“Then why does Blackstone not have the masterpiece in hand?” I challenged.
“I can think of a number of reasons,” said Joanna. “But the most likely one is that Blackstone does not know where the treasure is at this moment. Keep in mind that he discovered the masterpiece behind a painting of a woman which required restoration. Now suppose, just suppose, the restoration was completed and returned to its owner who sold it to another gallery or perhaps to another individual. Blackstone, fleeing for his freedom, would have no way of following the trail of the painting to its current location.”
“He could have broken into Hawke and Evans and searched through the restoration and receipts folders,” I submitted.
Joanna shook her head at the suggestion. “It is Edmunds, not Blackstone, who is the master criminal. It was he who arranged for the forced entry into Hawke and Evans and into the Dubose home. And it was he who cleverly arranged for the death of a cellmate so he could gain his freedom. It was because Blackstone was such a novice at crime that he brought Edmunds in on the theft.”
“So the masterpiece is still out there,” I concluded.
“And so is James Blackstone,” Joanna noted, then abruptly waved away the ideas under discussion. She reached for a Turkish cigarette and, after lighting it, began pacing back and forth in front of us. “We are on the wrong track here. Of course James Blackstone would know which painting hid the masterpiece, but he was far too clever to conceal it behind a portrait belonging to a gallery, from where it could be sold and sold yet again, making it very difficult if not impossible to trace. Being the clever fellow he is, he would hide the masterpiece beneath a painting that belonged to a person of wealth and status, who would never dream of parting with it.”
“Like the countess,” I surmised.
“Precisely,” Joanna agreed. “But all the evidence tells us it was Harry Edmunds, not Blackstone, who entered the Granville residence. So here we have Edmunds desperately slashing portraits while Blackstone bides his time. All of which informs us that Blackstone knows where the masterpiece is located, but Edmunds does not.”
“But how did Blackstone keep the new location a secret?” asked I.
“It could have easily been done while Harry Edmunds was not present in the restoration area of the gallery,” Joanna answered. “Blackstone would never disclose the move had been made, for he apparently distrusted Edmunds.”
“A fallout among thieves,” I opined. “But why hasn’t Blackstone retrieved the masterpiece?”
“Most likely it is in a quite secure place which compounds the difficulty,” Joanna replied. “Besides, he was in no rush, with Harry Edmunds locked away in Wormwood Scrubs.”
“But with all the recent portrait slashings, Blackstone must be aware that Edmunds is now a free man.”
Joanna nodded at my conclusion, saying, “And thus the race is on to see who reaches the masterpiece first.”
“All this hypothesizing is well and good,” my father interjected. “But you are neglecting the evidence Lestrade has which indicates Blackstone has in fact set sail for Australia.”
“Pshaw!” Joanna waved away the voyage. “This so-called evidence consists of a receipt for a ticket found in Blackstone’s lodging which indicated he had booked passage to Australia on the Queen Victoria. Let us see if his name appears on the manifest of that ocean liner when it left port.”
“So it appears you firmly believe James Blackstone is still here in London,” I said.
“I do, and for all the good reasons Johnny has laid out for us,” Joanna affirmed.
“Might the two actually be competing with one another, Mother?” asked Johnny.
“If so, I would lay my wager on Harry Edmunds, for he is by far the more clever of the two,” Joanna responded, then leaned back and tapped a finger against her closed lips, obviously in deep thought. This motion went on for a half minute or so, before she added, “We must place ourselves in the position of our two thieves. Both need more information on the possible whereabouts of the portrait of a woman which hides the masterpiece. How could they go about this?”
“They would search the folder containing the list of restorations!” I replied at once.
“That is the key,” Joanna agreed. “For it not only lists the restorations done by Hawke and Evans, but who performed the work and when. With this in mind, we should search the folder for a female portrait that was restored by James Blackstone.”
“But how do we accomplish this feat without Simon Hawke being aware?” my father asked.
“With guile, Watson,” Joanna replied.
Before she could expound, there was a gentle rap on the door and Miss Hudson entered with a large platter that held a roasted goose which was accompanied by side dishes of baked potatoes and sprouts wrapped in crispy bacon.
Johnny rose quickly to his feet and exclaimed, “Ah, it is Miss Hudson with her fine goose dinner, the makings of which cannot be surpassed in all England.”
He gave our landlady a most courteous bow that caused Miss Hudson to blush.
Joanna hurried over to her son and gave the lad a tender kiss on his forehead.
“What was the reason for that, Mother?” Johnny asked.
“For being so brave during a most trying time.”
“That is because I am a Blalock,” he said simply.
“And a Holmes,” Joanna added.
“A most formidable combination,” Johnny stated, with a hint of pride.
Joanna smiled broadly at the return of her son’s health and good spirits, and for that brief moment all was right in the world.
16The Exhumation
The grave to be exhumed was stark and unadorned, with only freshly turned earth and a numbered wooden stake to note its occupant. Surrounding the site on that cold, dreary morning were two diggers, a health official, Lestrade, Joanna, my father, and me. Both grim-faced diggers were wearing bright red, hooded caps, with white fur trimming, to honor Christmas which was rapidly approaching. However, no religious presence was required because the ground
