The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

The Adventure of The Tomb on the Hill

My note-book records that it was in the third week of February, 1883, that the singular business of Mr Dryson’s strange oil painting was brought to the attention of my friend, Sherlock Holmes. It was a cold, wet period and I was reading in the morning paper of the flooding that had afflicted many low-lying parts of the country, when there came a ring at the front-door bell. A moment later, a smartly dressed, middle-aged gentleman was shown into our sitting-room and introduced himself as Everard Dryson.

‘What can we do for you, Mr Dryson?’ said Holmes, taking his visitor’s hat and coat and ushering him into a chair by the fireside.

‘The fact is,’ returned Dryson, ‘I have had the strangest experience. I really can’t think what to make of it and I was hoping you might be able to look into it for me.’

‘Certainly,’ said Holmes, rubbing his hands together in delight at the prospect of an interesting commission. A new case of any sort was welcome to him, for he had had little to do for two or three days and had begun to chafe at this enforced idleness. ‘Pray, let us have the details.’

‘It is soon told,’ said the other. ‘I am a bachelor and have a house just round the corner from here, in Gloucester Place. One of my interests is in oil paintings, of which I now have a fair number. There is no particular theme to my collection – I simply buy what takes my fancy – although I do have a taste for landscapes and rural scenes. About three months ago, I bought a painting entitled The Tomb on the Hill from the Marchmont Gallery in Bond Street. It depicts a raised stone tomb in a rural setting, with trees about it, fields in the background and so on. I thought when I first saw it that it had perhaps been inspired by that well-known painting of Poussin’s, but in fact I understand that the scene depicted is not an imaginary one, but a real one, in the north of England. Apparently, some member of the Eldersly family who had soldiered abroad for many years willed that when he died his tomb should be placed on a hill overlooking his estates in Yorkshire. Anyhow, in the foreground a rustic figure is inspecting the tomb and wandering about are a number of small animals. Visible on the side of the tomb are several lines of carved lettering. You will understand in a moment why I am mentioning these details.

‘Yesterday, I was out for most of the afternoon. When I returned I was informed by my housekeeper, Mrs Larchfield, that two workmen had called in my absence to deliver a flat wooden crate, such as might have contained a large painting. She told them that we were not expecting such a delivery, but they showed her a handwritten note with my name and address on it, so she let them in and they carried their crate into the drawing-room. While one of them was unfastening the crate, the other had a sort of coughing fit and asked her if he could trouble her for a glass of water. She was a little dubious about leaving them alone in the drawing-room, but as the man was still coughing, she could hardly refuse his request. When she returned with the water, she was surprised to see that they had not proceeded to open their crate.

‘“The fact is, madam,” said the one who seemed to be in charge, “that I have realised that you are right and we are wrong. This sheet of paper with Mr Dryson’s name and address on it is an old one which we have been given in error. We shall have to go back to the shop and get the matter sorted out. I am very sorry that we have troubled you.”

‘With that, the men picked up their wooden crate again and left the house with it. This all struck Mrs Larchfield as rather odd, and after the men had gone she had a good look round the drawing-room to make sure that they had not stolen anything. When I came home she told me all about it and I, too, made a careful examination of the room but found nothing amiss. It was only later, after supper, that I noticed a very strange thing.

‘I had been thinking about the Marchmont Gallery and wondering if the delivery men had come from there, and I suppose it was this train of thought that made me look at the last painting I had bought from them, The Tomb on the Hill, to which I referred. No doubt when I had had a look round the room earlier, I had merely glanced at this painting and had not really looked closely at it. Now I saw to my utter astonishment that although the picture and frame appeared exactly as before in almost every way, there was one small but crucial change. The words carved on the tomb were now quite different from what they had been.’

‘How very curious,’ remarked Holmes. His tone was one of puzzlement, but there was an unmistakable look of delight upon his face, as of a wine connoisseur who has just taken his first sip of a particularly fine vintage. ‘Were there any obvious signs that the painting had been altered by hand?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Then we must assume that while your housekeeper was out of the room, the men substituted a painting that was in their packing-case for the one hanging on the wall.’

‘I suppose you must be right.’

‘Is the new painting an inferior copy of the original?’

Dryson shook his head. ‘It is signed by the same artist, A.R. Philips. Of course, I realise that the signature in itself would prove nothing, but the picture does appear to be by the same hand. Besides, my painting is not particularly valuable. It is not by an “Old Master”, or anything like that, but by a young artist who is currently active.’

‘Do you know anything of the artist?’

‘Not really. I seem to remember hearing that he has a studio out Putney way and has exhibited at the Royal Academy. I believe he is moderately popular without being very well known, if you know what I mean. If you are right, he must have painted two or more versions of the same scene, I suppose, although why he should do so and why someone should wish to steal mine and leave another in its place, I cannot imagine.’

‘Hum! I think I should like to see this painting, Mr Dryson,’ said Holmes, rising to his feet. ‘Would that be possible?’

‘Certainly. We can walk round to my house in just a few minutes.’

Entering Mr Dryson’s drawing-room was somewhat like entering an Aladdin’s cave, so full was it of objets d’art of all types, shapes and sizes. The painting we had come to see was hanging in a prominent place to the right of the window. It was a fairly large picture, the overall size including the frame being about two feet wide and two and a half feet tall. Depicted in it, as Holmes’s client had described, was a large stone tomb. Around the tomb were a few young trees and beyond it the land dropped away to a broad fertile plain which stretched far into the distance, to where a row of purple hills marked the horizon. On the plain, a few sheep were dotted about and in the far distance was a small fountain of some kind, with a jumble of rocks about it, upon which the water was falling. In the foreground, a rustic figure in leather gaiters and a battered soft hat was leaning on a stout staff as he gazed upon the tomb. About his feet and a little behind him, among the trees, were a few small rabbits, and two or three ducks were waddling past the tomb. Clearly visible on the side of the tomb were the following lines:

‘Do you recall the tomb inscription on your own picture?’ Holmes asked his client.

‘Yes,’ answered Dryson. ‘I made a note of it in case you asked.’ He passed us a sheet of note-paper, upon which I read the following:

‘This inscription would certainly not win any poetry prizes,’ said Holmes with a chuckle. ‘Do you know which of them – if either – is on the tomb in Yorkshire?’

‘I’m afraid I have no idea.’

‘Are there any other differences between this picture and your own?’

‘That little fountain in the distance is not on mine,’ replied Dryson. ‘Apart from that, the only difference I can see is in the number of ducks and rabbits. There are definitely more of both in this picture.’

Holmes then carefully lifted the picture from the wall and turned it round. ‘Hum!’ said he. ‘The back of this picture has recently been removed and then replaced, using the original tacks. There is a label on the back from the Marchmont Gallery, so this picture is from the same source as your own, Mr Dryson. You had no idea when you purchased your picture that there was another one, almost identical to it?’

‘No, I hadn’t. I had seen it in Marchmont’s window for a few days and looked at it several times, wondering if I should get it. Eventually I went in and enquired about it and the proprietor, a Mr Appleby, informed me that they were selling it as agents for a client of theirs, a widow whose late husband had amassed quite a large collection of works of art which she now wished to trim a little, as she was about to move to a smaller house. He told me the price she was asking for the picture and I went home to consider the matter further. The next day, having made my mind up, I returned and made them an offer – which was a little less than the asking price – and two days later I had a note from them to say that the seller had accepted my offer.’

‘Do you know the seller’s name?’

‘No. I don’t think it was ever mentioned.’

‘I think we should try to find out a little more about these pictures. Will you come to the Marchmont Gallery with us, Mr Dryson? They are more likely to give us the information we seek if you are present.’

Dryson was quite amenable to accompanying us and fifteen minutes later we were pushing open the door of the gallery, where we were welcomed by a tall, bald-headed man, who introduced himself to us as Mr Appleby.

