The Eccentric Painter (A Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tale) Read online

  The Eccentric Painter

  Steven Ehrman

  Copyright © 2013 Steven Ehrman

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1489561951

  ISBN-13: 978-1489561954

  “Outstanding, Holmes!” I cried.

  “The merest trifle, my dear doctor,” said he.

  The Adventure of the Iron Dog

  Works by the Same Author

  The Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tales

  The Eccentric Painter

  The Iron Dog

  The Mad Judge

  The Spider Web

  The Lambs Lane Affair

  The Frank Randall Mysteries

  The Referral Game

  The Visible Suspect

  The Zombie Civilization Saga

  Zombie Civilization: Genesis

  Zombie Civilization: Exodus

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To all those for whom Sherlock Holmes was an introduction to the world of literature.

  Chapter One

  It was a warm spring evening of 1883 as Sherlock Holmes and I strolled the streets of London. Holmes and I often took a constitutional after our evening meal and most especially when no case was at hand. Holmes had a temperament that loathed inactivity at times, and since his consulting detective skills were not being utilized, it was he who had suggested we tramp the streets of the fair city that evening. Holmes had engaged in a favorite pastime as we walked and had been deducing the trade of those that we had met. His skill at divining such matters from trivial items, such as the angle of a man’s hat, was uncanny. We were in a companionable silence as we approached our lodgings at 221B Baker Street, when Holmes came to an abrupt halt. His viselike grip clamped itself upon my arm.

  “Watson,” he cried. “It would appear that we have a visitor awaiting our return.”

  “Indeed, Holmes?” I said.

  “Indeed, and a woman. And not merely a woman, but a lady caller, Watson. You observe the lamp.”

  I glanced up at our rooms and saw that a lamp was lit, illuminating the sitting room that was most certainly not lit when we had left. Other than that change, I saw nothing that would indicate a caller or the sex of the caller.

  “Perhaps, Holmes,” I assayed. “Mrs. Hudson has merely lit the room upon anticipation of our return.”

  “Ah, but Mrs. Hudson was entertaining her nephew and his wife from Australia; nothing as mundane as a lamp would have pulled her from her reverie, and the piano music coming from her rooms informs us that she is still entertaining. No, Watson, Mrs. Hudson has escorted a client to our rooms.”

  As we mounted the steps, I was still skeptical.

  “But, Holmes, how can you tell the sex of our caller and the social status of that caller?”

  “It is simplicity itself, my dear Watson,” Holmes said blandly. “Since the small matter you described in your tales as the Adventure of the Incendiary Butcher, Mrs. Hudson has made it a policy not to leave gentlemen in our rooms without our presence.”

  I recalled the case of which Holmes spoke and shuddered at the close call we had during that episode. It was only the quick reaction Holmes made upon seeing the askew doormat that had saved us, but unfortunately, our rooms had suffered some damage, leading to a most recalcitrant Mrs. Hudson’s current policy.

  “A woman then I grant you, Holmes, but how do you deduce the caller is a lady?”

  We had halted momentarily at the top of the stairs.

  “Observe the open window, Watson,” said Holmes pointing upwards.

  The window to the sitting room had indeed been thrown open.

  “Mrs. Hudson has the common peculiarities toward class, and if the woman was not a lady she would never have opened a window to clear the air. As you know, Mrs. Hudson has a mania about stale tobacco smoke, and while she would never worry about the sensitivities of the working class, she would certainly feel it incumbent upon herself to shield a lady from the stale, poisonous atmosphere of our humble bachelor quarters.”

  As always, when Holmes explained his deductions they seemed remarkably simple. Holmes himself cared not for class and had refused many handsome fees from the nobility and the landed when the case did not appeal to him intellectually, while he had taken many cases during our association when the party concerned and the fee was quite humble.

  “Well then, what say we confirm your deductions with a simple walk up the stairs, Holmes?” I asked.

  He was in agreement, and I could see a heightened excitement about him as we ascended the stairs. The possibility of a case was just the tonic my friend needed. I had a persistent dread of any idleness for Holmes, as it was during these times that he had shown a propensity in the past to indulge in the use of cocaine to stimulate his great faculties. I had upbraided him in the past as his physician and friend, but it was only when the anticipation of a case was at hand did I fully let my guard down against a relapse into this vice.

  Chapter Two

  As we entered our rooms, it was apparent that Holmes had been correct in his deductions. Sitting in a chair by the fire was a young woman dressed in a fine black silk dress. She had alabaster skin with a cascade of auburn hair flowing down to her shoulders. She was a picture of feminine perfection with but a single mar. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying and she had a handkerchief to her eyes as we walked in. She sprang up at our entrance. Everything about her spoke of wealth and breeding.

  “Mr. Holmes,” she said, looking at both my companion and myself.

  She was unmistakably English, but an American accent was strongly present.

  “I am Sherlock Holmes, madam,” said Holmes, stepping forward. “And allow me to introduce my companion, Dr. Watson.”

