The Defaced Men, page 16
I cast my mind back, imagining that I was once again standing in Griffin’s bedroom in the annexe in the grounds of Chaloner House.
“Are you referring to the long scratch you discovered?” I asked.
Holmes nodded absently. “It was certainly recent, but it was made before the fire, as evidenced by the specks of soot within. What does that tell us?”
I considered this. “Only that somebody inspected the picture closely, just as you did, some little time before the terrible events of the night Chrisafis was killed.”
“You saw me take the frame from the wall myself,” Holmes retorted. “It was not fixed any more securely than one might expect. Therefore, the scratch could only have been made due to notable carelessness, or great hurry.”
“That is curious,” I admitted after a time. “Even so, you seem to be doggedly seeking mysteries in relation to Chaloner House, as if you are determined that your eye should remain turned away from our actual client, Eadweard Muybridge.”
Holmes scoffed. “If the plight of Eadweard Muybridge was our sole concern, I would at this moment be making enormous strides in my collodion monograph.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that the case as far as Muybridge perceives it is simple, and that our services were engaged based upon a fallacy.”
I blinked, feeling distinctly foolish. “Then the threats against him – did he confect them himself? Has he lied outright to us?”
“I did not say that, Watson. Eadweard Muybridge may be many things, but he is not a liar, at least not by choice.”
“Holmes, I beg you, speak more plainly.”
“That I will certainly do, Watson. When we have finished at your club, we will go to Muybridge and have it out with him.”
I sensed that this was as much as Holmes would say about the matter for the time being. He continued gazing out of the window, his eyes darting but not seeming to take in the buildings that we passed, and his lips forming shapes as though he were engaged in a long monologue, or even both sides of a discussion. It was at moments like these that I wished that I could see inside his mind, to understand the routes taken by his thoughts. However, no sooner had this idea occurred to me, it was followed by another, more awful image inspired by recent events: Holmes with his face removed, exposing instead of the pathways of his brain merely a blackened mass.
I shook my head violently to dispel the vision, and in doing so I attracted Holmes’s attention. He examined me placidly, both eyebrows raised.
I cleared my throat. In an attempt to suggest that my thoughts had been far less phantasmagorical than they had been, I said, “It appears that you are already satisfied as to your stance towards our client – whatever that stance may be. I suppose, then, that your thoughts are at this moment centred upon the Chaloner House fire?”
“Quite so.”
“And is the unlocked door to the workshop the uppermost detail?”
Holmes drew a thumb along his lips thoughtfully. “Certainly that, but also the water-jug.”
It was with a certain amount of pride that I realised that I understood what he meant. “The jug that was lying on its side in the internal doorway of the annexe.”
“The very same, though I suppose the additional jug in Griffin’s basin is of equal importance – or, depending how you choose to frame the problem, the absence of a water-jug in Martin Chrisafis’s bedroom in the main house.”
At the time of our investigation I had noted that there had already been a jug in the basin in the annexe bedroom, and indeed I had seen Holmes dwelling upon the empty basin in Chrisafis’s room. To my shame, though, neither of these details had seemed of importance. Even now, I failed to comprehend why they might occupy Holmes’s mind to such a degree.
“Is the presence of a second jug such a curiosity?” I asked. “I find that I can visualise the situation very well. I see in my mind Chrisafis woken abruptly by the sound of demolished timbers, then his rushing to the window, and his consequent shock at the sight of flames leaping from the door or the roof of the annexe. He rushes downstairs, but has the foresight to bring with him the water-jug from the basin in his room – it was a vain hope that he might douse the fire with its contents, but an understandable impulse, surely.”
“There are certainly merits to your explanation,” Holmes said, though I knew better than to congratulate myself at this half-compliment. “There is no water supply to the annexe itself, so it would be necessary to transport water from the scullery of the main house, at the very least.”
“And Chrisafis could not have been certain that the water-jug in Griffin’s bedroom would be full, or even that he might access it,” I added.
“Then the puzzle becomes one of character and mentality,” Holmes said.
“How so?”
“We know very little of Martin Chrisafis, therefore we can only speculate as to his outlook. It is reasonable to suppose that he was the sort of fellow who would not rush into a dangerous situation unprepared – that is, he might indeed take with him the water-jug in the hope of making use of it to fight the fire. Of course, without the detail of the additional jug, one might reach an entirely opposite supposition: that Martin Chrisafis was foolhardy and headstrong. That is closer to the narrative that we have been encouraged to accept.”
“You mean because he rushed into the workshop despite the fact that it was ablaze.”
“Yes, but what is more significant is that he did so alone. The remainder of the household were awoken not by Chrisafis, but by Elias Griffin when he came in from the annexe in a wild panic.”
“Good lord,” I said. “You’re absolutely correct.”
“Whichever version of Chrisafis’s character one chooses to believe in,” Holmes said, “I maintain that it requires great contortions of the imagination to explain why he might have had the foresight to take from his room the water-jug, and yet he might fail to rouse anybody in the household as he left the building.”
