Holmes frowned. “And has any other family come forward?”
“Only one that can be proved—or rather, the lawyers are unable to disprove her credentials.”
“‘Her’ being . . . ?”
“Miss Arabella Hartley. I met her once; the little hussy was running with a bad crowd in Europe. She claims to be a direct descendant through the male line, but I can find no record of any marriage between Anna Hoyt and an Englishman over here. Miss Hartley is nothing more than an adventuress, so far as I can tell.”
I cleared my throat. “Forgive me for saying so, Mr. Sewall, but . . . would it be so difficult to lose out to Miss Hartley?” I did not like the way he’d spoken of his ancestress—the reason for his family’s wealth—and this young lady.
A smirk on Holmes’s face revealed that he thought my weakness for the ladies was showing itself.
“What you mean, in your very polite British way, is if I can afford to keep a private steamship, why do I care so much about a fistful of antique jewels?” He sighed. “If it were up to me, I would not. While I do not approve or know this young person, I have a debt of honor to repay.”
He looked very solemn now. “My wife asked me, on her deathbed, to fund a hospital. I had need before that to put all my assets into my business—all the political unrest in Europe has been bad for my shipping trade—but if I can find that inheritance, well, I can honor both my wife and the founder of my family.”
“And save innocent lives with the hospital,” Sherlock Holmes murmured. “You have given me all the salient points?”
“All saving the lawyer, Mr. Deering’s, address, my card and letter of introduction, and the address of my residence in London. If I may count on you, Mr. Holmes, I believe I shall soon be at rights with heaven and earth.”
We exchanged farewells, and Mr. Sewall left.
“Well, Watson, what do you think?”
“I don’t buy that cock-and-bull story about a wife’s dying wish for one minute.”
Holmes nodded. “I believe that is a lie, but he told one truth: He needs our help.”
“He needs a good thrashing,” I said warmly, thinking of his unkind words about Miss Hartley.
“So powerful a man? Coming here personally and lying to us? You may well get your wish, Watson.”
Our eyes met, and a slow smile spread across my face. It was mirrored by Holmes’s own rather feral grin.
A client with deep pockets and the promise of violence? Better than plum pudding on Christmas Day.
The next morning, armed with our client’s particulars, Holmes wired his contact in Boston, asking him to examine more closely Sewall’s family, business, and reputation. Then, we went to the office of Deering and Deering, where we presented our credentials. We were surprised when the senior partner, a round, balding little fellow with a gold pince nez, brought us the clue. It was not some legal document, but a portrait.
“It’s all very irregular, of course,” Mr. Deering said. “But there’s nothing about this bequest that is regular!”
The antique portrait was in three-quarter, showing the lady herself in the garb of the previous century. She was perhaps sixty-five or so, I thought, but there was still more gold than silver in her hair and her features were very fine. She was resplendent in a scarlet gown and ribbons, and if I was any judge, the satin was costly and the lace on her cap and fichu very fine. There was a hardness in her eyes that might have been some trick of the light, because that hardness was belied by the slight smile on her lips.
“Copley, I think,” Holmes said. His eyes were wide and slightly unfocused, his usual way of drinking in the entirety of a view—usually a crime scene.
I grunted.
“Really, Watson, the National Gallery is free. If you would only spend an afternoon improving yourself—”
“What will seeing this picture do to help us?” I broke in. “A lady, some books, a view overlooking a house—it’s all quite ordinary.”
It was an unsubtle strategy, but I was eager to see him engaged in this new project. His want of diversion affected me, threatening to unbalance the equilibrium I fought to maintain. Holmes, understanding my intent precisely, scowled at me.
But he took the proffered bait—how could he resist? It was precisely to his taste.
I breathed a sigh of relief as he continued.
“If you’ll promise to spend time with the images of the great and the good, you’ll soon learn that portraits often show the sitters’ most valued possessions—books, maps of their estate, ships, family jewels. Therefore, Anna Hoyt’s hand gesturing to the window indicates her land and the source of her wealth; the map behind her suggests that she’s here in England. From the books on the table, we see she is literate; that table was new and fashionable at the time, and her dress is also quite rich. Very wealthy indeed, to judge from this picture.”