  She nodded at both of us and turned her attention to Holmes.

  “The matter that has brought me to you, Mr. Homes, is a public one; but my concerns are for my family, and they are private. I had hoped to speak with you tête-à-tête,” she said with a nervous glance at me.

  I began to excuse myself but was brought to a halt by Holmes.

  “Dr. Watson assists me in all my investigations, Miss Livingstone. I assure you, I would be quite lost without his aid,” Holmes said blandly.

  The young woman started at the mention of the name Livingstone and took a step backwards.

  “Mr. Holmes, how is that you know my name? I told no one that I was coming to seek your help.”

  “My dear, Miss Livingstone,” began Holmes. “My friend, Dr. Watson, could inform you that I read nothing in the papers save the criminal news and the agony column, and the story of your uncle’s murder was featured quite prominently in the former. Your uncle, David Livingstone, was strangled last week at his country manor in Kent. An engraving of his portrait has appeared no less than three times during the interval. Your uncle had a definite aquiline appearance and a remarkable profile. You bear a striking resemblance to the portrait of him. This crime took place in the country and I perceive a blotch of red clay on your mourning dress that is certainly not native to London; I have written a slight monograph on the subject. Therefore you have come from the country. There was only one young lady associated with the story, that of his young niece, Miss Jane Livingstone. When we combine a young lady of breeding, who is in mourning, who comes from the country, and who bears a remarkable resemblance to a recently-murdered man of the gentry, your identity was simplicity itself.”
/>   The young lady whitened visibly as Holmes outlined his thinking and appeared on the verge of tears. As Holmes finished she appeared to be shivering, in spite of the mildness of the weather.

  “Miss Livingstone, please retake your seat by the fire,” said Holmes gently. “And, Watson, perhaps a dash of brandy is in order for our guest.”

  I speedily poured a bit of brandy into a snifter and laid it at the table next to the young lady. She did not drink, but nodded a thanks to me and resumed her seat. She composed herself quickly and turned to Holmes with a stolid expression.

  “It would seem that you know the events of the past week, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “Since you know that much, you must know why I am here.”

  “Miss Livingstone, I know only the facts as presented in the papers. As to your purpose, surely you wish to expose the murderer of your uncle.”

  I observed her nodding as Holmes spoke.

  “All of that, Mr. Holmes, and yet more. Since this dreadful crime, we have been harried by the police and by reporters. A cloud of suspicion hangs over my family that cannot be removed while the killer escapes justice. At first I felt that surely the police would solve the case quickly. A burglar or some sort of lunatic obviously committed the murder. Once that person was found, the accusations that have sullied the name of Livingstone would be cleansed away. However, as the days have passed, I begin to wonder if perhaps the police may never solve this dastardly crime and then what will become of us? We will forever have a darkened reputation. That is why I have come to you, Mr. Holmes. I beg of you to clear the name of my family.”

  She finished her story in a rush and was sitting in her chair breathing hard and fanning herself. Holmes had taken in her plea with his usual lack of emotion.

  “Miss Livingstone, I fear that I must refuse to take up any such investigation on the grounds in which you have spoken.”

  Miss Livingstone gasped, and I did as well. My heart had gone out to this lovely young woman as she had told her tale, and her plea had touched me. I was astonished at Holmes’s refusal to accept her commission. The lady regained her composure before I did.

  “But, Mr. Holmes, if it a question of your fee, I assure you that I can pay any amount you see fit,” she said.

  Holmes waved a hand in the air.

  “It is not a question of fee, my dear. Such matters do not concern me. The difficulty lies with your express wish to exonerate yourself and your family. Were I to undertake this matter I would search only for the truth, no matter where that truth might lie. Do you understand my objection?”

  “Of course, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “As an outsider, of course, you cannot be assured of the innocence of my family members, but I can assure you that I am; and I fear no investigation. I seek only to see justice served upon the foul murderer of my uncle. If you accept my commission, I pledge you a free hand and the cooperation of the members of my family.”

  “Very good,” said Holmes. “Now I have read the details in the papers, but I would like to hear the story from you. Begin at the beginning, and pray omit no detail no matter how small or insignificant you may deem it. The tiniest detail may hold the key to the riddle of this crime.”

  Holmes leaned back in his chair. His eyes became hooded and he brought his fingertips from each hand together in front of him in a characteristic pose with his chin upon his chest. I knew this meant that he was awaiting her narrative with full attention, but Miss Livingstone looked at me inquisitively for guidance. I sat down myself next to Holmes and nodded for her to begin. She began speaking in a soft voice, and I found myself leaning forward to catch every word, but she seemed to gain confidence as she went on and her voice became stronger.

