A Man From All Sides
Chapter 2
There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle, or the mirror that reflects it.
(Edith Wharton)
"You needed to see this."
Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade was standing in the middle of the sitting room, hands in pockets and looking rather lost.
"Yes. I can understand why you asked me to come."
Sherlock Holmes walked softly into the centre of Alan Croft's flat in Clerkenwell to stand next to Lestrade and rotated a full circle on his heels. This was not the place as he remembered it from the last time he had seen it; possibly two years before: in response to some cheap and amateur blackmail plot the so called professional detective had never claimed to have any hope of solving.
He remembered, like a mental snapshot drawn from his eidetic memory, the look of the flat in the Victorian terrace as it was then; thin polyester curtains, battered brown furniture, cheap Ikea detailing. Now it was all Scandi minimalism, blended pastels, artwork on the walls.
As if it was the flat of a different person. A more affluent and tasteful person that a seedy and not terribly trustworthy city private detective.
"Are you sure this is still Alan Croft's flat? It looks different."
"Yeah, that was what I thought. Especially when I noticed the signature on this…." He gestured to an acrylic painting in an alcove of an elderly lady. "Then realised it was real paint on a real picture; not a print. So I called him in….." he gestured towards the man swaddled in the ex forces jungle camouflage parka, standing relaxed and half turned towards them by the window, hands in trouser pockets. "And he said it was a real David Hockney. An early one, from the formation of the signature. And probably of his mother. Worth tens of thousands.
"He also says there are more valuable things here." Lestrade lifted his shoulders in a weary shrug as the other man nodded briefly in his direction. "I don't believe Alan Croft could have afforded any one of them. Or even come about them honestly."
Lestrade shrugged again, out of his depth. Waved a hand towards the other man to take over the explanation. Who now turned fully into the room, calm and assessing.
"Good morning, Mr Holmes. A pleasure to meet you at last. I'm Detective Constable Neil Redfern, Arts And Antiques Department. Of the Met."
He held out his hand, which Sherlock Holmes ignored, peering instead with singular focus at the painting in question.
"Stolen, I assume?"
"Taken from a private collection in San Francisco fifteen months ago. And there is also this –" he walked across the room to stand at Sherlock Holmes' side, gestured to a wild and striking portrait of a young man propped against the wall – " an early Basquiat. From a New York gallery six months ago. And this landscape" – a watercolour over the mantelpiece of a windmill in Sussex – "a regular late subject of Glasgow Boy James Patterson. Taken four weeks ago from a house in London."
"Yes. I see." He shifted the Basquiat slightly to look behind it; then lifted the windmill watercolour slightly, to see how it hung, ran a finger along the top of the frame.
"Hanging on a simple nail covered in dust that has been in place for years. Which infers a way of keeping the pictures pro temps, rather than hung in a prime position by the owner for best appreciation."
"Oh. You are good. As good as they say." Neil Redfern regarded him sharply, then smiled in approval. Which made Sherlock Holmes frown, reply with some reaction between dismissive and bored.
"Yes. Of course I am."
"Of course you are."
Neil Redfern grinned at him this time; conspiratorial and amused. Sherlock Holmes met his eye. Stared him down until the detective looked away with a tiny shake of his head and an even smaller smile, politely deferring but unbowed.
"So: you think Croft was being less of a detective than a fence. And that, seeing the recent upgrade of the flat, he was doing well out of it."
"Very good. Keep going, Mr Holmes. I like your thought process. And your style."
He scowled; he never liked compliments, nor did he like being them given so freely. Did not trust them, nor the motives for them. Did not trust the challenge and confidence displayed by a mere detective constable. Or the way he was being looked at.
So for now he did not look at the paintings, but at the art detective.
Slightly over middle height, late twenties. Thick wavy red hair that looked as if it was never combed, only had fingers raked through it. Pale skin with light stubble, pale freckles on hands as well as face, light blue eyes, astute and knowing. A neat but inexpensive grey Marks and Spencer suit with pens in the breast pocket, a pale blue shirt and dark grey tie. Spectacles stuffed into a pocket of the old parka along with a roll of mints.
"What degree?" he asked.
"Masters. History of Art. Mediaeval specialism. But everything really. In this job you need to know or intuit a bit of everything."
"A bit young, aren't you? For this job?" He made the question sound scornful, a little flippant. To test reaction.
"No, I'm not. I'm good at what I do because I love it." There was neither defiance nor defence in the reply, just facts. "There are only five of us in the Arts unit; dealing with a huge list of over fifty five thousand missing and stolen precious cultural items from around the world. And we have a pretty fair result rate, despite everything."
"I stand corrected." A tiny formal bow, almost unnoticeable, yet noticed.
"Yes, you do. But don't worry about it."
Neil Redfern grinned, used to being misunderstood and not caring, casually confident. Stepped towards a closed door, hand on the latch. Dropped his voice to a throaty unmistakable purr and looked directly at the consulting detective.
"But come with me into the bedroom and I'll show you something even more interesting."
He opened the door, paused in the doorway and quirked his head. "If you dare, of course."
Sherlock Holmes looked across to Lestrade, who was still in the middle of the room, bemused but smiling, watching his reaction with interest.
"Can you not contain the behaviour of this child, Lestrade?"
"No child, mate. He really is as good as he says he is. Irritating, isn't it?"
"Hmn." There was something unsettling about Neil Redfern, and he realised it. "Shouldn't you be out there educating some peasants about culture instead of doing this?"
