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  ‘Could Scotland Yard not effect the simple solution of arresting everyone in the Brotherhood? Some kind of dawn raid of the sort the newspapers so love?’

  I thought at first that Holmes had not heard me, for he continued to sit in silent contemplation while the hansom cab passed through the rapidly filling streets. Finally, he looked up with a half-amused expression on his face. ‘And if Lestrade and his colleagues fail to capture everyone? If one or other of the ringleaders slips the net? What then? We do not know the identity of the target O’Donnell mentioned, nor who will carry out any attack that may come. No, Watson,’ he said decisively, ‘that will not do at all.’

  He resumed his pensive brooding for several minutes then, with a sudden jerk, rapped on the roof of the cab. The driver pulled the vehicle to the side of the road and Holmes threw open the door and leapt out onto the pavement. ‘I have an errand or two to run,’ he said with a smile. ‘And then I think I shall pay a visit to certain public houses I know. The Earl of Dublin does a splendid pint of porter, I’m told.’

  Used as I was to this type of swift mood change in my friend, I simply nodded my understanding, and asked if there was anything I could be doing while he was occupied elsewhere.

  ‘Perhaps you could take a trip to the National Portrait Gallery, Watson? I admit that it may well be something of a wild goose chase, but I would be interested nonetheless in discovering whether anyone saw O’Donnell earlier in the day and, if so, whether they could provide a description of any company he might have been in. If you could make a reservation at Peele’s for, say, eight this evening, I will be sure to rejoin you then.’

  With that, he turned on his heel and, with a characteristic turn of speed, strode down a side street and disappeared from view. I wondered for a moment if I should go after him – this was not the most salubrious area of the city after all – but there was no chance I could catch him even if I wanted to. Besides, I really was in need of some breakfast, a wash and shave, and a change of clothes. After that, I knew I would be more usefully employed at the Gallery than in providing an unwanted chaperone for Sherlock Holmes. I shouted to the driver to take me to Baker Street and settled myself back in my seat.

  * * *

  Later that morning, therefore, I found myself in St Martin’s Place, standing before the entrance to the National Portrait Gallery just as its doors were opened for the day. I made enquiries within and discovered that the gallery in which the painting of Lord Salisbury had been hung was in fact no gallery at all, but the main corridor along the centre of the first floor of the building, from which each gallery room abutted. Because of this, it had not been possible to close off the area, which had the particular benefit from my perspective of allowing me a preliminary inspection of the scene of the crime without having to make myself formally known to any Gallery staff.

  I made my way up the main staircase to the first floor. The corridor was wide and long, stretching nearly the entire length of the building, though there were not, in fact, many portraits on the walls. I passed one of the late Mr Disraeli and another of Lord Russell, before coming to a patch of very slightly lighter wall upon which, I assumed, the damaged painting of Lord Salisbury had, until recently, hung. The area round the missing portrait – the entire corridor, in fact – had obviously been thoroughly cleaned before opening, so that the minor variation in colour on the wall was the only sign that anything had ever been amiss.

  I was, I admit, at something of a loss as to my next move. Having found the spot where the portrait had once been, I was struck by the fact that its complete absence did rather hinder any investigation I might have hoped to make in Holmes’s absence.

  Far from desiring to avoid making myself known to the Gallery staff, as I had previously intended, I was now keen to speak to someone in authority. But as is so often the case, as soon as I wanted to speak to a member of staff, none were to be found. The Gallery was not busy at this early hour, and I wondered if perhaps the bulk of the staff did not start work until later in the day. In any case, I knew that the administrative offices in the building were to be found on the ground floor. I took the stairs back the way I had come, then walked along the main hallway, passing doors marked BOARD ROOM and WAITING ROOM – both of which were empty – before coming to one with a small gold plaque on it which read SECRETARY’S ROOM. I knocked and, a voice inside bidding me do so, opened the door and entered.

