The Art of Deception

by Leonard Goldberg

  “Angels to a Perfect Angel,” Joanna repeated, as if committing it to memory.

  “Precisely,” Rowe said, then waited to see if Joanna had further questions on the enigma, and when she did not he returned to James Blackstone’s history as a noted restorer. “In any event, he was highly thought of at Windsor and continued on there until two years ago when to my surprise he was made redundant because of a supposed reduction in funding. He later confided to me that it was not a lack of funding which led to his departure, but rather the obvious fact that the head curator at the collection wanted the prized position to remain vacant until his younger brother could be prepared for that situation. The transition occurred within months of Blackstone’s leaving.”

  “Was the younger brother as talented?” Joanna asked.

  “No, and to this day still is not.”

  “Was Blackstone bitter?”

  “He tried to conceal it, but I believe he was,” Rowe went on. “And to make matters even worse, it was at this time that an old war wound acted up and required major surgery.”

  “What type of surgery?” my father asked at once.

  “Apparently some sort of device that held his fractured thigh bone together had gone awry and needed to be replaced. The operation was quite expensive and depleted all of his savings.”

  My father and Joanna and I exchanged knowing glances, for this explanation solved the mystery of why the corpse of James Blackstone had an internal fixation plate that was inserted long after the Second Boer War had ended. There was now no question as to the identity of the corpse.

  “He was fortunate enough, however, to gain employment at Hawke and Evans, but shortly thereafter a son was born with a clubfoot which did not respond to tight braces and would require a unique surgical procedure that was only being done at the Royal Children’s Hospital in Melbourne, Australia. Poor Blackstone did not have the funds necessary for the travel and operation which would be considerable. And that is why he teamed up with Harry Edmunds to sell forgeries of French impressionists on the black market. It was all done so his son could have the needed surgery and not go through life with the burden of a clubfoot.”

  My father nodded unhappily. “So the little boy never had the necessary surgery.”

  “Oh, but he did,” Rowe corrected. “His son and wife traveled to Australia where the surgery was successfully performed, using the money Blackstone had gleaned from the forgeries.”

  “Thus he planned to flee to Australia not only to avoid the authorities, but to rejoin his family,” my father concluded.

  “Exactly so, Watson,” said Rowe. “Blackstone gave up everything for his small son. It is a very sad story.”

  “Sad in every way,” my father concurred. “For it was the love for his son that brought about his wrongdoings.”

  “No doubt spurred on by the unprincipled Harry Edmunds.” Rowe spat the name. His face hardened noticeably before he waved away his anger. “Let us put Edmunds aside for now and speak of a matter I believe will be of even more importance to you. I have news of the masterpiece on the black market.”

  The three of us, and Johnny as well, leaned forward to catch every word, for here was truly the key to the case of the art vandal.

  “My source tells me that the bidding on this masterpiece is now approaching fifty thousand pounds, which is an extraordinary amount, particularly so on the black market,” Rowe reported. “In the legitimate art world, that painting would easily bring two hundred thousand pounds.”

  “A fortune,” I breathed.

  “Enough to buy half of Kensington,” my father added. “What could be worth that incredible sum?”

  Joanna must have had the same thought, for she asked the consultant, “Were you able to attach a name to the masterpiece?”

  “Not as yet, but the price alone tells us it has to be a painting done by one of the Great Masters,” Rowe replied. “Only a Michelangelo or da Vinci or Raphael or perhaps a Rembrandt would give rise to such an enormous offer.”

  “Which of those would you favor?” asked Joanna.

  “The masters of the High Renaissance,” Rowe answered without hesitation. “Either Michelangelo or da Vinci or Raphael.”

  “In that order?”

  “In any order, but please keep in mind that the vast majority of Michelangelo’s paintings were stunning frescos such as those on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, which obviously cannot be concealed under a canvas. There are very few of his works on canvas, and I can assure you all are accounted for.”

  “So we can exclude Michelangelo?” Joanna asked.

  “Not necessarily, for it is possible someone discovered a painting by the Great Master in some long-ago deserted church,” Rowe replied. “Just imagine if it was a portrait of his statue David, which the world acknowledges as one of the most magnificent works of art ever produced. Its value would be far beyond priceless.”

  Joanna nodded slowly. “I have heard the statue of David described as imposing perfection.”

  “And justly so,” Rowe said, nodding back. “But there is a problem with this scenario, for such a find would have no proven provenance and would not require sale on the black market.”

  “Thus, the prospect that the hidden masterpiece is the work of Michelangelo seems unlikely, but nevertheless possible,” Joanna concluded.

  “That would be my opinion,” Rowe went on. “And the same would hold true for Leonardo da Vinci. Although his paintings on canvas outnumber Michelangelo’s, they are all accounted for. And if by chance any of da Vinci’s famous works such as The Last Supper or Mona Lisa or Salvator Mundi were to go missing, the cry of theft would be heard around the world, yet not a whisper has been uttered.”

  “Which leaves us with Raphael,” said Joanna.

