Sherlock Holmes: Before Baker Street by David Marcum (warren buffett book recommendations TXT) 📕

sometimes with a solemn and mysterious feel.” He gestured at the painting and glanced toward Holmes, who had remained strangely tacit the entire time. “Of course, we know what the mystery connected to the painting was. Eh?” Richardson, who had been pondering the illustration, silently glanced toward Sir Clive, who continued, “In any case, the Duke of Bedford hired Ward to paint this picture for this particular house, although we never did find out what the significance of this house was. According to the records, this house wasn’t built until 1808, and by then Ward had become somewhat separated from the Duke’s sphere of influence, having long since departed from the Bedfordshire home of his lordship, where he stayed for quite some time.”

“Old news,” Richardson snorted, his patience fractured. “I must be about other business. Good morning, gentlemen!” And he turned and left without a backward glance.

Sir Clive gave a short bark of a laugh – “No great loss!” –  and shook his head.

“You obviously have researched this subject,” I said. “And this painting is connected to the old case that you mentioned, Holmes?”

But my friend was staring fixedly at the bottom right corner of the painting, where the brown hill rippled as it dropped towards us, away from the subjects, cattle and otherwise. There was a slight crack there, and that corner appeared to be on a somewhat different plane of plaster.

Sir Clive followed his glance at the corner of the painting as well. “It will be gone in another ten years, I’m afraid.”

“Yes,” said Holmes. I leaned in to see the object of their comments.

Low in the corner, near the simple wooden frame that had been constructed around the painting, were a faint series of vertical marks, three rows of them. Each row was quite small, no more than a quarter-inch in height, and there appeared to be no pattern whatsoever. They looked to be composed of some sort of flaked metal, golden colored, that had been pressed on top of the paint.

“Is that – ?” I asked.

“Yes,” replied Holmes. “Gold leaf. Although there is less of it there now than there was back in 1875.”

“Is there gold under the painting? Is that why Mr. K-------- desires it?”

“No, no. Those markings were put there in 1811, not long after the painting was made, by a man who was staying here in this house at the time.”

“But why was gold leaf applied onto a painting such as this, with its otherwise unpleasant brownish tones?”

Sir Clive laughed with surprise. “You haven’t told him, then?”

Holmes shook his head, replying, “I thought that it would make for an interesting narrative later today. Can you join us ‘round the corner?”

Sir Clive shook his head. “Much as I would like to, I must get over to Ratham’s. The old scoundrel is auctioning a widow’s estate, and I promised that I would stop by.” He glanced at me. “Just when you thought you’d heard them all, Watson, it’s time for another one!”

With a last glance at the artwork, he turned to go, leading us back out to the street.

“Until we meet again, gentlemen,” he huffed as he fit himself back into the brougham. Then, with a lurch, it set off toward Great Russell Street, and so to the right and out of our sight.

Holmes gestured in the same direction, and I agreed. We set off at a leisurely pace. Mere moments later, after passing in front of the gates of the Museum, we were seated in the back of the Alpha Inn. It was a bit early in the morning for it, but we bravely faced the pints of the landlord’s excellent beer in front of us.

After taking a swallow, I cleared my throat and said, “I believe there was mention of an interesting narrative? Set back about 1875?”

Holmes nodded and fished in his coat. Pulling out a packet of folded and worn slips of paper, he flattened them and then tossed two upon the table, retaining the third. “What do you make of these?”

They were each three or four inches across, and the paper was quite worn. I picked them up. “They are old,” I said.

Holmes gave a short laugh. “Be careful how you toss around someone else’s dates so easily, my friend,” he smiled. “These are all that I have left of an odd little mystery that took up a day or so when I was but twenty-one, and had only been up to London for less than a year.”

“You brought them with you today when Sir Clive asked you to drop around at Montague Street.”

“Obviously. I still look back with fondness at this little case, and when I heard that someone else was considering, yet again, the purchase of the Ward painting from the No. 24 parlour, it seemed to be the perfect opportunity for a bit of reminiscing.”

I tapped the scrap on the left. “This looks like the gold leaf markings on the corner of the painting.” I lifted the sheets and examined them. “I assume it’s some sort of code. What about this other sheet?” I recalled what the American had said. “Were these other markings on the missing canvas version of the painting?”

Holmes, in the act of swallowing, lowered his glass and smiled. “Very good, Watson. You are correct. Shall I tell the entire tale wrong-way around, or would you like to hear it from the beginning?”

I returned the squares of paper to the table and nodded to for him to tell it in his own way. He was correct. This wasn’t some potboiler, after all, to be revealed just for the drama of the thing.

Settling back, Holmes began. “It was in the fall of ‘75. I had been in London a little over a year, having settled into Montague Street and working to