step in before the two of them entered into a deep or, worse, heated
discussion of art, given Holmes’ propensity for debate. “Excuse me, Edwin, but I was hoping to pay
my respects to Missus Buffington. Where might I find her?”
“That is why I have come to you actually, Doctor,” Edwin responded. “My grandaunt has asked
that you be brought into the Brigadier’s study for more intimate conversation. I’m sure that you’ll
be welcome as well, Mister Holmes.”
“Lead the way, young man,” I answered. I was relieved to have the opportunity to escape the
scrutiny of the crowd of strangers gathered in the parlor. After all, the purpose of attending a wake
is to comfort the bereaved, which I had every intention of doing in as brief yet profound way as I
could before retreating.
“Right this way,” Edwin replied as he wound his way through the crowd toward the closed
double doors of the study. He pushed one open slowly and waved both Holmes and me through it
and into an elegantly clad study.
“Aunt Ellen, Doctor Watson and Sherlock Holmes,” Edwin announced as we entered the room.
“Oh, Doctor Watson,” Ellen Buffington said, rising to her feet and coming toward me to take my
hand. “It was so good of you to come.”
“I am deeply grieved at your loss, madam,” I responded.
“A loss we share, Doctor Watson,” she answered, giving my hand a squeeze between her own
two. She turned toward Holmes. “I appreciate that you have accompanied him, Mister Holmes.
Though the circumstances are grave, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise,” Holmes responded. “And I too am sorry for your loss.”
“It has been difficult on all in the house, I’m afraid. It came so suddenly. We simply were not
prepared.”
“No one ever is, madam,” said Holmes.
“I suppose not,” she tried a weak smile.
I had noticed a tall, slender man, who had risen as we came in, but had remained in his place
until the moment when he was presented to Holmes and me.
“Doctor Watson, Mister Holmes, this is Mister Albert Walsh. Mister Walsh and my departed
Reginald were well acquainted from the Society of Florence.”
We took our turns shaking hands and offering greetings and condolences. We were being
directed to our seats by the grieving widow when the housekeeper, who had caught Holmes’ eye
earlier, slipped in through a side door.
“Madam, could I bring you anything?” the younger woman asked.
“I need nothing, Abigail,” Missus Buffington responded. “But perhaps Mister Holmes and
Doctor Watson would like some tea.”
***
Though Holmes and I had politely declined tea, it was brought to us anyway.
It was then that I got my first good look at what Holmes had pointed out earlier in the parlor.
The housekeeper, who had been referred to as Abigail, was noticeably distraught. The swollen flesh
around her eyes glowed almost to the point of crimson. I cast a sideways glance at Holmes, who
merely nodded at me. Though he made no other indication, I noted that peculiar sparkle in his eyes,
which always indicated that the game, as far as he was concerned, was afoot. I turned my eyes away
in disgust. I was there to pay my respects to a childhood friend and Holmes, just as I knew he
would, was turning the affair into something of suspicion.
“Abigail!” Missus Buffington snapped at the proffered tea. “I believe I told you not ten minutes
ago that I did not require any tea.”
“Um, yes, my apologies, madam,” Abigail replied as if she was only partially there. She
continued fulfilling her duties in serving the tea to the remaining three of us, including Mister
Walsh, and scurried out of the room.
Though I had tried to dismiss Holmes’ suspicions, it was quite obvious that something was not
quite right with the serving girl.
“She’s been like that from the moment my late husband passed,” Missus Buffington
commented. “It’s a wonder that she can perform any duties at all.”
“I’m sure it has been difficult on all involved,” I suggested, though it wasn’t normal for a
household staff to be so greatly affected by the passing of the master of the house.
“Abigail more so than the others,” Missus Buffington pointed out.
“Reginald doted on her a bit too much in my opinion,” Mister Walsh put in with an acidic tone.
“That is what comes from patronizing the help.”
“We ought to put off talk of a scandalous nature; I’m sure it was all innocent enough.” The
widow forced a half smile and changed the subject quickly. “Doctor Watson, would you join in
some reminiscence of days gone by?”
“I have delightful childhood memories of Reginald and I together,” I responded. Indeed, they
were like a cloud of memories which mostly revolved around the sound of his voice, his laugh, the
expression on his face when he was bent on mischief.
“Perhaps you would be interested in sharing an anecdote or two with us, Doctor?” Ellen pressed.
“There are so many,” I stammered, not quite prepared for such an impromptu presentation. Holmes
joined in: “Surely there is one which stands out to you, Watson.” I glanced at him and
noted the devilish gleam in his eyes. In many ways, they were not unlike the eyes of my late friend,
Brigadier Buffington. A smile formed on my lips as a memory came into my mind with surprising
clarity.
“I suppose we were early adolescents at the time,” I began. “As you are aware, the Brigadier and I
were reared in Yorkshire; Boynton Parish in East Riding, to be precise. We were wretched youth. It
was, no doubt, quite a surprise that either of us turned out to be fit for any important task at all. There
was a particularly eccentric, elderly man with a withering estate at the edge of the moors.”
I paused and tossed a sideways glance at Holmes, who was settling into my story with apparent
relish. My glance brought a comment from him.
“Ancestral home of the Buffington family was Boynton. Our young brigadier was certainly
well rooted,” said he.
Holmes’ storehouse of names, families, and lineages, never ceased to astonish me.
“Precisely. Anyway, we deviled the poor old man…” I paused, scrambling within my mind to
recall his name. I blurted it out the moment it came to mind. “Strickland.”
“Strickland?” Holmes asked. “Are you referring to the lineage of Sir William Strickland of
Cromwell’s House of Lords?”
“I suppose he was in some way connected,” I responded, scowling. There was, admittedly,
growing agitation rising up within me due to Holmes’ interruptions. I regretted recalling the old
man’s name and pushed on with my story.
“Mister Strickland had a pair of gentle milk cows among the many farm animals which he
allowed to roam freely about the place. You never saw such a mess in your life. Disorder, disrepair,
and all manner of conditions which most would associate with poverty. It was due to the hovel-like
living of the man, which caused those in the parish to speak in low tones on those rare occasions
when he would come into town. Of course, Reginald and I took his public appearances as a sign of
permission to engage in our mischief at his expense back at his place.”
I paused again, drawing back the specific memory among the cloud of others which gathered at
the thought of Strickland and all of the youthful high jinks associated with him.
“Well now, these two milk cows were so docile that it took little effort for Reginald and me to
execute the prank we planned for All Hallows Eve.” I had to bring my hand to my mouth and stifle an
unexpected chuckle. When I regained control, I continued, “Once we had set foot upon his property
that night, Reginald said, ‘You know that there are two saddles hung in the carriage house, don’t you?’
“I said, ‘And what has that to do with anything?’
“I noted the mischievous twinkle in Reginald’s eyes as he nodded toward the milk cows.
“‘You don’t mean...?’ I stammered.
“‘I do mean indeed,’ said Reginald, that rascal. ‘Come, let’s go fetch the saddles!’
“And so we did. They were in a bit of disrepair, but we managed to make them functional. In
fact, I would say that neither of us, up to that point, had applied so much diligence and industry to
any task of importance like we did in order to make those saddles ready to fit those two milk cows.”
I broke off from the telling of my tale as I succumbed to the mirth which had threatened to
overtake me earlier. My audience was in a similar state despite the solemn occasion we were
attending to.
“You saddled his milk cows?” the widow burst forth.
“Yes, madam. And, to this day, I’m still proud of our handiwork.”
We laughed a bit too hard for a wake, drawing the attention of Edwin, who had stepped outside
once he’d made our introduction, but had returned, putting his head into the room to see what was
taking place. That was our cue to tone things down a bit.
“Oh, Doctor Watson,” the widow responded. The tears in her eyes were a mixture of mirth and
grief. “That is such a splendid memory of Reginald. I’m sure you have many more and I truly hope
to have the opportunity to hear them in the weeks and months to come.”
“On my honor, madam,” I responded with a slight bow. “I will do my best to recall them and
share them with you.”
Missus Buffington reached across and took my hand in hers. “Please do.”
I knew my cue to depart had arrived and I began the verbal process of dismissing myself. As I
stood, my eyes wandered to a painting displayed above the fireplace and I commented on it.
“That is an extraordinary painting.” I knew a little of art and left my chair to approach the
painting. “Other than the fact that it would be quite impossible for it to be hanging here, I might
swear that that is by the hand of da Vinci himself.”
“It is indeed,” both Holmes and Walsh chimed in at the same moment.
Walsh glanced at Holmes, and then to me. “I and the Society have had a great deal of interest in
this particular item in the collection of Brigadier Buffington for some time. It’s called the Adoration
of the Magi and is one of the rare, unfinished works of da Vinci.”
“How on earth did Reginald happen to add this masterpiece to his collection?” I asked.
“One can only speculate, because the Brigadier would never divulge his secrets concerning it.
Of course, given the tale you just told, perhaps he acquired it through mischievous means.”
“Is it authentic?” I blurted out, unable to control myself.
“The experts we have talked to believe it is,” Walsh responded.
As he spoke, I heard Holmes clear his throat and was prepared for some long-winded discourse
on the matter, but my threatening gaze made him rethink whatever it was he was going to say. He
recovered quickly.
“Doctor Watson, it is probably best that we take our leave so that Missus Buffington can attend
to those who are waiting to pay their respects,” said Holmes.
“Right you are, old boy,” I responded, thrilled that he had taken a different tack than the one I’d
feared, whatever it might be.
“I would much rather listen to more anecdotes about my young Reginald, but you are probably
right,” said Missus Buffington. “It was a pleasure making your acquaintance, Mister Holmes. I do
hope that you will accompany Doctor Watson on future occasions, so that I might come to know
you better, too; the both of you, really. I have only recently come to have the opportunity to adore
Doctor Watson the way that Reginald did.” She looked at me. “He spoke of you often, Doctor.”
“We were an inseparable pair,” I countered.
“A pleasure,” Walsh cut in, extending his hand toward me. It felt a great deal like an abrupt
dismissal and puzzled me a bit. I accepted his hand, as did Holmes; we engaged in our final
salutations, departed the study and then departed the Buffington House moments later.
Chapter Two
The cab Holmes had rented, to my surprise, was still waiting for us when we stepped from the
landing at the front of Buffington House.
Holmes waved the carriage over to us, but did not speak as we waited for the driver to pull up
to the curb. I had observed Holmes a great deal over the years and had become well acquainted with
his peculiarities. His current state was a troubling one to me, because he seemed to have some
suspicion surrounding the goings on of my childhood friend’s estate. Or worse, of the Brigadier’s
death itself. It troubled me greatly to think there might be some mystery surrounding Reginald’s
death rather than the simple, natural causes as had been related.
Once we had mounted the cab and were on our way, Holmes took out his pipe, packed it with
tobacco, lit it, and to my surprise immediately opened up his discourse.
“It is, indeed, a fake, Watson.”
“What is a fake?”
“The da Vinci, of course.”
“Mister Walsh and those experts upon whom the Society of Florence have called to examine it
seem to disagree with you, but for the sake of satisfying my curiosity, I will ask how you came to
that conclusion.”
“I do not deny that Mister Walsh and his experts have indeed declared the painting to be
authentic. The original painting, mind you. My doubt, however, lies in the authenticity of the exact
painting we witnessed hanging in the Brigadier’s study.”
“Are you suggesting that someone has replaced it with a forgery?”
“That is precisely what I’m saying, Watson. It is a very good forgery too. It would not be hard to
miss the subtle difference between the painting hanging in the Brigadier’s study and the original.”
“You have seen the original?”
“I have.”
“Where have you seen it?”
“To divulge that, my dear Watson, would be to divulge how the Brigadier came to acquire his
masterpiece.”
“I don’t think he would mind you telling,” I responded with a tone of sarcasm.
“In due time, Watson, in due time.”
“So, you believe that someone has murdered the Brigadier, stole the original da Vinci and
replaced it with this forgery?”
“I have not yet deduced that, old boy, but we must not rule out the possibility.”
“But if they’ve gotten away with the painting by replacing the original with a forgery, then what
would be the purpose in committing murder?”
“Exactly!” he responded with gusto, pointing at me with the mouthpiece of his pipe.
There, he had done it. He had completely spoiled it all for me. Though the death of Reginald
was certainly tragic, it was so much simpler to be able to accept that he had died of natural causes,
because I knew, from experience, that unraveling the mystery of the forgery was going to expose all
sorts of other chicanery surrounding my friend’s death. I was simply not ready to accept it.
“You seem to be struggling with your grief,” he said after he’d given me a thorough going over.
“As of now, there is no evidence of foul play, only that someone has replaced an authentic painting
by Leonardo da Vinci with an impressive forgery.”
“Perhaps we should let this one go, Holmes.”
He studied me from behind his pipe, his narrow features cast in shadow. “A crime has been
perpetrated, Watson. Indeed, a great deal of money–and true history–has been stolen from a dear
childhood friend and his family. If you wish for me to let this go, I will.”
I needed only to think of my unreasonable request for a second or two, before nodding and
looking away. “Of course not.”
Holmes reached out and patted my knee, a rare gesture of sympathy. “Time heals all wounds,
Watson. Do you wish to speak of it?”
“Not now, Holmes.”
The remainder of the carriage ride was spent listening to the rattle of the trace chains, the
creaking of the carriage, and the rhythmic sound of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones. Those
sounds took me back to the first time I had made the acquaintance of Miss Ellen Coventry, who
had, soon after, become Missus Reginald Buffington.
It had been a similar carriage ride as the one Holmes and I were taking, including the long
silence and a note of tension between the two of us. I had only just met his young fiancée, admired
her greatly and was concerned for her well-being. I recalled how strikingly similar was Reginald’s
silence after I had made an attempt to talk him out of going through with the marriage. My advice
had been reasonable and I had seen no justification behind his rebellious demeanor.
“Reginald,” I’d urged. “In a fortnight, you’ll be boarding a ship under the orders of Her
Majesty and be sent back to South Africa. After your telling of what transpired there before, it is
likely that you will meet with the same sort of rebellion as before, but with considerably more force
and experience behind it. You will be returning with rank and privilege, to be sure, but bullets are
no respecters of such things and you are apt to leave your lovely young bride a widow well before
her time. You must consider that. Is it right to make a promise to her at the altar which you may or
may not be able to keep?”
“Ellen is aware of what we face. She is prepared for whatever is to come, but we desire to join
ourselves in matrimony out of the abundance of our love. Regardless of what happens, we will have
the time we have now and we will have the promise of the future.”
“What future, Reginald? As nearly as I can devise, in a fortnight, your lives will be following
the exact same course they were following a fortnight ago, but with the distinct possibility that Miss
Coventry might be made into a widow well before her time. Please, consider what that will do to
her.”
“We have discussed it,” he had responded in a curt tone. “Neither of us is concerned with the
possibility that I will be assassinated while commanding my troops. It is highly improbable.”
“But not impossible,” I had pointed out, feeling like a heel. Never did I wish to discuss my
good friend’s demise in such callous tones. Still, my concern was real, and I had paused a moment
as another thought came to me. I took a different tack. “Even if you were to go unscathed, a drawn
out tour would leave her alone perhaps for many years. Would you not, in essence, make a widow
of her in that, but in a different form?”
“We are getting married, Watson, and that’s final. You can stand in with me or I will get
someone else.”
“I will stand,” I responded.
Now, a sharp call from the driver’s seat of the carriage in which I was riding with Holmes
brought me out of my reverie, but it took some several seconds for me to regain my bearings.
“We’ve arrived at your home, Watson,” Holmes said in a low tone.
“Oh, yes, I suppose we have.” I gathered myself together and exited the carriage. As I turned
away, Holmes called after me.
“It is better not to keep what is harrying you to yourself, Doctor.”
I waved without any verbal response, watched the carriage pull away and continue down the
cobblestone street in the direction of Baker Street. It was after Holmes and the carriage were
beyond sight before the assault on my mind truly began.
Chapter Three
Feeling guilty concerning my abrupt attitude with Holmes after attending the wake several days
hence, I called upon him at 221B Baker Street.
As per usual, I was met at the door by Missus Hudson and made my way up the flight of
seventeen steps to the flat I knew so well. Before I even entered, I heard the music coming from
beyond the door. It wasn’t the typical sound of Holmes fiddling. It was very similar, but had a
deeper, richer tone. Curiosity had the better of me, as it often had when I approached the flat of my
detective friend, and I pushed the door open without knocking.
I watched for a while, assuming that I had entered unnoticed, given Holmes’ reaction. After a few
moments, he finished the piece he was working on. Anticipating a chance to give him a start, I spoke.
“Nero fiddling while Rome burns?”
As per usual, Holmes showed no sign that I had gotten the jump on him. “A fable, of course. It
is doubtful that he fiddled, though he might have played a lyre. This is neither of those two. This is
a viola. I borrowed it from an acquaintance at the conservatory. It’s a rather charming instrument,
wouldn’t you agree?”
“It has a rich tone,” I commented, agreeing with his assessment.
“Its tone is a little less piercing than its smaller sibling.” He drew the bow across the strings
slowly as he spoke. “What is most fascinating about this instrument is that though its sounds are
obtained in exactly the same way as they are with the violin, the result is something entirely
different.”
“Many things in life are that way,” I responded, anticipating that Holmes was entering into one
of his object lessons.
“Perhaps,” he frowned.
I sighed. Wasn’t that just like him to throw water on a brilliant idea of mine.
“Imagine, if you will, dear Watson, the tones of this instrument emanating from an organ.”
“Preposterous!” I exclaimed. “They are instruments of entirely different…” I paused, searching
for the proper word.
“Species?” Holmes inserted, drawing the bow across the strings of the viola once more.
“That’s hardly the proper word, but it serves to highlight the distinction.” I forged ahead with
my argument. “In any case, it would be impossible for the sound of a stringed instrument to
emanate from a woodwind or vice versa.”
“Then you would agree that a piano and viola belong to the same species of class? Do they not
both have strings?”
“A piano is played by means of percussion.”
“So they would be of the same genus, so to speak.”
I could tell that he was ramping up to something, but I hadn’t yet divined what it was. “You
seem determined to group instruments into taxonomic ranks, Holmes.”
“For the purpose of distinction, of course.”
“Fine. For the sake of distinction, yes, they are of the same genus, but not the same species,” I
responded, narrowing my eyes as I tried to anticipate in which direction he planned to take this
conversation.
