The Art of Deception

by Leonard Goldberg

  “Nelson is a most serious dog and is aroused by any change in the household,” said the earl.

  “Was he here the night of the break-in?” I asked at once.

  “Unfortunately not, Dr. Watson, for he was spending the night at the veterinarian’s,” the earl replied. “Had he been present, I can assure you the vandal would have been in for a most unpleasant evening.”

  “I take it there are no other dogs within your home?”

  “None, for Nelson does not enjoy canine companionship.”

  My attention returned to the defaced portrait that had been bisected with a long, vertical slash. Although an edge had been folded back, one could see the woman portrayed had a lovely face and short blond hair. Most striking was her deep purple velvet dress that had orange decorations on its shoulders. It, too, was slashed into unequal halves. “Can it be restored?”

  “With some effort, I was told.”

  “Who will do the restoration?”

  “No doubt Hawke and Evans, for that is who my wife will choose. You see, she is a true patron of the arts and makes such decisions for us.”

  I moved in closer to the painting and with a finger delicately moved a cut edge to the side, which gave me a clear view of its backing. As with the other vandalized portraits, the backing was pristine and had no slashes or deep scratches.

  “What do you search for?” asked the earl.

  “Markings that may have been left by the vandal, my lord.”

  “Were there any?”

  “None to the naked eye.”

  I stepped back to again admire the glorious colors and painter’s eye for exquisite detail. “Who was the artist of this fine work?”

  “Paolo Veronese,” said a feminine voice from behind me.

  I turned and watched the approach of a most attractive woman of medium height, with sharp features and raven black hair that flowed down to her shoulders. But it was her doe-like eyes that caught and held one’s attention. They were deep blue, the color of a calm mountain lake, and seemed to be looking both at and into you. Before joining us, she paused for a moment to warm her hands in front of a blazing fire which gave off the sweet aroma of burning applewood.

  “May I present my wife, Lady Katherine,” introduced the earl.

  “And you, sir, are Dr. Watson, the chronicler of your wife’s most excellent adventures,” said she, adorned in a riding outfit, complete with cap, red jacket, and white trousers tucked into well-shined boots.

  “I am, my lady,” I greeted, with a half bow that she acknowledged with a quarter of a nod. “My wife and father could not be in attendance, for they have been called away on an urgent matter and so I find myself here alone.”

  “You are nevertheless most welcome,” Lady Katherine said warmly. “Now let us return to your question. The artist you asked about is Paolo Veronese, an Italian Renaissance painter whose true name was Paolo Caliari, but who gained the nickname Veronese because he was based in Verona where he acquired his fame. He was a most excellent painter and the portrait before you is entitled La Bella Nani. It was considered one of his best works and dates back to the year 1560.”

  “Dr. Watson had inquired if the portrait was originally part of the Royal Collection,” the earl interjected. “I had no answer.”

  The countess shrugged indifferently. “I doubt that very much, but who is to know? If it did come from the collection housed at Windsor it would hardly be missed, for it would have been buried away in one of the world’s greatest assemblages of art, which includes the works of Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Raphael, and Rembrandt. Although difficult to believe, there are over five hundred sketches and drawings by Leonardo da Vinci alone that are currently stored at Windsor. So, as talented as Veronese was, he could not begin to stand up to the others.”

  She reached for her riding cap and tossed it over to Nelson who quickly caught it with his lips, then trotted to a leather-backed chair and deposited it there. “You see, I have had the rare opportunity to review the Royal Collection, and the incredible sketches by da Vinci simply took my breath away, as did the glorious Titians and Caravaggios that have never been publicly displayed. I sit on an advisory committee and am on excellent terms with the curators at Windsor, and it was in this capacity that I directed certain restorations to Evans and Hawke before Andrew’s untimely death.”

  “Do you continue to recommend that particular gallery for the royal restorations?” asked I.

  “Not as vigorously as I once did.”