  The Secretary was a small, balding man with a neat grey moustache and appeared to be the ideal example of the office administrator. He was rising from his desk as I entered the room and stood with a puzzled look on his face as I approached him.

  ‘How do you do?’ he said, his eyes never leaving my face. ‘My name is Donald Petrie and I am the Secretary of the Gallery. Please forgive me for staring, sir, but are you not Dr John Watson? The colleague of the detective, Mr Sherlock Holmes?’

  I owned that this was indeed the case. The effect on Mr Petrie was astonishing. On first sight, I had taken him for the very epitome of the solid, unimaginative office manager, for whom the rulebook is the highest of literature and nothing else is of any consequence. Yet my name – or, to be more precise, the proximity of my name to that of Holmes – was enough to transform the man. He was, it transpired, a great enthusiast for Holmes’s work and, to a lesser extent, my own writings.

  ‘In what way may I be of assistance?’ Petrie asked, eagerly, and I explained that Scotland Yard had asked Holmes and myself to involve ourselves in the case.

  ‘Mr Holmes is currently working undercover,’ I concluded, ‘so I thought I might pay the Gallery a visit in his absence.’

  Petrie could not have been more helpful. He explained that he had been called into the Gallery at a quarter past five that morning, and had immediately begun arranging to have the upper corridor thoroughly cleaned.

  ‘It was impossible to tell that there had ever been a disturbance on the first floor corridor by nine o’clock,’ he announced proudly. ‘I might even go so far as to say that it would be impossible to tell that anything untoward had taken place, were it not for the unfortunate gaps in the display.’

  ‘It’s not as noticeable as all that,’ I said in reassurance. ‘I doubt that many of your patrons will notice a single missing portrait amongst so large and distinguished a collection.’ A thought occurred to me. ‘Could you not borrow another suitable portrait from elsewhere and hang it in place of the damaged one?’

  If I had expected fulsome thanks from Mr Petrie for my suggestion, I was to go unrewarded, for he was shaking his head before I had even finished speaking. Indeed, I think he might even have let out a small sigh as he did so.

  ‘Were it but one painting that would, of course, be exactly the plan of action I would have undertaken, Dr Watson.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘But with so many paintings damaged, I fear that the gaps will be too frequent to be overlooked by our patrons.’

  I felt sure that Holmes would immediately have grasped the import of Mr Petrie’s words, but I confess that, for all my desire to put my friend’s methods to use whenever possible, I would have been reduced to staring at the man in incomprehension, had not a knock come at the door behind me, and a hesitant female voice spoken.

  ‘Excuse my intrusion, Secretary, but the restorers are here to collect the damaged works,’ the voice said. Petrie beckoned the voice’s owner inside with a nod of apology in my direction. I indicated with a small hand movement of my own that no such apology was required, then stood as the young lady entered the room.

  The appearance of the newcomer came as something of a surprise. Where I had expected the type of timid young lady most often encountered in museums and galleries, wearing pince-nez, a disapproving frown, and with her hair in a tight bun, the woman who stood before us was altogether different.

  She was small in stature, and slight of build, with large brown eyes and a small nose and mouth, but what was most striking was her hair, which was almost, but not quite, scarlet in colour. I admit that ev
en as Mr Petrie introduced the lady, I was unable to take my eyes from that shock of red hair. Fortunately, I came to my senses before making a complete fool of myself, and retained enough good manners to murmur ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Rhodes,’ in response to Petrie’s introductions.

  Her voice was melodious as she apologised to the Secretary for the intrusion, and handed him a sheet of paper. ‘The complete breakdown of damages which you requested for the restorers,’ she said quietly. He examined it in some detail before thanking Miss Rhodes, then turned his attention back to me as she left the room, with a shy smile of farewell in my direction.

  ‘It appears, Dr Watson, that you and Mr Holmes have been misinformed regarding the full extent of the disturbance in the Gallery. As you know, Solomon’s portrait of Lord Salisbury was attacked by a madman in the early hours of this morning, at around two a.m., but as you are seemingly not aware, several other paintings were subsequently damaged – some quite badly – in the chase and struggle which ensued, as our guards laid hands upon the miscreant and delivered him, eventually, up to justice.’

