“To the curious nature of the backings.”
“But the restorer Delvecchio said they were pristine and unscarred.”
“That was the curious nature,” Joanna remarked and turned to watch the snow fall.
3Felix Dubose
With Lestrade having made the arrangements, we visited the home of the renowned jeweler Felix Dubose later that afternoon. It was a most handsome structure that was located on Bayswater Road and overlooked the northern edge of Hyde Park. Mr. Dubose, who was portly and balding and well into his middle years, received us in an elegant, spacious parlor which spoke of both wealth and taste. The furnishings were fine French antique upholstered in blue silk, whilst the walls were decorated with impressive paintings of landscapes and children with angelic faces. Only the slashed canvas showed a woman’s portrait. But Joanna’s attention was riveted on a mahogany door off to the far side that had a most unusual feature. It had a small, round porthole, much like those seen on ocean liners.
Dubose followed her line of gaze and commented, “That strange door came with the house that I purchased some years ago from an admiral in the Royal Navy. There was a small room behind it that the admiral used to store his military memorabilia. I had no use for it, but my wife thought it would be a fine place to display her collection of antique Staffordshire figurines and sterling silver miniatures. If you wish to have a look, please feel free to do so.”
Joanna, as well as my father and I, had to remove our hats to move in close and peer through the porthole at the magnificent collection. There were hundreds of colorful figurines and polished silver miniatures lining every shelf in the well-lighted room. It must have taken Dubose’s wife years and years to acquire all the striking pieces that glowed in the bright light.
“Stunning,” Joanna remarked.
“I believe the vandal also found it so,” said Dubose.
Joanna tried the door and window; the former was locked shut, the latter opened easily. “Did he actually enter the room?”
“That was not possible, for the door is secured by a Bramah lock.”
“Are the other doors in your house protected by Bramahs?” Joanna asked.
“All,” Dubose replied.
“Well, sir, he found his way in through one of those sturdy locks.”
“Yes, yes,” Dubose said unhappily. “In our phone call, Lestrade mentioned that one of our outer locks was in all likelihood picked.” He reached into his waistcoat and extracted an odd-appearing key that resembled a hollowed-out tube with deep notches on its end. “This key cannot be duplicated, so obviously the lock had to be picked. But fortunately he did not bother with the door to my wife’s collection. Yet he was interested, for he opened the porthole and stuck his head through it.”
“Based on what evidence?” Joanna asked.
“He left an unpleasant odor on the edges of the porthole,” Dubose responded. “It was quite similar to that of tar.”
“Coal tar, to be precise,” said Joanna. “The same aroma was detected at another of his crime scenes.”
“It is used to treat various skin conditions,” my father explained. “In this instance, it affected his neck and scalp.”
“I hope it is not contagious?” Dubose asked concernedly.
“It is not,” my father assured.
“Nevertheless, I had the entire porthole thoroughly scrubbed,” Dubose said. “I thought it best to err on the side of caution.”
“Quite so,” my father agreed.
Dubose nervously tapped a finger against the mahogany door, while his eyes stayed focused on its shined brass fittings. “Perhaps I should have all the locks changed.”
“There is no need, for the vandal will not return,” Joanna advised as she strolled over to the slashed painting. “And now let us turn our attention to the purpose of our visit. We were told you received the portrait as an anniversary gift from your brother. I need to know every detail, from the moment he purchased it to the moment it was placed in your hands.”
“There are no mysterious circumstances here,” Dubose began. “My brother was in Paris on a business trip when he saw the striking painting by the French impressionist Cézanne. It depicted an old woman holding a rosary that was beautifully done. He paid an extraordinary price for it, carried it back to London personally, and presented it to my wife and me on our twenty-fifth anniversary. Why this vandal chose to deface such a lovely painting is beyond me.”
“How was the painting transported to London?” Joanna inquired.
“By ferry, with the assistance of Bikram, his manservant who assists my brother in every way, for my dear brother is paralyzed from the waist down, compliments of an Afghan bullet, and is now confined to a wheelchair.”
My father’s eyes widened in surprise. “Your brother fought in the Second Afghan War?”
“He did indeed, Dr. Watson,” Dubose replied. “Dear Albert was wounded near the very end of it at the Battle of Kandahar.”
“I, too, served in that dreadful war,” my father reminisced. “Do you recall which regiment he was assigned to?”
“That I do not know.”
“Might it be possible for me to speak with him on this matter?”
“I am certain he would be most pleased to do so, but unfortunately he is currently hospitalized undergoing treatment for a stubborn bedsore.”
“Perhaps once he recovers, then.”
“Or better still, give him a day or two to regain his strength and visit him at St. Bartholomew’s,” Dubose suggested. “I can assure you he would welcome a visit of someone from his soldiering days. If you like, I could inform him of your upcoming visit.”
“Please do.”
Joanna was meticulously examining the slash that cut into the painting and bisected the woman’s face, but she was obviously listening to the conversation as well. “Is your brother also involved in the jewelry business?”
“He is indeed, madam, and I simply could not manage without him, for it is he who determines the quality of the diamonds we sell,” Dubose replied. “His expertise is such that other jewelers in London often seek his opinion when they encounter a particularly
