Cry of the Innocents

by Cavan Scott

  “He looked the kind of man who was very, very sick.”

  “But not from cholera, and neither is this Father Kelleher. I am sure of it, Watson, as sure as I am that you hurried shaving this morning, and your wife made a catastrophic mistake three rows back but has yet to notice.”

  On the settee, Mary peered quizzically at her needlework. Holmes meanwhile was in full flow.

  “Two men, Watson, both priests; one from the Holy City, one from Bristol. One is dead, one is dying. And why? Because they were poisoned, Watson, and I shall prove it!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SOMETHING ROTTEN

  At times like this I often wondered what hold Holmes had over me. Why was I always so willing to go charging off into the unknown with the man, no matter what?

  This was especially true during my all too brief time with Mary. If I had known then what I know now, how our life together would be cut so tragically short, I should like to think that I would have stayed at home, to cherish what little time we had left.

  Not that she would have let me. Mary knew as well as I that when there was a mystery I would follow my friend to the ends of the Earth.

  “Go with him, John,” Mary said, as Holmes announced that he was going to Bristol. “Until the repairs are completed we cannot return home, and Dr Mann will look after your patients as he has so many times before. Besides, you will be unbearable until he has returned.”

  She smiled kindly, and I loved her all the more for it.

  “Thank you,” I said, rushing to pack the case that the maid had only emptied two nights before.

  Before long, we were on a train, heading for Bristol. In London, the snow had all but vanished from the roads, great heaps of slush piled high on the pavements. However, travelling west was like plunging into winter all over again. A thick blanket covered the English countryside, and sheep were huddled in the cold.

  The news in the paper was no better. As Holmes studied a map of Bristol, I read of ships lost off the south coast, the death count already in the hundreds. Of particular concern was an American steamer known as the Suevia. According to The Times, she had arrived at Prawle Point on Monday afternoon only to have a valve of her low-pressure boiler give way. The strong east wind took her straight into the path of the storm. Another steamer, the Acme of London, responded to her SOS, but was too small to tow the Suevia to safety. Instead the Acme transported the chief officer to Falmouth. He set sail again, this time in a powerful tug, but the Suevia was nowhere to be found. Fears were growing that she had gone down, taking all hands with her.

  I let the newspaper fall into my lap and sighed.

  “Watson?” Holmes asked. “Are you quite all right?”

  “It’s just this damned storm, Holmes. It’s brought with it such tragedy—”

  “That it makes you wonder why we are charging across country to investigate the death of two men we do not know?”

  I nodded, and Holmes smiled, drawing a folded piece of thick paper from his pocket.

  “What is this?” I asked, as he handed it to me.

  “A papal decree, found nestled in the pages of Monsignor Ermacora’s Bible.”

  I looked at him askance. “You stole it?”

  “I liberated it from Lestrade’s dunderheaded investigation. While I respect many things about the man, he has already made his mind up about this case. As soon as I recognised the paper stock, I removed the letter while the good inspector was fetching the register.”

  “And you didn’t think to tell me what you were up to?”

  “Watson, your talents are legion, but the keeping of secrets is not one of them.”

  Affronted, I unfolded the paper. Naturally, Holmes was right. The decree bore the crest of his Holiness Pope Leo XIII. I scanned the text, pleased that my command of Latin remained unwithered since my university days. According to the missive, the Monsignor had been given the right of full access in the investigation of the miracle of one Edwyn Warwick.

  The name was familiar and I said so.

  “I availed myself of the index on our return to Baker Street,” Holmes said, referring to the vast catalogue of newspaper clippings and reports that he had carefully curated over the years. “Edwyn Warwick was a philanthropist and merchant, whose great fortune has more than benefited the city of Bristol since his death in 1721, as he died unmarried, his enemies insisting with relish that, despite his many charitable works, no woman in her right mind would consent to be his wife.”

  “Good Lord,” I said. “And did he have many enemies?”

  “He was exceptionally wealthy, and the green-eyed monster is a powerful master, especially when the person in question flouts social conventions. A man of means without an heir? To a certain stratum of society, such a thing is unthinkable. Of course, there is also the questionable manner in which Warwick amassed his fortune.”

  “And that was…?”

  “Slavery. Edwyn Warwick was one of the foremost slave traders of his time. Now, a century after his passing, his name is celebrated all across Bristol. There are streets, schools and even a concert hall named in his honour. His legacy is forever assured, thanks to the generosity of his estate.”

  “Which some claim is tainted money?”

  “As General Booth has been known to say, the only thing wrong with tainted money is that there’s jus’ taint enough of it. The people of Bristol have profited nicely from Warwick’s riches, that is for sure.”

  “That’s a little heartless, Holmes. So much suffering—”

  He waved away my admonition. “Watson, we are not here to debate the morality of Warwick’s chosen trade, or for you to judge me. Have you forgotten so easily my efforts to dismantle the slave ring of Bethnal Green?”

