The Art of Deception

by Leonard Goldberg

  “Please explain, Watson,” Joanna requested at once.

  “Last spring I attended a conference on internal fixation devices which was most informative,” my father told us. “The initial plates were designed by a surgeon named Lane just after the turn of the century, but they fell out of favor because of corrosive problems that caused the plates to fail. Had James Blackstone’s surgery been done during the Second Boer War, which ended in 1902, a Lane plate would have been inserted and by now be badly corroded. Our plate shows no such changes and thus was inserted much later on.”

  “When did the newer plates come into use?” Joanna asked.

  “Ten years or so after the war ended,” my father replied. “And I can assure you, Mr. Blackstone did not walk about with an untreated badly fractured femur for all those years.”

  “Then we have a problem unless the plate we are viewing was in fact designed by Dr. Lane,” Joanna said frankly.

  I immediately reached for a screwdriver and went about the business of loosening the metal plate. It was a most difficult task, for the screws which held it in place were deeply embedded in the femoral bone. Slowly but surely it began to give.

  “Can you determine the cause of the fracture?” asked Joanna.

  “Not with any degree of certainty,” I answered. “Nevertheless, the absence of metal fragments or excessive calcification suggest the injury was the result of a fall, perhaps from a horse.”

  “Or a kick from one,” Joanna added.

  As I tussled with the final screw, the metal plate cracked into two and exposed a fracture that had not completely healed and may well have accounted for a painful hip. I retrieved the broken pieces and retreated to a nearby basin where I scrubbed the grime and dried matter away. In the corner of the larger piece I saw a stamp mark, but could not make out the inscription even when held up to the light.

  “I need a magnifying glass,” I said to Joanna.

  She hurried over and handed her large glass to me, then stepped back and waited.

  I brushed away more grime and carefully studied the plate under the brightest light in the autopsy room. The name on the internal fixation plate read CARNEGIE 10. “Was there a surgeon named Carnegie who designed such plates?”

  My father shook his head. “The surgeon who invented the plate was William Sherman, who was the chief orthopaedic surgeon for the Carnegie Steel Company in America. The reason I recall this information is that Dr. Sherman was the guest speaker at the medical conference I attended.”

  “And when did Dr. Sherman invent his plate?” Joanna asked.

  “The same question was asked of Dr. Sherman and he replied that the first such plate was designed and used in 1912. This was a good ten years after the Second Boer War which ended in 1902. Thus it is safe to say the fracture and its plate cannot be from that war.”

  Joanna pondered the problem at length before asking, “What does the number ten on the plate signify?”

  “I cannot be certain, but most likely it denotes the particular lot that was manufactured by the Carnegie Company at that time,” my father replied. “I shall confirm that with an orthopaedic colleague.”

  “Please inquire if the stamp and number will allow us to track down the patient in whom it was inserted.”

  “I shall.”

  “But meanwhile we are faced with the very real possibility that the corpse in the fireplace is not James Blackstone,” said Joanna. “And that, my dear Watsons, presents a most difficult conundrum.”

  “But who else could it be?” I asked.

  “It has to be someone who was involved in the quest for the hidden masterpiece,” Joanna replied. “There is no other explanation.”

  “Could it be the mysterious David Hughes who supposedly gained possession of Blackstone’s ticket on the Queen Victoria and then disappeared into the wilds of Australia?” I queried. “After all, someone did occupy that cabin on the ocean liner, and it had to be either Blackstone or David Hughes. Perhaps it truly was James Blackstone who fled to Australia and we are at this moment staring down at David Hughes.”

  “But that does not fit,” Joanna argued at once. “You are assuming that David Hughes knew of the hidden masterpiece, for there would be no other reason to torture him. Why would the two restorers bring in yet another to share in their fortune?”

  “They would not, for there was no need to.” My father spoke the obvious answer, then sighed deeply at our dilemma. “It appears we are facing a set of contradictory happenings. There is a corpse who should be James Blackstone and is not, and a mythical person named David Hughes who is believed to be hiding out in Australia, but may not even exist. It is a mystery upon a mystery.”

  “Which seems impossible to sort out,” I thought aloud. “We have a corpse we cannot identify and a faceless man who may or may not be real.”

  “What do you make of it, Joanna?” my father asked.

  “I do not propose to understand it yet,” she said carefully. “But we have several different threads in our hands, and the odds are that one or the other will guide us to the truth.”

  “Which thread do you choose?”

  “The corpse, for one way or another it holds the key to our mystery.”

  * * *

  It was well past twilight when we departed from St. Bartholomew’s and stepped out into a steady downpour which was beginning to flood the streets. Carriages were much in demand and we were fortunate to hail a taxi that was leaving a passenger off at the front entrance to the hospital. As we rode down Newgate Street, the rainfall intensified, forcing traffic to slow to a crawl. We remained silent, each of us grappling to answer the crucial question—who was the shriveled body in the chimney? All evidence pointed to James Blackstone, but the age of the metal plate inserted into the hip of the corpse said otherwise. And if it wasn’t Blackstone, who could it possibly be and how did it relate to this most baffling case?