‘My friend, Mr Dryson, recently bought a painting here,’ said Holmes.

‘Indeed. I remember it well,’ returned Appleby. ‘The Tomb on the Hill. Is there some problem with it?’

‘No, but he has recently learnt that there is another version of the same painting, also sold by you, I believe, and he is curious as to who owns that one.’

‘It is not our policy to divulge the names and addresses of our private clients.’

‘Of course, I understand that. But in this case, Mr Dryson simply wishes to examine the two paintings together, out of artistic curiosity. He is sure the other gentleman would be as interested as he is to see them displayed side by side.’

‘That might prove somewhat difficult to arrange,’ said Appleby.

‘Why is that?’ asked Dryson. ‘Is the owner away?’

Appleby shook his head. ‘Have you not heard?’ said he in surprise. ‘It was in the local paper. The other version of the painting was stolen last week. Two men forced their way into the owner’s house while he was out, overpowered his housekeeper and left with the painting. The matter is now in the hands of the police, so I understand.’

‘Do you know which police station is dealing with the case?’ asked Holmes.

‘Chelsea, I believe,’ returned Appleby, ‘as that is where the owner lives.’

‘Thank you,’ said Holmes. ‘As you will imagine, we are curious to know how you came to be selling two very similar copies of the same painting.’

‘They both happened to come on the market at the same time.’

‘From different sellers?’

‘No, the same seller – the widow to whom I referred in a previous conversation with Mr Dryson.’

‘It seems odd that she should have had two copies of the same painting. Might we know her name?’

Appleby hesitated. ‘Ordinarily, my client’s wish for privacy would preclude my giving you that information. As it happens, however, the lady in question has an appointment to see us this morning.’ He glanced at a clock on the wall. ‘She is due here in about ten minutes’ time. If you wish, you may wait and put your questions to her yourself.’

For a few minutes, we ambled round the gallery, idly examining the various objets d’art on display there, then Holmes indicated that we should join him in the street outside.

‘There is something odd here,’ said he, as we stood on the kerb, a short distance from the shop. ‘Did you feel it, Watson?’

‘Mr Appleby is very stiff and formal in his manner,’ I remarked, unsure what my companion had in mind.

‘Yes,’ said he; ‘but I fancy there is something more than mere formality. It seemed to me that there was a distinct look of apprehension in his eye when I began to question him, as if there were something else, other than simply names and addresses, that he did not wish us to know.’

He broke off as a smartly dressed woman approached the door of the Marchmont Gallery. She was, I suppose, nearer fifty than forty, but her face was an attractive, almost youthful one, and her carriage was erect and graceful. As this appeared likely to be the seller of Mr Dryson’s picture, we followed her into the shop, where Appleby introduced us.

‘There is not much I can tell you about the paintings,’ said she, when Holmes had explained our interest. ‘My late husband was the great collector of such things, not I.’

‘It seems odd that your husband should have had two paintings of the same scene,’ observed Holmes.

The lady smiled and shook her head. ‘I quite agree; but for some reason he seemed very keen on it – I don’t know why. We had a large house at the time, near Bethnal Green, with a large room on either side of the front door, and my husband hung a copy of The Tomb on the Hill in both of them. When I asked him about it, he just said he wished to be able to look at the picture whichever of the rooms he was in. The artist, a charming young man by the name of Andrew Philips, whom I met on several occasions, had originally painted the scene for the Eldersly family, who have estates in Yorkshire, I believe. The tomb is apparently that of some ancestor of theirs who soldiered abroad for much of his life. Anyway, they gave Mr Philips permission to enter it for the Royal Academy exhibition, and it was there that my husband saw it and was so taken with it that he asked if he might have a copy. Neither the Eldersly family nor Mr Philips raised any objection to this, nor, evidently, to there being two copies, which was what Mr Philips brought to our house in due course. That was about three years ago. Perhaps there was something in the theme of the tomb that appealed to my husband, but it seems a little morbid to me, for it was about that time that my husband first fell ill – a long illness to which he finally succumbed last summer.’

‘Might we know your husband’s name?’ enquired Holmes. ‘Then we can look out for any more of his collection which might come on to the market.’

‘Why, certainly,’ said the lady. ‘His name was Henry Cosgrove. You may have heard of him, as he was a prominent lawyer in his day, with a well-known and busy practice in Whitechapel.’

‘Thank you. And the artist’s address, in case we wish to look him up?’

‘He has a cottage to the west of Putney. I can’t remember the name of it, but you can’t miss it, as it stands all by itself. He says the air there is the clearest in the whole of London, which is why he chose it. The nearest station is the one on Barnes Common.’

‘What a very charming woman,’ said Dryson when the three of us were out in the street once more.

‘Indeed,’ I agreed. ‘What a delightful voice she has! And what poise!’

‘And yet,’ said Holmes with a chuckle, ‘all the time she was discoursing in so charming a manner, her fingers were clutching the bag she was carrying as a drowning man might clutch at a straw. What, you did not observe it? So tightly was she gripping it that I thought she might rend it in two.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘I don’t know, Watson. Perhaps there was something that Mrs Cosgrove was anxious we might ask her, something she would rather not discuss. But, come! I wish to make a few enquiries at Chelsea police station.’

Dryson asked if he might accompany us, to which Holmes raised no objection, and in twenty minutes we had reached the police station. Our visit there was but a brief one. The officer on duty informed us that a Mr Gerald Tacolstone of Oakley Street had reported the assault upon his housekeeper and the theft of his painting the previous week. ‘But,’ he said, ‘we have had a message from him this very morning, to say that his picture has been returned. It seems that someone rang at his door-bell early this morning and when his housekeeper went to answer it she found there was no one there, but a large packing-case had been left, leaning up against the railings. She and Mr Tacolstone took it into the house and, when they opened it, found it contained his painting.’

‘Unharmed?’

‘Apparently so. In any case, the matter is out of our hands now. The day after the robbery, we had a message from Scotland Yard to say that one of the detective officers there, Mr G. Lestrade, would be taking over the case. If you wish to know any more about the matter, Mr Lestrade is probably the man to ask.’

‘I wonder why Lestrade became involved,’ murmured Holmes, as we stood for a moment on the street outside the police station. ‘As you now have a different version of the painting, Mr Dryson, it seems very likely that the one you have is Mr Tacolstone’s and the one he has is yours. But I think we ought to verify this curious transposition of paintings by paying that gentleman a visit.’

Twenty minutes later, therefore, we presented ourselves at Mr Tacolstone’s house in Oakley Street. A stout, rubicund gentleman, with a glint of humour in his eye, he listened with interest as we described to him Mr Dryson’s experience and our subsequent enquiries.

‘Do you know,’ said he at last, ‘I am very glad that you have come, for it has quite taken a weight off my mind. I had begun to think I must be going mad. When my picture was returned, so I thought, I rushed to send a note round to the police station, telling them as much. I didn’t want them to waste any more time on enquiries now that I had the stolen item back. But I hadn’t looked at the picture properly when I sent off my note and, when I did so, I discovered to my astonishment that although the picture was largely the same as before, certain small details in it had been changed. I didn’t feel that I could bother the police again over the matter – I thought they would consider me a perfect idiot – and then I began to doubt my own memory of how the picture had been before. I had no reason to suppose, you see, that there was more than one copy of the picture. But now, although the mystery is not cleared up, it is at least a different mystery from what I had at first supposed and does not reflect on my own sanity in any way.’

He took us through to another room, which was as much of an Aladdin’s Cave as Mr Dryson’s drawing-room. Propped up on a chair was The Tomb on the Hill and Dryson at once bent to examine it. ‘Yes, this is undoubtedly my version,’ he said at length.

‘Well, you are welcome to it, I am sure,’ said Tacolstone with a merry chuckle. ‘The tomb inscription on this one is even poorer than the one on my copy and this one also lacks the odd little fountain in the distance.’