"Working with you? Oh, I see what you mean. No, Mr Holmes. I don't have that sort of place in the art world culture: I don't look upper crust and posh like you. So I lack first sight credibility. Sad but true. On the other hand, it is much more useful I look like the yokel I am - doing the job I do."
He appeared remarkably unbothered by the thought.
"Because even you, the great Sherlock Holmes, judged at first sight and underestimated me. Tut-tut. Not that I mind. I'll make an exception. As it's you."
He looked up and actually winked. Sherlock Holmes stepped into his space in the doorway and drew himself up to his full height.
"Are you flirting with me?" he asked, haughty, yet clearly puzzled.
"Why not? You must understand that appreciating beautiful things is my passion as well as my job."
"Of course it is." He nodded sharply "And yes; that is exactly what I am."
"Beautiful? 'Course you are."
"No." This time it was his turn to correct an assumption. So he did so. "A thing. and don't you ever forget it."
"I take that as a 'no', then?"
"Fuck off."
"Well, you can't blame a man for trying…."
Sherlock Holmes flashed his look of disdain towards Lestrade this time – who merely shook his head in amusement – and another at the young detective constable, pushing past him and deliberately standing on his toes as he did so. Redfern had the grace not to flinch or even mention the rebuff or the pain, but followed him into the bedroom.
As Sherlock Holmes stood at the foot of the bed, waiting for what he was to be shown, the detective constable dropped to his knees in front of him, looked up to catch his eye.
"Don't panic, Mr Holmes. Just reaching under the bed. Not reaching for you, alas…"
There was the sound of something rustling; the squeak of bubble wrap. His left hand emerged from under the bed frame clutching a bulky parcel by a makeshift handle of packing tape. Stood easily, put the parcel down onto the grey duvet and reopened what he had already investigated.
It was a violin. Maple and pine body, with the classic honey coloured varnish. Ebony pegs, nuts and tailpiece.
Sherlock Holmes bent forward to look closely.
"I may touch, I assume? Pick it up?"
"Go ahead. No prints on it. Someone has been careful."
"Hmn. Perhaps too careful."
"The carving of the scroll…." He spoke aloud, but almost to himself.
"Yes. Looks like a Stradivarius to me."
Sherlock Holmes made a neutral sound in his throat. Thought of the boy with the Stradivarius, busking Paganini on the Underground. On a violin that looked almost identical to this one. So had the boy been right? Was his violin not a Strad at all? Just a copy? Had he been wrong?
He felt a cold chill of instinct travel down his spine. Who the hell was that boy? A mystery musician? A murderer? Were the two tall dark handsome young men he sought really one and the same?
He took a breath, drew the folding magnifying glass from his pocket and moved across to the window towards the light, to see better into the body of the violin through the f-holes, to read the label.
Looked up at Redfern with a frown.
"Looks like a Strad. Handles like a Strad. But it's a fake. A clever, well made fake. But a fake."
"Are you sure?"
Of course I'm sure. Let me educate you with this. Someone has to." The barb fell on deaf ears. "Look."
He held out the violin and the magnifying glass for Redfern to take. When the art detective did so he explained; "Look inside. See the label? Nicely aged yellowing parchment paper, the proper cursive script, both as you would expect. So read it."
"Antonious Stradivarius Cremonensis
"Faciebit anno 1701." Neil Redfern obediently and slowly read aloud, looked up into impassive sea storm eyes. "All in Latin. Antonious Stradivarius – that's the maker. Cremonsis – the place, Cremona. Made in the year 1701. Isn't that proper?"
"No. Of course it's not. It's good, It's close. But it's not right."
"Tell me," Neil Redfern urged. "It's things like this which have always made me want to work with you. I am all ears. I want to learn. From you. Especially."
Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes. "Let's get this straight, Redfern. Do not try and suck up to me. I don't like it. I don't appreciate it nor do I want it."
"Yeah, I get that. But I'll win you round." He ducked his head to hide a sudden, impish grin. "So for now – just tell me."
The consulting detective sighed but pressed on.
"For a start, Stradivarius is the Latinised version of the maker's name – Antonio Stradivari. But Stradivari himself used the formal name style on his labels of Stradiuarius – a 'u' instead of a 'v' in the middle. And at that time Cremona, where he lived and worked, the name – Cremonensis in Latin - would have been written in the old style, with the first 's' in the name of the town written like an 'f' not an 's' – Cremonenfis."
"Bugger."
He smiled then, amused by the younger man's rasp of disappointment.
"Not exactly. This is the work of a highly skilled and basically honest maker whose fake signature shows this was meant to be a copy, not a ringer. Perhaps someone else was trying to pass it off as an original. But an expert would know."
"Yeah." Neil Redfern muttered, deflated, depressed. "And I am supposed to be that expert." Handed violin and glass back to Sherlock Holmes. "I had high hopes for this violin," he confessed. "Where do you think it was made?"
"In Germany probably. Or Russia; Russian nobility had a thing for Stradivari, and both nations had highly competent copyists."
"There are several famous Stradivari that have been missing for years. Would have been quite a coup to have got back at least one."
"Yes. But the fact this isn't one of them is not your fault. Just your problem." He looked. Pondered. How there should be no such thing as coincidence. Took a leap. "Are you thinking about the Russian Stradivari by any chance? The Golden Empress?"
"Yeah. I was, actually. But how did you know….?"
