“No canvas, no matter how thick, can protect for five hundred years,” Rowe said.
“We shall see.” Delvecchio reached up for the painting and ever so gently placed it facedown on a nearby padded table. Opening a leather tool kit, he extracted a small, chisel-like instrument and a pair of thin pliers, and began to disassemble the frame which held the masterpiece. Once the outer frame was removed, we could see that the stretched canvas was firmly attached to its backing. Delvecchio stepped back and took a deep breath, as if gathering himself for the momentous event that was in his hands and about to occur. With the greatest of care, he slowly pulled out each fastener until the del Verrocchio was freed from its backing. He then stood the painting in a vertical position on the padded table and studied its top at length.
Taking another deep breath, he moved back and used his forearm to wipe the beads of perspiration from his brow. We had been forewarned by Rowe that the removal of the del Verrocchio’s canvas to reveal whatever lay beneath it was by far the most dangerous aspect of the procedure. One wrong move could damage or even ruin the del Verrocchio as well as the masterpiece it covered. Of course we would all be responsible should such a tragic event occur, but the majority of the blame would fall on Delvecchio’s shoulders.
With a slow, deliberate motion, Delvecchio began to peel back the top of the canvas. At first, we saw only a gray background, but then dark hair with a gentle part in it appeared.
“It is a da Vinci,” Delvecchio said breathlessly. “The technique is his. He used metalpoint which involved drawing with a silver stylus and always with iron gall ink.”
“Do you know what it is?” Lady Katherine asked anxiously.
“I think … I think…” It was as if Delvecchio couldn’t find the words. Swallowing audibly, he returned to the task of gently and meticulously stripping away the del Verrocchio canvas.
Now we could see the broad forehead and dangling dark hair. Then came the beautiful eyes and the perfectly proportioned nose, and finally we saw the captivating, enigmatic smile.
It was an enchanting portrait of the woman who would later serve as the model for Leonardo da Vinci’s most famous work of art.
It was the original Mona Lisa.
28
All the Evidence
After the unveiling, the ever-resourceful Countess of Wessex arranged for the National Gallery’s cafeteria to be opened in the early morning hours and for deliciously brewed Earl Grey tea to be served all around. No one was anxious to leave, for the da Vinci masterpiece continued to captivate and mesmerize every one of us. Moreover, there were tantalizing questions remaining, which would only be answered by Joanna.
“What was your first inkling that revealed Simon Hawke was so deeply involved?” asked Lestrade.
“The bricks,” Joanna said simply. “Were you not impressed by the high brick wall in the restoration area that nearly reached the ceiling? Was such a wall truly needed, only to enclose a central heating unit? And why were all the fireplaces bricked off?”
“To prevent heat loss,” Lestrade replied.
“Pshaw! Here is a man deeply in debt, yet he spends money unnecessarily to block off fireplaces and builds an unneeded, high brick wall. The prevention of heat loss could have easily been accomplished by sealing off the chimney which was no longer in use. These measures were put in place to conceal something, not to keep in the heat.”
“That something being the corpse of James Blackstone,” my father added. “It was a convenient way to dispose of the body.”
“Yes, but at the time we had no clues to tell us what was hidden behind those bricks,” Joanna went on. “It was later we learned of Delvecchio’s usually quiet dog barking and frantically pawing at the bricked-in fireplace. You see, dogs are greatly attracted to the scent of a carcass which was so powerful it eventually seeped through the bricks, as evidenced by the temporary foul odor in the restoration room.”
“Which was attributed to a bird or squirrel that had become trapped and died in the chimney,” Lestrade recalled.
“A convenient excuse, but no small carcass would ever generate a stench so lasting and intense that it required a fireplace be sealed off,” Joanna countered. “That of course indicated we were dealing with a much larger carcass, such as a human corpse. Which brings us to how the corpse found its way into the fireplace.”
“Why, it was stuffed in,” said I.
“By whom?” asked Joanna.
“Harry Edmunds and David Hughes.”
“A two-man effort, then?”
“I would think, although I know you favor a third individual being involved.”
“You should as well, when you factor in we are dealing with a relatively small fireplace and a large, well-built corpse that measured nearly six feet.”
Lestrade interjected, “The opening of the fireplace was just over three feet according to the crime report.”
I gave the circumstances more thought and concluded, “It would have been a most difficult task for only two men to do the deed.”
“If not impossible,” said Joanna. “It requires three to properly stuff the corpse not only in, but up a small fireplace—one to guide in the head and shoulders, a second to support the heavy torso, and a third to hold the thick legs up and push forward. Now, who would that third person be?”
“Simon Hawke,” I replied.
“Yes, Simon Hawke,” Joanna repeated, with a firm nod. “And all this sordid activity, including the torturing of James Blackstone, was taking place in his art gallery, to which he held the only key, and yet he pretended to be unaware.”
“He had to be aware,” my father agreed.