‘That is true,’ said Dryson, laughing, ‘but at least this one is not quite so infested with rabbits as your copy!’

Holmes made a brief examination of the picture, including the back, which he indicated to me had been removed and replaced just as the other one had, then for some time he stood in silent thought, as the two art collectors joked about the relative merits of their pictures. ‘I think,’ said he at length, interrupting the flow of their humour, ‘that there is more to this singular business than any of us can know at present. What I propose is that you bring your pictures round to my chambers at six o’clock this evening and leave them with me for twenty-four hours so that I can examine them together more carefully. After that, each can be returned to its rightful owner.’

Both men readily agreed to this proposal and we left them in a jocular discussion of their hobby, their laughter ringing in our ears as we made our way up to the King’s Road.

‘Do you intend to go to see Inspector Lestrade?’ I asked, as we looked for a cab.

‘Later,’ returned my companion. ‘First I should like to have a word with the creator of these singular pictures, Andrew Philips, who may be able to tell us a little more about how they came to be commissioned. Would you care to come?’

‘Most definitely,’ I replied. ‘I am keen to get to the bottom of the mystery!’

We took a cab across Putney Bridge and along the road towards Richmond, alighting some forty minutes later at Barnes station. It was a surprisingly wild and untamed spot, considering its proximity to London. I could see that in the summer months the heath must have presented a very attractive appearance, but now the bare, leafless trees and marshy ground had a desolate, woebegone look, which was not improved by the wraiths of fog that drifted this way and that with every slight movement of the chilly air. For some time we tramped over muddy tracks from one narrow road to another without seeing any sign of life, until rounding a bend we came upon a small cottage, standing in isolation by the side of the road. Our knock at the door was answered by an unkempt and unshaven young man with a small tumbler in his hand. Bluntly, in a slurred voice, he asked us what we wanted.

‘You are Andrew Philips?’ asked Holmes.

‘What if I am?’

‘We wish to discuss your paintings with you.’

‘I am not in the discussing vein this morning.’

‘It will only take a few moments of your time,’ Holmes persisted, ‘and you might be able to help us solve a little mystery.’

‘Oh, very well,’ said the young man in a grudging tone. ‘Come in and make yourselves at home.’

We followed him into the cottage and through to a large room at the back, which was clearly his studio. A couple of easels stood in the centre of the room, although there was nothing on them, and paintbrushes, rags and tubes of paint were scattered about everywhere. Along the back wall of the room, a broad row of windows looked out across the common.

‘Now,’ said Philips, re-filling his glass from a bottle of whisky. ‘What do you want? Do you want a tot of this? No? Well, what do you want, then? The Tomb on the Hill?’ he repeated in a bored tone, as Holmes explained the purpose of our visit. ‘I don’t remember anything about it – well, perhaps I do: Colonel Sir Spedding Eldersly came home to England about a hundred years ago after a distinguished military career abroad and stipulated that when he died he shouldn’t be buried in the church, but at the very edge of the churchyard, overlooking his estates. So he was. Then, a hundred years later, some esteemed descendant of his decided he’d like a painting of the tomb and the view beyond it, and asked me to do it. So I did. It was quite a decent painting, if I say so myself, and it was accepted for the Royal Academy exhibition that year before disappearing off up to Yorkshire, which is where the Eldersly estates are. There. Is that it?’

‘Someone saw it at the exhibition and asked if he might have a copy,’ Holmes prompted.

‘Oh, him! Some solicitor wanted a copy, Eldersly didn’t mind and I needed the money, so that was that.’

‘But there were two copies made, I believe.’

‘So there were. He came to see me when I was halfway through it and said he’d like a second copy. I didn’t mind. It was a bit boring for me, but the money was good, so I did it.’

‘There were some differences between the two paintings, I think.’

‘That’s true. All three of them were different, in various little ways. “Can I have more rabbits in this one?” he said, and “Can I have more ducks in that one?” Of course, I didn’t care. He could have had six pink elephants in one of them if he’d wanted it. “He who pays the piper calls the tune”, as they say.’

‘And the inscriptions on the tomb?’

‘Yes, he was very particular about those. Load of humbug, really. They didn’t make much sense. Think he fancied himself as something of a poet. If he’d asked my opinion, I’d have told him to stick to the law.’

‘Have you a record of the inscriptions?’

‘I might have,’ Philips replied, springing abruptly to his feet. He yanked open a door at the side of the room, revealing a narrow, twisting staircase. Up this his feet clattered, we heard him moving about upstairs for a few moments, then he clattered back down again with a small note-book in his hand. ‘I’ve got the original inscription here somewhere,’ he said, turning over the pages. ‘Yes, here we are. I copied it off the tomb on the Eldersly estate. I spent a couple of weeks up in Yorkshire and then brought the picture back here to finish it off, which also gave me a better chance of entering it in the Royal Academy exhibition.’

He passed the open book across to us and I read the following:

‘Do you have a record of the tomb inscriptions for the other two pictures?’ asked Holmes.

Philips shook his head. ‘The solicitor had written them out for me, along with a lot of other instructions, but he told me to make sure I brought all the papers back with me when I took the finished pictures to his house in Bethnal Green. I don’t know why he was so fussy about it. Perhaps he was embarrassed at how miserably poor his attempts at poetry were. I know I would have been!’

We thanked him for the information he had provided and he showed us to the door. ‘You’re lucky you’ve found me here,’ he said. ‘I won’t be here much longer. My lease on this old ruin runs out in two weeks and I’m moving somewhere a little more fashionable – Sydney Street in Chelsea, to be precise. I used to think that landscapes were the thing, but they’ve gone right out of fashion, I’m afraid. Society portraits is the field to be in now, so that’s where I’m going – painting flattering pictures of the rich and famous – or those who’d like to be.’

‘Best of luck with that, then,’ said Holmes with a chuckle.

‘We don’t yet seem to have discovered anything of significance,’ I remarked to my companion as we waited for a train on the platform of Barnes station.

‘Perhaps not,’ he replied, ‘but that in itself is instructive. It suggests that all those little things that we have discovered – that Henry Cosgrove’s pictures were not only different from the original painting, but also from each other, and that the backs of both these pictures have been recently removed and replaced – will only reveal their true significance when some fresh fact, as yet unknown, presents itself. These things are like the inner parts of a lock, those pieces of metal of different shapes which are of no significance whatever until one particular key is inserted, when the significance of both their shape and their position at once becomes apparent. I am hopeful that Inspector Lestrade can supply us with that key.’

When we reached Scotland Yard, Lestrade was out, but he was not long in returning and it was with a look of surprise that he showed us into a small cramped office. ‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’ he asked as he closed the door.

In a few words, Sherlock Holmes described to him Mr Dryson’s odd experience and the trail of enquiry which had taken us from the Marchmont Gallery, via Chelsea to Barnes Common. ‘And now, Lestrade,’ said Holmes, ‘you must tell us why you are taking such an interest in the matter.’

‘Our interest goes back far beyond the present business, to something else,’ the policeman replied after a moment. ‘It was somewhat before your time, Mr Holmes, but I know you have studied some of our old records, so I think if I were to say just three words to you, you would understand.’

‘And those three words are?’ said Holmes, raising his eyebrow as Lestrade paused.

‘The Bellecourt diamonds.’

I saw a look of recognition come upon Holmes’s features, but Lestrade’s words meant nothing to me and I told him so.

