“A very valuable Rembrandt was stolen from a mansion near Buckingham Palace. Scotland Yard had made little progress in its recovery and asked for Holmes’s assistance. Of course my friend had been involved in similar situations over the years, and had extensive experience when it came to art theft. In most instances the painting found its way to the black market where it landed in the hands of an individual who specialized in the sale of such ill-gotten merchandise. However, when dealing with the works of the great masters, such as Raphael or Rembrandt, the old rules did not apply. They rarely came onto the legitimate market, and the black market would show little interest, for the buyer could never display the famous work. If he was foolish enough to do so, word would quickly spread and reach the ears of Scotland Yard.”
“Perhaps it could be ransomed,” I suggested.
“That would be a reasonable option, but no such note was received,” my father went on. “So that was the problem facing Sherlock Holmes. Now, as you may recall, my colleague had a profound knowledge of chemistry, anatomy, and sensational literature when it dealt with crime and horror. Yet he knew little of art and cared even less about it, but his insight into London’s black market surpassed all others. Holmes was convinced the Rembrandt would turn up on the black market where a single buyer awaited its arrival.”
“Everything was prearranged!” Joanna exclaimed.
“Yes, but by and for whom?” my father asked. “This information would remain highly confidential, with only the thief and the buyer being aware of the dealing in which a hundred thousand pounds or more would change hands. Every avenue we tried in an effort to track down those involved proved fruitless. So, it was at this point we called upon Edwin Alan Rowe, a noted art historian who taught at Cambridge and sat on the board of their renowned Fitzwilliam Museum. He was particularly well acquainted with the work of the Dutch masters.”
“Perfect for a Rembrandt!” I thought aloud.
“And, as you will shortly learn, he had a nose for crime as well,” my father continued on. “When presented with the case, he agreed completely with Holmes. The theft and sale had been arranged beforehand in an unwritten contract. And of even more importance, he had heard of a Chinese real estate magnate named Kee Chow, who desperately desired a Rembrandt and had offered museums and even a few private collectors an extraordinary amount of money for one of the Dutch master’s work. He was refused by all. Nonetheless, it was known that his quest remained unabated. Thus, in all likelihood, it was Kee Chow who was the prearranged buyer. With that information in hand, Holmes began to track down the seller.”
“But why would this Kee Chow pay an absurd amount of money for a painting he could never display?” I asked.
“It could not be shown in Europe or America for obvious reasons, but that presented much less of a problem in Peking or Shanghai,” my father responded. “In the Orient, Western rules and laws often do not apply and, when they do, are quite lax. Holmes of course was aware of this.”
“How was my father able to single out the seller?” Joanna inquired.
“By simple deduction,” my father replied. “Holmes knew that virtually all of the stolen, highly priced items on the West End of London were handled by Roger Bellamy, the most notorious and successful of black-marketers. Holmes was also aware that such a valuable transaction could not include a middleman. The Rembrandt would have to be hand-delivered to Kee Chow in China where experts could validate its authenticity. With the assistance of Scotland Yard, the passenger lists on all ocean liners leaving England for China were carefully examined. Bellamy and his wife were scheduled to depart in a fortnight on RMS Aquitania. Shortly after boarding, the Bellamys’ belongings were searched and the Rembrandt was discovered nicely tucked away in the wife’s crinoline petticoat.”
“Bravo!” said I.
“Now you see the value of having Edwin Alan Rowe involved,” my father stated. “He is now long retired, but remains active as a consultant to the National Gallery. I saw him last year at a charity gala where we had a jolly good time reminiscing over the case of the stolen Rembrandt.”
“Do you by chance have his phone number?” Joanna asked.
“As a matter of fact, I do.” My father reached into a file box for a card attached to a thick folder. “I was to contact him for a luncheon date, but foolishly neglected to do so.”
“Please be good enough to call him,” Joanna requested.
“It is rather late,” said I, glancing at my watch. “Perhaps we should wait until morning.”
“Nonsense,” my father said, walking over to the phone. “As I mentioned earlier, the man has a nose for crime and would be happy to receive my call and involve himself in our case.”
My father dialed Edwin Alan Rowe’s number and spoke with the historian’s wife whom he had been introduced to at the charity ball. After exchanging amenities, I heard my father say, “Taking a bit of a tour, is he?… I see. So he will avoid Eton and return to London by the weekend.… I shall call him then.… And it was a pleasure speaking with you as well, Margaret.”
My father placed the phone down. “Rowe should be back in London on Thursday. He was scheduled to make a stop on tour at Eton, but will bypass it, for there has apparently been an outbreak of cholera in that vicinity.”
Joanna’s jaw dropped as her face suddenly lost color.
“What is it?” I asked her concernedly.
“Cholera again,” Joanna said, her words coming out in a whisper.
In an instant I made the harrowing connection. Cholera was the disease that killed Joanna’s former husband, the distinguished surgeon John Blalock. And now there was an outbreak of the deadly disease in Eton, where Joanna’s son Johnny attended school.
“Are they certain it is cholera?” I asked.
“There is no mistaking that disease,” my father replied. “Those who have seen cholera never forget it.”
