“Describe in detail Edmunds’s dandruff,” Joanna said at once.
“It was quite severe, in that he would shed large white flakes that ended up on his shoulders,” Hawke recounted. “He wore a very tight beret to minimize this most unattractive shedding.”
“Did he apply a coal tar lotion in an effort to control the dandruff?” Joanna asked.
Hawke shrugged. “He used all sorts of remedies, but none worked well. Nevertheless, because of their peculiar odors, we insisted he use the lotion at home and not in the gallery. We were concerned the odors might seep into the canvases he worked on, perhaps by touch, which of course would be disastrous.”
“He is our vandal!” I said excitedly.
“But he does not have the noticeable rash that Inspector Lestrade described,” Hawke countered.
Joanna waved away the contradiction. “Edmunds’s dermatitis was located on his scalp which he kept hidden with his tight beret. And the large dandruff flakes you depicted were in fact small plaques of psoriasis that were embedded in the scarf the vandal unintentionally left behind.” She considered the matter further and asked, “Did Edmunds wear a scarf around his neck while at work?”
“Never,” Hawke answered. “But he always had the collar of his coat up to mimic the French artists he so admired.”
“Which concealed the lesions on his neck,” Joanna said, as all the pieces fell into place. “I believe Harry Edmunds is the vandal we are seeking. By chance, is Mr. Edmunds quite tall and rather thin? Does that fit his description?”
“It does indeed.”
“Then he is beyond a doubt our vandal,” Joanna reiterated.
“That is impossible, for Harry Edmunds is currently imprisoned at Wormwood Scrubs where he is serving a five-year sentence,” Hawke argued. “You must admit, madam, that undeniable fact renders your conclusion quite impossible, does it not?”
“Only if you assume that Harry Edmunds remains locked up behind the walls of the prison,” said Joanna and searched for a nearby phone.
13Scotland Yard
“Dead!” Joanna exclaimed in disbelief.
“Quite, according to the governor of the facility,” said Lestrade.
We were seated in the inspector’s office at Scotland Yard, listening to his every word. Moments earlier he had completed a phone call to the governor at one of His Majesty’s most secure prisons, which was located in the Hammersmith district of London.
“Was he killed by another inmate?” asked Joanna.
“No, but rather in an explosion,” Lestrade replied.
“An explosion in a secure prison?” Joanna questioned. “Please explain how that could have occurred.”
“Wormwood Scrubs is one of England’s most progressive prisons, where deserving inmates are given the opportunity to learn a trade, so they might be gainfully employed upon their release,” Lestrade elucidated. “In one of their workshops the ability to repair and restore furniture is taught, but always under careful supervision so that tools and other such instruments, which can become weapons, do not go missing. Apparently Harry Edmunds was mixing up a solvent to be used for removing old varnish when the accidental explosion happened.”
Joanna nodded slowly. “He used a similar solvent to remove old varnish from paintings, so he would be quite experienced in doing the same to furniture.”
“That was their thinking, madam. The prison officials were aware of his talent, and even allowed him to teach others how to go about restoring and refinishing. Edmunds was apparently in the midst of preparing a batch of solvent when another prisoner, who was smoking a cigarette, came too close to the mixture and caused a fiery explosion that killed Harry Edmunds.”
“I take it the body was badly burned.”
“To a crisp.”
“Yet positive identification was still possible?”
“I asked Governor Bradshaw the very same question and he assured me there was not the slightest doubt as to the identity of the body. First, there were several inmates who witnessed Edmunds mixing up the solvent just prior to the explosion. Next, the measurement and weight of the corpse were the same as those recorded for Edmunds upon his entrance to the jail.” Lestrade paused to review his notes from the phone call. “In addition, a ring and pocket watch engraved with his initials were found on Edmunds’s body. And finally, a careful check of the entire population at the prison revealed only one missing inmate, and that individual was Harry Edmunds.”
“The witnesses and the ring and the engraved watch found on the body are highly suggestive, yet not proof that the body belonged to Harry Edmunds,” Joanna thought aloud. “But the fact he was missing from the prison roll is much more difficult to get around.”
“All put together, the prison officials feel confident they have enough evidence to make a positive identification,” said Lestrade. “And the coroner who examined the body was of the same opinion.”
Joanna reached for a cigarette in her purse and, after lighting it, began to pace the floor in Lestrade’s office. She circled a standing lamp with a brass base twice before speaking. “I am still not convinced that Harry Edmunds is dead.”
“But the prison has proof that says he is.”
“And we have proof that says he isn’t, for every piece of evidence clearly indicates that Harry Edmunds is our vandal.”
“At an official inquest, do you believe your proof would supersede the judgment of a coroner who actually examined the body?”
“You raise a good point,” Joanna acceded. “But tell me, when did Harry Edmunds’s death occur?”
“Three weeks ago,” Lestrade replied. “So unless a burned corpse was able to pass in and out of Wormwood Scrubs as often as it wished, which of course it couldn’t, then it is impossible for Edmunds to have perpetrated the acts of vandalism that have been plaguing us for the last two weeks.”
“Another good point,” Joanna admitted, as she continued to pace. “But my father once said that if you eliminate all other factors, then the one which remains must be the truth. It is a cardinal rule of deduction and it applies here. Thus, we must eliminate Harry Edmunds’s death for him to be the vandal.”
“Which means you will have to disregard
