Joanna moved in and examined the tops of the extracted bricks with her magnifying glass. “There are fingerprints on several of the bricks,” she announced.
“I’ll wager those prints belong to Harry Edmunds,” said Lestrade.
“Which is a wager you would no doubt win,” Joanna agreed, and looked to me with a request. “John, please measure the body’s exact height at autopsy.”
“Of course,” I said, but had no idea why such a measurement would be important.
“Well then, let us proceed,” Lestrade ordered somewhat impatiently, and gestured to the constables.
Once the corpse was extracted, I performed a more detailed examination, but could not discover any feature that might lead to its identification, other than it was a male as established by its clothing. The mummified skin showed no large scars or tattoos, nor were there any fractures of large bones. The pockets in his well-worn clothes were empty.
“It is most likely James Blackstone, but the proof is lacking,” I opined.
“What causes the peculiar condition of the skin?” Lestrade inquired.
“He became mummified because he was exposed to a constant dry heat that desiccated the body’s tissues and turned his skin into a dark brown leather,” I explained. “In some ways it resembles the process used in Egyptian mummies, except our corpse’s internal organs were not initially removed.”
“Can you give us the length of time the body was in the fireplace?”
“Not with any degree of accuracy, for the dry heat inhibits the putrefaction process to a large extent which accounts for the body’s appearance and lack of odor. But for certain he has been dead for some months.” I carefully removed the corpse’s shoes to further my inspection for identifying features, such as old fractures, deformities, and missing toes, but none were seen. I glanced over to Simon Hawke and asked, “Did James Blackstone have any physical ailments?”
Hawke pondered the question briefly. “None that I was aware of.”
“Any tattoos?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Any deformities?”
“None, although he did have a noticeable limp, particularly when standing on his feet all day.”
“Describe the limp,” my father requested at once.
“He simply favored one leg a bit,” Hawke said and, after a moment’s thought, added, “I believe it was the left one, for that was the one he tended to rub.”
“Did he say he had arthritis?” my father probed.
“That was not the case,” Hawke responded. “He once stated that he had been wounded in the Second Boer War which left him with a permanent weakness.”
My father and I exchanged knowing glances, for that war wound could play an important role in identifying James Blackstone.
Hawke stared down at the corpse and shuddered, then peered into the depth of the fireplace before turning to Lestrade. “How could you possibly know the body was hidden in there?”
“I did not, but the daughter of Sherlock Holmes did,” the inspector replied. “I believe Edgar Allan Poe would have been delighted with her conclusion which was based on a flock of ravens.”
“Ravens, you say?” Hawke asked quizzically.
“It was the manner in which they behaved at a recently exhumed grave site,” Joanna elucidated. “The birds were greatly attracted by the stench of the rotting flesh that arose from the casket. To them, it represented a kill and an easy meal. Their attraction was so great it required several shots from Lestrade’s revolver to frighten them away. This type of behavior is commonplace, even among dogs that have been domesticated.”
“My Mimi!” Delvecchio cried out.
“Indeed, it was your dog that detected the scent of dead tissue behind the brick wall and desperately tried to reach it. That was the reason she barked at the wall and attempted to paw her way through. It all became clear when I saw the ravens at the grave site, screeching with their raucous caws.”
“It was like Mimi’s bark,” Delvecchio recalled.
“She was trying to tell us something, as were the ravens at the exhumation,” Joanna said. “And so were the ravens in Edgar Allan Poe’s poem, The Raven. They kept saying, ‘Nevermore,’ to a distraught lover on the loss of his love. The ravens at the grave site, on the other hand, were screaming, ‘The dog! The dog!’ Which brings me to the next important question—namely, who bricked in the fireplace?”
“It was Harry Edmunds,” Hawke replied, without hesitation. “The company that placed the central heating furnace strongly advised we brick off the fireplace to stop the loss of heat which was considerable. I was not prepared to spend yet more money on the masonry, and put it off for a future date. That is when Edmunds, who had worked as a bricklayer in his younger days, offered to perform the task at a minimum labor cost.”
“Again, planning ahead,” Joanna muttered under her breath.
“What was that?” Hawke asked, not hearing the utterance.
“It was of no matter.” Joanna waved away the comment and gazed down at the leathered corpse. “Now, how did James Blackstone’s life come to an end?”
“A postmortem examination will hopefully reveal the cause,” my father said. “There are only a limited number of ways to kill in any art gallery without others being aware.”
“A gunshot would be far too noisy,” Lestrade stated the obvious.
“Poison too unpredictable,” said I.
“A knife wound too uncertain unless wielded by an expert,” my father surmised.
“Blunt force to the head would be a more likely possibility,” Joanna asserted. “But what was the weapon and where would he hide it?”
She peered into the restoration area and searched for the instrument or tool that could be used as a lethal weapon, but found none. Next, her gaze went to the fireplace. Something caught her attention and she moved in closer to it. “A brick,” Joanna noted, pointing at the masonry. “He could have done the deed with a solid brick.”
“And used it in blocking off the fireplace,” Lestrade added.
Joanna shook her head immediately. “That would be too risky, for the brick might have the victim’s blood spattered upon it. Moreover, the smart move would