"Just a guess," he said, offhand. "I'm famous for good guesses."
o0o0o
In the early hours of the same day, Prince Kirill Dimitrivitch Volkonsky Essen slumped down in the armchair in the saloon at the Adventurer's Club, covered his face with his hands and silently dripped tears through his fingers onto his knees.
Sherlock Holmes picked up the nearest discarded newspaper from the previous day and disappeared into an article on worldwide oil investments. Had moved onto the obituaries before the other man spoke again.
"My apologies. An appalling lack of self control."
"These things happen. And there was no-one here to bear witness."
"….You?"
"I don't count. Nor am I interested."
He turned back to the broadsheet daily. Read an uninteresting obituary on the career of a minor bishop.
After several minutes came the question.
"Can you? Find….?"
And the words faltered again.
"Your violin? Or your son?"
Red rimmed, tear stained eyes looked across at him.
"Is it a choice?"
"That's up to you."
"You are a hard man, Mr Holmes."
"Yes. That is how I get results."
"But of course." The old man sighed, wiped his eyes with an immaculate white cotton handkerchief, which he refolded slowly, thoughtfully, neatly, then pushed back into a trouser pocket.
"The Golden Empress, as far back as we can trace her history, was bought for Catherine The Great by the Russian Ambassador in Paris, my ancestor Count Igor Volkonsky.
"The purchase was intended to curry favour with royalty, and did so. Her Imperial Highness was a great supporter of culture and the arts, and that is how the Golden Empress got her name, in tribute to her highness. Whilst his son – another Aleksandr – became not only Catherine's favourite musician but also the most popular violinist at court And so Igor was elevated to become Prince.
"When Her Imperial Highness died, she left the Golden Empress to Aleksandr, on condition the Stradivarius remained in the Imperial Collection and was played at court by a Volkonsky in perpetuity. A huge responsibility and weight.
"Nevertheless, that trust and obligation held true until the Revolution." he paused, and looked up at the consulting detective. "Well, how was anyone to know that the Revolution would happen?
"So then the Golden Empress disappeared?"
"Not….immediately. The revolutionaries were pragmatic as well as idealistic. Not many outsiders realise that while they were shooting and beheading many of our Russian princelings and aristocracy as the proletariat took over my country, these things took place over a number of years.
"The Aleksandr Dimitrivitch Volkonsky Essen – yes, Mr Holmes, the same name as my son - of that generation was also a musician, and one of the keepers of the Imperial Collections. He held onto both his life and his position until 1923. Even though the ruling Romanov family were assassinated in 1918." The flow of words stopped, the older man stuttering to a halt.
"So tell me," Sherlock Homes urged with apparent detachment. "What you do not want to tell me. I cannot help you unless you tell me everything."
"You are too astute. Too demanding…."
Sherlock Holmes shrugged. "Up to you."
"You do not understand. There are legends. Family secrets. Actions of honour. Actions without honour."
"Think that makes you and your family special? Sounds like any and every family in the world to me. Or do you just expect me to judge you out of hand? Please do not even attempt to second guess my reaction and thought process. Just tell me."
A long thoughtful stare. A sharp nod of decision.
"Aleksandr was a conscientious man, but a cynic by experience. As soon as it became clear that the ruling house of Romanov would be overthrown, he began his plan to save the treasures of our country. He began losing items by removing their paperwork, smuggling valuables to safety abroad. Commissioning copies, replicas, substitutes.
"A select band of trusted artisans and companies of the same mind supported him, at great risk to themselves. For about eight years he was able to get treasures to the west. To ensure their survival, to finance families forced to emigrate or die, to preserve our heritage in the face of annihilation, butchery, sacrilege, the destruction of so much that was of beauty and worth. Do you understand the horror and the depth of this brutality?"
"To a degree, yes: I know there was an attempt to exchange the nation's crown jewels for coal."
"Indeed, yes. Mother Russia was brought to her knees by the Revolution and it's aftermath. Most of the publicity on the tragedy of this regicide, genocide, whatever you like to call it, has always gone to the Romanovs, but in truth there were many peasants, as well as noble families who suffered as much if not more; so many unrecorded, always mourned. At the top of the tree the Golitsyns were especially targeted, and most of those who survived did so only because they were sensible enough to flee, or were already living abroad."
"Because of our long family connection, Aleksandr determined to save The Golden Empress for posterity by having a copy made; St Petersburg had a very skilled violin maker called Anrep. He made a copy, and the real Golden Empress went into hiding."
"Not smuggled out?"
"By this point Aleksandr knew he was suspected, was being watched. So she was entrusted to the care of family friends, Jewish music teachers and musicians in St Petersburg."
"So the Golden Empress was hidden. Buried, or in plain sight? Among other violins?"
"I do not know for sure. With other Stradivari, I imagine. Perhaps she was stored in a box, in the dark. But she survived, in hiding, in the uncertainty between the wars." Essen paused, sipped some water. "Not so Aleksandr. He disappeared into a gulag, was never seen or heard of again."
"I am sorry. But such is war."
"Indeed so."
"What happened to the Golden Empress after that?"
"As far as I can ascertain she remained in hiding. Until the family that had cared for her knew of the Nazi advances and what would happen to any Jews they found. Especially rich and cultured Jews.
"So they tried to leave Russia with all they could carry and head for England. And that is where the trail ends. Where the Empress became lost."
"Sounds predictable. The Nazis looted a huge number of art works, cultural objects. Very few were ever found, never mind returned to their owners. Your violin is just one of many. And the likelihood of ever finding it is highly unlikely."