“There were other clues as well to show he was deeply involved,” Joanna continued on. “Recall that Hawke knew of Edmunds’s skin condition, but we had to literally pry the information from him, for he did not want us to learn that Edmunds was responsible for the vandalism. Then there was the file box on his desk which contained all the restorations done at Hawke and Evans over the past year. He didn’t seem to mind in the least for us to study the records, but attempted to prevent Delvecchio from doing so.”
“He was frightened I might see the connections to the masterpiece,” Delvecchio chimed in.
“Esattamente.” Joanna used the Italian word for exactly. “And of course we gave Harry Edmunds too much credit for being so clever. He was impressively clever because he had Simon Hawke guiding him every step of the way. Hawke knew many facets of the ongoing investigation and could alert Edmunds to possible risks and dangers. And the final clue was Simon Hawke waiting in his carriage behind the National Gallery in the dark of night for Harry Edmunds to hand over del Verrocchio’s The Baptism of Christ.”
“How did you predict that Hawke would be waiting behind the National Gallery?” Lestrade interrupted.
“There is no honor among thieves, Inspector,” Joanna replied. “And now that both men knew of the exact location of the masterpiece, Hawke would be justifiably concerned that Edmunds would snatch the da Vinci and disappear.”
“It was a stupid move on Hawke’s part,” said I.
“Greed often supersedes good sense,” Joanna agreed. “In any event, when I handed him the del Verrocchio, he said and I quote, ‘Ah, you have it!’ With this in mind, I believe any hard-nosed British jury would find Hawke guilty and march him straight to the gallows.”
“But they would have no evidence to merit capital punishment,” Lestrade pointed out. “As a matter of fact, we have no proof that he was in any way involved or participated in the murder of James Blackstone.”
“I believe you have that in your possession,” said Joanna.
Lestrade’s eyes narrowed. “Pray tell, madam, where can I find such evidence?”
“It will be found on the bricks that covered the lap of the corpse,” Joanna directed. “You must restudy the fingerprints on their surfaces.”
“But the only identifiable prints belonged to Harry Edmunds and David Hughes.”
&
nbsp; “But there was a third set which you have been unable to identify, is there not?”
“There is.”
“I am confident you will discover they match nicely with those you obtain from Simon Hawke, for he is the sort of man who would find the torturing distasteful but would eagerly participate in hiding the corpse.”
We spontaneously broke into applause at Joanna’s remarkable deductions. She bowed with a cock of her head, much like a maestro acknowledging the adulation of his audience. A brief blush came to her face before she returned to the business at hand.
“And the final piece of the puzzle is how the location of the hidden da Vinci was uncovered,” Joanna recommenced. “Here, I cannot take full credit, for I required the assistance of Edwin Alan Rowe and Lady Katherine. Early on, Blackstone must have known that his life was in danger because of his insistence that the masterpiece be returned to the Crown. An honorable man, such as he, would devise a plan that could lead others to the da Vinci, should the worst befall him. He entrusted this scheme to his dear friend, Edwin Alan Rowe, in a riddle-game they often played. The message in the riddle was Angels to a Perfect Angel, which Rowe was unable to decipher. Then came the crucial clue, when Edmunds invaded the home of Sir Charles Cromwell and sliced open the painting by Botticelli, which showed angels that had been restored at Hawke and Evans. These were the leading angels Blackstone had mentioned in his riddle, for they had been painted by Sandro Botticelli who worked alongside Leonardo da Vinci in Andrea del Verrocchio’s workshop. Now recall that Blackstone had restored both Botticelli’s Saint Francis of Assisi with Angels and del Verrocchio’s The Baptism of Christ, the latter containing the perfect angel, a subject upon which Mr. Rowe once wrote an enlightening monograph.”
“The angel was so magnificent that del Verrocchio knew he could never match da Vinci’s skill, and thus gave up painting and returned to sculpting,” Rowe continued with the most interesting details. “Da Vinci’s angel was said by all to be perfect in every way. This then was the perfect angel James Blackstone was referring to in his riddle.”
“So very clever,” Joanna noted. “He used Botticelli’s angels to lead us to da Vinci’s, and da Vinci’s angel led us to the masterpiece.”
“Angels to a perfect angel,” Lady Katherine repeated softly. “So it would seem in the end that James Blackstone outwitted his murderers after all. How remarkable!”
“And what is even more remarkable,” said Joanna, pushing her chair back and reaching for her purse, “is that he did it from his grave.”
CLOSURE
My father, young Johnny, and I sat around a cheery fire and sipped eggnog as we awaited Joanna, whom Lestrade had called and invited to witness a most pivotal and deciding clue. Thus, our four-wheeler had deposited Joanna at Scotland Yard while we continued on our way to Paddington station to fetch Johnny who had now completed his school activities at Eton. Of course the young lad asked question after question about the case of The Art of Deception, but was most interested in how his mother had tracked down the soon-to-be-famous original portrait of Mona Lisa. When told of the riddle left behind by James Blackstone, he gleefully rubbed his hands together and said, “There is truly nothing better than a mystery within a mystery!” My father and I exchanged delighted glances, for once again we were witnessing the genes of Sherlock Holmes residing at 221b Baker Street.