“What if I told you that Leonardo da Vinci invented an instrument which combined the viola…”
He drew the bow across the strings one last time and set the instrument aside. He rose smoothly and
moved over to sit in front of the organ beside the bookcase. I was certain that he was beginning to
arrive at his point, since he had brought up the name of da Vinci. He pumped the pedals a few
times, and then ran his fingers over the keys. “…with an organ?”
“I would assert that you have been spending too much time in the opium dens in order to come
up with such a hallucination, my good man,” replied I.
“You see, my dear Watson, that which seems impossible is merely improbable.” He tapped out
a particularly dark bar of music on the organ before continuing. “Da Vinci proved that by inventing
an instrument known as the viola organista, which, in fact, did combine these two instruments.”
“I am to believe you concerning this matter merely on your say so?” I knew he was right, of
course, but I was having a great deal of difficulty getting my mind wrapped around how an organ,
which utilized forced air through pipes–like a clarinet or oboe–could draw a bow across strings like
a viola.
Holmes shoved a sketch of the strangest looking instrument I had ever encountered in front of
me with a shrug. “Examine it for yourself.”
After studying the drawing for several minutes, I looked up. “It is merely a sketch; a theory, if
you will. We cannot precisely judge whether or not the instrument actually functioned the way it
was designed.”
“Indeed, Watson!” he exclaimed.
I soaked in that bit of a reward like the dull student of the classroom before attempting to
speculate about where Holmes was going with this. I decided to leap ahead, though I knew that the
folly of my exuberance would quickly be pointed out to me.
“But what does this have to do with the da Vinci forgery hanging in the late Brigadier’s private
study?” It wasn’t the first time we had started down a similar path of questioning.
“In due time, Watson,” he responded. “Da Vinci, if his viola organista worked as outlined, was
able to take that which was impossible and make it into something which defies what the proper
wisdom of the known universe tells us is true.” He paused a moment, stood, swept across the room,
and he took up the viola and bow once more. He tucked it under his chin and drew the bow across
the strings. “Why, we might sooner believe that drilling a hole and blowing down the neck of this
viola would produce that same enchanting tone.”
“That is certainly preposterous.”
“Of course it is, but we are now beginning to arrive at the crux of my
point.” “Apprise me of that crux, dear Holmes.”
“But why do we not believe that drilling a hole and blowing down the neck of a viola will
produce the same delightful tone as drawing the bow across the strings?” To emphasize his point, he
eased the bow across the strings, producing a long, sweet, baritone note.
“It is not logical,” I replied.
“Therefore, it is because of the combination of proper wisdom and logic that you have declared
that da Vinci’s viola organista to be impossible, correct?”
“I would say so, yes.”
“But what if such an instrument was sitting right here before us and I sat down before it as
though I were sitting down to play the organ, but when I touched a key you heard this?” He
produced another magical note from the viola.
“I would give the contraption a thorough going over to discover how it worked,” I responded.
“Of course you would. Whatever you found in your examination of the ‘contraption,’ as you
called it, would then become proper wisdom, would it not?”
“It would, indeed,” I responded.
“We are up against a similar enigma when it comes to our theory concerning the Brigadier’s da
Vinci. It does, in fact, seem highly improbable that once someone had replaced the authentic
painting with the forgery, that they would linger about only to commit a murder.”
“But you’re assuming that there was a murder when there might not have been one,” I
protested, still not entirely comfortable with the idea that Reginald had been slain, but feeling
somewhat less threatened by it.
He drew the bow across the strings once more and then moved over to replace the viola and
bow tenderly in its case. With the instrument stowed away, he returned to the hearth with pipe in
hand, packed tobacco into the bowl and used the tongs to reach for a glowing ember to light it.
Once lit, he gazed at me through the cloud of smoke for a long moment before speaking.
“Am I? Or have you assumed that there was no murder, just as you might have assumed that
this viola organista could not possibly function as designed?”
“I’m beginning to feel as if it is I who has spent too much time in the opium dens,” I responded,
rubbing the ache in my temples.
During the intervening days, I had begun to come to terms with the idea that there was a
possibility Reginald had been murdered, but I had not been able to arrive at a point, no matter
which angle I chose to examine the theory, where I could accept that it was actually true. I did,
however, accept that the painting had been replaced with a forgery, and was willing to pursue that
particular mystery to its conclusion.
“What baffles me is that Mister Walsh and Missus Buffington did not make note or call to
question the authenticity of the portrait hanging above the mantle.”
“Why should they? They, having examined it many times, would have merely glanced over it,
assuming it was the authentic painting. You and I, who are less familiar with the painting, examined
it more thoroughly with objective eyes.”
“That brings me back around to the same question which you have evaded. How did you know
the painting was a forgery?”
Chapter Four
Rather than give a direct response to my inquiry, Holmes had suggested that we take an evening
stroll. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for him to divert my attention by utilizing such a tactic. It was
beginning to get brisk and I was glad that I had thrown my heavier coat over my arm, though I had
no need of it on my way to visit Holmes.
After walking along in silence for a couple of London blocks, Holmes finally spoke.
“I have a proposal for you.”
“A proposal?”
“Yes. I believe that our antagonistic points of view, much like the system utilized in a court of
law, might be our most beneficial approach for unraveling the enigma we face.”
“An antagonistic proposal.” I smiled.
“I propose that it is best that you maintain your belief that the Brigadier perished of natural
causes while I maintain my belief that he had been murdered.”
“To what end?”
“To get to the truth,” he responded.
“But there is no reason for us to believe that Reginald was murdered,” I protested.
“Au contraire, mon frére, there is no reason for you to believe that the Brigadier was murdered.
I, on the other hand, contend that foul play, including the murder of your childhood friend, is
associated with the placing of that forgery above the mantle.”
“Very well then,” I agreed. “Shall we say that the game is afoot,
then?” “We shall indeed.”
We had extended our walk beyond its normal limits. Assuming that Holmes had absently gone
beyond them, I said nothing for several blocks before pointing out his oversight.
“Actually, old boy, there is purpose in my straying beyond the limits.”
“You’re making a further point about proper wisdom and logic?” I asked, not having yet
divined the detective’s purpose, but having no doubt where it concerned his eccentricity.
“We are going to call upon someone, actually.”
“Might I inquire who, or is that something that you will divulge to me in due time?”
“You have become a bit antagonistic in your discourse of late, Doctor Holmes. I assume you
are still struggling with your grief, then?”
“I am only playing my antagonistic role,” I responded.
“Then perhaps my proposal has its merits after all.”
We walked along several paces before I presented my inquiry once more. “Who are we going to
be calling upon?”
“One Edwin Meriwether,” he responded.
“Reginald’s grandnephew?”
“The very same.”
“Might I inquire as to why?”
“Art,” he replied simply, giving no further explanation.
In reality, I needed no further explanation. It was a logical step in our unraveling of the ball of
string which made up our entangled mystery. Edwin knew the painting. He had certainly been around it
plenty and had, no doubt, admired it with a critical eye. As an artist, he had likely studied it for its
conceptual as well as technical merits. It was especially valuable to him because it was an unfinished
work. In an unfinished work, the artist exposes some of what he is after before covering it up with
the finishing touches. An unfinished work allowed a trained eye to have a look into the foundational
and structural elements that separated the work of a master from that of the novice.
“Here it is at last,” said Holmes, drawing up in front of a multi-story dwelling which wasn’t a
great deal unlike the one where Holmes resided on Baker Street. “I would make one request before
we announce ourselves.”
“That would be?”
“Let us not mention that we believe the painting above the Brigadier’s mantle to be a forgery.”
“As you wish,” I responded. “Though I thought that your purpose was to inquire into that
possibility.”
“It is best to jump to no conclusions or design any purpose concerning this case, but rather to
poke around a bit and see if a grouse leaps out of the grass.”
“And my antagonistic role in this is…?”
“We are both antagonists, Watson. Being such, we are to place a thing–in this case, a person–
before us for examination. We will each look at it from our own points of view and deduce what we
will. Is that not the way of getting at the truth, my good man?”
It was a sound argument, which was thoroughly rooted in the proper wisdom of science, logic
and law. I had lived most of my adult life conducting observations and examinations of the very
same sort in my medical practice. I could not object. “It is an excellent way to get at the truth.”
“Very well then.” Holmes rapped on the door using the knocker several times before it was
opened to us by a portly gentleman with a surly expression and a thick Cornish accent.
“Top o’ the stair an’ to yer lef’,” he crowed after Holmes had asked after Edwin Meriwether.
The man then disappeared through a doorway to the right and closed it with what I considered to be
a little more force than necessary.
Holmes and I ascended the narrow stairway and paused on the landing before the door on the left.
Holmes again rapped on the door frame, this time using his knuckles, and called out, “Sherlock
Holmes and Doctor Watson calling.”
It was a short wait before Edwin Meriwether drew the door inward and invited us in. He was
abeam as he welcomed us and ushered us into his humble flat.
“What a pleasant surprise. Please, come in; make yourselves comfortable.”
Holmes and I lowered ourselves into the seat he indicated and Edwin started to seat himself on
the adjacent sofa before springing to his feet again.
“Please excuse the oversight,” he chuckled nervously. “I do not have a lot of visitors, and I am
afraid that I am a rather poor host. Would either of you like some tea? What am I saying, it’s
evening; sherry, cognac or brandy, perhaps?”
“A splash of brandy would be delightful, if it’s not too much trouble,” Holmes
replied. “No trouble at all,” Edwin responded and then turned his gaze upon me.
“Doctor?” “The same will suffice for me as well,” said I.
“Very well, brandies all around then,” he answered cheerfully.
As Edwin was in the process of pouring the drinks into three glasses, he posed his earlier
question about our purpose in a more formal one. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company
this evening, gentlemen?”
“I wish to discuss art,” Holmes responded. “Paintings, to be exact.”
“Splendid!” Edwin finished pouring our drinks, delivered them to Holmes and me, and took his
seat on the sofa. He raised his glass. “To art.”
“To art,” Holmes and I rejoined before taking a sip of what proved to be mediocre spirits.
“As you might notice,” Edwin said, with a sweeping gesture that took in the entire apartment.
“I am art poor.”
Both Holmes and I made a slow scan around the room as our eyes took in numerous finished
and unfinished pieces.
Edwin continued, “Might I assume that you are working one of your famous cases and require
my expertise?”
“Not quite,” said Holmes. “Doctor Watson is rather fascinated with the process of painting all
around.”
“Am I now, Holmes?” I said drily.
“Quite so. Tell him, Watson.”
“Er, yes. I would not mind an exploration of concept and technique among your finished and
unfinished works.”
“I would be delighted to discuss that with you, Doctor Watson,” answered Edwin jubilantly.
“Come, the best way to explore is via practical demonstration.”
Holmes and I spent the next hour following Edwin about his flat and studio as he explained
various methods and approaches in his own work and those which tended to be generally accepted
in high regard among most painters. Holmes confirmed this with a slight nod toward me. As Edwin
was winding down and beginning to run out of steam, Holmes posed a more direct question.
“What are your observations concerning the works of da Vinci?”
“Masterful in every way. My greatest attempts to emulate him have been abject failures.”
Holmes nodded. “You’ve had a chance to view some of his unfinished works?”
A shadow passed over Edwin’s face, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and I
wondered if Holmes had caught it, until I remembered belatedly that Holmes caught everything.
Edwin made a quick recovery which might have fooled a more novice pair.
“Of course,” he laughed. “You saw the Adoration of the Magi in my granduncle’s office. I have
admired and studied that portrait for hours.”
“Watson and I questioned its authenticity,” Holmes announced quite suddenly, surprising even me.
There was a momentary pause. During which, I wondered why the rascal Holmes had specifically
ordered me not to bring up our suspicions about the painting being a forgery, but making that exact
inquiry himself. “But your grandaunt and Walsh assured us of its authenticity, of course.”
I could no longer contain my own curiosity. “It is just difficult for me to comprehend how your
granduncle came about such an exquisite piece.”
“Believe it or not, Doctor Watson, I pressed my granduncle on that very point on numerous
occasions and my curiosities were never once satisfied.”
I nodded, knowing the feeling well. But why had my one-time friend not been forthright? Had
there been some nefarious backroom dealings? Had blood been shed? My mind ran amok. Luckily,
Holmes, as always, kept his composure.
“You have some fascinating work here,” said he, extending his hand around the room of
finished and unfinished paintings. “The budding of a great master, perhaps. Thank you for your
time, Mister Meriwether. We really ought to be on our way as the evening grows late.”
“Yes, of course. And I am both humbled and flattered,” Edwin responded.
We went through the formalities of taking our leave before exiting the flat, descending the stairs
and letting ourselves out to the street below. Silence lingered for several blocks as we each analyzed
what we had witnessed in the presence of Edwin Meriwether. I, for one, had questions concerning
what the man knew about the forgery, since his reaction had been quite obvious. I had just brought
up the topic, when Holmes waved me off.
“His reaction was predictable, Watson.”
“Was it now?”
“But of course.”
“Pray tell.”
“Think back to the visage of the young man within the painting.”
“There were a number of visages, Holmes,” said I, exasperated.
“Indeed, Watson. But only one of them that bore a subtle likeness to the young man we just
visited.”
Chapter Five
Fully engaged in the mystery surrounding the forgery hanging above the mantle at Buffington
House, I hurried through my rounds in reverse order so that I would be much nearer the home of my
late childhood friend and take the opportunity to check up on his widow. I had a solid excuse for
calling on her since she had made me promise to do so. What I really wanted was another look at
that painting to see if what Holmes had observed was indeed true.
Besides being less than convinced that anything but natural causes had taken the life of the late
Brigadier, I had stumbled upon another possibility concerning the copied painting. It was both logical
and probable that the authentic painting, which must have been of considerable value, had been put
away for safekeeping and the copy put up in its place. In fact, it was just the sort of tactic Reginald
might have used if he suspected that someone was after the painting. I suspected that Holmes was
making much ado about nothing, but I was committed to playing my role in getting at the truth.
Indeed, I was convinced that young Edwin was in on the plan in some way, given his brief
reaction to mention of the forgery. His response, of course, was no preponderant proof that anything
was amiss either. With resolute determination, I prepared myself to make good use of my keen
senses to put the entire affair to rest in one manner or another.
As I came to the block where Buffington House was located, I recognized the tall, slender form
of Walsh leaving. He rushed from the house and pulled away in the carriage just as I arrived at the
front landing. I was certain that I’d gone completely unnoticed by Walsh. For a moment, I
considered if there was some impropriety afoot, but dismissed it once I considered that there was no
greater impropriety involved in my own calling upon the widow. It was just as likely that Mister
Walsh had made a similar promise as I had and was executing his due diligence in carrying it out.
Any question of impropriety was erased from my mind after I made use of the door knocker to
announce myself a moment later and Abigail the maid ushered me into the house.
“Doctor Watson, what a pleasant surprise. I know that the mistress of the house will be
delighted to see you,” Abigail announced. Her demeanor had greatly improved since last I’d seen
her. “I have to confess that I hid beyond the door and eavesdropped while you related your anecdote
of you and Regi–of you and the Brigadier.”
“I suppose you can be forgiven this one time, but it is really poor form for the staff to eavesdrop
on the conversations of their employers.” My tone was one of scolding, which she received with
humility. Seeing her response, I softened its sting a bit. “I suppose that under the circumstances, no
great harm was done.”
“I will see you to the mistress of the house, but promise me something, Doctor Watson.” Her
expression was a somber one, but there was a slight twinkle in her eyes.
“Though it is unusual for one in your position to make such a request, what promise would you
have me make?”
“If you are to narrate anecdotes about the late master of the house, might I sit in on them?”
“I would think that such a thing would require the permission of the mistress of the house,” I
replied. “For my part, I see no problem with honoring your request.”
Without further ado, I was led into the parlor as Abigail hurried off to announce my presence to the
widow. I lowered myself into a comfortable-looking chair while I pondered the candor and behavior
bordering on insubordination of the housekeeper of Buffington House. Ellen had mentioned that the
late Brigadier tended to patronize Abigail a little too much. I supposed that would change
without the master of the house present. From that point forward, if she was to maintain her job, I
doubt little that Abigail would need to begin to toe the line.
I had nearly moved on to consider how I might request another look at the portrait when the
irony of the situation suddenly inserted itself into my thoughts. A brigadier of Her Majesty’s Royal
Marine Light Infantry, who was used to whipping young men into shape and strictly enforcing
military regulations, patronizing a housekeeper. My thoughts might have dredged up other
considerations had not Missus Buffington chosen to enter the parlor at that moment.
“Doctor Watson, what a pleasant surprise!” she exclaimed as she came in.
I arose and took her proffered hand. “I’m a man of my word.”
“But you’ve come without Mister Holmes,” she countered.
“Mister Holmes is otherwise detained. I was just finishing up my rounds nearby and thought I
would drop in to check on you,” I replied with mostly the truth.
“How very kind. I’m certainly garnering plenty of attention. Mister Walsh only just left
moments ago, perhaps you met him as you were coming in?”
“I saw him enter the carriage from down the block.” If there was something going on between
the two of them, Ellen Buffington was certainly playing the role of innocent widow. I decided that
Holmes’ suspicions had been the cause of my own numerous unwarranted speculations. Blast you,
Holmes. Still, I was determined to play my role of antagonist to the full, certain there was nothing
sinister afoot in Buffington House–beyond the possible replacement of an authentic painting with a
copy. And even that might have been simply due to good sense from Brigadier himself, prior to his
death. Anyway, I intended to prove my theory, with or without Holmes.
“I do hope that you have come to enchant me with another of the adventures of you and my late
husband.”
“Perhaps I will come up with one before I leave, but I really came to ask a difficult question of
you, mostly to set my own mind at ease.”
“It is certainly best to get more serious matters out of the way, to begin with,” she answered. “I
will answer your question to the best of my ability.”
“As his doctor, I am feeling a bit guilty about his death,” I began. “I had seen no signs of any
particular disease or ill health when I last examined him. I must say that I found Reginald to be in
near-perfect health. You will understand why I am troubled. Did I miss something? Was he ill in
some manner that neither he nor my examination might reveal? Did you notice anything odd about
his behavior near the end?”
She placed her hand upon mine as a sign of comfort. “Doctor Watson, you can rest assured that
the death of my late husband is no reflection upon your skill and competence. These things happen,
I am told, but of course, you already know that. I saw no peculiar signs in his behavior at all. I was
certain of the same observation as you; Reginald seemed to be in near-perfect health.”
