“You are assuming they remain in contact.”
“A reasonable assumption.”
“But even if she has this knowledge, chances are she will clam up and do everything in her power to protect him.”
“Clams can be opened when ample heat is applied,” Joanna retorted, and walked over to gather up Rowe’s hat and topcoat. “Thank you ever so much for providing this important information.”
“I can only hope it will bring down the savage who murdered my dear friend James Blackstone.”
“We shall see,” said Joanna, and upon opening the door asked a final question. “Does the name David Hughes have any meaning to you?”
“Not offhand,” Rowe replied.
“Please be good enough to review the notes and articles in which Blackstone contributed and see if the name David Hughes appears.”
“I shall at my earliest opportunity,” Rowe assured. “Is he important?”
“Quite,” Joanna said and left it at that.
21A Near Miss
That evening we decided to celebrate Johnny’s departure for Eton with a fine dinner at Gennaro’s, a small restaurant just down the way on Baker Street. Although Christmas would soon be upon us, the lad wished to return to the school for the examinations he missed while sick with cholera in London. He would then return home to enjoy the merriest of holidays with us.
“What examinations are these?” Joanna asked, as we started on strawberry tiramisus after our most excellent veal dishes.
“German and Egyptian Hieroglyphics,” Johnny replied.
“I was unaware that Egyptian hieroglyphics was actually a course at Eton.”
“It is not, Mother, but rather an elective subject I chose out of interest.”
“Then why must you take an examination and be graded?”
“Only because I wish to see how well I am performing in this most fascinating study.”
“So you seem to be truly enjoying it.”
“I am indeed, for it presents mysteries within itself. For example, there are no vowels and no punctuation marks, only pictures which can have several meanings depending on what comes before and after it.”
“It sounds like a rather strange alphabet.”
“It is quite strange, yet clearly decipherable. A picture of a vulture is an A and a foot is a B, and so on. Interestingly enough, a forearm responds to the letters Ah.”
“And how do you plan to use this knowledge of Egyptian hieroglyphics?” I asked.
“As a way to exercise my brain, of course,” Johnny responded as he made short work of his tiramisu.
My father smiled at the lad and said, “I am not certain your grandfather would have approved of this exercise.”
“Why not, may I ask?”
“Because Sherlock Holmes believed the brain was like a small, empty attic and you have to stock it with only important information that will serve you well in the future. To his way of thinking, this space is not elastic and once filled will accept no more. Therefore, you must be very selective in what you choose to store away.”
Johnny dropped his fork and gave the matter considerable thought before asking, “Did my grandfather ever encounter a case that involved Egyptian hieroglyphics?”
“Not to my knowledge,” my father answered.
“Had he, I am certain he would have approved of my current studies.”
Joanna chuckled softly at the interchange. “I would pay a hefty sum to listen in on a conversation between Sherlock Holmes and his grandson.”
“As would I,” said my father.
I was about to signal our waiter for more coffee when my gaze went to the restaurant’s front window that overlooked Baker Street. Peering in from the darkness was a hatted figure whose neck seemed to disappear into his chest. I gestured to the nearby waiter by pointing to my cup, and when I looked back at the window the man was gone. Probably some poor chap, I thought, who could never afford the delicious meal we had just enjoyed.
“Do you think Grandfather Holmes would have taken note of my deduction on the woman’s afghan?” Johnny was asking his mother.
“He would have been delighted,” Joanna replied. “And he would have been most interested to learn how the true blood splatter led to the arrest of the murderer in the Dupont case.”
“You will recall that the hanging weight of the afghan distorted the original pattern,” Johnny said and waited for us all to nod. “Good.” He then went on, “Now, the altered pattern showed primarily pooled blood which was believed to have come from her severed jugular vein. Blood coming from a cut vein simply flows out, does it not, Dr. Watson?”
“Correct,” my father answered.
“When the afghan was rearranged to its unstretched setting, the blood splatter resembled that made by intermittent spurts, which would occur if the bloodletting came from an artery. And the poor woman had her carotid artery severed, among her other stab wounds.”
“But how did the apparent arterial exsanguination lead to the murderer?” my father asked.
“The husband’s alibi was that he was asleep in the adjoining bedroom,” Johnny explained. “When the bedroom was reexamined, the blood splatter on the walls had for the most part been washed off. But the splatter on the carpet could not be expunged and showed a pattern consistent with arterial spurting. Thus, she was obviously not murdered in the parlor, but in the bedroom, and her husband’s alibi fell apart.”
“Hmm,” Joanna hummed to herself. “I find it remarkable that a French detective would be so familiar with afghans.”
“He wasn’t,” said Johnny. “He was discussing the case with his wife who happened to be an experienced knitter. It was she who provided the clue that led to the case being solved.”
“I do not believe we will be so fortunate when we look under the afghan of Harry Edmunds’s wife,” I surmised.
“One never knows,” Joanna said. “Nonetheless, Lestrade seemed keen on the idea and will have a Scotland Yard detective accompany us to the wife’s house which gives our visit an official flavor. He, by the way, also believes the wife is every bit aware of Edmunds’s forgery activities.”
“Does he have proof in that regard?” my father