“As have I,” Joanna said, for the most part having regained her composure. “Watson, please call your contacts and determine the extent of this outbreak.”
Three separate phone calls were needed—two to specialists in London, one to Eton—before my father had acquired enough information to make an accurate assessment. As he placed the receiver down, the worry was obvious on his face.
“The outbreak is quite real and spreading, with the first cases being diagnosed late last night,” he reported in a most serious voice. “It is believed that a Spanish ship discharged its waste along the coast near Southampton and contaminated an oyster bed with the cholera organism. The infected shellfish were transported to Eton and the nearby area. To date there have been over a dozen cases and more are expected. The outbreak should shortly be brought under control, thanks in large measure to modern sanitation that keeps our water supply well separated from the sewage systems. Nevertheless,” my father went on, “a group of students from Eton are known to be among the ill.”
I hurried to Joanna’s side and tried to offer some comfort. “Surely the school would have notified you if Johnny was ill.”
“Perhaps,” Joanna agreed weakly. “But will they guarantee me that he will not be affected? Remember Watson’s words. The disease is still spreading.”
She dashed to the telephone and made an operator-assisted call to the headmaster at Eton. She asked him direct questions and relayed his answers to us.
“Is my son John Blalock affected?
“He is well,” Joanna repeated the answer.
“Are any of his roommates or classmates ill?
“Several are. How many are several?
“Four. Where are they being treated?
“In their rooms, for the hospitals are presently overcrowded.” Joanna paused, her tone of voice now becoming clinical. “What measures are being taken to protect the uninfected from the infected?
“Curtain between the beds and careful disposal of waste,” she reiterated, as her expression hardened. “That is not good enough, Headmaster, for it leaves my son at real risk. I sh
all arrive in a matter of hours. Please inform my son and have him prepared to depart Eton.”
Joanna slowly put the phone down and said, “Curtains are virtually no protection at all. All it takes is one misplaced hand and the inadequate disposal of waste, and the disease spreads.”
“Perhaps Johnny did not partake of the contaminated oysters,” my father hoped. “That would lessen his chance of being afflicted.”
“Oysters and other shellfish are among his favorites, and thus he most likely did ingest those contaminated oysters,” Joanna noted. “If that is the case, I want him here in our rooms on Baker Street where we can treat him effectively. And the sooner he is brought home the better.”
“But you cannot possibly reach him tonight,” said my father. “Coach and car travel are out of the question in this dreadful weather, and there are no trains at this late hour.”
“But every minute counts,” Joanna warned. “Once the disease strikes, one must make all efforts to replenish the fluid loss. Otherwise, the end result can be horrific, as I sadly learned when my former husband was so afflicted.”
“Let us pray young Johnny does not come down with cholera, but should he be ill on your arrival, begin treatment immediately,” my father advised. “All replenishment can be given by mouth, using the standard solution.”
Joanna nodded knowingly. “Saline solution with adequate amounts of glucose added.”
“And do not depend on the patient’s thirst to guide you,” my father cautioned. “Remember the disease begins with explosive diarrhea and a patient can lose as much as five quarts of fluid each day. So, to the best of your ability, estimate the output and attempt to replace it at once. Equip yourself with a large bucket and rubber gloves before entering the infected area. And always keep in mind that this vicious microorganism can be transmitted by incidental hand-to-mouth contact.”
“I am quite familiar with that mode of transmission, for that is how the disease came to me from my former husband.”
“Then you know the symptoms well.”
“All too well,” said Joanna and rose from her chair. “I shall now go gather my things, for I plan to be on the first train out of Paddington tomorrow morning.”
“I would be more than glad to accompany you and lend any assistance that may be required,” I offered.
“Thank you, John, but I am afraid you would only be in the way,” Joanna replied. “You see, the living quarters for the boys at Eton are quite crowded, with all the beds lying side by side in a large, single room. The only privacy would be a curtain between the beds, and those are now no doubt in short supply.”
“It would be most difficult for both of us to squeeze between the beds, if Johnny is ill,” said I, with a nod. “And of course crowding increases the chance of further transmission.”
“Exactly,” Joanna concurred. “You should stay behind and, with Watson, follow up on the available clues we now have at our disposal.”
“But I fear my mind will be elsewhere.”
“Then you must occupy yourself with the art vandal and leave the worrying to me,” Joanna said, with a wry smile that quickly faded. “I shall call you from Eton to inform you of the latest.”
I watched Joanna retire to our room and waited for her to close the door behind her, then spoke to my father in a concerned voice. “How serious is this outbreak?”
“Quite,” my father replied, his tone matching mine. “It is not yet under control and spreading at a rapid rate. Apparently the shipment of contaminated oysters went to more than a few restaurants and markets in the area, and all those possibly infected must somehow be tracked down.”
“Which may well be impossible when it comes to markets where strangers often come and buy the various foods without leaving behind any identification.”
“The same holds true for most restaurants, and thus the authorities must depend on newspapers, posters, and word of mouth to warn the public.”
“Yet by now, the disease has shown itself in those infected, for as I recall the incubation period is quite short.”
