The Art of Deception

by Leonard Goldberg

  “Then we should proceed with that assumption in mind,” Joanna interjected. “Our next steps are for Lestrade to obtain the court order required for exhumation, and for John and I to travel to Wormwood Scrubs to interview the governor and review the prison’s records of Harry Edmunds. Please be good enough, Inspector, to call the governor and inform him of our imminent arrival.”

  Reaching for the phone, Lestrade said, “He may well inquire as to the purpose of your visit.”

  “Tell him it is because I believe he has buried the wrong man.”

  14

  Wormwood Scrubs

  Mr. George Bradshaw, the governor at Wormwood Scrubs, met us with a cold greeting and a limp handshake, obviously none too pleased with our visit. In his sparse office, he sat behind a neat, wooden desk and gave the appearance one might expect to see in a funeral director. He was tall and thin, nearly to the point of being gaunt, with a somber expression that had not even a hint of warmth.

  “This is most unusual,” said he.

  “So is burying the wrong body in a potter’s field,” Joanna countered.

  “Do you have proof of this?”

  “Enough to request an exhumation which will shortly be granted.”

  “Do you care to share this evidence with me?”

  “I am afraid I cannot, for such evidence must remain confidential until it has been submitted before a court,” Joanna replied easily. “Furthermore, there may well be other related clues we uncover in your prison that must be added to the legal brief, which explains our presence here today.”

  “May I ask where you anticipate finding these clues?”

  “In your prison records, as they pertain to one Harry Edmunds and the explosion that supposedly took his life.”

  “A most unfortunate accident,” Bradshaw noted indifferently.

  “And a most convenient one,” said Joanna. “May we see his prison file?”

  Bradshaw handed across a thin folder which when opened revealed only a few loose sheets. “As you can see, his reports are quite meager, for he was only with us several months before his untimely death.”

  Joanna quickly scanned the file that contained Edmunds’s medical record, death certificate, and accounts of his behavior while incarcerated. “It appears he was a model prisoner.”

  “He was indeed,” Bradshaw confirmed. “He never caused a spot of trouble and worked diligently in the furniture restoration shop where he seemed to enjoy his time.”

  “What becomes of the furniture once it is restored?” Joanna asked.

  “It is sold, with the proceeds used to buy the tools and equipment required for the restorations. Each prisoner receives a shilling for his work once the sale is done, which gives them added incentive. They spend the money quickly for tobacco and such, and of course for gambling that we do our best to discourage.”

  “Was Edmunds involved in any fights or brawls?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Any attempts to escape?”

  “There is no escape from here, for it is the most secure prison in all London,” Bradshaw answered. “Moreover, most of our prisoners are nonviolent offenders with relatively short sentences, and any attempt to escape would add significantly to the time they needed to serve. This of course dissuades them from any such activities.”

  Joanna glanced at the inmate’s medical record briefly before handing it to me. “John, here is the physical examination done by the prison doctor on Harry Edmunds when he first arrived. Read it aloud while you search for a signature marking.”

  “What is a signature marking?” asked Bradshaw, showing sudden interest.

  “It is a finding which belongs to Harry Edmunds and no one else.”

  I read through the entire document before speaking, for I wished to make certain it was authentic and done by a physician who was competent to perform such an examination. The terms he used indicated he was an experienced doctor who did not mince his words.

  “Well?”

  “The examining physician knows his anatomy.”

  “Excellent. Please proceed.”

  “The report begins as follows: the patient is a forty-five-year-old male who appears to be his stated age. His blood pressure is one hundred twenty-five over eighty-five, and he has an even pulse of seventy per minute. Examination of the head, eyes, nose, and throat reveals severe psoriasis involving the entire scalp, with lesions extending down well into the posterior neck. Only a few psoriatic plaques are present on the torso. The intense smell of coal tar permeates the entire area. His dental hygiene is good, but several bottom teeth are missing. The heart and lungs are clear, with no abnormal sounds or murmurs. However, on the left lateral chest wall there is a five-by-five-inch black-and-blue area most likely caused by trauma.” I glanced over to Joanna and remarked, “We should determine if the burned corpse has fractured ribs in that location.”

