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

“‘No,’ Clive answered with certainty. ‘The plaster painting is clearly the meadow lands near Camden Town, with the northern heights in the distance – at least how they looked sixty-five years ago.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve seen something of the sort before.’

“‘But perhaps the house in the painting . . . .’ Edward added hopefully.

“‘Not likely. If it was a real house, it looks as if it was headed for collapse, even then. And that area is greatly built up since those days. It certainly would have been pulled down long ago.’

“Edward looked as if the wind had gone out of his sails, but I had noticed something on the painting on the wall.”

“The little vertical lines in gold leaf in the right hand corner.”

“Ah, Watson, my bag of tricks is truly emptied. You see right through me. I can remain in Sussex, and you can take over here in London.”

“That role is already being capably handled by your protégé in Praed Street, not to mention our Belgian friend in Farraway Street and Thorndyke in King’s Bench Walk. No, I was able to see where this was going from years spent getting events down in my journal in a linear manner.”

Holmes smiled, drank the last of his beer, and continued. “As Clive and Edward had talked, I began to notice, in the last rays of sunlight streaming through the high windows, the glint of the lines to which you referred. Stepping closer, I saw, well, I saw this . . . .” And he put a finger on this sketch:

“Calling Clive over, I asked him what he thought. He leaned closer, and then stepped back, scanning the entire painting. ‘No, it only appears in that corner. I wonder what it could mean . . . .’

“A sudden thought occurred to me. ‘Top to bottom. Side to side. I wonder – ” Stepping over to one of the residents sitting in a deep chair underneath the window, an unhealthy looking student obviously from Aberdeen with three sisters and a secret shame that he wasn’t hiding very well, I asked to borrow a few sheets of paper. He nodded wordlessly and handed me these very sheets you see before you, upon which I sketched the lines and copied the little verse.

“Clive and Edward looked puzzled, but I reached and took the canvas painting, stepping to a side table. They quickly caught my intent, and joined me, each looking for matching gold-leaf lines on that picture as well. As it was much smaller, only about two feet square, it quickly became obvious that there was no golden glint whatsoever. But I did see another set of lines, the lines copied on this other sheet of paper here. Not in gold, but in blacks and browns. And not vertical, like in the mantel painting, but rather horizontal.”

“Side to side,” I said.

“Yes. On one of the rocks that were lining the stream.” He rearranged the sheets on the table, turning the second that I’d also placed in the vertical position on its side. “So now they looked like this from the parlour painting . . . .”

“And this from the canvas painting . . .” he continued, placing the other beneath it.

“They almost line up,” I muttered.

I examined them again, realized after almost grasping it that none of it yet made sense, and admitted as much. “Ah, Watson, remember the poem. It was the only clue that Richard sent to his father. There had to be enough there to solve it. Perhaps there was some shared reference point between the two in their past that Richard thought his father would understand. The first stanza clearly refers to the lines in the paintings – top to bottom and side to side – and the feud that had sprung up between father and son. The second and third elaborate on Richard’s division from his family and the taking of the dagger. But the last stanza – that was the answer.”

I read it again, aloud. “Not to be found ‘til divide is combined. The paintings are key. The treasure you’ll find.” And suddenly it made sense. Top to bottom, side to side . . . combined. Holmes smiled when he saw me catch up, and leaned back with a satisfied sigh when I picked up the two sheets and carried them over to the window. It wasn’t as bright as I would have liked out in Museum Street, as the morning light had still not quite illuminated it. But it was enough. Laying one sheet atop the other, I pressed them up against the glass and read the message, formed when the vertical and horizontal lines combined.

“‘BESIDE THE BOULDER’.”

“Precisely.”

Turning, I asked, “And did you hold the sheets up to the parlour window when you figured it out?”

“The sun had already set behind the Museum at that point. I positioned them in front of one of the lamps.”

I returned to the table, folding the three pages. Offering them to Holmes, he waved them back to me. “For the archives, Doctor.”

I resumed my seat, wondering about another beer. It was later than before, and listening was thirsty work. Not to mention following in the footsteps of Sherlock Holmes.

My friend must have divined my thoughts, for he stepped to the bar, returning in a moment with two fresh pints. “Shall we adjourn in a bit for lunch at Simpsons?” he asked, checking his watch, and I agreed.

Wiping my mouth, I said, “I think I understand. Was it the boulder shown beside the stream in front of the manor house?”

He nodded. “Yes. In the canvas painting, where the horizontal lines are marked across the stone.”

“Without knowing about the second painting in Montague Street, in spite of the reference to paintings,