The Art of Deception

by Leonard Goldberg

  “You do realize the light in the foyer was quite dim,” Sir Charles cautioned.

  “I do, so please give us your description once the light was adequate.”

  Lord Cromwell motioned to the area directly beneath the dislodged painting. “My son lay there, bleeding from the back of his head. I could see a small pool of blood next to him. That pool was smeared by those of us who rushed to the lad’s side. The same holds true for the dog beside my son. But the blood from the hound appeared to have come in squirts, some even reaching the wall surrounding the painting. There were bloodied footprints within the foyer, but those too have been smeared by people coming and going after the burglar departed. There was the overturned furniture as I mentioned earlier.”

  “That was most helpful,” Joanna said and walked over to the slashed painting which now rested at an angle. She paid particular notice to the blood smears that stained it, then held the cut edges of the canvas apart to study its backing. I leaned in and could see bloodstains there as well. Finally, Joanna brought the edges together and studied the painting itself. “This work of art is quite lovely. May I ask its title and artist?”

  “The painting is named Saint Francis of Assisi with Angels and was done by the well-known Italian artist Sandro Botticelli.”

  “From the Italian Renaissance, I gather.”

  “The Early Renaissance.”

  “May I ask where and when you obtained it?”

  “I purchased it from an auction at Sotheby’s earlier this year for a thousand pounds. Its owner was a small church in northern England, where it had been discovered covered with dust in the attic of the vicar’s home. They were apparently most surprised at its value and were more than eager to sell it. Like most small churches, they were faith rich, money poor.”

  “When did you take it to Hawke and Evans?” Joanna asked.

  Lord Cromwell raised his brow, obviously surprised that Joanna was aware of this information. “On the day of the purchase, for the canvas was covered with a yellowing varnish and the angels in the background were badly faded. The restoration took months to complete, but the result was near perfection.” He glanced up at the damaged painting, shaking his head sadly. “And now look what this deranged man has done. I fear there is little hope it can be repaired.”

  Joanna restudied the painting at length, which showed a robed St. Francis holding a wooden cross, with colorful angels hovering above. “You say that Botticelli’s angels were badly faded?”

  “Quite so, but as you can see they had been beautifully restored,” replied Sir Charles.

  “Their overall texture seems so real,” Joanna remarked. “They are reminiscent of the angel supposedly painted by Leonardo da Vinci in del Verrocchio’s The Baptism of Christ.”

  “You have a keen eye, madam, for the very same comment was made by the appraiser at Sotheby’s,” Sir Charles said. “He also told me that it is believed that Botticelli and da Vinci were close friends and may have shared the same techniques early in their careers.”

  Joanna’s eyes narrowed briefly. “Did they both train under del Verrocchio?”

  “That I do not know, but surely Leonardo da Vinci did according to the appraiser.” Sir Charles gazed up at the painting and gently touched the canvas. “So much damage,” he said ruefully.

  “Let us hope it can be restored.”

  “I have my doubts, madam.”

  “One never knows.”

  “Oh, rest assured I will look into possible restoration, for the painting is so lovely, and works by Sandro Botticelli are rapidly disappearing from the marketplace.”

  “Whatever the cost, I am certain it is worth restoring, for such works of art will increase in value manyfold as time passes.”

  Sir Charles nodded slowly. “If its value would go to a million pounds, I would happily give it up, along with all of my other worldly possessions, just to see my boy return to his former self.”

  “Let us pray he does.”

  “And now, if you will excuse me, I must hurry to St. Bartholomew’s to join my wife who sits at the lad’s bedside.”

  As Lord Cromwell dashed away I felt true sympathy for the man, for I could think of nothing sadder than the sorrow experienced by parents who have lost a child. It was not supposed to happen in that fashion. The child was meant to grow and mature and age, and eventually bury his parents, not the other way around. For the child to die first seemed so out of order. I turned to my father and asked, “In your opinion, what are the lad’s chances?”

