“I think not.”
“Then which of the two do you believe guilty?”
“Both.”
An odd expression crossed Lestrade’s face. “I beg your pardon!”
“You will shortly see my reasoning,” said Joanna. “Let us begin with the near-blind lockpick.”
“Even if he is guilty, his vision is such that he can barely distinguish light from dark, and will be of little assistance in describing the vandal.”
“Blind people often sharpen their other senses which could prove of value here. You should not underestimate them, Lestrade.”
We followed the inspector into a small room that was windowless and bare except for a wooden table and three chairs, one of which was occupied by a gaunt, hollow-cheeked man, with unkempt hair and a beard that had not seen a razor for many a day. But his most remarkable feature was his hands that had long, delicate fingers, like those one might expect to find on a violinist.
“Joseph Blevins,” Lestrade introduced, “you are about to be questioned by a lady who often assists Scotland Yard. You are to answer her inquiries as if they were asked by a police officer. Any false statements will be held against you.”
“I have never been interrogated by a lady before,” said Blevins, staring past us into a sightless world. “Perhaps we should have a cup of tea for starters.”
“Tea later perhaps, but only after you have answered the questions posed to you by the daughter of Sherlock Holmes,” Joanna retorted.
The name of the great detective and his closeness to the questioner must have struck a nerve, for Blevins’s mouth dropped open to expose dreadful dental hygiene, with only a few rotten teeth remaining. He attempted to gather himself, but still spoke in a weak voice. “It does not matter who you are, for I am innocent.”
“I have an eyewitness who states otherwise,” Joanna challenged.
Blevins smiled mischievously. “How could there be an eyewitness when the night was pitch black?”
Joanna smiled back. “I did not say the crime occurred at night. How could you know this if you weren’t there?”
Blevins squirmed in his chair before an answer came to him. “The inspector asked me about my whereabouts on a particular night, so that is when the break-in must have occurred.”
“Good,” Joanna approved. “There is a brain behind your bony forehead, but let us see how you maneuver around my next question. You may wish to think before answering.”
Blevins’s nearly sightless eyes widened, now further on guard.
“Did you not feel regret when you stomped on that lovely flower bed alongside the Dubose home?” Joanna asked. “Certainly you must have sensed it.”
“How could you know it was me?”
“The eyewitness.”
“But it was the dark of night.”
“Here I am afraid your sightlessness proved to be an even greater disadvantage,” Joanna elucidated. “For in your journey alongside the house, you and your hirer passed by the window of a well-lighted kitchen. The light shined out into the garden, allowing both of you to be seen by the help as you trampled the flower bed.”
Blevins was about to come to his own defense, but then thought better of it and remained silent.
“I suggest you give it up and stop wasting our time,” Joanna demanded. “Tell us all and the good inspector might decide to be lenient, for otherwise you are facing up to ten years at Pentonville, where you will probably not live long enough to serve out your sentence.”
“Ten years for only picking a lock?” Blevins asked desperately.
“Oh, there is more to your crime than simply picking the door that allowed entrance into the Dubose home, for you performed the same task at Hawke and Evans,” Joanna went on. “It was during the latter crime that a security guard was assaulted and injured.”
“But I did not go downstairs where the assault occurred,” Blevins pleaded.
Well, well, I thought to myself, so the lockpick actually entered the art gallery, along with the vandal. But why? What purpose could he serve? The same question had apparently come to Joanna’s mind.
“Once you were inside the gallery, I take it there were other locks to be picked,” Joanna probed.
“Two,” Blevins answered. “One that led down a flight of stairs, the other to a small room off to the side of the main gallery.”
“Do you know what was behind the door to the second, smaller room?”
“An office of some sort.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Because the man who hired me instructed me to remain by the office door until he returned from downstairs.”
“Do you have any idea what he did in the office?”
“I cannot be sure, for all I heard were large pages being turned, one after another.”
“Pray tell how do you know the pages being turned were large?”
“They make a different sound than do the smaller ones.”
Joanna nodded, seemingly pleased with the new information. “Can you describe the man who hired you?”
Blevins considered the matter briefly before saying, “He was tall, close to six feet, for I had to reach up to his shoulder while he guided me. The creaking sound of his footsteps on the wooden floor—compared to mine—would indicate he was somewhat heavier than me. His clothes were old, particularly the shoulder of his coat that felt threadbare. And most annoying, he had the deep smell of coal tar embedded in his coat. So strong was it that it seeped into my own clothes as well.”
“Very good,” Joanna said, pushing her chair back.
“Madam, before you leave, please speak with the inspector about leniency,” Blevins beseeched.
“I shall do my best.”
We departed and walked quickly down a deserted corridor to a quiet alcove that was well away from the room where the questioning took place. Only then did Lestrade speak in a somewhat annoyed voice.
“You should have told me about the eyewitness,” he growled.
“There was no eyewitness,” Joanna explained. “I invented him to induce Mr. Joseph Blevins to confess to the crime. There was a lighted window in the kitchen that overlooked the garden and there was a trampled flower bed just outside the window.
