“How did you predict that Hawke would be waiting behind the National Gallery?” Lestrade interrupted.
“There is no honor among thieves, Inspector,” Joanna replied. “And now that both men knew of the exact location of the masterpiece, Hawke would be justifiably concerned that Edmunds would snatch the da Vinci and disappear.”
“It was a stupid move on Hawke’s part,” said I.
“Greed often supersedes good sense,” Joanna agreed. “In any event, when I handed him the del Verrocchio, he said and I quote, ‘Ah, you have it!’ With this in mind, I believe any hard-nosed British jury would find Hawke guilty and march him straight to the gallows.”
“But they would have no evidence to merit capital punishment,” Lestrade pointed out. “As a matter of fact, we have no proof that he was in any way involved or participated in the murder of James Blackstone.”
“I believe you have that in your possession,” said Joanna.
Lestrade’s eyes narrowed. “Pray tell, madam, where can I find such evidence?”
“It will be found on the bricks that covered the lap of the corpse,” Joanna directed. “You must restudy the fingerprints on their surfaces.”
“But the only identifiable prints belonged to Harry Edmunds and David Hughes.”
“But there was a third set which you have been unable to identify, is there not?”
“There is.”
“I am confident you will discover they match nicely with those you obtain from Simon Hawke, for he is the sort of man who would find the torturing distasteful but would eagerly participate in hiding the corpse.”
We spontaneously broke into applause at Joanna’s remarkable deductions. She bowed with a cock of her head, much like a maestro acknowledging the adulation of his audience. A brief blush came to her face before she returned to the business at hand.
“And the final piece of the puzzle is how the location of the hidden da Vinci was uncovered,” Joanna recommenced. “Here, I cannot take full credit, for I required the assistance of Edwin Alan Rowe and Lady Katherine. Early on, Blackstone must have known that his life was in danger because of his insistence that the masterpiece be returned to the Crown. An honorable man, such as he, would devise a plan that could lead others to the da Vinci, should the worst befall him. He entrusted this scheme to his dear friend, Edwin Alan Rowe, in a riddle-game they often played. The message in the riddle was Angels to a Perfect Angel, which Rowe was unable to decipher. Then came the crucial clue, when Edmunds invaded the home of Sir Charles Cromwell and sliced open the painting by Botticelli, which showed angels that had been restored at Hawke and Evans. These were the leading angels Blackstone had mentioned in his riddle, for they had been painted by Sandro Botticelli who worked alongside Leonardo da Vinci in Andrea del Verrocchio’s workshop. Now recall that Blackstone had restored both Botticelli’s Saint Francis of Assisi with Angels and del Verrocchio’s The Baptism of Christ, the latter containing the perfect angel, a subject upon which Mr. Rowe once wrote an enlightening monograph.”
“The angel was so magnificent that del Verrocchio knew he could never match da Vinci’s skill, and thus gave up painting and returned to sculpting,” Rowe continued with the most interesting details. “Da Vinci’s angel was said by all to be perfect in every way. This then was the perfect angel James Blackstone was referring to in his riddle.”
“So very clever,” Joanna noted. “He used Botticelli’s angels to lead us to da Vinci’s, and da Vinci’s angel led us to the masterpiece.”
“Angels to a perfect angel,” Lady Katherine repeated softly. “So it would seem in the end that James Blackstone outwitted his murderers after all. How remarkable!”
“And what is even more remarkable,” said Joanna, pushing her chair back and reaching for her purse, “is that he did it from his grave.”
CLOSURE
My father, young Johnny, and I sat around a cheery fire and sipped eggnog as we awaited Joanna, whom Lestrade had called and invited to witness a most pivotal and deciding clue. Thus, our four-wheeler had deposited Joanna at Scotland Yard while we continued on our way to Paddington station to fetch Johnny who had now completed his school activities at Eton. Of course the young lad asked question after question about the case of The Art of Deception, but was most interested in how his mother had tracked down the soon-to-be-famous original portrait of Mona Lisa. When told of the riddle left behind by James Blackstone, he gleefully rubbed his hands together and said, “There is truly nothing better than a mystery within a mystery!” My father and I exchanged delighted glances, for once again we were witnessing the genes of Sherlock Holmes residing at 221b Baker Street.
As more logs were being added to the fire, Joanna hurried in carrying two very gaily wrapped packages. After giving Johnny a warm embrace and tousling his hair affectionately, she came over and joined us at the fireside.
She accepted a brimming glass of eggnog with pleasure before explaining the ribboned packages. “They are gifts for Miss Hudson, who richly deserves them for her excellent attention to our needs.”
“Hear! Hear!” I agreed heartily. “Might we know what they are?”
“A Harris tweed sweater from you, Watson, and me,” Joanna replied. “And a beautifully stitched pair of leather gloves from Johnny, whom she cares about so deeply.”
“Hear! Hear!” the three of us shouted approvingly.
“And now to Lestrade’s pivotal clue, which will be a fine present for us all.”
The three of us leaned in closer to catch every word.
“You will recall there was no definite evidence linking Simon Hawke to the murder of James Blackstone,” Joanna went on. “Well, there is now. Mr. Hawke was good enough to leave his fingerprints on several bricks which sat upon the lap of the corpse.”
“That may well merit a walk to the gallows,” my father predicted.
“Or a very, very long stay at Pentonville, if the charge is accessory to murder,” said Joanna.
“With all the misery