  It was now clear to me that it was Lady Katherine and not her husband who would hold the most knowledge about the painting and its projected restoration. Fortunately she seemed quite eager to share this information.

  “But it is beyond me why anyone would vandalize such a gorgeous work of art,” Lady Katherine went on. “It is akin to attacking a defenseless child who cannot speak.”

  “But hopefully it can be restored,” I consoled.

  “It will be restored,” Lady Katherine said determinedly.

  “By Hawke and Evans, I presume.”

  “By Evans and Hawke,” she corrected as her face hardened.

  “I am not sure I follow you, my lady.”

  The countess took a deep breath and her expression softened, but her lips remained tight. “The firm was founded by my dear cousin Andrew Evans, who had a most keen eye for art and knew his way around the business world as well. It was he who brought the gallery to prominence and it was he who brought in Simon Hawke to be a partner. Simon was junior to Andrew in every way and I believe he deeply resented it. When poor Andrew came down with consumption, Simon took over the management and the downfall of the gallery began.” She abruptly flicked her wrist, as if waving away the memory. “So much for the past.”

  But I was determined to learn more about Simon Hawke and his gallery that was connected in so many ways to the art vandalism. I decided to tantalize her with a fact we had uncovered earlier. “We were told that Hawke had to pay a heavy price for the name change of the gallery.”

  “Ten thousand pounds.” Lady Katherine spat out the words. “For the gallery and all its contents, which was a most low valuation by anyone’s estimate. But Andrew was dying and wanted to make sure his family would be looked after, knowing full well he could never depend on Simon Hawke. Simon of course took advantage of the situation and changed the gallery’s name before dear Andrew was cold in his grave. And that is when the downhill slide began.”

  “We heard tell that the gallery is on the brink of financial insolvency.”

  “Which is not surprising due to Simon’s mismanagement.”

  “And his gambling debts and the upkeep of his young mistress,” the earl added.

  “That, too,” Lady Katherine agreed. “But it is his mismanagement that continues to boggle the mind. Allow me to give you one example. The gallery had the opportunity to obtain The Baptism of Christ by del Verrocchio who was believed to be da Vinci’s mentor. Da Vinci’s mentor!” she repeated with gusto. “Here was the artist who taught the famous Leonardo.”

  “Did they ever collaborate?” I asked.

  “A most interesting question, for which the answer is yes,” the countess replied. “It is believed that Leonardo actually painted an angel in the corner of del Verrocchio’s The Baptism of Christ. Now, how in the world can you resist a work of art so closely tied to the great da Vinci? How? In any event, my cousin Andrew realized its incredible worth and was in negotiation with the owner when he was overcome with consumption. Andrew implored Simon Hawke to purchase the painting, but Simon refused because of its high price and need for extensive restoration. Instead, the Crown bought it and restored it, and this glorious painting will shortly be on display at the National Gallery. That is all one needs to know about Simon Hawke and his failing business.”

  “And the acts of vandalism certainly do not help his gallery,” I noted.

  Lady Katherine’s eyes narrowed sharply. “You and the daughter of Sherlock Holmes should be aware
that more than a few of the defaced works of art were among those Simon Hawke regretted purchasing.”

  “But the slashed paintings we saw were there for restoration and not for sale,” I recalled.

  “Some were, but others belonged to Simon and were for the most part gathering dust.” The countess turned to Lestrade and said, “It would be a simple matter to determine if the damaged paintings owned by the gallery were insured or perhaps overly insured.”

  “Several were insured, but for less than five hundred pounds,” Lestrade answered. “And those can be restored, which will significantly lower the amount the insurance company will pay out. Thus, insurance seems an unlikely motive for the destructive acts.”

  “Any port in a storm,” Lady Katherine recited.

  “You seem to have an unfavorable view of Simon Hawke,” Lestrade said bluntly.

  “I am not alone in that opinion.”

