On that note we departed 221b Baker Street and hurried in a four-wheeler to the Knightsbridge address of Sir Charles Cromwell. We remained silent until we passed along Hyde Park and approached Harrods department store where Charlotte Edmunds had purchased a variety of expensive goods, most notably tins of beluga caviar. Our conversation turned to the wife who we were certain was an accomplice. Lestrade had called to inform us that she had appeared before a magistrate and been granted bail since no specific charges had yet been made. She had hired a first-rate barrister which indicated she had more than sufficient funds at her disposal, which also indicated she had additional caches of cash hidden away in her home that we had not discovered. The possibility existed that she might secretively attempt to pass money to her husband, but this was deemed unlikely to occur since she remained under close surveillance by Scotland Yard. Nevertheless, Joanna cautioned that should Edmunds gain possession of the masterpiece, there existed the very real possibility that he and his wife might attempt to flee the country.
“And here is where the ocean liner tickets mentioned in Edmunds’s last letter come into play,” Joanna recalled.
“The well-thought-out escape,” I noted.
“Exactly,” Joanna agreed. “But they would in all likelihood use aliases when booking passage, so not only should the ship’s manifest be studied, but Scotland Yard should also have the passengers surveilled at the time of boarding.”
“Of course they might be clever enough to don disguises and board separately,” my father pointed out. “And that set of circumstances would make apprehension most difficult.”
“Then we should convince Scotland Yard to question each passenger as they board,” I proposed.
“That would be too time consuming and besides, if they are clever enough to wear disguises, they would be clever enough to have cover stories,” said Joanna.
“So they might well slip through our fingers,” I concluded.
“But not by Toby Two’s nose that would accompany the police and sniff each passenger for the distinct aroma of coal tar,” Joanna said, thinking two steps ahead of Harry and Charlotte Edmunds.
My father growled under his breath. “Scotland Yard did us no favor by releasing Charlotte Edmunds which complicates matters even further.”
“They had no choice, Watson,” said Joanna. “Unfortunately, she could not be charged because her involvement could not be proven. The magistrate would have to be convinced that Charlotte Edmunds either knew of or participated in the murders or break-ins. There is no evidence to back up these assertions. Furthermore, a hidden, forged Renoir and concealed caches of money are not crimes in and of themselves, nor are innocent letters which we decoded to our satisfaction. With this in mind, a good barrister would have her released in a matter of hours. I am afraid the best Scotland Yard could do was establish a police bail, in which a suspect is released without being charged but must return to the police station at a given date.”
“During which time she and her husband could flee England.”
“Sadly so.”
Our carriage turned onto Sloane Square and pulled up in front of an impressive, three-story brick house, with window frames that were painted a sparkling white. Its door was solid mahogany, the brass fittings polished and gleaming. All of the drapes were drawn.
A uniformed constable was standing guard on the steps and recognized us from a previous investigation. With a tip of his hat, he moved aside and allowed us immediate entrance.
The crime had occurred in an eye-catching foyer that was richly appointed and spoke of refined wealth. It was done in white marble, with a broad mahogany staircase in its center. On the walls were paintings from the Italian Renaissance, one of which was slashed and smeared with blood. There were also blood splatters on the white marble floor and on the wall alongside the vandalized painting.
Lestrade hurried over to greet us, carefully avoiding the bloodstains on the floor. “Thank you for responding so quickly,” said he. “I have tried to keep the crime scene intact, but unfortunately it has been marred by those who came to the aid of the gravely injured son.”
“What is the nature of the lad’s injury?” my father asked.
“I am afraid it is most serious, Dr. Watson,” Lestrade replied. “As he was beaten down to the floor, his head hit hard marble, which resulted in a skull fracture. He is currently hospitalized at St. Bartholomew’s where his very survival is in doubt.”
“Do you know if it was an open fracture?”
“That I cannot answer, but the pool of dried blood you see to your right apparently came from the lad’s head injury.”
“Let us pray it is not an open fracture, for if it is, there is little chance he will survive.”
Our conversation was interrupted by the approach of a tall, lean man, in his late middle years, with silver gray hair and sharp aristocratic features. His nose was aquiline, his face haggard and drawn, and there was caked blood on his hands.
“Ah, Sir Charles, allow me to introduce you to the Watsons,” Lestrade greeted.
Sir Charles Cromwell gave us a brief nod and said, “I do hope you can bring this madness to an end.”
“We shall do our best,” Joanna responded. “But we must hear from you every detail of what transpired last night.”
Sir Charles sighed wearily. “Again?”
“Again,” Joanna implored. “For even the smallest clue may be important in bringing the man who perpetrated this vicious act to justice.”
“Very well,” Sir Charles said and sighed once more before beginning his sad story. “In the early morning hours, say about two, our dog Oliver started barking, which was not all that unusual, for he and the dog next door often exchange late-evening bouts of barking. But the noise continued and I soon became aware that there was no barking from the neighbor’s dog. My son apparently did so as well and hurried downstairs to investigate, where he was savagely—” Sir Charles choked on his words for a moment before regaining his
