The Art of Deception Read online

  “The Michelangelo who adorned the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel?” I asked.

  “No, no,” Rowe replied promptly. “That was Michelangelo Buonarroti. The hidden masterpiece was done by Michelangelo da Caravaggio, who was every bit as talented as Buonarroti. Some actually consider Caravaggio the superior of the two.”

  “Was your colleague successful?” Joanna inquired.

  Rowe shook his head, with a quick smile. “Fortunately my colleague was a better historian than thief.”

  “Are you suggesting our vandal read some ancient scroll?” Joanna asked in disbelief.

  “That is most unlikely unless he is well versed in the Italian language and a scholar in Italian art from long ago,” Rowe replied. “More likely, assuming there is hidden art, I would think your vandal learned the secret from another thief, and he was told that the site of the hidden art centers around the portrait of a woman. Perhaps the words or message would state that the painting is concealed behind the lady or that a lady’s face cloaks it. This blends in nicely with the vandal slashing open portraits of women.”

  “Given all the possibilities, which would be your best assessment?” Joanna requested.

  “Your vandal is someone who knows art and knows his way around art galleries. He in all likelihood learned of this information by word of mouth from an art thief or perhaps through a forger. By all accounts he is clever and has attempted to disguise his true purpose with the outward appearance of vandalism. If he has accomplished his goal, there will be no further acts of vandalism. If he has not, expect more until he finds the hidden painting.”

  On that note, we thanked Edwin Alan Rowe for his time and advice, and left the National Gallery, walking out into the bright, crisp sunshine that glowed down on the monuments in Trafalgar Square.

  “What do you propose we do next?” my father asked Joanna.

  “We retrace every step the vandal took, and search for the hidden clue that will lead to the resolution of this case.”

  My father waited for a group of tourists to pass before asking, “Where shall we begin?”

  “With Hawke and Evans, for that is where the clue lies and the vandal resides.”

  7

  Cholera

  Something was wrong!

  Whether it was maternal instinct or the fact she was a light sleeper, the sound of footsteps scurrying to the lavatory caused Joanna to bolt from our bed and dash into the parlor, with me only a step behind.

  My father was already there, standing in the center of the room and grim-faced as he announced, “I am afraid that cholera has come to 221b Baker Street.”

  Joanna’s face paled whilst she struggled to collect herself. “Are—are you certain?”

  “It is by far the most likely diagnosis,” my father replied. “When explosive diarrhea occurs in the midst of a cholera outbreak, that disease must be considered first and foremost.”

  “But there are certainly other possibilities,” Joanna said, hoping against hope.

  “There are,” my father answered without conviction. “At times, infection with Salmonella or Shigella can produce similar symptoms, but they almost always occur when there are others afflicted with the same disorder.”

  “So,” Joanna muttered softly, “for the third time in my life I am encountering this dreadful disease which has cost me so dearly.”

  “But even in its most vicious form, the mortality rate is less than five percent, and when appropriately treated that rate is lessened by half.”

  “That is what they told me when the diagnosis was made in my former husband.” Joanna paused to take a long, deep breath as a look of melancholy came to her face. “Three days later he was dead, so you will understand when I say that supposed mortality rates mean little to me.”

  “But the circumstances in John Blalock’s death were quite different.”

  “Death is still death, Watson.”

  Joanna never discussed her former husband’s disease with me, but my father knew the details all too well, for he was on staff at St. Bartholomew’s where John Blalock died. The distinguished surgeon apparently perished because he had a silent, underlying kidney disease that lapsed into fatal renal failure brought on by the severe dehydration that can accompany cholera. I wondered if Blalock’s kidney problem was congenital in nature and, if so, had he passed the disorder on to his son Johnny. I could not help but wonder if this terrifying possibility had also crossed Joanna’s mind.

  The silence in the room was broken by the sound of running water. We waited patiently for Johnny to appear, but the door remained closed.

  “As I recall, fluid replenishment is the single most important treatment for cholera,” Joanna said, now gathering her clinical wits.

  “It is,” my father agreed. “And it must be done with vigor, with every milliliter lost being replenished.”

  “So the loss has to be accurately measured, which is impossible to do when the discharge is into a toilet bowl.”

  “We can estimate,” I proposed.

  “Not good enough,” Joanna said at once. Her eyes rapidly scanned the room, from the unlighted fireplace to the bookshelves to the individual pieces of furniture. In a quick motion, she brought her gaze back to an old chair with a straw seat that had seen better days. She hurried over to it and tested the firmness of the knitted straw-like material. “It needs to be replaced.”

  “I will get to it eventually,” my father promised.

  “It is fortunate you have not done so, for we shall put it to good use.” Joanna reached for a sturdy knife she used to pin important messages to a bulletin board, and carved out a six-by-six-inch square from the center of the straw seat. “We shall place a bucket beneath it and Johnny can use it as a bedside commode. This setup will allow us to obtain an accurate measurement of his output.”

