Part 2
Three o'clock soon arrived, bringing with it a dense fog and sharp, bitingly cold rain. Even though Winchester Park was a mere one-mile walk from Baker Street, we ordered a cab. "No sense in catching cold, right Doctor?" Holmes quipped as he shut up his umbrella and climbed into the cab after me. Though not a shady part of town by any means, the Winchester Park area was still considered by most to be the unofficial territory of the Bohemian set. Thickly inhabited by poor young artists come to seek their fortune, the apartment houses were, consequently, not well kept-up and slightly decrepit, and high society was rarely seen among the streets. I suppose Sherlock Holmes and I were judged as a part of the high class, but Holmes himself was also somewhat Bohemian, preferring his own habits and solitude to distinguished company, so we had no qualms in respect to the neighbourhood.
345 Winchester was a tall building made of brick, though so much ivy covered the walls it almost seemed it was one of the building materials as well. The plant had mostly wilted from the winter weather, and its shrunken brown stems gave a shockingly dead look to the house. I felt rather sorry for our young clients who had spent two years within the old withered walls.
"345, this is it then," Holmes said, after quickly locating the house number. "I am no artist as you quite frequently tell me, but this does not seem the most creative atmosphere, does it?" Lifting the scrolled knocker shaped from long-tarnished gold, he gave two heavy knocks. A harsh looking woman answered. She must have been the landlady.
"We have come to call on Miss Viola Burgess, second floor," Holmes bluntly informed the woman.
"No male vis'tors," the landlady informed Holmes, preparing to shut the door.
"I am a private detective, come to investigate a personal crime," Holmes told her. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, perhaps you have heard of me?"
She studied his face for a moment and Holmes, it appeared, seemed to be studying her. Finally she came to a conclusion. "Have I seen you in the paper then? You're that chap o'er on Baker Street, what? I guess you can come in, but you must leave the door open."
"Certainly! I am not just a detective, madam, I am also a gentleman. Come Watson, we don't want to be standing here taking up time. Good day!" He rolled his eyes as he sidled past her.
The landlady let us feel our own way through the corridor. Damp and dark, the walls were streaked with black where gaslights had long left their mark. It seemed there was a good deal of activity going on in the place – we could hear voices all down the hall and the rooms, doors shutting on both sides of us and overhead. We plodded over an old, stale plush rug until we came to a stairwell, which was not in much better condition. Holmes went up ahead of me, placing both feet on the first few steps to test the soundness. He rocked up and down a bit on the third. "Yes, I think it's safe."
"It must be," I said. "Miss Burgess comes up every day."
"What a shrewd observation! And here I am rocking on the stairs like a child, wasting time. I hope you do not think me foolish, Watson?"
I just shook my head.
Miss Burgess' had said her room was on the right, so Holmes gave a brisk three raps. The door opened, and our client's pale face peered out. She brightened when she saw us. "How punctual you are! Do come in, I was just finishing preparing tea."
"Thank you for such remarkable hospitality, but we are here strictly for business, Miss Burgess; I said I would not be an intrusion, and I am a man of my word. Watson, leave the door open further. That's better." Holmes nodded at the arrangement of the door, then began to go over facts again as I studied the apartment. It was a much more cheery place than the rest of the building, and not only could you tell it was a woman's residence, but also that of an artist. The walls, though rather dingy from the smoky, stopped-up fireplace, were scrubbed nice and clean, with several of the famed oil landscapes covering shredded parts of the wallpaper. The rug was an intricate Oriental which, though somewhat battered, was well dusted, and added a complement to the sturdy painted furniture. There were two large windows looking out on the street below, which would have afforded a lovely view of the ivy in the summer, and although the windows were hung with a light flowered cotton instead of the more expensive chintz, they were so artistically draped that it was nearly impossible to tell the difference. Still though, with all the innocent, simple beauty of the room, it gave such a strong contrast with the building, the neighbourhood, and the goings on within, that it was all rather weird.
"Now then," Holmes said abruptly, "this is the kitchen, I suppose?"
"Yes."
Holmes led the way to the small area designated for cooking, and there I saw an austere wooden table and not much more. What was spread out upon it, however, was a terrible thing to see.
It was, as Miss Burgess had described, a large two-by-three foot canvas, stroked all over with bright, vivid oil colours. I could see the masterly potential. But it was so mangled, so utterly destroyed, it seemed as if the lovely scene had gone through some natural disaster. Holmes lifted up one of the battered corners, causing the whole piece to sag wearily. He examined it with a long, low whistle.
"This does seem abnormal," he admitted quietly, stroking his chin. "Please forgive my implications, but was your cousin of an eccentric or excitable demeanor?"
"Oh, no. Being raised together, she was much like myself. That is what makes it all the more horrible."
"And puzzling. Hmph. This is the knife?" My friend always carried with him a magnifying lens, and he now ran it over the knife which he held in his hand. From his waistcoat pocket he
withdrew a packet of white powder, talc, which I had seen him use before, and lightly dusted the thing.
