“A broad blood smear,” Lestrade reported.
“From Edmunds’s hand, no doubt,” Joanna added.
“Which indicates he reached in and could not find the masterpiece, so he moved his hand around, searching, in the event the prized painting was hidden off to the side.”
“Masterpiece is the key word here, Inspector. Harry Edmunds was an experienced restorer and knew all about ancient, fragile works of art. Even in his haste, he would never smear blood about the inner canvas in such a casual fashion. Thus, I think it fair to say he reached in and, finding nothing, left a large blood smear behind, which has a fingerprint or two embedded in it.”
“And so he will strike yet again,” Lestrade concluded.
Joanna nodded in agreement. “He is now truly desperate because of a lack of funds, and the only person he can turn to is his wife. You would be wise to keep a most careful eye on Charlotte Edmunds.”
“We have her under surveillance day and night.”
My father interjected, “It is unfortunate that you had to release her on bail.”
“Actually I preferred it,” Lestrade said. “Were she in jail, her husband would never dare to contact her. On the outside, he might well chance it. For that very reason, I have two of our best men surveilling her. If she chooses to sneeze, one of our watchers could hand her a handkerchief.”
“Do you have female police officers at Scotland Yard?” Joanna asked.
“We do indeed,” Lestrade replied. “Most are matrons, but we have several female officers who I must say are working out splendidly.”
“Then I would assign one to the surveillance team, for Harry and Charlotte Edmunds are a most clever pair.”
“But what purpose would the addition of a female surveillance officer serve?” Lestrade asked.
“If Charlotte wishes to transfer funds to her husband, she might accomplish the act in a public lavatory reserved for women. Harry of course would have entered wearing an appropriate disguise.”
“Do you truly believe they are that clever?”
“A man who can burn his cellmate into an unrecognizable char and take his place for early discharge is beyond clever.”
I had to smile to myself as I remembered one of Joanna’s cardinal rules which was said to also be used by her father, Sherlock Holmes. In order to catch a cunning criminal, you must think like one.
“Are you not convinced that you discovered all of the cash caches that Charlotte Edmunds had hidden away?” asked Lestrade.
“We found only those tainted by the aroma of coal tar,” Joanna answered. “There may be others.”
“Indeed,” Lestrade said and began to depart, then abruptly turned to us. “In all the turmoil and excitement, I neglected to give you a most important piece of information. We have uncovered the whereabouts of the mysterious David Hughes.”
We moved in closer so as not to miss a word, for here was a missing link that could throw light on our most puzzling case.
“On further examination of the fireplace where the corpse was stored away, we found a hammer which was no doubt used to break bones and inflict torture. A fingerprint was gotten off the handle of the hammer and was shown to belong to one David Hughes, a nasty piece of work from Liverpool. His record revealed multiple arrests, with conviction for assault with a deadly weapon, for which he was imprisoned at Wormwood Scrubs. He was known to be friends with Harry Edmunds in that they served their time in adjoining cells. He was released a month prior to Edmunds’s escape. What is equally as interesting is that Hughes was a jack-of-all-trades and worked as a stonemason before turning to crime.”
“So it was he, along with Edmunds, who bricked in the fireplace,” said I.
“And fingerprints on the bricks and tools revealed that both participated in the torture,” Lestrade added. “We also have a third set of fingerprints on two bricks that are proving difficult to identify.”
The third man! I thought to myself. Joanna had predicted that it would require a threesome to stuff the large corpse into the relatively small fireplace.
“In any event, all of England was searching for this man, for yet another brutal assault, but with little success,” Lestrade continued on. “Then good fortune came our way. The Australian police, who were also on the lookout for David Hughes, reported that he was killed in a bar fight outside Adelaide.”
“Thus he did in fact use James Blackstone’s ticket to Australia after all,” said Joanna. “And I suspect that the ticket was payment to Hughes for his participation in the torture of Blackstone.”
Lestrade sighed resignedly. “All no doubt true, but I am afraid this brings us no closer to the apprehension of Harry Edmunds.”
We bade Lestrade farewell and departed the elegant but sad home of Sir Charles Cromwell, where a most unhappy tragedy was unfolding. Our mood was somber, for despite an abundance of clues Harry Edmunds remained on the loose and was sure to strike again and perhaps bring even more violence with him. But as our four-wheeler approached Hyde Park, Joanna abruptly sat up in her seat.
“I almost missed it!” she proclaimed. “And it was right before my eyes!”
“What?” I asked quickly.
“The most important clue!”
“Which is?”
“Botticelli’s painting with the faded angels that required restoration.”
My father and I exchanged puzzled glances, for we had no idea of their significance. How could one relate Botticelli’s angels to the vandalism incurred by Harry Edmunds?
“Think!” Joanna encouraged. “In addition to the faded angels, what was so curious about the painting?”
We had no answer.
“There was no female portrait,” Joanna said, now gleefully rubbing her hands together. “It showed only Saint Francis and the angels.”
“And what does that tell us?” my father asked.
“Everything,” Joanna replied. “Now we only require one more piece of
