“But all the same, I shall now carry my service revolver at all times,” said my father.
“Better safe than sorry,” Joanna agreed.
“Indeed,” my father concurred, with a grim expression that told me he would have no hesitancy in dispatching Harry Edmunds should the occasion arise.
22The Wife
Harry Edmunds’s wife lived in a shabby, two-story brick house on the eastern edge of Brixton. Its shutters were in need of repair and a small shed in the back garden had not seen a coat of paint for years on end. After allowing us entrance, a stoic Charlotte Edmunds returned to her oversized chair and went back to knitting without saying a word. Within the parlor, there were no signs of newfound wealth other than the excellent copies of paintings by French impressionists that hung on every wall. Even as Joanna examined a Renoir with a magnifying glass, the wife showed no concern and continued to knit the giant afghan which covered her lap before dropping down to the floor. I had difficulty not gazing at the afghan in anticipation of Joanna searching beneath it.
“The Renoirs are of course unsigned,” she reported.
“So they would not appear to be forgeries that would eventually be placed on the black market,” I noted.
If Charlotte Edmunds was troubled by the term black market, she showed no hint of it as she effortlessly knitted a large loop.
“I wonder whether he planned to place Renoir’s signature on them later,” I said.
“Most unlikely, according to Edwin Alan Rowe,” Joanna replied. “Apparently newly placed pigment is difficult to age and match the paint which has already been applied.”
“So many Renoirs,” I remarked.
“That is where his talent lay,” said Joanna, while turning a painting to examine its backing. “Harry Edmunds was a master of details, which are the hallmarks of Auguste Renoir’s works.”
My gaze went from one painting to the next to the next. “Edmunds must have enjoyed viewing his own forgeries. I would agree that he is truly an egotist.”
“Or perhaps hanging the copies was a convenient way to store the forgeries until he decided to dispose of them,” Joanna surmised. “In all likelihood, these were copies which were not nearly as good as other finished products and were thus of no value to him.”
“Yet, for all his cleverness, he still made a mistake in his forgeries,” I recalled.
That comment caused the wife’s eyelids to open just a fraction, but they quickly resumed their previous half-lidded position. Charlotte Edmunds was a rather attractive woman, in her midthirties I would guess, with catlike features and auburn hair that was severely drawn back into a tight bun. But there was a coldness about her that was unmistakable. For some reason she reminded me of the tricoteuse, the knitting women who sat around the guillotine waiting for heads to roll during the French Revolution.
Joanna examined and replaced the last of the Renoirs, then strolled over to Charlotte Edmunds and asked, “Would you be good enough to lift the unfinished afghan from your lap?”
Charlotte did so without hesitation. Her lap was empty.
“Now, if you would, please stand,” Joanna requested.
Again Charlotte did so without hesitation. There was nothing beneath the chair’s cushion or under the oversized chair itself.
“And now please allow me to frisk your clothing.”
Charlotte raised her arms above her head instantly, as if she knew the routine for being searched. She had an ample bosom and broad waist, both of which showed through her tight-fitting sweater. The skirt of her dress was far more expansive, with multiple pleats and folds. Joanna gently ran her hands down the garment from collar to hem and found nothing of interest.
“Disappointed, are you?” Charlotte finally spoke.
“It was what I expected,” Joanna replied. “Scotland Yard no doubt caught you unaware on their initial visit and you were forced to improvise. I suspect you learned from that experience.”
“You are wasting your time,” Charlotte said in a neutral tone.
“We shall see.” Joanna gave the parlor a last, careful survey before requesting the wife follow us into the kitchen. The sergeant from Scotland Yard stayed at the door, his posture erect, his holstered revolver partially visible.
The kitchen itself was quite small, but had a surprisingly large pantry that was packed with expensive goods. There were jars of Fortnum & Mason marmalade and tins of beluga caviar from Harrods. On a top shelf were assorted spices from Asia and basmati rice from India.
“You live well,” Joanna remarked. “These items are far beyond the reach of most people.”
“These goodies bring me a bit of cheer,” Charlotte said. “What with my husband facing jail time and all.”
“I take it they were purchased by your husband well before he was apprehended for forgery,” Joanna surmised.
“Oh, months before,” Charlotte said. “Harry went to the fancy stores after work on numerous occasions. He once told me that the excess money came as a bonus for the restoration he did on a most important painting. I had no idea he was involved in anything illegal. Why, he even encouraged me to spend more and more, for there were yet additional bonuses coming his way.”
“Was it also his suggestion that you purchase an expensive dress from Selfridges?”
“He insisted on it.”
This Charlotte Edmunds was a most clever woman, I thought to myself, and certainly not one who could be easily outwitted. But then again the answers she was giving were in a way rehearsed, for they were no doubt asked earlier by Scotland Yard.
“He was most generous,” said Joanna.
“To a fault,” Charlotte agreed.
“Does he still tell you to continue your extravagant ways?” asked Joanna.
“Oh, no,” Charlotte replied at once. “He has instructed me to—” She caught her first mistake and quickly backtracked. “Before his death he instructed me to be very careful with my spending, for I could no longer depend on his income or any surprise bonuses.”
So, I deduced, Charlotte knows her husband is alive and that was obvious from her use of the present