  “Nil if the fracture is open, far better if it is closed,” my father prognosticated. “But in the latter much will depend on whether there is permanent damage to the brain.”

  “Let us hope for the best.”

  “A little prayer will not hurt,” Joanna added, now carefully inspecting the blood splatter patterns on the floor and wall of the foyer. Her gaze went back and forth between the bloodstains and the door leading into a spacious parlor. “From the evidence at hand, the events went as follows. The lad releases the dog from its holding room, and the hound races in ahead of the boy, then attacks the intruder who was standing at Botticelli’s painting. At that point, the—” Joanna interrupted herself and turned to Lestrade. “What breed of dog was it?”

  “A rottweiler of considerable size,” Lestrade replied.

  “Where is its body?”

  “It is covered in the garden.”

  “Please have it brought in.”

  Lestrade gestured to a nearby constable who hurried out.

  Joanna continued on as she envisioned the sequence of events. “So the rottweiler pounds on the intruder and a fierce struggle ensues, for this breed of dog is fearless and will go to any length to protect its master. The intruder has his knife in hand to slash open the painting, but instead uses it to defend himself.”

  “You keep referring to the vandal as an intruder, when we all know it was Harry Edmunds,” Lestrade interjected.

  “And where is the evidence for that which will hold up in a court of law?” asked Joanna.

  Lestrade hesitated briefly before nodding. “You have a point, madam.”

  “It is best, Inspector, not to rush to an obvious conclusion, for in the process you may overlook clues that could prove to be significant later on,” Joanna said, then returned to her summary of events. “The intruder uses his knife to stab the rottweiler, most likely in the neck where the carotid arteries lay. The severed artery then spurts blood against the wall beneath the painting, as evidenced by a pattern of intermittent splatterings. The rottweiler yelps and falls, and the lad rushes the intruder, only to be knocked to the floor where his head strikes hard marble which results in a skull fracture.”

  “That was my assessment as well,” Lestrade concurred.

  The constable hurried into the foyer carrying the dead rottweiler in his arms. “Shall I place him down, ma’am?”

  “Please hold him in his current position,” Joanna requested and removed the blanket covering the dead animal. There was a deep gash of at least three inches extending from its massive jaw to its heavily muscled chest. Dark, caked blood surrounded the wound and much of its neck. Joanna leaned over and sniffed at the rottweiler’s mouth and snout. “Care to take a whiff, Inspector?”

  Lestrade carefully approached the dog’s massive head and inhaled. “Coal tar!” he announced.

  “And now we know for a fact that it was Harry Edmunds,” Joanna went on. “The rottweiler went for Edmunds’s neck and in the process exposed its own neck where the blade of a knife was inserted.”

  “The dog was intent on ripping Harry’s throat wide open,” said I. “Do you believe he was able to inflict any damage?”

  “The blood splatter says no,” Joanna replied. “All of the bloodstains and pools can be attributed to either the rottweiler or the son. Nevertheless, to make certain, we should follow his footsteps out. I assume that he entered via a service door in the kitchen area.”

  “He did,” Lestrade confirmed. �
�There were multiple scratch marks on the lock, indicating a rather clumsy lockpick.”

  “After entering, Edmunds then crept through the kitchen and into the parlor to reach the marble foyer.”

  “Correct.”

  “And he would leave taking the same route.”

  “Correct once more.”

  “Were there any bloodstains on the carpet in the parlor or on the floor of the kitchen?”

  “None.”

  “Then it is unlikely the dog inflicted any significant damage on Harry Edmunds.”

  “He is lucky as well as clever,” Lestrade grumbled and gestured for the constable to remove the dead rottweiler. Once the foyer was clear, he came back to Joanna. “I do have one question for you, madam. You inquired of Sir Charles as to what sounds he heard downstairs at the time of the break-in. Did this have particular importance?”