As more logs were being added to the fire, Joanna hurried in carrying two very gaily wrapped packages. After giving Johnny a warm embrace and tousling his hair affectionately, she came over and joined us at the fireside.
She accepted a brimming glass of eggnog with pleasure before explaining the ribboned packages. “They are gifts for Miss Hudson, who richly deserves them for her excellent attention to our needs.”
“Hear! Hear!” I agreed heartily. “Might we know what they are?”
“A Harris tweed sweater from you, Watson, and me,” Joanna replied. “And a beautifully stitched pair of leather gloves from Johnny, whom she cares about so deeply.”
“Hear! Hear!” the three of us shouted approvingly.
“And now to Lestrade’s pivotal clue, which will be a fine present for us all.”
The three of us leaned in closer to catch every word.
“You will recall there was no definite evidence linking Simon Hawke to the murder of James Blackstone,” Joanna went on. “Well, there is now. Mr. Hawke was good enough to leave his fingerprints on several bricks which sat upon the lap of the corpse.”
“That may well merit a walk to the gallows,” my father predicted.
“Or a very, very long stay at Pentonville, if the charge is accessory to murder,” said Joanna.
“With all the misery he has caused to so many, I would not mind seeing his neck stretched,” my father growled.
“And so it may be,” said Joanna. “But now, let us turn to more joyful news. It appears that King Edward himself is mesmerized by the da Vinci portrait of the original Mona Lisa and has directed his treasury to issue a check for two hundred and fifty pounds as a reward to us for this most welcome discovery. But I instructed Lady Katherine to intercede on our behalf and see to it that the check is sent to James Blackstone’s widow, for it was he who found the masterpiece and was instrumental in its return to the Crown.”
“Well done, Joanna,” I approved.
“You might also be interested to learn that Lestrade granted Giuseppe Delvecchio permission to return to Italy, for his testimony will not be required at the trial of Simon Hawke,” Joanna reported. “Apparently, Delvecchio is being recognized throughout the art world as the restorer who uncovered the original Mona Lisa and has been offered a coveted position at the Uffizi in Florence.”
“Well deserved,” said my father.
“And now the very best present we could ever ask for,” Joanna went on. “The Cromwell lad has regained consciousness and he is conversing with his overjoyed parents at this very moment. And when told of the reason for the home invasion, he immediately asked that he be allowed to see the da Vinci.”
“I assume it can be arranged,” said my father.
“It will be indeed,” Joanna assured. “It is being seen to by the Countess of Wessex who we have learned never accepts the word no for an answer. Once the lad is up and about, he will be given a private showing.”
“I should like so much to see it as well, Mother,” Johnny requested earnestly.
“So you shall,” Joanna promised. “And perhaps at the same time the da Vinci is shown to the Cromwells.”
“The name da Vinci rings such a magical bell, does it not?” my father mused aloud.
“Indeed it does, Dr. Watson, for he was a true genius,” Johnny said and reached for the volume of renowned Italian Renaissance painters, in which he had marked off a page. “Leonardo was not only a great artist, he was a scientist, anatomist, engineer, architect, and inventor. He was such a remarkably multitalented man that it makes one wonder why God did not create more like him.”
“That is a question we should leave up to Watson, for wisdom is his forte, not mine,” said Joanna.
Johnny turned to my father and asked, “Why did God not give us more Leonardo da Vincis, Dr. Watson?”
With a gentle smile, my father replied, “Because they were so difficult to make, I suspect.”
“Hear! Hear!” we all shouted, and raised our glasses to toast the wisest of statements and the merriest of seasons.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to Peter Wolverton, for being an editor par excellence, and to Scott Mendel, for being such an extraordinary agent. And a tip of the hat to Danielle Prielipp and Hector DeJean, my superb publicists, and to David Rotstein, for his wonderful cover designs.
ALSO BY LEONARD GOLDBERG
Transplant
Deadly Medicine
A Deadly Practice
Deadly Care
Deadly Harvest
Deadly Exposure
Lethal Measures
Fatal Care
> Brainwaves
Fever Cell
The Cure
Patient One
Plague Ship
The Daughter of Sherlock Holmes
A Study in Treason
The Disappearance of Alistair Ainsworth
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LEONARD GOLDBERG is the USA Today bestselling author of the Joanna Blalock medical thrillers. His novels have been translated into a dozen languages and were selections of the Book of the Month Club, French and Czech book clubs, and The Mystery Guild. They were featured as People’s “Page-Turner of the Week” and at the International Book Fair. After a long career affiliated with the UCLA Medical Center as a clinical professor of Medicine, he now lives on an island off the coast of Charleston, South Carolina. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
1. The Vandal
2. Hawke and Evans
3. Felix Dubose
4. Johnny
5. Albert Dubose
6. The Art Historian
7. Cholera
8. The Countess
9. Strange Symptoms
10. The Rumor
11. The Lockpicks
12. Delvecchio
13. Scotland Yard
14. Wormwood Scrubs
15. Two Vandals
The Art of Deception Page 27