“A very valuable Rembrandt was stolen from a mansion near Buckingham Palace. Scotland Yard had made little progress in its recovery and asked for Holmes’s assistance. Of course my friend had been involved in similar situations over the years, and had extensive experience when it came to art theft. In most instances the painting found its way to the black market where it landed in the hands of an individual who specialized in the sale of such ill-gotten merchandise. However, when dealing with the works of the great masters, such as Raphael or Rembrandt, the old rules did not apply. They rarely came onto the legitimate market, and the black market would show little interest, for the buyer could never display the famous work. If he was foolish enough to do so, word would quickly spread and reach the ears of Scotland Yard.”
“Perhaps it could be ransomed,” I suggested.
“That would be a reasonable option, but no such note was received,” my father went on. “So that was the problem facing Sherlock Holmes. Now, as you may recall, my colleague had a profound knowledge of chemistry, anatomy, and sensational literature when it dealt with crime and horror. Yet he knew little of art and cared even less about it, but his insight into London’s black market surpassed all others. Holmes was convinced the Rembrandt would turn up on the black market where a single buyer awaited its arrival.”
“Everything was prearranged!” Joanna exclaimed.
“Yes, but by and for whom?” my father asked. “This information would remain highly confidential, with only the thief and the buyer being aware of the dealing in which a hundred thousand pounds or more would change hands. Every avenue we tried in an effort to track down those involved proved fruitless. So, it was at this point we called upon Edwin Alan Rowe, a noted art historian who taught at Cambridge and sat on the board of their renowned Fitzwilliam Museum. He was particularly well acquainted with the work of the Dutch masters.”
“Perfect for a Rembrandt!” I thought aloud.
“And, as you will shortly learn, he had a nose for crime as well,” my father continued on. “When presented with the case, he agreed completely with Holmes. The theft and sale had been arranged beforehand in an unwritten contract. And of even more importance, he had heard of a Chinese real estate magnate named Kee Chow, who desperately desired a Rembrandt and had offered museums and even a few private collectors an extraordinary amount of money for one of the Dutch master’s work. He was refused by all. Nonetheless, it was known that his quest remained unabated. Thus, in all likelihood, it was Kee Chow who was the prearranged buyer. With that information in hand, Holmes began to track down the seller.”
“But why would this Kee Chow pay an absurd amount of money for a painting he could never display?” I asked.
“It could not be shown in Europe or America for obvious reasons, but that presented much less of a problem in Peking or Shanghai,” my father responded. “In the Orient, Western rules and laws often do not apply and, when they do, are quite lax. Holmes of course was aware of this.”
“How was my father able to single out the seller?” Joanna inquired.
“By simple deduction,” my father replied. “Holmes knew that virtually all of the stolen, highly priced items on the West End of London were handled by Roger Bellamy, the most notorious and successful of black-marketers. Holmes was also aware that such a valuable transaction could not include a middleman. The Rembrandt would have to be hand-delivered to Kee Chow in China where experts could validate its authenticity. With the assistance of Scotland Yard, the passenger lists on all ocean liners leaving England for China were carefully examined. Bellamy and his wife were scheduled to depart in a fortnight on RMS Aquitania. Shortly after boarding, the Bellamys’ belongings were searched and the Rembrandt was discovered nicely tucked away in the wife’s crinoline petticoat.”
“Bravo!” said I.
“Now you see the value of having Edwin Alan Rowe involved,” my father stated. “He is now long retired, but remains active as a consultant to the National Gallery. I saw him last year at a charity gala where we had a jolly good time reminiscing over the case of the stolen Rembrandt.”
“Do you by chance have his phone number?” Joanna asked.
“As a matter of fact, I do.” My father reached into a file box for a card attached to a thick folder. “I was to contact him for a luncheon date, but foolishly neglected to do so.”
“Please be good enough to call him,” Joanna requested.
“It is rather late,” said I, glancing at my watch. “Perhaps we should wait until morning.”
“Nonsense,” my father said, walking over to the phone. “As I mentioned earlier, the man has a nose for crime and would be happy to receive my call and involve himself in our case.”
My father dialed Edwin Alan Rowe’s number and spoke with the historian’s wife whom he had been introduced to at the charity ball. After exchanging amenities, I heard my father say, “Taking a bit of a tour, is he?… I see. So he will avoid Eton and return to London by the weekend.… I shall call him then.… And it was a pleasure speaking with you as well, Margaret.”
My father placed the phone down. “Rowe should be back in London on Thursday. He was scheduled to make a stop on tour at Eton, but will bypass it, for there has apparently been an outbreak of cholera in that vicinity.”
Joanna’s jaw dropped as her face suddenly lost color.
“What is it?” I asked her concernedly.
“Cholera again,” Joanna said, her words coming out in a whisper.
In an instant I made the harrowing connection. Cholera was the disease that killed Joanna’s former husband, the distinguished surgeon John Blalock. And now there was an outbreak of the deadly disease in Eton, where Joanna’s son
