Part 4

"Now Watson, do you remember the part you are playing?"

I looked sideways from the window to my companion at the far end of the cab. "Yes," said I.

"I think you should repeat it to me. We don't want a repeat of the Italian incident."

I wished Holmes would not always bring up my shortcomings. Not everyone was as freakishly attentive as he. I glowered at him and knew I could prove him wrong. I began fiercely, "I am the brother-in-law to you, Mr….ah…."

"Lambert."

"Yes, Mr. James – "

"John."

"John Lambert. And you have come to select a frame for your wife's new painting…."

"But I am not sure which kind she likes best," Holmes prompted.

"No, and I have come to help you."

"Precisely. But I don't think you ought to stare at my nose in that way, it is really dreadfully rude."

Holmes gave me a terrible scowl, made most hilarious to me by the bushy realistic-looking beard, which made him look easily ten years older, and the large make-believe nose he had attached over his own aquiline one. For the whole of the cab ride to the frame shop, which Holmes had looked up in a directory, he had been continually pressing the edges of the rubber, evidently dissatisfied with the results. I had spent my own time wondering if it was really truly Sherlock Holmes, and constantly being reminded by his curt, logical manner that indeed it was he.

"This thing makes my speech ridiculous. Then again, that could be beneficial…. If my nose should come off," he added, with dark humor, "say, 'Thank the Lord!' or something to that degree. Oh look, we are here," he added, with a choking cough. "We are certainly in the industrial age."

The frame shop was rather less of a store than another tumble-down, shabby building in the row of businesses, blacked all over by the soot showering down from the smokestacks, which raised themselves like long, wicked fingers into the cloudy afternoon sky beyond. The door creaked loudly as Holmes opened it with another pat at his nose.

I was rather disturbed to see not a tall pale Irishman behind the counter but a short young man, with a dark complexion and a pair of large, wire-rimmed spectacles.

"Can I help you?" he asked eagerly, looking up from what seemed to be an account book.

"Oh, yes," Holmes said in an affected tone. "I do need help."

"All right, then, that is what I'm payed for, after all." With a large smile he shut the books and hurried over, absently wiping ink onto his striped trousers. "Do you know what you are looking for?"

"No, not re-a-lly. Matthew, what do you think Sarah would like best?"

Holmes looked at me with such a curious, perplexed expression I could have shouted with laughter. But I composed myself and said, "Oh, John, I am sure I don't know."

Holmes cast a greedy glance at the shopkeeper, judging his face. But he didn't seem at all irritated, and not the least bland. "I will help you as well as I can, but I myself am no great shakes at art. I do know that you ought to match the frame to the painting, and not to the room."

"Well we have an awful lot of wood in the room," improvised Mr. "Lambert".

"This is a nice one, isn't it?" the young man said fondly of one large square number. "It – "

"Who does this painting?" Holmes asked presently, smoothly garnering evidence of artistic expertise.

"Er…that one is a Fragonard. Or a Vermeer. To be honest, I can't really tell the difference."

I shot a look at Holmes, who was calmly perusing the selection without betraying a hint of emotion. What if our search had led to a dead end? I worried. I wrung my hands and tried to look as casual as my clumsy character "Matthew" would.

Our aide was meanwhile shuffling about, adjusting his spectacles agreeably. "What about – " The little dark man's suggestion was cut off by a slam of a door. Holmes' face lit up at the sight of a slinking, long-limbed young fellow with dark red hair, who came somewhere from the back room and stomped behind the counter. To fool Miss Burgess, he must have indeed been a better actor than ourselves. His threatening scowls were not at all business-like. He lit up a cigarette as soon as he saw us, puffing and huffing furiously.

"Oh, Benigan," said our assistant cheerily. "Don't worry about these customers, I'm… working with them. Go on, go out with your uncle."

"I told ye, don't talk about my uncle in front of customers," the newcomer barked with an unmistakable Irish twang. He seemed to think better of this outburst and added, "It an't good fer business."

"Well, I'm helping these gentlemen, so – "

"Did ye finish the accounts, Elgar?" Benigan puffed rings of smoke to the ceiling.

"Yes."