I stared at my friend. “He would have passed the door to every bedroom in the building on his way out.”
“You see now why my mind is occupied with the puzzle,” Holmes said.
He returned to gazing out of the window, his lips pursed again. I marvelled that there was no more trace of annoyance in his manner than if he were working over a challenging clue in the Times crossword.
CHAPTER TWENTY
We had been waiting in the parlour of Eadweard Muybridge’s home for more than five minutes when I said, “Holmes, why are we here? First you appear dismissive of our client’s case, then you take us across the country in either direction to pursue another one entirely. Furthermore, you said to Lestrade that Muybridge has no direct connection to what happened at Bishop’s Stortford, and yet you maintain that that is the true puzzle with which we are faced. So, with what information do you hope he might provide us?”
“I believe I said that Muybridge was ignorant of the events at Chaloner House, which is entirely different to your characterisation,” Holmes said. “Though that may be the case, Muybridge has much to tell us that will illuminate the truth – something that he has singularly failed to do thus far. But wait, Watson—”
This urgent command was made in response to a sound from the hallway. Like my friend, I listened intently. Two voices came from the other side of the door, both female. I could make out none of their words, but their tone was hushed and serious.
Holmes strode across the room and flung open the door.
The two women – the maid who had led us into the parlour to wait, and a smartly dressed woman I had not seen before – stood with their heads almost pressed together in close discussion, and they retained this posture even as they turned abruptly to look at us. The maid staggered back, looked at her mistress with wide eyes, then scurried away.
The remaining woman performed a slight bow, and said to Holmes, “I am Miss Catherine Smith, Eadweard’s cousin. I came downstairs to tell you that he is not home at present.”
“Is that so?” Holmes asked politely. “Your maid seemed under the impression that he had been at home all day.”
“Indeed, but then he left.” Miss Smith smoothed her hair, which was already immaculate. “Some time ago, actually.”
“For what destination, may I ask?”
“He did not say. I should add that he is liable to be away for some time.”
“For some time, you say? I would be grateful if you might quantify that amount, even if it is an estimate.”
Miss Smith’s eyes strayed to the mantelpiece clock. “Oh, a very long while, I should think. He customarily goes away for many hours, when he goes. I suppose he may even stay away to-night.”
Holmes nodded. “Then it would be folly for us to continue waiting. Thank you for informing us, Miss Smith. Perhaps we will meet with your cousin on his return.”
As Miss Smith led us to the front door, she made repeated assurances that she would inform her cousin that we wished to speak with him. Presently, we found ourselves on the street once again.
“Well, Holmes,” I said, “that was a rum business.”
Holmes smiled. “I had anticipated that Muybridge might not wish to be apprehended. But I suspect we will find him easily enough.”
With that, he set off in the direction of the centre of Kingston upon Thames. After a mile’s walk, we stood outside the imposing, red-bricked town library.
“How can it be that you are certain he is here?” I asked.
“Muybridge is occupying himself ever more with the preparation for his book concerned with the motion of animals. Certainly, much of his work involves sorting through the photographs he himself created in California and Philadelphia, which no doubt requires being within his own home. But recall how eagerly he spoke of his upcoming publication, when he first visited our rooms. Therefore, even though he left his house in a marked hurry to avoid meeting us – and I am confident that he did leave, as his cousin’s eyes continually strayed to the front door when she delivered her statement, as opposed to the ceiling as an unconscious indication that he was hiding upstairs – his first impulse will be to work. Moreover, his tendency to advertise his work and his own person is an unconscious thing, after many years of self-promotion. If he cannot access his own study, he will have chosen somewhere public where he will be noticed and remarked upon.”
Though I accepted Holmes’s logical processes, I nevertheless saw other possibilities, such as Muybridge ignoring his work for the sake of putting more distance between him and us. I supposed that this fear of encountering us was due to his evident knowledge that Israel Fay was responsible for extorting him, which must relate to a matter far more personal to our client than he had suggested when he first described the threats against him.
Within minutes, I was proved wrong. The moment we entered the upstairs study room, I saw Muybridge at its far end, his case upon a large table and documents spread over its surface, and two members of library staff at his side, one of whom was bringing him an enormously thick reference volume.
Muybridge looked up, and his face paled as he recognised us. He snapped instructions at the two members of staff, who immediately fled like startled deer.
“How lucky that you found me here,” he said weakly as we approached.
I could not prevent myself from saying, “But surely you did not know that we were looking for you.”
I had not realised that his face could yet turn a shade paler. “Quite so. Quite so.”
“Let us dispense with this charade,” Holmes said. “It is time for you to answer questions frankly and, this time, I would ask you to cleave to the truth.”
Muybridge’s eyes scanned the study room. There were only two other men in sight, and both appeared almost asleep over their dusty books; they were much older than Muybridge, whose long, white beard I took to be an affectation with the presumed purpose of making him appear wiser, or perhaps more like a wizard as befitted his magic lantern show. Holmes’s remark about his tendency towards self-promotion rang truer than ever.