  I inwardly cursed Lestrade. He must have known of the other damaged paintings, but he had been too focused on the potential threat from the republicans to mention such comparative trifles to Holmes or myself.

  Thankfully, Petrie was eager to provide the missing details. He scurried over to a large cupboard and extracted a floor plan of the Gallery, which he spread out on the desk before us.

  ‘The scoundrel first knocked down Walton’s portrait of Joseph Hume from its hanger on the corridor wall, here,’ he said, pointing to a line on the plan. ‘Then it seems that a guard blocked the stairwell, forcing him upwards where – if you can believe the perfidy of the man – he attempted to use a particularly fine bust of Cromwell as a weapon. In doing so he damaged several portraits which, ironically, were scheduled to be taken down later today, preparatory to being lent to the Royal Household. Finally, he was cornered amongst the larger portraits and subdued by two members of staff, though not before he was responsible for a significant tear in the canvas of the First Earl of Mansfield.’

  This was new information, indeed, but not, I thought, the sort of thing that Holmes had sent me to the Gallery to find out. I wondered again why Lestrade had failed to mention this additional damage, but perhaps he himself had not known about it at the time and, besides, it was at best tangential to the question of the republican threat which, justly, was the Inspector’s primary concern.

  ‘Will you be able to repair the damaged artworks?’ I asked, though more for politeness’ sake than from any genuine desire for information. I am as fond of art as the next man, but only because I have found that the next man, generally, is not terribly fond of it either.

  A frown crossed Mr Petrie’s face. ‘That is what I intend these restorers should ascertain, Doctor. From a very cursory examination this morning, I would hazard a guess that yes, each work of art can and will be saved, though the Cromwellian bust in particular will require a good deal of care and attention. But as to the portraits? Yes, I believe all will be well.’

  Mention of the bust of the erstwhile Lord Protector gave me an idea, which I quickly tested. ‘Could there have been a specific reason for the choice of artwork the intruder damaged? I ask simply because—’ I hesitated then, as it crossed my mind that the identity of O’Donnell – and more particularly his Irish background – might be something best kept secret for the moment. ‘Cromwell is not the most popular of characters from English history, is he? Were the other portraits of similarly controversial figures?’

  I was concerned that my hesitation had been noticed, but Petrie gave no sign of interest, never mind suspicion, as he shook his head. ‘No, Dr Watson, I’m afraid not. The subjects are varied both in terms of their era and their politics, including, for instance, both Samuel Johnson and Pitt the Elder. A purely random collection of those portraits closest at hand, I would say.’

  I decided that there was nothing else to be learned at the Gallery, and rose to my feet, preparatory to taking my leave. I would have been away, and thus missed the important news which was shortly to arrive, in fact, had it not been for the enthusiasm with which Petrie pumped my hand as I made my farewells. It seemed that he had a wealth of observations to make regarding Holmes’s cases, in addition to literary ambitions of his own. An image of Holmes in a similar predicament came to mind, and was enough to bring a smile to my face, which only encouraged Mr Petrie to continue his fascinated interrogation for several minutes further.

  Due to Petrie insisting I sign my name upon the cover of an issue of the periodical, therefore, I was still present when the office door suddenly flew open with enough force to bang hard against the stopper. In the doorway stood Miss Rhodes, again holding a piece of paper, but this time anything but the shy and timid young lady of our earlier meeting. Instead, her face was flushed and ruddy. Her hair had come undone above her left ear, allowing a coil of red to fall across her cheek as she breathlessly announced the news that had led her to storm into her superior’s office so unexpectedly.

  ‘The portrait of Charles the First – the one damaged last night – it’s a forgery!’

