“Who will provide this information, pray tell?”
“The Countess of Wessex,” said Joanna and, using my father’s walking stick, rapped impatiently on the roof of our four-wheeler. “Faster, driver!”
25Setting a Trap
But alas, the Countess of Wessex was not at home to receive our phone call. She was away for the day visiting the Royal Art Collection at Windsor, and would not return until late afternoon. Joanna showed no disappointment in the delay. Quite to the contrary, she seemed quite pleased with it.
“For you see, Windsor holds the key to our mystery,” she said.
“You will have to explain this connection to us, Joanna,” my father implored. “For we do not see this key you continually refer to.”
“First, it must be determined if my assumptions are correct,” Joanna replied. “If the countess confirms my beliefs, then all will become clear. But for now, we should concern ourselves with what we know to be fact.”
“Where should we begin?” I asked.
“With the discovery of the masterpiece, which beyond any doubt was found at Hawke and Evans by James Blackstone,” said Joanna. “After uncovering the masterpiece, Blackstone brought Edmunds in as a partner for unknown reasons.”
“Perhaps because they were already partners from selling their forgeries on the black market,” I suggested.
“Or perhaps because Edmunds was far more familiar with dealings on the black market,” my father proposed.
“All distinct possibilities, but difficult to prove at this juncture,” said Joanna. “In any event, once the masterpiece was uncovered, the restorers decided initially to keep it for themselves. Now here is where Harry Edmunds no doubt plays an important role, for he and his wife frequent the Angel pub which is owned and operated by the Morrison family who are key figures in London’s underworld and will serve as middlemen for the sale of the masterpiece. But shortly thereafter, the picture becomes somewhat murky in that the partnership comes apart, and Blackstone decides to hide the da Vinci painting behind yet another undisclosed painting without informing Edmunds. I cannot help but wonder if Blackstone had a change of heart and wanted to return the masterpiece to its rightful owner for a substantial reward which they would all share in.”
“Which would be a pittance when compared to what the da Vinci would fetch on the black market,” I noted.
“Edmunds of course would have no part of this honorable act, and had Blackstone tortured in an effort to pry the location of the masterpiece from him,” my father concluded.
“Which brings David Hughes onto the scene,” Joanna went on. “From what we know, Harry Edmunds does not have this type of violent past, and thus needed someone with such a history to do the torturing for him.”
“But there was a vicious side to Harry Edmunds,” my father remarked. “He stabbed a security guard at Hawke and Evans and brutally beat Sir Charles’s son. In addition, he killed his cellmate to gain early release from prison.”
“The latter was done out of desperation and did not require hands-on torturing that can only be done by the most cruel of men, which Edmunds is not,” Joanna argued. “In the first two instances, I believe he was acting in self-defense. The lad’s head struck the marble floor after he was shoved away or fell after he was hit by Edmunds. The security guard, like Cromwell’s rottweiler, was stabbed only in the heat of battle. So, in all likelihood, Edmunds knew of Hughes’s extreme viciousness from the time they spent together at Wormwood Scrubs, and wished to take advantage of it.”
“Do you believe Hughes assisted Edmunds in the fiery death of Derrick Wilson?” I asked.
“An interesting possibility, and one I had not thought of,” Joanna said, with a thin smile.
“Using your criminal instincts, how would Hughes lend a hand in burning Wilson to a char?” my father queried.
Joanna pondered the question for a few moments before answering. “He could participate in a number of ways, but the most likely scenario goes as follows. While Edmunds was concocting a batch of solvent, Hughes, who was some distance away, either handed or somewhat attached a lighted cigarette to Derrick Wilson who then unwittingly walked over to the open container of solvent which Edmunds had now deserted. And boom!”
“It would be interesting to determine if Hughes had a history of arson,” my father wondered.
“We should ask Lestrade,” Joanna said, then continued on. “So now Edmunds was free and contacted Hughes at some predetermined place. They plan and carry out the gruesome torture of Blackstone who, despite the agonizing pain, refused to disclose the location of the hidden masterpiece, which should surely fetch a fortune.”
“Of which David Hughes would never see a farthing,” I predicted.
“Of course not,” Joanna concurred. “There was no need to inform Hughes of the masterpiece.”
“So Hughes was paid with Blackstone’s ticket to Australia and went on his way, never knowing of the fortune he was missing out on.”
“Leaving Edmunds behind to search for the concealed masterpiece.”
“Which accounts for him slashing all those wonderful works of art on the west side of London.”
“But why did he initially slash only those paintings that featured a portrait of a woman?” I asked.
“Here I am guessing, but I think it is a quite good guess based on the clues we have uncovered,” Joanna replied. “I believe Blackstone finally broke under the intolerable pain and gave them an incorrect answer to stop the pain.”
“He told Edmunds the masterpiece was hidden behind a woman’s portrait!” I exclaimed.
“My thought exactly,” Joanna said. “Now that Edmunds had the information, he had Blackstone killed and went on his wild-goose chase. Edmunds only learned of this misinformation when he slashed open the last of the female portraits which had been restored at Hawke and Evans. Then he began with the other paintings on the list, the first of which was Botticelli’s Saint Francis of Assisi with Angels.”
“Was there a reason he began with the Botticelli?” my father asked.
“Of that I cannot be certain,” Joanna
