“No, I am not,” said Joanna before giving another hint. “They were the angels leading to the perfect angel. And of course the perfect angel can lead to only one man.”
Lady Katherine’s jaw dropped as the answer came to her. “Is there a da Vinci behind it?” she asked breathlessly.
“You are almost there,” Joanna prompted. “Please keep in mind that over the past year James Blackstone restored only two paintings that contained angels. These were del Verrocchio’s The Baptism of Christ and Botticelli’s Saint Francis of Assisi with Angels, and both can fit into the equation we are attempting to solve.”
The countess nodded quickly to the obvious solution. “That is why the vandal sliced open Cromwell’s Saint Francis of Assisi. He believed the masterpiece was behind it.”
“But it wasn’t,” said Joanna. “And that leaves us with which painting?”
“The Baptism of Christ!”
“Yes.”
“But which of da Vinci’s masterpieces is hidden away?”
“That is to be determined,” Joanna replied. “But if one connects all the dots, it is a work of art done by Leonardo da Vinci during his early years while a student in del Verrocchio’s workshop where he worked closely with Sandro Botticelli.”
“It fits!” the countess said gleefully. “It fits perfectly!”
“Which brings forth yet another question, which is why did da Vinci feel the need to conceal it?” asked Joanna.
“I can think of a number of reasons,” Lady Katherine replied, as a most serious expression crossed her face. “Most likely he hid it so that del Verrocchio could not see it and demand to participate in the work. Remember at this point the mentor may have recognized da Vinci’s genius and sought to be part of it.”
“Particularly after del Verrocchio had seen da Vinci’s magnificent angel in The Baptism of Christ,” Joanna added.
“Precisely so,” the countess said, then went on. “Another possibility is that the work was incomplete and one that da Vinci planned to finish once he left del Verrocchio and became independent.”
“It must have been something very special to Leonardo da Vinci,” Joanna remarked. “And one cannot even begin to imagine what that might be.”
“Indeed,” the countess agreed. “But, as fascinating as all this appears to be, there is no absolute proof for your conclusion which is based entirely on supposition.”
“No, Countess, it is based on far more than supposition, for there is now word spreading through London’s black market that a da Vinci masterpiece will soon be offered for sale.”
Lady Katherine uttered a sigh of pure delight. “A hidden da Vinci masterpiece that has not seen the light of day for over five hundred years. It will be the Holy Grail of the art world.”
“But I shall need your assistance to recover it, for the restored The Baptism of Christ has now been returned to Windsor,” said Joanna.
Lady Katherine shook her head gently. “It is not currently at Windsor, but on display at the National Gallery, along with other works from the Royal Collection.”
“Hmm,” Joanna mused to herself while she pondered the situation.
“Does that present a problem?”
“No, Lady Katherine, it presents an opportunity.”
“How so?”
“Do you have influence at the National Gallery?”
“I should think so, in that I sit on their Board of Trustees.”
“Excellent!” Joanna cried out. “For it will require your influence to help set the trap to apprehend the scoundrel who ruined your Veronese.”
“And who brought young Cromwell to the brink of death,” the countess said bitterly.
“That, too.”
“Tell me precisely what you want done.”
26
The National Gallery
“I am afraid Harry Edmunds is on to us,” whispered Lestrade.
“Why so?” Joanna whispered back.
“Because he has not shown,” Lestrade replied. “And this was the very last day the paintings from the Royal Collection will be on display here at the National Gallery. Tomorrow all of them will be returned to the security of Windsor Castle.”
“He is waiting,” Joanna insisted.
“For what, pray tell?”
“For tomorrow to come.”
Lestrade furrowed his forehead, making a show of thought. “Tomorrow is the day before Christmas. Other than it heralds Christmas Eve, no one places great significance on that date.”
“You do if you are Harry Edmunds.”
“Why so?”
“Because it is his wife’s birthday,” Joanna answered. “It is the special day Edmunds wrote about in the last letter to his wife.”
