“With the discovery of the masterpiece, which beyond any doubt was found at Hawke and Evans by James Blackstone,” said Joanna. “After uncovering the masterpiece, Blackstone brought Edmunds in as a partner for unknown reasons.”
“Perhaps because they were already partners from selling their forgeries on the black market,” I suggested.
“Or perhaps because Edmunds was far more familiar with dealings on the black market,” my father proposed.
“All distinct possibilities, but difficult to prove at this juncture,” said Joanna. “In any event, once the masterpiece was uncovered, the restorers decided initially to keep it for themselves. Now here is where Harry Edmunds no doubt plays an important role, for he and his wife frequent the Angel pub which is owned and operated by the Morrison family who are key figures in London’s underworld and will serve as middlemen for the sale of the masterpiece. But shortly thereafter, the picture becomes somewhat murky in that the partnership comes apart, and Blackstone decides to hide the da Vinci painting behind yet another undisclosed painting without informing Edmunds. I cannot help but wonder if Blackstone had a change of heart and wanted to return the masterpiece to its rightful owner for a substantial reward which they would all share in.”
“Which would be a pittance when compared to what the da Vinci would fetch on the black market,” I noted.
“Edmunds of course would have no part of this honorable act, and had Blackstone tortured in an effort to pry the location of the masterpiece from him,” my father concluded.
“Which brings David Hughes onto the scene,” Joanna went on. “From what we know, Harry Edmunds does not have this type of violent past, and thus needed someone with such a history to do the torturing for him.”
“But there was a vicious side to Harry Edmunds,” my father remarked. “He stabbed a security guard at Hawke and Evans and brutally beat Sir Charles’s son. In addition, he killed his cellmate to gain early release from prison.”
“The latter was done out of desperation and did not require hands-on torturing that can only be done by the most cruel of men, which Edmunds is not,” Joanna argued. “In the first two instances, I believe he was acting in self-defense. The lad’s head struck the marble floor after he was shoved away or fell after he was hit by Edmunds. The security guard, like Cromwell’s rottweiler, was stabbed only in the heat of battle. So, in all likelihood, Edmunds knew of Hughes’s extreme viciousness from the time they spent together at Wormwood Scrubs, and wished to take advantage of it.”
“Do you believe Hughes assisted Edmunds in the fiery death of Derrick Wilson?” I asked.
“An interesting possibility, and one I had not thought of,” Joanna said, with a thin smile.
“Using your criminal instincts, how would Hughes lend a hand in burning Wilson to a char?” my father queried.
Joanna pondered the question for a few moments before answering. “He could participate in a number of ways, but the most likely scenario goes as follows. While Edmunds was concocting a batch of solvent, Hughes, who was some distance away, either handed or somewhat attached a lighted cigarette to Derrick Wilson who then unwittingly walked over to the open container of solvent which Edmunds had now deserted. And boom!”
“It would be interesting to determine if Hughes had a history of arson,” my father wondered.
“We should ask Lestrade,” Joanna said, then continued on. “So now Edmunds was free and contacted Hughes at some predetermined place. They plan and carry out the gruesome torture of Blackstone who, despite the agonizing pain, refused to disclose the location of the hidden masterpiece, which should surely fetch a fortune.”
“Of which David Hughes would never see a farthing,” I predicted.
“Of course not,” Joanna concurred. “There was no need to inform Hughes of the masterpiece.”
“So Hughes was paid with Blackstone’s ticket to Australia and went on his way, never knowing of the fortune he was missing out on.”
“Leaving Edmunds behind to search for the concealed masterpiece.”
“Which accounts for him slashing all those wonderful works of art on the west side of London.”
“But why did he initially slash only those paintings that featured a portrait of a woman?” I asked.
“Here I am guessing, but I think it is a quite good guess based on the clues we have uncovered,” Joanna replied. “I believe Blackstone finally broke under the intolerable pain and gave them an incorrect answer to stop the pain.”