  “It did have some relevance,” Joanna replied. “You will recall that initially there was the sound of barking. Keep in mind that barking dogs bark, but do not attack. Harry Edmunds was aware of this, and when the barking remained distant and in place, he knew the hound was enclosed. Taking all this into consideration, he decided to make his move, hoping to be in and out before the hound was released. The growling sound came later, indicating that Edmunds had misjudged and the dog was on the attack.”

  “Most interesting and informative,” Lestrade lauded. “But the most important question remains. Did Edmunds find the treasured masterpiece and make off with it?”

  “He did not,” said Joanna. “And there is evidence to clearly show that Harry Edmunds was unsuccessful.”

  “Please tell us how you reached that conclusion,” Lestrade requested. “I see nothing, as you might say, that would stand up at an official inquiry.”

  “Allow me to walk you through the steps, Lestrade,” Joanna proposed. “First, study the edges of the slash in the painting and describe what you see.”

  Lestrade inspected the edges before gently separating them for further examination. “There are abundant bloodstains present.”

  “Where did the blood come from?”

  “Either from the dog or from an injury inflicted by the dog on Edmunds’s hand.”

  “I believe we can exclude the latter because such a wound would have to bleed excessively, and this would have shown up on the floor around the painting and on the carpet of the parlor as he dashed out. This did not occur.”

  “Which indicates the blood came from the fatally stabbed rottweiler.”

  “Spot-on, Inspector. So now, the dog is dead or dying and the lad is lying on the marble floor unconscious. Edmunds must hurry, for he realizes the disturbance will bring forth others in the household. He next spreads the cut edges and peers in. Please do the same and tell us what you see on the backing of the canvas.”

  “A broad blood smear,” Lestrade reported.

  “From Edmunds’s hand, no doubt,” Joanna added.

  “Which indicates he reached in and could not find the masterpiece, so he moved his hand around, searching, in the event the prized painting was hidden off to the side.”

  “Masterpiece is the key word here, Inspector. Harry Edmunds was an experienced restorer and knew all about ancient, fragile works of art. Even in his haste, he would never smear blood about the inner canvas in such a casual fashion. Thus, I think it fair to say he reached in and, finding nothing, left a large blood smear behind, which has a fingerprint or two embedded in it.”

  “And so he will strike yet again,” Lestrade concluded.

  Joanna nodded in agreement. “He is now truly desperate because of a lack of funds, and the only person he can turn to is his wife. You would be wise to keep a most careful eye on Charlotte Edmunds.”

  “We have her under surveillance day and night.”

  My father interjected, “It is unfortunate that you had to release her on bail.”

  “Actually I preferred it,” Lestrade said. “Were she in jail, her husband would never dare to contact her. On the outside, he might well chance it. For that very reason, I have two of our best men surveilling her. If she chooses to sneeze, one of our watchers could hand her a handkerchief.”

  “Do you have female police officers at Scotland Yard?” Joanna asked.

  “We do indeed,” Lestrade replied. “Most are matrons, but we have several female officers who I must say are working out splendidly.”

  “Then I would assign one to the surveillance team, for Harry and Charlotte Edmunds are a most clever pair.”

  “But what purpose would the addition of a female surveillance officer serve?” Lestrade asked.

  “If Charlotte wishes to transfer funds to her husband, she might accomplish the act in a public lavatory reserved for women. Harry of course would have entered wearing an appropriate disguise.”

  “Do you truly believe they are that clever?”

  “A man who can burn his cellmate into an unrecognizable char and take his place for early discharge is beyond clever.”

  I had to smile to myself as I remembered one of Joanna’s cardinal rules which was said to also be used by her father, Sherlock Holmes. In order to catch a cunning criminal, you must think like one.

  “Are you not convinced that you discovered all of the cash caches that Charlotte Edmunds had hidden away?” asked Lestrade.