Benigan gave a general, unprejudiced glower and stared at us from behind the counter.

"Where do you fellows come from?" Elgar inquired presently. But Holmes was not ready to answer just yet.

"Matthew," he said to me, "what about this frame?"

"Oh, no, sister wouldn't like it."

"Is this one a da Vinci?" Holmes inquired.

"Benigan," Elgar entreated as the Irishman was putting on his hat, "come help these fellows after all. You know this is your forte."

Benigan gave him a murderous stare. "I have an appointment, Elgar."

"Just do it quickly. These gentlemen are not difficult, are you fellows?"

"No, not at all!" Holmes beamed.

Benigan gave a long look at the door. "Gold or silver?" he asked Holmes sharply, fingering his cigarette. Holmes looked to me for enlightenment.

"Gold."

"We have a lov'ly selection of French frames," he said, with the clear impression he hated France and all its inhabitants. "They go ex'llently wi' the wairks of Rembrandt or Titian, the masters. Also wi' anything done in chiaroscuro."

"How would you go about hanging them up?" Holmes asked, his eyes barely moving as he took in every detail of the Irishman's appearance.

"Oh, with a little mallet," Benigan said rapidly, unconsciously walking into the trap with long careless strides.

"Hmm, we'll look a bit longer, won't we Matthew?" my friend declared.

"Yes, certainly John."

Benigan returned behind the counter, and happy little Elgar struck up a conversation. As we surveyed the frames, we most expertly eavesdropped.

"Your uncle, is he feeling better?"

A grunt.

"I suppose you enjoyed your day off?"

"It was fine eno'."

"Well, that is always good. I went and got that heavy paper, like you asked. I wish you would tell me what it is for."

"I'm sure you do."

"When will you be getting that scholarship?" Elgar asked, as if he were anticipating that day.

"Soon. I canna wait to get out o' this store and this business," Benigan sighed.

"My dear Matthew," Holmes said, just loud enough for the employees to hear, "I don't find anything of interest here."

"Are you sure, sir?" Elgar called.

"No, no, nothing my dear Sarah would par-tic-ularly like. And it is getting late. The ride to Baker Street is always unpleasant at night." Holmes skillfully dropped that last piece of information without any emphasis. He knew our widespread fame would be enough bait.

There was just the barest of shuffles from Mr. Benigan. Almost imperceptibly, he nudged Elgar.

"If you buy a frame here, we will do the framing for free," Elgar informed us mechanically.

"Per'aps you would like to leave a caird?" Benigan showed an uncharacteristic amount of interest in this subject, especially considering he had an appointment.

"Oh, certainly," Holmes bumbled. You will remember, he hadn't introduced himself to Benigan yet. Holmes was wearing a large, thick greatcoat with many pockets. He had spent a good deal of time selecting this article before we left our flat. Now he dug his hands into the pockets and poked around for a while.

"Matthew, I brought my card. Do you have it?"

"Oh, no, John," I recited, bringing the digging to a standstill.

"I thought I handed it to you," Holmes said with a wink. Benigan was edgily drumming his fingers on the countertop.

"No, no, check your pockets again."

Holmes expertly groaned, shrugged, and continued ransacking his innumerable pockets. After repeating this display once or twice, he finally discovered the card hidden in his waistcoat.

"I ought to have known I put it there," Holmes explained before revealing the card to Benigan.

"Yes, yes," said that young man, anxious to get at the desired information.

"I was afraid it would get wet, you see," my friend went on, as if there were infinite time in the world.

"Lots of rain, yes, but we ha' bi'ness to attend to, ye see."

The card was presented. Benigan quickly read the words, and his face visibly relaxed.

"Mr. Lambert," he mumbled.

"Yes, Mr. John Lambert, publisher. If you should come our way, look us up." Holmes extended his hand cheerily. Benigan shook half-heartedly, first with Holmes, then with myself. I noticed, clear as day, the tell-tale amber tobacco mark on his forefinger.

"Have a good ride back to Baker Street!" said Elgar.

"Oh, we shall," Holmes assured him.

The nose was peeled off as soon as the carriage door was shut behind us. Holmes took in several deep breaths. Out the window, we could see Mr. Benigan leaving the shop, heading down the road with great speed.