“We cannot speak here,” Muybridge said. “This is a library, after all.”
“I think you will find that the staff will indulge you, should you wish to entertain visitors,” Holmes replied.
Muybridge regarded my friend curiously, and then his posture slackened. “Very well. The staff do seem to be in good spirits today. What is it that you want to know?”
Holmes took a seat at the table and motioned for me to do the same. “We have a great number of questions. Watson, would you like to begin? What question do you care to ask?”
I stared at him in horror, still unsure which cards must remain close to our chests and which we were permitted to reveal. The pieces of the puzzles we had uncovered seemed to multiply daily.
“I’m content for you to lead the conversation,” I said finally.
Holmes bowed his head. “Very well. Mr. Muybridge, I would be grateful if you might provide information about ‘Mirror Lake, Valley of the Yosemite’, and in particular, a print of that photograph signed by your own hand, which was found partially burned in the fire at Chaloner House in Bishop’s Stortford?”
I noted that my friend was watching Muybridge even more closely than was his custom when questioning clients. I concluded that some part of his question was a test, and that Muybridge’s response – both the conscious and unconscious elements – was of importance.
Muybridge wet his lips before speaking. “It is from one of a series of fifty-one mammoth plates that I produced in the Yosemite Valley, in 1872. That series was a marked success, winning a prize medal at the International Exhibition in Vienna the following year. The print of which you speak was produced by the albumen silver process, which is—”
Holmes stopped him with a raised hand. “Then you are aware of its destruction in the fire at Chaloner House?”
After a momentary pause, Muybridge replied, “I was told as much.”
“And, in your estimation, who was it who forged your signature upon it?”
Muybridge’s mouth opened, but no words came forth.
“Come, Mr. Muybridge,” Holmes continued. “You must have your suspicions.”
“I do not know Elias Griffin,” Muybridge said in a hoarse voice. “I could not possibly guess.”
“Of course, but you did not give the print to Elias Griffin. You gave it to Israel Fay.”
Now Holmes’s posture had become entirely more casual, whereas I continued to stare at Muybridge, intent on understanding what he knew about the extortioner’s activities, given that this was the first time Holmes had uttered Fay’s name in our client’s presence.
The gift of speech still seemed to elude our client.
“I trust that you are aware of the previous partnership of Fay and Griffin?” Holmes asked. His eyes flicked to Muybridge briefly. “Yes, I see that is the case.”
“I know only a little of it,” Muybridge said in a guarded tone. “It was a business venture to produce stereoscopic portraits, some two or three years ago. A folly, by all accounts – stereoscopic pictures are relics of the past, and even if one were to produce them to-day, one will find no suitable subjects in a studio, as opposed to outdoor vistas.”
“I hope that you cautioned your friend at the time,” Holmes remarked.
“It is hardly my place to pour cold water upon—” Muybridge stopped abruptly. “I told you I do not know Elias Griffin.”
“But the business did not belong to Elias Griffin, at least at the time of its financial trouble. He only supplied the funds that allowed Fay to avoid bankruptcy. Therefore, might it not be the case that Israel Fay’s gift of the Yosemite photograph might have been a recognition of this kindness, or even the repayment of a debt?”
“It might,” Muybridge conceded.
“And might he not also have forged your signature to increase its perceived value?”
Muybridge inhaled deeply, then nodded.
“It would be a great service to me if you might describe Israel Fay’s character,” Holmes said.
Watching my friend suspiciously, Muybridge replied, “Then you know that he accompanied me on my Yosemite excursion.”
“I do.”
“He was always the wiliest member of the group.” Muybridge’s eyes became glassy in recollection. “If I complained that a certain tree interrupted an otherwise perfect landscape view, he would immediately begin sawing away at its trunk to remove it. Though we parted ways for years, when I proceeded in my work commissioned by the University of Pennsylvania, which was more demanding a project than any I had attempted before, I thought immediately of Fay, whose ability to solve problems was second to none.”
“And did your relationship remain amiable?”
“It was… strained at times. One night, under the influence of drink, Fay revealed to me that he resented the fact that he had not been part of my team when I had made the breakthrough in California – I am referring to the motion photographs of Leland Stanford’s racehorse. God help me, if Fay had been present I might have reached the solution sooner, and I would have trusted him better than others to operate the cameras that produced those images. But it was not to be, and yet it seemed that Fay had always carried that regret.”
“Is regret the correct word,” Holmes asked, “or might it be more in the vein of rancour?”
Muybridge sighed and clasped his hands together. “I confess that I do not know.”
“And yet this stereoscopic-image business you describe would also represent being a step behind you, would it not? It is easy to imagine its failure exacerbating Fay’s strong feelings towards you.”
“One might conclude as much, but failure is often the impetus to strive for success, as I myself have proved,” Muybridge said proudly. “Fay’s investments have more recently grown shrewder… In fact, his anticipation of the public interest in moving pictures has been far in advance of my own. Perhaps that has been the influence of Elias Griffin, who may yet prove one of its formative architects, if his celluloid experiments bear fruit.”