  “We will require a good-sized bucket, for in cases of cholera gravis patients can lose an enormous amount of fluid, at times exceeding a quart an hour,” my father noted. “And when he leaves the bathroom shortly, we should have a quart of liquid ready for him to slowly consume. I have the recipe written down in one of my files.”

  “I know it all too well,” Joanna said and hurried to a nearby cupboard, from which she extracted bags of sugar and salt. “And we have plenty of the ingredients on hand.”

  “Excellent,” my father approved, but then added a solemn caution. “We must hope that he is not affected with the nausea and vomiting that may accompany the disease.”

  “Did he complain of these symptoms?” Joanna asked worriedly.

  “He did not, but then again he was in a rush to relieve himself.”

  A cry came from the lavatory, followed by another.

  “I had better attend to Johnny,” my father said, racing for the bathroom and closing the door behind him.

  Joanna remained stoic for a moment, then flew into my arms and whispered in a trembling voice, “I am so frightened, John, for I find myself in the midst of events I cannot control. All of my wit and cleverness are of no use to me at this dreadful moment.”

  “We shall make certain he recovers,” I comforted.

  “From your words to God’s ear.”

  For the first time in our marriage, Joanna showed helplessness and vulnerability which she could neither control nor hide. But then again, I reminded myself, her most precious possession, her son Johnny, was at real risk and just the thought of losing him was more than she could endure.

  “I am so fortunate to have you at my side,” Joanna breathed, as her lips brushed my cheek.

  “And I, you,” said I, holding her close and knowing I could never love another as much as I loved my dear Joanna.

  We parted as the door to the lavatory opened and my father reappeared. “He is fine.”

  Joanna quickly regained her composure before asking, “What was the cause of his discomfort?”

  “A bit of intestinal spasm,” my father reported. “It has passed.”

  “Let us pray it does not recur,�
�� said Joanna, relieved at the diagnosis. “How long will the diarrhea persist, Watson?”

  “Usually two to three days, but sometimes longer if the dose of the cholera bacteria is large.”

  “Does the same hold true for the other diagnoses you mentioned?”

  “I am afraid so. Thus, the length of time of the symptoms does not distinguish between these infectious disorders.”

  “So time is of no help.”

  “None whatsoever,” said my father. “But they can be separated by having the bacteriology laboratory culture the lad’s stool specimen. If it is indeed cholera, the bacteria will grow out on a culture plate within twenty-four hours.”

  “That test should be set up at St. Bartholomew’s as soon as possible.”

  “I will see to it.”

  The three of us busied ourselves preparing the sugar-salt solutions that were to be used to rehydrate Johnny. Joanna placed several quart-sized bottles containing the liquid on our windowsill, so that the chilly outside air would cool the sugar-salt solutions and make them easier to swallow. I was reaching for yet another bottle to fill, when the door to the lavatory opened wide. Johnny stepped out into the parlor on shaky legs and slowly made his way to a chair by the fireplace.

  Sitting down heavily, he complained in a weak voice, “The runs are dreadful.”

  Joanna came to his side and was about to reach out for Johnny’s hand, but decided not to, for such contact could spread the disease to her. With patience, she explained every aspect of the disorder to him and how it was to be treated. She emphasized the absolute need for the fluid lost to be accurately measured and replaced ounce for ounce with oral liquids. “We will set up a bedside commode so we will know your exact losses and this will determine how much you have to drink in order to avoid becoming dehydrated.”

  “How long will this awful business last, Mother?” Johnny asked through parched lips.

  “A few days, so it is imperative that you follow our instructions to the letter.”

  Johnny nodded weakly. “I shall do my best.”

  “Your symptoms will occur intermittently,” my father told the lad. “It is during the calm periods that you must replenish yourself. Drink slowly, giving each mouthful a chance to reach your stomach and be absorbed into your system. Do not attempt to force large amounts down all at once, for this can result in regurgitation.”

  “I do not believe I could ingest large quantities of fluids quickly, even if ordered to do so.”

  “Are you having any nausea and vomiting?” my father asked concernedly.

  “No, sir,” Johnny replied and rubbed at his stomach. “I do feel a bit queasy now and then, however.”

  “Not to worry,” said my father. “That is to be expected.”

  “I am sorry to be of such bother,” Johnny apologized.

  “Nonsense,” my father insisted. “You will never be a bother to us.”

  A faint smile came to Johnny’s face, but it quickly faded. In a fraction of a second he jumped to his feet, but he was weak and wavered from side to side. Joanna hurriedly reached up and grabbed her son’s hand which steadied him and allowed him to regain his footing. Only then did he dash for the lavatory. But on his way he picked up a bottle of replenishing liquid to take with him. Even in his worst moments, I thought, that marvelous brain of his continued to work.

  Joanna sighed sadly and, rising from her chair, walked over to the Persian slipper that held her Turkish cigarettes.

  “Do not smoke!” my father cried out.

  Joanna rapidly withdrew her hand. “Will the cigarette smoke adversely affect Johnny?”

