Chapter 503 - The Oil Painting’s Location (1/2)

Holmes returned at dusk, storming into the room without saying a word. Completely disregarding the audience’s well-being outside, the shrill rubbing of bow and string started blaring out his bedroom. After torturing them with erratic howls, screeches, and wails for a good 15 minutes, he finally put down the instrument in contentment.

He then said to Zhang Heng, who was at his side, “The meeting with Villard has been canceled tonight. I told him that we couldn’t acquire much useful information in the afternoon. Hence, the meeting would be pointless.”

“Sounds good to me. I actually wanted to tell you that I might not be able to make it tonight.”

Zhang Heng then took out the two opera tickets.

“A friend gave me these and invited me to her performance.”

“Huh? A new opera in the Queen’s Theatre?” Holmes’ intuition was as sharp as ever.

“Any companions that might be tagging along with you?”

“You know that I just arrived in London not long ago, and I’m still unfamiliar with the place. So, I don’t have any acquaintances…” “What a coincidence! I do happen to be going to the Queen’s Theatre tonight,” chuckled Holmes.

“Other than the violin, do you also like opera as well?”

“I really like opera, but we won’t be there for that tonight,” Holmes said, “We want to capture that Mr. M. Once we capture him, we will know who his target is. His playground has always been in France. Now that he’s come all the way here to London, he must have a big job to do.”

“So, you’ve narrowed down the list?”

“Well, I went to visit a few friends this afternoon and compiled a substantial list of his potential targets. He hasn’t moved his finger yet, but I would have begun studying my victims if I were to be him. It just so happens that the first, third, and fifth on my list will all appear in the Queen’s Theatre tonight. I know the chief makeup artist of the hall. Initially, I wanted him to help me get a ticket, but since you have an extra ticket with you, it’s all perfect!”

As they finished the last bites of dinner, Holmes and Zhang Heng draped on their suits and prepared to head to Queen’s Theater. Holmes got rid of his stubbles and cleaned up himself. When coupled with his aquiline nose and sculpted face, he looked bright, as if a renewed vigor clutched his soul. Perhaps he wasn’t the most das.h.i.+ng man around here, but he was definitely not ugly either.

He picked a walking stick. It had the carapace of a tortoise for a handle and rosewood for its body.

“My oriental friend, you are now wealthy! You should pick a walking stick that suits your standing.”

Zhang Heng might never understand the love affair between European men and their walking sticks. The streets of London saw every gentleman bearing their very own walking stick. And most of them had more than just one. When they walked their corgi’s in the morning, they would bring along their wooden sticks, and in the evenings, those would be replaced by a silver cane. Men waving their golden sticks around at some fancy banquet was a common sight for the more affluent and moneyed.