"What is he doing?" Miss Burgess asked me quietly, as if she were afraid to disturb him.
"He is looking for fingerprints. He will take a sample of each one he finds, then he will go to test your cousin, as she had no criminal record. If they are all your cousin's, then he will know it
was she who used the knife." Miss Burgess looked solemn.
After performing several observant duties, and taking record of the fingerprints, Holmes turned to Miss Burgess. "Now then, is there any instrument which Miss Ainsley has for her own personal use? Something you have never touched?"
Miss Burgess thought for a moment. "There might be a few of my "prints", but you can examine her washing pitcher. I have my own, so there will mostly be her marks on it."
"Brilliant! You would make an excellent detective if you were not an artist."
"Thank you, I shall keep that in mind," she said wryly as she went to retrieve the pitcher.
Holmes ran his all-devouring eye over the apartment in her absence, taking note of the curtained windows, the rugs, the infamous rocking chair by the fire. He found a closet door and audaciously opened it.
"Holmes," I said, glancing around quickly. "That looks very rude! Why, what are those?"
"These," said Holmes, gazing at them, "are the sculpted doll heads." Up on a high shelf in the large closet were twenty or thirty doll heads, all perfectly shaped, mostly the same size, some even painted. They stared out of their empty eye sockets with a look that made me shudder. "Shut the door," I commanded. Holmes had to stand on his toes to take one down and study its delicate features. "Amazing work." He closed the door and went on to make a survey of the shelves, which he suddenly noticed and stopped. He walked over to the ebony-wood bookcase, where I followed.
"Watson, do you see that?"
"I see nothing."
"For heaven's sake, Watson, be thorough!" I gave the bookcase another look. In the thin layer of dust that had settled over the last few days, there was the lightest outline of a solid square. It was so faint I wondered how he had noticed it.
"Something has changed with this arrangement, quite recently," he said, carefully tracing the square with a long finger. He turned when he heard Miss Burgess' footsteps behind him.
"I brought the pitcher," she said, a large piece of cloth wrapped around it. "I used this washtowel, so I wouldn't get anything on it."
"Another admirable decision, Miss Burgess. But first I must ask, what used to be on the bookshelf right here?" Holmes motioned to the square in the dust. Miss Burgess visibly reddened.
"I haven't had a chance to do the dusting," she said, embarrassed. "I'm sorry, but with all the excitement – "
"The dust does not matter," Holmes said dismissively. "In fact, it was helpful. Any difference that has occurred in the past few days is of utmost importance. But what was in the dust? That is what matters."
"The clay bust I told you about. I had placed it on the bookshelf there before I sold it."
Holmes eyes grew large and he cast a quick glance at me. "You attended the art exhibition? While your cousin was in hospital?"
"Yes," Miss Burgess said slowly, looking from me to Holmes and back again. Though she was not much younger than we were, she looked like a guilty child. "Was that bad?"
"It's not…bad, but Miss Burgess, it is suspicious," Holmes told her seriously.
"W-why is it suspicious?" she stammered. "I told you, I was in Bristol at the time. I have receipts, and my family can vouch for me."
"I shall have to look into this further," Holmes said, more to himself than anyone. But I knew what my friend was thinking: had Miss Burgess thwarted her cousin's plans by destroying her painting? And if so, why? Was she afraid Margaret Ainsley's work was better? It was these questions we were pondering when we heard two heavy knocks on the front door.
"Who on earth could this be?" Miss Burgess' anxious look returned as she swept her hand over her hair and hurried to answer the caller.
Sherlock Holmes turned to me. "You see, Watson, I already had a bit of a suspicion about Miss Burgess. The knife used to destroy the picture was a household kitchen utensil used by both ladies. The fingerprints will, most likely, belong to both, and it is possible this instrument was chosen on purpose for that very reason." He looked dreadfully grave when Miss Burgess returned.
"It was a package," she announced with a sigh, setting the paper-wrapped box on the kitchen table. "I had hoped it was Mr. Lawrence with the allowance cheque, but it is only the hat I ordered."
"You may go ahead and open it if you like," Holmes said as we headed to get our coats. "Don't mind us, we are going to return to our flat and conduct a study. In the interim, I would like for you to collect your receipts and any other information that might be useful." Holmes was pulling on his coat and I was engaged in the unnecessary practice of wiping raindrops off my umbrella when suddenly we heard a little cry from the kitchen. Holmes heard it first, and was already bounding off in that direction, myself close at his heels.
What we found was Miss Viola Burgess, with a knife in her hand, hovering over the parcel in speechless disbelief. We peered into the box.
"Good heavens, Holmes," I gasped. "What is all this?"
The paper had been removed and the strings cut from the cardboard box. Inside was not a hat, as Miss Burgess had said – there were no ribbons or flowers to be seen anywhere; nothing but a horrible, smashed wreckage of glossy white clay. I picked up one of the larger pieces and held it up to Holmes.
"It is my sculpture," Miss Burgess said in a quiet, trembling voice.