‘You see, Dr Watson,’ said the policeman, who appeared to be enjoying his position of superior knowledge, ‘our interest doesn’t go back just a few days, or even a few months, but many years. I know that some people enjoy making merry at the police’s expense for our not acting quickly enough on occasion, but although we cannot always act as swiftly as a private individual might, our reach, let me tell you, is a very long one. The Metropolitan Police never close a case until it is finally and completely settled. Now, it was, as I say, well before your time, but in the spring of 1871 there was a daring robbery at Bellecourt & Co, the great diamond house in Hatton Garden. The night-watchman was very badly beaten and the thieves got away with a large quantity of stones, valued at the time at nearly twenty thousand pounds. We eventually caught every member of the gang, but we never recovered any of the gems. The ringleader claimed he had passed them to a Dutch confederate, who was supposed to dispose of them in Amsterdam and bring the proceeds back to London, but as the name he gave us was completely unknown to the Dutch police and could not be traced, we concluded that the story was untrue and that the diamonds were still in this country. The newspapers filled their columns with it for some time – ‘‘Where are the Bellecourt diamonds?’’ and so on – and encouraged half the population of London to look for them. But although a large reward was offered for their discovery, the diamonds were never found.

‘At their trial, the four members of the gang were sentenced to various prison terms. One died in prison, a second was released four years ago and emigrated to Australia shortly afterwards, a third came out three years ago and seems to be a reformed character. That only leaves the fourth man, the ringleader of the gang and the man we have always suspected had the diamonds. He was released from Dartmoor just two weeks before Christmas.’ Lestrade paused and looked at Holmes, a teasing expression on his features. ‘No doubt you would like to know the name of this man.’

‘It might be helpful, as you seem to think he has some relevance to our case,’ returned Holmes placidly.

‘His name,’ said Lestrade with a chuckle, ‘is Albert Cosgrove, brother of the late solicitor whose widow you have met. Something else you won’t know, incidentally, as that, too, was before your time, is that Mrs Henry Cosgrove was once better known as Lucy Lambert, the darling of the music halls. I remember going to see her myself – when you two gentlemen were no doubt still schoolboys – and a very fine singer and actress she was, too. But not long after she married Henry Cosgrove she gave up the stage for good, more’s the pity.’

‘I see,’ said Holmes in a thoughtful tone. ‘So, to sum up, we have a fortune in diamonds, stolen and never recovered, and the principal villain in the robbery recently released from Dartmoor. What is the official view of the matter?’

‘It is believed that Albert Cosgrove gave the diamonds to his brother Henry for safe-keeping shortly before his arrest.’

‘This brother was a solicitor, I understand, so he could not have had a criminal record, otherwise he would not have been allowed to practise.’

‘That’s true. To speak plainly, we were never sure about Henry Cosgrove. He could have been as straight as a die for all we knew, or he could have been crooked. What is certain is that we were never able to pin any wrong-doing upon him, although we often suspected he wasn’t quite as upright as he appeared to be. He knew everybody who was anybody in the East End, including some decidedly shady characters for whom he acted as solicitor when they got into difficulties with the law.’

‘What makes you think that Cosgrove passed the diamonds to his brother?’ I asked. ‘Surely there were other ways, safer ways, he could have hidden them?’

Lestrade shook his head. ‘We were close on his trail for several days before we caught up with him. He must have known that it was only a matter of time before we got him and that he was likely to get put away for a long time when we did. He couldn’t tell what might happen in his absence. If he had hidden them under the floorboards somewhere, the house he hid them in might have been taken over by other people and the diamonds accidentally discovered by some stranger, or, for all he could tell, the house might have been knocked down altogether and something else built in its place. So he had to leave them with someone he could trust and the only person he could really trust was his brother, Henry. Albert Cosgrove knew a lot of people and a lot of people knew him, but he was never very popular. He may have been well connected among his own sort, but the connections were all based on stark fear, rather than any affection, and I don’t think he would have trusted anyone with a penny of his money. With his brother, Henry, however, he was on safer ground. It may be, of course, that Henry didn’t want anything to do with it, but if Albert had pushed a bag of diamonds into his hand, he may have felt unable to refuse his help. In the first place, blood is thicker than water, as they say, and in the second, Albert Cosgrove is a powerful and violent man, and few have ever dared say “no” to him.’

Sherlock Holmes had listened in silence to Lestrade’s account. Now he nodded his head in agreement. ‘I imagine you are correct,’ said he. ‘But now Cosgrove is out of prison only to find that in the meantime his brother has died and his brother’s widow has moved house. Where, then, are the Bellecourt diamonds?’

‘We have had plain-clothes men watching Cosgrove all the time, to see what he would do,’ said Lestrade. ‘We have also,’ he added in a lower tone, ‘got a source of information close to Cosgrove himself. One of his old cronies is keeping us informed as to his movements.’

‘With any results?’

‘Not so far. Mrs Cosgrove now lives in a new house at Higham’s Park, out Chingford way, and Cosgrove went out there to see her soon after his return to London. What passed between them, we don’t know, but our information is that he doesn’t yet have the diamonds and is talking of going to see her again, so evidently Mrs Cosgrove couldn’t – or wouldn’t – tell him what he wanted to know.’

‘And what is your interest in the painting of the tomb?’

‘The day after he visited his sister-in-law, Cosgrove was followed to that picture gallery in Bond Street, where he spent some time. I later questioned the proprietor, a Mr Appleby, who told me that Cosgrove had wanted to know who had bought the two copies of Mrs Cosgrove’s painting. He says he didn’t tell him, but I don’t believe him.’

‘Nor me,’ interrupted Holmes. ‘I can see no other way the thieves could have learnt the addresses of Dryson and Tacolstone. I imagine that Cosgrove offered a bribe which Appleby couldn’t resist.’

‘Either that or threatened him with violence,’ said Lestrade. ‘Anyhow, when I heard what Cosgrove had been asking about in the gallery, it rang a bell somewhere in my memory, so I got out all the notes I’d accumulated relating to Cosgrove and the missing diamonds. I soon found what I was looking for. On one of the last occasions that Henry Cosgrove visited his brother in prison, about a year ago, they had a conversation that was overheard by one of the prison warders. In this, Henry told Albert that he was ill and did not know how long he might live. He then told him he had commissioned two paintings of a scene he thought Albert would like. “One of them is for you,” he said. “But if I die before you get out, you might like to have them both, to remember me by. I think you will find them of interest.” This conversation must refer to the two copies of The Tomb on the Hill, as that would explain Albert Cosgrove’s recent interest in them. And yet, when it seems he has finally managed to get his hands on them, he has simply returned them to their owners. It doesn’t make sense.’

‘I think we may take it,’ said Holmes, ‘that permanent possession of the paintings is of no interest to Cosgrove. He simply wanted to get hold of the paintings for a short time, in order to examine them. Now, we must assume, he has done so and, having no further use for them, has given them back.’

‘Why should he bother?’

‘He has probably reasoned that if the paintings are returned, the police will close the matter and he is not likely to be questioned about it. And, in the case of my client’s painting, he perhaps hoped that Mr Dryson would not notice the substitution for a while, which would give him the time he needed to examine the painting before the hue and cry went up. Incidentally, if you have men watching Cosgrove, but knew nothing of these thefts until after they had taken place, it must be that Cosgrove took no part in them himself, but got two confederates to do his bidding.’

‘That must be so,’ Lestrade agreed. ‘We must conclude, then, that the diamonds were hidden inside the picture-frames. For the moment at least he has outwitted us.’

‘I doubt it is as simple as that,’ said Holmes with a shake of the head. ‘Cosgrove’s brother Henry was a lawyer and no doubt as careful and cautious as such men generally are. He would have realised that hiding the gems inside a painting was scarcely any safer than hiding them under a floorboard. If anyone had chanced to find them there, he could not with any plausibility have pleaded innocence. It would almost certainly have meant a long prison term for him. His life, both private and professional, would have been ruined forever. In addition, he could not be sure what might happen to the paintings after his death. They might, for instance, be sold – as indeed they were. I think, therefore, that the connection between the paintings and the Bellecourt diamonds is an altogether more subtle and less tangible one.’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘The tomb inscriptions are different on Cosgrove’s two paintings. That is a very curious thing, considering that the two paintings were done at the same time. There must be some good reason for it and it is at least possible that it has something to do with the location of the diamonds.’

