A Study in Sherlock

Forty-five minutes later, the words were swimming in front of his eyes and he turned off the light. The reflection from the lamp had made it difficult to see through the window. The moment the light went off Ronald saw another light bobbing up and down on the moor. The fear he felt when he read The Hound flooded him and he took an involuntary step away from the window. Then he caught his breath and leaned forward.

The quarter moon provided little illumination and thick, fast-moving clouds frequently blocked even those feeble rays. For a second, Ronald thought he could make out a silhouette moving across the moor, whether man or woman he could not be sure. Then the light disappeared and he guessed that the person had moved behind a hummock or rock formation that was blocking the light.

What would possess someone to venture out on the moor in the cold and dark? Ronald could not imagine anything that would send him out into that trackless, merciless waste with its quicksand bogs and God knew what else. But the puzzle intrigued him and he decided to sit again and keep a vigil in hopes that the phantom would return and he could discover its identity.

Ronald jerked awake. At first, he had no idea where he was. Then he realized that he had fallen asleep in the chair by the window. The sun was just rising over the moor and he could make out stunted trees, barren ground, low hills, and rocky prominences. Nothing about the place in daylight changed his mind about his desire to avoid it.

Ronald’s Franck Muller wristwatch was on his nightstand. It was just shy of seven A.M. He showered and shaved before dressing in pressed jeans, a tight black T-shirt, and a Harvard sweatshirt. Unlike Robert Altamont, he had actually gone to Harvard for two years before dropping out to work full-time developing Death’s Head.

The table where they had eaten dinner was set. Silver serving dishes had been laid out on a long credenza. Phillip Lester asked him if he’d like some coffee. While Ronald poured a glass of orange juice and filled his plate with bacon, scrambled eggs, and a scone, the butler brought him a cup of the best black coffee he’d ever tasted. Ronald asked where it was from and Lester told him that the blend had been specially created for Mr. Cubitt but that was all he was at liberty to say.

“Did you sleep?” Robert Altamont asked from the doorway soon after Ronald had dug into his eggs. He was wearing gray slacks, a white silk shirt, and a blazer.

“Not until the wee hours. I was too wound up. What about you?”

“I caught a few winks but thinking about the Paget kept me up most of the night. I’ve been collecting forever but I’ve never been in a position to own something like this.”

William Escott walked in before Ronald could reply and made straight for the food. He stacked his plate so high that Ronald waited for it to collapse like a building brought down by a demolition expert.

“When’s the auction?” Escott asked the butler, though it was difficult to understand what the Texan had said because his mouth was stuffed with food.

“Mr. Cubitt should descend shortly.”

“Can we see the Paget again or do we have to wait for Hilton?” Ronald asked.

“Last night, Mr. Cubitt instructed me to take you to the gallery if you requested a viewing.”

“Well, I certainly do,” Escott said. He pulled a magnifying glass out of his pocket. “I’m not buying unless I get a chance to inspect the damn thing. Personally, I think this picture is just too good to be true.” He snorted. “Queen Victoria, the Titanic, John Jacob Astor. The whole thing sounds like a plot for a comic book.”

After everyone had eaten, Lester led them to the gallery. The door was closed but there was a key jutting out from the lock.

“That’s odd,” Lester said. He tried the door and it opened. The butler stepped into the pitch-black room. As soon as the light went on he tensed. Ronald looked over Lester’s shoulder to see what had prompted the reaction. His eyes widened.

Hilton Cubitt was sprawled on the floor, staring at the ceiling with dead eyes. There was a bullet hole in his forehead. Ronald stared, transfixed by the grisly scene. Then William Escott’s shout jerked him out of his trance.

“It’s gone!”

Ronald followed Escott’s pointing finger and found himself staring at an empty easel. The Paget was missing.

Ronald was shaken by the sight of Cubitt’s corpse. While Phillip Lester called the police, he returned to his room and collapsed in the chair by the window. Ronald had confronted death every day while he was developing Death’s Head. His digital victims had been stabbed, decapitated by chain saws, riddled with machine gun bullets, and fed to sharks. His game contained a copious amount of animated blood that flowed and spouted from hundreds of grisly wounds, but nothing he’d dealt with in the world of his video game had prepared him for the sight and smell of real death.