"That is what I had always thought. Except for two things."
"Go on."
"The last we heard of the family guarding the Empress was in 1941. We had assumed they were some of the 33,000 slaughtered in the Nazi's Babi Yar mass murder. But in 1942 my father received a telegram from Poznan in Poland. Just four words, and unsigned: "Your ledi is safe."
"And the word ledi means…?"
"Translation can vary. Lady, normally. But can also stand for gentlewoman, peeress, other high female ranks or reputations. A clever choice of word, I think."
"Nothing else? No more news? Ever?"
"None. But, you see, my father fought in the second world war for England. Was shot down and missing in action for three years, first on the run, and then in a prisoner of war camp. Whoever sent that telegram may have assumed he was dead, like everyone else, and looked no further."
"One dead end after another," Sherlock Holmes mused. "So the Golden Empress disappeared forever, and even though you could perhaps assume the violin still existed, it was lost to you, to everyone. Why bring it to the fore now, after all these years? Is that the second thing?"
"Ah. Now you ask the right question, Mr Holmes. Three months ago, out of the blue, I received a letter from a poste restante address in Russia. It was signed Lev Kozlov. Who said he was an intermediary for a Russian oligarch who wished to remain anonymous for the time being, and asked if I was prepared to sell the famous Golden Empress.
"I do not know why he contacted me, or even how he found me. So naturally I was astounded. I thought it was a joke in poor taste. So I wrote back and explained what I have just told you. I almost immediately had another letter in reply; saying he understood my discretion, but would be in touch again later. I did not feel the writer believed what I told him. And there seemed an element of threat in his response."
"And why might that be?"
Kirill Essen threw his head back to laugh, to throw his arms in the air in frustration.
"Because my son plays a violin that looks and sounds like a Stradivarius. And my son is gaining a reputation in classical music circles as a young talent to watch.
"You have seen him play. And on that very violin. If your photograph is anything to go by."
Sherlock Holmes looked at the older man in silence; calculating, assessing. Observed the contained fear in the tense shoulders, the light sheen of sweat above the moustache, the slight stimming of the left hand tucked carefully away between trouser leg and chair arm.
"And now your son – and his not-quite Stradivarius – have disappeared. Yes, I see why you have come to me."
"Where else can I turn, Mr Holmes? I doubt the police would treat me seriously if I took them such a fairytale. That my house was broken into by someone looking for a legendary violin? That the houses of my friends were broken into by someone looking for the same violin? That a violin – any violin – would be worth all that effort? I doubt that, don't you?"
"Not unless they knew the true worth of such a legendary instrument; several million pounds."
"And they would also say that my son is a grown adult, intelligent and capable. That he has not been missing for long enough to be declared missing. That he is probably visiting friends, on a drink or drugs binge, behaving like a typically irresponsible young man.
"But none of that is right. I know him. This is not how he thinks or behaves."
"So you want both your son, and your family's precious violin, found and returned?"
He leant forward, put his elbows on the chair arms, brought his fingertips together in a typically thoughtful pose. Making a decision did not take long.
"Very well, Prince Kirill. I will take your case. And we shall see who and what I can find."
o0o0o
It felt like déjà vu; out of 221B before breakfast, standing in the centre of another flat with Lestrade, glaring at Neil Redfern, who was poring over the contents of an elderly heavy walnut wardrobe that had seen better days.
"So the guy has several laptops he is storing. So what?"
Neil Redfern clearly did not relish being out so early in the morning when there appeared to be no antiques or classic artworks to be seen. So this time it was Lestrade who was smiling.
"Perk of the job, Neil my lad. All part of the same case. This is the flat where the man who killed Alan Croft – yesterday's murder victim with the paintings and the violin – lives. So thought you needed to be here. To see. Just in case."
They looked round the tiny and untidy bedroom in the very basic solo flat in Tower Hamlets; magnolia walls that looked as if they had never been painted since the council block had been built in the 1950's. Curtains and furnishings chocolate brown and old gold, redolent of the Eighties.
"A few years ago, in a rented flat in Munich similar to this, an old man revealed a veritable art gallery of priceless paintings he had stolen throughout his lifetime. Millions of pounds worth. Delacroix, Matisse, Monet – take your pick."
"I don't think you'll find that here. But we can look….and if there is anything unusual here, I expect you to spot it."
"No pressure, then."
The two professional detectives started to methodically search the four small rooms. While Sherlock Holmes sat crosslegged on the floor in front of the lumpy old gas fire, and simply looked around. Which was how he spotted, amid the clutter, the tightly rolled red top newspaper, a week old, stuffed under the cushion seat of an elderly armchair.
He took it, unrolled it, and caught what dropped into his hand.
When he called Lestrade's name, the detective inspector was at his side in a moment. And between them they unrolled and counted out two thousand pounds in twenty pound notes, held together with two rubber bands.
"Oooh; that looks suspicious," Redfern said, somewhat unnecessarily, looking on.
"Not likely to be wages. Or cash for his weekly shop. Perhaps a backhander payment for a job," Lestrade murmured happily. "So we need to check for authenticity, check the numbers to see if the notes were stolen and on record. And check for fingerprints."
He put the money into a small evidence bag, which he sealed and put in his pocket. "A result," he judged.
"Not yet," Sherlock Holmes cautioned.
So they returned to their search. Which was how Neil Redfern opened the wardrobe door to find a stack of a dozen laptop computers, several tablets half filling a shoebox, and three of the latest and most expensive mobile phones, all on the wardrobe floor between various smelly pairs of old shoes.
