“He remains in place,” Joanna reported as a transport roared by on the street below. “He appears to be by himself, but the weather makes it impossible to describe him.”
“Do you believe him to be Harry Edmunds?” my father asked.
“Perhaps.”
“Or perhaps someone sent by the Morrisons,” I speculated.
Joanna shook her head at the notion. “I am convinced that Freddie Morrison was persuaded by our disguises. Besides, that lot would never do business with us if they knew our true identity. They are far too clever to make that move.”
“So it is most likely Harry Edmunds,” I decided.
“That being the case, we should notify Scotland Yard immediately,” my father proposed. “Let us be rid of him, once and for all.”
“That would not serve our purpose at this juncture,” said Joanna.
“But it would serve society’s purpose to see him dangling from the end of a rope,” my father argued.
“Based on what charge?”
“Murder, of course.”
“Saying it is one matter, Watson; proving it is quite another,” Joanna challenged.
“He was responsible for the death of his cellmate at Wormwood Scrubs,” my father accused.
“It was a self-inflicted yet accidental explosion, which any worthwhile barrister would say.”
“But then, the death of James Blackstone, which would be undeniable with Harry Edmunds’s fingerprints on a brick that was stacked upon Blackstone’s lap.”
“One must be careful here,” Joanna pointed out. “Remember, it was Edmunds who was paid to do the masonry at Hawke and Evans, and that might account for his fingerprints being on a loose brick. Thus, if Edmunds was captured now and represented by a clever barrister, the best we might hope for was that he be returned to Wormwood Scrubs for an extended stay. And let me assure you the masterpiece would remain hidden until his eventual release.”
“So you believe it is in our best interest that he remain free,” my father gathered.
Joanna nodded. “If we wish to bring this case to a successful conclusion, with the masterpiece in hand.”
“But with this murderous villain surveilling us, does that not pose a danger?” my father warned. “Remember, it was no doubt he who threw the firebomb at us.”
“You are correct, Watson, in that there is indeed danger,” Joanna agreed. “For there can only be one purpose for his surveillance. He means to do us harm. For that very reason we must keep the drapes drawn at all times. And at night we should avoid walking in front of the drapes, for our shadows would be clearly visible from the street.”
“He would not dare to toss a firebomb at our window,” my father thought aloud. “It would be terribly difficult and too many things could go awry.”
“Recall the rifle shot from the moving lorry, which nearly cost us our lives,” Joanna reminded.
“Of course.”
“A repeat performance should be our greatest concern.”
24A Violent Break-In
Early the next morning we were notified that Harry Edmunds had struck again, this time at the home of Sir Charles Cromwell, a member of the House of Lords and a key advisor to King Edward. Sadly, violence had occurred once more, with Sir Charles’s young son grievously injured and the family dog stabbed to death. We could not help but wonder whether Harry Edmunds had been successful in his latest venture and now had the treasured masterpiece in hand.
“Was there any evidence to indicate that the masterpiece was hidden behind Lord Cromwell’s painting?” I inquired.
“Such as?” Joanna asked.
“Was the portrait slashed wide open or was the entire frame disassembled to facilitate extraction of the ancient painting?”
“Excellent points, neither of which were mentioned by Lestrade,” Joanna replied. “All we can deduct from the phone call is that our vandal has now become quite desperate.”
“Because of the violence?” my father inquired.
Joanna shook her head. “Because of the dog that was stabbed to death.”
“Pray tell what does the dog have to do with Edmunds’s desperation?” I queried.
“A family dog will bark loudly at any intruder,” Joanna explained. “Such barking will alert the family, which is the very last thing a burglar wants. In addition, a large hound can inflict serious wounds on an intruder, and one cannot always estimate the size of a dog by the quality of its bark. For these reasons, only a most foolish or desperate man would invade the house of a barking dog, and if anything Harry Edmunds is not foolish.”
“And his lack of funds surely adds to his desperation,” my father noted.
“Indeed it does, Watson, and his situation grows more dire by the day,” Joanna went on. “Recall that he now has no source of income, for his home remains under surveillance by Scotland Yard and thus any remaining caches of money are unavailable to him. Therefore, he is forced to hire third-rate lockpicks who are greatly in need of work and will do so at a minimal wage. Lockpicks of any merit will not come within a mile of Harry Edmunds, for they are fully aware of Scotland Yard’s keen interest in those who were associated with Edmunds in the past.”
“Perhaps he could obtain an advance from the Morrisons at the Angel pub,” I suggested.
“Only if he produces the masterpiece which he cannot,” said Joanna.
“So we are all in agreement that Harry Edmunds is most desperate because of a lack of funds, and this no doubt accounts for his risky behavior,” I stated.
“However, there is yet another reason for his latest perilous act,” my father proposed. “He may have discovered that the painting in the home of Sir Charles Cromwell held the concealed masterpiece. Thus, he was willing to take one final, dicey chance and put this business to an end.”
“That is a distinct possibility, and why we must hurry to the crime scene,” said Joanna. “The evidence there may tell us whether that has occurred.”
“Let us hope that Scotland Yard has not mucked up the telling evidence we require,” my father remarked.
“Why, Watson, you sound much like Sherlock Holmes.”
“It is an old habit of mine