“Well, perhaps there was something you missed on the day of his passing, something he did or
the way he acted?”
“Let me recall,” she said, closing her eyes a moment, and then recounting the events of the day.
“It had started as every other day. We had breakfasted and he went to his study. I have no idea what
he was attending to there, but we enjoyed our midday meal together some hours later and he was in
a chipper enough mood. In fact, he was a little too chipper and a might too playful with Abigail, in
my opinion. Even when I scolded him for his unmannerly behavior, he seemed to take it in stride.
He left for the Society a little while after we finished our meal.
“I had expected him to be out of the house until evening, so I was shocked when he called out to
me upon his entrance into the house around tea time. In fact, I had ordered my tea only moments
before and was freshening up a bit before going down to the parlor to take it when he called. When
I descended the stairs and entered the parlor, I found him there on the floor.”
Ellen Buffington pointed to the place on the parlor floor where she had discovered the body of
her late husband. I looked at the spot involuntarily and then turned to face her.
“There were no signs around him or near him? You observed nothing odd on or near his person?”
“No, Doctor Watson,” she responded and then raised a kerchief to her face. “He was just dead.” It
had not been my purpose to send her into a fit of sobbing. I felt deplorable for having
interrogated her the way I had, but if she had observed anything odd or out of place, it might
confirm —or by its absence, deny—Holmes’ suspicion of foul play. As close as I could determine at
that point, his suspicions were without founding. I pushed that portion of the case aside and decided
to pursue the other. If I played things right, I could lighten the mood, and permit myself an
opportunity to see the painting again.
“I really did not intend to upset you, madam,” I consoled. “How about I change subjects and
lighten the mood a bit?”
“I do not blame you for the death of my late husband, Doctor,” she responded, attempting a smile.
“I wish you hadn’t been out of town and might have come before they took him away, but…”
“Let’s speak no more on this subject, agreed?”
“As you wish.”
I smiled and patted her hand. “I must say that I was astounded to see the da Vinci hanging in
Reginald’s office. Not only did I not know he was a connoisseur of Italian arts, but a piece such as
that… As you recall, I was baffled and quite suspicious of its authenticity.”
Ellen allowed a brief giggle to escape her lips. “Yes, I do recall your reaction. I assure you,
Doctor, Reginald and several others from the Society, including Mister Walsh, ordered appraisals of
it. It is quite authentic, and in my opinion, the most delightful among da Vinci’s works, even though
it was unfinished. In fact, both my grandnephew, Edwin, and I were quite taken by it for the very
reason of its rawness.”
Chapter Six
My hopes of seeing the painting never materialized.

A lengthy discussion of Edwin’s admiration of it and how it had impacted him followed. Tea
was served and I intentionally launched into recounting one of my many youthful adventures with
Reginald in that moment to allow Abigail the opportunity to enjoy it. I wasn’t certain as to why I
had made that concession on her behalf rather than making it necessary for her to make a request of
her mistress to listen to my stories. I suppose I was feeling particularly generous. I cannot call the
visit a complete waste, but neither did I achieve my objective.
With Holmes away and doing whatever it was that Holmes did whenever he disappeared for a
while, I decided to entertain a curiosity of mine. Though it was particularly odd for there to be a
number of different men’s clubs with a wide variety of names, the Society of Florence was one of
particular intrigue to me, especially where it concerned Reginald Buffington. Where one might
expect men who were from that particular city and region to want to gather and reminisce about
their homeland, it seemed rather odd that the late Brigadier would hold any particular longing for
Florence. Of course, I was also aware that the title of the club might have no connection whatever
to the Italian city and region at all. In any case, the day following my meeting with Ellen
Buffington, I found myself ascending the steps leading to the upper floor of a building proclaiming
itself to be the headquarters of the Society of Florence.
Any confusion about the connection between the society and the Italian city and region was
quickly clarified the moment I passed through the front doors. All around me were Italian
landscapes and decidedly Italian décor, and most, if not all of it, appeared to be from the
Renaissance Era. “But, of course,” I whispered to myself as I briefly scanned my surroundings. The
Renaissance, it was known, had had its origins in the Italian region of Tuscany and more
specifically Florence. The clever name of the club was only connected to Florence in as much as
Florence was connected with the Renaissance.
“Might I be of some assistance to you, sir?”
I turned to face a gentleman dressed in attire which was decidedly period-specific to the era
which the club celebrated. As the question startled me a bit, it took a moment for me to decide the
approach I ought to take for the mission I was on. I decided to go with something that resembled the
truth rather than devising some cunning tale.
“I’m a childhood friend of the late Brigadier Reginald Buffington. I was intrigued by his
membership in the Society of Florence and determined to examine the organization for myself.”
“We were all devastated by the passing of Brigadier Buffington,” he responded. “It is a pity that
you did not accompany him when he was still alive. Our constitution states that guests must be
accompanied by a member of the society. I do apologize, but unless you are accompanied by a
member, I must ask you to vacate the premises.”
“I truly only wished to have a look around and ascertain whether or not this is a society with
which I would like to be associated,” I responded. I was already impressed by what I had seen and it
was quite evident that the Society of Florence was extremely exclusive.
“I assure you that it is indeed a society with which you would like to be associated, but,
unfortunately, I cannot accommodate your request absent the accompaniment of a member of the
society,” he repeated himself. “Tragically, I must request that you vacate the premises until such
time as you are—”
“I will accompany Doctor Watson, Bernard,” a voice called out. It took a moment for the voice
to register in my mind, but the moment I saw the tall, slender frame of Mister Walsh move into
clearer view, I recognized him immediately.
“Mister Walsh, what a pleasant and fortunate surprise,” I beamed.
“You will sign Doctor Watson in and take responsibility for his understanding and strict
adherence to our constitution while he is in our midst, or until such time he ascertains membership
of his own then, Mister Walsh?” the man called Bernard asked.
“I will,” Walsh responded. He moved to the dais, took the pen in his hand and began writing in
the elegant book.
“Very well then, welcome to the Society of Florence, Doctor Watson. Whatever questions or
needs Mister Walsh fails to meet, I, or one of the other members of the staff, will be delighted to be
of assistance.” The complete transformation from stern guardian to welcoming host was stunning.
“I appreciate the sentiments and will surely call upon you if I am in need,” said I.
“It is an honor to have someone of your distinction visiting us today.” He bowed and
disappeared behind a door.
“Someone of my distinction?” I raised an eyebrow as I turned to look at Mister Walsh.
“Your reputation precedes you, Doctor,” Mister Walsh laughed. “You are not the only one of
your childhood pair who delighted in relating mischievous anecdotes from your adolescence.”
“Reginald?”
“He spoke of you and your childhood antics often, Doctor, much to the entertainment of the
society members.”
“Who would have thought…” I was dumbfounded as well as remorseful. Where I seemed to
have put much of my friendship with Reginald on a back shelf, he had relished it and displayed it in
the telling of our stories.
“In any case, Doctor Watson, I believe you will be well accepted among the members and
perhaps entreated to share more of the anecdotes to which they’ve become accustomed.
Additionally, I would be honored to sponsor you.”
“I appreciate your willingness and I too am honored, but my presence here is mostly out of
curiosity.”
“That decision is up to you, of course, but I know our membership would be delighted to have
you associated with us.”
I bowed slightly. “My deepest thanks.”
“Well, then, allow me to introduce you to the Society of Florence and the dabbling of members
who happen to be present this afternoon.” He pushed open the heavy oak door and motioned me
into a room containing the most elegant décor, which was entirely Renaissance in origin and style,
that I had ever laid my eyes upon.
Besides furnishings, tapestries and window dressings of the age, there were sculptures and
portraits in abundance scattered throughout the room. I felt as though I’d truly taken a trip back in
time.
“Exquisite,” I breathed. I understood, in an instant, why Reginald had become such an active
member of the society.
“If you will permit me, Doctor Watson, I will introduce you to the members who are present.” “By
all means,” I responded, following him to a group of a half-dozen men who were seated near
a replica of Michelangelo’s David. I was greeted warmly and received condolences for the loss of
my childhood friend, though I felt myself thoroughly undeserving of them. I had not abandoned
Reginald per se, but I had placed the memories of our friendship on a dark shelf in the back corner
of my mind; for that, I had no doubt I would be guilt-ridden for quite some time.
Several brandies warmed up my ability to relate a few anecdotes from the adolescence of
Reginald and me, but I was still quite certain that I would never surmount the dramatic talent of the
late Brigadier. Slowing down in my storytelling, but still feeling the effects of the brandy, I posed
the inquiry that I had intended to keep close to my vest.
“However did Brigadier Reginald Buffington come to possess the authentic, unfinished
Adoration of the Magi of Leonardo da Vinci?” I asked as casually as I could.
There was an awkward pause, during which time I was devastated to think that I had committed
some manner of faux pas.
A gentleman by the name of Albert Drury responded after some moments. “You were never
privy to the story behind the painting?”
It felt like my own authenticity as a friend of Reginald Buffington had just been called into
question during that deafening moment of silence. Though it was a temptation to devise some
extravagant tale, like Holmes might have done, I could only relate the truth behind the reason I was
not, indeed, privy to the story behind the painting.
“Gentlemen, I regret to inform you that the Brigadier and I were not close in the more recent past
and I only learned of the painting’s existence while consoling his widow in his private study at his
wake.” I looked around to Walsh for some show of support. He only smiled. I wasn’t sure whether he
was relishing the difficulty of my predicament or if some private joke was about to be sprung on me.
Drury leapt to the occasion. “Well then, it appears as though I have the distinct honor of
becoming the late Brigadier’s substitute storyteller.”
“I am a captive audience,” I responded.
“This is a secret known only to members of the Society of Florence and is not to be shared
outside these walls. Do you understand?”
“I understand and I am complicit in your demand.”
“It was stolen,” he said shortly.
And so began a tale of which I would not soon forget.
Chapter Seven
It was the next day, and the message I received from Holmes while I was finishing up my
rounds came as quite a surprise, not only due to the fact that he had such a precise understanding of
the order of my rounds, but because I did not know he had returned to his home on Baker Street.
The message was simple:
Meet me at Harman Grey in time for tea.
It was signed with an elegantly flowing H, which I had little need to study in order to recognize.
I finished my appointments and made my way to the gallery of the well-known art curator Harman
Grey. Those in the front of the shop, including Holmes and three other individuals, one of whom I
assumed was Mister Grey himself, were just sitting down to tea when I arrived.
“Ah, Watson, you’ve nearly missed the start of tea,” Holmes called out as I entered. “You must
have tarried a bit after you left Elmswood.”
Although I had been delayed at Elmswood, I certainly had not tarried; indeed, I had only
missed the pouring of the tea and not the sitting down to it. It was a tedious attribute of Holmes’
nature to point out the early or late time of my arrivals. That he’d surmised correctly the where and
when of my delay was mind-boggling in and of itself.
“Gentlemen, this is Doctor Watson,” Holmes announced before I was seated. He waved to each
of the others in turn. “Harman Grey, the curator, and his two assistants, who double as a son and
nephew, Harman Grey the Third and Edward Worthington.”
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” I said to each in turn. “I apologize for my tardiness.”
“Nonsense, Doctor,” Harman assured me. “We were only just taking our seats. Please, join us.”
Harman Grey put out a delightful spread for tea. Sandwiches, pastries and cookies were in
abundance on the tray and the tea was of a variety that I hadn’t encountered since I’d been in Her
Majesty’s service in India.
“I have sorely missed the delightful flavor of spiced Assam tea,” I noted.
“I’ve only just been able to obtain it myself, Doctor,” Mister Grey responded. “I can connect
you with my supplier if you are interested.”
“I am interested indeed.”
We made small talk about India and art while we enjoyed our tea. After a while, Mister Grey
waved his two assistants away, assigning them tasks which needed to be performed before close of
shop. With the two dismissed and another assistant cleaning the remnants of our engagement away,
Grey addressed Holmes.
“Am I to assume that you have invited Doctor Watson to join you in some sort of business with
me?”
“You have assumed correctly,” Holmes responded. “Watson and I have recently become
intimately acquainted with a masterpiece of Leonardo da Vinci which is among the property of a
late childhood friend of Doctor Watson.”
“The Adoration of the Magi,” Harman Grey said without hesitation. “I need no further clues to
guide me toward the piece you’re speaking about. I am sorry to hear of your loss, Doctor Watson. I
did not know the Brigadier well, but I did have the opportunity to meet him and Missus Buffington
as well.”
“You have met them both, then?” asked I.
“Of course I have.” His expression was one of confusion as he continued. “Not only was I
called upon to authenticate the portrait, but Missus Buffington brought it in some three months back
to have it cleaned and reset in its frame. It is a magnificent piece.”
“You did not happen to ascertain how Buffington had come to be in possession of the painting
did you?” Holmes inquired.
A smug grin spread across my face as I realized that, for once–at least in the time since I had
come to know Sherlock Holmes–I had information to which he was not privy. Additionally, I was
bound by my honor not to reveal what I knew outside the walls of the Society of Florence. I feigned
a cough to cover the expression of mirth which threatened to erupt from my throat.
Holmes glanced at me, surely knowing that I knew something, but unwilling to confront me as
to its nature in front of Mister Grey. He continued his questioning of the curator.
“To clarify, you did some work on the portrait and it was close to three months ago?”
“It might have been longer. I can consult my records for a more precise date, if you please.” He
called out to his nephew. “Edward, could you please come here for a moment.”
Edward arrived, listened carefully to the request of his uncle, and then quickly departed to
execute his directive.
“Though I am sketchy on the exact date, I recall with alacrity the moment when Missus
Buffington brought the painting in, as well as when the Brigadier himself picked it up a week or so
later. It was the second occasion which I had enjoyed the company of the Brigadier, but that single
meeting with Missus Buffington was my only experience with her. I found them both to be
charming and astute. I had hoped to have the opportunity to make further acquisitions for them; I
even discussed the possibility with the Brigadier, but he had not since returned.”
I was about to ask what acquisitions the Brigadier was considering when Edward returned from
his errand.
“The portrait was brought in on the twelfth of last April and returned to its owner on the
twenty-third,” Edward reported.
“Thank you. That will be all, Edward.”
Edward bowed slightly and retreated back to his work.
“What other acquisitions did you and the Brigadier discuss?” Holmes inquired. “Unless, of
course, that is proprietary information.”
I was a bit taken aback that Holmes had made the exact inquiry I’d been about to make, but it
was nothing uncommon. Having been well acquainted with Holmes, his methods and line of
questioning had surely rubbed off on me; indeed, anticipating the next turn in an interrogation had
become second nature for me.
“It would normally be proprietary information, but given the circumstances–and the fact that
Missus Buffington herself had not shown an inkling of the same interest–I see no harm in divulging
the content of our discussion.”
He paused for a moment, no doubt recalling the details of his conversation with the Brigadier
before continuing.
“Brigadier Buffington was quite taken with Renaissance works for obvious reasons, but he was
something of a novice… no that’s not correct. He was entirely a novice when it came to paintings and
sculptures of the period. In fact, though I make it a strict policy never to ask, I was extremely curious as
to how a man with such little aptitude in the world of art in general, let alone Renaissance art, could
have come to possess a piece which was purported to be hanging in the Uffizi Gallery in
Florence.
“Obviously, it was my initial assumption, back when I had originally been asked to authenticate
the work, that the portrait was a forgery–but upon further examination, I was able to certify its
authenticity.”
“You are telling us that whatever is hanging in the Uffizi Gallery is a forgery and the authentic
painting is here in London?” Holmes beamed.
“That is precisely what I’m telling you.”
“How splendid!” Holmes laughed. When he regained his composure, he posed another
question. “When the painting was brought in for cleaning, was it indeed the original?”
“I am certain that it was,” Grey responded, his eyes widened with alarm. “I did the work
myself. I would never trust such a valuable masterpiece to any of my assistants, even my own son.”
Holmes and I shared a knowing glance. For a moment, I considered that Holmes might have
been in error concerning his assessment of the painting. Had I been able to see the painting again, I
was quite certain that I could set him straight on the matter of the authenticity of the painting in
Reginald’s study. It would be an occasion to celebrate, were I to find that the great Sherlock Holmes
had committed an egregious error, though it would be a private party I could never share.
“Is there something of which I need to know?” Grey asked.
Holmes lowered his tone and scanned the room for eavesdroppers. “Please understand that what
I am about to share with you is not to be divulged outside the circle of present company.”
Mister Grey mirrored Holmes’ action and leaned in close. “I understand.”
“Watson and I have reason to believe that the portrait currently hanging above the mantle in the
late Brigadier’s study is a forgery.”
“Preposterous!” Grey exclaimed in a whisper. “How did you arrive at that
conclusion?” “On the left-hand edge of the painting, there is a young man…”
“Yes, with the face of the young da Vinci, it is one of the most famous and recognizable
features of the painting. It is one of several points of authentication.”
“The painting currently hanging above the mantle of the late Brigadier’s study has a different
likeness painted upon that personage.”
Grey sucked in a breath and slumped back into his chair. “If that is true, then my credibility is
ruined.”
Chapter Eight
The two of us were seated in a hired cab in order to return home.

“Mister Grey has certainly afforded us the luxury of creating a timeframe for when the
authentic painting was replaced by the original,” Holmes declared.
“True,” I responded. “But we still lack any evidence to establish the actual location of the
authentic piece.”
The response irritated me. Though it was a common response that I had heard many times
throughout the years of our relationship, I had grown weary of it. Perhaps I was taking my antagonistic
role a bit too far, but I decided that it was time to challenge Holmes on his foundational premises.
“We are assuming, of course, by pursuing this matter in the manner we have, that your first
premise—that the painting is a forgery—is a sound one and that you are not in error. In addition, we
are assuming that you are correct in your second premise: Reginald Buffington was murdered. I
must say, Holmes, up to this point, you have presented little evidence to support either of the two.”
“Bravo, my dear Watson. Bravo!” Holmes clapped his hands together. “You have well assumed
your role.”
“You are not angered by my challenge?”
“Indeed not, Watson. You are executing your role in our little game to perfection.”
“Our little game? Do I need to remind you that ‘our little game’ concerns a late childhood
friend of mine and his grieving widow?”
