“He intended the explosion to occur,” I deduced.
“He did indeed.” Joanna went on, “It would not surprise me if he had convinced his cellmate, Derrick Wilson, to perform the actual mixing while the idiot was smoking. With this scenario in mind, Edmunds would stand behind Wilson, so that the cellmate would absorb the flames and blast of the explosion. Allow me to draw your attention to the fact that the eyewitness did not see Edmunds on fire, but only an individual engulfed in flames, with that individual no doubt being Derrick Wilson.”
“But the eyewitness clearly stated that he saw Derrick Wilson later that day,” my father argued.
“Another contradiction which must be overcome,” I agreed.
“Which brings us to the ingredients for glue that I noted on a shelf in the workshop,” said Joanna. “Flour and salt, with a touch of vinegar, produces a sticky paste that can serve as glue, but it will not be a very strong adhesive and one that would never be used on furniture. So then, what purpose could it possibly have?”
Joanna waited for a response and when one was not forthcoming, she gave us another clue. “Please recall that Edmunds and Wilson were quite similar in size and frame. Also keep in mind that Wilson was a rough character from Scotland, who was a loner and spent most of his time away from others.”
Neither my father nor I could grasp the direction she was leading us in.
“What was the single, most distinguishing feature that Derrick Wilson possessed?” Joanna prompted.
“His thick beard and moustache,” I answered without thought, but then all the pieces of the puzzle came to me in a rush. “Harry Edmunds pasted on a beard and moustache, using the glue he made in the workshop!”
“Bravo, John,” Joanna praised, then continued on. “Wilson no doubt trimmed his beard in his cell, where Edmunds could have easily and slyly gathered and hid the clippings.”
“And in the disruption caused by the explosion, he could have hurried back to his cell and applied the clippings to his face unnoticed by anyone,” I added.
“The pasty glue made in the workshop would have been well suited for that purpose, and thus Edmunds could have taken on the appearance of Derrick Wilson who was soon to be discharged,” Joanna continued on. “You should also recall they were cellmates, so Edmunds knew all of Wilson’s mannerisms and ways, including his Scottish accent which could be copied with practice.”
“Thus, Harry Edmunds was able to take the place of Derrick Wilson and walk out of Wormwood Scrubs a free man,” my father concluded. “And conveniently left behind an unrecognizable charred body to be buried in a potter’s field. Of course all this needs to be proven beyond a doubt.”
“And so it will, Watson, for at this very moment Lestrade is soliciting the court for permission to exhume the body,” said Joanna. “I am confident examination of the corpse will back up the evidence we now have and will put a face on our vandal.”
“But will this new information lead to his apprehension?” asked my father.
“Let us hope so, for time is now very much against us,” Joanna replied. “You see, the vandal has narrowed down the list of paintings that could be hiding the masterpiece.”
“How did he manage that?”
“By examining the file that Simon Hawke keeps in his office.” Joanna described the folder containing the names of all the paintings restored over the past few years. On separate pages, the defects in each work of art was detailed and signed by the owner as well as the restorer. “The restoration performed during a given time period will hold the treasured masterpiece.”
“How did Edmunds gain access to the file?” my father asked.
“By entering Simon Hawke’s office during one of the break-ins,” Joanna replied. “I questioned the lockpick involved and he distinctly remembered the sound of pages being flipped while Edmunds was in the office.”
“The sound, you say?”
“The sound,” Joanna repeated. “I should mention that the lockpick is virtually blind and depends on his sharpened hearing and other senses to get around in his sightless world. He clearly recognized the noise made by flipping pages.”
“Were you able to obtain the titles of the listed restorations?” my father inquired.
“I thought it best not to do so in the presence of Simon Hawke.”
“Why so?”
“Because I am not convinced of his innocence.”
My father nodded, with a thin smile. “Like your father who believed that innocence must be proven before a suspect can be excluded.”
“Precisely,” Joanna concurred. “In addition, I have now concluded that it was the other restorer, and not Harry Edmunds, who discovered the hidden masterpiece and knows the painting which hides it.”
“Based on what?” asked I.
“A deduction I should have made earlier,” Joanna responded. “It is the simplest of deductions, based on the simplest of observations. You must remember that it is Harry Edmunds who travels from place to place, slashing up portraits of women, which informs us that he doesn’t know which painting conceals the masterpiece. Thus, he could not be the one who found the hidden masterpiece during a restoration, yet he knew of it. How could this be so? Obviously the other restorer told him of the fantastic find, and the other restorer had to be James Blackstone, with whom he worked and was no doubt close to. I suspect they were partners and planning to sell their ill-gotten gain on the black market, which they no doubt were familiar with. You will recall both were arrested and convicted of selling their forgeries in such a marketplace.”
“But why leave the masterpiece in its concealed location?” my father inquired. “Why not remove it and secure it somewhere away from the art gallery?”
