Fantastic Metropolis

He reached across and gave it to my friend who studied it carefully. “You recognise the writing, of course?”

The American was in no doubt. “It is in the flowing, slightly erratic, masculine hand I recognise. As you see I must accept the family heirloom from Mrs Gallibasta and, in all secrecy, transport it straight back to America, where it must remain in my charge until such time as the other ‘missing’ Mackelsworth cousin is found. If he has male heirs, it must be passed on to one of them at my discretion. If no male heir can be found, it should be passed on to one of my daughters—I have no living sons—on condition that they add the Mackelsworth name to their own. I understand, Mr Holmes, that to some extent I am betraying my trust. But I know so little of English society and customs. I have a strong sense of family and am proud to be related to such an illustrious line, but until Sir Geoffrey wrote and told me I had no idea we were so close. I feel obliged to carry out his last wishes. However, I cannot in conscience go without assuring sure myself that no foul play has been involved. I know that, of all the men in England, you will not betray my secret.”

“I am flattered by your presumption, Mr Macklesworth. Pray, could you tell me the date of the last letter you received from Sir Geoffrey?”

“It was undated, but I remember the post mark. It was the fifteenth day of June of this year.”

“I see. And the date of Sir Geoffrey’s death?”

“The thirteenth. I supposed him to have posted the letter before his death and that it was collected later.”

“A reasonable assumption. And you are, of course, thoroughly familiar with Sir Geoffrey’s hand-writing.”

“We corresponded for several years, Mr Holmes. The hand in this note is identical. No forger, no matter how clever, could manage those idiosyncracies, those unpredictable lapses into barely readable words. But usually his hand was a fine, bold, idiosyncratic one. It was not a forgery, Mr Holmes. And neither was the note he left with his housekeeper.”

“But you never met Sir Geoffrey?”

“Sadly, no. He spoke sometimes of coming out to ranch in Texas, but I believe other concerns took up his attention.

“Indeed, I knew him slightly some years ago, when we belonged to the same club. An artistic type, fond of Japanese prints and Scottish furniture. An affable, absent-minded fellow, rather retiring. Of a markedly gentle disposition. Too good for this world, as we used to say.”

“When would that have been, Mr Holmes?” Our visitor leaned forward, showing considerable curiosity.

“Some twenty years ago, when I was just starting in practice. I was able to provide some help in a case concerning a young friend of his who had got himself into trouble. I recall that Sir Geoffrey frequently showed genuine concern for the fate of his fellow creatures. He remained a confirmed bachelor, I understand. I was sorry to hear of the robbery. When the poor man killed himself, I was a little surprised that no foul play was suspected. A kindly sort of old-fashioned, unworldly man. The patron of many a destitute young artist. It was art—or at least artists—I gather, which so reduced his fortune.”

“He did not speak much of art to me, Mr Holmes. I fear he had changed considerably over the intervening years. The man I knew grew increasingly given to what seemed somewhat irrational anxieties. It was to quell these anxieties, that I originally agreed to this scheme of his. I was honoured, Mr Holmes, by the responsibility, but disturbed by what was asked of me.”

“You are clearly a man of profound common sense, Mr Mackelsworth, as well as a man of honour. I sympathise entirely with your predicament. You were right to come to us and we shall do all we can to help!”

The relief of the American’s face was considerable. “Thank you, Mr Holmes. Thank you, Doctor Watson. I feel I can now act with some coherence.”

“And Sir Geoffrey’s housekeeper? What of her?”

“She intends to seek a new position in her native Spain. She will be glad to go home, she says. She came to Sir Geoffrey about five years ago, before he first wrote to me, and he always spoke of her in the most positive and grateful terms. A woman of some character who helped him marshall the last of his resources and kept him from the bankruptcy court. He spoke so warmly of her, sir, that I was bound to speculate on their relationship…”

“I take your meaning, Mr Mackelsworth. If, what you suspect was the case, no doubt the class differences were insurmountable.”

“I have no wish to impugn the name of my relative, Mr Holmes.”

“But we must look realistically at the problem, I think.” Holmes gestured with his long hand. “I wonder if we might be permitted to see the statue you picked up today?”

“Certainly, sir. I fear the newspaper in which it was wrapped has come loose here and there—”

“Which is how I recognised the Fellini workmanship,” said Holmes, his face becoming almost rapturous as the extraordinary figure was revealed. He reached to run his fingers over musculature which might have been living flesh in miniature, it was so perfect. The silver itself was vibrant with some inner energy and the gold chasing, the precious stones, all served to give the most wonderful impression of Perseus, a bloody sword in one hand, his shield on his arm, holding up the snake-crowned head which glared at us through sapphire eyes and threatened to turn us to stone!