"Ill gotten gains," was Sherlock's reply to the art detective's dismissive remark. "No-one has that many computers at home, and you can't tell me all of them are broken. They may be waiting to be disposed of, but certainly not to a recycling centre, but to a fence. Electronics of this quality – but none of them with their leads or chargers? Pretty obvious. Especially as we know Alan Croft was a sometime fence."
"A bit obvious, don't you think?"
"It might be. Until you ask why all this kit is still here, not disposed of. Hidden, then? Or perhaps all of them containing something specific on their hard drives, perhaps? Hmn. I wonder."
He raked his hands through his hair, deep in thought. Oblivious to Lestrade's tolerant glance, Redfern's leap of concentration to focus upon him. Who suddenly stepped forward, put a hand on the older man's arm.
"What is it? Tell me!"
Blue eyes looked up into sea glass eyes for mere seconds before Sherlock Holmes jerked his arm away.
"Nothing to do with you. And I don't appreciate being touched. If you don't mind."
"Sorry." The apology was automatic, but the concentration did not falter. "But you've thought of something – connected something. I can tell."
"How clever of you. Still nothing to do with you."
He pulled away, crossed the room.
"You have searched? For artwork? Anything incongruous? Anything out of place?"
He was talking to Redfern, not Lestrade. But it was Lestrade who answered.
"I'll get Scene Of Crime officers in to do a thorough search; wanted you to have a look first."
"Appreciate it. Thank you, Lestrade."
He went into the tiny kitchen. The smell of stale cooking fat was overwhelming. Typical of someone who survived on quick meals with chips. Washing up had not been attempted for days, and takeaway cartons littered the tiny table.
Wrinkling his nose in disdain, he opened every cupboard and drawer, reaching deep into dingy backs and underneath drawers. Taking the rubbish bag out of the waste bin and looking underneath, but seeing nothing but a broken mechanism.
Neil Redfern watched from the doorway with silent fascination.
"What are you looking for?"
"The crock of gold at the end of the rainbow. Always look for hiding places from the ground up; and in the most personal rooms; villains assume professionals will be too squeamish about picking through human detritus to look there."
"Right."
He moved to the bathroom. Looked in the pitted plastic cabinet for more than shaving cream and condoms. Looked at the sink top: toothbrush and mug, toothpaste tube, soap.
After a moment he picked up the bar of almost new yellow soap, not the shrunken white soap next to it on the dish. Peered at it from all sides, against the light.
"What's special about the soap?" Redfern asked.
"It's medicated. Antiseptic medicated soap; you can still just about make out the legend imprinted on the bar. Morgan's. Not the sort of soap you would expect to find in a hovel like this."
"Even criminals worry about acne and suchlike."
"Granted. But someone like Sticks Chapman isn't going to mail order soap from a specialist barber like Morgan's for everyday use, not specialist soap like this."
He laid the soap in the sink, took a penknife from his coat pocket and cut into the bar with difficulty. Made a small sound of satisfaction as something dropped into his hand from the centre.
"Well, well," he said with satisfaction, picking the soap fragments from around a thing delicate and tiny. Something he held up for Neil Redfern to see.
"You're the art expert. Tell me what this is. Precisely."
The detective constable rolled the ring between his fingers.
"White gold," he identified quietly. "It's an antique ring, probably nineteenth century; you can tell by the shaping and colour. The shaping also tells me this is the centre ring of a three part Russian wedding ring….."
"What? Russian? Are you sure?"
"Of course I am. The notches on the outside are quite distinct so they lock three rings into one. Yellow gold for fidelity, white gold for friendship, red gold for love. Combined they are supposed to indicate eternal love. Or the Trinity. Or faith, hope and charity. Or even mind, body and spirit. The very style of such a ring set is known as a Russian ring."
"Thank you. Russia again. And there is no such thing as coincidence."
"But why does a petty criminal in a grotty flat have expensive specialist soap? In which he has hidden a valuable Russian ring?"
"I might have an idea…" he slipped the ring onto his left little finger. "Back to the Yard, Lestrade. I need another word with Sticks."
o0o0o
When Sticks Chapman came into the interview room at New Scotland Yard with his unimpressive solicitor - whose name he had already forgotten - Sherlock Holmes was there, flicking through paperwork and taking no notice of either of them.
Lestrade, sitting alongside, offered a brief nod, but no other greeting.
"Tell me what really happened in that alley." The question shot out of nowhere, breaking into the silence without preamble, causing the career burglar to lurch back in his plastic chair and stutter a response.
"Oh, God, not this again. I've told you! There was this kid…"
"Shut up! Do you really think I am as stupid as you are?"
Sherlock Holmes surged to his feet, slammed his hands down on the table, leant in, his face close to Simon Chapman's; the accused could see deep into those enigmatic eyes, see the long eyelashes, the firm line of the expressive mouth that looked anything but feminine at that moment.
"I know you killed Alan Croft. And I'm trying to get you off a murder charge, you arsehole. Cooperate, or I'll walk out of here and leave you to your fate, and if I do, you will deserve it."
He held the other man's eyes with his own for three seconds too long; dominant, wise, exasperated. The accused man broke first, turning away, muttering, before turning back.
"What do you expect me to say, Shezza? 'OK, Guv, it's a fair cop'?"
"That will do for a start. So cough, and stop wasting all our time."
"What do you expect me to say?"
