“It had to come from Willoughby,” I said angrily.
“Or Scotland Yard,” Joanna opined.
“Why Scotland Yard?” I asked.
“For two reasons,” replied Joanna. “First, the macabre details assure front-page coverage and place Lestrade in the spotlight, a position he enjoys, particularly when a case is about to be solved.”
“Which will allow him to soak up most of the credit,” my father noted.
“Of course,” Joanna agreed. “Why else would he do it?”
“And the second reason you mentioned?” I inquired.
“If the case is not brought to resolution, we shall have the discomfort of shouldering at least part of the blame, for our names are now attached to this rather nasty mystery.”
“Lestrade,” my father grumbled under his breath.
“Give him his due, Watson, for the good inspector knows how to manipulate the press to his advantage,” Joanna said in a neutral tone. “But whatever the source, the information is now on public display, and has certainly reached the eye of the portrait vandal.”
“And the eye of those of us in the art world, who are now aware the body must belong to James Blackstone, which is a great loss to us all,” Rowe said sadly.
“But the man is—or rather was—a criminal,” my father reminded.
“Do not judge him so harshly, Watson, until you have heard his entire story,” Rowe said in a kind voice.
“Did you know him well?” Joanna asked.
“Quite well and for many years,” Rowe replied. “I first met him in Paris after his return from the Second Boer War. He was an apprentice restorer studying at the Louvre under Auguste Curie, and even then he showed great promise. Some years later I learned he had taken a position with the Royal Art Collection, and had the opportunity to interview him for a piece I was writing for The Guardian. He was remarkably informed on the artists from the Italian Renaissance and was most helpful in my future articles and research.” A brief smile came to Rowe’s face as he continued on. “His knowledge was so extensive that we would challenge one another with riddles on works of art from that period. For example, at our most recent meeting he gave me a brainteaser I have yet to unravel.”
“When was the last meeting you had with James Blackstone?” Joanna interrupted abruptly.
“A few weeks before the warrant for his arrest was issued,” Rowe answered.
“And the riddle?”
“It was Angels to a Perfect Angel,” recited Rowe. “I could make little of it, for many of the paintings from the Italian Renaissance portrayed angels. But for some reason, James was quite curious to know if I had solved the riddle and asked me so on several occasions.”
“Angels to a Perfect Angel,” Joanna repeated, as if committing it to memory.
“Precisely,” Rowe said, then waited to see if Joanna had further questions on the enigma, and when she did not he returned to James Blackstone’s history as a noted restorer. “In any event, he was highly thought of at Windsor and continued on there until two years ago when to my surprise he was made redundant because of a supposed reduction in funding. He later confided to me that it was not a lack of funding which led to his departure, but rather the obvious fact that the head curator at the collection wanted the prized position to remain vacant until his younger brother could be prepared for that situation. The transition occurred within months of Blackstone’s leaving.”
“Was the younger brother as talented?” Joanna asked.
“No, and to this day still is not.”
“Was Blackstone bitter?”
“He tried to conceal it, but I believe he was,” Rowe went on. “And to make matters even worse, it was at this time that an old war wound acted up and required major surgery.”
“What type of surgery?” my father asked at once.
“Apparently some sort of device that held his fractured thigh bone together had gone awry and needed to be replaced. The operation was quite expensive and depleted all of his savings.”
My father and Joanna and I exchanged knowing glances, for this explanation solved the mystery of why the corpse of James Blackstone had an internal fixation plate that was inserted long after the Second Boer War had ended. There was now no question as to the identity of the corpse.
“He was fortunate enough, however, to gain employment at Hawke and Evans, but shortly thereafter a son was born with a clubfoot which did not respond to tight braces and would require a unique surgical procedure that was only being done at the Royal Children’s Hospital in Melbourne, Australia. Poor Blackstone did not have the funds necessary for the travel and operation which would be considerable. And that is why he teamed up with Harry Edmunds to sell forgeries of French impressionists on the black market. It was all done so his son could have the needed surgery and not go through life with the burden of a clubfoot.”
My father nodded unhappily. “So the little boy never had the necessary surgery.”
“Oh, but he did,” Rowe corrected. “His son and wife traveled to Australia where the surgery was successfully performed, using the money Blackstone had gleaned from the forgeries.”
“Thus he planned to flee to Australia not only to avoid the authorities, but to rejoin his family,” my father concluded.
“Exactly so, Watson,” said Rowe. “Blackstone gave up everything for his small son. It is a very sad story.”
“Sad in every way,” my father concurred. “For it was the love for his son that brought about his wrongdoings.”
“No doubt spurred on by the unprincipled Harry Edmunds.” Rowe spat the name. His face hardened noticeably before he waved away his anger. “Let us put Edmunds aside for now and speak of a matter I believe will be of even more importance to you. I have news of the masterpiece on the black market.”
The three of us, and Johnny as well, leaned forward to catch every word, for here was truly the key to the case of the art vandal.
“My source tells me that the bidding on this masterpiece is now
