“Could he have read about it in some obscure document?” I suggested.
Rowe’s eyes brightened. “An excellent idea, and one that connects to similar cases I have dealt with over the years. Mind you, these are long shots, but they would be a best fit. In one instance, a master forger on his deathbed gave his son an old letter that spoke of a hidden painting behind a painting. The son retrieved it, but was apprehended while trying to sell it on the black market. The second case was more challenging and required a court order to unravel. Here, the information was passed from brother to brother in a last will and testament. And the third case will surely draw your interest. The thief, who was also an art historian, had come across an ancient scroll while on a sabbatical leave in Italy. The scroll mentioned such a concealment, but the name of the concealed painting was written in code. The code spoke of a gallant warrior protecting the secret masterpiece, and that turned out to be Saint George Slaying the Dragon by Carlo Crivelli. With the message deciphered, my colleague devised a plan to remove the Crivelli painting, which revealed a masterpiece by none other than the great Michelangelo da Caravaggio.”
“The Michelangelo who adorned the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel?” I asked.
“No, no,” Rowe replied promptly. “That was Michelangelo Buonarroti. The hidden masterpiece was done by Michelangelo da Caravaggio, who was every bit as talented as Buonarroti. Some actually consider Caravaggio the superior of the two.”
“Was your colleague successful?” Joanna inquired.
Rowe shook his head, with a quick smile. “Fortunately my colleague was a better historian than thief.”
“Are you suggesting our vandal read some ancient scroll?” Joanna asked in disbelief.
“That is most unlikely unless he is well versed in the Italian language and a scholar in Italian art from long ago,” Rowe replied. “More likely, assuming there is hidden art, I would think your vandal learned the secret from another thief, and he was told that the site of the hidden art centers around the portrait of a woman. Perhaps the words or message would state that the painting is concealed behind the lady or that a lady’s face cloaks it. This blends in nicely with the vandal slashing open portraits of women.”
“Given all the possibilities, which would be your best assessment?” Joanna requested.
“Your vandal is someone who knows art and knows his way around art galleries. He in all likelihood learned of this information by word of mouth from an art thief or perhaps through a forger. By all accounts he is clever and has attempted to disguise his true purpose with the outward appearance of vandalism. If he has accomplished his goal, there will be no further acts of vandalism. If he has not, expect more until he finds the hidden painting.”
On that note, we thanked Edwin Alan Rowe for his time and advice, and left the National Gallery, walking out into the bright, crisp sunshine that glowed down on the monuments in Trafalgar Square.
“What do you propose we do next?” my father asked Joanna.
“We retrace every step the vandal took, and search for the hidden clue that will lead to the resolution of this case.”
My father waited for a group of tourists to pass before asking, “Where shall we begin?”
“With Hawke and Evans, for that is where the clue lies and the vandal resides.”
7Cholera
Something was wrong!
Whether it was maternal instinct or the fact she was a light sleeper, the sound of footsteps scurrying to the lavatory caused Joanna to bolt from our bed and dash into the parlor, with me only a step behind.
My father was already there, standing in the center of the room and grim-faced as he announced, “I am afraid that cholera has come to 221b Baker Street.”
Joanna’s face paled whilst she struggled to collect herself. “Are—are you certain?”
“It is by far the most likely diagnosis,” my father replied. “When explosive diarrhea occurs in the midst of a cholera outbreak, that disease must be considered first and foremost.”
“But there are certainly other possibilities,” Joanna said, hoping against hope.
“There are,” my father answered without conviction. “At times, infection with Salmonella or Shigella can produce similar symptoms, but they almost always occur when there are others afflicted with the same disorder.”
“So,” Joanna muttered softly, “for the third time in my life I am encountering this dreadful disease which has cost me so dearly.”
“But even in its most vicious form, the mortality rate is less than five percent, and when appropriately treated that rate is lessened by half.”
“That is what they told me when the diagnosis was made in my former husband.” Joanna paused to take a long, deep breath as a look of melancholy came to her face. “Three days later he was dead, so you will understand when I say that supposed mortality rates mean little to me.”
“But the circumstances in John Blalock’s death were quite different.”
“Death is still death, Watson.”
Joanna never discussed her former husband’s disease with me, but my father knew the details all too well, for he was on staff at St. Bartholomew’s where John Blalock died. The distinguished surgeon apparently perished because he had a silent, underlying kidney disease that lapsed into fatal renal failure brought on by the severe dehydration that can accompany cholera. I wondered if Blalock’s kidney problem was congenital in nature and, if so, had he passed the disorder on to his son Johnny. I could not help but wonder if this terrifying possibility had also crossed Joanna’s mind.
The silence in the room was broken by the sound of running water. We waited patiently for Johnny to appear, but the door remained closed.
“As I recall, fluid replenishment is the single most important treatment for cholera,” Joanna said, now gathering her clinical wits.
“It is,” my father agreed. “And it must be done with vigor, with every milliliter lost being replenished.”
“So the loss has to be