  “Watson, are you quite certain about the age of the various metal plates used to reunite hip fractures?” Joanna broke the silence.

  “I am afraid so,” my father replied. “The Carnegie plate was invented in 1912, long after Blackstone was wounded in the Second Boer War.”

  “It is a most important point,” Joanna said, “Please consult with an orthopedic specialist and confirm the dates.”

  “I know several who could—”

  My father’s voice was drowned out by a large lorry that roared by us and abruptly swerved in front of our taxi. A moment later we heard an explosive noise that resembled an engine backfiring. Suddenly, the windshield of our taxi shattered, sending slivers of glass flying into the driver’s face and causing him to shriek in agony. He tried desperately to control the vehicle, but it veered from side to side on the wet pavement despite the brakes being applied. We scraped against a parked motorcar, then another, before finally coming to a stop beneath a lighted lamppost. Ahead of us, the lorry sped down Newgate and disappeared into the heavy rain.

  “I can’t see!” the driver cried out.

  My father quickly vacated the taxi, with Joanna and me a step behind, and all hurried over to attend the blinded driver. Using his hands to cup the falling rainwater, my father repeatedly washed the driver’s eyes free of glass, and we all breathed a sigh of relief as his vision returned. Only then did the three of us begin to collect ourselves, now acutely aware of how close to death we had come.

  “Someone obviously wanted us dead,” Joanna said, with a quiver in her voice. “And he came frighteningly close to accomplishing his mission.”

  “Check yourselves for wounds,” my father directed. “Sometimes in the heat of battle we do not sense pain until the aftermath.”

  I could not help but be impressed with my father’s calm demeanor, but then I recalled his soldiering days in Afghanistan where he learned to control his nerves under the most trying of conditions.

  “Are we all well?” my father inquired.

  “I am fine except for a few cuts on my forehead from flying glass,
” I replied.

  Joanna swiftly positioned me beneath the lighted lamppost for a more thorough examination. She ran a soothing finger over the area of the cuts, searching for glass slivers and finding a few. “Are you wounded elsewhere?”

  “I am fine,” I repeated.

  “Do not minimize your injuries, John,” Joanna said in a stern tone, but then her face softened and she embraced me tightly for a moment. “I have already lost one husband I loved dearly, and could not bear to lose yet another.”

  “I plan to be here for a while,” I assured my wife and kissed her gentle hand.

  “For a very long while,” she insisted, with a sweet smile.

  “What of you, Joanna?” my father asked. “Have you suffered any cuts or injuries?”

  “None, and let us all thank the powers that be that the bullet did not find its intended mark.”

  “We were fortunate indeed, for the shooter was quite skilled,” my father noted.

  “Based on what evidence?” I asked.

  “The fact that he was able to strike our windshield on the driver’s side from the rear of a fast-moving lorry,” my father answered. “I can assure you the shooter is a marksman.”

  “Who, under the circumstances, most likely employed a rifle,” Joanna surmised.

  My father nodded his agreement. “That he no doubt fired from a prone position which allowed for steadiness in a moving lorry.”

  “Let us see if our assumptions are correct.” Joanna hurried past our driver and opened the door of the taxi widely so that light from the lamppost shined into its front compartment. To the right of the driver’s position was a small, round hole in the upper back of the leather-upholstered seat. Using a metal pen from her purse, Joanna carefully pried out a spent bullet and held it up for examination. “Note that it is relatively slender and long, which is characteristic of a bullet fired from a rifle as compared to one discharged from a pistol.”

  “I am surprised the bullet is not more distorted,” said my father.

  “That is because its route took it through the windshield whose glass offered minimal resistance,” Joanna explained.

  The taxi driver called out, “I feel yet more glass scratching my right eye, Doctor.”

  “Do not rub it, for that can cause more harm,” my father cautioned and hurried over to the driver. Again and again he used handfuls of rainwater to cleanse the driver’s affected eye.

  All the while Joanna continued to study the bullet, now using her magnifying glass. It was the side of the bullet which seemed to draw her attention. “There are definite markings,” she disclosed.

  “Are they of importance?” I asked.

  “Perhaps,” Joanna replied, then told me of an unpublished monograph her father had written in which he predicted the day would come when markings on a spent bullet could prove or disprove whether it came from a specific weapon.

  “How could that be done?”

  “By comparing its markings to those on a bullet fired by that same weapon.”

  “Remarkable,” said I, slowly shaking my head in admiration of not only the Great Detective, but at the daughter following in his footsteps. “I see the harrowing event we just experienced has not diminished your deductive reasoning. You seem steady as ever.”

  “Do not let my outer appearance deceive you,” Joanna admitted in a quiet voice. “There was a long moment when I was consumed with the fear that I was about to die and leave my dear Johnny all alone. He has already lost a father, and I could not begin to fathom the depth of his sorrow were he to lose his mother as well.”

  “Nevertheless, you seem to be recovering nicely,” I remarked.

  “I am almost there,” Joanna said, then her face hardened noticeably, as she stared back at the shattered windshield. “Let me assure you that whoever did this evil deed will soon pay dearly for it.”

  My father rejoined us and reported, “I believe all the glass particles have been washed out and the driver is now without symptoms.”