  “Does the examining physician believe they are broken?” Joanna asked quickly.

  “He only states that the area was tender and that could indicate the ribs were only bruised,” I opined, before continuing on. “The liver and spleen cannot be felt, nor are there palpable lymph nodes in the inguinal region. His extremities are unremarkable, other than he has an amputated small toe on the left.” I could not help but smile at the seemingly insignificant finding. “A missing toe!”

  “The signature,” Joanna noted, nodding in satisfaction.

  “Indeed.”

  Bradshaw was not impressed, saying, “A missing toe is hardly conclusive evidence.”

  “It is if the prisoner you buried has all ten of his,” Joanna informed.

  Bradshaw appeared to sink into his chair. “Your point is well taken.”

  “And this finding may yet beg another question for you to answer,” said Joanna.

  “Which is?”

  “Who is the man you buried?”

  “And how does he fit into this scheme,” I added.

  “That, too,” Joanna concurred and arose from her chair. “Now I would like to examine the restoration workshop where the explosion took place.”

  “I am afraid it remains in a bit of a mess,” Bradshaw said.

  “So there has been no cleanup?”

  “Not as yet.”

  “Excellent, for an untouched crime scene serves our purposes best.”

  “Why are you so convinced that a crime has occurred?”

  “Because I have a nose for it.”

  We strode down a very long corridor, passing through a series of locked doors, then took two flights of stairs down before reaching the furniture restoration workshop. It was a large room that held shelves filled with numerous unopened jars and cans, all neatly stacked together. A rack on the wall had protruding pegs upon which various tools could be placed and secured. The air still smelled of burnt wood and yet another pungent odor that I surmised was emitted by the flammable solvent which has taken someone’s life.

  “This is the area where the explosion occurred,” Bradshaw said, gesturing to a badly burned table and then to a scorched, blackened cabinet that rested upon it. “Edmunds was mixing up his specially prepared solvent when someone came too near with a lighted cigarette.”

  “Specially prepared?” Joanna inquired. “Did he make his own solvent?”

  “He insisted on it, for it was in his opinion far superior to those that are commercially available,” replied Bradshaw.

  Joanna moved closer to the badly charred cabinet and seemed to be most interested in its position on the workbench. It appeared to be at an angle so that it faced another similar workbench upon which stood a chair that had also been scorched by the flames. “Where were the witnesses located at the moment of the explosion?”

  “There was only one witness, Robbie Gates, who was sanding a chair on the adjacent table,” Bradshaw answered.

  Joanna paced off the distance between the charred cabinet and the scorched chair. “Fifteen feet apart,” she announced.

  “Which is surely cl
ose enough for a clear recognition,” said Bradshaw. “In addition, Gates has quite good vision and does not wear glasses, which I suspect was to be the answer to your next question.”

  “It was,” Joanna responded. “Nevertheless, I wonder if it would be possible for me to speak to Mr. Gates.”

  Bradshaw signaled to a nearby prison officer. “Please bring Robbie Gates down to the restoration area.”

  I could see that Governor Bradshaw was somewhat annoyed by Joanna’s request, for it would appear she did not trust his word. Which of course was the case, for one of her cardinal rules was to never accept the assessment of another until she herself had confirmed it.

  Joanna strolled over to a shelf that held the various ingredients necessary for furniture restoration. She briefly studied the labels on large bottles of acetone and hydrogen peroxide and checked to make certain their tops were secure. “Ah, the individual components required to make the solvents. It is wise to keep them well apart, is it not?”

  “Quite so, madam, for the restoration supervisor is aware that when the two are combined together they form an unstable, most dangerous mixture.”

  “The mixing produces acetone peroxide which is highly explosive,” Joanna noted.