  “Not Johnny, but you,” warned my father. “You see, you just touched your son’s hand that is no doubt loaded with the cholera bacteria. Your hand will transfer the bacteria to the cigarette, and when you bring that cigarette to your mouth it will carry with it heaven knows how many of those vicious microorganisms. And we will then have a second case of cholera in these rooms.”

  “Thank you for being the wise and good physician, Watson,” Joanna acknowledged gratefully.

  “Not at all,” my father said and reminded us that, although the initial cases of the disease occurred as a result of ingesting contaminated food, the disease can spread in the general population as a result of hand-to-mouth contact. “So we have to institute the following preventative measures. First, after Johnny finishes with his current bout of diarrhea, we must thoroughly scrub down the bathroom and anything else he may have touched, and restrict the lad to his bedroom and bedside commode. Next, we should stock up on rubber gloves and use them whenever we have contact with Johnny or any item he may have touched. Even then, it is wise to wash your hands with soap and water after any such contact. We are to have no visitors and Miss Hudson is not to be allowed in these rooms. Mail and messages and dishes of food can be left outside the door. We shall inform her that Johnny has severe bronchitis and it may well be contagious.”

  So we set out to scrub down each and every room at 221b Baker Street, paying particular attention to anything Johnny touched or otherwise came in contact with. Once we had thoroughly cleaned the parlor, we waited until Johnny exited the bathroom, then washed down every surface of the toilet and basin, as well as every inch of the floor and walls within arm’s reach. It required several hours for us to complete these tasks and by then sunlight was streaming in through the window that overlooked the snow-covered street.

  As we sat around the fireplace for a well-deserved rest, the phone rang. We debated briefly whether to answer it, for we were in no mood to do so, but then again it may be related to the outbreak of cholera and some new aspect of the disease.

  Joanna reached for the phone and spoke at length with Inspector Lestrade. Her expression remained neutral as she agreed to something or other at a designated place. She then insisted on his presence there and received his consent before placing the phone down.

  “Lestrade has arranged for us to meet with the Earl of Wessex later this morning,” Joanna informed us. “I was about to ask the inspector to delay the meeting, but was told the earl would shortly leave for his country estate. Thus, I agreed to a meeting at noon.”

  “But surely you will wish to remain here to care for Johnny,” said I.

  “And so I shall, for you will go in my stead,” Joanna went on. “We must learn all the details of the break-in and every aspect of the painting that was slashed. Delve deeply into the painting itself, namely the artist, the time period of his work, and how the earl came by it. And most importantly, how and why the painting found its way to Hawke and Evans for restoration.”

  “What shall I hope to uncover?”

  “Another important yet undisclosed clue.”

  I hesitated to agree to the meeting, for my place was here with my family. “But what if I am needed to assist in Johnny’s care?”

  “Watson and I can deal with any problems which arise,” Joanna said. “Furthermore, we need someone to deliver the stool specimen to the bacteriology laboratory at St. Bartholomew’s. Please be good enough to drop off the specimen on your way to meet with the earl.”

  “You can of course reach me by phone at the earl’s house if you require my presence.”

  “We shall inform you if such a need arises.”

  As I retired to change from my bedclothes, I could not help but notice the firm resolve in Joanna’s face, but I also saw the sadness and worry in her eyes, and I knew I would carry the pangs of guilt with every step I took away from 221b Baker Street.

  8

  The Countess

  The Earl of Wessex, with Lestrade at his side, received me in the elegant drawing room of his mansion that was located in the affluent neighborhood of Belgravia. Lord Granville was quite short and slight of frame, with inquisitive brown eyes and a gentle face that held no pretense. After the introductions, he greeted me with a warm handshake, but seemed disappointed not to see Joanna.

  “I had hoped to meet the famous daughter of Sherlock Holmes,” said he
. “Is she indisposed?”

  “No, my lord,” I replied. “She unfortunately was called away on a most urgent matter.”

  “Relating to the art vandal?”

  “So it would seem,” I lied easily.

  “Is there then hope for a rapid resolution?”

  “Only a glimmer,” I said and turned my attention to the defaced painting.

  “Ah, to the painting which is the purpose of your visit.” Following my gaze, the earl walked over to the slashed portrait and shook his head sadly. “It is a precious work of art whose value goes far beyond its market price. You see, it was a wedding gift from Queen Victoria herself.”

  “Was it from the Royal Collection?”

  “One does not make such inquiries,” the earl replied in a guarded tone. “But why do you ask?”

  “I have been told that the Royal Collection in fact belongs to the people, and that the Crown is only its guardian and protector.”

  “And so Victoria was,” the earl said, with a thin smile. “But then again, a queen can do as she wishes without there being a murmur of complaint. The Crown does have certain privileges.”

  Particularly when those privileges remain secret and away from public scrutiny, I thought, but held my tongue.

  At that moment, a massive, heavy-boned mastiff ambled into the room and sat on his haunches not more than ten feet away. To his side was a large, beautifully adorned Christmas tree, with a silver star atop and nicely wrapped gifts beneath it. The hound ignored the tree and gifts and seemed only interested in the visitors, upon whom he kept his eyes fixed.