The Falling Curtain (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 3) by Craig Janacek Read Free Book Online Page B

course. The painting is taken down from view, for reasons ascribed to ‘conservation.’ After a visual inspection of the strokes and the craquelure, we then analyze the age of both the paint used, but also the canvas itself. Finally it is transported to University College, where it is placed under one of the Röntgen machines. That tells us whether the surface painting has been painted over a prior work.”
    “A palimpsest?”
    “Very nearly. Some exceptionally skilled forgers are aware of the techniques for dating a canvas, so they paint over some minor work from the same era. While that first work is, of course, destroyed in the process, because of the lead in the paint, its soul is never truly lost, and the miraculous rays of Mr. Röntgen can bring it back to life, or at least a pale shadow of it.”
    “And do you have any trepidation about this particular painting?”
    Mr. Goldfield paused and removed a pair of pince-nez from his waistcoat pocket. Settling them upon his nose, he studied La Jeune Fille for a span of nearly five minutes. He finally turned back to me. “No, I have no fears about its authenticity. Do you?”
    “What if I was to tell you, Mr. Goldfield, that my friend has discovered that a particularly skilled forger is currently active in London? And that we have concerns that this painting may have been an especial target?” I blushed at this slight falsehood, suggesting that Holmes shared my concerns, since he had no notion of my impromptu visit to the Gallery.
    “In that case, I shall ensure that it is tested forthwith. Where should I send word in the unlikelihood that an irregularity is found?”
    I gave Mycroft’s address to the curator, thanked him, and then made my way back out to Trafalgar Square. Once there, I hesitated, unsure of my next move. I cudgeled my brains to find some possible explanation that covered all of the strange happenings that revolved around Holmes. The riddle of the sphinx and the problem at Threadneedle Street were certainly connected to the greater scheme, but what of the Hag of Haybridge Cave, the vanishing brake-van, and the burned man? Were they somehow linked to this monstrous conspiracy? Holmes would not likely return for several more hours. Where else could I go to find some vital clue that might unlock this vast puzzle? Who else could I turn to? Excepting Holmes and his brother, of course, the next smartest individual whom I knew was my old friend Walter Lomax, now head librarian at the London Library. His assistance had been invaluable in several prior cases, and perhaps he could once again see some light in the darkness.
    I therefore turned my steps towards St James Square, which was a short walk away. But I was not to reach Lomax. As I was passing along Charles II Street, an enormous man, nineteen stone of solid bone and muscle, suddenly appeared out of an alleyway to my right and blocked my further progress. My feet halted, and I gazed up at the crooked nose upon his craggy face, which was easily six inches above my own. The look that I found in his eyes was as cold as ice, and it dawned upon me that this was just the sort of man whose rock-like biceps could hold a flagstone above his head for the time required to allow mortar to dry. Had I just blundered into one of Mortlock’s assistants at the Bank of England? If so, it was surely no accident.
    I quickly spun on my heels hoping to put as much distance between this brute and myself, but when I did so, I found myself staring into the eyes of an even more fearsome individual, who had closed in on me from behind. This adversary was a short, powerful man with a round, fresh, clean-shaven face. His cheeks tended to roundness, such that I once considered him to have a childlike appearance despite his more than fifty years. However, one glance into the dead black color of his pupils made abundantly clear the fact that this was a man devoid of any sense of human decency. His name was ‘Killer’ Evans, and I