  “You are informed on chemistry?” Bradshaw asked, taken aback by Joanna’s knowledge of science.

  “Only as it applies to crime.” Joanna moved farther down the shelf and came to large glass containers of flour and salt. She pried off their tops and sniffed at the contents before dipping her finger in to take a taste. “Flour and salt,” she confirmed.

  “I have no idea what purpose they serve in restoration.”

  “They are the major components of glue.”

  “Is that all that is required?”

  “You can add a bit of vinegar to make for a firmer adhesive,” Joanna said and pointed to a nearly empty bottle of white vinegar.

  At that moment, a grizzled prisoner in his late middle years entered the restoration area and made his way over to us. He kept his eyes averted as is commonly done by individuals about to face someone in a position of power. His posture was decidedly stooped, but he had no other distinguishing features.

  “This is Robbie Gates,” Bradshaw introduced. “It was he who witnessed the explosion that took Harry Edmunds’s life.”

  “I did indeed, guv’nor, for it happened right before my very eyes,” Gates said in a cigarette-induced hoarse voice. His clothes carried an overwhelming odor of stale tobacco smoke. “Went up in a ball of flames, he did.”

  “How close were you to him?” Joanna asked.

  Gates hesitated and only answered when Bradshaw gave him an approving nod. “Ten, twelve feet or so. Maybe a little more.”

  “Please take the position you had at the moment of the explosion,” Joanna requested.

  Gates again waited for Bradshaw’s permission before walking over to the workbench that held the scorched chair. “Here I was, madam, when Harry and his cellmate were mixing up their brew.”

  “Then you must have seen them quite clearly,” said Joanna, picking up a blackened chisel to examine, but as she did so it seemed to slip from her grasp and land on the floor. Gates hurried over and retrieved the tool, then handed it back to Joanna.

  “Oh, thank you, Gates,” she said, placing the chisel down.

  “You are welcome, ma’am.”

  So Gates had passed the vision test, I thought at once. A man who could see a falling chisel at fifteen feet could surely recognize a face at that distance.

  “Side by side, they were,” Gates replied.

  “I take it you knew Edmunds’s cellmate.”

  “Everyone knew old Derrick Wilson who is now breathing the fresh air of London, having served his sentence.”

  “Are you certain that Derrick Wilson was standing next to Edmunds at the moment of explosion?”

  “Oh yes, ma’am. I saw the two chatting and what have you, then went back to sanding the varnish off my chair. A moment later I heard a terrible bang and saw the flames engulfing the workbench.”

  “Did you actually see Harry Edmunds on fire?”

  “I saw a man with his clothes aflame and waving his arms furiously to put out the fire,” Gates recalled. “It was a horrible sight to see, it was. But I saw no more as I ran for the door, like all the others did.”

  “But did you clearly see Harry Edmunds’s face?” Joanna pressed.

  “I do believe it was him,” Gates insisted. “And when I saw his cellmate later on that day, I knew it was poor Harry who had perished in those bloody flames.”

  “Was Derrick Wilson not burned by the flames?” Joanna asked. “After all, he was quite close to Edmunds at the time of the explosion.”

  Gates considered the matter before answering. “His thick beard and moustache were badly singed and his nose was red from the flames licking at it. Also, his hands had some blisters.”

  “Did you know Wilson well?”

  “I do not think anyone knew that bloody Scotsman well, for he was a rather rough character who spent most of his time alone.”

  “Did he and Harry Edmunds, being cellmates, get along?”

  “So-so,” Gates said with a shrug. “Like most cellmates, they could be friends one day and at each other’s throats the next. They did seem to argue a lot about cheating when they gambled at cards, with Wilson dominating and often threatening Harry.”

  “Which is forbidden,” Bradshaw interjected.

  “Right you are, guv’nor,” Gates said in a neutral voice.

  “I have one final question,” Joanna continued on. “Was Derrick Wilson, being such a rough and domineering character, much larger than Harry Edmunds?”