‘You think the tomb inscriptions could be cryptograms of some sort?’ I asked.

‘I think it a strong possibility.’

‘By George!’ cried Lestrade abruptly. ‘I think you may well be on to something there, Mr Holmes. During that conversation in prison between the two Cosgrove brothers that I mentioned to you, Henry several times referred to the games they used to play together as boys. “Do you remember how we used to send secret messages to each other in a code that no one else could understand?” he said. Apparently Albert was not very interested in remembering this, but Henry persisted. “We’ll have larks again, Albert,” he said, “when you get out. Just remember how we worked the secret code, for I might send you such a message again!” I dismissed this conversation as of no importance before, but perhaps I was wrong.’

‘It strikes me as highly suggestive,’ said Holmes. ‘Well done, Lestrade! The thoroughness of your records does you credit. There is some kind of cipher in those pictures – I am sure of it! I have already asked Dryson and Tacolstone to bring their pictures round to Baker Street this evening, so that I can study them more closely, but now that we have a better idea of what we might be looking for, the results should be all the more interesting! Pray feel free to drop by yourself later in the evening, if it is convenient, and I shall be able to tell you if we have made any progress!’

At six o’clock that evening, there was a ring at our front-door bell, and a moment later Mr Dryson was shown in to our sitting-room with his painting wrapped in a sheet of sacking. Holmes propped it up on a chair and, while he was doing so, the bell sounded again and Mr Tacolstone brought the other painting in, which was promptly propped up on a table at the side of the first one. Holmes poured out four small tots of sherry, and for some time the four of us stood gazing at the pictures and discussing their similarities and differences. Holmes remarked in a gay tone that 221B Baker Street had become quite the bijou art gallery, but I could see that beneath his outward bonhomie he was impatient to be getting on with his examination of the pictures. At length our two visitors departed, Tacolstone having accepted an invitation from Dryson to view his art collection. As soon as they had gone, Holmes brought out an easel and blackboard from his bedroom, set it up in the middle of the room and began to copy on to it the tomb inscriptions of the two paintings.

‘I understand your view that the secret is concealed in the inscriptions,’ I observed, ‘but it is apparent, as you yourself remarked, that the backs of both of these paintings have recently been removed, presumably by Albert Cosgrove.’

‘So we must suppose. He was, I take it, unsure at first of the precise meaning of his brother’s cryptic reference to these pictures. I very much doubt there was anything concealed there and if there was it won’t be there now; but perhaps you had best have a look if you wouldn’t mind: there may be something written on the inside of the back-board.’

Carefully, using the blade of a knife, I levered off the backs of the paintings, but there was nothing to be seen there. Meanwhile, my companion was busily copying the inscriptions on to his blackboard. Then, as I was tapping the tacks back into place, he stood back and surveyed what he had written. From Dryson’s painting, the one Tacolstone had brought round, he had copied the following:

From the other one, Tacolstone’s picture, he had copied the following:

‘I can make nothing of them,’ I remarked after a moment.

‘Well, of course, if they are cryptograms of some sort, that is what you would expect,’ responded my companion. ‘They could hardly be considered very successful as secret messages if their meaning were instantly obvious. There are, however, some observations we can make before we begin. First, to judge from Henry Cosgrove’s remarks to his brother, this is a form of cipher the two of them had used as boys, so it should not be too difficult for two grown men to solve. Second, although it must, as I say, appear opaque to a casual observer, otherwise it fails as a cryptogram, it must also be perfectly clear to one who knows the secret, otherwise it would fail on that account. I am therefore confident of getting to the bottom of the matter before I leave this room tonight.’

Holmes fell silent then, and remained staring at his blackboard in perfect immobility for some time, save only when he transferred his gaze for a moment to the paintings. Confident of solving the puzzle he may have been, but when our supper was brought up shortly afterwards, he was still sitting in silence, with no indication that he was making any progress. For myself, I had given up on the inscriptions and was examining all the other differences between the two paintings. In fact, there were not many. The depiction of the tomb, the trees about it and the landscape beyond was identical in both pictures, save only that in the picture which mentioned a fountain in the inscription, a small fountain could be seen far in the distance. In the foreground, however, there were a few more obvious differences between the pictures. The rustic character was the same in both, but the little rabbits about his feet were quite different. In Dryson’s picture there were three rabbits, but in Tacolstone’s – the one with the fountain – there were five. The ducks, too, were different. In the first picture there were just two of them, but in the second, five. Whether these differences were of any significance, or merely represented a whim on the part of the artist or his patron, I could not imagine, but I was sure that if anyone could work out the meaning of these differences and solve the puzzle, my friend Sherlock Holmes could.

We had been eating our meal in complete silence for some time, my companion’s gaze alternating rapidly between the blackboard and the paintings, and hardly ever resting on the plate before him, when he abruptly put down his knife and fork with a clatter.

‘I have it!’ cried he. ‘It was the meaning of the ducks I could not see, Watson, but now I understand it all! Now I know where Henry Cosgrove hid the Bellecourt diamonds!’ Then he fell to laughing, as he picked up his cutlery once more and finished off his meal, almost choking as he did so. ‘It is often the case with such things,’ said my friend in a tone of satisfaction, as he stood up and took his pipe from the mantelpiece. ‘You struggle for a while with individual parts of the puzzle, and feel you are making no progress at all, and then, in a moment, like the break of dawn upon the dark sea, light falls upon the whole at once and all is illuminated.’

‘I am eager to hear your solution,’ I said, joining him beside the fire, as he threw on a few more coals and poked it into a blaze.

‘It is soon explained,’ he began. ‘It is essentially a very simple little cipher, as I was sure it must be. Some of the words in the tomb inscriptions are important, and some are completely unimportant and are present only to disguise the true message. The trick, of course, is to identify those words which are significant. This is where the animals come into the matter. In the picture with three rabbits, every third word in the inscription forms part of the secret message; and in the picture with five rabbits, every fifth word. The function of the ducks – which I confess I could not see at first – is to indicate the word in the inscription at which the secret message begins. Thus, in the one with two ducks, the true message begins at the second word; and in the one with five ducks, it is at the fifth word.

‘If we look at the inscription on Mr Dryson’s picture first,’ he continued, taking a stick of chalk and stepping to the blackboard. ‘This, as you see, is “For thirty years my feet marched, On from east and west, To each corner of the dew-laden far south, Never resting then, now laid down at last”, and the picture contains three rabbits and two ducks. Therefore we begin at the second word – “thirty” – then pass over the next two words and find the fifth is “feet”. The next significant word is the eighth word, “from”,’ he continued, underlining each of these words in turn, ‘and the next “west”, then “corner”, then “dew”, then “south” and, finally, from the last line, “then” and “down”. The whole hidden message is thus revealed as “thirty feet from west corner, dew south, then down”, in which the word “dew” is obviously meant to stand for its homonym, “due” – a little touch of ingenuity and imagination which I find admirable, I must say. The diamonds are therefore hidden – probably buried – thirty feet due south from the west corner of some building or other structure.’

‘Yes, but where?’

‘To learn that, we must consult the inscription on the other picture. This, as you see, is “Death where is thy victory? Peace doth fill these parks While water from the fountain Doth sparkle on the rocks”, and the picture depicts five rabbits and five ducks. We therefore underline every fifth word, beginning with the fifth word itself,’ he continued, suiting the action to the word, ‘which gives us “victory, parks, fountain, rocks”.’

‘What on earth is that supposed to mean?’ I asked. ‘Does it refer to the Eldersly estates in Yorkshire?’

Holmes shook his head. ‘The original painting may have been done upon the Eldersly estate, but I shouldn’t imagine that Henry Cosgrove had the slightest interest in that. All he wanted was some way of conveying information to his brother as to where the diamonds were hidden and he hit on the idea of using these pictures to do it. The diamonds themselves will almost certainly be somewhere in London.’