Holmes examined the shard of clay as I stared at Miss Burgess. Usually at this point, the normal ladies burst into tears, screamed, or clung to any gentleman present, sobbing in a heartbroken manner. However, as I mentioned before, Miss Burgess was different; she only stared at the shattered image, gripped the table until her knuckles were white, and swayed where she stood.
"She's going to drop," Holmes cried, and in one swift move caught her neatly before she hit the rug. "Quick Watson, help me carry her. She's in a shock." We carried the poor young lady to the couch in the parlour and quickly arranged the pillows beneath her head.
"Is she all right, Dr. Watson?" Holmes asked, taking an alert assessment of her breathing.
"She will be, I think." I used my gloves to fan fresh air into her face, all the while cursing myself for forgetting the smelling salts.
"Holmes, tell me what happened?" I implored, busy at my task. Holmes had returned to the kitchen, sifting through the debris.
"There is nothing to tell," he called listlessly from the other room. "It is as Miss Burgess said – this pile of ruins is indeed her clay bust."
"But why is it destroyed?" I called back.
"Some cruel person has smashed it to pieces and heartlessly sent it back to her – Watson!"
"What?" I jumped.
"The first part of our mystery is solved!" Holmes marched over with a triumphant look on his face.
"What do you mean?" I took one last look at Miss Burgess and joined Holmes. "What is solved?"
"I know how Miss Ainsley's painting was destroyed – it was done for the same reason, whatever that may be, as Miss Burgess' bust was shattered."
"But what about that knife?" I asked. "It was right there by the painting, Holmes."
"So is this one." Holmes stooped and picked up the knife Miss Burgess had been holding when she fainted. "Miss Burgess used this knife to open her package. She cut the strings with this, then tore open the package. If I am correct in my assumptions, there should be… ah-ha." Holmes had wandered across the room and was peering into the wastebasket. He pulled out the brown paper wrapping. "Just as I thought. Hmm, no return address."
"That is why the painting was in a cardboard box," I said, three steps behind but finally catching on. "It was the shipping box, not for storage."
"Precisely. These two ladies unwrapped their packages with a knife, threw away the paper, then went to open the boxes. Miss Ainsley found her slashed-up painting, Miss Burgess found her shattered clay bust. I daresay if we were to check the trash bins we would find the wrapping from the painting. Watson," he added, looking past my shoulder, "I think Miss Burgess is awakening."
There came a rustling from the old sofa, and Miss Burgess sat up shaking, with her hand to her forehead. "What happened?" she asked wearily.
"Get her some water, Watson," Holmes instructed, attending to the young lady. "Miss Burgess," he said slowly, "if you recall, your clay bust was broken."
Miss Burgess nodded, studying her hands to avoid looking up. "Yes, that's right. How silly I must have looked, fainting away…." Despite all efforts to conceal her emotion, her lip trembled. I returned with the water and she forced a few sips, but it wasn't long before she was holding her face in both hands, bitterly weeping for the thing she had lost. "I'm sorry," she said, scrubbing at her face with her handkerchief. "This is uncalled for, really."
"You have had quite a shock," I assured her, and Holmes nodded. She tried to smile, but down went her face into the wet kerchief again. Eventually she sat up, folded the handkerchief, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Apparently she was making an effort to appear strong and calm, which was admirable.
"Now, your sculpture was…broken," Holmes began tactfully, "but it is really a good thing, in a way."
"How is it a good thing?" Miss Burgess cried.
"Well you see, it has brought us one step closer to catching the criminal that destroyed your cousin's painting."
"Criminal?" Miss Burgess cast an astonished glance at us. "It-it wasn't Margaret who did it?"
"Oh, no. You see, the spoiling of your piece is directly related to that of Miss Ainsley's."
She sat still a moment, thinking everything through. "But Margaret wouldn't just hand her painting over to anyone, neither has she sold it, as I went over the account-books this morning. Who would possibly do such a thing?" she cried eventually.
"Are you aware of any artistic rivals?" Holmes asked, clasping his hands together. "Someone who is jealous of your work?"
"None that I know of. All our friends are proud of us, and we of them. We are a team; I can't imagine anyone trying – "
"Jealousy is a strange thing, Miss Burgess; it sometimes reveals itself in terrible ways." My friend turned to me. "Watson, do you think Miss Burgess is steady enough to stay by herself?"
"Oh, I am, to be sure," she said readily. Holmes gave the barest hint of a smile.
"Well then," he said, "I think it is now truly time for Watson and myself to be heading back to Baker Street. The day is waning, and we have some inspecting to do. Miss Burgess," he cleared his throat, "do you mind if we take your – "
"Please take it," Miss Burgess finished resolutely. "I…I just want it out of the house, if you understand me."
"Excellent. I believe we will find some particularly important clues from the shattered image. I might have to revoke my earlier statement, however; I don't believe the case will be finished tonight."
"As long as we catch the villain who has done this, I am happy," Miss Burgess proclaimed. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Holmes, for all of your wonderful help!"