“Edmunds picked the ideal subject to die for him,” my father noted.
“Except for the fact his ideal subject has ten toes,” said Joanna.
Lestrade hurried back to me with the newest developments. “The art vandal has struck again. This time at the Stewart and Son gallery in Kensington. But on this occasion he turned violent.”
“How so?” Joanna asked.
“He stabbed a security guard who attempted to intervene.”
“On the vandal’s way in or out?”
“Out, for he escaped with a framed painting securely tucked under his arm.”
“The masterpiece,” my father muttered in a whisper, as the very same thought echoed in all our minds.
17The Stewart Gallery
On our ride to the Stewart and Son gallery, we had to face the disheartening fact that Harry Edmunds had won the battle. He now had the masterpiece in his grasp and would soon disappear once it was sold on the black market.
“He must have discovered which painting held the masterpiece,” Joanna surmised, raising her voice above the noise of the four-wheeler we had hired. “There was a marking of some sort that served as a clue.”
“Do you have any idea what this marking might be?” I inquired.
Joanna shrugged. “It could have been made in a dozen different ways. Perhaps there was a scratch on the corner of the frame that James Blackstone had mentioned. Or perhaps there was some irregularity in the varnish which was difficult to detect. But then again, it may not have been a marking that led to the masterpiece, but rather that Edmunds recalled the painting which was being restored when the treasured canvas came to light. Or even more likely, he narrowed down the possibilities by reviewing the list of restorations in the folder on Simon Hawke’s desk.”
“Whatever the clue, he knew it well beforehand,” my father said. “That is why he advertised on the black market that the masterpiece would soon be available.”
“Yet all may not be lost,” I thought aloud. “Could we not set a trap for him on the underground market?”
Joanna shook her head quickly. “To set a clever trap requires an irresistible bait, which we lack. And even if such bait was available, it might well prove useless since the auction we presume is taking place may be over and a deal struck. That being the case, any clever trap would be totally ignored.”
“The tide is now running entirely against us,” my father said unhappily. “And it appears to be reaching the stage where it cannot be reversed.”
“We have lost a battle, Watson, not the war,” said Joanna.
We arrived at the Stewart and Son gallery and hurried into a large, well-appointed display room that had every wall covered with eye-catching paintings, all of which seemed to come from a long gone past. The owner, Mr. Miles Stewart, was not available, for he was bedridden with severe bronchitis. However, his son Samuel was minding the gallery and greeted us with suspicion until we were formally introduced. He seemed most pleased to meet Joanna.
“Ah, the daughter of Sherlock Holmes whose exploits I have read about,” said he. “I would be forever grateful if you could somehow arrange for my painting to be returned, for it will be dearly missed.”
“Am I correct in assuming the painting is quite valuable?” Joanna asked.
“That is the strange part, madam,” Stewart replied. “It was surrounded by works far more precious, yet he chose the one of considerable less value. It is beyond me why he would do such a thing.”
“Was there anything unusual about the painting?”
“It is the artist who was unusual.”
“How so?”
“It was painted during the Italian Renaissance by a woman named Saint Catherine of Bologna, and depicts a nun at prayer in full habit,” Stewart described. “Saint Catherine was so revered as a religious personage that her body was exhumed shortly after death and preserved, and it remains on display to this very day. But I can assure you that feature does not add to its value. From an artistic standpoint, the work is not very impressive.”
“Yet you hang it in your very fine gallery,” Joanna noted.
“Only briefly, for the owners who requested the restoration will return from America tomorrow, and sadly find their treasured painting missing.”
Joanna’s brow went up. “Restoration, you say?”
“Limited, but nonetheless expensive,” Stewart replied. “The owners thought the faded, multicolored flowers in the background detracted from the portrait and were willing to pay a rather handsome fee to have it restored.”
“At Stewart’s?”
“Oh no, madam. The work was done at Hawke and Evans who have the finest restorers in all London.”
I nodded to myself, for here was yet another connection of the vandal to Hawke and Evans. I wondered which of the restorers performed the recoloring and asked, “Were you given the name of the restorer?”
“I was not,” Stewart answered. “The decision was left up to Simon Hawke whose judgment we trusted implicitly. The work was quite well done, but at a cost that nearly exceeded the value of the painting.”
“Do you have any idea why the owners were so attracted to an unimpressive portrait of a nun?” I asked.
“I did not ask, but perhaps they are of the Catholic persuasion,” Stewart replied. “Those are the ones who would show the most interest.”
We turned as the security guard, with his bandaged arm in a sling, came back into the gallery. A thin man, in his middle years, he appeared to be quite shaken by his ordeal. Taking slow steps, he walked over to a chair beneath a painting of St. Peter’s Square and sat down heavily.
“That is Armstrong, our security guard, who was injured in a scuffle with the thief,” Stewart told us. “We of course immediately sent him