‘Where? And what is the point of the word “victory”?’

‘Cosgrove would not have wanted to make the location too obvious, and I think he has taken the opportunity to make his cryptic message read a little like a genuine epitaph by adapting those well-known lines from Saint Paul’s epistle, “O Death, where is thy sting? O Grave, where is thy victory?”. But I strongly suspect that the word “victory” is really standing in for Victoria and that the reference is in fact to Victoria Park in Hackney. He could be confident that his brother would recognise the allusion. The two of them grew up in the East End and probably paid many visits to the park – which, in my experience, incidentally, is often referred to locally as “Vicky Park”. Have you ever been there, Watson?’

‘Once, at least, when a rather entertaining brass-band competition was taking place there. It’s a pleasant spot. But the inscription refers to “parks”, in the plural. What does that mean?’

‘It certainly appears to be a plural, but that would really make no sense in any context and I suspect, therefore, that although the apostrophe is absent, it is in fact intended to be a possessive. The whole phrase therefore should be read as “Victoria Park’s fountain”.’

‘I don’t want to spoil your theory,’ I said, ‘but I am fairly certain that there is no fountain in Victoria Park.’

‘You are quite right, Watson. There is no fountain there, at least, not in the obvious meaning of the word. What there is, though, I seem to recall, is an unusually large and highly ornate drinking fountain, donated by some philanthropist several years ago. That, I think, is what is being referred to. I suspect that Henry Cosgrove instructed the artist to add a distant fountain to that version of the picture with the deliberate intention of obfuscating the issue.’

‘What about the word “rocks”? There aren’t any rocks in Victoria Park.’

‘That, I believe, is mainly there simply to finish the inscription off and make it seem more like a piece of verse, although it is also, of course, common criminal slang for diamonds and other precious stones.’

‘You may be right about all this, Holmes,’ I remarked after a moment, ‘but it seems to me to lead to an absurd conclusion. That Cosgrove’s brother would choose to hide an enormously valuable cache of diamonds in a public park seems to me perfectly incredible! Surely that is the very worst place he could choose!’

‘Not at all. On the contrary, his choice of hiding-place demonstrates a rare imagination and intelligence. Consider this, Watson: if he buries the diamonds in a private garden, whether his own or someone else’s, he runs the same danger as if he had secreted them under a floorboard, which possibility we discussed earlier with Lestrade, if you recall, in that he cannot possibly know what might happen to it after his death, or who might become the owner of the property. In addition there is the possibility that at any time someone might decide to dig over the spot he has chosen, in order to make a new flower-bed. If, on the other hand, he manages to bury the diamonds beneath the turf of one of London’s great public parks without being observed, he will know for certain that however many times the grass may be mown and however many thousands of feet may pass over that spot, his diamonds will never be disturbed. But here, I take it, is Lestrade,’ he added as there came a sharp ring at the door-bell, ‘so we will see what he has to say about it.’

Inspector Lestrade listened with interest to Holmes’s analysis of the cryptic inscriptions and the conclusions he had drawn from them. He raised some of the same objections as I had done, but at length was convinced that Holmes was right.

‘It does seem very strange, I must say,’ he remarked with a shake of the head, ‘to try to hide such valuable goods in the middle of a public park, but I have come across stranger things in the course of my work, so I’m not saying it’s impossible.’

‘Thank you for that ringing endorsement,’ said Holmes in a dry tone. ‘Now, what I propose is this: it will be getting light shortly before seven o’clock tomorrow morning, so if we meet up at Broad Street station at half past six and take the first train which offers, we shall be able to put our theory to the test at the earliest opportunity. You still have Cosgrove under observation?’

Lestrade nodded. ‘He can’t do anything without our knowing about it and, although he evidently got some cronies of his to steal those paintings for him, I don’t think he would trust anyone but himself to get hold of the diamonds.’

‘I agree,’ said Holmes. ‘We shall turn in early this evening then, so we are fresh for our morning’s research. I have a long surveyor’s tape-measure and a pocket compass, so if you could provide a sharp-edged spade and a trowel we shall be fully equipped!’

We met in the morning at Broad Street as arranged and Lestrade informed us that he had asked for a couple of men from Hackney Police Station to meet us by the park gates with a van and the necessary equipment, but he also brought some bad news.

‘We have lost Cosgrove,’ he said, his face grave. ‘One of my plain-clothes men followed him to the Bull in Whitechapel last night, but he never came out again, and when my man went in to look for him, he’d vanished. He must have realised he was being followed and climbed out of a back window.’

‘Let us hope he has not beaten us to the diamonds,’ said Holmes.

‘The park would have been locked up at night,’ I remarked.

‘No doubt, but to a determined man with a ladder, park railings do not present an insuperable obstacle.’

‘There is more bad news,’ said Lestrade. ‘I mentioned to you that we had an informant among Cosgrove’s cronies. That was Billy Padgett, but his body was found last night in an alley off Whitechapel High Street. He had been strangled.’

‘This is looking bad,’ said Holmes in a grave tone. ‘Let us be off at once!’

In half an hour we were at Victoria Park. It was a raw, cold morning, with a thick fog in the streets and all across the broad expanse of the park. The park gates were still closed and we waited, shivering at the cold, as the park-keeper emerged from his lodge and unlocked them for us. Then, as a weak grey daylight struggled against the fog, we made our way across the park to the drinking fountain.

‘This must be the westernmost corner,’ said Holmes, consulting his compass and indicating the edge of a raised slab of stone that surrounded the structure. ‘I’ll hold one end of the tape-measure, Watson, if you will draw it out that way. We must be as precise as possible. One degree out of true at this end and we will miss the mark by several feet at the other.’

I did as my friend instructed, adjusting my position to right or left as he directed me according to his compass. At length he was satisfied and I stood thirty feet exactly due south of his own position. In a moment he and Lestrade had joined me.

‘Now let us see what we can find here,’ cried Holmes in a tone of excitement. ‘But, wait,’ he said abruptly, with a groan of dismay. ‘Someone has been here before us!’ He bent down and grasped a clump of grass and a six-inch square piece of turf came away in his hand. ‘This turf has been carefully cut away and then replaced,’ he continued, as piece after piece came away with no resistance and he tossed them to one side. ‘I fear we are too late, but push your spade in there, Lestrade, and let us see if there is anything to be found.’

The policeman pressed his spade into the bare earth and levered up a heavy clod. ‘You are right,’ said he. ‘This ground is soft. It has been turned over very recently.’ He cast aside the clod and three or four more, then, as he pushed his spade in again, he paused. ‘There is something here!’ he cried, and leaning back on his spade he levered up a loose clod, which crumbled away to disclose a small tin box with a hinged lid. ‘Perhaps we are not too late, after all,’ said he, as Holmes took the box from the spade. A moment later, however, our hopes were dashed, as Holmes opened the lid of the box and we could see it was perfectly empty. ‘What now?’ asked Lestrade, leaning on his spade. ‘You were right, Mr Holmes, but too late; and to be right but too late is no better, I’m afraid, than being wrong.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Holmes, his brows drawn down in thought. ‘We know at least what has happened, even if we were too late to prevent it. At the moment we trail behind the leader in this race, but the game is not yet over.’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘That we fill in this hole and pay a visit to Mrs Cosgrove at once. You have her address at Higham’s Park, I take it? We know that Cosgrove has already been to see her at least once and your information suggests he intends to see her again. I had the impression when we spoke to her at the Marchmont Gallery that she perhaps knows more than she cares to admit.’

Lestrade agreed, and we set off in the police van at a great rate. Through the busy streets of Hackney and Clapton we rattled, along the open, windswept road across the marshes of the Lea valley and into the distant suburbs beyond. Eventually, perhaps forty minutes later, our driver reined in his horses by Higham’s Park station. ‘This will do,’ called Lestrade, springing down. ‘It is only a short walk from here.’

