Joanna reached for her magnifying glass and, after peeling back a thick edge, examined the undersurface of the tear, then the area behind the damaged canvas. “The backing has been damaged, with a deep cut that has a streak of blood upon it.”
“What does that tell us?” Lestrade asked.
“Everything,” Joanna answered.
Samuel Stewart dashed in from the outside and, upon seeing the condition of the painting, gasped in horror. “Ruined! It is ruined!”
“Is there any hope of restoration?” asked Joanna.
“Perhaps, but at a cost far, far beyond the value of the painting,” Stewart replied and, moving in closer, gently touched the distorted face of the nun. “Who would commit such a senseless, cruel act?”
A vicious killer who now has a fortune in hand, I thought, but held my tongue.
“The crazed vandal who is plaguing the west side of London,” Lestrade replied, and was wise enough not to give any particulars. “It is clear he has struck out again.”
“You must put a stop to this, Inspector,” Stewart demanded and, with the broken portrait in hand, retreated to his office.
Lestrade sighed resignedly and waited for the constable and Stewart to be well out of earshot before saying, “I am afraid the sliced and discarded painting tells us that Mr. Harry Edmunds is now in sole possession of the priceless masterpiece.”
“I think not,” Joanna said. “All of the evidence points to the contrary.”
“Pray tell how did you reach this conclusion?” Lestrade asked.
“Allow me to draw your attention to the backing of the nun’s portrait,” replied Joanna. “It reveals a deep cut with bloodstains on its edges. Recall that all of the other vandalized paintings had pristine backings, so that the slashing would not damage the concealed artwork. But on this occasion it appears he cut through the canvas all the way to the backing, which would have surely sliced into the hidden masterpiece.”
“Why would he do such a foolish act?” I asked quickly.
“That is the point, John,” Joanna replied. “Harry Edmunds is no fool and did not commit the deed as you and the inspector described.”
“I am confused,” I confessed.
“As am I,” said Lestrade.
“You must concentrate on the bloody knife, for it tells us the all-important sequence of events,” Joanna elucidated. “Harry Edmunds had the portrait in hand when he encountered the security guard and stabbed him. There was no blood on his knife until that moment, yet the blade left its bloody mark on the backing of the portrait, which indicates he slashed the canvas open outside the gallery.”
“Why would he do that?” my father asked.
“Because he was surprised by the guard in the gallery and had no chance to cut open the canvas,” Joanna went on. “So he ran, with the painting in hand, but the guard blocked his exit and a struggle ensued. Harry Edmunds then stabbed the guard, thus bloodying his knife. For good measure Edmunds brought the painting down on the guard’s head, the force of which dazed the guard and damaged the frame of the canvas.”
“And Edmunds used only a sharp corner of the frame so as not to cause harm to the concealed masterpiece,” I noted.
“Precisely, John,” said Joanna. “For only a corner was badly cracked and not shattered, and thus what lay beneath it remained safe. So now we have Harry Edmunds running for his life, the nun’s portrait in one hand, the bloodied knife in the other. He would be an obvious figure, a man dashing about in the early morning hours carrying a large, framed painting. People would be beginning to stir, some up and around, and would take notice, so Harry Edmunds has to determine if the portrait holds the masterpiece. He arrives at the tin overhang the constable described and slashes the painting open, and finding no hidden treasure, lashes out and stabs the painting itself and inflicts a bloody gash on its backing. I also observed a bit of blood on the edges of the torn canvas and that tells us the slash was made with a bloodied knife.”
“Let us say the sequence of events you described is correct—is it not possible that Edmunds did in fact find the masterpiece and stabbed the backing out of joy rather than rage?” Lestrade challenged.
“Most unlikely when you consider the rain,” Joanna responded. “Keep in mind that Edmunds sought the shelter of a tin overhang before slashing the canvas. He did this with the singular purpose of protecting the masterpiece, for it is undoubtedly old and fragile and exposure to rain would result in irreparable damage. Harry Edmunds, being an experienced restorer, would have never taken such a chance. Even if the masterpiece was found, he would not have removed it in this weather, nor would he have folded or rolled it up, for that could cause significant damage to an ancient work of art. Being such a clever fellow, he would have wrapped the painting under his scarf and hurried along his way.”
“I still see an obstacle in pinning this entire adventure on Harry Edmunds,” said my father.
“Which is?” asked Joanna.
“The odor of coal tar which the guard did not detect,” my father replied. “It is impossible to miss that pungent aroma close up.”
“But not when one is fighting for one’s life,” Joanna rebutted.
“Yet the smell is so overpowering,” my father emphasized. “With this in mind, could the villain here be James Blackstone who came out of the shadows to reclaim his treasure? In the darkness, it would be the odor which distinguishes Edmunds from Blackstone.”
“A very good point, Dr. Watson,” Lestrade concurred, nodding at my father’s assessment.
“It is except for the fact that James Blackstone is dead,” said Joanna.
Lestrade’s eyes suddenly widened. “Have you seen the body?”
“Not as yet,” Joanna replied. “But I know its location.”
“Would you care to share that secret with us?”
“Only after you have obtained a special search warrant.”
“Special in what regard?”
“One that allows for demolition at
