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eighth.”
    “But you did not do so?”
    “No, on the morning of the eighth we received a telegram intimating that it was not, after all, convenient for us to call on that day and inviting us to make a new appointment.”
    “You had no reason to doubt the authenticity of this telegram?”
    “None whatsoever.”
    “Tell me, Mr Simkins,” Holmes ventured, “as someone who knows the world of pictures, dealers and collectors better than most, how hard do you think it would be to dispose of such a celebrated painting?”
    “Very hard, indeed, I would say.”
    “But not impossible?”
    Simkins pondered the question, head on one side. “There are collectors so obsessive that they are prepared to obtain by other means what they cannot fairly buy.”
    “And are there not international gangs operating to satisfy the cravings of such collectors?”
    “Sadly, that is the case, Mr Holmes.”
    “And would you know how to make contact with just such a gang?” Holmes asked the question in a casual, disarming tone and watched its effect on the other man.
    Simkins’s ample frame seemed to swell still further with indignation. “Mr Holmes, whatever are you suggesting?”
    “Simply that someone in your position might well be approached, from time to time, by unscrupulous men – men requiring, perhaps, a convincing forgery or confirmation of a false attribution. I am sure that Simkins and Streeter would never knowingly be associated with such rogues but I would be surprised if you were not able to identify some of them.”
    “We know who to steer clear of, if that’s what you’re suggesting, young sir,” Simkins admitted, only partially mollified.
    “That and nothing else,” Holmes said with a smile. “I wonder if I might trouble you for the names of some of these reprobates.” As the other man firmly shook his head, he continued. “You see, someone deliberately deceived you and then passed off himself and his associates as representatives of Simkins and Streeter. That someone was highly professional. Ergo , I deduce that he is no stranger to the business of stealing and disposing of works of art.”
    “Well, sir, since you put it that way, there are a handful of men who might bear investigation. The police could do worse than question them – not, mind you, that I make any accusations.” He found a scrap of paper among the confetti scattering before him and, taking up a pen from the holder, jotted down three names. “Well, Mr Holmes, I hope they may lead to the recovery of New College’s Nativity , though I fear it has disappeared for many a long year.”
    Sherlock Holmes spent the return journey to Oxford recalling with total accuracy, every piece of information with a bearing on this case. It all pointed to one bizarre, though inescapable conclusion. Could it be proved, though? He resolved that prove it he would if it were humanly possible.
    With that fixed intention he set out from Grenville after dark clad in tennis shoes, old trousers and shirt and carrying a hand lantern and a copy of The Times . He was gone for two hours and he returned in triumph. He had one more call to make and that would have to wait until the following evening.
    The clock high on Grenville chapel’s tower was chiming six as Holmes set out to walk the short distance to Magdalen College. When he reached Hugh Mountcey’s apartments the outer door was open and there were sounds of conversation within. He tapped smartly and the portal was opened by a raffish, ginger-haired young man in evening dress and clutching a glass of champagne. “Yes?” he enquired languidly. Holmes proffered his card. The other held it up fastidiously. “I say, Huffy,” he called out to someone inside, “do we know anyone by the name of Sherlock Holmes?” He uttered the name with an air of faint amusement. “No. Send him on his way,” came the reply from within. “Be off with you, fellow,” the sandy-haired man said, returning Holmes’s card.
    Before the