  “But there are problems here as well, for only Raphael’s most exquisite and adored works would attract this extraordinary sum of money. These include Transfiguration, The Sistine Madonna, and The Triumph of Galatea, all of which remain securely in place.”

  “So I take it you cannot narrow down the artist most likely to be responsible for the hidden masterpiece.”

  “Not with any degree of certainty.”

  Joanna gently tapped a finger against her chin before asking, “Who in all England would own the majority of works by these three Great Masters?”

  “The Royal Art Collection at Windsor, with the National Gallery being a somewhat distant second.”

  “What if I included Caravaggio and Titian?”

  Rowe shook his head vigorously. “Do not include them, for they would never attract that kind of money.”

  Joanna pondered the problem at length before she went over to the Persian slipper and extracted a Turkish cigarette which she carefully lighted. Then she began to pace the floor of our parlor, leaving a trail of dense cigarette smoke behind her. She ignored the rap on the door as well as Miss Hudson who entered with our tea setting and, having put it in place on our breakfast table, departed quietly. Joanna continued pacing and thinking.

  “This can go on for a while,” my father predicted.

  “I am in no hurry,” said Rowe.

  “But I am, for our vandal will undoubtedly soon strike again and, if successful, he and the masterpiece will disappear and never be seen again,” Joanna told our visitor. “But if we are to track and stop him, there is more information I require. First, I am assuming all works by these Great Masters are over three hundred years old.”

  “Correct,” Rowe affirmed.

  “And their masterpieces well known.”

  “Through the centuries.”

  “Then we can assume the hidden masterpiece was stolen.”

  “That is a certainty, for why else would they go to such far ends to conceal it, and why else would they have to place it for sale on the black market?”

  “But if such a masterpiece was stolen from a museum or prominent collection, would not the art world know of it?” Joanna asked.

  “We would indeed and be
on a sharp lookout for it,” Rowe replied.

  “Yet there has not been a peep regarding a theft of this magnitude,” Joanna pressed. “How could this be?”

  “I can give you a number of reasons how a masterpiece can be stolen and not reported,” Rowe expounded, then provided a prime example. “A few years back a wealthy royal was suffering from dementia and confined to her mansion, wherein hung some of the world’s very best art. Her family rarely visited and simply waited for her to die so they could inherit the estate. While on her deathbed, a servant made off with a masterpiece by Vermeer which shortly appeared on the black market. Somehow a family member got wind of it and, knowing its rightful owner, reported the theft to Scotland Yard. The painting was recovered and returned to the family. Had a family member not had such a keen eye, the theft would have in all likelihood gone unnoticed. It would have slipped between the cracks, so to speak.”

  “Do you believe that is what happened in our case?”

  “Yes, for there is no other explanation.”

  “Assuming you are correct, which of these would be the most likely origin of the painting?” Joanna asked. “A museum or an impressive private collection?”

  “Either,” Rowe replied at once. “Most of their works, even the masterpieces, are not always on display. Many of them are kept in storage under carefully controlled conditions. One could be stolen from among the many and it would require months to discover it was missing.”

  “How many paintings might be in storage at all the institutions you mentioned?”

  “Thousands, and it would take months and months to perform a thorough inventory, with no guarantees that the origin of the masterpiece would be uncovered.”

  “Too long, too long,” Joanna muttered to herself and gave the matter further consideration before she flicked her cigarette into the fireplace and began pacing again. The expression on her face told me that something in Rowe’s answers had opened up another avenue worth pursuing but, for reasons we were to learn later, she chose not to delve into it at the moment. Turning to the consultant, she gestured to the table settings and asked, “Would you care for tea?”

  “If you would be so kind.”

  While Joanna poured and handed him a cup, she asked, “Earlier you spoke of Harry Edmunds being unprincipled. Did you know him well?”

  “I knew him not at all, except by his reputation.”

  “As a criminal?”

  “As a forger, for I was asked by Scotland Yard to examine all the paintings in his home and determine which were forgeries and which were not.”

  “In his presence?”

  “In his wife’s presence, for by then Edmunds was locked away in Wormwood Scrubs.” Rowe carefully sipped his tea before uttering a forced laugh. “And she was quite a piece of work, I must say.”

  “How so?”

  “She simply sat there, knitting away on a large afghan, while I inspected the paintings that hung on the walls. I could have just as well been the carpet cleaner. Nor was she concerned with the sergeant from Scotland Yard who accompanied me.”

  “Not upset in the least?”

  “She did not bother to even look up, and seemed quite at ease while knitting the long afghan that went from her lap all the way to the floor before her.”

  “Do you believe she was attempting to project an air of innocence?”

  “Perhaps, but my other findings in the house indicated she was aware, if not implicated, in her husband’s criminal activities. For in a room off the kitchen was the ideal setup for either restoration or forgery. There were canvases and stands and paints and brushes and quite bright lighting that Edmunds used for his work.”

  “He would never do restorations at home,” Joanna interjected.

  “Of course not,” Rowe agreed. “The room was for his forgeries. There was even an oversized oven so that the forgeries could be baked and thus give the paintings small wrinkles and cracks, which denotes considerable aging. When done by an expert forger, those changes can date a painting back hundreds of years.”

