A Study in Sherlock

Ronald scanned the eerie countryside through the window of the jet black SUV that had been waiting for his private plane at Heathrow. The moor was shrouded in a thick, impenetrable mist that would cloak any ravenous fiend lurking near the dark pools of liquid peat. He pulled his gaze away and checked his cell phone. There were still no bars. They had disappeared as soon as the SUV passed through a small village which, the driver informed him, would be the last sign of civilization he would see before they arrived at Hilton Cubitt’s estate.

There were two other SUVs and a chauffeured limousine in the caravan that was headed toward Cubitt’s manor house. Ronald had seen the passengers in the other SUVs at Heathrow when they walked to the vehicles from their private jets. He had one thing in common with them: an outstanding Holmes collection. The limousine had joined the convoy as it left the airport and Ronald had no idea who was riding in it.

In the SUV directly behind Ronald was William Escott, a heavyset, dissipated Texas oilman who had inherited his wealth from his father. Ronald had disliked the collector the first time their paths had crossed at an auction. His low opinion of the man had never changed. Escott was a foul-mouthed slob who drank too much and talked too loudly. He had actually gotten into a fistfight during the Baker Street Irregulars’ annual meeting in New York in a dispute over the date of the action in “The Musgrave Ritual.” Escott did not limit his collecting to Holmes. He had an ownership interest in the Houston Astros and one of the best collections of baseball memorabilia outside of Cooperstown.

Robert Altamont was in the SUV that was following Escott. He was a chubby five-ten with a ruddy complexion, straw-colored hair, and bright blue eyes. The inventor had grown up on a farm in Oregon and had made his fortune after graduating from Boise State, but he dressed like a Boston WASP, affected a Haavaad accent and tried to create the impression that he’d been educated at places like Andover, Princeton, and MIT. The veil was easy to penetrate. Ronald had seen him use the wrong fork more than once at the BSI banquet and had caught numerous grammatical errors when Altamont tried to throw French phrases into a conversation.

Altamont had never confirmed the gossip about the source of his wealth but it was rumored that he had invented an electric car that really did what it was supposed to do and had sold the technology to a consortium of car manufacturers who now held the patent and the design in a vault in a secret location. The deal had supposedly made him a fortune.

Altamont was as avid a Sherlockian as Ronald. He had been turned on to Holmes by his older brother when he was ten years old and had started collecting on a small scale when he was still poor and in college. After he became rich Altamont not only built one of the world’s best Holmes collections but expanded his interests to Shakespeare First Folio, signed first editions of famous literary works, and French Impressionist paintings.

The caravan rounded a curve in the road and a pair of wrought-iron gates attached to weather-worn stone pillars suddenly appeared out of the fog. The gates and the house they protected looked familiar and Ronald had no trouble figuring out why. Hilton Cubitt had chosen this desolate stretch of the moor for his manor house because he wanted to model it after Baskerville Hall but the description in Doyle’s story did not provide enough detail, so he’d had the architect study the plans for Cromer Hall, which had inspired Doyle’s fictional architectural creation. Cubitt’s manor house was a variant of Tudor Gothic. There was a central three-story section with two-story wings on each side. The manor was gray stone. Octagonal stone chimneys rose at several points along the slate roof. The gray stone blended into the sullen surroundings and looked rather foreboding. For a brief moment, Ronald imagined that the high windows at the front of the house were watching him arrive.

The SUVs and the limousine stopped in front of a high, carved door fashioned from weather-worn oak. The driver opened Ronald’s door and he stepped out. The chill wind that swept across the desolate landscape stung his cheeks and he turned up the collar of the motorcycle jacket he wore over a black turtleneck and worn jeans. Ronald knew he was underdressed for a stay at a British manor house, but one nice thing about being filthy rich was that he could dress any damn way he pleased.