  Chapter Three

  “I suppose the story really starts before I was born, Mr. Holmes,” she began. “My uncle was one of three brothers. The Livingstone family was a landed one, if not a titled one, and the life of a country squire must have seemed assured to the three boys. However, their father, my great uncle, became a notorious drinker and gambler and fell in with bad companions. Within a few years, and before any of the boys gained adulthood, my great uncle had run through what money generations had obtained. He fell heavily in debt, and in time the family estate was lost to creditors. The scandal greatly grieved my great aunt, and she died from melancholy. The three boys were now orphaned in their adolescence with few prospects. It must have been a grim sentence.

  “The oldest of the boys was my Uncle David. The youngest, George, was my father and the next oldest was Walter, who was my Cousin Harold’s father, and both were minors at the death of their parents. By ingenuity and intelligence, my Uncle David managed to keep his brothers together with him. He found work first as a common laborer and then eventually as a clerk in a major firm in London. He saw to it that his brothers received a proper English education, and their prospects seemed better if doomed to the working class. In 1849 the brothers all heard about the marvelous gold strikes in the United States and decided to attempt to make their respective fortunes in the American west. After a harrowing passage across the Atlantic, they made their way to California where the gold fields had been discovered.

  “Arriving late, they found most of the promising sites had already been claimed, and indeed found the entire state of California awash in perspective miners whose dreams had been dashed. My father and uncles were determined men. They decided to split up, and each began a lonely quest in a foreign land for the elusive riches of gold. My father and my Uncle Walter both married American women during these years, while Uncle David remained a bachelor. Whether through greater diligence or serendipity, both my Uncle David and Walter struck it rich about a year apart, whilst my own father continued the life of an itinerant miner, heading from field to field as new strikes were found, or as often was the case, merely rumored.

  “Uncle David, always the most prudent businessman of the brothers, sold his interests at the height of the gold hysteria and returned to England. He eventually used his great fortune to acquire the estate of the late Lord Tyrell in Kent. The manor house is centuries old and was crushed under a heavy mortgage and taxes, which enabled my uncle to purchase it and restore it to its former grace and nobility. He renamed it Livingstone Manor, though I daresay, the locals still refer to it as Tyrell Hall. He resided there for almost thirty years before he was killed.”

  At this point Miss Livingstone began to softly weep. Holmes, who could be quite gracious with ladies, spoke.

  “My dear, if the strain of the recent tragedy is too painful, perhaps we can continue this interview at a later time.”

  “No, Mr. Holmes,” said she gathering control of her emotions and sticking out a very determined chin. “I came to seek your aid and guidance, and in the memory of my uncle I will continue.”

  “A decidedly proper attitude, my child,” said he. “Pray continue.”

  “At this point my father and my Uncle Walter remained behind in America. Uncle Walter soon thereafter struck a rich vein of ore in a mine in which he had the majority stake, and was soon a wealthy man, if not as wealthy as his brother David. The amount, however, was certainly great enough to live comfortably forever. My Cousin Harold was born soon after this good fortune. Sadly though, the wealth brought no happiness to my Uncle Walter as the dissipation of the father manifested itself in the middle son. He began carousing with rough men in the fields; gambling, and cavorting with loose women.”

  At this point the young women blushed and halted her narrative.

  “Quite, quite,” said Holmes uncomfortably. “And then?”

  “Well, this scandalous behavior resulted in the death of Walter’s wife as it had done with his mother, and Walter soon found himself raising my Cousin Harold alone. The added responsibility and the shock of his wife’s death made no impression upon his dissolute ways. He quickly lost his entire fortune through bad investments and spendthrift ways. He died soon after of a brain hemorrhage brought on by heavy drinking and rough living. My Cousin Harold found
himself an orphan child, much as his father and uncles had found themselves in their childhoods. My Uncle David, upon discovering the awful news brought Harold back to England and has raised him in his bachelor household. While he never formally adopted Harold, he educated him at the finest schools and treated him as well as any son could expect.

  “My own father remained in search of his fortune. While never wealthy in the material sense, he and mother were happy together, and when I was born, the family was complete. As the only brother not to find wealth in the rustic west of America, my father worked incredibly hard. While he occasionally made small strikes, it was never enough to return to England. I was raised in any number of rude mining camps. It was a rough and tumble life, but we were happy. In time though, the life of the itinerant miner proved very perilous. My father had several close calls involving gunplay, defending his claims from those who would succeed from the sweat of his work. Finally, several years ago, my father was mortally wounded from such an encounter and died in the American state of South Dakota.”

  As she mentioned her father’s death, my own hand stole to the wound in my shoulder where a jezail bullet had ended my army career and nearly ended my life. Holmes glanced at me, noticing the movement, and then motioned Miss Livingstone to continue.

  “My father was buried in the same ground in which he had sought his fortune, and my mother and I made plans to return to England. These plans though, were regrettably not to be, Mr. Holmes. My mother became sickened with dysentery before we could depart, and followed my father to the grave within a month of his demise. I was alone in the world, save my Uncle David and Cousin Harold. Just as Uncle David had done with my cousin, he took in my unfortunate soul, and I too became a denizen of his household. Though filled with sadness at the loss of my parents, I have lived a happy life with my uncle until last week.”