  How could I? The investigation had nearly cost Holmes his life.

  “I speak only of history. My own views on the matter are neither here nor there. What is of interest is the miracle. A senior member of the Vatican’s staff is dispatched to Bristol to investigate one of England’s most divisive figures. Instead, the priest ends up in a London mortuary, struck down by a disease many hope has been consigned to the history books. And remember his last words, Watson…”

  “Il corpe,” I recalled.

  “The body,” Holmes translated, his eyes sparkling. “Something is rotten here, Watson; rotten to the core, and I shall discover what it is.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE BRISTOL REGENT

  Fortunately, our journey was not too heavily delayed by the weather. We arrived at Bristol Temple Meads only forty-five minutes after our due time, and were met by the cab that Holmes had arranged to whisk us to the Bristol Regent Hotel on nearby College Green. I could not help but be impressed as we ascended the short flight of steps to the palatial lobby. It really was as fine a hotel as any I had seen in the capital, the smell of polished mahogany furnishings greeting us as soon as we set foot through the doors.

  The grandeur was only slightly spoiled by an argument that was in full flow at the reception desk. A man in his early thirties was giving a handsome woman in a navy dress what for. She in turn listened intently, her hands clasped together patiently, nodding in agreement even though she must have been the angry fellow’s senior by a good decade or more.

  Not wanting to add to her embarrassment, we hovered by a display of boot blacking and tools advertising the hotel’s in-house polishing and repair service, and waited for the disagreement to come to an end. Thankfully, the aggrieved gentleman was soon stomping past us to exit through the revolving doors.

  “Mr Holmes,” proclaimed the lady in the navy dress as she swept towards us. “I do apologise. That you should arrive when I’m caught in the middle of a… disagreement…”

  “The fellow did seem a trifle upset,” Holmes noted.

  “And that is a trifle of an understatement. A mix-up of dates, unfortunately. Part and parcel of running a hotel. Still, seeing you puts a smile on my face. I’m so glad you have come to stay with us once again.”
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  “And I am glad to be here.” My companion turned to bring me into the conversation. “Dr Watson, may I introduce Mrs Mercer, manageress of the Bristol Regent.”

  “Enchanted,” I said. “You have stayed here before, Holmes?”

  “Mr Holmes came to the rescue of my husband,” Mrs Mercer told me.

  “Mr Thomas J. Mercer,” Holmes explained. “The former manager of this fine establishment.”

  “You took over from your husband?” I asked.

  “After the dear Lord took him from us, yes.”

  “Oh my dear woman, I do apologise. You have my sincere condolences.”

  The manageress smiled sweetly. “Please, there is no need. Thomas passed two years ago now. I miss him terribly, but he lived well, and was a happy man. I am determined to remember him in the same way.” She returned her gaze to Holmes. “Now, I have placed you in two of our finest rooms, overlooking the green no less. I think you will be most comfortable, and before you argue, there is no charge.”

  “Madam,” Holmes began, “I must insist—”

  “I insist,” said she with a voice used to being obeyed, “as would Thomas if he were still with us. You served him well. The Regent owes you a great debt.”

  “Nonsense,” Holmes insisted. “Your late husband paid handsomely for my services, but I thank you for your generosity all the same.”

  “Whatever you wish, you need only ask.”

  “Including a peek into your extensive library?”

  Mrs Mercer laughed. “Of course. It would be my pleasure.”

  “You collect books?” I enquired.

  “Local history,” the lady replied. “It is something of a passion of mine. A hobby. You’re a literary man yourself, aren’t you, Dr Watson?”

  “Oh, I dabble. The odd story here and there.”

  “Mostly about me, unfortunately,” Holmes commented. “But do not concern yourself, Mrs Mercer, Watson always changes the names to protect the innocent.”

  “Or the guilty?” she asked with a smile.

  “There is something you may be able to help us with,” I said, remembering the contents of the Pontiff’s letter. “Do you know the Church of St Nicole?”

  “On Corn Street?”

  “Yes. I don’t suppose you know anything of interest about the place?”

  “You’ll find it within the walls of the Old City,” she told me, “dating back to either the eleventh or the twelfth century, I believe. I’m afraid I have never visited myself; although it is, of course, the last resting place of old Warwick.”

  “Edwyn Warwick?” Holmes asked.

  “The very same. There is a rather impressive monument; you should see it for yourself.”

  “An excellent idea,” Holmes said with a bow. “An excellent idea indeed.”

  * * *

  My room was as sumptuous as Mrs Mercer had suggested. The bed was carved from the most exquisite English walnut and the dressers topped with Sicilian marble. The Bristol Regent was living up to its regal name.