"Benigan and Beresford are one and the same," Holmes said presently in his customary indifferent tone.

"Benigan is the criminal, then?" As soon as I asked the question I realised Holmes was brooding. "Or isn't he?"

"I'm sure he is," Sherlock Holmes began. "But there are still several rough spots, so to speak. What was his motive? There is certainly not a clear one."
"Money?" I guessed. "You can tell he isn't well-off, by the cologne and the building and all."

"But he lost money in paying for the bust and the painting. And how did he acquire Miss Ainsley's painting? – she didn't attend the art exhibit."
"Oh, that's right."

"There is still more to this crime. If only we had more information!"

The cab rolled into Baker Street just as the lamps were being lighted. A line of yellow spheres ran up and down the roads, glimmering in the dark and the fog and the rain. Holmes paid the cabby as I hurried to unlock the door. Holmes suddenly put his hand on my shoulder. "Do you hear something?"

I strained my ears to listen. "I do not." Holmes was listening hard.

"I thought I heard a cry."

"It might have been a siren," I supplied.

Holmes frowned at me. "Does that make it any less important?" But soon my friend shrugged. "It is not coming this way, at any rate."

Mrs. Hudson welcomed us in her usual bustling way. "Now then, take off your coats and your shoes. It is terrible weather out! Go, sit by the fire, it's nice and warm. I fixed lamb for dinner, your favourite, Dr. Watson."

I often wondered at the relationship Holmes had with the kind, benevolent landlady. I surely didn't mind her, but it seemed she was a constant nuisance to him. He groaned as he climbed the stairs, pulling his coat off.

"She's not that bad," I told him sensibly.

"You say that only because she fixed lamb," Holmes replied irritably, reaching for his Persian jacket. "And furthermore, it appears she has been tidying up!"

"It is her rooms we are renting," I reminded him.

"I told her to dust and to clean your room, and not to go hiding my papers and burning them." As he spoke he had promptly undone all her housework, and was busy rooting around in his desk for a particular fountain pen.

"I will tell her to hold your supper," I said consolingly. Holmes waved his hand at me and continued to dig. I was just turning to leave when Holmes looked up sharply. Then I heard what he had already perceived – an insane banging at the door, followed by a passionate, muffled cry, "Mr. Holmes!"

In his long strides, Holmes cleared the stairs three at a time. He flung open the door to reveal a heart-wrenching sight – a small, sobbing figure determined to be let in.

It was Viola Burgess. No hat, no umbrella anywhere, strands of wet hair clinging to her poor white face, and vehement teardrops mixing with the rain that was steadily drenching her.

"Good Lord, what is this?" I cried.

"Hush, Watson! Let her speak."

"Someone was in my house!" she shrieked, bursting into a fresh wave of tears and wringing her hands, blue eyes open wide with fear.

"What do you mean?" Holmes asked sharply, leading her into the room.

"Somebody was in my house, and Mrs. Edwards let him in without a key! And all the porcelain dolls, smashed and spread through the house! It was so terrible, all of them! It looked as if they were murdered, just trampled down the hall and on my bed, in the closets! It was someone who knew me, it must have been!"

The poor girl was shivering with cold and terror, and clinging to me as if her heart would break.

"Speak clearly," Holmes instructed.

"I had thirty sculpted doll heads, and he smashed all of them, then placed a doll in my chair by the fire and one in Margaret's, and left a note on the floor, and left the door cracked, so I was afraid to go inside! And they looked so mangled, so pathetic, like little children all dead!"

Holmes looked at me seriously as Mrs. Hudson came gliding into the hall. "Poor child, what has happened?"

"Mrs. Hudson, get Miss Burgess something to eat, and a place by the fire," Holmes barked, wrapping his Persian jacket round the wet girl. "Watson, call Lestrade, get his men on this case, search her apartment for clues. This has gone far enough. Now, Miss Burgess, tell me what the note said."

He looked at her and she swallowed, "It said, 'Merely dolls in the game,' in typed print."

"Oh, is that all?" Holmes said, relieved. Miss Burgess stared at him as if he were mad.

"'That's all'? What in Heaven are you talking about?"

