The following morning found Graves and Finch in a nondescript Vauxhall Cavalier, hurtling through the London drizzle towards Ashworth’s Mayfair art gallery. Eddie, ever the optimist, hummed a jaunty tune, a stark contrast to Graves' grim silence. The rain hammered against the car windows, blurring the already indistinct city landscape.

"You know, Graves” Eddie chirped, "Lord Ashworth might simply have been abducted! A case of mistaken identity, perhaps? Or maybe he owes someone a rather large sum of money."

Graves shot him a look that could curdle milk. "Eddie, your theories are as colourful as your socks, but far less grounded in reality. We're dealing with a meticulously planned disappearance, not a simple kidnapping. The note, the unsettlingly tidy apartment… it points to something far more complex."

Eddie, undeterred, continued, "But what about the hidden collection? Perhaps he's simply gone to protect it?"

"A hidden collection?" Graves muttered, his attention shifting from the erratic driving to the possibilities Eddie's words unveiled. Rumours of a secret hoard were nothing new within London's elite circles, a clandestine world fuelled by ambition and secrecy.

Their first interview was with Mrs. Periwinkle, Ashworth's long-suffering but fiercely loyal secretary. A woman whose age was as indeterminate as her expressions, she revealed little, her words carefully chosen, her answers measured. Yet, amidst the carefully constructed politeness, Graves detected a flicker of fear, a subtle tension that suggested she knew more than she was letting on.

"Lord Ashworth was… eccentric” she stated, her voice a low, almost conspiratorial whisper. "But meticulous. His life was a schedule, a perfectly ordered symphony of appointments and events. This… disappearance… it is entirely out of character." She paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "There were… whispers. About a feud. With Lord Blackwood."

The mention of Blackwood confirmed Graves’ suspicions. The cryptic note wasn’t a mere coincidence. The feud, though shrouded in rumour, was apparently legendary, a decades-old rivalry fueled by professional jealousy and personal animosity. Blackwood, a master of the macabre, and Ashworth, a connoisseur of the refined, were a potent mix of conflicting artistic sensibilities. And the feud was more than just whispers; it was now a vital piece of their puzzle.

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Next, they interviewed a gallery assistant, a nervous young man named Giles who spoke more about his anxiety over a potentially cancelled exhibition than Ashworth’s disappearance. However, he inadvertently confirmed the rumours of a hidden collection. "Mr. Ashworth had a private vault” he stammered, "I… I never saw what was in it, but it was said to be… priceless. He was very secretive about it."

Graves’ cynicism began to melt, replaced with a grim determination. This wasn't just a missing person's case; it was a conspiracy, a clandestine game played among London’s elite.

At Ashworth's gallery, a cavernous space filled with the muted colours and hushed whispers of expensive art, Graves found more inconsistencies. The lighting was odd, some pieces poorly displayed, almost as if deliberately obscured. He examined the catalog, noting the absence of certain works, pieces known to be in Ashworth’s possession. He pointed to a particularly blank space on the wall.

“Eddie, look at this.” He gestured to the empty space, where a picture should be hanging. “Something's missing, not just a painting, but a specific area, a space designed for a certain size canvas. If I’m right, we need to look for a very specific size of Blackwood artwork."

Eddie, energized by the tangible clue, began meticulously measuring the empty space while Graves scrutinized the hanging paintings. He found inconsistencies in the framing, slight variations in the mounting, subtle discrepancies that suggested recent rearrangement. The gallery, far from being a showcase of art, was a carefully constructed façade, concealing secrets beneath its polished surface.

Their final stop for the day was a visit to Inspector Langley at Scotland Yard. Langley, surrounded by overflowing ashtrays and half-empty cups of tea, was less than impressed by Graves’ revelations.

“A hidden art collection? A feud with a dead artist?” Langley grumbled, his tone laced with skepticism. “Graves, you’re letting your imagination run wild.”

“With all due respect, Inspector,” Graves countered, his voice low and steady, “the facts don’t support a simple missing person case. We have a cryptic note, a meticulously staged scene, whispers of a hidden collection, and a decades-old feud. It’s all connected, Langley. And it leads us to Lord Reginald Blackwood, even if he's no longer around to play the game himself."

Langley sighed, his gaze softening slightly. "Alright, Graves. Prove me wrong. But if this turns out to be nothing more than a wealthy man’s childish prank, you'll be cleaning out my office for a month."

Graves smiled, a rare occurrence that revealed something almost dangerous. "Consider it a challenge, Inspector. We'll find Ashworth. And we'll find Blackwood's masterpiece." He glanced at Eddie, whose enthusiasm had remained undampened throughout their frustrating day. "And Eddie” Graves said, "we'll find out what that red ribbon was about."

The rain continued its relentless assault on the city, washing away the grime and concealing secrets beneath a cloak of grey. But for Graves and Finch, the storm had only just begun. The shadows on the canvas were deepening, and the game was far from over.