“Are you predicting his actions on that basis alone?” asked Lestrade.
“That, together with everything else,” Joanna replied. “You will recall that Charlotte Edmunds was followed by your surveillance team to Trafalgar Square to join the tourists and feed the pigeons. Now, how many Londoners are you aware of that travel to the square to feed those annoying birds?”
“Virtually none,” Lestrade had to admit.
“Which leads to the conclusion she was there on a reconnaissance mission for her husband.”
“Quite possibly,” Lestrade agreed. “But she entered the gallery and stayed for only a few minutes. She could not have obtained much information in such a brief visit.”
“That depends on what her mission was.”
“Which was?”
“To locate the exact location of the display, so that her dear Harry would not flounder around in the dark, searching for del Verrocchio’s The Baptism of Christ.”
“Very clever,” Lestrade conceded.
“Then she strolled over to Leicester Square for a bit of lunch,” Joanna continued.
“No law against that.”
“It is if the restaurant is on Irving Street and overlooks the rear entrance to the National Gallery.”
Lestrade nodded slowly. “Which would be Harry Edmunds’s way in and out of the gallery. If, of course, all of your assumptions are correct.”
“They are,” Joanna asserted. “But the big if here, Lestrade, is whether the clever Charlotte Edmunds was able to detect your surveillance team. For if she did, Harry would not dare to attempt a break-in.”
“So there is a distinct possibility that Edmunds will not show,” Lestrade said sourly.
“Do not underestimate him, Inspector,” Joanna cautioned. “For he is quite resourceful, and when the prize is great enough, greedy men will go to any lengths to obtain it.”
So we continued to wait in a small room off the main gallery, with our ears pricked for any sound that came from the dead-silent museum. As the minutes ticked by, all of us, with the exception of Joanna, became less confident that Harry Edmunds would make his move on that cold, snowy December night. But then again, this would be his last, best chance to possess a prize beyond prizes. But what was this masterpiece by Leonardo da Vinci? The three of us had debated the possibilities over a bottle of Napoleon brandy the night before. I had no worthwhile idea, while Joanna and my father decided it was most likely a self-portrait of da Vinci as a young man which he had hidden to conceal his overwhelming hubris. It would also explain why he gave it no title, for self-portraits name themselves. But this possibility was discarded when Joanna referred to our volume of Italian Renaissance artists and discovered that Leonardo da Vinci had indeed painted a self-portrait in red chalk that was now held by a museum in Turin. Through the thick walls of the National Gallery we could hear the strains of “Silent Night” being played on the massive organ in nearby St. Martin-in-the-Field. It was the oddest of background music to accompany a trap for a murderous villain, I thought, for there was nothing holy in what was about to transpire.
Big Ben began to strike the midnight hour and our hopes faded further. Could it be that Edmunds had resisted the irresistible bait which Joanna had laid out? With the assistance of the Counte
ss of Wessex, Joanna had articles placed in London’s widely read newspapers that described the display at the National Gallery in detail, with emphasis on The Baptism of Christ by Andrea del Verrocchio, the mentor of Leonardo da Vinci. The articles urged readers to see the one and only display, for it would shortly be returned to the safekeeping of the Crown. Certainly, if Edmunds and his wife were made aware that the paintings were about to be removed from the gallery, they would be enticed to act quickly. Yet there were too many ifs, I thought to myself. If this and if that. And one did not catch a master criminal depending on ifs.
Big Ben struck the last number of the hour and the stone-cold silence returned to the gallery. Then we heard it. From a distance within the museum came a muffled sound. We pressed our ears against a large door and held our breaths, so as not to make any interfering noises. The sound reached us again, this time a little louder and then a little louder. It was approaching footsteps! As planned, we moved quickly back from the door on tiptoes, then waited in silence. The footsteps passed by us, heading in the direction of the display some thirty feet away. Quietly, my father and Lestrade checked their service revolvers.
“If you must return fire, please aim low,” Joanna whispered to them. “We do not wish to ruin the del Verrocchio.”
