“Most wise,” Joanna said and led the way over to the injured security guard who was gently rubbing at his bandaged arm. “I realize you have had a rough time of it, but we require more information and wonder if you could help us with that.”
“I shall try, madam,” the guard said.
“Very good,” Joanna went on. “Please describe every detail from the moment you became aware of the intruder until he fled carrying the portrait with him.”
“Well, madam, it was a calm and peaceful night as I made my rounds on each of the two floors and the loft,” the guard began. “I was in the loft when I heard a sound below that resembled a piece of furniture being moved. It did not recur, but I thought it best to have a look-see. I went down and shined my torch around the gallery and saw nothing amiss. Next I took the stairs to the bottom level that is used for storage and again saw nothing out of place. I then returned to the main floor, and that is when I noticed a moving shadow and called out a warning.”
“Were you armed?” Joanna asked.
“No, madam, I was not, but I do carry a whistle that can alert patrolling constables,” the guard continued. “I was reaching for my whistle when the bloody thief attacked me. In the struggle he stabbed me with a knife I did not see, and next came at me with a framed painting. He proceeded to crack me on the head and, as I went down, he bolted for the side door with the painting tucked under his arm. It required some time for me to regain my senses and rise up, but by then he was long gone. It was at that moment I became aware of my wound and the blood coming from it.”
“How much time went by before you whistled for the constable?” Joanna inquired.
“I cannot be certain, for I was dazed by the blow to my head,” the guard replied and gently massaged the crown of his skull. “He must have given me quite a knock, for it continues to throb.”
“I take it you did not have a good look at him.”
“In the darkness, I saw only shadows.”
“During the scuffle, did you notice any peculiar odor about the thief?”
“No, madam, but then I was fighting for my life and just trying to survive.”
“As would anyone in that situation,” said Joanna, as the guard went back to rubbing his bandaged arm. “Is the wound painful?”
“A bit, madam.”
“Then perhaps you should retire to your home and rest,” Joanna suggested.
The guard glanced at Stewart for consent and, once given an approving nod, walked slowly to the front entrance, still unsteady on his feet.
Joanna said quietly to Stewart, “You may wish to hire a hansom to make certain your guard reaches home safely.”
“Of course,” Stewart agreed and hurried over to assist the security guard.
With the pair not yet out of hearing distance, I guided Joanna and my father to a nearby staircase and said, “I find it odd the vandal thought it necessary to carry out the entire painting. Why not just slash it open and grab the masterpiece?”
“I can think of several good reasons,” Joanna replied.
“Yet the vandal must have an irresistible impulse to snatch the masterpiece and be gone once and for all,” said my father.
Our voices must have carried, for Lestrade heard the end of our conversation as he ascended to the top of the staircase. “Masterpiece? What masterpiece?” asked he.
“We believe there is a masterpiece, a painting of immense value, hidden behind one of the restored canvases, and it is for this reason the vandal has slashed them open,” Joanna explained. “We further believe that two restorers at Hawke and Evans discovered the hidden masterpiece and were planning to sell it on the black market, then flee with their newly acquired fortune.”
Lestrade started at Joanna in astonishment. “Do you know this for a fact?”
“All evidence points to that conclusion,” Joanna asserted. “There is no other explanation.”
“So we are not dealing with simple vandalism, but with two thieves desperately searching for a concealed masterpiece,” Lestrade said, while he quickly assimilated the information. “This would explain why Harry Edmunds was so eager to escape from Wormwood Scrubs and why James Blackstone is in all likelihood still in London. They were racing against one another in an effort to reach the valuable prize first.”
“Spot-on, Inspector,” Joanna concurred.
Lestrade rubbed at his chin, thinking the problem through. “But why are they slashing only portraits of women?”
“Because that must be the clue to which painting hides the masterpiece,” Joanna replied, keeping an eye on Samuel Stewart who remained near the front entrance. “That is the only plausible—”
“Hold on,” Lestrade interrupted. “If they knew where the masterpiece was hidden, why all the slashing?”
“Because we believe it was James Blackstone who discovered the hidden painting, and he partnered with Harry Edmunds but never told him of its exact location,” said Joanna.
“Only that it was behind a restoration showing the portrait of a woman,” Lestrade concluded, as the complete picture came to him. “So Harry Edmunds was running around slashing portraits, whilst James Blackstone was biding his time and waiting for a good opportunity. And now it would seem that Edmunds has won the contest and has the masterpiece in hand.”
“So it would appear, Inspector.”
There was a sudden commotion at the side entrance of the gallery. We turned to see a constable rushing in and holding up a badly damaged painting that had a broken frame and a deep slash across its colorful canvas.
The constable hurried over to Lestrade and held the painting up for all to see. A vertical cut bisected the praying nun in two equal parts.
“The missing painting!” I proclaimed.
“I found it in a rubbish bin a block over,” the constable reported.
“In the open?” Joanna asked at once.
“No, madam. It