“Which makes you the ideal antagonist, if not a little too emotional. You might tone that portion
down a bit, old chap; after all, a level-headed approach, buttressed by proper knowledge and
impeccable logic will always win the day. You would do well to remember that.”
It was several blocks in the direction of our homes before I had gained sufficient control of my
temper, which I had recognized as having been running a bit hotter than usual in recent weeks, to
make a response to Holmes.
“Mister Holmes, I believe that you are creating much ado out of nothing. Therefore, our first
order of business on the morrow will be to pay a visit to Buffington House. I will make a request of
Missus Buffington to allow us to view the painting upon some pretense. When we have the
evidence before us, then we will examine whether or not the likeness that you claim has been
altered, had indeed been altered. If you are found to be in error, which I believe you will be, then
the entire matter will be dismissed, including the premise of murder. Do you accept those terms?”
“I accept those terms,” he responded.
“Very well then,” I responded. “We’ve just now arrived at my home. We will adjourn here in the
morning and proceed to Buffington House where we can finally put to rest this unfortunate affair.”
When I had finished my statement, I gathered myself to dismount the carriage, squared my
shoulders and made my way toward the front door of my home.
“On the morrow then, Watson!” Holmes called out to me.
I waved to him over my shoulder without returning his call nor turning to face him. It was childish
perhaps, but I had reached a state of frustration which I believed to have warranted such a response.
Holmes had made ridiculous accusations about the circumstances surrounding the death of my
childhood friend, his widow and his household. He had forced me into an antagonistic role, which,
though it seemed to have stemmed from a somewhat natural part of my grief, was not one that I
relished. I made peace within that evening by acknowledging that the entire matter would be settled
the coming morning.
Which came quickly. I was refreshed and full and had much better restraint over my emotions.
In fact, I was brimming with confidence when Holmes arrived in the rented carriage to accompany
me to Buffington House.
“Good morning, Doctor Watson,” Holmes chirped as I stepped away from the
stoop. “Good morning to you, Mister Holmes.”
“I trust you are well rested and have greater restraint over your passions this morning?”
“I am indeed, and I do indeed, sir,” I responded as I took my seat in the carriage. It immediately
lurched forward.
Holmes glanced at me. “During the night, I formulated the pretense we might use in order to
gain access to the study and the painting, if you would like to hear it.”
“I am open to your suggestion.”
“It is simple, really. We need only announce to Missus Buffington that the two of us have a
wager concerning some particular detail in the painting and that we would like to settle the matter
between us.”
“Well, then, Holmes, why make it a pretense?” I responded. “Why not make a wager now in
earnest, and then we will not be passing off a falsehood to the Brigadier’s widow?”
“I am at your service, Doctor,” he retorted with a twinkle in his eyes. “What sum do you
propose?”
“Ten shillings,” I blurted, confident in my position. “Do you accept?”
“How about we wager your daily pension after you returned from the war instead, Watson?”
countered Holmes.
“Very well, eleven shillings and nine pence.” I extended my hand toward him to seal our wager. “It
has been some time since I have received that exact amount for my service to Her Majesty. I will be all
the happier to receive it for service to Brigadier Reginald Buffington and his household.”
We rode in silence to my friend’s estate, each of us was supremely confident that we were
going to win our wager. Upon arrival, I asked the driver to hold the cab for us, dismounted from the
carriage, and made our way to the front door of the house. After making use of the door knocker,
Holmes and I were greeted by Abigail and ushered into the parlor, refusing to be seated as part of
our plan to play out the role we had taken on.
“Gentlemen,” said Missus Buffington upon entering the parlor. Her eyes were wide and her
expression demonstrated great concern. “What is this all about? Abigail informed me that the two of
you were here and that you were in some sort of state. Is everything alright?”
“It is only the matter of a sharp disagreement between the two of us, which we would like to
have settled,” I announced.
“I am not sure what I can do in order to be of assistance, but I can certainly try,” she responded,
frowning, still clearly at a loss.
“Watson and I have made a wager concerning a particular detail contained in the da Vinci in the
study. We do not want to take up your time. If you would allow us access to the painting so that we
can settle the matter, we will be on our way and disturb your morning no further.”
“I would be happy to allow you to see the da Vinci,” she responded. Her face paled rapidly.
“But it is no longer here.”
“Has the painting been stolen then, madam?” I asked, concerned that though Holmes’ previous
assumption might not have been accurate, its reality might have actually come to pass.
“Oh no, of course not. I have only just donated it two days past to the Society of Florence.
Mister Walsh was kind enough to deliver it to them yesterday morning,” she responded. Her
concerned expression had, by that point, altered into one of amusement. “But I’m certain you will
be able to view the painting there in order to settle your wager.”
“Well then, madam,” I said, executing a slight bow. “That is precisely what we will do. We
apologize for the intrusion.”
“Initially, it was of some concern, but I must admit that I’m now intrigued and amused by the
entire affair. The pair of you have brightened the day of a coping widow this morning.”
“Then we will bid you good day and fair health,” Holmes responded. He took Ellen
Buffington’s hand, kissed it softly and guided me by the elbow toward the door.
“Let me know who won the wager,” she called out to us from the doorway as we mounted the
carriage.
“But of course,” I called back to her.
“This adds a flourish to the entire affair,” Holmes commented as we set forth. “The sudden
removal of the painting from Buffington House brings up a whole new set of questions, don’t you
agree? Why was it removed just now? Why was it donated to the Society of Florence? Does Mister
Walsh have a hand in this sinister affair? Is this an attempt to conceal the true crime?”
“Or has Missus Buffington simply executed a request established in Reginald’s will?” I pointed
out.
“There is that contingency as well,” Holmes agreed.
We rode on in silence for a few moments before Holmes exposed another issue that might arise
from the painting being donated to the Society of Florence.
“Assume along with me, if you will, Watson, that I am correct in my premise that the painting
is a forgery.”
“I thought you wanted me to play the role of an antagonist,” I retorted.
“Set that aside for the moment, and consider along with me that if the painting is a forgery, then
it is only a matter of time before someone at the Society recognizes it as such, points it out, and
exposes the entire scheme. Such an exposure might create some manner of a disaster for the
Brigadier’s widow and Buffington House.”
On that point Holmes was correct. Though I had been certain that his foundational premises
were all wrong, I was not willing to risk the impending disaster that might converge upon
Buffington House if they were not.
“In that case, Holmes, we need to meet at midday and proceed to the Society of Florence to
ascertain whether or not the authentic painting or the forgery is put on the display there.”
“Must we wait until midday?”
“The Society will not open before then. That will be our earliest opportunity.”
Holmes was not satisfied with my response, but he was aware that I was being honest about it.
We each fell silent for another long moment as we sorted out the entanglements that might have
been added to an already complex problem; if indeed there was any problem beyond Holmes’
overactive imagination.
“On the one hand,” Holmes began without any sort of warning, “if neither Missus Buffington
nor Mister Walsh are aware that the painting they donated was a forgery, then something sinister has
taken place in Buffington House and the authentic da Vinci might be in the hands of any number of
members of the criminal element–”
“But on the other hand,” I cut in, “if either or both of them knew that the painting was a forgery,
then removing it from the home and exposing it to public examination might be a means of
covering up what happened to the original.”
“Certainly not along the lines of your antagonistic role, but a possibility nonetheless!” Holmes
agreed enthusiastically.
“But then there is the possibility that nothing foul is afoot,” I continued. “Reginald had willed
the painting to the Society of Florence and his desire has now been carried out with the authentic
painting now placed where the Brigadier’s had desired it to be placed.”
“If that is the case, Watson, then I will gladly pay what I owe for our wager and the entire
matter will be dismissed out of hand.”
Holmes made the statement as the carriage was pulling up once again in front of my home. As I
started down from the carriage, a boy came running down the street toward us, calling out, “Doctor
Watson! Doctor Watson!”
I recognized him as one of the many I’d received or sent messages by. I stepped away from the
carriage and made several strides in the direction of the boy, concerned because of his panicked
state. It was sure to be some sort of emergency involving one of my patients. “What is it, boy? Why
the haste and panic?”
“There’s been a murder,” he blurted. His short breath made it difficult for him to get out his
message and his obvious excitement only exacerbated the issue. “I was sent to Holmes. They said
he was with you. Found you both. A murder. Come quick.”
“Very well then,” I responded, scooping him up, placing him in the carriage and scrambling in
behind him.
“Where has this murder taken place?” Holmes asked.
The boy, who had an excellent memory–necessary for his line of work–invoked the address. I
recognized it right away. In fact, it was an address Holmes and I had visited not many days hence.
Chapter Nine
The commotion around the multi-story house where the body of Edwin Meriwether was
discovered that morning was beginning to die down as Holmes and I arrived. In fact, the
lackadaisical pace with which the team from Scotland Yard was making their examination of the
scene was in stark contrast to the panic of the messenger boy.
“Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson,” the Scotland Yard lead detective greeted us as we came
through the door and into the flat where the body of the grandnephew of the late Brigadier was in
the process of being removed. “Edwin Meriwether,” the detective announced. “The body was found
by one of the residents of the other flats. The deceased was stabbed to death with a well-placed
thrust that entered beneath his ribcage and penetrated his heart, according to our pathologist.
Whoever committed this crime displayed little concern for covering up their act.”
“How have you arrived at that conclusion, Detective Norris?” Holmes inquired.
My good friend was already a highly sought-after consultant for Scotland Yard by this point in
our friendship, even if the working relationship was sometimes contentious. “Because the door had
been left ajar and blocked open by the foot of the deceased.”
“Someone attacked in haste and retreated with equal haste,” said Holmes.
“That is my assessment as well,” Detective Norris answered.
“And the Cornishman downstairs? Did he hear or see anyone or
anything?” “He did not.”
“What evidence have you found on the premises?” Holmes asked.
“We have seen nothing out of order to this point, but we are only just beginning our assessment
due to the fact that we did not want to disturb the body until our pathologist had a chance to do his
examination.”
“Watson and I might be of considerable assistance in examining the premises. We called upon
the deceased not more than a week past,” Holmes volunteered.
“You called upon the deceased? To what purpose?”
“We were utilizing Mister Meriwether’s extensive knowledge and experience with painting and
art in connection with another matter.”
“Should I be apprised of the details of this other matter, Holmes?”
“I should say not,” I piped in. “It went toward settling a matter upon which Holmes and I had a
wager.”
“I see. Was the matter settled?”
“It was not,” I responded.
“Might I ask the amount of the wager?” Detective Norris’ amusement was growing.
“Eleven shillings and nine,” I responded.
“An odd amount, but I suppose it has significance.”
“It does, sir. It was the daily pension I was receiving from Her Majesty after I had been
wounded in Afghanistan, and that was when Holmes and I met.”
“You’re doing a great deal better than that now, Doctor.” A smile finally broke over the
detective’s somber face.
“I am, sir,” I agreed.
We moved out of the way so that the body could be removed from the premises. It was carried past
us, down the stairs and out the door. As soon as we were able to enter, stepping carefully around
the bloody scene where Meriwether’s body had fallen, the detective led us inside.
“You may work alongside my people, but I strictly forbid either of you from removing any item
from the scene.” He frowned at Holmes as he issued his warning. “I mean it, Holmes, not a speck of
dust or I will have you locked up in the Yard, understood?”
“But of course, Detective,” Holmes responded.
The agent clasped the elbow of one of his crime scene investigators. “You keep a sharp eye on
these two, especially Sherlock Holmes.”
The investigator nodded his agreement.
“Very well then, whatever you find–and that includes you, too, Doctor Watson–bring it to me
immediately, understood?”
“Understood,” we said in unison.
“Good.” The detective turned to exit the flat.
We had not been long on the premises before Holmes announced that all appeared to be in the
very same order it had been when last we visited. Dishes and sundry items were in different,
although quite logical, locations and there was nothing to attract our attention further.
“The crime took place in the doorway when the deceased pulled open the door for his caller.
Indeed, it would have been someone that Mister Meriwether knew or he would not have opened the
door,” Holmes said, delivering his analysis of the facts present. “Come, Watson, let us take our
leave and devote ourselves to other matters.”
I was surprised that Holmes had made such a rapid assessment of the scene. He typically
lingered much longer, but I followed him out of the flat, down the stairs and out into the street
where he hailed a passing cab. We returned to Holmes’ flat on Baker Street without any discussion
of the events which had transpired. I was a bit subdued as I considered what Ellen Buffington was
about to go through, given the loss of her husband and now her grandnephew.
With the current turn of events, I was beginning to accept the possibility of Holmes’ premise
concerning the painting. It seemed to follow that Edwin knew something about the forgery and had
been murdered because of it. Where I had dismissed his reaction to Holmes’ statement about the
authenticity of the painting, given the circumstances, that same reaction glared out at me now as a
new form of evidence.
We arrived at 221 Baker Street, quit the cab quickly, and ascended the stairway in equal pace.
Once Sherlock Holmes had closed us into the flat, he reached inside his jacket and drew out a
notebook.
“Holmes, where did you get that?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. Despite what
Detective Norris had ordered, Holmes had absconded with the notebook from among the items in
the studio in Edwin Meriwether’s flat. Upon closer inspection, I even recalled having seen it there.
“You deliberately countermanded the orders of Scotland Yard’s detective.”
“I did indeed, but it has no connection to the murder of Edwin Meriwether,” he protested.
“They will neither miss it, nor need it to complete their investigation.”
“You do not know that,” I contested. “It could be a critical piece of evidence and you could be
arrested and locked up in Scotland Yard for filching it.”
“Filching, really, Watson?” he responded. “I am hardly a filcher. Besides, I believe I have found
exactly what I need to prove Edwin Meriwether’s involvement in our own case.”
“I thought you just informed me that it was not a critical piece of evidence to the solving of
Edwin’s murder, did you not?”
“For us it is, for Scotland Yard it isn’t. Now, can we leave off bantering over this notebook and
examine its contents?”
Chapter Ten
“I have formed a theory concerning the forgery of the Brigadier’s da Vinci,” Holmes began as
he set the notebook out on the table before us and opened it.
“Alleged forgery,” I pointed out.
“Really, Watson, you might leave off playing the antagonist for a moment. A young man has
been murdered. A murder we might have prevented had we already solved the enigma concerning
the forgery of the painting.”
I had warmed up to his theory and was perfectly willing to examine it further given that he
believed that the murder of Edwin Meriwether was connected to his initial premise in some way.
And, of course, the shadow which had passed over Edwin’s face when the painting was mentioned
was antagonizing me with a fury.
“Contained within this notebook is evidence to prove my theory concerning the forgery,” Holmes
asserted as he began flipping through the pages. The notebook was a collection of sketches of various
human facial features, various man-made structures, various natural phenomena, and like items. It was
not unusual for artists to do preliminary studies of the type found in the notebook: working out how a
particular piece might be laid out, or how certain elements might serve as a foundation. I was
fascinated enough with the contents in the notebook, but I sucked in a sharp breath when I recognized
sketches and studies of elements which were identical to those found in the da Vinci masterpiece.
Holmes left the notebook open to the first page of those sketches and nudged me with his elbow.
“Yes, I both see and recognize them,” I mumbled. Though I was warming up to Holmes’
premise, I had not become an avid proponent of it. I recalled the discussion Ellen Buffington and I
had had concerning Edwin’s fascination with the portrait and knew that Edwin might have spent a
great deal of time studying the painting and attempting to copy its technique. I apprised Holmes of
the same premise.
“Indeed, he might have, Doctor Watson,” responded Holmes as he once again began turning
pages in the notebook in a very deliberate manner. He paused when he came to more than a dozen
sketches of Edwin’s own visage with a partial profile of the left side of it as though he was trying to
perfect his own image from a particular angle. On the very next page, that self-portrait of Reginald
Buffington’s grandnephew was precisely placed upon a figure appearing on the left-hand edge of
the Adoration of the Magi painting. “Now, Watson, are you prepared to present me with the eleven
shillings and nine you owe me or do you need further proof?”
“I would prefer to compare this notebook next to the painting, if you don’t mind, before I
consider the wager won.”
“You are resolute once you take on a role, Doctor Holmes,” Holmes laughed. “We will indeed
examine the two side by side, but before we do, since it is not yet midday, we will consider the
implications of Edwin creating a forgery.”
“Very well, Holmes, I am certainly complicit in that endeavor,” I responded with a sigh.
As I knew he would, Holmes took out his pipe, packed it with tobacco, drew a coal from the
hearth with which to light it and created a rather large cloud of smoke around him, nearly obscuring
him completely before he finally waved the cloud away and began to pace before me. I waited
quietly, knowing that he was forming his thoughts.
“Watson, do you believe it probable that though Edwin might have done studies of the painting
and sketched them into the notebook while observing the painting over the Brigadier’s mantle, he
would have needed the original painting in his possession and in his studio for quite some time to
make a true and accurate forgery of it?”
“I assert that it would be impossible for him to accomplish an exact replica without having it
adjacent to the forgery he was creating.”
“I ask you then, Watson, when was the only opportunity for the portrait to be sitting in Edwin’s
studio for him to execute such a task?”
“During the time, it was not hanging over the mantle. And we know the exact date the painting
was taken down from the mantle, though we do not know the exact date when it was put back up.
We know that Missus Buffington, presumably upon the orders of or permission of her husband
delivered the painting to Mister Grey on the twelfth of April and that the Brigadier himself retrieved
it on the twenty-third,” I responded.
“Precisely, Watson,” Holmes replied. “That leaves us with two obvious possibilities, to begin
with. Either Mister Grey was complicit in the plan and took the painting to Edwin Meriwether in
order for the latter to carry out his deception or the Brigadier himself delivered it to his
grandnephew for the identical purpose.”
“Why would the Brigadier create a forgery of a painting he already owned?” Even as I made
the inquiry, I was recalling the story behind the painting which had been told to me by Albert Drury
when I visited the Society of Florence. I considered telling Holmes what I knew, but also
remembered the oath I had made to not divulge the story outside the walls of the club. Had my good
friend created a forgery in order to hide the original and avoid some suspicion which had fallen
upon him? Such a tactic was certainly probable. Remarkably, Holmes repeated the very same
question in my mind a moment after asking it of myself.
“Perhaps the Brigadier was concerned that someone might filch–I believe is the word you
prefer today–the original painting.”
“But what of Mister Grey?” I inquired, determined to flesh out Holmes’ theory in its entirety.
