“You seem to be convinced that Harry Edmunds is the killer,” Lestrade stated.
“That is because he had the most to gain,” Joanna responded and used the pickax to stir the ashes heaped up in the fireplace. Upon hearing the sound of metal scraping against metal, she dug deeper and exposed a sturdy, dust-covered knife. “Hello there!”
Lestrade shined his torch in for added illumination which allowed Joanna to extract the blade using the end of the pickax. With care she blew away the thick, covering ash, and this revealed a handle which had a dark brown stain that was most likely old blood.
“It looks as if Edmunds left behind a little memento for us,” Lestrade noted.
“He left behind more than that,” Joanna said and pointed to a fingerprint embedded in the dust on the knife’s handle. “Chances are it will match the prints on the brick.”
“Are you not surprised Edmunds used a knife to kill?” my father asked. “After all, a misplaced stab and all would be lost.”
“He would not misplace,” Delvecchio interjected. “For like many restorers of Italian Renaissance art, Mr. Edmunds no doubt studied anatomy so he could work with confidence on the human figures that were painted by the magnificent artists of that period.”
“Did you yourself study anatomy?” Joanna inquired.
“I took classes at the University of Bologna for that very purpose,” Delvecchio answered. “I would have no problem finding a vital spot.”
“This Edmunds fellow is more than clever,” Lestrade pronounced.
“And more than dangerous,” my father cautioned. “For now he has committed a hanging offense and will stop at nothing to escape the gallows.”
“All well and good,” said Joanna as she stared down at the mummified corpse of James Blackstone. “But there is one most important question that remains unanswered.”
“Which is?”
“Why kill the only person who knows the precise location of the masterpiece?”
19Dubious Identification
The autopsy at St. Bartholomew’s was quiet and still until Professor Peter Willoughby, the director of pathology, barged in and glared at us with a look that told of his displeasure.
“Really, Watson,” he said to me, “you are taking up entirely too much time with these nonacademic matters.”
“But this case is a special request from Scotland Yard,” I informed.
Willoughby came over to study the body, but not before giving Joanna and my father an unwelcome stare. As was his custom, he chose not to touch the corpse, but rather to view it at a distance. “Been in the ground for quite a while, I see.”
“Actually it was discovered tucked away in a fireplace,” said I.
“Hmph,” Willoughby grumbled under his breath as he circled the corpse, stopping only briefly to study its skeletal face. He made a few guttural sounds while performing a superficial examination, but made no mention of any findings.
For some reason Joanna found Willoughby’s presence of interest, for she seemed to be watching every step he took. I saw nothing unusual about the man who treated his subordinates so harshly and went out of his way to harp incessantly on the smallest of their mistakes. It was said by all that his physical appearance matched his temperament. He was of short, wiry stature, with piercing dark eyes and unsmiling thin lips that seemed pasted together. The suit he wore fit poorly, and had sleeves so short they allowed most of his shirt cuffs to show. I had to admire his new shoes, but not the stained, red tie he favored so often.
“There is nothing here of note other than his leathered skin,” Willoughby said brusquely. “With this in mind, I would expect the autopsy to be a brief one.”
“It cannot be brief, for this is a case of murder,” I objected mildly.
“Based on what?” Willoughby asked incredulously.
“On the location of the body,” Joanna answered.
“May I remind you that a body found in a fireplace does not necessarily signify murder,” Willoughby challenged.
“It does when the fireplace is bricked in,” Joanna countered. “Unless, of course, you can describe a mechanism by which a person crawls into a fireplace, bricks it off from the inside out, then conveniently dies, but not before removing all forms of identification.”
Willoughby’s face hardened. “I should have been given this information earlier.”
“You should have asked for it earlier,” Joanna said easily. “But let us stop wasting time and allow the younger Dr. Watson to proceed with the autopsy. Before the final report is submitted, however, I believe it would be wise for you, as director of pathology, to carefully study it and make certain all is in order.”
Willoughby was taken aback by Joanna’s generous offer, for there was a mutual dislike between the two that dated back to their initial encounter over a year ago. Moreover, the offer seemed to indicate that the mean, little man would have the final say in the autopsy report when in fact nothing could be further from the truth.
“Assuming you can spare the time from your most busy schedule,” Joanna added.
“That will present no problem.”
“And of course all matters regarding this matter must be kept entirely confidential from prying eyes, for the case may well end up in a court of law, where experts, such as yourself, should not have their testimony tarnished by unfounded rumors or unsupported hearsay.” Joanna gave Willoughby a moment to nod, then nodded back. “Thus, it will be in your best interest and ours for not a word of this autopsy to go beyond the walls of this room.”
“I will see to it,” Willoughby affirmed.
“Excellent,” Joanna said. “And, as you leave, please permit us to wish you a most happy birthday.”
“It—it was last week,” Willoughby stammered, caught off guard.
Joanna’s face took on a pleased expression. “Better late than never.”
“Indeed,” Willoughby said, and hurried out before we could dwell on the hint of his smile which came and went.
I waited for the door to the autopsy room to close before
