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Authors: Anthony Horowitz
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what you thought of
The Martyrdom of Man
. I see that you have finally finished it.’
I glanced at the book which was lying innocuously on its side. ‘Holmes …?’
‘You have been using a cigarette card as a bookmark. I have watched its tortuous progress from the first page to the last and I see it is now lying on the table, finally released from its labours. I will be interested to hear your conclusions. Some tea, perhaps, Mrs Hudson, if you will be so kind?’
We left the house and strolled down to the Haymarket. The fog had lifted and, although still very cold, it was another brilliant day with crowds of people pouring in and out of the department stores and street sellers wheeling their barrows and calling out their wares. At Wimpole Street a great throng had gathered round an organ grinder, an old Italian playing some mournful Neapolitan tune which had also drawn in an assortment of shammers who moved among the spectators, relating their pitiful stories to anyone who would listen. There was barely a corner that did not have a street performer and, for once, nobody was inclined to move them on. We ate at Le Cafe´ de l’Europe where we were served an excellent raised game pie and Holmes was in an effusive mood. He did not speak of the case, at least, not directly, but I remember him musing on the nature of pictorial art and its possible use in the solving of crime.
‘You remember Carstairs telling us of the four lost Constables,’ he said. ‘They were views of the Lake District painted at the start of the century when, apparently, the artist was sombre and depressed. The oils on the canvas, therefore, become a clue to his psychology and it follows that if a man chooses to hang such a work on the wall of his drawing room, we may also learn a great deal about his own state of mind. Did you remark, for example, on the art on display at Ridgeway Hall?’
‘A great deal of it was French. There was a view of Brittany, another of a bridge crossing the River Seine. I thought the works very fine.’
‘You admired them but you learned nothing from them.’
‘You mean in respect of the character of Edmund Carstairs? He prefers the countryside to the city. He is drawn to the innocence of childhood. He is a man who likes to be surrounded by colour. I suppose that something of his personality could have been surmised from the pictures we saw on his walls. But then again, we cannot be sure that every piece had been chosen by Carstairs himself. His wife or his late mother could have been responsible.’
‘That is very true.’
‘And even a man who kills his wife may have a gentler side to his nature which finds expression in his choice of art. You will recall that business with the Abernetty family. Horace Abernetty had hung his walls with many fine studies of local flora, as I recall. And yet he himself was an individual of the most loathsome and thuggish sort.’
‘My own memory is that much of the fauna depicted was of the poisonous variety, since you mention it.’
‘And what of Baker Street, Holmes? Are you telling me that a visitor to your sitting room will find clues to your psychology through a contemplation of the works that hang around you?’
‘No. But they might tell you a great deal about my predecessor, for I can assure you, Watson, that there is hardly a single picture in my own lodgings which was not there when I arrived. Do you seriously imagine that I went out and purchased that portrait of Henry Ward Beecher which used to stand over your books? An admirable man by all accounts and his views on slavery and bigotry are to be recommended, but it was left behind by whomever had the room before me and I simply chose to leave it in its place.’
‘Did you not purchase the picture of General Gordon?’
‘No. But I had it mended and reframed after I accidentally fired a bullet into it. That was at the insistence of Mrs Hudson. You know, I may very well write a monograph on this subject; the use
The Martyrdom of Man
. I see that you have finally finished it.’
I glanced at the book which was lying innocuously on its side. ‘Holmes …?’
‘You have been using a cigarette card as a bookmark. I have watched its tortuous progress from the first page to the last and I see it is now lying on the table, finally released from its labours. I will be interested to hear your conclusions. Some tea, perhaps, Mrs Hudson, if you will be so kind?’
We left the house and strolled down to the Haymarket. The fog had lifted and, although still very cold, it was another brilliant day with crowds of people pouring in and out of the department stores and street sellers wheeling their barrows and calling out their wares. At Wimpole Street a great throng had gathered round an organ grinder, an old Italian playing some mournful Neapolitan tune which had also drawn in an assortment of shammers who moved among the spectators, relating their pitiful stories to anyone who would listen. There was barely a corner that did not have a street performer and, for once, nobody was inclined to move them on. We ate at Le Cafe´ de l’Europe where we were served an excellent raised game pie and Holmes was in an effusive mood. He did not speak of the case, at least, not directly, but I remember him musing on the nature of pictorial art and its possible use in the solving of crime.
‘You remember Carstairs telling us of the four lost Constables,’ he said. ‘They were views of the Lake District painted at the start of the century when, apparently, the artist was sombre and depressed. The oils on the canvas, therefore, become a clue to his psychology and it follows that if a man chooses to hang such a work on the wall of his drawing room, we may also learn a great deal about his own state of mind. Did you remark, for example, on the art on display at Ridgeway Hall?’
‘A great deal of it was French. There was a view of Brittany, another of a bridge crossing the River Seine. I thought the works very fine.’
‘You admired them but you learned nothing from them.’
‘You mean in respect of the character of Edmund Carstairs? He prefers the countryside to the city. He is drawn to the innocence of childhood. He is a man who likes to be surrounded by colour. I suppose that something of his personality could have been surmised from the pictures we saw on his walls. But then again, we cannot be sure that every piece had been chosen by Carstairs himself. His wife or his late mother could have been responsible.’
‘That is very true.’
‘And even a man who kills his wife may have a gentler side to his nature which finds expression in his choice of art. You will recall that business with the Abernetty family. Horace Abernetty had hung his walls with many fine studies of local flora, as I recall. And yet he himself was an individual of the most loathsome and thuggish sort.’
‘My own memory is that much of the fauna depicted was of the poisonous variety, since you mention it.’
‘And what of Baker Street, Holmes? Are you telling me that a visitor to your sitting room will find clues to your psychology through a contemplation of the works that hang around you?’
‘No. But they might tell you a great deal about my predecessor, for I can assure you, Watson, that there is hardly a single picture in my own lodgings which was not there when I arrived. Do you seriously imagine that I went out and purchased that portrait of Henry Ward Beecher which used to stand over your books? An admirable man by all accounts and his views on slavery and bigotry are to be recommended, but it was left behind by whomever had the room before me and I simply chose to leave it in its place.’
‘Did you not purchase the picture of General Gordon?’
‘No. But I had it mended and reframed after I accidentally fired a bullet into it. That was at the insistence of Mrs Hudson. You know, I may very well write a monograph on this subject; the use
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