“Might he also profit from asking Edwin to create the forgery, keep the authentic piece and deliver
the forgery to Reginald when he came to retrieve his painting?”
“That is also a probable theory and would provide the motive for Mister Grey to eliminate
Edwin Meriwether, his accomplice,” Holmes replied.
“You must admit that the timing of the murder, which took place less than twenty-four hours
after our interview with Mister Grey, fits quite nicely into your theory.”
“It was your theory, Watson. I am not a proponent of it. I find Mister Grey to be above
reproach,” Holmes responded.
“As do I, but men of repute have also been known to commit crimes for the right gain,” I
countered.
“We are overlooking another possibility, Watson,” Holmes responded quickly, as he brushed past
my statement. “We know that Missus Buffington brought the painting in on the twelfth of April, but we
do not know when the painting was taken down from the mantle. She also might have taken the
painting to her grandnephew to create the forgery and then taken the authentic piece to Mister Grey.”
“An equally viable theory, Holmes,” I responded. “But why are we not considering, in greater
detail, the possibility that Mister Grey is our perpetrator?”
“A forgery of such magnitude could not be pulled off in the span of eleven days, Doctor
Watson, unless da Vinci himself did the alternate work.”
He was, of course, correct. I considered the implications associated with either Ellen or
Reginald Buffington commissioning their grandnephew to create the forgery, and, in a grave tone, I
voiced those considerations aloud: “If Edwin was murdered due to his complicity in the forgery,
then the only possibility is that, due to the timing of the Brigadier’s death, Ellen Buffington herself
both commissioned the forgery and carried out the murder of her own grandnephew. Reginald was
certainly incapable of committing the latter act from the grave.”
“Viola organista, Watson,” Holmes replied. “It is neither probable that Ellen Buffington
committed the murder of her own grandnephew nor possible for the Brigadier to execute it, yet I am
convinced that the two murders and the forgery are combined into the same dastardly scheme.”
With the casual mention of Reginald’s murder in association with the scheme, I was instantly
thrust back into my antagonistic role. I made it instantly known to Holmes my reservations
concerning his premise.
“I have been complicit with you in the examination of your theories, Mister Holmes,” I
asserted. “However, you still lack the evidence necessary to prove that a forgery was produced and
win your bet or that my childhood friend was murdered rather than deceased from natural causes as
are recorded in the doctor’s examination accompanying his death certificate.”
“Resolute to the end in playing your role, Watson; it is one of the many attributes of your
character which I admire. It is entirely probable that no other individual could counter me in this
game of ours like you can, my good man.”
I accepted his compliment with humility on the outside, but a sense of accomplishment within.
Perhaps I was a worthy adversary for the renowned detective. Often, I was not.
“However, Doctor, I intend to escort you into the Society of Florence hall, show you the forgery
hanging there, take your eleven shillings and nine, and then unravel the remaining details of the
cases before us.”
“You will certainly make the attempt, no doubt, Mister Holmes,” I countered, knowing full well
the restrictions of the Society.
Holmes pulled his watch from his pocket, examined it briefly and replaced it. “Unless I am
mistaken, a midday meal will soon be served in the Society hall if you are willing to accompany
me. We will dine, put an end to our wagering and antagonism, and then resolve this issue for good.”
“I am at your service, Mister Holmes,” I replied, rising up out of my chair and following
Holmes to the door, wondering how the devil he would get us inside, but never once doubting his
ability to do so.
Chapter Eleven
I had not mentioned my prior visit to the Society of Florence to Holmes, and I was awaiting,
with a great deal of amusement, the challenge of Bernard the doorkeeper of the Society of Florence.
Recalling the manner in which Bernard had resolutely executed his duties, I breathlessly anticipated
the encounter which was about to develop between Bernard and Holmes as we passed through the
doors of the Society and mounted the stairs to the great hall.
“Good day, Mister Holmes,” Bernard said by way of greeting. The doorkeeper looked at me in
turn. “And to you as well, Doctor Watson.”
Holmes and I both responded in kind.
“You are certainly a well-looked-after candidate, Doctor Watson, with both Mister Walsh and
Mister Holmes seemly to have taken considerable interest in sponsoring you. You will no doubt
pass inspection by the membership board without a hitch.”
“Thank you,” I replied simply, while I watched Holmes sign me in as his guest to the club.
We had barely passed through the doors when Holmes spoke. “Membership board without a
hitch and Mister Walsh? Watson, I believe you have been concealing something from me.”
“As have you, Holmes,” I countered.
Although we were greeted by the many members who were seated for lunch, we sat by
ourselves apart from them to take our midday meal and have the liberty to discuss our case without
interruption. The moment we were seated, the idea struck me that Holmes already knew how
Reginald had come by obtaining the da Vinci. In that moment, it struck me that he had hinted of
having knowledge about the painting when we were in the carriage returning from the late
Brigadier’s wake. I decided to bring the story behind the painting up, given that divulging it to an
apparent member inside the walls of the Society of Florence was not a violation of my oath.
“Am I to assume that you are aware of how Reginald came to acquire the De Vinci?”
“You can indeed, Watson, and I must commend you for adhering to the code of the Society by
not divulging the contents of that story to me outside these walls, though you must have been sorely
tempted to on several occasions.”
“I am, as you have suggested several times of late, resolute in playing my role,” I
responded. “Mister Walsh sponsored you when you attended the club before?” “He did.”
“That was quite clever of you. I am going to assume that your visit occurred while I was
away.” “A valid assumption.”
“I would be happy to submit your name and credentials for membership if Mister Walsh has not
already done so,” said Holmes.
I nodded by way of thanks. “It is a tempting consideration, given my somewhat limited
knowledge of the Renaissance, although I am eager to embrace the further study of it.”
“The perfect response of a candidate for membership. All you must do is say the word and I am
certain you will be accepted into the Society.”
“In due time, Holmes, in due time.”
Holmes’ counter to my response was interrupted as the entrée of lamb chops and sweet
potatoes, along with various other side dishes, were delivered to our table by a waiter clad in
Renaissance attire.
“Enjoy, Doctor Watson and Mister Holmes,” he said, bowing slightly. “Please let me know if I
can be of further service.”
I found that I had worked up quite an appetite since I’d breakfasted and eagerly attacked the
delicious meal set before me. Holmes seemed to be in a similar state and, thus, very little small talk
ensued between us as we each took our midday meal. Later, our waiter returned with our digestif,
which was a sweet Galliano from Tuscany.
Holmes and I had each taken a few sips of the liqueur before my companion spoke. “Watson,
unless I am mistaken, I believe we both will recognize the painting hanging over the hearth at the
end of the hall.” He indicated with a wave of his glass in the direction just over my right shoulder.
“Very well, Holmes. As soon as we have put an end to our digestifs, I will graciously accept
your eleven shillings and nine,” I smiled.
“To the bitter end, aye Watson?”
“To the bitter end,” I responded, raising my glass in a toast and then tossing off the remainder of
the sweet liqueur in a single gulp, which I must report was not advisable. To his credit, Holmes
followed my lead, replacing his glass on the table beside mine and pushed himself up from his chair.
Like antagonists in a duel, Holmes and I strolled purposely to the aforementioned hearth. As we
went, he covertly produced the notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket and flipped through its
pages in anticipation of presenting the comparison I had proposed as sufficient evidence to support
the foundational premise of the painting being a forgery and having been carried out by Edwin
Meriwether.
As we drew near, my eyes focused on the left edge of the painting and the visage of the young
man depicted there. To my dismay, my eyes encountered the visage of Edwin Meriwether rather
than a youthful Leonardo da Vinci. I required not the proof of the notebook, but Holmes held it up
beside the image of the youth anyway. There was no point in contesting Holmes’ first foundational
premise any further. My own eyes betrayed me and forced me to accept it. Along with it, I was also
coerced into accepting Holmes’ second foundational premise that my childhood friend, Brigadier
Reginald Buffington, might have been murdered.
Being a man of honor and without any form of protest or acrimony, I counted the eleven shillings
and nine into Holmes’ open palm. When I was finished, I allowed a heavy sigh to escape between my
lips and fixed a somber gaze on Holmes. I spoke in a low tone. “Where, then, is the original?”
“That remains to be seen, Watson. It also leaves us with the grave possibility that either our
Brigadier’s widow has been engaged in some sinister plot or someone else has perpetrated two
heinous acts in order to cover up a larceny,” Holmes responded, matching my tone.
“But murder her grandnephew, Holmes?” I protested. “I simply cannot fix such an act into my
head. I am more willing to accept a spouse murdering her husband.”
“I empathize with your sentiments, Watson, but it is an extremely valuable painting,” he
responded.
“Extremely valuable indeed.” The voice of Albert Walsh behind me and to my right gave me a
start. I whirled away from Holmes to face the approaching gentleman.
“Mister Walsh,” Holmes and I greeted him in turn as we each extended our hands toward him.
“You have returned for another visit, Doctor Watson, and have already discovered our newest
acquisition, thanks to the generosity of the late Brigadier.”
If what Walsh was saying was true, then Ellen Buffington might not be covering up any crime, but
only executing the wishes of her late husband as disclosed in his last will and testament. There was
some relief that she might not be implicit in the crimes that Holmes and I were investigating. The relief
brought with it other possibilities which I intended to discuss with Holmes as soon as the two
of us were secluded once more. In the meantime, I had to push my thoughts aside and respond to
Mister Walsh.
“I have found the Society delightful, though I had not been aware that my esteemed companion
was a member until today. He has taken it upon himself to provoke me into taking up membership.”
“Membership for you, Doctor Watson—given your credentials, and with Holmes and I as
sponsors—is nearly a foregone conclusion. I would be delighted to submit you for membership if
you cannot manage to sway Holmes into taking up the task.”
Although I had enjoyed my midday meal in Holmes’ company and would have enjoyed
extending the afternoon in the company of the Society members as I had a few days prior, my mind
had been assaulted with assumptions and premises which I needed to sort through. I rapidly
designed a means of escape. “I appreciate the approbation of you both and I would love to pass the
afternoon with brandy and anecdotes, but I really must attend to several patients this afternoon, if
you will excuse me.”
“It’s a pity that you must decline our company, but it is an admirable commitment which you
have for your patients.”
“Resolute in playing his role, I always say,” Holmes put in.
“When you have finished your rounds, perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” I replied. I nodded to Holmes. “I must not keep my patients waiting, but I do not
require your accompaniment, Holmes, if you would prefer to stay.”
“I, too, have commitments to attend to,” said Holmes. “Our intent was only to take our midday
meal, but we will indeed return at our earliest convenience so that we might indoctrinate the good
doctor into our numbers.”
“Very well, then,” Walsh responded. “I look forward to next
time.” “As do we,” Holmes answered.
We shook hands again and then beat a hasty retreat to the exit, past Bernard, down the wide
stairway and out the front doors of the Society of Florence building without further interruption.
“Well played, dear Watson, well played,” Holmes praised as he hailed a passing carriage.
“Do you think he picked up the preceding portion of our discussion?” I asked.
“Not likely,” Holmes responded. “If he did, he certainly played his part well.”
“I ought to point out something that I have unintentionally concealed from you,” I
admitted. “What would that be?”
“Until now, it hadn’t seemed to be anything to cause concern, but I have witnessed Walsh
coming and going from Buffington House a bit too frequently.”
“Your suspicions are not unwarranted, old boy,” Holmes admitted. “I, too, have questioned his
seemingly intimate presence with Missus Buffington at the wake.”
Chapter Twelve
The story behind the painting, as it was shared among the members of the Society of Florence,
was eerily similar to the foundational premise Holmes had established from the beginning.
By pure accident, while on holiday in Florence during the intervening time between the first
Boer War and the second, Reginald Buffington had overheard a plan by two men discussing the
heist of the painting. Since he had been the only person present and quite obviously an Englishman,
they had spoken freely in the Italian tongue, unaware that Buffington was well acquainted with the
language due to his love of Renaissance history.
The plot had been a simple one. One of the men was a curator who had been tasked by the
Uffizi Gallery with cleaning the da Vinci and the other was a rising talent as an artist. Their plan
had been to create a forgery, replace it, and take the authentic painting out of the country. Once
done, they were to sell it to some wealthy collector and divide the money between them.
Indeed, the two had pulled off their larceny only to have it swiped by Reginald Buffington and
an unnamed accomplice, which the late Brigadier had refused to divulge in any of his stories. The
shock among the members of the Society, when they learned that I was unaware of how the painting
was acquired, was because they had assumed all along that I was the unnamed accomplice, given
the vast number of anecdotes the Brigadier had told about our adolescent antics.
Buffington and his accomplice, according to the Brigadier’s version of the story, had agreed to
return the painting to Uffizi, but later feared that the consequences involved in returning the
painting might implicate them as the ones who had carried out the subterfuge and committed the
larceny. Thus, neither was willing to expose themselves by returning the painting, especially
Buffington, who was rapidly ascending in rank in Her Majesty’s Royal Marines. The unknown
accomplice had charge of the painting until the Brigadier returned from South Africa after the
Second Boer War, at which time, he took possession of the painting with the intention of carrying
out the original plan of the primary perpetrators of the crime. Except Buffington was never able to
bring himself to sell the painting, knowing that he still might be implicated in the crime, so he hung
it over the mantle in his private study.
Having told that story, which had been a closely guarded secret of the Society and a test of fealty
for the members, the painting had been authenticated by three sources, one of which had been Mister
Harman Grey. Consequently, Holmes and I now had three additional sources of suspicion concerning
the second forgery–and of the two murders. Though perhaps Holmes knew the identity of the other two
experts, I was still left unaware of who they might be. Therefore, I was left to the task of asking the
Brigadier’s wife about the timing involved when the painting had been taken out for cleaning. It would
be an extremely delicate interrogation and I was struggling a great deal with how I was going to pull it
off without revealing any form of suspicion associated with Ellen Buffington.
Holmes had bowed out, just as he often did when assigning me a particularly difficult task to carry
out, claiming that he had some alternate business to attend to, after assuring me of his faith that I would
be able to pull off the task without a hitch. In spite of my colleague’s confidence, I was still unaware of
how I was going to conduct myself in an interview with Ellen Buffington concerning the cleaning of
the painting, especially when, for all practical purposes, only the late Brigadier, Mister Harman, and
herself were likely to be privy to that information. Nevertheless, resolute in carrying out my role, I
tapped on the door of Buffington House using the knocker and attempted to swallow a sizable lump in
my throat without the benefit of any form of moisture in my mouth.
“Doctor Watson, what a pleasant surprise,” Abigail said by way of greeting the moment she
recognized me.
“Miss Abigail,” I croaked. I swallowed again, and got straight down to business. “I require a
private appointment with the mistress of the house, if you would be so kind to show me into the
study.”
“I would be delighted to carry out your request, Doctor, but the mistress of the house is not in
and I’m afraid it might be several days before she returns. She has gone to tend to the late master’s
sister, who, as you are aware, has recently lost her grandson.”
Neither Holmes nor I had anticipated that possibility when the task of interviewing Ellen
Buffington had been assigned to me; rather, I should say I had not anticipated it, though perhaps
Holmes had. The very possibility that Holmes knew about Ellen’s absence, just as he always
seemed to know about the order and timing of my rounds, awakened my mind to the possibility that
he had another angle in that eccentric head of his. A new idea struck me, allowing me to elude the
uncomfortable interview with Ellen Buffington entirely.
“Perhaps you might help me, if I might come in for a moment? It is a matter of trivial importance,
true, but one which Holmes and I need to have cleared up in regard to Edwin’s demise.”
“Ordinarily I would refuse to admit anyone into the house while the mistress was away, but
given the circumstances and the fact that you are counted as family at Buffington House, I will be
happy to extend the privilege. Please come in, I’ll put tea on for the both of us and you can
interview me. I would be quite relieved to be of some assistance, especially if it might involve
revealing the identity of Mister Meriwether’s assassin.”
Still unsure of my approach, I entered Buffington House and lowered myself into an
uncomfortable seat in the parlor while Abigail disappeared for what seemed like an eternity in order
to prepare our tea. When she eventually returned, she had certainly outdone herself with the lavish
tray of sandwiches, pastries, cookies and marmalades surrounding the fine tea service of the house.
After filling our cups and taking a seat adjacent to me, I asked if there had been any change in
the relationship between the Brigadier and Mister Meriwether. “Funny you should ask, Doctor.
There had been some sort of disagreement or falling out between the master of the house and Mister
Meriwether. I overheard a rather scorching argument between the two, and then did not see the
latter until after the master’s demise.”
I watched as Abigail began to tear up. I pushed forward with my interview without drawing
attention to her lingering grief.
“When might this disagreement have occurred?” I inquired gently.
“I would estimate that it took place around the first part of April,” she responded with only a
moment’s hesitation.
“That would be about the time that Missus Buffington took the da Vinci painting to Mister Grey
for restorative maintenance, was it not?”
She nodded. “Now that you brought it up, I recall the subject of the argument between the late
master and his grandnephew. Edwin, it seemed, was in favor of being allowed to do the restorative
maintenance, as you called it, on the da Vinci, but the master was for taking it to Harman Grey.
Why the disagreement became so heated is yet a mystery to me, but the resulting and unusual
absence of Mister Meriwether in the house was testimony to its serious nature.”
“Mister Grey informed Holmes and me that the da Vinci had been brought in by Missus
Buffington on the twelfth of April, but we were not able to ascertain from him the date when it was
returned to the home and hung again above the mantle or by whom?”
I had come to the moment of truth. I had established that whenever the forgery was made, it was
likely made after the Brigadier had picked it up from Mister Grey, since the removal of the painting
from the house matched Mister Grey’s timeline, and Holmes was of the opinion that Mister Grey, who
had performed the restorative maintenance, was not involved in the scheme. The answer Abigail
provided to me might lead to establishing who was responsible for commissioning the forgery.
“I do not recall the exact date, Doctor, but the painting had barely hung a fortnight above the
mantle prior to the late Brigadier’s demise.”
Only two weeks. I nodded and was just counting back through the days when Abigail lowered
her teacup to its saucer with a clang. “Do you think Mister Grey is responsible for Mister
Meriwether’s murder?”
“We are not yet sure what or upon whom to place that cowardly act,” I responded.
“A man of status and means, committing such a dreadful act; to what purpose?”