"The truth. A bit of a stretch for you I know, but still…" He watched Sticks Chapman grimace, sit back and cross his arms in something not far short of defiance.
"I haven't got time to play games. And you're not worth playing them with. So I'll tell you what happened, shall I?" He did not wait for a reply, but sank back into his own chair opposite.
"You had a meet with Croft. Not unexpected, you did a lot of little jobs for him. Quick in-and-outers, no sweat. So you didn't think anything of meeting him in a dark alley without eyes on it.
"Until he pulled that long thin knife on you and tried to stab you. You tussled a bit between you. But you were younger and heavier, managed to turn his wrist and push the pointy end away from you. You stabbed him in the ruck, not realising just how long and lethal that knife was. And before you even registered it, you had a body on the ground pumping out blood and you knew you could not save him even if you knew how. And you didn't.
"You didn't actually panic, because you had enough presence of mind to take the roll of cash out of his pocket. Being greedy and a born tea leaf acting on some seedy instinct. But you were stupid enough to throw the knife down a drain, without wiping off the prints. And then you legged it. Right so far?"
"No comment."
"Really? Well, let me explain. Your prints were on the knife, as were Alan Croft's. But yours were on top. And the angle he was stabbed at – was unnatural to say the least. Which I think was how you managed to kill him by mistake. Not right, that angle. Clearly not self inflicted, and not a head on attack. But text book for an attacker who had his own knife turned in on himself in a life or death struggle. Am I right?"
Sticks Chapman looked up with hot eyes. Said everything by saying nothing.
"Come on, Sticks, you can admit it. Not murder. Just self defence. In theory you could go down for four years instead of life, but I suspect you would walk out of court a free man. In the circumstances. If that is what happened."
The man opposite sat impassive for a few long seconds before he nodded.
"Yeah. That's what happened all right. I'll make a statement. Thanks, Sh…"
"Not so fast, Sticks. It's not as easy as that. Or as simple. I need to know why Alan Croft wanted you dead – after all these years of your shady partnership.
"No comment."
"Sticks, you disappoint me. All you have to do is tell Mr Lestrade and I about how you got commissioned to burgle a load of houses looking for something specific. Which you couldn't find, so you couldn't resist getting your own private bonus on the side, contrary to instructions, and lifted a load of laptops and suchlike while you were there.
"How to get yourself into trouble. Draw attention to what should have been your quiet little in-and-out jobs. You got greedy. Petty thieves like you never learn the obvious."
"Don't know what you're talking about."
"Sticks, really. We've gone over Alan's flat. Found the treasures he was holding. The pictures, the violin. We've gone over your place as well. We found all the electronics stuff in your wardrobe. The stuff you nicked and should have left alone. Your little extras on the side. Which drew attention to the fact you had broken in at all. All those Russian houses, Sticks."
The burglar sitting opposite him did not deny the Russian connection. A wild guess had hit home. So he could afford to ask the real question now.
"So what were you looking for - really?"
"Don't know what you are talking about."
Yes. You do. And you are going to be a good boy and tell Mr Lestrade even if you won't tell me. And what about this?"
He put his left hand flat on the table between them. The narrow gold ring shone in the light.
"What?" So innocently it screamed guilt.
"The ring. Stop playing dumb. You may be thick, but dumb you're not."
The left hand wearing the ring made a grab; stopped short before twisting Stick Chapman's right ear. The threat was smooth, almost gentle, but implicit. Sticks Chapman did not move, but swallowed hard.
"Oh. You mean my mam's old ring? That old thing?" he parried.
"Yeah. 'That old thing' hidden in a bar of soap. Who gave it to you, Simon Chapman? Or who did you steal it from? And why did you hide it so carefully?"
"No comment."
"OK, then. We'll leave that one for now. But we will return to it." He put both hands flat on the table, but Sticks Chapman could only look at the ring.
"Tell me about the boy, then. How do you know the boy? How did you even see him that night? And why did you try to frame him?"
There was a pause as they stared at each other. The loaded silence felt more like playing a key hand in a game of poker. But Sherlock Holmes did not look away from the burglar. As if he was willing him to respond, to tell the truth.
"Never seen the kid before," he said finally. "So nothing to lose shoving the blame onto him and off me."
"Go on."
"When I got into the alley Alan was already there. Facing me. The lad had his back to me. I could see they were arguing about something. Well, the lad was arguing. Alan was just smirking at him. You know what Alan was like, Shezza – always smug, always thought he was in control.
"The lad said something about Alan having taken his money but not giving him any result. He was shouting, ranting, almost in tears. I didn't understand what he was saying. Something about a lady – but the lad looked too young to know enough about ladies to be waving wodges of money about over one of them.
"Alan just stood there and let him rant. Then got sick of it all very quickly. He pulled this bloody great long knife out of his coat sleeve and waved it at the lad. I reckon I was as taken aback as he was.
"Alan started shouting back, then. I had no doubt he was going to stick the lad, and neither did he. He wasn't daft enough to argue - screamed in fear, turned and ran. He brushed past me, nearly knocked me flat. Alan and me both stood and watched him go, running like a scalded cat, not even looking back when out of range.
"I turned back to Alan, making some crack about kids trying to rule the world, expecting him to share the joke and tell me the story. He was putting this roll of notes in his pocket. Looked up at me.
"Told me I never did what I was bloody told, and why had I drawn attention to the job I was on and nicked all those bloody laptops as a side order? That I had been told to do quick in and out jobs, to search, to find and get out, quiet as a mouse. And I had messed up."