  * * *

  In a hansom that evening, on the way to the restaurant at which I was to meet Holmes, the forged painting remained on my mind. On the face of it, it seemed implausible that O’Donnell could be involved. Why, after all, would he draw attention to the forgery in such a foolish manner, if it was part of some Brotherhood scheme? Adding a further layer of confusion was the fact, helpfully explained by Miss Rhodes, that the forgery was of such poor quality that it had been spotted even before the painting had been loaded into the restorers’ transport. In situ, it might have passed muster for a day or two, but no longer than that – and removed from its usual position and taken outside into natural light, the deficiencies were immediately evident. What could be the purpose of such an inferior counterfeit?

  Thoughts such as these swirled about in my head as the hansom made its way to Fleet Street, and I admit that my full attention had wandered as the cab pulled up at the restaurant. I stepped onto the pavement and handed the driver his fare, paying no great deal of attention to my immediate surroundings, so lost was I in inner speculation. It was this, perhaps, which caused me to miss Holmes arriving in a second hansom, just behind my own. There is no denying, at any rate, that a mind more focused on the task at hand might have been able to prevent the terrible occurrence which took place a moment after our joint arrival.

  ‘Watson!’ Holmes shouted through the window of his cab. I turned quickly at the sound of the familiar voice, sure that I heard something – some note or key – which indicated haste and perhaps danger. Too late did my distracted mind come to its senses, however. Even as I turned and saw my friend’s face at the cab window, a figure stepped between us, and, in the half shadows of the gas-lit street, raised a hand in which flashed a wickedly long knife. The arm descended and I heard a muffled and pain-filled cry as the assassin’s blade struck home, sliding into my friend’s chest almost to the hilt.

  A woman screamed, and somewhere in the distance two dogs barked furiously, but other than that the world was entirely still as the knife-wielding attacker pushed a passing couple out of his way and ran towards a nearby alley. I watched in horror as Holmes fell backwards into the cab, with his blood-soaked hands clasped tight but ineffectually to his wound. Even at a distance I could see that it was a mortal one, and I felt my heart stutter within my chest at the thought.

  Nobody else moved and all sound faded away… and then Holmes’s driver leaped down and threw open the cab door a second before my heart began to beat once more and, with what I fear was a shout of animal rage, I threw myself forward in pursuit of the fleeing killer.

  I have read in The Lancet of cases of mothers lifting fully laden carts with their bare hands in order to save their trapped child, and I have no doubt now of the truth of such claims, for horror and fear lent my legs a turn of speed I wou
ld not have previously believed possible. Even though the man had a lead of several seconds, he had barely entered the alleyway before I was immediately behind him then, with an improbable leap, I brought him crashing to the ground.

  I pulled my fist back and matters would have gone very badly for the fellow, had he not hurriedly uttered the one phrase guaranteed to save him.

  ‘Watson, my dear fellow, do let me up before you completely destroy this suit!’

  Three

  The next few minutes were as harried and emotional a period as I have ever known. Far from being a murderous Irishman as I’d expected, the would-be assassin I’d chased through the back streets had been Sherlock Holmes himself, heavily disguised.

  My natural reaction upon making this discovery was to apologise for bringing my friend crashing to the ground. I was actually on the verge of doing so when I realised the absurdity of such an action, and a swelling feeling of indignation replaced that of apology in an instant.

  ‘What on earth are you doing, Holmes? And if you are the assassin, then who did you just attack?’ I asked, angrily, even as he took my proffered hand and pulled himself to his feet. I confess that I was as confused as I was angry at this sudden and unexpected turn of events, and it may be that the mixture of the two caused me to be less prudent than I might otherwise have been.

  Whatever the cause, Holmes thrust a hand over my mouth as soon as he was standing upright, then hissed, ‘Will you please stop shouting fit to wake the dead, Watson?’ in my ear. ‘My own anonymity is vital at this point,’ he continued, ‘which – if you will forgive me saying so – is a difficult trick to carry off if you insist on bawling my name to the heavens in that manner!’