“You are quite certain of the timing, then?” I clarified, ignoring her speculation about Mister
Grey. I was still struggling with why Reginald had commissioned a forgery to be made by his
grandnephew. Mixed into my confusion was the apparent falling out between the two and the
impossibility that the late Brigadier had returned from the grave to murder his own grandnephew.
The tangle of yarn had just been made worse by the information I had ascertained from Abigail.
“I am certain enough; after all, I assisted the late master of the house in hanging the painting
upon its return.”
“Very well, then, I ought to be going,” I responded, rising from my seat and removing myself
toward the foyer of Buffington House. “Thank you for the delightful tea and the privilege of the
interview; it will save the mistress some grief, which I would rather not subject her to.”
“Indeed, I am glad to be of assistance, especially when it comes to making certain that Missus
Buffington remains comfortable in her grief. Would you mind staying and regaling me with another
of your anecdotes involving the late Brigadier and yourself?”
“I believe I have already proceeded beyond the limits of propriety with the mistress away from
the house,” I responded.
“Perhaps another time, then?” I noted the disappointment behind her smile.
“Perhaps,” I replied before exiting Buffington House.
Chapter Thirteen
“I assume that you knew that Missus Buffington would not be at home when you sent me to
conduct an interview with her,” I accused my old friend, not long after being admitted into Holmes’
flat.
“Elementary, my dear Watson,” he responded. “With the death of the late Brigadier’s
grandnephew, it would quite logically follow that Missus Buffington would desire to attend to the
grieving grandmother, given her own raw state of emotions. With the mistress out of the house, I
assumed that you would take full advantage of conducting an unbiased interview with the housekeeper
and by such means, ascertain a more accurate history of the recent events surrounding the da Vinci.”
“You might have divulged that particular theory to me before sending me on the errand. It
would have spared me some grief of my own.”
“Pardon me, but I had assumed that you would arrive at the same conclusion I had concerning
Missus Buffington’s likely absence.”
“Your assumption was incorrect,” I groused.
“So it would seem.” Holmes conducted the ritual of lighting his pipe while I took a seat and
prepared to work through the details of my interview with Abigail. I was not required to wait long
before Holmes called for my full report to which he listened while feverishly producing copious
clouds of smoke from his pipe. There was a long pause after I had unveiled the information
obtained from my interview, while Holmes processed the information.
“That greatly complicates our case, Watson,” responded he. “Had the painting been removed
from the home a month or so prior to the twelfth of April, it would have certainly implicated the
widow and perhaps Walsh as the ones commissioning the forgery and consequently implicating
themselves in two murders, but given the facts as they have now been exposed, it seems to have
been the Brigadier himself who had commissioned the forgery.”
“And his eliminating an accomplice from beyond the grave is an impossibility,” I added. “Indeed,”
Holmes responded. “That is the troublesome knot we must now unravel. I believe that,
from this point, we must focus on the two murders and resort to the three components which lead to
revealing the culprit…”
“Motive, means and opportunity,” I interrupted.
“Precisely, Watson.” He relit his cold pipe and began to pace before the hearth. The prolificacy
of his thoughts was reflected in the thickness of the cloud of smoke which lingered along his path,
but he spoke not a word; neither did I.
I had grown accustomed to Holmes’ odd behaviors over the years, but what he did next was
quite unexpected. He placed his smoldering pipe in its holder on the mantel, crossed the room and
began to fill the flat with a contemporary tune on the organ. Halfway through the tune, he halted,
retrieved the viola from his case and repeated the second half of the tune on the viola. He was still
drawing the bow across the strings when he spoke.
“I do not know that I will ever deduce how it was done,” he commented.
“The viola organista or the forgery or the murder?” I asked.
In response, or lack thereof, he abandoned the viola in the chair adjacent to me and returned to
playing the organ. After a few bars of a different tune, he spun around to face me and asked a
question which appeared to come out of nowhere.
“Do you think that your late friend had a mistress?”
“I should think not,” I responded without hesitation.
“Come now, Watson, we all hate to speak or even think ill of the dead, but is it not a possibility?” I
narrowed my eyes as I understood the cleverness of the display he had just made, which was meant
to remind me of our discussion of possibility, proper wisdom, and logic from a few weeks
prior. I sighed. “I suppose it is possible, but not probable.”
“The late Brigadier was a great man, but perhaps not a saint, Watson. Temptations arise when
one is apart from his bride and out in the field. A taste of the forbidden fruit by some betrothed men
leads them to a hunger for a bushel of it. You know, the thrill of keeping a secret lover greatly
enhances the satisfaction of the act, or so I am told.”
“Mister Holmes, I object to your insinuation.”
“Cast aside your roles of antagonist and loyal friend for a moment. Step back and take an
objective look at where we stand in our case. Does not the presence of a mistress cast a sliver of
light upon our dark mystery?”
By means of objectivity, I began to entertain Holmes’ new premise. Recalling the memory I’d had
while returning from the wake with Holmes; that is, of my attempt to talk Reginald out of marrying
Ellen before returning to South Africa forced me to consider it as a possibility. The exact purpose of my
warning to him had been to prevent him from leaving Ellen or himself to their own devices in which
either or both might fall to the temptations of the flesh. After a few moments of contemplation upon the
subject, I presented a slightly different perspective on Holmes’ latest premise.
“Perhaps it is Ellen who is having an affair.”
“An affair that might lead to the murder of the spouse of one’s lover is not an uncommon thing,
and a logical twist to our tale. Our second murder, which is assuredly connected to the forgery of the
painting, however, does not fit, much like playing a woodwind and hearing the sound of a stringed.”
“It fits if we can link both the affair and the forgery,” I responded.
“That would force us to examine more intricately the relationship between Mister Walsh and
Ellen Buffington, would it not?”
“It would appear so, but both seem to have been playing their roles well, because two
personages of their status would not be able to hide such a scandal without inciting rumor and
speculation of some sort.”
“Precisely, Watson. Motive, means and opportunity certainly favor either of them or both of
them in league together.”
“How do we proceed in order to expose the affair you’re proposing?” I inquired.
Holmes did not respond to my question for several moments; instead, he took up the viola once
more and began playing a melancholy song of lost love and betrayal which all of England born in
the age of Her Late Majesty, Victoria knew. I found that I had become enchanted by the tone of the
instrument as it resonated with the familiar melody of forbidden passion and was quite offended
when Holmes abruptly cut off the tune.
“I think it best to set this case on the shelf for a few days and allow some perspective to present
itself,” Holmes announced. “Besides, I must be away once more for close to a week.”
“My practice and my patients might appreciate a more in tune physician attending to them as
well,” I agreed. “I assume that you will contact me upon your return?”
“I will indeed,” he replied.
We exchanged salutations and I took my leave of the flat of Sherlock Holmes. Rather than rent a
carriage to carry me to my home, I decided to walk, knowing that the sun would be setting before I
returned to my abode. I relished a solitary evening stroll on occasion, especially when my mind had
become twisted with entangled conundrums; something Holmes provided me with on far too many
occasions.
As I walked, feeling the gentle breeze on my face, hearing the unhindered twittering of the
birds as they perched above my head and presented their evening adoration to the setting sun, I
made an attempt to push aside thoughts of murders, forgeries and affairs. I allowed my mind to drift
away to the simpler times of my youth.
The thoughts I began to entertain, by necessity, brought to my mind the adolescent version of
the round face and sharp beak of Reginald Buffington. I could still see the twinkle in his pale blue
eyes as he concocted another adventure for the two of us to undertake. I had been all too willing to
follow his lead. In fact, more than once, his schemes had gotten me into trouble and the rough
discipline of my father. My mother had forbidden me on numerous occasions from associating
myself with Reginald, but the two of us had always managed to come together again.
“Ah, Reggie,” I sighed. “Look at what you have gotten me into this time.”
Chapter Fourteen
It was partially the work of a convicted conscience, which had been subtly nagging at me for
the space of a week which drove me to call upon Reginald’s widow once again.
I had been negligent in my friendship with my oldest friend and shouldered some blame,
though perhaps misplaced, for having not been more involved in the latter years of his life. I
suppose that I’d assumed, as nearly everyone does, that Reginald and I had an ample number of
years to renew our friendship. The desire to return to Buffington House, sit in the parlor or in the
private study of the late Brigadier; to be with those things and persons who had surrounded him of
recent had become now a growing urge. Not to be denied, that urge pushed me in the direction of
Buffington House after I’d completed my rounds one afternoon.
After having utilized the door knocker on the door to Buffington House and been greeted by
Abigail, I was disappointed when I learned that the mistress of the house was once again away.
“It is not unusual, really, Doctor Watson,” Abigail informed me. “Even when the late master of
the house was still living, she often found occasion to attend to multiple day visits to some property
long held by an obscure member of her family in Surrey.”
Without further comment or vocal speculation concerning the peculiar nature of the news I had
just received, I turned away from the door and started to return to my home with a new enigma to
solve. I had taken no more than a dozen steps when a carriage came along toward me, along with it
the raised voice and eager waving of Ellen Buffington. I halted my retreat and waited to meet her.
As I did so, I glanced up at the heavily whiskered driver of the carriage as he drew up on the lines.
The very same personage entreated me with a rather obvious wink. I was struck dumb and quite
paralyzed in an instant.
Though his visage was well disguised, I instantly recognized the twinkling eyes and wink of
Sherlock Holmes.
“Here now, allow me to help you with those bags, ma’am,” the disguised Holmes crowed as he
leapt from his seat and assisted Ellen in dismounting and gathering her things. The East Cornwall
accent was a bit overdone in my opinion, but it seemed to have had little effect at giving away
Holmes’ disguise to his passenger.
“Oh, thank you, kind gentleman,” Ellen responded. “It has been a delight to ride with you
today. You have made the trip far more bearable than it might have been.”
“Well, you’re here now, safe and sound. It appears you’re to be left in capable hands as well.”
Holmes approached me and stuck out his hand to receive the fair. “Six shillings and ten, if you
don’t mind, sir?”
I considered a protest, knowing that Holmes was not truly working as a carriage driver, but I
knew that I could not reveal his true identity.
“But of course,” I said, reaching into my pocket. “How about we make it an even seven?”
“Suits me, governor,” Holmes returned, snatching the money from my hand and turning on his
heel. He bowed low to Ellen. “I best be on my way. The missus will be holdin’ me supper if I don’t
scurry on home.”
“Given what you have revealed to me concerning her demeanor,” Ellen responded, “we
certainly would not want that to happen!”
“No, we wouldn’t, ma’am,” Holmes countered as he regained his seat in the carriage. “Call on
me anytime, ma’am.”
“Wait!” Ellen called after the retreating carriage, but Holmes ignored her call. She cocked an
eyebrow and looked up at me. “That is rather odd. He had invited me to call on him for his services,
but left no card or means for me to call on him.”
“A dreadful oversight on his part,” I commented, biting my lower lip in order to maintain my
composure. To cover, I stooped to take up her bags. “Here, let me retrieve these for you.”
“You are so kind, Doctor Watson,” she beamed. “Not only have you come to look in on me, but
you properly scheduled the moment so that you might be of some service too. I will repay you the
fee, which the driver commandeered from you, by the way.”
“That is not necessary, madam,” I responded. “The score will be settled in some way or another.”
“I am not sure what you mean by that, but I appreciate the gesture.” Ellen pushed open the door to
the house. “Abigail! I have arrived!”
Abigail had not gotten far from the door and returned quickly. “Welcome home, madam. You
just missed Doc—” She cut off the statement when she noticed that I was there.
“Please take my bags from Doctor Watson and deposit them in my quarters, and then make haste in
bringing tea for the two of us. I am all but ruined for lack of nourishment and that long, dusty ride.”
“Yes, madam,” Abigail responded, quickly attending to the duties assigned to her.
“Doctor Watson, might you make your own way to Reginald’s study? We will take our tea in
there this afternoon, but permit me to freshen up a bit before I join you.”
“Certainly, madam,” I answered, turning in the direction of the study.
The moment I entered my late friend’s study, my eyes went directly to the vacant space above
the mantle. Remarkably, though I had only seen it in its proper place one time, the absence of the
painting was a metaphor for the exact feelings of guilt I had been experiencing since Reginald had
passed on. I was in a state of profound contemplation when Abigail delivered the tea tray to the
study and lifted the pot to pour our tea.
“That is not necessary, Abigail. You are dismissed. I will attend to my guest,” Ellen Buffington
ordered, entering the room. Ellen took over pouring tea in the cups, properly dropping two lumps
for herself and one for me before adding a dab of milk. She looked over her shoulder, satisfied that
Abigail had retreated from the study, and then commented about her.
“I have never really fancied that girl. She is a bit too young for a housekeeper in my opinion
and she is too often meddling in affairs of the house which do not concern her, but Reginald fancied
her and would not hear of dismissing her. I suppose I am left with her and will have to make due.”
“I should think not,” I protested. “You are the mistress of the house and in full command of it.
You ought to be able to discharge her at will.”
“That is exactly what Alb… What I meant to say is, that is what Mister Walsh has advised me
to do,” she skated right on by the subtle error and continued. “Discharging her would require that I
interview and select a new housekeeper. In the meantime, Buffington House will fall into a state of
disarray and…”
A heavy sigh and a few brief tears interrupted whatever she was going to say. I waited a
moment before speaking.
“I suppose it is most difficult to let go of what we become most attached to, even if they border
on being meaningless.” Involuntarily, I glanced up at the vacancy above the mantle.
“Ah, yes, the blank space,” she sighed once more. “I have been meaning to obtain a suitable
replacement. I suppose I ought to call upon Harman Grey to assist me. Reginald fancied him over
the other curators, as did I. We took the painting to him to have it cleaned and, during that time, I
hardly noticed that it was absent. It is intriguing how our perspectives change.”
“It is indeed, madam, it is indeed,” I responded.
“Doctor Watson, in informal company, it is perfectly acceptable for you to use my given name,
especially since we have our grief in common.”
“I continue to look upon you as Reginald’s spouse,” I replied. “Informality will require
considerable adaptation for me.”
There was a pause while each of us attended to a sandwich or two. During that pause, I was
doing my very best to see through whatever veil kept me from believing that she was capable of
murdering her husband or being complicit in someone else attending to that particular heinous act.
Try as I might, I could unveil nothing but a widow who had been broken and was still grieving the
loss of her departed spouse.
“Look at us, emerging ourselves in melancholy when we have so many extraordinary memories to
recall and share. Perhaps you could lighten our moods with another of your adolescent anecdotes?”
I was just about to draw up a favorite memory, which I had thought of a number of times in the
prior few days, when the knocker sounded several times on the door.
“I would prefer that she sent whomever it is away,” Ellen sighed.
A moment later, Abigail tapped lightly on the door of the study before pushing her head in. “I
have a message for Doctor Watson. The carrier said it was urgent.”
I leapt to my feet and strode to the door to accept the message from her hand. Ellen stood as
well, but did not move from her place.
“I suppose, as a Doctor, you are used to such interruptions,” she commented.
“I am,” I responded. I opened the note with some haste and read its brief contents. It was in the
flowing script of Sherlock Holmes and signed with his unmistakable H. It read:
Come to Baker Street, Post Haste.
“I apologize, but there seems to be some sort of emergency. I appreciate the hospitality and
regret that I must cut it short.”
“I understand, Doctor Watson,” she responded.
“I will call on you again as soon as I can,” I replied before scurrying out of the study and
toward the foyer.
Chapter Fifteen
“Right on time, Watson,” Holmes cheered as I bustled through the door of his flat, noting that
he was again his normal, detective self.
“Your message included the words, Post Haste,” I responded. “I came as quickly as I was able
to hail a cab.”
“You seemed to have been quite fortunate in your
efforts.” “I encountered one almost immediately.” “Of
course you did.”
“You sent a cab.”
“I did, indeed,” Holmes laughed. “The very same one that I had rented for my earlier purposes.
Here are your seven shillings, by the way.”
“You embellished the accent a bit too much,” I commented as I accepted the coins from his
hand. I dropped them into my pocket, moved to the chair I was accustomed to using, and resigned
myself into it. I was pretty certain that Sherlock Holmes was about to regale me with his disguised
adventure.
“Did I, then?” he responded. The amused twinkle was already lighting up his eyes as he moved
toward the hearth and began to prepare his pipe. “It is a complicated undertaking for a man of
distinction, such as myself, to imitate the crowing of a Cornishman.”
“You certainly crowed,” I retorted.
Holmes had finished lighting his pipe by then and was silent for a moment while he worked up
a vast cloud of smoke to encompass his head before he responded. “I went unrecognized by all but
you.”
“Is this what I am to assume occupied your time since we last spoke?”
“I took on three separate roles as well as three separate disguises in order to ascertain what I
have. Though you might have surmised it already, our grieving widow is indeed having an
extramarital affair. From the evidence I was able to obtain, her liaison has continued for nearly a
decade.”
“But that would mean she was—” I cut off speaking the words, but the mathematical
calculations continued in my head. The innocent, grieving widow had been unfaithful to Reginald
from the minute he had set foot onboard the vessel which carried him away to South Africa. I
fought against the frustration which welled up inside of me. I had been right to warn him
concerning his marriage, though I would never have anticipated it was already in the making as I
was issuing that warning. “An opportunist, then? Clearly, she exploited Reginald in the hope of
later gain and utilized a remote family holding in Surrey to conceal her secret and execute her
strategy.” I could not hide the bitterness in my voice.
“You intrigue me, Watson. How did you come to discern she was utilizing a family holding in
Surrey for her purposes?”
“The housekeeper let me in on that tidbit of information right before you arrived in the carriage
with the charlatan. I cannot fathom that Reginald and I have been so thoroughly deceived.”
“I do not know that Reginald was deceived, old boy,” Holmes responded.
My mouth dropped. “But if she was indeed an opportunist, then surely she duped poor Reginald.
He could not have known about her designs; otherwise, he would have dismissed her outright.”
“It might serve you better to leave off the speculations, relax, and allow me to tell you what I
discovered while in my various disguises. By heaven, Doctor, you are going to bring about your
own heart failure.”
Holmes was correct, of course. I was allowing myself to rush toward too many conclusions
without the benefit of slow and logical contemplation. It was no wonder that I had plunged into
such a state, given that only moments before I had been lending an empathetic ear to the very same
pretender who had drawn me into partaking in her grief alongside her. Whatever she was, I could
bear witness to the fact that she was a first-rate actress and played her role to its utmost.
“A brandy, perhaps?” Holmes suggested. “I might recommend something stronger, but I need
you to be lucid while I recant my adventures.”
