Free The House Of Silk by Anthony Horowitz

of art in matters of detection.’
    ‘Holmes, you insist upon seeing yourself as a machine,’ I laughed. ‘Even a masterpiece of impressionism is to you nothing more than a piece of evidence to be used in the pursuit of a crime. Perhaps an appreciation of art is what you need to humanise you. I shall insist that you accompany me on a visit to the Royal Academy.’
    ‘We already have the gallery of Carstairs and Finch on our agenda, Watson, and I think that will be enough. The cheeseboard, waiter. And a glass of Moselle, I think, for my friend. Port is too heavy for the afternoon.’
    It was but a short distance to the gallery, and once again we strolled together. I have to say that I took immense satisfaction in these moments of quiet sociability and felt myself to be one of the luckiest men in London to have shared in the conversation which I have just described and to be walking in such a leisurely manner at the side of so great a personage as Sherlock Holmes. It was about four o’clock and the light was already fading when we arrived at the gallery which was not, in fact, in Albermarle Street itself, but in an old coaching yard just off it. Apart from a discreet sign, written in gold letters, there was little to indicate that this was a commercial enterprise. A low door led into a rather gloomy interior with two sofas, a table and a single canvas – two cows in a field painted by the Dutch artist, Paulus Potter – mounted on an easel. As we entered, we heard two men arguing in the adjoining room. One voice I recognised. It belonged to Edmund Carstairs.
    ‘It’s an excellent price,’ he was saying. ‘And I am certain of it, Tobias. These works are like good wine. Their value can only rise.’
    ‘No, no, no!’ replied the other voice in a high-pitched whine. ‘He calls them seascapes. Well, I can see the sea … but precious little else. His last show was a fiasco and now he has taken refuge in Paris where, I hear, his reputation is in rapid decline. It’s a waste of money, Edmund.’
    ‘Six works by Whistler—’
    ‘Six works we shall never be rid of!’
    I was standing at the door and closed it more heavily than was strictly necessary, wishing to signal our presence to the two men inside. It had the desired effect. The conversation broke off and a moment later a thin, white-haired individual, immaculately dressed in a dark suit with a wing collar and black tie, appeared from behind a curtain. A gold chain hung across his waistcoat and a pair of pince-nez, also gold, rested at the very tip of his nose. He must have been at least sixty years old, but there was still a spring in his step and a certain nervous energy that manifested itself in his every move.
    ‘I take it you are Mr Finch,’ Holmes began.
    ‘Yes, sir. That is indeed my name. And you are …?’
    ‘I am Sherlock Holmes.’
    ‘Holmes? I don’t believe we are acquainted and yet the name is familiar—’
    ‘Mr Holmes!’ Carstairs had also come into the room. The contrast between the two men was striking; the one old and wizened, belonging almost to another age, the other younger and more dandified, his features still displaying the anger and frustration that were doubtless the result of the conversation we had overheard. ‘This is Mr Holmes, the detective I was telling you about,’ he explained to his partner.
    ‘Yes, yes. Of course I know. He has just introduced himself.’
    ‘I did not expect to see you here,’ Carstairs said.
    ‘I came because it interested me to see your professional place of work,’ Holmes explained. ‘But I also have a number of questions for you, relating to the Pinkerton’s men whom you employed in Boston.’
    ‘A dreadful affair!’ Finch interjected. ‘I won’t recover from the loss of those paintings, not until the end of my days. It was the single greatest calamity of my career. If only we had sold him a few of your Whistlers, Edmund. They could have been blown to pieces and no one would give a