“He told Edmunds the masterpiece was hidden behind a woman’s portrait!” I exclaimed.
“My thought exactly,” Joanna said. “Now that Edmunds had the information, he had Blackstone killed and went on his wild-goose chase. Edmunds only learned of this misinformation when he slashed open the last of the female portraits which had been restored at Hawke and Evans. Then he began with the other paintings on the list, the first of which was Botticelli’s Saint Francis of Assisi with Angels.”
“Was there a reason he began with the Botticelli?” my father asked.
“Of that I cannot be certain,” Joanna replied. “But I suspect it was the first one Blackstone restored within the time period that the masterpiece was discovered.”
“This Harry Edmunds is no fool by any measure.”
“Indeed, for now he is thinking much as we do, which indicates we do not have a moment to lose.”
The phone rang and Joanna hurried to answer it. She smiled to us upon learning who was calling.
“Ah, Countess, how good of you to call,” Joanna greeted. “I trust your journey to Windsor was a success.”
Joanna listened patiently and responded intermittently with, “Yes … Yes, of course … Not too tiring then … Well, I am delighted with your early return, for we have need of your expertise on the Royal Art Collection … I am interested in all their paintings that were restored by Hawke and Evans over the past year or so.… Yes, yes, all of them, please.… To what end?… The apprehension of the art vandal of course.… Should we visit you, then?… Oh, that would be quite excellent. We shall look forward to your arrival.”
Joanna placed the phone down and quickly looked over to us. “Ha! Let us prepare for the countess. I will ask you two to fetch the blackboard and chalk that are gathering dust in our storage room. While you are away, I will collect all of our notes from Hawke and Evans.”
My father and I hurried to the storage room which was situated down the hall just beyond the staircase. We opened the door and entered what appeared to be a museum dedicated to Sherlock Holmes. There were dust-covered boxes and files stacked up against the wall, some with the Great Detective’s scribbled notes written upon them. On a rectangular table lay racks of test tubes and flasks and petri dishes whose contents had dried out long ago. Against the far wall was a blackboard, with several boxes of white chalk nearby. But what held my attention was the blackboard itself, for jotted upon it were the words Moriarty, Lestrade, Gregson, and Mycroft at the Diogenes Club. It was a journey into the past, and in my father’s eyes I could see the memories flashing by.
“Who was Gregson?” I asked.
“An inspector at Scotland Yard who, along with Lestrade, Holmes thought was the best of the lot,” my father replied.
“And this is Mycroft who was Sherlock Holmes’s brother and long believed to be his only living relative.”
“Before Joanna and young Johnny appeared.”
“What price would you pay to overhear a conversation between Joanna and her father, Sherlock?”
“Any amount you name.”
We moved the blackboard and boxes of chalk into the hall where we encountered Miss Hudson who gave us a somewhat disconcerting look.
“I would have gotten the blackboard for you, Dr. Watson,” said she.
“We did not wish to bother you,” my father offered as an excuse.
“It would have been no bother at all, Dr. Watson. None in the least.”
“You are always more than helpful, and next time I w
ill be sure to call upon your excellent service. But in the meantime I have one small task for you to attend to.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Shortly, we will be visited by the Countess of Wessex. Please show her up immediately.”
Miss Hudson performed a slight curtsy, as if the countess was already in her presence. “I—I shall await her arrival.”
“Thank you, Miss Hudson.”
We wheeled the blackboard into our parlor and positioned it in the center of the room. Joanna briefly studied the names written upon it and, without showing even a hint of sentimentality, wiped it clean with a damp cloth.
“I have once again gone over the list of paintings restored at Hawke and Evans for the entire year prior to the forgers’ arrest. A total of fifty-five were done, thirty by Edmunds, twenty-five by Blackstone. Obviously, we should concentrate on those restored by the latter. Of the twenty-five attributed to Blackstone, fifteen have already been vandalized. Thus, there are only ten remaining and one of those holds the concealed masterpiece. We must choose which.”
