“What were the sounds you heard?” Joanna asked.
“The dog growling and a small table lamp being overturned.” Lord Cromwell pointed to the small table on its side and a shattered lamp beside it. “I immediately dashed to a nearby den where I keep my hunting rifles and raced down the stairs, loading my weapon as I went. But I was too late. My son lay motionless, with a bleeding head wound and unable to utter even a single word. Our family doctor was summoned and, on examining the lad, rushed him to St. Bartholomew’s where he now clings to life.”
“I take it the dog was not allowed to freely roam the house.”
“At night he is kept in a room adjoining the kitchen.”
“So your son let him out just prior to encountering the intruder.”
“As he was instructed in the event of a break-in, for some years ago we had a similar event and the dog responded in a likewise fashion.”
“Thank you, Sir Charles, for that very excellent summary which I know was difficult for you,” Joanna said sympathetically. “Now I have one more unpleasant task for you. Please describe everything you saw on reaching the foyer, including the position of your son and the dog. I also need to know the placement of the slashed painting, as well as the nature of all the blood smears and splatter you saw.”
“You do realize the light in the foyer was quite dim,” Sir Charles cautioned.
“I do, so please give us your description once the light was adequate.”
Lord Cromwell motioned to the area directly beneath the dislodged painting. “My son lay there, bleeding from the back of his head. I could see a small pool of blood next to him. That pool was smeared by those of us who rushed to the lad’s side. The same holds true for the dog beside my son. But the blood from the hound appeared to have come in squirts, some even reaching the wall surrounding the painting. There were bloodied footprints within the foyer, but those too have been smeared by people coming and going after the burglar departed. There was the overturned furniture as I mentioned earlier.”
“That was most helpful,” Joanna said and walked over to the slashed painting which now rested at an angle. She paid particular notice to the blood smears that stained it, then held the cut edges of the canvas apart to study its backing. I leaned in and could see bloodstains there as well. Finally, Joanna brought the edges together and studied the painting itself. “This work of art is quite lovely. May I ask its title and artist?”
“The painting is named Saint Francis of Assisi with Angels and was done by the well-known Italian artist Sandro Botticelli.”
“From the Italian Renaissance, I gather.”
“The Early Renaissance.”
“May I ask where and when you obtained it?”
“I purchased it from an auction at Sotheby’s earlier this year for a thousand pounds. Its owner was a small church in northern England, where it had been discovered covered with dust in the attic of the vicar’s home. They were apparently most surprised at its value and were more than eager to sell it. Like most small churches, they were faith rich, money poor.”
“When did you take it to Hawke and Evans?” Joanna asked.
Lord Cromwell raised his brow, obviously surprised that Joanna was aware of this information. “On the day of the purchase, for the canvas was covered with a yellowing varnish and the angels in the background were badly faded. The restoration took months to complete, but the result was near perfection.” He glanced up at the damaged painting, shaking his head sadly. “And now look what this deranged man has done. I fear there is little hope it can be repaired.”
Joanna restudied the painting at length, which showed a robed St. Francis holding a wooden cross, with colorful angels hovering above. “You say that Botticelli’s angels were badly faded?”
“Quite so, but as you can see they had been beautifully restored,” replied Sir Charles.
“Their overall texture seems so real,” Joanna remarked. “They are reminiscent of the angel supposedly painted by Leonardo da Vinci in del Verrocchio’s The Baptism of Christ.”
“You have a keen eye, madam, for the very same comment was made by the appraiser at Sotheby’s,” Sir Charles said. “He also told me that it is believed that Botticelli and da Vinci were close friends and may have shared the same techniques early in their careers.”
Joanna’s eyes narrowed briefly. “Did they both train under del Verrocchio?”
“That I do not know, but surely Leonardo da Vinci did according to the appraiser.” Sir Charles gazed up at the painting and gently touched the canvas. “So much damage,” he said ruefully.
“Let us hope it can be restored.”
“I have my doubts, madam.”
“One never knows.”
“Oh, rest assured I will look into possible restoration, for the painting is so lovely, and works by Sandro Botticelli are rapidly disappearing from the marketplace.”
“Whatever the cost, I am certain it is worth restoring, for such works of art will increase in value manyfold as time passes.”
Sir Charles nodded slowly. “If its value would go to a million pounds, I would happily give it up, along with all of my other worldly possessions, just to see my boy return to his former self.”
“Let us pray he does.”
“And now, if you will excuse me, I must hurry to St. Bartholomew’s to join my wife who sits at the lad’s bedside.”
As Lord Cromwell dashed away I felt true sympathy for the man, for I could think of nothing sadder than the sorrow experienced by parents who have lost a child. It was not supposed to happen in that fashion. The child was meant
