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In memory of I.M. and Sheran
Each morn a thousand roses brings.
—“THE RUBAIYAT,” OMAR KHAYYAM
What has been done will be done again;
There is nothing new under the sun.
—ECCLESIASTES 1:9
1The Vandal
December 1916
It was ten days before Christmas when Inspector Lestrade called at 221b Baker Street to wish us, I assumed, the compliments of the season. But I was wholly mistaken, for he brought with him a most difficult case which defied resolution. Little did we realize that the aforementioned crime would produce tentacles which would reach into the darkest of secrets.
Prior to laying out the details of the case, Lestrade warmed his hands before a crackling fire, for a sharp frost had set in and the windows were thick with ice crystals. Only then did he take a long, deep breath as if readying himself for a problematic task. “What appeared to be trivial vandalism has now blossomed into widespread destruction of valuable art throughout the West End of London. These senseless acts have been perpetrated in exclusive galleries and always at night when there were no witnesses to be found. But there are other features which make this business entirely unique.”
“Inspector, one must be careful in applying the term unique to a given crime, no matter how outlandish it may seem,” said my wife, Joanna, who was standing at the window watching snow fall and dust the pavement below. “If you carefully observe any criminal activity, regardless of how exceptional it may appear, you will discover it has been committed before and in most instances solved.”
“Even those which resemble the Gordian knot?”
“Particularly those,” Joanna replied. “For by definition, the Gordian knot presents an intractable problem, yet it can readily be solved by creative thinking.”
“Which is why I have intruded on this most pleasant of holidays,” said Lestrade. “But I am afraid this is one knot which even you and the Watsons will have difficulty untangling.”
“We shall see.” Joanna stepped over to an inlaid shelf that held a Persian slipper which once belonged to her father. It was in the toe of this slipper that Sherlock Holmes kept his supply of rough-cut shag tobacco. Joanna reached in for a well-rolled Turkish cigarette and carefully lighted it with a strike-anywhere match.
“Holmes used the slipper to maintain the freshness of his tobacco,” my father reminisced.
“I employ it for the same purpose,” said Joanna and started to pace the floor of our parlor, leaving a trail of smoke behind. “And now, Lestrade, if you would be so kind, please describe the details of the crime which brings you out on this frosty morning. Commence with the initial, trivial act.”
“But I would think that destruction of the most valuable works of art would be more revealing,” Lestrade argued mildly. “For it is here that the vandal seems to concentrate his activities.”
“No, no,” Joanna insisted. “We must begin at the very beginning of this tangled web if we hope to untangle it.”
“Very well, then,” Lestrade commenced. “Some ten days ago the perpetrator broke into a pricey gallery in Kensington and proceeded to slash the painting of a handsome woman from the late Renaissance period. The work of art had already been seriously damaged by time and weather, and thus was not considered to be of great value.”
“Was it a single cut?” asked Joanna.
“So it would appear,” Lestrade replied. “But after slashing, the vandal ripped the painting apart, ruining it completely.”
My father and I quickly exchanged knowing glances, for this case seemed similar to one which had occurred years earlier and involved a crazed perpetrator who was apprehended and was currently residing in an institution for the mentally ill.
“Inspector,” I interrupted, “your case resembles that of the insane art vandal of some years back.”
“So I believed initially,” Lestrade went on. “But there are now additional features which suggest otherwise.”
“Such as?” I inquired.
“This vandal has now broken into several upper-class homes, only to deface and not steal the works of art.”
“How many homes?” Joanna asked at once.
“Two,” Lestrade answered. “One of which is the residence of the Earl of Wessex.”
Joanna’s brow went up. “The Earl of Wessex? The fifth in line of succession to the Crown?”
“The same.”
The Crown! Just the mention of it raised the investigation to another level. Lestrade now had our undivided attention and every detail would be pored over with the utmost scrutiny. Joanna abruptly stopped pacing and came over to join us at the warming, three-log fire. “Is the earl in any way connected to the art galleries which have been despoiled?”
“He purchased a painting at Hawke and Evans a week before his home was broken into,” Lestrade replied. “This very gallery has been invaded twice by our vandal.”
“And the name of the second home you mentioned?”
“An elegant house on Bayswater near Hyde Park that belongs to Mr. Felix Dubose, a well-known jeweler who has stores throughout London.”
“Does he have any relationship to the Crown?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Or to any of the involved galleries?”
“Again none. The painting in the Dubose home was a gift from his brother who purchased it at a gallery in Paris. The brother personally carried it back to England as a surprise anniversary present.”
Joanna said ever so slowly, “That complicates matters.”
“Indeed.”
Joanna began to pace once more, with her head sunk upon her chest and her hands clasped behind her. It was a sign that her brain was shifting into yet a higher gear. Back and forth