“An excellent question, Watson, and one that I, too, pondered over,” said Joanna. “There are several possible explanations. First, the masterpiece may be too fragile to move and carry about. Remember, in its current location, the atmosphere is dry and away from light, which protects it from degrading. Exposing it to humid air and ultraviolet rays could damage it further and reduce its value substantially. Thus, finding another suitable place to conceal it is no easy task and carries risks. But it is the second reason for not moving the masterpiece that I favor. They were thieves and simply did not trust one another. In the art gallery, where it was hidden behind a restoration that could take months, both knew where their share of the projected fortune was located. Here, they could keep an eye on each other. But their plans fell apart when the two were arrested for forgery, with Edmunds going to prison and Blackstone reportedly fleeing to Australia.”
“Mother, he has not fled,” Johnny interrupted. “In all likelihood James Blackstone remains in London.”
“How did you reach that conclusion?” Joanna asked, but the pleased look on her face told me she had the very same thought.
“Why flee to Australia while on the run, when a once-in-a-lifetime fortune awaits you here in London?” Johnny explained. “Your partner is in prison and you are free, thus giving you the opportunity for sole ownership of a true masterpiece. So you see, Mother, he is still in London searching for the treasure, as any thief worth his salt would.”
“Are you suggesting we are dealing with two vandals rather than one?” I proposed.
“It is a distinct possibility,” Johnny answered.
“But James Blackstone would have no need to resort to vandalism, for he knows where the masterpiece is hidden, does he not?” my father countered.
“Perhaps it was subsequently moved,” Johnny suggested.
“By whom?” my father inquired. “Only the two restorers, Harry Edmunds and James Blackstone, know of the hidden treasure. If Edmunds had moved it, he would be aware of its location and would not be frantically slashing the other paintings. And if the transfer was done by Blackstone, he would know precisely where it was concealed and would have fetched it by now.”
We considered the matter further in silence, but could not explain why James Blackstone had not
gone directly to the source and made off with the masterpiece. He could have done so easily, with his partner out of the picture and securely locked up in Wormwood Scrubs. “Of course all this conjecture is dependent on Johnny’s assumption that Blackstone remains in London and did not flee to Australia,” I said finally.
“An assumption I believe to be correct,” Joanna asserted. “The temptation of such a great fortune would be far too great to leave behind.”
“Then why does Blackstone not have the masterpiece in hand?” I challenged.
“I can think of a number of reasons,” said Joanna. “But the most likely one is that Blackstone does not know where the treasure is at this moment. Keep in mind that he discovered the masterpiece behind a painting of a woman which required restoration. Now suppose, just suppose, the restoration was completed and returned to its owner who sold it to another gallery or perhaps to another individual. Blackstone, fleeing for his freedom, would have no way of following the trail of the painting to its current location.”
“He could have broken into Hawke and Evans and searched through the restoration and receipts folders,” I submitted.
Joanna shook her head at the suggestion. “It is Edmunds, not Blackstone, who is the master criminal. It was he who arranged for the forced entry into Hawke and Evans and into the Dubose home. And it was he who cleverly arranged for the death of a cellmate so he could gain his freedom. It was because Blackstone was such a novice at crime that he brought Edmunds in on the theft.”
“So the masterpiece is still out there,” I concluded.
“And so is James Blackstone,” Joanna noted, then abruptly waved away the ideas under discussion. She reached for a Turkish cigarette and, after lighting it, began pacing back and forth in front of us. “We are on the wrong track here. Of course James Blackstone would know which painting hid the masterpiece, but he was far too clever to conceal it behind a portrait belonging to a gallery, from where it could be sold and sold yet again, making it very difficult if not impossible to trace. Being the clever fellow he is, he would hide the masterpiece beneath a painting that belonged to a person of wealth and status, who would never dream of parting with it.”
“Like the countess,” I surmised.
“Precisely,” Joanna agreed. “But all the evidence tells us it was Harry Edmunds, not Blackstone, who entered the Granville residence. So here we have Edmunds desperately slashing portraits while Blackstone bides his time. All of which informs us that Blackstone knows where the masterpiece is located, but Edmunds does not.”
“But how did Blackstone keep the new location a secret?” asked I.
“It could have easily been done while Harry Edmunds was not present in the restoration area of the gallery,” Joanna answered. “Blackstone would never disclose the move had been made, for he apparently distrusted Edmunds.”
“A fallout among thieves,” I opined. “But why hasn’t Blackstone retrieved the masterpiece?”
“Most likely it is in a quite secure place which compounds the difficulty,” Joanna replied. “Besides, he was in no rush, with Harry Edmunds locked away in Wormwood Scrubs.”
“But with all the recent portrait slashings, Blackstone must be aware that Edmunds is now a free man.”
Joanna nodded at my conclusion, saying, “And thus the race is on to see who reaches the masterpiece first.”
“All this hypothesizing is well and good,” my father interjected. “But you are neglecting the evidence Lestrade has which indicates Blackstone has in fact set sail for Australia.”
“Pshaw!” Joanna waved away the voyage. “This so-called evidence consists of a receipt for a ticket found in Blackstone’s lodging which indicated he had booked passage to Australia on the Queen Victoria. Let us see if his name appears on the manifest of that ocean liner when it left port.”
“So it appears you firmly believe James Blackstone is still here in London,” I said.
“I do, and for all the good reasons Johnny has laid out for us,” Joanna affirmed.