Lestrade noiselessly turned the doorknob and cracked open the door. The display area was every bit as dark as our observation room, yet we could still see a shadow moving in the dimness. The inspector had instructed us beforehand that no action should be undertaken until Edmunds was stationary, at which time he could be stunned and captured with greater ease. Lestrade held up his weaponless hand, signaling us to wait and remain silent. The footsteps had ceased now, and were replaced by a sound that resembled scratches which indicated Edmunds was in the process of dislodging del Verrocchio’s The Baptism of Christ from the wall.
Lestrade flung the door open and directed his lightened torch at the intruder, temporarily blinding him.
“You are advised not to move, Mr. Harry Edmunds, for if you do, you will be shot!”
A shocked Edmunds dropped the painting that was in his outstretched hands and suddenly turned to bolt, but before he could take a step three Scotland Yard officers were upon him, pinning him to the floor and covering his mouth so he could not cry out.
We hurried over to the subdued Harry Edmunds who had been so very elusive. He was now being brought to his feet while handcuffs were tightly applied. As expected, he was quite thin from lack of adequate nourishment and still wore the beard he had grown to disguise himself as Derrick Wilson. By all appearances, he seemed to be rather timid, with a narrow, ferret-like face and darting, dark eyes that seemed to be searching for a way out. But his most remarkable feature was the intense aroma of coal tar that virtually engulfed him.
“How?” he asked in a monosyllabic tone.
“Toes,” Joanna responded.
“What do you mean, toes?”
“You are missing one, the charred body had all ten, and thus the corpse could not be you.”
“Toes,” Edmunds groaned unhappily.
“And of course Derrick Wilson had a disfigured cheekbone which the corpse displayed, but you are lacking,” Joanna went on. “You should have thought of these features before you murdered him.”
“He died in an explosion due to his own carelessness,” Edmunds said defensively.
“A court will decide otherwise, and you will soon have a date with the hangman.” Joanna leaned down and picked up The Baptism of Christ by del Verrocchio. She held it close to Lestrade’s torch and commented, “Look at how beautiful it is! Look at the perfect angel painted by Leonardo da Vinci.”
“Magnificent indeed,” Lestrade agreed, and reached for the painting. “Now let us return it to its proper place.”
“Not quite yet, Inspector, for the del Verrocchio has one last service to perform,” said Joanna. “Follow me, if you will, but remain a good ten feet behind.”
“Shall I have the lights in the gallery turned on?” Lestrade offered.
“No, for now we need them off,” Joanna replied. “Please direct your torch to the floor as we proceed.”
In the dimness, we followed Joanna and walked past some of the world’s greatest art including paintings by Raphael, Titian, and Tintoretto, and just beyond them the magnificent works of Rembrandt, Rubens, and Caravaggio. Finally, we turned sharply and hurried down a long corridor which led to the back entrance of the gallery.
“What lies ahead?” Lestrade asked.
“The mastermind,” Joanna replied.
She opened the rear door and, after motioning us to stay behind, walked out into the cold night air and over to a waiting carriage.
In the darkness, she opened the carriage door and handed the painting to a shadowed individual.
“Ah, you have it!” said he.
“Yes, Mr. Simon Hawke, I have it and I have you,” Joanna responded.
“I—I don’t know what you are speaking of,” Hawke stammered, stunned and caught completely off guard.
“Oh, to the contrary, you know everything, Simon Hawke, for you are the mastermind behind this entire criminal enterprise.”
“You have no evidence.”
“I have all the evidence, and it is more than enough to assure you have a slow walk to the gallows awaiting you.”
“I shall call my barrister immediately, and he will point out you have neither the power nor authority to arrest me.”
“But I can assure you Scotland Yard does,” said Joanna and opened the carriage door farther, so Hawke could clearly see Lestrade and two of his officers approaching.
