“Thank you so much, signora,” said Holmes with a gracious half-bow, “You have also met Mr Howell, I believe?”
She smiled but there was a hint of concern in her eyes.
“He was here more than a month ago. He went back to England. I did not see him again.”
“He left no message of any kind?”
“I do not think so.”
She went out without closing the door and we could hear her busying herself in the next room.
Despite the first heat of the Venetian spring, Sherlock Holmes was still dressed in his formal suit. From the waistcoat of this he now drew a powerful lens, laid it on the writing desk and set to work. Using the key, he opened the lower drawers. The first contained nothing but dust and chips of wood. The second yielded a few scraps of paper of the most ordinary kind.
He tried the lowest and deepest of the main drawers. Then, with a muttered syllable of satisfaction, he lifted out a decayed olive green portmanteau, which nonetheless looked as though it had been dusted in the past few months-possibly by Tina Bordereau. Underneath this was a folio correspondence box, cased in leather and stamped in gold with Aspern’s name.
Holmes sprung the two catches and brought out its contents. He also opened the cupboards to either side of the escritoire, revealing shelves lined with volumes that were almost new and, at the worst, only a little worn. I was not surprised that there should be notebooks and folders of papers. What I had not expected was that so much of the treasure would consist of printed books, most of them of comparatively recent date and in multiple copies. It was a little like a publisher’s stockroom. They were still rarities, of course, first printings often inscribed by their authors. I noticed Dante Rossetti’s Verses printed as late as 1881. The bulk of the volumes were the works of John Ruskin, William Morris, Algernon Charles Swinburne as well as Rossetti. There were three rare printings of Robert Browning’s poems. Two were inscribed by the poet to Jeffery Aspern, dating from the 1850s. The third, Gold Hair, published after Aspern’s death, was inscribed to Juanita Bordereau. How much had the author disliked her after all?
Holmes opened the gold-stamped and leather-bound correspondence box. Here, if our information was correct, lay Jeffery Aspern’s letters from Lord Byron, Robert Browning, William Beckford, as well as other literary treasures. The papers had been neatly arranged in portfolios and I would have said this had been done recently, for the covers appeared much newer than their contents. Those papers that I could see looked tarnished by time but the black ink was far less “rusty” than I had expected.
Holmes stood up, walked to the window and held a paper to the north light.
“I believe that the usual iron-gall ink of the 1820s has been adulterated by indigo to make the script darker. So far as that goes, what we have appears genuine and is not contradicted by any date in the watermark.
“What is the writing?”
“A corrected page from the manuscript of Canto 6 of Don Juan. John Pierpont Morgan would pay a small fortune to add the complete work to his library, in the author’s own manuscript. According to the list of papers it is in Byron’s own hand. Notice the date at the top, “1822.” The formation of the first ‘2’ makes it look almost like “1892,” does it not?
“Very like.”
“A forger would have taken care to make both figures ‘2’ look alike. None of us signs a name or writes a line in the same way twice. A perfect forgery may be too consistent, too perfect, as if it has been drawn rather than written. Here you will see in the first line Byron has written, ”There is a Tide…” The letter T in both cases has a loop at either end of its cross-piece. Each letter in the line has a gap before the next one. That is almost too consistent, a cause for suspicion. By the fourth line, however, the poet’s pen is flowing freely, rather than hesitating. Every T is joined to the following letter, lacking the loops but sprouting a confidant tail.”
“And that is all?”
“Far from it, old fellow. However, Lord Byron is the most forged of all the English poets. The appetite for new discoveries is insatiable. In 1872, Schultess-Young foisted on the world two sets of Byron letters said to have belonged to his aunts. They were obvious impostures and the manuscripts were not available for inspection. Nineteen others in his book were examined in manuscript and proved to be the work of De Gibler, who called himself Major Byron and claimed to be the poet’s natural son. He had been exposed long before because the paper on which the letters were written was watermarked ten years after the writer’s death!”
Holmes was in his element among so much high-class dishonesty. He sat down at the writing table and adjusted the range of the magnifying lens.
“When a manuscript is examined closely, it is possible to see minute breaks in the line, where the writer has lifted pen from paper. In a genuine copy, as here, there are relatively few places where the pen has been lifted. A forger of modest talents will stop more often, in order to compare his copying with the original. There may also be signs of counterfeiting, when a letter in a word has been patched, as they call it, to make it a more accurate imitation, leaving a feathery appearance.”
“And by such clues forgery is detected?”
“Among many others. A true craftsman, of course, will know what I am looking for and will take care to provide me with it. Indeed, a counterfeiter who practices an author’s script for long enough can produce a flowing imitation. In that case we must use other methods of detection. Perhaps the date of ink or paper, sometimes the provenance of the work. I think we may assume that this is a genuine page of Byron’s manuscript.”
He examined a letter of some kind and then chuckled as he quoted two lines of Don Juan.
‘This note was written upon gilt-edged paper,
With a neat little crow quill, slight and new!’
We need have no doubt about these two pages. They have been known as a forgery for almost eighty years.”
I looked over his shoulder at the narrow page of script, the paper yellowed and the ink rusty. I read the first words, which looked mighty like Byron’s hand that had written Don Juan. “Once More, My Dearest…”
Holmes smiled.
“It poses as a letter from Byron to Lady Caroline Lamb. Unfortunately it was forged by Lady Caroline Lamb herself in 1813 as a means of stealing his portrait. The story is well known. She was insane with love of him, the man whom she called mad, bad and dangerous to know! She forged this letter in his handwriting, authorising her to go to his publisher John Murray and demand the famous Newstead miniature of the poet. She got the portrait and he got her letter back from Murray.”
Under Lady Lamb’s copy of his signature, the poet had written, “This letter was forged in my name by Lady Caroline Lamb,” and he had signed the postscript.
“The two Byron signatures are very much alike.”
“Lady Lamb might have made a competent forger in time. However, look at the letter ‘t’ again. In Byron’s hand the cross-stroke extends over the next two letters. She extends it still further. It is a fatal mistake, when forging, to exaggerate such foibles. She also varies her style twice by adding a strong up-stroke before the main down-stroke of the ’t.’ That is a grave error. A writer who makes a ‘t’ with a strong down-stroke may embellish it but will hardly precede it with a strong up-stroke. The up-strokes of normal script are light, whereas the downstrokes are strong. Where the pressure of a nib is of uniform strength throughout, as it is here, you may suspect facsimile copying or forgery. In short, however like the two scripts may appear to be, Lady Caroline Lamb’s effort raises too many questions to be acceptable.”