  “We found only those tainted by the aroma of coal tar,” Joanna answered. “There may be others.”

  “Indeed,” Lestrade said and began to depart, then abruptly turned to us. “In all the turmoil and excitement, I neglected to give you a most important piece of information. We have uncovered the whereabouts of the mysterious David Hughes.”

  We moved in closer so as not to miss a word, for here was a missing link that could throw light on our most puzzling case.

  “On further examination of the fireplace where the corpse was stored away, we found a hammer which was no doubt used to break bones and inflict torture. A fingerprint was gotten off the handle of the hammer and was shown to belong to one David Hughes, a nasty piece of work from Liverpool. His record revealed multiple arrests, with conviction for assault with a deadly weapon, for which he was imprisoned at Wormwood Scrubs. He was known to be friends with Harry Edmunds in that they served their time in adjoining cells. He was released a month prior to Edmunds’s escape. What is equally as interesting is that Hughes was a jack-of-all-trades and worked as a stonemason before turning to crime.”

  “So it was he, along with Edmunds, who bricked in the fireplace,” said I.

  “And fingerprints on the bricks and tools revealed that both participated in the torture,” Lestrade added. “We also have a third set of fingerprints on two bricks that are proving difficult to identify.”

  The third man! I thought to myself. Joanna had predicted that it would require a threesome to stuff the large corpse into the relatively small fireplace.

  “In any event, all of England was searching for this man, for yet another brutal assault, but with little success,” Lestrade continued on. “Then good fortune came our way. The Australian police, who were also on the lookout for David Hughes, reported that he was killed in a bar fight outside Adelaide.”

  “Thus he did in fact use James Blackstone’s ticket to Australia after all,” said Joanna. “And I suspect that the ticket was payment to Hughes for his participation in the torture of Blackstone.”

  Lestrade sighed resignedly. “All no doubt true, but I am afraid this brings us no closer to the apprehension of Harry Edmunds.”

  We bade Lestrade farewell and departed the elegant but sad home of Sir Charles Cromwell, where a most unhappy tragedy was unfolding. Our mood was somber, for despite an abundance of clues Harry Edmunds remained on the loose and was sure to strike again and perhaps bring even more violence with him. But as our four-wheeler approached Hyde Park, Joanna abruptly sat up in her seat.

  “I almost missed it!” she proclaimed. “And it was right before my eyes!”

  “What?” I asked quickly.
/>   “The most important clue!”

  “Which is?”

  “Botticelli’s painting with the faded angels that required restoration.”

  My father and I exchanged puzzled glances, for we had no idea of their significance. How could one relate Botticelli’s angels to the vandalism incurred by Harry Edmunds?

  “Think!” Joanna encouraged. “In addition to the faded angels, what was so curious about the painting?”

  We had no answer.

  “There was no female portrait,” Joanna said, now gleefully rubbing her hands together. “It showed only Saint Francis and the angels.”

  “And what does that tell us?” my father asked.

  “Everything,” Joanna replied. “Now we only require one more piece of information to end Harry Edmunds’s rampage through the west side of London.”

  “Who will provide this information, pray tell?”

  “The Countess of Wessex,” said Joanna and, using my father’s walking stick, rapped impatiently on the roof of our four-wheeler. “Faster, driver!”

  25

  Setting a Trap

  But alas, the Countess of Wessex was not at home to receive our phone call. She was away for the day visiting the Royal Art Collection at Windsor, and would not return until late afternoon. Joanna showed no disappointment in the delay. Quite to the contrary, she seemed quite pleased with it.

  “For you see, Windsor holds the key to our mystery,” she said.

  “You will have to explain this connection to us, Joanna,” my father implored. “For we do not see this key you continually refer to.”

  “First, it must be determined if my assumptions are correct,” Joanna replied. “If the countess confirms my beliefs, then all will become clear. But for now, we should concern ourselves with what we know to be fact.”

  “Where should we begin?” I asked.