"We have a criminal who thinks he is smarter than he really is," he said vaguely, rubbing his forehead and pacing by the crackling orange fire.

"I called Lestrade, his men are coming," I stated. "Holmes, this is serious."

"Miss Burgess," Holmes started, whirling, "concerning your cousin's painting – can you tell me what was the scene?"

"It was a place near Brighton, where our families went on a business trip," Viola Burgess said, sniffing. "Margaret and I went on our own to observe the scenery and nature, and she began that painting."

"And your sculpture? What was the subject?"

"It was supposed to look like Jupiter," she said.

"But who was your model?"

"My father."

"Did it resemble him?"

"Yes, if you knew my father. I only added a beard."

"And your porcelain doll heads," he continued, "were they still on that high shelf in the closet?"

"Yes; what has that to do with anything?" Miss Burgess asked at this seemingly unimportant remark.

But Holmes was growing excited, the truth was bared nearly to the bone now. "Miss Burgess, what do these two works of art have in common?"

She searched his face as if for an answer. "I don't…oh God!"

"What!"

"My father is going to the University of Brighton, to receive his award tomorrow!" Her breath was coming in short, frightened gasps. "It was never about me or Margaret? It was about father!"

"Benigan!" I groaned, enraged.

"That terrible, false art dealer!" Miss Burgess wailed.

"No," Holmes corrected. "Not this time."

"No?" I demanded. "Then tell us, Holmes, who it could possibly be."

"Certainly. The man who was let into your house knew you," Holmes returned, checking the points on his fingers. "And your landlady knew him. Your allowance cheque was late, because he was busy with bigger game, and your cousin Margaret gave her painting to him, because the poor thing trusted him. He also had an accomplice, who was an Irishman, but was busy today with a Mr. John Lambert. The villain, my dear girl, is someone who thought he would be overlooked, but your father's professor friend, Mr. Lawrence, was quite wrong!"

Miss Burgess had placed her hands to her heart. "Mr. Lawrence? But he is so kind and attentive – and he and father are friends!"

"Only in appearance," Holmes said gravely.

The young lady was struggling for breath. I have dealt with many a man injured in an Afghan battle, but the part sob, part gasp, part shriek that issued from Viola Burgess' throat was one of the most sickening sounds I had ever heard. "He is going to kill him, Mr. Holmes!"

"Not if we can help it," Holmes fired resolutely. "Watson, grab your coat and hat, then head to the train station and order two tickets for Brighton-and-Hoves." After these orders, Holmes bent down to console hysterical Miss Burgess. "Oh, you must save him, Mr. Holmes!"

"Please, Miss Burgess, have no fear. Your father is not in as much danger as it seems."

"Don't you dare neglect him!" she shouted, fury burning on her face. "He will surely be killed!"

"Miss Burgess, please. Listen, calm yourself. Were you ever teased by a boy when you were small?"

She looked as if she were only ten now. "Sometimes," she admitted, bewildered. "One would pull my braid whenever I went past."

"This is almost the same principle. This criminal has picked an easy target, two young girls living alone in the city. He is a bully, wanting only to terrorize. I don't believe he will follow through."

"You really don't believe it?"

"It is unlikely." Holmes smiled in his odd, quiet way, and left the room.

Meanwhile, I went and got the commanded articles, then supplied the bustling Mrs. Hudson with a bottle of smelling salts, lest Miss Burgess should find herself in need of them. As I was leaving the parlour, Holmes stopped me abruptly.

"I am ready to leave, will you meet me there?" I asked.

"Yes. Watson," he said in an undertone, "have you your pistol handy?"

I stared up at him in disbelief. "But I thought…" I glanced at the young lady softly crying by the fire.

"An overconfident criminal is often the most dangerous."

"Holmes, you said – "

"I said "often", not "always". Go and get your pistol, Watson."

I did as I was told.

Less than an hour later, Holmes had left Miss Burgess in our flat with a warm dinner and a fairly easy heart; he arrived at the station, tall, stark and determined, and together we boarded a train headed for the seaside town of Brighton. I looked solemnly out of window at the cold stars glinting in the sky, sailing past us as the train shuttled into the sharp black night.