“She had to,” Joanna agreed. “How else could she understand the code?”
“The information in outline could have been passed during her visits to the prison,” the sergeant added. “They no doubt used imprecise wording that only they could understand.”
“Clever pair, these two,” Joanna noted, opening the second envelope after reading its postmark. “The next letter was mailed from Wormwood Scrubs a week before Edmunds’s escape.”
Again I peered over her shoulder as she read aloud from the neatly written letter.
My dearest wife,
The early release program I mentioned earlier looks more and more promising. As I go through the various steps, the news may be upsetting to you, but rest assured all is not what it seems. There will be no need for tears, for in the end all will work out well.
Eternally yours,
Harry
“The upsetting news is the notice she will receive that her husband died in a fiery explosion,” Joanna deciphered. “Then he writes that all is not what it seems, which translates that it was Derrick Wilson who died and not me. So she had no need for tears and thus did not provide a proper burial for him.”
“She really should have,” I thought aloud. “A grieving widow at graveside would have added a nice touch.”
“Indeed,” Joanna concurred, reaching for the third and final letter. “This is the one which should tell us the most, for it is dated after Harry Edmunds’s escape. With a little luck, it will speak of his future plans.”
This letter was not as neatly written as the others, but was still clearly legible.
My dearest wife,
Please prepare for our future. As in your dreams, there should be two tickets to Canada in hand for early January. Be like an Angel and meet me on the Road to Paradise at a time that is special to you.
Eternally yours,
Harry
“So,” Joanna interpreted, “the loving couple plan to travel to Canada in early January, no doubt on a posh ocean liner. Those tickets will be quite expensive which indicates his wife knows where their hidden money is located. It also tells us that Edmunds has narrowed down the list of paintings that could conceal the masterpiece, for why else would he request tickets be scheduled for an early January departure. That is only two weeks from now, during which time he not only has to take possession of the masterpiece, but sell it as well.”
“Which means Harry Edmunds will strike again very soon,” I surmised.
“That is a certainty, but where is another matter,” Joanna said, then reexamined the final letter. “And he wrote to meet his wife at a specific time and a place characterized by the words angel, road, and paradise. These three words all have their first letter capitalized, which indicates their importance.”
The shed went silent as we attempted to decipher an address which somehow fit the three capitalized words. Could they represent a district, a street or neighborhood, or perhaps a restaurant they once frequented? The possibilities seemed endless, but we continued to seek an answer, for it represented the opportunity to capture Edmunds before or shortly after he struck again.
Joanna reached for a cigarette, but decided against it when she considered the straw on the floor and the thatched roof of the shed. Instead, she turned to Charlotte Edmunds and warned, “You would be wise to give it up, for you are clearly an accessory to these crimes which include murder. The court may be lenient if you cooperate.”
Charlotte parted her lips as if she was about to speak, then firmly closed them.
“Your choice,” said Joanna before returning to the problem at hand. “Is there a street or avenue that carries the name of Angel or Paradise?”
“There is an Old Paradise Street in Lambert,” my father offered. “And a Paradise Street in southeast London.”
“Are there any establishments of note on those streets?” Joanna asked at once.
“I believe there is a pub or two on the street in Lambert,” my father recalled.
“Do their names come to you?” Joanna urged.
My father thought back, then slowly shook his head. “It was so long ago that they may no longer be standing.”
The sergeant suddenly snapped his fingers. “I am familiar with the Paradise Street in south London. We made a counterfeit pinch there a few years back.”
“Is there a pub or such nearby?”
The sergeant nodded quickly. “A pub called the Angel, for that is where the arrest took place.”
Joanna stared at Charlotte. “You are involved neck-deep and it may work to your benefit to tell us when the meeting with your husband will take place.”
“I know nothing,” Charlotte insisted.
“To the contrary, you know everything and when you undergo a good and proper questioning at Scotland Yard, I believe all will be revealed.” Joanna gestured to the sergeant who placed handcuffs on the wife. “You have one last chance, Mrs. Edmunds.”
Charlotte smirked at Joanna. “I am smart enough to know that you cannot force a wife to testify against her husband.”
“Your testimony will not be required,” Joanna rebutted. “For the hidden money and Renoir and the letters from your husband will speak volumes.”
“But it does not implicate me in murder.”
“We shall let the court decide that.”
As Charlotte was being led away, I asked, “Why in the world would she hold onto those incriminating letters?”
“It is a fatal flaw women have,” Joanna replied. “We keep all letters from a loved one, as if they are some sort of sacred document. Women are very sentimental, you see; men are not.”
“But in a way those letters incriminate her husband as well,” I noted.
Joanna smiled briefly and said, “There was a famous American lawyer who once warned—‘Do right and fear no man, don’t write and fear no woman.’ These letters not only incriminate, but show that the crimes were premeditated.”
“Edmunds will surely see the gallows, but I suspect his wife, assuming she has a good barrister, will receive a relatively light sentence.”
“Female accessories usually do.”
“But despite all the evidence, we are no closer to resolution,” my father interjected. “It is quite