“How do we go about making that selection?” asked I.
“By the process of elimination,” Joanna replied. “Please write the names of the artists on the blackboard as I call them out.”
“Should we list their paintings as well?” I queried.
“There is no need at this point.” Joanna referred to her notes and began reciting the names of the artists. “Bellini—Tintoretto—Titian—del Verrocchio—Veronese—Renoir—Pissarro—Botticelli—Caravaggio—Degas.”
She studied the list at length before turning to my father. “Now, Watson, I would like you to fetch our thick volume on Italian Renaissance painters and study their paintings as I call them out. In particular, I wish to know if the given work of art has angels in the background.”
Joanna waited for my father to open the volume and began naming the artists and their paintings that were on the list.
“Drunkenness of Noah by Bellini,” she called.
My father rapidly turned pages of the volume and, finding the correct painting, replied, “No angels.”
“Muse with Lute by Tintoretto.”
After thumbing through more pages, my father responded, “No angels.”
“Botticelli’s Saint Francis of Assisi with Angels.”
“Multiple angels.”
“Caravaggio’s The Entombment of Christ.”
“No angels.”
“Mars and Neptune by Veronese.”
“Multiple angels flying overhead and clearly visible.”
Joanna again referred to her notes. “There is no mention of whether these angels required restoration.”
“Is that important?” my father asked.
“Very, if my assumptions are correct,” Joanna replied and requested I underline the artist Veronese. “Last on the list is del Verrocchio’s The Baptism of Christ which we know had its angels beautifully restored, so underline his name as well. Thus, we have now narrowed it down to three.”
My father inquired, “What of Renoir, Pissarro, and Degas?”
Joanna dismissed those artists with a flick of her wrist. “The French impressionists never once painted an angel, which allows us to concentrate on Veronese, del Verrocchio, and Botticelli.”
“How can we possibly separate these three?” I asked.
“By their birthdays hopefully,” answered Joanna. “Now, Watson, please recite for us the dates of their births and deaths. And if you will, John, write these dates next to the artist’s name.”
My father began his recitation and, after each name, waited for me to copy down the dates on the blackboard.
Veronese 1528–1588
del Verrocchio 1435–1488
Botticelli 1445–1510
“Excellent,” said Joanna. “Please now do the same for Leonardo da Vinci.”
I quickly jotted down the dates for the world’s most famous artist.
Born 1452, died 1519.
Joanna studied the dates carefully before commenting, “The timelines do not work for Veronese, but they do for del Verrocchio and Botticelli.”
“Which timelines are you referring to?” I asked.
“The ones that will show an association of some sort between Leonardo da Vinci and the three artists,” Joanna replied. “Da Vinci died before Veronese was born, so they never came in contact, which leaves us with del Verrocchio and Botticelli as the artists who painted angels.”
“Why all the emphasis on angels?” my father inquired.
“Because I firmly believe they will lead us to the hidden masterpiece,” Joanna replied.
“Based on what evidence?”
“Three most important clues which have now come to light,” Joanna disclosed. “These included the restored paintings of del Verrocchio and Botticelli, and the cryptic puzzle James Blackstone gave to Edwin Alan Rowe, which reads Angels to a Perfect Angel. When these three are aligned in the correct order, they will point to the masterpiece.”
“And how do we establish the correct order?”
“With the assistance of the Countess of Wessex.”
As if on cue, there was a soft rap on the door, and Miss Hudson, performing another half curtsy, showed the Countess of Wessex in and departed, quiet as a church mouse.
“Thank you for coming so promptly,” Joanna greeted.
“I did not wish to miss the opportunity to meet the daughter of Sherlock Holmes,” said the countess, giving my father and me cordial nods.
“And I, you,” Joanna replied warmly.