"What were you looking for?" Sherlock Holmes' question was ignored.
"That wasn't what I was expecting. Don't know how he even knew I'd nicked the bloody laptops and stuff. I certainly hadn't said…." His voice trailed away for a moment, remembering.
"' You're an idiot, Sticks. And you're going to die for it.' that's what he said. I thought he was joking. He'd never spoken to me like that before, not in all the years….." he shook his head. "I thought it was just a threat. But then: 'Sorry, mate, but I've got my orders….' And he turned that big blade on me and tried to run me through. And I couldn't let him do that, now could I?"
He looked round; at Sherlock Holmes, and at Lestrade; at his solicitor, a too young woman speechless and in no state to offer advice.
"I grabbed his hand to turn the blade away. We grappled for a bit, but I had done more of that sort of thing than him. S'why I'm called Sticks after all – "he quirked an ironic grin at Lestrade. "And before I knew it he sort of crumpled…and I had stuck him. He went down like a sack of spuds.
"I couldn't believe I had killed him. I dipped the roll of cash out of his coat pocket, dropped the knife down the nearest drain, and legged it. I didn't think the lad had seen…and I knew there were no CCTV cameras back there. I thought I could just walk away, get away with it. Would have, if it wasn't for you."
"Your fault for being greedy," Sherlock Holmes declared without empathy or sympathy. "Serves you right."
"Stuff you." And the killer crossed his arms and settled into a silent, old lag sulk.
"No need to take that attitude," Lestrade observed. "Sherlock's just got you off a murder charge."
"Well, good for him. Mr Bloody Perfect Freak. I'm saying no more."
"What about the Russian ring, then, Sticks? What about your real target for all those break-ins?"
Simon 'Sticks' Chapman looked up, impassive but angry.
"Told yer. You are so clever, you find out. Me? I'm saying nothing more. No comment."
o0o0o
"Why didn't you keep at him? Get all the other answers you need?" Neil Redfern was also in the back of Lestrade's car as the detective inspector drove Sherlock Holmes back to Baker Street.
Sitting next to the consulting detective and half turned towards him, all coiled energy and frustration. Who rolled his eyes.
"Tell him, Lestrade."
Lestrade, driving, shook his head in mock disgust. "The kids they are employing on the force these days…." he said to no-one in particular, making smiling eye contact through the rear view mirror with Sherlock Holmes.
"Old lags like Sticks know the game, the dance. You can only get so much out of them in one go, Neil. Then they clam up. They like the power, you see. Even if it gets them nowhere. Just for a few hours they like to think they have the upper hand."
"But…about the ring, then. Just getting him to say what he was searching for in the houses in the first place…."
He had been observing the interview through the one way glass in the next room. And seemed more than exasperated by the delay in finding the answers they needed. Had bombarded them both with questions ever since Sticks Chapman was sent back to his cell on a holding charge.
"All in good time. And you have plenty to do in the meantime. Chase up the details on the paintings. Try and trace ownership of the fake violin. Even see if there are any missing Russian rings on your list."
"Oh, that's just paperwork. I want to be out in the hunt with you two."
"Nothing to see with us," Sherlock Holmes said dismissively. "Isn't that so, Lestrade?"
"And there's another thing," the young detective constable said before his superior officer could get a word in. "Something I don't understand. I was told you two are mates. He calls you 'Sherlock' – but you always call him 'Lestrade.'"
"So?"
"He can never remember my first name. More important things to think about. So just Lestrade is easier," Lestrade grinned, unconcerned, and made a right turn. His passengers in the back swayed. The younger man persisted.
"But you have an eidetic memory. You said so yourself," he said accusingly at the consulting detective.
"A persistent little toad, aren't you?" Sherlock Holmes said brusquely. "Perhaps I call him by his surname out of respect, as he is the professional. Due deference from the amateur."
Neil Redfern's expression declared he didn't believe a word of it.
The unmarked police car drew up outside 221, Baker Street, and Sherlock Holmes was out almost before the wheels had stopped.
"Keep me updated," he said, and was swiftly inside.
He was closing the door from behind with his foot, Belstaff half off, when someone pushed against it. Neil Redfern.
"I should have known you lacked the good manners to leave things alone."
He sighed; unwelcoming, irritated, bored "So: what do you want now?"
He finished taking off the coat, hung it on the pegs at the bottom of the stairs. The young detective constable closed the door behind them both, and faced him. Too intent, too close.
"You have theories," he declared. "Ideas. A concept. I can tell just by looking at you. I can hear your mental gears singing. So tell me."
"When I have a better idea. More information Nothing solid to bring to the table as yet."
"That's not good enough."
"Oh, really?" He stepped back a pace. Drew himself up to his full height and looked down at the detective constable "Why are you in such a hurry? Why has this case got under your skin? Pretty average fare for the Arts Squad, I would have thought."
"Perhaps so. But I have an instinct…an idea….that this case is just the tip of an iceberg. That there is more to this that is apparent. And while I suspect; I think that you know."
"I am merely brilliant. Not omnipotent."
"You sure?"
One hand lifted, ghosted along a forearm. Sherlock Holmes pulled the arm back. Something in the atmosphere had changed.
"No." A simple one word of command that usually worked.
"Don't play hard to get, Sherlock. Come on, you can afford to be human. A little bit human."
"You have no idea what you are talking about."
"I'm not talking so much as doing. And I've been thinking about you for a very long time."