He led the way along a side-road and round a corner to where a terrace of substantial houses stood back a little from the road. ‘This is the one,’ he began as we approached a wooden gate, but even as he spoke, the front door of the house was opened and a tall, thin man in a black frock-coat and top hat emerged, carrying a leather case. He came down the steps from the front door and stood in the gateway, deliberately blocking our way.

‘Who might you be?’ he asked, making no attempt to get out of our way.

‘We are the Metropolitan Police,’ answered Lestrade in his best official manner, showing his card to the other man, who took it and examined it closely for a moment. ‘And who are you, if I might ask?’

‘My name is Sherwood. I’m a doctor. There’s a woman in there in a pretty poor state, Inspector. Apparently some roughs broke in during the night or early this morning and beat her very badly. They’d tied her maid up, but she eventually managed to free herself and come for me. I was going to report the matter at the local police station, but seeing as you’re here, I’d be obliged if you’d deal with that side of it for me.’

‘I certainly will,’ said Lestrade. ‘Are any bones broken?’

‘No, luckily for her; but she’s badly bruised. I’ve done what I can for her and I’ll call back later.’

Dr Sherwood went on his way and a few moments later we were admitted to the house and conducted up to Mrs Cosgrove’s bed-chamber. She was sitting up in bed, reclining on a mound of cushions. Her face was a mass of bruises, one eye being almost completely closed by the swelling about it, there was a dressing on her neck and one of her arms was heavily bandaged up. Lestrade introduced himself, but her eyes wandered past him to Sherlock Holmes, whom she evidently recognised.

‘You were at the Marchmont Gallery yesterday,’ she said to him in a weak voice.

‘Indeed,’ returned Holmes. ‘We were endeavouring to solve a little mystery involving two paintings formerly in the possession of your late husband. It is his brother, Albert Cosgrove who has done this to you, I take it.’

Mrs Cosgrove hesitated a moment, then nodded her head in silence.

‘I had the impression when we spoke yesterday,’ continued Holmes in a soft tone, ‘that you were holding something back, something you did not wish us to know.’

‘You are correct,’ said she. ‘But the chief thing I did not wish you to know is what I never wish anyone to know, that my husband’s brother is a vicious criminal who has spent some years in Dartmoor Prison. Such information would scarcely be a welcome addition to the genteel conversation of a Bond Street picture gallery.’

‘I think there was also something else, more particular to our enquiry.’

‘Yes. I was about to tell you. Albert Cosgrove came to see me shortly after his release from prison and asked me specifically about those paintings you were interested in, The Tomb on the Hill. I told him I had sold them, at which he cried out angrily.

‘“You had no right to sell them,” he shouted in a violent rage. “Henry said that they were for me.”

‘“I did not know that,” I said. “Henry never told me.”

‘Eventually I managed to convince him that I was speaking the truth, but he forced me to tell him where I had sold them and to whom. I told him I did not know the purchasers, that he would have to enquire at the Marchmont Gallery. I assume he did so, but I know no more about that than you.’

‘Now,’ said Holmes, ‘if you would cast your mind back a dozen years: did your brother-in-law call at your house shortly before he was arrested?’

Mrs Cosgrove nodded. ‘He came late one night. Henry hadn’t seen anything of him for several months. They sat talking for a long time in the study. What passed between them, I don’t know. Eventually Albert left by the back way, about midnight. I said to my husband “Whatever you and Albert were talking about, I don’t want to know.”

‘“Good,” said he, “because I wasn’t going to tell you.”

‘“Why do you have anything to do with him?” I asked.

‘“I don’t want to,” said Henry, who, I could see, was very agitated about something, “but he’s my own flesh and blood and I can’t turn him away.”

‘The very next day, I believe, Albert was arrested, down Limehouse way. Henry never mentioned him again and nor did I. Of course, I read the newspapers, like everyone else, and I heard that the Bellecourt diamonds had never been found and wondered once or twice if my husband knew anything about them. But he never mentioned the matter and I never asked him about it.’

‘And the events of this morning?’ asked Holmes.

‘I was awakened suddenly some time before five, to find a candle lit in my bedroom and a man standing there with a knife in his hand. I opened my mouth to scream, but he clamped his free hand over my mouth and pushed the knife into my neck, and I saw then it was Albert Cosgrove. He said if I let out a sound he would slit my throat. He said he had followed Henry’s instructions, to find something that belonged to him, but had found nothing there. I told him if he meant the diamonds, I didn’t know anything about them, but he wouldn’t believe me and I got a blow for my troubles.

‘He asked me if I knew Billy Padgett and I said I didn’t. “He’s a police spy,” he said, “but he won’t spy no more. I dealt with him last night good and proper. Now, if you don’t tell me where you’ve hidden the diamonds, I’m going to throttle you like I throttled Billy Padgett and then I’ll find them anyway, so you may as well tell me now.” His tone was one of evil menace and I knew he meant what he said, but, of course, I couldn’t tell him because I simply didn’t know.

‘I pleaded with him, begged him to spare me, and told him over and over again that I knew nothing about the diamonds, but every response I made to his questions brought only more blows, as he hit me, again and again, more viciously each time. At length he paused and I could see that he was thinking about something. I had the impression that he had had a fresh idea, but he didn’t say anything about it to me. He gave me one last blow which knocked me down and I knew no more. When I came to my senses, I was lying on the floor, the room was empty and the house was in complete silence. He had gone.’

‘The unspeakable brute,’ I said, as we were leaving the house.

‘Don’t you worry, Dr Watson,’ said Lestrade. ‘We’ll get him and he’ll pay for what he’s done to that poor woman. But where he might be right now is anyone’s guess.’

‘I think I know where he might be,’ said Holmes, ‘and where the diamonds are, too.’

‘Where?’ cried Lestrade in surprise.

‘In Philips’s cottage on Barnes Common. We must make all haste to get down there.’

‘What makes you think that Philips knows anything about the diamonds?’ I asked.

‘It’s partly a matter of elimination, Watson: Albert Cosgrove clearly hasn’t got them, his sister-in-law hasn’t got them, the proprietor of the Marchmont Gallery would have had no reason to suspect that there was anything special about the paintings until Albert Cosgrove came enquiring after them, by which time they’d already been sold. That only leaves Philips. He’s not stupid and probably realised there was something odd afoot when Henry Cosgrove supplied him with those eccentric tomb inscriptions in place of the original conventional epitaph, and with the specific instructions about the number of animals to be included. And if his suspicions weren’t already aroused, they surely would have been when Cosgrove later insisted that all these instructions be returned to him.

‘When we spoke to him, Philips claimed that he couldn’t remember any details of Cosgrove’s instructions, but that doesn’t really ring true. Cosgrove would not have simply requested “more rabbits” or “more ducks”, but must have specified a precise number, in order for the cipher to work properly, and Philips would surely have remembered Cosgrove’s precision on the point, even if he couldn’t remember the exact number requested. I was also struck by the way Philips avoided mentioning Henry Cosgrove’s name, as if to ensure we made no connection between “the solicitor”, as he referred to him, and the notorious jewel thief – which of course suggests that Philips himself was aware of the connection. Then there is the notable fact that Philips appears to be living comfortably enough and is, indeed, about to move from what are probably relatively cheap premises to a much more fashionable and therefore more expensive address in Chelsea, despite appearing to have no work.’

‘I noticed there didn’t seem to be much going on in his studio at the moment.’

‘Not only at the moment, Watson. From the state of his brushes and other equipment, it is clear that no work has been done there for some considerable time, possibly several months. All these things I observed yesterday, but I did not act on my observations for one simple reason.’

‘What reason is that?’

‘That I am an idiot.’