“It usually runs twenty-four to thirty-six hours, but it may be prolonged to as many as four days, depending on a variety of factors, including which subgroup of the cholera organism is responsible. According to the experts I spoke with, their incubation period is unpredictable, and so is their viciousness.”
“Do we know which subtype is present in the Eton outbreak?”
“The bacteriologist will have to determine that feature. But whatever the subtype, it appears to be one which is particularly nasty.”
“Based on what?”
“The fact that there have already been two deaths associated with it.”
5
Albert Dubose
Approaching the hospital room of Albert Dubose the following morning, we were greeted by the noxious smell of rotting tissue. We had been forewarned by the specialist caring for the patient, but the unpleasant odor was so strong that it could not be masked by a heavy dose of deodorant that was also in the air. The poor man was suffering from a bedsore which had now reached the necrotic stage. These sores, also referred to as decubitus ulcers, are localized injuries to the skin and underlying tissue caused by sustained pressure to the area, usually over a bony prominence. They are not uncommon in paralyzed individuals who are confined to wheelchairs. In Mr. Dubose, the bedsore was located on his buttock and was resistant to all forms of treatment. As a last resort, his physician was now treating the open wound with maggots.
“It is an archaic type of therapy that has been passed down through the ages, but it can work remarkably well,” my father explained. “It is a quite simple procedure in which live larvae of maggots are inserted into a dressing that is firmly placed upon the open wound. The breeding maggots feed only on the dead tissue and this thoroughly debrides the ulcer and allows for healing.”
“How long does this treatment last?” I asked.
“Two to three days usually suffices.”
On entering the small room, we were warmly received by Albert Dubose who was propped up and lying on his side in a rather large bed. “Ah, Dr. Watson and his son, I presume.”
“Indeed we are,” replied my father.
“Welcome then, and please forgive the unpleasant surroundings that at this moment are so unavoidable.” Even under the sheets we could discern that Dubose was a short, thin man, with obviously shriveled legs. His face was narrow and pale, with a carefully trimmed black beard and goatee. As he attempted to prop himself up further, he called over to his manservant, “Bikram, lend a hand if you will.”
The tall, well-built Sikh hurried over and effortlessly lifted his master from the mattress, then gently rested him down. The manservant was close to six feet in height, with quite broad shoulders and dark skin that was highlighted by the white turban and uniform he wore.
“Thank you,” Dubose said, and remained lying on his side so as not to put pressure on his bandaged bedsore. “Allow me to introduce my trusted aide, Bikram. He came to my assistance at the Battle of Kandahar, and without his courage and devotion I can assure you I would not be alive today.”
Bikram showed no response to his master’s praise. He continued to stand tall and motionless, like a stone statue in the corner of a museum. But his eyes never left Albert Dubose.
“So, Watson,” Dubose went on, “my brother tells me you too soldiered in Afghanistan.”
“I did indeed,” my father replied. “I was an assistant surgeon attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and was ordered to report to my regiment which at the time was stationed in India. But before I could join them, the Second Afghan War had broken out. On landing in Bombay, I discovered that my corps had advanced through the passes and was already deep in enemy territory. I of course followed and succeeded in reaching Kandahar, where I found my regiment.” My father paused as his mind appeared to go back decades in time. “Shortly after my arrival in Kandahar, I was removed from my brigade and attached to the Berkshires, w
ith whom I served at the tragic Battle of Maiwand. That campaign brought honors and glory to many, but for me it held nothing but pain and misfortune.”
“Although not involved, I recall it well,” Dubose reminisced. “The battle was mismanaged and a total disaster, with some of the brigades losing over half of their men.”
My father nodded slowly. “The Berkshire regiment itself lost nearly three hundred. It was there that I was struck by a jezail bullet which shattered bone and grazed the subclavian artery. I survived only because my orderly Murray threw me across a pack horse and succeeded in bringing me safely back to the British line.”
Dubose nodded in return. “You had your Murray, I my Bikram.”
“It required months and months for me to convalesce, but my health was never the same and to this very day I am still reminded of the jezail bullet.”
“And I paid an even dearer price at the Battle of Kandahar. It was there, where my corps, the Ninety-Second Highlander, was storming the village of Gundi Mulla Sahibdad, that an Afghan bullet pierced my spine and left me paralyzed from the waist down. Were it not for Bikram, who fought at my side and carried me to safety, my dried bones would still be baking in the Afghan desert.”
“Such a terrible price,” my father lamented.
“Of which I am reminded on a daily basis,” Dubose said, then waved a hand as if dismissing the memory. “But enough of old war stories. Let us talk of the vandalized Cézanne that I suspect is the true purpose of your visit.”
“Did your brother so inform you?” asked my father.
Dubose smiled thinly. “He believes you came to reminisce over our soldiering days, for he, like most jewelers, tends to see things at their face value. I prefer to delve a bit deeper, and when one puts the Watsons and the daughter of Sherlock Holmes together with a series of vandalized art, one reaches a different conclusion.”
“You are most perceptive, but I must admit I am always interested in hearing and sharing stories from that war of long ago.”
The Art of Deception Page 5