I was aware of Holmes’ stronger remedy and had no interest in it. “A brandy will suffice.” Though
brandy was no miracle elixir, it was able to take the edge off of my anxiety and help me
to regain some semblance of proper wisdom and logic.
“Might I proceed, now?” Holmes inquired after I had downed the first glass and he had refilled
my second.
“By all means, regale me,” I responded.
“It was no easy accomplishment for me to plan and execute what I’d managed to carry out,”
Holmes began. “I had arranged four disguises before actually knowing if, how or when I was going
to make use of each of them. Each unique role of which I conformed myself into benefited me in a
singular manner; indeed, I will divulge to you each of my disguises and the accompanying
information gathered as a means of organizing my thoughts. Does that suit you?”
“I am a captive audience.”
“The first role I took on was that of a tramp or a panhandler, if you will. As you are aware,
tramps are roundly ignored and no one thinks to hold one’s tongue when they are around. As a
derelict beggar, I was able to get close enough to ascertain the day and hour Ellen was leaving
London and that she was to take the train bound toward Guildford.
“Next, I booked passage on the very same train to Guildford, this time disguised as a professor
of Hebrew from Oxford. I sat in the seat which was backed against hers and quit the train at the
very same station where she did. Playing my role well, I asked if she might give me a lift to
Shalford, on the odd chance that Shalford might be her destination, but she informed me that she
would be going only partway. I accepted the lift as far as where the lane turned off to go to her
family holdings. I caught a milk wagon returning to Guildford.
“Once there, I dawned a new disguise, that of a huckster. It took some doing to gather together
enough wares to make the role credible, but I was able to do it. The following morning I set off before
dawn with my wares on my back and journeyed on the road toward Shalford. I turned into the very
same lane of the family holdings where our widow had left me the evening before. Making out to be
peddling my wares throughout the countryside and being very near to my last pence if I did not sell the
very last few, I was able to draw both our widow and the man who was sharing the quaint cottage with
her out into the open. It was there that I came quite near exposing myself and my ploy.
“You might already have divined who the gentleman was and why I was in such grave danger
of unmasking myself.”
“Albert Walsh?” I asked, moving suddenly to the edge of the chair.
“The very same.”
I said, “My suspicions had been correct from the beginning, as had yours. I did not want to believe
them, but…” I cut off the sentence again as I recalled having seen Albert at Buffington House on
several occasions and the special status he seemed to have with Ellen. More revealing, however,
was the subtle slip she had made in nearly blurting out his given name. Proper, wedded ladies
simply did not commit that error. My mind skipped forward.
“So, she and Walsh are at the root of all of this?” I asked. “Did she or Walsh slip some sort of
poison to Reginald so that his death appeared to be entirely of natural causes?”
“I have yet to ascertain such a connection,” Holmes admitted. “None of it connects to any
motive behind the Brigadier ordering a forgery of the painting to be made.”
“Then, in reality, we have gained no ground,” I muttered.
“On the contrary,” Holmes countered. “We have determined that the great demon of deception
has been having its way within Buffington House. Such a demon has a way of moving from one to
another as it does its sly work.”
“Really, Holmes? You are going to resort to the spiritual world to fill in for an explanation
which you have not yet deduced?”
“Who says that the demon known as deception is a spiritual manifestation?”
I waved him off and tossed back the last bit of brandy in my glass. As I did so, it came to me
that he had only spoken of three disguises and how each had benefited him.
“What about the fourth?”
“The fourth?”
“The fourth disguise. You said that you had benefited from each of the four disguises in some
way.”
“Oh, yes, the fourth might be the critical link in all of it,” he responded.
I waited for him to expound upon the statement, but when he did not, I prompted him. “And
that link is?”
“I’m not quite sure, though I am awaiting a telegram which I sent to the continent some weeks
ago, which might bear some light on the subject.”
“What would that light be?” I ventured, knowing full well the response I was going to receive
for my efforts.
“All in good time, Watson, all in good time.”
Chapter Sixteen
I was looking in upon the last patient on my daily rounds two days after my last meeting with
Holmes when I received a message from the detective ordering me to meet him at the Society as
soon as I finished with my last patient. The message read, quite simply:
Telegram received. Meet me at the Society at your earliest convenience.
I finished off my rounds and then hailed a cab to the Society of Florence. I quit the cab, pushed
through the doors and ascended the stairs. Holmes was waiting for me and snapping the cover of his
watch shut just as I came to a rest on the landing at the top of the stairs.
“Your punctuality is improving, Watson,” he announced. “I’ve already signed you in, so let’s
get started.”
“Started on what?” I ventured.
“Shaking things up a bit,” he responded.
“How do you propose to do that?” I asked.
“I have not yet fully devised my plan, so you will have to follow my lead and improvise.”
“Improvise?” I asked as we stepped through the large oak door and into the great hall of the
Society of Florence.
Holmes paused, scanned the composition of the different groups of members which were in
attendance, selected one, and purposely strode in the direction of that gathering.
“Gentleman,” Holmes called out as we approached. “I am so happy to see that you are here this
afternoon. I have a special guest who I want to present to you, if you will, Doctor John Watson.”
I recognized all but two of the gentlemen in the group, who eagerly pointed out that they had
already made my acquaintance when I had been a guest of Walsh. The two remaining members
introduced themselves and we exchanged pleasantries.
“You might not be aware, Holmes,” Albert Drury announced as room was being made for
Holmes and me to join the group, “but Doctor Watson provided some diversion for us some time
back when he was the guest of Mister Walsh.”
“I was not aware of that,” Holmes responded. “Watson did say that he had been a guest of
Mister Walsh, but he did not expound upon his experience here.”
“A gentleman must maintain a few mysteries if he is to avoid being ordinary,” I retorted, hoping
that I was properly following Holmes’ lead.
“Perhaps you would be eager to share a few more adventures with us once more,” one of the
men whom I recognized called out.
“Pour a few drinks down him first,” another commented. “His narrations improve in direct
proportion to the volume of brandy he consumes.”
A hearty laugh made its way around the entire group. Though the joke was at my expense, I
was not insulted by it. In fact, I was thrilled by a feeling of camaraderie, which I hadn’t felt since
I’d been in the regiment.
“I fear that my narrations will never measure up to those of the Brigadier,” I responded
humbly. “We don’t know that yet, as we have yet to test the limits of the brandy!”
Such bantering about continued for quite some time and several brandies had, indeed, been
consumed around the table before there was a lull. It was Albert Drury, who seemed to be of some
great influence over the group, who interrupted the lull first.
“Why don’t you relate to us another of your stories, Watson?” he suggested.
“Yes, let us test the brandy,” came the cry from several in the group.
I shrugged. “Between what the Brigadier has narrated to you and what I elaborated on in my
previous visit, there might not be any more tales to tell.”
“Run through a brief of each one until you come across one we have not heard,” Holmes
suggested.
“Splendid idea, Detective!” several men called out.
I am not sure if it was by design or not, but the raucous volume of the group Holmes and I had
joined had increased to the point that all who had been gathered about in various groups had come to be
lingering around the edges of the table Holmes and I had joined. Though I was unsure if Holmes had
tricked me into some form of initiation or what designs he had, I was compelled to stand and begin to
run through something of an index of adventures that had involved Reginald and me during our
adolescence. When I finally came to one they had not heard, I was compelled to narrate it to them. I
had told several stories and was running out of material some time later, when Holmes stood.
“Gentlemen, I have an inquiry of some grave importance for you all,” he announced, drawing
all attention back to himself.
“We are at your service, Detective,” Drury replied.
“We have been regaled by a number of anecdotes from Watson this afternoon, but not nearly
the volume or, perhaps the flair, of the late Brigadier…”
Glasses were raised around the room to the memory of Brigadier Reginald Buffington. Each
drank to his honor, including Holmes and I, and then my friend continued.
“My question for you is this…” He paused for a moment to draw full attention from the group.
“Among the numerous anecdotes told by the late Brigadier, do any of you recall any in which an
Italian gentleman by the name of Piero Ricci was featured?”
The silence lingered among the group for a moment before a few side discussions began. After
some time, someone volunteered a story which had included the Italian, and, following that first
admission, several others admitted to having heard adventures including Piero Ricci.
“We had assumed that it was a made-up name,” Mister Drury commented after the discussion
had died down.
“Not made-up at all,” Holmes responded. “Piero Ricci–or, I should say, the late Piero Ricci—
was a real person. He became deceased not long after the Brigadier returned from South Africa.”
I had begun to draw the connection which Holmes had made only a few moments prior to
Albert Drury drawing the same conclusion.
“Mister Holmes, can I venture an assumption concerning this Piero Ricci?” asked Drury.
“You may,” Holmes frowned.
“Might Piero Ricci be the Brigadier’s accomplice in acquiring the da
Vinci?” “An excellent deduction, old boy!” exclaimed my clever friend.
Excited discussion of the discovery spread throughout the group for nearly a minute before
Holmes brought them back into order.
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen, please, I have more.”
He waited for the crowd to focus their full attention on him again.
“How many of you are well acquainted with the painting we are discussing?”
“It’s hanging right there over the hearth,” several men blurted out.
I began to anticipate Holmes’ tactic, though I had no inkling as to his intention. However, I knew
that he was about to reveal to the Society of Florence that the da Vinci hanging over the hearth in their
great hall was a forgery. I lowered my eyes and began shaking my head, expecting the very worst.
“Bear with me a moment longer, please, gentlemen,” he began again. “The visage of the young
man on the left edge of the painting, in whose likeness is his face?”
“A young da Vinci,” Drury responded. “It was meant to be a self-portrait hidden within the
picture.”
“Exactly!” Holmes exclaimed.
The room came to silence again.
With some embellished drama, Holmes thrust out his hand and pointed toward the hearth. “The
visage of the man on the left edge of that painting above the hearth is none other than the image of
the grandnephew of the late Brigadier, Edwin Meriwether, who was murdered less than a fortnight
ago for creating this very forgery.”
The effect of Holmes’ dramatics was felt instantly among the men gathered at and around the
table where we were sitting. Almost as a unit, the entire group vacated the table and rushed toward
the painting hanging over the hearth. Only Holmes and I were still seated.
“Shall we take our leave, then, Watson?” Holmes smiled. The familiar twinkling of mischief
was in his eyes as he arose from his chair.
I stood as well. “Mister Holmes, though I am not sure of your motive behind this particular
tactic, may I venture some speculation of my own?”
“You certainly may.”
“Is the game afoot?”
“It is indeed afoot, Watson.”
Holmes and I walked calmly toward the exit of the great hall, ignoring the chaos which had
ensued adjacent to the hearth. Holmes opened the door and invited me to precede him through its
opening. I waited for him outside the door and we were about to begin our descent when Albert
Walsh came from outside through the front doors below, and began to ascend the stairs. Halfway
up, he greeted us.
“Holmes, Watson, it is a pleasure,” he beamed. “But I have missed the enjoyment of your
company. Won’t you return to the hall with me and extend your stay?”
“I’m afraid we cannot, Mister Walsh,” Holmes responded. “There is a matter that needs our
attention at Buffington House.”
Walsh’s face paled. “Has something happened? Is Ellen okay?”
“Missus Buffington is just fine,” Holmes responded. “Our reason for reporting to her is to call
attention to the identity of a murderer.”
“Edwin’s murder?” he inquired. His eyes were wide and his face had regained no color. “Among
others,” Holmes replied. “There are other matters which might interest you as well. We
will begin our revelation at eight o’clock, sharp.”
Albert Walsh took out his watch, checked the time and then snapped it closed. “I will be there,”
he replied as he hurried past us toward the heavy oak door.
As we descended the stairs, a smile broke over my face. “You realize that he has no idea what
he has just walked into, right?”
“Precisely!” Holmes exclaimed.
Chapter Seventeen
None too pleased and with his glare fixed on Sherlock Holmes, Albert Walsh joined our small
group, which included Ellen Buffington, Abigail, Albert, Harman Grey and Detective Norris from
Scotland Yard.
Two of Scotland Yard’s officers had accompanied Detective Norris and stood at attention
against the back wall of the parlor. Though Holmes had not revealed to me all of the details of the
revelation he was about to make, he had ordered me to send out the invitations to those in
attendance as well as informing the widow and Abigail that the Buffington House should be
prepared for the arrival of guests.
“I believe everyone is in attendance, Holmes,” I pointed out, eager to see how he would present
the facts of the case as well as what he knew.
“We do not have all night, Holmes,” Norris demanded. “There is some to-do down at the
Society of Florence that I need to attend to before I can go home for the night, so get on with it.”
“Detective, you are about to discover all the answers you will need to bring order to the to-do at
the Society of Florence.” Holmes cast a provocative glance in the direction of Walsh, who
maintained his fixed glare on Holmes.
“Am I now?”
“Indeed.”
“Very well, then, proceed,” Detective Norris ordered.
Holmes closed his eyes, took a deep breath and then began pacing back and forth in front of the
group. After several passes in front of everyone, he stopped and began to speak.
“A few weeks back, Watson and I engaged in a rather animated discussion concerning an
instrument designed by the Renaissance great, Leonardo da Vinci. The instrument in question was
an odd combination of two instruments from vastly different species; the viola, which is a stringed
instrument, and the organ, which is a member of the woodwind family.
“Watson postulated that it was impossible for such an instrument to function given the vast
differences in how they are played. One would never consider drilling a hole down the neck of a
viola and blowing air down through it in anticipation of hearing the resonant tones of a woodwind,
and neither would the same logical individual consider running a horsehair viola bow across an
organ’s keys in hopes of producing music of any worth.
“The animated discussion between Watson and I concerning the functionality of the viola
organista, as da Vinci dubbed the instrument, might never be settled since there is no physical
manifestation of the instrument in existence, but only sketches of its design among da Vinci’s
copious notes.”
“Holmes, you’re trying my patience,” Norris bellowed.
“I apologize, Detective, but I am merely pointing out the seeming impossibility of such an
instrument to function in order to lead into what I am about to reveal to you this evening. I am about
to reveal that the forgery of a painting and two murders, though seemingly impossible to associate
together, like the viola organista, were indeed intimately connected.
“We will begin with first impossibility. Believe me, I had plenty of doubt about my first
premise from the beginning and Watson rejected it outright; vehemently at times. You see, Watson
was not eager to accept the premise that his childhood friend, the late Brigadier Reginald
Buffington, had been murdered.”
There was a collective gasp among those in the room.
Albert, for his part, burst out, “Preposterous, Holmes! You are a fraud!”
“Holmes, you are walking a dangerous path with that accusation,” Norris growled. “I hope you
have evidence to back up your accusation.”
“In due time, but I want to direct your attention to the crime that links the murder of the late
Brigadier with the murder of his grandnephew, Edwin Meriwether. The fact that there is not a direct
association linked to the forgery of the da Vinci painting, it is the focal point without which these
other two crimes might never have been committed.”
“Did you say forgery?” asked Norris.
But before Holmes could answer, Walsh blurted out. “Holmes has gone to the Society of
Florence and told them that the painting is a forgery, Detective, and is responsible for the chaos
which has ensued there.”
No doubt the Society had run him through the ringer, just like Holmes had envisioned they would.
I nodded to myself and remained silent.
“Is that true, Holmes?” Norris asked.
“It is true. I felt it best that they were made aware of the truth behind the donation which was
ordered in the last will and testament of the late Brigadier.”
“You better have something that will clear this all up, Holmes.”
“I promise that I do, Detective, if I might be permitted to divulge the entire case and the
evidence linking each of the factors involved.”
“Proceed.”
“As Mister Grey can testify, and to which he can provide written evidence, the painting in
question, the Adoration of the Magi, an unfinished work of Leonardo da Vinci, was brought in to
him by Missus Buffington on the twelfth day of April only a few months past. It was brought in for
restorative maintenance, and the work was completed by Mister Grey himself, who can personally
testify that he worked on the authentic painting.”
“That is correct,” Harman Grey responded.
“The authentic da Vinci painting left your hands and was placed into those of Brigadier
Buffington on the twenty-third of the same month, correct?”
“I have written records to that effect,” Grey responded.
“My associate, Watson, was able to ascertain from Abigail, the housekeeper here at Buffington
House, that the da Vinci was not returned to its place above the mantle in the late Brigadier’s study
until a fortnight before the death of the late Brigadier. She gave assurance of her knowledge of its
return by informing Watson that she had helped to hang it herself. Is that true, Abigail?”
“It is,” she replied in a low tone.
“That leaves about two months’ time when the painting was not displayed in its usual place. It
was not easy to ascertain what happened to the painting until Watson and I came across a notebook
of studies in the possession of the late Edwin Meriwether…”
“By Jove, Holmes, I told you not to take anything from that flat!” Norris bellowed.
“I apologize, Detective, but you will be glad that I did in a moment, if you will only bear with
me.”
“You had better hand me the head of the assassin on a silver platter or you will become a
resident of the Scotland Yard jail cells before the night is out.”
“I assure you that your assassin is here among us tonight. In a moment, I will coax that
individual into giving himself or herself up.”
“Continue.”
“The sketchbook had sketches by Edwin Meriwether as he practiced the different elements of
the painting in order to perfect them before putting them onto canvas. The most telling sketch was
of his own visage being placed upon the young man at the left edge of the painting. You see, young
Edwin followed the lead of da Vinci and added his own self-portrait into the painting. It was, of
course, this detail which had tipped me off to the fact that the painting which had been returned and
hung by the Brigadier and Abigail was a forgery.”
“Are you suggesting that the Brigadier commissioned the forgery himself?” Walsh inquired.
“Why would he do that?”
“And why would that lead to his murder as well as the murder of young Edwin Meriwether?”
Detective Norris asked.
“That, of course, was the stubborn knot of which I had to unravel in order to make the final link
between the murders and forgery.” Holmes paused.
“Well?” asked the detective.
Holmes spoke when he was ready. “When Watson and I were having our animated discussion
concerning the viola organista, we came to the conclusion that the reason we believed it to be
impossible for the instrument to actually work was because proper wisdom and logic dictated such.
However, if we were to sit down and someone was to actually play the instrument by tapping on the
keys and pedals, like one does when playing an organ, but our ears took in the sound of the viola,
then we would be forced to accept that the instrument did indeed work. We would then examine the
workings of it and come up with new wisdom relating to its manufacture.”
