As the digger’s shovel scraped against the wooden casket, my presumption proved to be correct. A terrible smell arose from the grave and reached our nostrils. Everyone quickly stepped back and placed on masks to dampen the awful stench. With care, the casket was lifted out by the diggers and opened to reveal a blackened corpse, the ink-like color due in large measure to its charred cutaneous tissue. The lid was tightly replaced and the body and its casket lowered into a large, separate container called a shell and prepared for transport.
Suddenly a flock of ravens descended onto the grave site. Large and black as the darkest night, the birds landed and made hoarse, raucous squawks through their pointed beaks. The diggers swung their shovels at the aggressive ravens which backed off, but refused to fly away. Even more birds appeared overhead. Lestrade hurriedly took out his revolver and fired several shots into the air, missing the ravens but finally frightening them into full retreat.
“The smell of the dead does it,” one of the diggers said. “They seem to be capable of picking up the scent a mile away.”
“It is the carrion,” Lestrade noted, securing his revolver. “Crows and ravens alike are attracted to it, but the flesh has to be rotten for them to be interested.”
“Aye, guv’nor,” the digger agreed, then turned his attention to the grave. “Shall we leave it open for the corpse’s return once your studies are completed?”
“Yes, but you may wish to add a layer of soil to the bottom and so cover up the odor which attracted the ravens.”
“We will do that, guv’nor.”
Joanna watched with interest as the ravens flew high above and waited patiently for us to leave so they could return to the grave site. “I take it you have seen this kind of behavior on a number of occasions,” she inquired of the digger.
“Oh, yes, madam,” the digger replied, and pointed to a stand of trees in the far distance. “They house themselves over there until the scent of rotting flesh comes their way. I have heard they consider it a food of choice.”
“That is not uncommon among animals, even those who are domesticated,” Joanna said, smiling thinly to herself. “It represents a guaranteed meal, you see.”
“And maybe they like it because the rotten meat is more tender,” the digger surmised.
“That, too,” Joanna said, as she continued to gaze at the noisy ravens flying above. “For them it might well be an irresistible delicacy.”
“Quite right, madam,” the digger concurred and then, with the help of his coworker, lifted the heavy shell and carried it to a waiting transport.
We rode to St. Bartholomew’s in a Scotland Yard car, with Lestrade in the front seat next to the driver. He turned to face us as he told of the latest findings regarding the art vandal. New information had been gathered on the journey of James Blackstone to the land down under.
“There were two ocean liners that departed Southampton for Australia during that time period,” Lestrade began. “There was HMS Olympic and HMS Queen Victoria, each carrying seven hundred and ten passengers in first class and four hundred in the second tier. We checked the manifest of both and found a James Blackstone listed on the Queen Victoria—first class, mind you—with a cabin reserved on the portside. Rather pricey by any standard, wouldn’t you say?”
“Paid for by his forgeries, I would think,” said my father.
“And planned well in advance,” Joanna reasoned. “You will note he booked under his true name, which indicates he was not yet on the run and wanted by Scotland Yard. Thus, the passage must have been purchased before Edmunds’s arrest, and that tells us Blackstone was already counting the fortune he and his partner would reap from the sale of the masterpiece.”
“I thought along those same lines,” Lestrade continued on. “The cabin reserved by Blackstone was used during the voyage, as attested to by the serving members of the crew. None unfortunately could give us a clear description of the individual who occupied that cabin.”
“What of the passengers who were listed in the nearby first-class cabins?” asked my father. “Perhaps they may have seen Blackstone.”
“We are attempting to track down those individuals, but without success thus far,” Lestrade replied. “In any event, after a long journey, the Queen Victoria docked in Sydney and seven hundred and ten passengers disembarked, none of whom were named James Blackstone.”
“He must have used an alias,” my father said at once.
“Spot-on, Dr. Watson,” Lestrade agreed. “So we requested the Australian authorities to check the manifest from the Queen Victoria against the list of those who disembarked and registered in Sydney. All of the names matched except for a gentleman named David Hughes who no one seems to remember. He gave a local hotel as his address while in Australia, but no such guest ever showed at that hotel. The authorities there are of course searching for the whereabouts of one David Hughes, but have no identifying features to go on. They have asked us for a recent photograph of Blackstone and we are currently searching for one.”
“They will never find him,” my father said. “Australia is such a vast country, with an outback of uncountable miles and tiny towns so remote they are rarely visited even by the natives.”
“The Australians did not sound very optimistic as well,” Lestrade remarked.
“Is it possible that David Hughes is a real person who purchased the passage from Blackstone at a reduced price and used the forger’s name to disguise his true identity at the time of boarding?” I conjectured.
“Why would he do such an act?” Lestrade questioned.
“To escape to Australia unnoticed where he could hide