27
The Masterpiece
Rather than wait until later in the morning, our excitement was so great we decided to send for Giuseppe Delvecchio and allow him the honor of unveiling Leonardo da Vinci’s masterpiece. Lestrade had earlier dispatched automobiles for the Countess of Wessex and Edwin Alan Rowe, to show his appreciation for their assistance in solving the mystery of the art vandal. As we awaited the arrival of the restorer, each of us took turns guessing what the masterpiece might be. Lestrade held no opinion, while Joanna, my father, and I stood by our prediction made late last night that da Vinci had decided to paint a greatly enlarged, perfect angel which he could take full credit for. This opinion would fit the riddle, Angels to a Perfect Angel. Rowe and the countess, however, had other ideas.
“I think it most likely is a self-portrait,” said Rowe. “All of the Great Masters, including Michelangelo and Raphael, left behind paintings of themselves.”
“But there is already a self-portrait of da Vinci in existence,” Lady Katherine argued. “I saw it myself at a museum in Turin.”
“True enough, Countess,” said Rowe. “But that portrait was drawn in red chalk and depicts da Vinci as an old man since it was done in 1512, seven years before his death. I would propose the hidden masterpiece showed da Vinci as a young man while he was still a student in del Verrocchio’s workshop.”
“But why then would he conceal it?” asked the countess.
“Modesty perhaps, as this work would have been accomplished prior to his fame,” Rowe replied. “I would suggest the portrait of the young da Vinci was painted in oil rather than chalk, which of course would make it even more valuable and more likely to last.”
“A good choice, then,” said the countess. “But I have yet another opinion. I believe it is a portrait of his mentor, Andrea del Verrocchio, with whom da Vinci was very close. Da Vinci may have felt he owed his mentor a great debt, for many believe he considered del Verrocchio a father figure.”
“But again, why hide it?” asked Rowe.
Lady Katherine shrugged. “Perhaps it was to be a gift later on, or perhaps their relationship soured. Who is to know, for we are all guessing.” The countess’s face suddenly hardened. “But I will tell you what is not a guess, and that is Simon Hawke’s role in this dastardly affair. To steal is one thing, to be involved in murder is quite another. I would hav
e never suspected that. Never! But then again, maybe his overwhelming debts got the best of him.”
“What debts in particular, madam?” Lestrade asked at once.
“There is a long list, including a young but very expensive mistress and large gambling debts which required him to borrow at high interest rates from some rather unseemly characters. You see, his credit at the banks had already been overextended,” Lady Katherine reeled off. “Then there were the misguided purchases of various paintings, for which he greatly overpaid. His former partner, Andrew Evans, would have never done so.”
Giuseppe Delvecchio overheard the latter portion of the conversation as he approached, and confirmed the countess’s opinion. “Although he believed otherwise, Simon Hawke did not have a keen eye when it came to fine art, and for this reason he overpaid and later was forced to undersell. And I should say his integrity was not at the highest level. He did not hesitate to deal in works of questionable ownership.”
“Did he have a hand in stolen paintings?” Lestrade asked quickly.
“I did not say that.”
But all in the room knew he did, particularly Lestrade who gave the restorer a most skeptical look. At that moment I recalled Joanna once telling me that to Scotland Yard all art dealers were thought to be guilty of something.
“So I think it is fair to say that Simon Hawke was not the most honorable of purveyors,” my father concluded.
“That description is more than charitable, Dr. Watson,” Lady Katherine said, making no attempt to hide her contempt for the art dealer.
“Well, then,” Lestrade said impatiently, “let us get down to the delicate task we face. Mr. Delvecchio, please proceed.”
Delvecchio approached The Baptism of Christ by Andrea del Verrocchio with slow, deliberate steps, obviously in awe of the great mentor’s work and even more in awe of what lay behind it. “If a da Vinci rests beneath the canvas, it is very, very old and in all likelihood very fragile. So we must be most careful.”
“Perhaps it has been protected through all the years by the thick canvas that lies atop it,” Lady Katherine hoped.
The Art of Deception Page 26