  “Countess, I should say that dislike does not make one a criminal,” Lestrade pointed out.

  “It doesn’t make one innocent, either.”

  Lady Katherine had more than dislike for Simon Hawke, I thought immediately. It bordered on real hatred and I wondered if it was based on happenings other than Hawke’s poor treatment of Andrew Evans. Was there a secret relationship between the two? Was she a scorned woman? Or was there a promised vow made but not kept? I wished Joanna was here, for she was quite clever at discerning the underlying reasons for feminine bitterness. In addition, it would be most interesting to watch Joanna and Lady Katherine match wits, although I had no doubt who would end up the winner.

  I returned my attention to the painting La Bella Nani and said, “The colors in this work are so dazzling.”

  “That is because it was recently restored,” the countess explained. “It had been protected over the years with a thick varnish that unfortunately yellowed with time and dulled the colors. The excellent restorer who performed the work is no longer at Hawke’s gallery, having gone wrong and been convicted of forgery. I am not certain who we shall turn to now for yet another restoration.”

  “Simon Hawke has employed another talented restorer who trained at the Uffizi,” I said.

  “Who gave you that information?” Lady Katherine asked.

  “Simon Hawke.”

  “Let the buyer beware.”

  Another dagger thrown at the heart of Simon Hawke, I thought immediately. What could be the deep-seated reason behind her intense dislike of the gallery owner? I once again considered the possibilities. A secret affair? A broken vow? An investment that went sour? At this point it was speculation and guesses. All that was certain was that here was yet another connection which led directly to Simon Hawke.

  For some reason, Nelson the mastiff decided to let forth a loud bark as he jumped to his feet.

  “Nelson,” the earl rebuked mildly.

  The mastiff growled and barked even louder again.

  Lady Katherine gave the dog a sharp look and said firmly, “Stop it!”

  Nelson quieted immediately and hung his head, as if in shame.

  “Down,” the countess commanded in a softer voice.

  The mastiff dropped his haunches and laid down on the floor in a most placid manner, his huge brown eyes peering at his mistress and awaiting her next order.

  I nodded to Lestrade, indicating our visit should come to an end, then returned to the royal couple. “Thank you both for your helpful information and suggestions.”

  With Nelson escorting us to the door, the inspector and I departed the Belgravia mansion and walked out into a gray day, with darkening clouds and a chilled wind that threatened yet more unpleasant weather.

  “Nothing much there, eh?” said Lestrade, turning up the collar of his topcoat.

  “A little, perhaps,” I replied, deciding to downplay the obvious fact that it was Lady Katherine who ruled the household, who was an expert in the world of Italian Renaissance art and restoration, and who would know all the hidden secrets of Simon Hawke. It was she, and not the earl, who Joanna should both talk with and investigate. Something deep within told me that Lady Katherine, the Countess of Wessex, held the key to unraveling the mystery of the art vandal.

  9

  Strange Symptoms

  I returned to 221b Baker Street and found the mood lighter than when I departed. Johnny’s explosive outbursts had diminished, giving us some hope that the dreaded disease was remitting. But my father warned that such apparent remissions were often temporary and could be again followed by violent discharge. We tried to remain optimistic as we gathered around a three-log fire in our comfortable overstuffed chairs and ignored the wind and rain outside that seemed to be gaining force.

  Joanna was pouring tea when a loud knock sounded on the door to Johnny’s bedroom. We stopped our chatter and pricked our ears, for such a rap was usually accompanied by a disturbing report.

  “The replenishing liquid is becoming most difficult to swallow,” Johnny called out.

  My father quickly looked to the bedroom. “Have you become nauseated?”

  “A bit, sir.”

  “Are you throwing up?”

  “I just have the nausea, sir, which I believe is caused by the high sugar content of the liquid.”

  “The sugar is important, for it represents your only source of nutrition which is required for your recovery.”

  In a low voice, Joanna suggested, “Perhaps we should lower the sugar concentration to make the fluid more palatable.”