  “Both were about the same size, but easily told apart, for Wilson had a thick beard and moustache that gave him a mean look,” Gates recounted. “The beard covered most of Wilson’s face and in particular covered up his busted cheek.”

  “Busted cheek, you say?” Joanna asked immediately.

  “That would be a polite term for it,” Gates described. “Apparently some years back, Wilson was involved in a terrible fight and caught a vicious punch that crushed his upper cheek bone. It left a dent and scar that Wilson tried to hide behind his thick beard. You didn’t notice it that much unless you were up close, and most people tended to keep their distance.”

  “Thank you for your helpful information,” said Joanna.

  Gates bowed awkwardly, obviously unaccustomed to being appreciated.

  We departed the restoration area and were accompanied to the imposing gates of Wormwood Scrubs prison by its governor, who was most inquisitive about the success or failure of our visit. Unlike my first impression of the man, he now appeared overly concerned that a bad mark would suddenly appear on his record.

  “Were you able to uncover any clues that might prove important?” Bradshaw asked anxiously.

  “None that would sway an official inquiry, if that is your question,” Joanna replied.

  Bradshaw breathed a sigh of relief as the worry left his face. “Good, then. But if I can be of further assistance, you must let me know.”

  “We shall.”

  We bade farewell to Bradshaw and proceeded through the gates of Wormwood Scrubs, and onto Du Can Road where the car and driver that Lestrade had provided awaited us.

  “Our vandal is very, very clever,” Joanna remarked.

  “Even more than we originally thought?” I queried.

  “Much more.”

  “What led to this conclusion, might I ask?”

  “The ingredients for glue in the workshop,” Joanna said and hurried for the car as a light rain began to fall.

  15

  Two Vandals

  On our return to 221b Baker Street we learned that the specimen sent to St. Bartholomew’s had tested positive for cholera and that Johnny had surely been afflicted with this dreadful disease, but he was now totally well and asymptomatic, which gave us great joy. With the full recovery of his body came the resurgence
of his most inquisitive mind, causing him to ask one question after another in our absence regarding the case of the art vandal. Like his mother and grandfather before him, he was fascinated by crimes and those who committed them.

  Yet, as he listened to Joanna expound upon our new discoveries, he made no comment nor raised any inquiries, only nodding at one clue and squinting his eyes at another.

  “Now to the most striking finding,” she recounted, looking directly at my father and awaiting his reaction. “There was in fact an individual with severe dermatitis of the scalp and neck who was previously employed at Hawke and Evans, according to Simon Hawke.”

  “How could this be?” my father asked, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Hawke was questioned about such a person and gave a negative response.”

  “Then Lestrade either phrased the question incorrectly or Hawke misunderstood it,” Joanna said. “For the man with the skin condition is Harry Edmunds, who once worked at the gallery as a restorer.”

  “Then we have our vandal,” declared my father.

  “But here arises a problem, for we were earlier told that Edmunds was currently imprisoned at Wormwood Scrubs, having been convicted of art forgery.”

  “Has he somehow managed to escape?”

  “In a manner of speaking he did, for Harry Edmunds died in prison three weeks ago and is now reportedly buried in a potter’s field.”

  “Then we have selected the wrong man to be our vandal.”

  “I think not.” Joanna described in detail the explosion in the workshop that supposedly took the life of Harry Edmunds. She gave particular attention to the highly volatile solvent, the ingredients of which were being mixed at the moment the fire broke out. “It was said to be caused by someone nearby holding a lighted cigarette,” she concluded.

  “But Edmunds was an experienced restorer who would be familiar with the dangers of mixing a solvent, would he not?” my father asked.

  “Quite familiar,” Joanna replied.

  “He would have never prepared his solvent in an area where people were smoking,” my father said with certainty.

  “Excellent, Watson!” Joanna lauded. “For you have named the first clue that is telling us all is not what it appears to be. Edmunds would have demanded the preparation of the solvent be carried out in a safe area, but he did not and for good reason.”