“Where is this leading, Holmes?” Norris growled.
“I had to construct the theories in order to arrive at the rather odd conclusion. And it was the
oddest twist of things which led me to the correct conclusion. When I first discovered the existence
of an affair which had been continued for nearly ten years between Ellen Buffington and Albert
Walsh…”
“I knew it!” Abigail cried out, interrupting Holmes and leaping to her feet. “I knew you had been
sneaking away to Surrey to meet him. All of those nights, even when the Brigadier was alive…”
“Abigail,” Holmes called out. “Or would you prefer that I call you Miss Ricci?”
The sudden use of the name stopped Abigail’s accusations instantly and she returned to her seat.
“Miss Ricci?” Ellen asked in a low voice as she fought back the tears which had formed in her
eyes when her affair had been exposed.
Holmes plunged ahead. “You see, I had several theories concerning why the Brigadier had
commissioned a forgery. Each of them was a viable one, but the one which turned out to be true,
was, in fact, the one that caught me completely off my guard.
“The Brigadier might have commissioned the painting in order to hang the forgery above the
mantel and place the authentic painting in a safe place; a very sound tactic, wouldn’t you agree,
Mister Grey?”
“I had advised the Brigadier to do just that,” Mister Grey responded. “However, I had no
knowledge that he had acted upon my advice.”
“He did act on your advice, and he did hang the forgery over the mantle and put the authentic
da Vinci in safe keeping. He gave it to the woman with whom he was having his own liaison.”
Holmes paused for effect and then directed his gaze at Detective Norris. “Detective, would you
send your two men upstairs and order them to search the room on the left side of the staircase at the
front of the house?”
Chapter Eighteen
“It is the authentic da Vinci,” Harman Grey testified after some examination of the painting of
which Detective Norris’ men had brought down into the parlor and presented to him.
“In which room did you find this painting?” Holmes inquired.
“We found it in the room you directed us to search, Mister Holmes,” one of the young men
responded.
“Who resides in that room?”
“Abigail!” Ellen Buffington rose to her feet. “How could you do such a thing right under my
own roof? An affair with your employer? You’re just a housekeeper. How could Reginald—”
“Please, Ellen,” I interjected, having played the spectator long enough. “You have been
carrying on your affair since the day Reginald set foot on the ship which carried him to South
Africa, not a fortnight after your wedding.”
“Watson, please,” Holmes cautioned. “I have more to reveal, as does Miss Ricci.”
“I apologize, please continue.” I sat back in my seat and waited, extremely curious about the
connection between the person who now appeared to be Abigail Ricci and the accomplice, Piero
Ricci, who had helped the Brigadier acquire the da Vinci in Florence.
“Abigail is no common housekeeper, Miss Buffington,” Holmes continued. “She is the
daughter of an important merchant in Florence, Italy; the late Piero Ricci. Mister Ricci was an
accomplice in a series of events which took place in Florence before you and the Brigadier were
married. The Brigadier, in an attempt to do the right thing by recovering the da Vinci we have
before us, with the help of Abigail’s father, only too late realized that returning the painting to the
Uffizi Gallery would implicate both Piero and him in a crime which had not yet been discovered.
“While Reginald Buffington was in South Africa in the service of Her Majesty, Piero Ricci kept
the painting hidden, but after the Brigadier returned from the war, it was passed from Ricci to
Buffington, and carried to England by the mistress whom Buffington had been keeping for several
years: Miss Abigail Ricci.”
“The plan was for me to return the painting to Uffizi Gallery,” Abigail blurted as tears began to
stream down her cheeks. “Even in his giving the painting to me, he was attempting to do the right
thing. In fact, besides releasing the painting and sending it back to Florence where it belonged, he
was also sending me back to Florence, for good.”
Abigail began to sob in earnest, but was able to gain enough control of herself to blurt out a bit
more. “He still loved Ellen, though he was wholly unaware of her affair.”
For a span of time, while both of the women sobbed, the rest of us, except for Holmes, sat
dumbfounded.
Holmes began in a softer tone. “So, you killed Brigadier Reginald Buffington because he was
dismissing his affair with you and sending you back to Florence?”
“No,” she replied, finding some control over her voice. She pointed at Ellen. “I meant the
poison for her. She had called for tea while Reginald was out. I had seen my opportunity to be rid of
her and had access to aconite, which is a poison that goes entirely undetected. I knew that if I was
rid of her, then Reginald would not dismiss me. She deserved it too; carrying on an affair since the
day she married that dear, sweet man.”
Another pause lingered and Detective Norris nodded toward his two assistants, who stepped
forward.
“Wait,” Holmes said, holding up his hand to stop them. “How was it that Reginald ended up
being poisoned?”
“Ellen was upstairs and had ordered tea, just as I mentioned. I had added the aconite to it and
had placed it in the parlor for when she came down. Completely unannounced, Reginald came
through the door after I had gone to the back of the house to attend to duties there. He went directly
to the tea service on the table and downed the tea before I could scramble to the parlor and stop
him. It was an accident. I did not mean to kill him. I loved him. I wanted us to be together.”
“An accident is one thing, Abigail,” Holmes responded in a threatening tone. “But you had to
commit a second murder in order to cover up the truth about the forgery.”
“Had that narcissistic little twit, Meriwether, just painted the face of da Vinci into the painting
instead of adding in his own, then you and Watson would not have started snooping around, and I
would never have had to kill him.”
“And yet, Miss Ricci,” Holmes said, waving the two men forward to take her into custody, “had
you not murdered Edwin Meriwether, Watson and I might never have unraveled this mystery. In
fact, and Watson can attest to this, our case had nearly died out completely until Mister Meriwether
was found murdered; indeed, it was the sketchbook we found while searching his apartment which
truly connected everything together.
“You became careless, Miss Ricci, and you were in too great of a hurry to be thorough. Had
you not stabbed Edwin and fled the scene immediately, but secured that sketchbook instead, you
might have gotten away with it all.”
“Take her away, boys,” Detective Norris ordered as he rose to his feet. “I must hand it to you,
Holmes, you have solved the impossible once more.”
“All in the line of duty, Detective,” Holmes replied.
“You will return that sketchbook along with any other effects that were taken while you were
pilfering my crime scene, understood?”
“Understood,” Holmes answered.
I was observing the conversation between Holmes and Detective Norris when Ellen Buffington
approached and addressed me in a low tone.
“Doctor Watson, I don’t know whether to thank you or strike you,” she hissed. “Your resolute
devotion to Reginald is certainly to be admired, but you and your Detective Holmes have just made
me the premiere scandal in all of the realm.”
“No, madam,” I replied bluntly. “Holmes and I did not make you the premiere scandal in all the
realm. You set out on that course when you determined to hoodwink a good man into making you
his wife. I warned him against you, but he was determined to marry you anyway, because he loved
you. That same love was not afforded him in return.”
“I loved Reginald,” she protested.
“You loved the idea of him. You loved what he represented. You loved what you would be able
to get from him. Your love for Albert Walsh is evidenced by the fact that you ran to him the moment
your husband was shipped off of this island.” I turned my eyes toward Albert Walsh, speaking
through clenched teeth. “And you! My resolute devotion to my late friend is overwhelming me with
strong urges to strike you down with all of the force I have in me, but, thankfully, Holmes has
already seen to exacting your ruin.
“I suppose that the two of you can retreat to your quaint little cottage in Surrey, get away from
the scandal and go on living the lives you have laid out for yourselves. London and the Society of
Florence might forget the two of you, but I will never forget nor forgive what the two of you have
done.”
I spun on my heel and exited Buffington House with Holmes calling out, and then following
after me. The haste of my pace was necessary to escape the house without committing some manner
of violence myself.
“Are you okay, Watson?” Holmes asked when he had caught up with me on the walk leading
away from Buffington House.
“Yes and no,” I replied. “Where I am certainly relieved that we have put this all behind us, the
injustice and the deception of it all…”
I paused in the middle of the sentence. Something Holmes had said a couple of days before struck
me.
“Watson?” Holmes prompted.
“Deception is a demon,” I responded. “It is not a spiritual one, but it has the same effect. Each
deception leaps from one to another until each has committed deceptions and injustices to cover up
all of the other deceptions and injustices. It multiplies as it leaps from one to the other, rather than
adds.”
“I noticed your posture a moment ago when you were talking to Ellen and Albert. You looked
as though you were going to leap out and take Albert by the throat.”
“Precisely!” I responded, striding with purpose away from Buffington House and back toward
my home where a loving wife would be waiting dinner for me. Holmes kept stride with me, but said
nothing until he bid me farewell at the door of my home and continued on to his own.
Chapter Nineteen
I closed my eyes and took in the layered tones of the viola as I sunk back into the tall, soft
cushion in the back of the armchair.
Besides the enchanting melody Holmes was producing from what had only recently become my
favorite musical instrument, was the occasional popping of a coal on the fire. It had taken a week
for me to truly settle all that had occurred surrounding the death of my childhood friend, Reginald,
and the deceptions which had surrounded his untimely passing.
Guilt had ridden me hard and still lingered a bit as I recounted my regrets for not having paid
greater attention to renewing the childhood friendship I had cherished. Ensconced in the chair with
the sweet melody cleansing me, I was able to let it all drift away, including the rage which had
overtaken me in regard to Ellen–whom I had stopped calling Missus Buffington, because she did
not and never had deserved the title–and Walsh.
When Holmes stopped playing the viola a few moments later, I was still relaxed and feeling the
effects of the music. That relaxation was interrupted in part by Holmes’ voice.
“I suppose I should return that to the gentleman from the conservatory who lent it to me,” he
said as he snapped the case closed to seal up the instrument.
“Perhaps you should make arrangements to keep it,” I suggested. “You seem to be more adept
at making enchanting music with it that you are with the violin.”
“I do cherish its richer tone and feel more in control of it,” Holmes admitted. “I will take your
suggestion into consideration.”
Silence ensued for a time. I observed Holmes going through the ritual of preparing his pipe and
had already begun to anticipate whatever eccentric thought or theory he was about to cast upon me.
I watched as copious clouds of smoke formed around his head. He stood and paced back and forth
in front of the hearth, and, after several laps in front of me, Holmes stopped, cleared away the
smoke around his head and spoke.
“After the to-do at the Society of Florence, in which Detective Norris found himself embroiled, I
was drawn aside by Mister Drury and the membership board for an explanation,” Holmes began. “I
considered calling upon you to come with me, but decided that I had involved you in the scandal
deeply enough already to the point that it might harm your chances at membership. Or drive you into a
rage. I explained to them, in intricate detail, all that had happened with the painting and the murders.
They were a bit confused with why I had arranged for Walsh to be so thoroughly embarrassed and I
explained that it was perhaps a poor choice on my part, but that I believed that he deserved to be
entangled in a scandal given that he was so fond of them. Though they were sympathetic to my
sentiment, especially on behalf of the Brigadier, they felt like my tactic was less than tactful.
“The long and short of it is that they have dismissed Walsh from the Society and are retaining
me on a probationary status, but all agree that your conduct had been exemplary and they would
like to extend membership to you, in spite of all that has taken place.”
I nodded, letting his words sink in. “Though I was quite thrilled by the comeuppance Walsh
received, I suppose that I have to agree with the board. Your tactic was a bit brutal.”
Holmes accepted my critique without further comment and began pacing and building up the
cloud of smoke again. After several laps, he stopped once more and went into another explanation
concerning what had become of the painting.
“In addition to making a decision concerning Walsh, the board decided that since the Brigadier
had been hoping to do the right thing with the da Vinci painting all along, that the Society could hardly
go against his desires and keep the authentic painting. They chose to keep the forgery in memory of
both the Brigadier and Edwin. An engraved plaque is to be placed under the painting honoring the two,
as well as a printed explanation of the painting. It is to be an item of Society of Florence lore.
“Mister Drury, in cooperation with His Majesty’s court and Mister Grey, is scheduled to return
the authentic painting to the Uffizi Gallery in Florence where it belongs. Along with its return will
be an official apology issued by the Crown, another from the Society of Florence, and a complete
history of what occurred, which will be delivered along with the painting by Mister Grey.”
“That is indeed the proper solution and the one that I’m sure Reginald would have liked to have
witnessed. It sounds as though they will honor him well for his good intentions.”
I sat quietly for a moment, pondering the response my late friend might have had to the affair.
Though I ought to have seen the face of the Brigadier in the images of my mind, I saw those of the
round-faced adolescent full of mischief and full of life. I realized right then, that that was the proper
way to remember him always. As I tucked that idea into the recesses of my mind, another inquiry
came to me; one that I had wanted to ask Holmes about since he played out the dramatic reveal at
Buffington House.
“Tell me, Holmes, how did you connect Abigail to the murders?”
“I actually did not know that she had murdered the Brigadier. I was hoping to force a
confession from Ellen or Walsh for that one. The affair provided motive, and the means and
opportunity were easily within Ellen’s hands.”
“Do you realize that Ellen was on the verge of discharging Abigail? If she had done so before
all of the pieces had come together, all of your evidence would have been lost when she made haste
to Florence.”
“Our telegram confirming her identity came just in time, did it not?” He winked.
“Of course it did, but that telegram only arrived because you had sent out another requesting
some sort of information very early on, before you had anything more than a suspicion about the
painting. How did you know to associate Abigail and confirm her identity?”
“Elementary, my dear Watson,” he responded with a mischievous grin.
“Of course it was elementary, Holmes, but you are circumventing two questions that I have
concerning how you unraveled it all.”
“What are your two questions?”
“First, where did you come up with the name Piero Ricci in connection with the Brigadier?
Second, how did you connect Abigail to Piero Ricci and the ongoing affair with Reginald?”
“In spite of the dramatics at the Society of Florence, Watson, I had heard stories with Piero Ricci’s
name mentioned in them. Though his name was never connected with the story behind the painting, it
was the only story from the Brigadier’s adventures in Florence that did not include Ricci’s name. On a
hunch, after we had returned from the Brigadier’s wake, I sent the telegram to an acquaintance in
Tuscany asking if such a man existed and if that man had a daughter named Abigail.”
“That is brilliant, of course, but you did not answer my second question,” I pressed. “You had
nothing whatsoever upon which to assume that Abigail was related in any way to Piero Ricci, so
why include her in your telegram?”
“My dear Watson, it fascinates me that a man who makes his living as a healer of human beings
is sometimes utterly incompetent when it comes to particular features and characteristics of human
anatomy.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Various regions of the world, even here, on our own tiny island, have specific anatomical traits
related to the formation of the sockets of the eyes, the shape of the skull, the cheek and jaw bones
and the shape of the nose and lips–”
“You’re telling me that you knew that Abigail was Italian because of her features?”
“Those features and her temperament,” he responded. “You will recall that she was the only one
who had distinguished herself because of the very obvious and continual grief she displayed.”
“So, Italians are more emotional than we Brits?”
“Everyone is more emotional than we Brits, my dear Watson.”
“I think there is something else to it too,” I responded. “Now that I look back to the wake, it
was Abigail who was behaving in the way that I would have expected a widow to behave and Ellen
behaving as, well, I would have expected the housekeeper to behave.”
“Precisely, Watson!” Holmes exclaimed. “Have I cleared it all up for you,
then?” “I have no further inquiries to make concerning this case,” I responded.
“Very well.” Holmes replaced his pipe on the mantel, drew his watch out of his pocket, flipped
open the lid, glanced at the time, and snapped the lid closed before replacing the watch in his
pocket. “I believe that if we leave right now, the two of us will just be in time to take our midday
meal at the Society of Florence. Would you like to accompany me, Doctor Watson?”
“I would, indeed, Sherlock Holmes.”
The End
And look for:

Sherlock Holmes and the Werewolf of London
The Watson Files #3
by J.R. Rain and Chanel Smith
Coming soon!
About the Author:
J.R. Rain is the international bestselling author of over seventy novels, including his popular
Samantha Moon and Jim Knighthorse series. His books are published in five languages in
twelve countries, and he has sold more than 4 million copies worldwide.
Please visit him at www.jrrain.com.

Add him on Twitter.
Join his Facebook Group.
Join his newsletter here.
Follow him on Amazon.
Read his blog here.
~~~~~
Check out all of J.R. Rain’s ebooks here:

And his audio books here:
And his paperbacks here:
~~~~~
UK reader?
View all of J.R.’s ebooks here:
~~~~~
Chanel Smith was born and raised in Los Angeles, California. She has since moved to Portland,
Oregon, where she lives with her husband and two dogs. When not writing, she spends her time
training dogs, hiking, biking and anything else that will get her outside in nature.
Please visit her at: www.chanelsmithbooks.com

And add her on Facebook.

Jalankan Xampp Control Panel

Uploaded by

Document Information

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

Jalankan Xampp Control Panel

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

Table of Contents

“Dark Horse is the best book I’ve read in a long time!”

VAMPIRE FOR HIRE SERIES

SAMANTHA MOON CASE FILES

SAMANTHA MOON BONUS MATERIAL

SAMANTHA MOON SHORT WORKS

JIM KNIGHTHORSE SERIES

THE WITCHES SERIES

THE PSI SERIES

NICK CAINE SERIES

DEAD DETECTIVE SERIES

THE ACCIDENTAL SUPERHEROINE

THE WATSON FILES

ICE WOLF SERIES

ALAN QUATERMAIN ADVENTURES

WINTER SOLTSICE SERIES

THE SPINOZA TRILOGY

THE ALADDIN TRILOGY

THE WALKING PLAGUE TRILOGY

THE SPIDER TRILOGY

SHORT STORY SINGLES

AS J.K. DREW - YOUNG ADULT AUTHOR

THE ROBOT TWINS

KID QUEST ADVENTURES

J.R. RAIN PRESENTS - SELECT TITLES

BROTHERHOOD OF THE BLADE

THE MEDIUM MYSTERIES

THE HUNTRESS TRILOGY

Ebook Edition, License Notes

About the Authors

My hopes of seeing the painting never materialized.

Meet me at Harman Grey in time for tea.

The two of us were seated in a hired cab in order to return home.

Come to Baker Street, Post Haste.

Telegram received. Meet me at the Society at your earliest convenience.

And look for:

Please visit him at www.jrrain.com.

Check out all of J.R. Rain’s ebooks here:

Please visit her at: www.chanelsmithbooks.com

You might also like