  “I take it his forgeries were quite good.”

  “But not exceptional except for the Renoirs. They were nearly perfect, but for the blue pigment which was just a bit off and never used by the French artist. It was a rather stupid mistake for a forger as talented as Harry Edmunds.”

  “Were the Renoirs in Edmunds’s home signed?”

  “He was too clever for that. Were they signed they could have been confiscated as being forgeries that would eventually be put up for sale. I suspect Edmunds considered himself to be an excellent artist and had the paintings hung to remind himself of his talents.”

  “Bit of an egotist, eh?” my father commented.

  “All forgers worth their salt are, Watson.”

  “Yet I am surprised you did not find at least one signed forgery that was ready for sale,” Joanna conjectured. “After all it was a most lucrative business and Edmunds had no idea he would soon be apprehended. There should have been another forgery or two on hand for the black market.”

  “Neither I nor Scotland Yard could find it despite a most diligent search.”

  “It was concealed by the wife,” Johnny said in a matter-of-fact fashion.

  Rowe looked at the lad quizzically. “On what do you base that conclusion, may I ask?”

  “The afghan she was knitting that rested on her lap and dropped down to the floor,” Johnny replied.

  “I would have surely noticed the outline of a large canvas under that afghan, my good fellow,” Rowe countered.

  “It was not under the afghan, but under the chair which I am certain was quite large.”

  “It was a big, overstuffed chair,” Rowe recalled.

  “Then it all fits,” said Johnny.

  “Please explain,” Joanna requested. “Tell us why the position of the afghan signifies it is hiding a painting.”

  “Did you read of the Dupont murder in Paris last year, Mother?”

  “I must admit I did not.”

  “Then allow me to give you the details. A woman was stabbed to death and her body found in the drawing room beneath a large afghan she was knitting. The blood spatter seemed to indicate she was killed where she lay, but that was not the case. You see, the afghan was unfinished and hanging down, which the woman who was the knitter would never have permitted.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because she would know that the downward weight would cause the new stitching to stretch and perhaps even disconnect. Thus, an experienced knitter would not allow the unfinished product to hang, but would place it on a table next to her. In the Dupont case, the hanging weight distorted the blood spatter in such a fashion that it seemed to show she was stabbed while under the afghan. The true splatter was later determined and revealed the victim was killed elsewhere in the house which provided an important clue that eventually led to the murderer. In your case, the woman who was obviously experienced would have never allowed the unfinished afghan to hang down, but she did so for a purpose. She wished to conceal something beneath the chair, which in this instance I would wager was a signed Renoir.”

  Rowe’s jaw dropped at the lad’s remarkable sense of deduction, then, after a brief pause, he nodded slowly to himself. “Now that I think back, she had the huge afghan covering the arms and sides of the overstuffed chair.”

  “Clever woman,” Johnny remarked.

  “I should return and search under that chair,” Rowe said, more to himself than us.

  “I think it best I do it,” Joanna proposed.

  “With all due respect, I very much doubt you would be able to distinguish a genuine Renoir from a well-forged one.”

  “I am not interested in that distinction, but rather in questioning the wife, for she may know the whereabouts of her husband and might even be aware of his next move.”

  “You are assuming they remain in contact.”

  “A reasonable assumption.”

  “But even if she has this knowledge, chances are
she will clam up and do everything in her power to protect him.”

  “Clams can be opened when ample heat is applied,” Joanna retorted, and walked over to gather up Rowe’s hat and topcoat. “Thank you ever so much for providing this important information.”

  “I can only hope it will bring down the savage who murdered my dear friend James Blackstone.”

  “We shall see,” said Joanna, and upon opening the door asked a final question. “Does the name David Hughes have any meaning to you?”

  “Not offhand,” Rowe replied.

  “Please be good enough to review the notes and articles in which Blackstone contributed and see if the name David Hughes appears.”

  “I shall at my earliest opportunity,” Rowe assured. “Is he important?”

  “Quite,” Joanna said and left it at that.

  21

  A Near Miss

  That evening we decided to celebrate Johnny’s departure for Eton with a fine dinner at Gennaro’s, a small restaurant just down the way on Baker Street. Although Christmas would soon be upon us, the lad wished to return to the school for the examinations he missed while sick with cholera in London. He would then return home to enjoy the merriest of holidays with us.

  “What examinations are these?” Joanna asked, as we started on strawberry tiramisus after our most excellent veal dishes.

  “German and Egyptian Hieroglyphics,” Johnny replied.

  “I was unaware that Egyptian hieroglyphics was actually a course at Eton.”

  “It is not, Mother, but rather an elective subject I chose out of interest.”

  “Then why must you take an examination and be graded?”

  “Only because I wish to see how well I am performing in this most fascinating study.”

  “So you seem to be truly enjoying it.”

  “I am indeed, for it presents mysteries within itself. For example, there are no vowels and no punctuation marks, only pictures which can have several meanings depending on what comes before and after it.”

  “It sounds like a rather strange alphabet.”