‘But at the time you saw Philips, you knew nothing of the diamonds,’

‘That is true. But once we had learnt from Inspector Lestrade of Cosgrove’s brother and the Bellecourt robbery, I had ample time to review all I had learnt during the day in the light of that new information. This I did not do. I was so pleased with myself for solving the cryptogram and working out the location of the diamonds that I gave no thought to anything else. That is what makes me an idiot – almost as big an idiot as Philips himself. It is clear to me now that once his suspicions had been aroused, he must have made it his business to find out what lay behind those eccentric tomb-inscriptions. He would soon have discovered the connection between Henry Cosgrove and the Bellecourt diamonds, and then no doubt solved the cryptogram and worked out where the diamonds were hidden. At which point the fool clearly yielded to the temptation of wealth that the diamonds represent. There is nothing that corrupts and destroys a man’s life so certainly as sudden wealth, especially if that wealth is unearned. But in this case the danger is yet more serious than usual, for I rather fear that Albert Cosgrove has reached the same conclusion as I have and I doubt that Philips has any conception of the kind of man he is up against. Let us hope we are not too late!’

We had reached Higham’s Park station as Holmes had been speaking, where the police van stood waiting for us. ‘It will be quicker if we take the train,’ said Holmes. He hurried into the station to consult the timetable, but was back again in a moment. ‘There is a train to Liverpool Street in five minutes,’ said he. Lestrade quickly explained matters to the other policemen, instructing them to notify Scotland Yard at once as to what had happened and where we were going, to arrange for men from the nearest police station to meet us at Philips’s cottage and to post a constable in front of Mrs Cosgrove’s house in case her brother-in-law returned. A minute later we were in the train.

The traffic in central London was dense and slow-moving, and it took us some time to get across to Waterloo station, Holmes fretting and shaking his head in frustration all the while, but once there we were fortunate enough to find that a suitable train was just about to leave, and soon we were rattling along the viaduct through Lambeth and out to the south-western suburbs. As we alighted at Barnes, the only passengers to do so, the common seemed even colder, foggier and more desolate than on our previous visit. At least on this occasion, as Holmes remarked, we knew how to find Philips’s cottage, so could avoid wasting our time tramping hither and thither across the heath, as we had done the previous day.

‘I doubt if Cosgrove has been down here before,’ remarked Holmes, as he led the way along a rutted track, ‘so if he is here it will have taken him some time to find the cottage, and although he still leads and we still follow, we are therefore closer behind him now than we were at Higham’s Park. As I told you then, Lestrade, we may still trail behind him, but the game is not yet over!’

We turned from the track into a narrow road, where there was not a soul about. It took us little time to reach the old cottage, where icicles hung from the gutters, and the side wall and the bushes growing by it were covered with frost-whitened cobwebs. We approached cautiously, but saw no movement at any of the windows. At the front door, Lestrade was about to knock, but Holmes put his hand on his arm and indicated the step, where the muddy imprint of a large boot was clearly visible. Without speaking, Holmes then pointed to his own shoe and I at once saw his meaning: our shoes were not muddy; whoever had made the footprint on the step had clearly spent some time tramping about the heath, looking for the cottage. As he put his hand on the door, I saw there was a narrow gap at the edge of it and it was apparent that the door was not closed properly. He pushed gently and the door swung silently inwards. Putting his finger to his lips, he led the way into the house. As we made our way carefully through to the studio at the back, some slight sound from upstairs came to my ears. Then, as we passed through the open doorway of the studio, I stopped in astonishment. If the studio had seemed untidy and disordered upon our previous visit, that was as nothing compared to its appearance now. Every item of furniture that could possibly be upended was lying on the floor, everything that could possibly have been knocked off the shelves and other surfaces was strewn about, smashed and broken, and there on the floor, in the midst of this scene of chaos and destruction, lay Andrew Philips.

I quickly bent down to him, but it took me only a moment to establish that the body was lifeless. Philips was dead. I indicated some severe bruising on the neck which suggested he had been strangled, and as I did so there came a louder crash and clatter from upstairs, as if someone were pulling the drawers out of a tallboy and throwing them on to the floor. The door to the staircase stood open and Lestrade pointed at the stair, but Holmes shook his head and intimated we should wait where we were.

Abruptly, the racket ceased and there came the softer sound of footsteps moving about in the room above us. For a moment, that, too, ceased and all was silence, then there came heavy footsteps on the wooden stair. Holmes stepped back slightly, behind the door to the staircase, and drew his revolver from his pocket, as Lestrade quietly drew out a truncheon from an inside pocket of his coat.

With a heavy, rapid tread, the footsteps clattered down the steep, narrow staircase and in an instant a large, heavily built man appeared before us. He stopped abruptly when he saw us, a look of surprise on his large, coarse face. Then his features twisted into an expression of contempt, vicious and brutal.

‘Albert Cosgrove, I am arresting you—’ Lestrade began, but he got no further. Cosgrove let out a fearsome roar and started forward. But even as he made to launch his violent attack upon us, Holmes stepped out from behind the door and clapped his pistol to the side of his head.

For a split second Cosgrove stopped, then in a flash he had brought his arm up and knocked Holmes’s revolver out of the way, at the same instant drawing a pistol of his own from his pocket and firing it wildly in our direction. There came a sharp cry of pain from Lestrade, but he launched himself forward, striking out with his truncheon and knocking the pistol from Cosgrove’s grasp. I flung myself forward and the three of us crashed to the ground in a heap. For a few moments we struggled wildly, then Holmes brought the butt of his revolver down sharply on Cosgrove’s head, his whole body went limp and he lay still.

Lestrade quickly snapped a pair of handcuffs on Cosgrove’s wrists, then he rose to his feet, grimacing with pain. ‘That shot he fired caught me on the left shoulder,’ he said. I helped him slip off his coat and jacket, picked up a chair for him to sit on, and examined the wound, which was bleeding profusely.

‘You were very lucky,’ I said after a moment. ‘The bullet has passed clean through your upper arm. It will certainly be painful for a time, but I don’t think it has done any lasting damage.’ I picked up the cleanest piece of rag I could see on the floor and tied it tightly round his arm. ‘You’ve lost a fair amount of blood,’ I added. ‘We’ll have to get this dressed properly as soon as possible.’

Holmes had been feeling in Cosgrove’s pockets while I was examining the policeman and now he held up a small leather pouch, an expression of triumph on his face. ‘Here, I think, are your diamonds, Lestrade!’ He loosened the top of the pouch and carefully tipped it up, and out on to the palm of his hand tumbled a mass of sparkling gems.

At that moment there came the sound of horses’ hooves and a vehicle drawing to a halt outside the front of the house. A moment later a police sergeant entered, followed closely by three constables.

‘You’re a bit late, Sergeant,’ said Lestrade in a tone of bitter humour. ‘You’ve missed all the action. Here’s your man, anyhow,’ he continued, wincing with pain as he indicated Cosgrove’s motionless body on the floor. ‘It’s Albert Cosgrove. He may look peaceful now, chiefly because he’s unconscious, but I’m warning you, when he wakes up, he’ll be like a madman in the body of a bull.’

‘Inspector Lestrade needs immediate medical attention,’ I interrupted, as he rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘Is there a doctor’s surgery anywhere near here?’

The sergeant informed me that there was one very close, at the west end of Putney, and instructed one of his men to help me get Lestrade there.

‘What are we charging Cosgrove with, sir?’ asked the sergeant as we made our way out of the house.

‘You tell them, Mr Holmes,’ said Lestrade in a weary voice. He was now leaning heavily on my arm, and his face had turned an ashen grey.

‘You may take your pick,’ said Holmes. ‘Cosgrove has murdered that man on the floor over there, whose name is Andrew Philips, he almost certainly murdered Billy Padgett in Whitechapel last night, he committed a very serious assault on a woman earlier this morning after breaking into her house, and he has just made a murderous attack on Inspector Lestrade and shot him through the arm. Oh, and while you’re reporting all this, you might also mention to your superiors, to lighten the tone a little, that the Bellecourt diamonds, for which half of London has been searching for the last dozen years, are now safely in our hands!’