“Might the two actually be competing with one another, Mother?” asked Johnny.
“If so, I would lay my wager on Harry Edmunds, for he is by far the more clever of the two,” Joanna responded, then leaned back and tapped a finger against her closed lips, obviously in deep thought. This motion went on for a half minute or so, before she added, “We must place ourselves in the position of our two thieves. Both need more information on the possible whereabouts of the portrait of a woman which hides the masterpiece. How could they go about this?”
“They would search the folder containing the list of restorations!” I replied at once.
“That is the key,” Joanna agreed. “For it not only lists the restorations done by Hawke and Evans, but who performed the work and when. With this in mind, we should search the folder for a female portrait that was restored by James Blackstone.”
“But how do we accomplish this feat without Simon Hawke being aware?” my father asked.
“With guile, Watson,” Joanna replied.
Before she could expound, there was a gentle rap on the door and Miss Hudson entered with a large platter that held a roasted goose which was accompanied by side dishes of baked potatoes and sprouts wrapped in crispy bacon.
Johnny rose quickly to his feet and exclaimed, “Ah, it is Miss Hudson with her fine goose dinner, the makings of which cannot be surpassed in all England.”
He gave our landlady a most courteous bow that caused Miss Hudson to blush.
Joanna hurried over to her son and gave the lad a tender kiss on his forehead.
“What was the reason for that, Mother?” Johnny asked.
“For being so brave during a most trying time.”
“That is because I am a Blalock,” he said simply.
“And a Holmes,” Joanna added.
“A most formidable combination,” Johnny stated, with a hint of pride.
Joanna smiled broadly at the return of her son’s health and good spirits, and for that brief moment all was right in the world.
16
The Exhumation
The grave to be exhumed was stark and unadorned, with only freshly turned earth and a numbered wooden stake to note its occupant. Surrounding the site on that cold, dreary morning were two diggers, a health official, Lestrade, Joanna, my father, and me. Both grim-faced diggers were wearing bright red, hooded caps, with white fur trimming, to honor Christmas which was rapidly approaching. However, no religious presence was required because the ground was not consecrated. With each shovelful being removed, I could not help but wonder what the condition of the corpse might be. A body dead for three weeks should demonstrate black putrefaction, in which the skin undergoes a blackish-green discoloration and the internal organs degenerate into a soapy pulp that emits a most foul odor.
As the digger’s shovel scraped against the wooden casket, my presumption proved to be correct. A terrible smell arose from the grave and reached our nostrils. Everyone quickly stepped back and placed on masks to dampen the awful stench. With care, the casket was lifted out by the diggers and opened to reveal a blackened corpse, the ink-like color due in large measure to its charred cutaneous tissue. The lid was tightly replaced and the body and its casket lowered into a large, separate container called a shell and prepared for transport.
Suddenly a flock of ravens descended onto the grave site. Large and black as the darkest night, the birds landed and made hoarse, raucous squawks through their pointed beaks. The diggers swung their shovels at the aggressive ravens which backed off, but refused to fly away. Even more birds appeared overhead. Lestrade hurriedly took out his revolver and fired several shots into the air, missing the ravens but finally frightening them into full retreat.
“The smell of the dead does it,” one of the diggers said. “They seem to be capable of picking up the scent a mile away.”
“It is the carrion,” Lestrade noted, securing his revolver. “Crows and ravens alike are attracted to it, but the flesh has to be rotten
for them to be interested.”
“Aye, guv’nor,” the digger agreed, then turned his attention to the grave. “Shall we leave it open for the corpse’s return once your studies are completed?”
“Yes, but you may wish to add a layer of soil to the bottom and so cover up the odor which attracted the ravens.”
“We will do that, guv’nor.”
Joanna watched with interest as the ravens flew high above and waited patiently for us to leave so they could return to the grave site. “I take it you have seen this kind of behavior on a number of occasions,” she inquired of the digger.
“Oh, yes, madam,” the digger replied, and pointed to a stand of trees in the far distance. “They house themselves over there until the scent of rotting flesh comes their way. I have heard they consider it a food of choice.”
“That is not uncommon among animals, even those who are domesticated,” Joanna said, smiling thinly to herself. “It represents a guaranteed meal, you see.”
“And maybe they like it because the rotten meat is more tender,” the digger surmised.
“That, too,” Joanna said, as she continued to gaze at the noisy ravens flying above. “For them it might well be an irresistible delicacy.”
“Quite right, madam,” the digger concurred and then, with the help of his coworker, lifted the heavy shell and carried it to a waiting transport.
We rode to St. Bartholomew’s in a Scotland Yard car, with Lestrade in the front seat next to the driver. He turned to face us as he told of the latest findings regarding the art vandal. New information had been gathered on the journey of James Blackstone to the land down under.
“There were two ocean liners that departed Southampton for Australia during that time period,” Lestrade began. “There was HMS Olympic and HMS Queen Victoria, each carrying seven hundred and ten passengers in first class and four hundred in the second tier. We checked the manifest of both and found a James Blackstone listed on the Queen Victoria—first class, mind you—with a cabin reserved on the portside. Rather pricey by any standard, wouldn’t you say?”
The Art of Deception Page 13