“I take it the gathering has to do with the scoundrel who ruined my Veronese,” said Lady Katherine.
“It does indeed, for I believe he is now within our grasp.”
“I would not be displeased to see him hanged, particularly after what he did to the Cromwell lad.”
“You have heard the unpleasant details, then.”
“His mother and I are close friends,” the countess informed. “And our sons are quite close as well.”
“Then you should be most interested in bringing the perpetrator to justice.”
“I would gladly do whatever is within my power,” the countess vowed, as her eyes went to our chalked blackboard. “You have a very impressive list here.”
“Are you familiar with them?”
“Quite so, particularly the Caravaggio, del Verrocchio, and Botticelli, for they are part of the Royal Collection at Windsor.”
“And that is the reason I have asked you here, for one of these paintings holds a concealed masterpiece.”
“Masterpiece?” Lady Katherine asked skeptically. “What sort of masterpiece?”
“One from the Italian Renaissance.”
Lady Katherine’s eyes widened. “How did you come by this information?”
“By deduction, which I shall clarify later,” Joanna responded, then went on. “I believe this masterpiece is concealed beneath either the del Verrocchio or the Botticelli.”
“And exactly what brings you to this conclusion, may I ask?”
“The presence of angels in their paintings.”
“No, no,” the countess objected at once. “There is a work by Caravaggio in the Royal Collection entitled Saint Matthew and the Angel which clearly depicts an angel.”
“Was this painting ever restored by Hawke and Evans?”
“Never.”
“Then we can discard its significance here.” Joanna dismissed the Caravaggio. “So let us concentrate on the works by Botticelli and del Verrocchio. Please be so kind as to summarize your knowledge of these two artists.”
“I shall start with Botticelli, for he was in a way connected to del Verrocchio,” the countess began. “Sandro Botticelli was an esteemed Florentine artist whose paintings were revered during his lifetime, but his posthumous reputation suffered until the nineteenth century. His works are now seen to represent the linear grace of the Early Renaiss
ance paintings. By far, The Birth of Venus is considered to be his greatest work, and by a few to be a masterpiece. Nonetheless, the glory of his works was pushed aside by the arrival of other Renaissance artists, such as Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci.”
“So even Sandro Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus was downgraded?”
“It was a fine work, but one that did not measure up to those painted by the Great Masters.”
“You mentioned that Botticelli’s works were pushed aside by Leonardo da Vinci,” Joanna probed. “Were they competitive?”
“More like close friends, it is believed, for both studied under the tutelage of Andrea del Verrocchio,” Lady Katherine replied. “There is an interesting story that involved all three men. Del Verrocchio admired both Botticelli and da Vinci, although he considered Leonardo to be the more talented. Yet he still wanted to compare the two side by side. So while del Verrocchio was painting The Baptism of Christ, he asked da Vinci to paint one angel and Botticelli the other. Both angels were quite good, but Leonardo da Vinci’s was beyond magnificent. It was so very excellent that it is now referred to as the perfect angel.”
Joanna smiled to herself. “Perfect angel, you say?”
“So it was called, and justifiably so.”
“I have heard the term used before by Edwin Alan Rowe. Do you know him?”
“Quite well, for he is a fine art historian.”
“Does his knowledge of Italian Renaissance art equal yours?”
“It would be a most interesting contest,” replied the countess. “But pray tell, in what contact did he mention the perfect angel?”
“A riddle that was presented to him by his close friend, James Blackstone, just prior to Blackstone’s death,” Joanna responded. “It was a game they played in an effort to outwit one another. The riddle was Angels to a Perfect Angel.”
The countess considered the brainteaser at length before saying, “No answer comes to mind immediately.”
“What if I mentioned that there were angels in the most recently vandalized Saint Francis of Assisi with Angels, which required restoration at Hawke and Evans?”
“I trust you are not under the impression that they also were perfect angels.”
The Art of Deception Page 25