  My father nodded his approval.

  “Johnny, listen carefully,” Joanna instructed loudly. “I want you to empty the bottle by a third, then replace it with water from the basin. This will lessen the sugar content and make the taste more agreeable. I would like you to do this with all the remaining bottles.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Johnny replied and we heard the sound of water running.

  Joanna came back to my father and said, “Of course when we decrease the sugar we also diminish the salt content which is critically important for hydration. Thus I propose we reconstitute our mixture to contain the same amount of salt, but half as much sugar. I would rather sacrifice calories than salt, for it is dehydration which kills in cholera, not nutrient deprivation.”

  The worry on Joanna’s face and in her voice was obvious, for every aspect of the disease brought back a nightmarish memory. I injected a note of optimism by saying, “Perhaps the zenith of the disorder has passed.”

  Joanna turned to the bedroom door and called out, “Should we attend to your bucket?”

  “Not as yet, Mother.”

  The three of us nodded to one another, for it was another good sign that indicated the lad’s discharge was lessening. But a moment later we heard distressing sounds coming through the door to Johnny’s bedroom and our confidence dipped.

  “This is to be expected,” my father said, unconcerned. “There will be ups and downs for a while yet, so do not become discouraged, for this is the usual course of cholera.”

  “But I still worry,” Joanna admitted. “And will not rest until my son is well.”

  “That is understandable,” said my father. “But if good fortune is with us, our Johnny will be on the road to recovery before the laboratory confirms the diagnosis of cholera.” He glanced over to me and asked, “Were there any difficulties in arranging for the culture to be done by the bacteriologists at St. Bartholomew’s?”

  “None,” I replied. “Although I thought it best they be warned that the infecting microorganism might be Vibrio cholera.”

  “I trust that you did not reveal that Johnny was the source,” my father inquired.

  I shook my head. “I told them it came from a colleague at Eton who did not have confidence in the local laboratory.”

  “Good show,” my father approved. “No need to alarm the entire city of London, for the true source would have certainly become a topic of conversation at St. Bartholomew’s and quickly spread outside its walls.”

  “I took the liberty of giving
them our phone number, so they could call in the results, then hurried to the meeting with the Earl of Wessex, for I was behind time.”

  Joanna went back to pouring tea, with milk added beforehand, her mind now focusing on the mystery of the art vandal. “Was Lestrade there?”

  “He was,” I replied. “But I must say he did not seem overly eager to participate in the questioning.”

  “It was not his participation, but his presence that was of importance,” said Joanna. “Even the royalty takes notice when Scotland Yard is actively involved, and they are more likely to pay attention and answer honestly.”

  “I believe their answers were indeed honest and then some, particularly so for the Countess of Wessex, who was quite forthright and provided information I think you will find most interesting.”

  “Was there a reason you directed your questioning to the countess?” asked Joanna.

  “It was through no effort of mine,” I responded. “For you see she rules the roost at the Wessex home.”

  Joanna’s eyebrows went up. “In a stern voice?”

  “By exhibition,” I answered. “She simply took over the conversation in a smooth and easy fashion which indicated she was accustomed to such a role. And then there was the manner in which their dog responded to her commands, but not the earl’s.”

  Joanna raised her brow again, higher this time. “There was a dog on the premises?”

  I nodded. “A bloody huge mastiff, with a mouth and jaw large enough to take on a wolf and win.”

  “Was the hound in the home the night of the break-in?”

  “Unfortunately not, for he was housed at the veterinarian’s that evening.”

  Joanna sighed her disappointment. “Most unfortunate indeed.”

  The three of us exchanged knowing glances as we recalled the curious incident of the dog in the night that was mentioned by Sherlock Holmes in the case of Silver Blaze. The dog did nothing and did not bark at the intruder, indicating it knew the individual. Had the huge mastiff done the same, our list of suspects would have been narrowed down substantially.