“Too long, too long,” Joanna muttered to herself and gave the matter further consideration before she flicked her cigarette into the fireplace and began pacing again. The expression on her face told me that something in Rowe’s answers had opened up another avenue worth pursuing but, for reasons we were to learn later, she chose not to delve into it at the moment. Turning to the consultant, she gestured to the table settings and asked, “Would you care for tea?”
“If you would be so kind.”
While Joanna poured and handed him a cup, she asked, “Earlier you spoke of Harry Edmunds being unprincipled. Did you know him well?”
“I knew him not at all, except by his reputation.”
“As a criminal?”
“As a forger, for I was asked by Scotland Yard to examine all the paintings in his home and determine which were forgeries and which were not.”
“In his presence?”
“In his wife’s presence, for by then Edmunds was locked away in Wormwood Scrubs.” Rowe carefully sipped his tea before uttering a forced laugh. “And she was quite a piece of work, I must say.”
“How so?”
“She simply sat there, knitting away on a large afghan, while I inspected the paintings that hung on the walls. I could have just as well been the carpet cleaner. Nor was she concerned with the sergeant from Scotland Yard who accompanied me.”
“Not upset in the least?”
“She did not bother to even look up, and seemed quite at ease while knitting the long afghan that went from her lap all the way to the floor before her.”
“Do you believe she was attempting to project an air of innocence?”
“Perhaps, but my other findings in the house indicated she was aware, if not implicated, in her husband’s criminal activities. For in a room off the kitchen was the ideal setup for either restoration or forgery. There were canvases and stands and paints and brushes and quite bright lighting that Edmunds used for his work.”
“He would never do restorations at home,” Joanna interjected.
“Of course not,” Rowe agreed. “The room was for his forgeries. There was even an oversized oven so that the forgeries could be baked and thus give the paintings small wrinkles and cracks, which denotes considerable aging. When done by an expert forger, those changes can date a painting back hundreds of years.”
“I take it his forgeries were quite good.”
“But not exceptional except for the Renoirs. They were nearly perfect, but for the blue pigment which was just a bit off and never used by the French artist. It was a rather stupid mistake for a forger as talented as Harry Edmunds.”
“Were the Renoirs in Edmunds’s home signed?”
“He was too clever for that. Were they signed they could have been confiscated as being forgeries that would eventually be put up for sale. I suspect Edmunds considered himself to be an excellent artist and had the paintings hung to remind himself of his talents.”
“Bit of an egotist, eh?” my father commented.
“All forgers worth their salt are, Watson.”
“Yet I am surprised you did not find at least one signed forgery that was ready for sale,” Joanna conjectured. “After all it was a most lucrative business and Edmunds had no idea he would soon be apprehended. There should have been another forgery or two on hand for the black market.”
“Neither I nor Scotland Yard could find it despite a most diligent search.”
“It was concealed by the wife,” Johnny said in a matter-of-fact fashion.
Rowe looked at the lad quizzically. “On what do you base that conclusion, may I ask?”
“The afghan she was knitting that rested on her lap and dropped down to the floor,” Johnny replied.
“I would have surely noticed the outline of a large canvas under that afghan, my good fellow,” Rowe countered.
“It was not under the afghan, but under the chair which I am certain was quite large.”
“It was a big, overstuffed chair,” Rowe recalled.
“Then it all fits,” said Johnny.
“Please explain,” Joanna requested. “Tell us why the position of the afghan signifies it is hiding a painting.”
“Did you read of the Dupont murder in Paris last year, Mother?”
“I must admit I did not.”
“Then allow me to give you the details. A woman was stabbed to death and her body found in the drawing room beneath a large afghan she was knitting. The blood spatter seemed to indicate she was killed where she lay, but that was not the case. You see, the afghan was unfinished and hanging down, which the woman who was the knitter would never have permitted.”
“And why not?”
“Because she would know that the downward weight would cause the new stitching to stretch and perhaps even disconnect. Thus, an experienced knitter would not allow the unfinished product to hang, but would place it on a table next to her. In the Dupont case, the hanging weight distorted the blood spatter in such a fashion that it seemed to show she was stabbed while under the afghan. The true splatter was later determined and revealed the victim was killed elsewhere in the house which provided an important clue that eventually led to the murderer. In your case, the woman who was obviously experienced would have never allowed the unfinished afghan to hang down, but she did so for a purpose. She wished to conceal something beneath the chair, which in this instance I would wager was a signed Renoir.”
Rowe’s jaw dropped at the lad’s remarkable sense of deduction, then, after a brief pause, he nodded slowly to himself. “Now that I think back, she had the huge afghan covering the arms and sides of the overstuffed chair.”
“Clever woman,” Johnny remarked.
“I should return and search under that chair,” Rowe said, more to himself than us.
“I think it best I do it,” Joanna proposed.
“With all due respect, I very much doubt you would be able to distinguish a genuine Renoir from a well-forged one.”
“I am not interested in that distinction, but
