“This Harry Edmunds is no fool by any measure.”
“Indeed, for now he is thinking much as we do, which indicates we do not have a moment to lose.”
The phone rang and Joanna hurried to answer it. She smiled to us upon learning who was calling.
“Ah, Countess, how good of you to call,” Joanna greeted. “I trust your journey to Windsor was a success.”
Joanna listened patiently and responded intermittently with, “Yes … Yes, of course … Not too tiring then … Well, I am delighted with your early return, for we have need of your expertise on the Royal Art Collection … I am interested in all their paintings that were restored by Hawke and Evans over the past year or so.… Yes, yes, all of them, please.… To what end?… The apprehension of the art vandal of course.… Should we visit you, then?… Oh, that would be quite excellent. We shall look forward to your arrival.”
Joanna placed the phone down and quickly looked over to us. “Ha! Let us prepare for the countess. I will ask you two to fetch the blackboard and chalk that are gathering dust in our storage room. While you are away, I will collect all of our notes from Hawke and Evans.”
My father and I hurried to the storage room which was situated down the hall just beyond the staircase. We opened the door and entered what appeared to be a museum dedicated to Sherlock Holmes. There were dust-covered boxes and files stacked up against the wall, some with the Great Detective’s scribbled notes written upon them. On a rectangular table lay racks of test tubes and flasks and petri dishes whose contents had dried out long ago. Against the far wall was a blackboard, with several boxes of white chalk nearby. But what held my attention was the blackboard itself, for jotted upon it were the words Moriarty, Lestrade, Gregson, and Mycroft at the Diogenes Club. It was a journey into the past, and in my father’s eyes I could see the memories flashing by.
“Who was Gregson?” I asked.
“An inspector at Scotland Yard who, along with Lestrade, Holmes thought was the best of the lot,” my father replied.
“And this is Mycroft who was Sherlock Holmes’s brother and long believed to be his only living relative.”
“Before Joanna and young Johnny appeared.”
“What price would you pay to overhear a conversation between Joanna and her father, Sherlock?”
“Any amount you name.”
We moved the blackboard and boxes of chalk into the hall where we encountered Miss Hudson who gave us a somewhat disconcerting look.
“I would have gotten the blackboard for you, Dr. Watson,” said she.
“We did not wish to bother you,” my father offered as an excuse.
“It would have been no bother at all, Dr. Watson. None in the least.”
“You are always more than helpful, and next time I will be sure to call upon your excellent service. But in the meantime I have one small task for you to attend to.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Shortly, we will be visited by the Countess of Wessex. Please show her up immediately.”
Miss Hudson performed a slight curtsy, as if the countess was already in her presence. “I—I shall await her arrival.”
“Thank you, Miss Hudson.”
We wheeled the blackboard into our parlor and positioned it in the center of the room. Joanna briefly studied the names written upon it and, without showing even a hint of sentimentality, wiped it clean with a damp cloth.
“I have once again gone over the list of paintings restored at Hawke and Evans for the entire year prior to the forgers’ arrest. A total of fifty-five were done, thirty by Edmunds, twenty-five by Blackstone. Obviously, we should concentrate on those restored by the latter. Of the twenty-five attributed to Blackstone, fifteen have already been vandalized. Thus, there are only ten remaining and one of those holds the concealed masterpiece. We must choose which.”
“How do we go about making that selection?” asked I.
“By the process of elimination,” Joanna replied. “Please write the names of the artists on the blackboard as I call them out.”
“Should we list their paintings as well?” I queried.
“There is no need at this point.” Joanna referred to her notes and began reciting the names of the artists. “Bellini—Tintoretto—Titian—del Verrocchio—Veronese—Renoir—Pissarro—Botticelli—Caravaggio—Degas.”
She studied the list at length before turning to my father. “Now, Watson, I would like you to fetch our thick volume on Italian Renaissance painters and study their paintings as I call them out. In particular, I wish to know if the given work of art has angels in the background.”
Joanna waited for my father to open the volume and began naming the artists and their paintings that were on the list.
“Drunkenness of Noah by Bellini,” she called.
My father rapidly turned pages of the volume and, finding the correct painting, replied, “No angels.”
“Muse with Lute by Tintoretto.”
After thumbing through more pages, my father responded, “No angels.”
“Botticelli’s Saint Francis of Assisi with Angels.”
“Multiple angels.”
“Caravaggio’s The Entombment of Christ.”
“No angels.”
“Mars and Neptune by Veronese.”
“Multiple angels flying overhead and clearly visible.”
Joanna again referred to her notes. “There is no mention of whether these angels required restoration.”
“Is that important?” my father asked.
“Very, if my assumptions are correct,” Joanna replied and requested I underline the artist Veronese. “Last on the list is del Verrocchio’s The Baptism of Christ which we know had its angels beautifully restored, so underline his name as well. Thus, we have now narrowed it down to three.”
My father inquired, “What of Renoir, Pissarro, and Degas?”
Joanna dismissed those artists with a flick of her wrist. “The French impressionists never once painted an angel, which allows us to concentrate on Veronese, del Verrocchio, and Botticelli.”
“How can we possibly separate these three?” I asked.
“By their birthdays hopefully,” answered Joanna. “Now, Watson, please recite for us the dates of their births and deaths. And if you will, John, write these dates next to the artist’s name.”
My father began his recitation and, after each name, waited for me to