"Oh, piss off, child. I've told you. I'm not interested."
"No, no. Hear me out. I've been a fan of yours for years. Followed your career. It was you that inspired me to be a policeman. And I have watched that YouTube of you playing your violin at a police charity fundraiser more times than I can count."
"That was years ago. And had a tragic end. If you recall."
"Yeah. You shot Magnussen, whose news cameraman had shot you; figuratively speaking. I would love to know how you got away with that killing. Because you are the famous Sherlock Holmes, I guess. Which makes you no less fascinating, of course."
He inched closer.
"Why don't you invite me up? Play that wonderful Guarneri for me. Something other than the LeClair, though. For a change."
"No."
"Oh, go on. Invite me up. Tell me about this case. Tell me your methods. Tell me why you don't live with John Watson any more…."
"I do live with John Watson. He lives downstairs. With his child."
"Is that code for something?"
"Oh, for God's sake!"
Sherlock Holmes put up his hands and pushed Neil Redfern away with open palms. But the other man held on to his forearms; he was wiry, and stronger than he looked.
"You are very fanciable, Sherlock Holmes. Handsome sexy, and you even have brains. An irresistible combination."
"Why are you doing this? You know I don't want it – and it demeans you. How many times do I need to tell you I am not interested? Not in you. Not in anyone."
"Oh, come on, No-one is that suppressed. Not even you. Interesting though. Reaction formation is a fascinating tell. A defence mechanism in which emotions and impulses which are anxiety producing or perceived to be unacceptable are mastered by exaggeration of the directly opposing tendency. Level three of neurotic defence mechanisms; like dissociation, displacement, intellectualisation and repression."
"So you have been memorising Freud. How nauseating."
"But true."
"You think I reject your advances because I fear them? You have no idea who I am at all. I don't fear you. You merely irritate me."
"Not a bad start, then. Better than being blanked, you might say. So if you are no longer shagging Dr Watson…."
"I never was, and never have. Not that it is any of your business. And a quickie with you up against the wall is something very far from my thoughts. So put that idea out of your head."
"You are being very….forceful."
"Yes. I tend to be when people irritate me."
"I don't irritate you. I intrigue you."
"The size of your ego is the only intriguing thing about you."
"You see? I do fascinate you."
"Not in the way you think."
"Invite me up."
"Go away."
"Invite me up."
Their conversation was getting louder, angrier on one side, deeper and quieter on the other.
It seemed like an impasse, and in too many ways.
But it was another voice that broke the tension. A voice from upstairs at 221B.
"I hear voices. Sherlock? Is that you?" The door to 221B opened. Light flooded onto the dark landing, and there was suddenly a silhouette standing poised at the top of the stairs. "Where have you been? I have been waiting for you….."
He almost laughed at the shocked look on Detective Constable Neil Redfern's face. Then decided to throw his head back and laugh anyway.
"Saved by the bell!" he declared. "Well, saved by a bell like voice." Paused. Bent his head to Neil Redfern and winked. "That's my girl!" he confided quietly. Then repeated the words, calling, raising his voice.
"Oh, you are there!" Five steps – high heels on a wooden floor – had taken the person who had been in Sherlock Holmes' sitting room out onto the landing as she peered through the bannisters, looking down at them.
"Ah! My Sherlock! Home at last!"
"See? Told you – you are not welcome here. Now go away."
He watched the young man blush with embarrassment. Rake his fingers through his hair for something to do with his hands. Back away. Open the front door, step through and shut it quietly behind him without saying another word.
Sherlock Holmes looked up the stairs. Saw his known, but unexpected, visitor.
"Shameless girl, taking me by surprise like that! So what are you doing here?"
And, smiling his rare open and genuine smile, took his first step up the stairs to greet his visitor.
TO BE CONTINUED…..
Author's Notes:
David Hockney: (1937 -) Considered one of the UK's greatest artists of the C20th. Born in Yorkshire, a leader of the pop art movement.
Jean-Michel Basquiat: Died in 1988 aged 28, an influential American neo expressionist modernist artist who first gained notoriety for his graffiti on the Lower East Side. His paintings are now hugely popular and collectable.
James Patterson: (1854- 1932) Scottish landscape and portrait painter, one of the Glasgow Boys group of eminent artists. The Sussex windmill featured in many of his later works.
The Met: Shorthand for the Metropolitan Police Force in London. NSY, or NSYers are terms used, incorrectly, by American Fan fiction writers.
Catherine The Great: (1729 - 1796) Became ruler of Russia after toppling her husband, Peter III, from power. Her court became famous for it's entertainments and music, and she herself wrote the libretto for several operas. She was a famous moderniser of Russia, creating many new cities.
Babi Yar: In Russian – otherwise Babyn Yar – 33,000 Jews were slaughtered by Nazis over two days in September 1941. When Putin invaded Ukraine in February 2022 the memorial at the site was bombed, one of many attacking cultural historical sites.
Tower Hamlets: Created only in 1965, Tower Hamlets is a borough that contains much of the old East End and docklands of London. It is the most deprived area of London.
Russian Rings: modern versions, and rings presented as a necklace, are still available and popular.
Cough: UK slang for admitting what has been done.
Stolen art works: The case Redfern references is the true case of Hildebrand Gurlitt, whose Munich apartment searched in 2012 revealed more than 1,400 looted artworks from such artists as Picasso, Durer, Canaletto and Chagall, and estimated to be worth more than one billion dollars..