  “Well done, Watson,” Joanna lauded, and again studied the bullet with her magnifying glass.

  “Are there any significant findings?” my father asked.

  “Only that we can say with certainty that the size and shape of the bullet indicate it was fired from a rifle.”

  “Which may have relevance in this particular case.”

  “How so?”

  “Recall that James Blackstone fought in the Second Boer War and no doubt was experienced in the use of long rifles.”

  “Are you proposing that the shot was fired by Blackstone?”

  “It would seem to fit.”

  “Except for the prospect that the corpse lying on the dissecting table may well belong to the very same James Blackstone.”

  20

  An Unexpected Visitor

  We had just finished a breakfast nicely prepared by Miss Hudson and were about to retire to our newspapers when she reappeared and hastily announced the arrival of a visitor.

  “There is a Mr. Edwin Alan Rowe who wishes to see you on a most urgent matter,” she said.

  “Please show him in,” my father requested.

  Lifting a tray laden with dishes, she departed, after having been asked to start a new kettle for our guest.

  “What in the world brings Rowe to our doorstep at such an early hour?” I inquired.

  “It must be a happening of considerable importance,” my father surmised.

  “And one I can assure you brings the most unwelcome news,” Joanna added.

  “Who is Mr. Edwin Alan Rowe?” asked the ever-inquisitive Johnny.

  “He is an art historian who is serving as a consultant for us,” Joanna replied.

  “In the case of the art vandal, then?”

  “The very same.”

  “He would be quite the expert in the hidden masterpiece, I would gather,” deduced Johnny who had been privy to our numerous conversations on the topic.

  “Indeed, but you must not involve yourself in any way during his visit,” Joanna demanded. “Not a word. Understood?”

  “Even the most pressing of questions?” Johnny queried.

  Joanna sighed resignedly as the door opened after a brief knock. In entered Rowe, bundled up against the cold, with some of the morning’s snow showing on his hat and the shoulders of his topcoat.

  “Here,” my father offered, hurrying over. “Allow me to hang your outer garments.”

  “I trust I am not intruding despite the early hour,” Rowe said.

  “Not at all,” my father assured.

  “I fear that I am, but I thought it necessary once I saw the morning newspapers filled with your names and the story of the body in the fireplace.”

  “What!”

  “And packed with details of the leather-bound corpse, curled up like an infant asleep.”

  My father rushed over to the table that held the morning newspapers and unfolded the Daily Telegraph. “The article is on the front page and is entitled THE CHIMNEY CORPSE.”

  He read aloud the gruesome details of the body that was hidden in the bricked-in chimney at the Hawke and Evans art gallery. The description was so accurate it had to come from someone who had actually viewed the corpse up close. My father groaned audibly when he came to the section dealing with the three of us. “And for good measure, the article states that now with Joanna Blalock-Watson and her colleagues involved, a quick resolution can be expected.”

  “It had to come from Willoughby,” I said angrily.

  “Or Scotland Yard,” Joanna opined.

  “Why Scotland Yard?” I asked.

  “For two reasons,” replied Joanna. “First, the macabre details assure front-page coverage and place Lestrade in the spotlight, a position he enjoys, particularly when a case is about to be solved.”

  “Which will allow him to soak up most of the credit,” my father noted.

  “Of course,” Joanna agreed. “Why else would he do it?”

  “And the second reason you mentioned?”
I inquired.

  “If the case is not brought to resolution, we shall have the discomfort of shouldering at least part of the blame, for our names are now attached to this rather nasty mystery.”

  “Lestrade,” my father grumbled under his breath.

  “Give him his due, Watson, for the good inspector knows how to manipulate the press to his advantage,” Joanna said in a neutral tone. “But whatever the source, the information is now on public display, and has certainly reached the eye of the portrait vandal.”

  “And the eye of those of us in the art world, who are now aware the body must belong to James Blackstone, which is a great loss to us all,” Rowe said sadly.

  “But the man is—or rather was—a criminal,” my father reminded.

  “Do not judge him so harshly, Watson, until you have heard his entire story,” Rowe said in a kind voice.

  “Did you know him well?” Joanna asked.

  “Quite well and for many years,” Rowe replied. “I first met him in Paris after his return from the Second Boer War. He was an apprentice restorer studying at the Louvre under Auguste Curie, and even then he showed great promise. Some years later I learned he had taken a position with the Royal Art Collection, and had the opportunity to interview him for a piece I was writing for The Guardian. He was remarkably informed on the artists from the Italian Renaissance and was most helpful in my future articles and research.” A brief smile came to Rowe’s face as he continued on. “His knowledge was so extensive that we would challenge one another with riddles on works of art from that period. For example, at our most recent meeting he gave me a brainteaser I have yet to unravel.”

  “When was the last meeting you had with James Blackstone?” Joanna interrupted abruptly.

  “A few weeks before the warrant for his arrest was issued,” Rowe answered.

  “And the riddle?”

  “It was Angels to a Perfect Angel,” recited Rowe. “I could make little of it, for many of the paintings from the Italian Renaissance portrayed angels. But for some reason, James was quite curious to know if I had solved the riddle and asked me so on several occasions.”