  That evening, we dined in the Regent’s equally grand restaurant, before making for the lounge to sample the hotel’s fine collection of brandies. It was little wonder that, when we eventually retired to our rooms, I slept like the dead.

  However, I was awoken at first light by a knock on the door. Thinking it was a maid, I called out that she should come back later.

  “I think not,” came Holmes’s voice in reply.

  I went over to the door and let him in, finding my friend fully dressed. He took one look at me and tutted.

  “Really, Watson. What would your wife say if she caught you lounging around at such an hour?”

  I looked to the clock on the mantel. “It’s seven a.m.”

  “Precisely, and we have work to do. Get yourself dressed and come to my room.”

  “What about breakfast?” I complained.

  “I think you ate your fill last night.” He glanced at his watch. “Time is ticking, Watson.”

  Calling my companion every derogatory name under the sun, and a few of my own creation, I washed and dressed, and made my way across the hall to his suite. He opened the door at my first knock and I was treated to a veritable cornucopia of delights: a food trolley laden with cold meats and cheese.

  “You have ordered room service,” I said gratefully.

  “Well, you know what they say about armies and their stomachs. I assume the same rules apply to retired surgeons.”

  I pulled up a chair and helped myself to a slice of bread and butter. “So, what’s the plan?”

  “The plan is that you pay a visit to St Nicole’s.”

  “Me? What about you?”

  “Unfortunately, I have matters to attend to. As you know, I was due to return to Paris. There is nothing that cannot wait, but my employer has questioned why I chose to jaunt across England’s not-so-green and pleasant land rather than make my way straight to the City of Lights. A few carefully worded telegrams will assuage their concerns, but time is not on my side. We must discover who poisoned Monsignor Ermacora and return to London tout de suite or they may well introduce me to Madame Guillotine.”

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “Good man,” Holmes exclaimed, clapping me on the back. “As soon as I have dispatched my telegram, I intend to pay a visit to our Father Kelleher. You, in the meantime, will follow Mrs Mercer’s advice and visit the final resting place of Edwyn Warwick.”

  “The Church of St Nicole. But what exactly am I looking for?”

  “Nothing, absolutely nothing,” Holmes said. “John Watson will not even set foot in the place.”

  “But you just said—”

  “I know what I said. It is time for a disguise!”

  * * *

  In the ten years I had known Sherlock Holmes, I had seen my friend don all manner of disguises. He had stepped out onto the streets of London dressed as pedlars and princes, sailors and heads of state. Once, he had even spent a week as the Bearded Lady of Professor Spindleberry’s Gallery of the Grotesque on Hampstead Heath.

  I had never expected, however, to don a disguise of my own!

  As you can imagine, I did not go quietly into the make-up chair. Even as Holmes later wheeled the depleted room service trolley out into the corridor for collection, I pointed out that I was no actor, and, as he had so recently commented, incapable of keeping secrets.

  “Nonsense,” said he. “You wear different masks every day, depending on whom you are with: Watson the general practitioner; Watson the ex-serviceman; Watson the dutiful husband; Watson the Boswell. This is no different. You already inhabit the characters in your stories. Think of it as a writing exercise, a fiction made flesh.”

  His prattle did little to calm my nerves, even as he went to work on my appearance. Little by little, as I stared into the mirror, John Watson disappeared, to be replaced by a man I did not recognise. My own moustache was joined by a full fake beard, my then-healthy head of hair hidden beneath a bald cap, a few straggly strands combed over my newly barren crown. A large mole appeared on my right cheek while brows almost as bushy as Holmes’s own bristled above hooded eyes. The effect was completed by a pair of pince-nez that rested on the bridge of a thick nose. The transformation was incredible, although I still failed to see the point of such blatant subterfuge.

  “Like it or not, Watson,” Holmes said, revealing the next stage in my transformation, “your name is known thanks to your repeated insistence on bringing us both into the public eye. If Monsignor Ermacora was poisoned in Bristol, he had an enemy in these streets. That same enemy may have known of his fateful journey to 221B Baker Street. Imagine their surprise when who should appear in Bristol but Dr John Watson, associate and friend of the world’s greatest consulting detective.”

  “But, Holmes, half the staff in this hotel know who we are. If you wanted to remain inconspicuous—”

  “I have my methods, Watson. Please, do not question them.”

  “And here I was thinking th
at only the Lord worked in mysterious ways.”

  “Well, you should know,” Holmes said cryptically. “Or rather, so should Father Morell of the Roman Catholic Church.”

  With that, Holmes opened the large trunk on his bed to reveal the vestments of a priest.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE MEMORIAL

  To say that I was feeling self-conscious as I walked the cobbles of Bristol’s financial district was something of an understatement. This was preposterous. While Holmes would have taken the theatrical world by storm, I would have been booed off the stage. Who in their right mind would believe that I was a man of the cloth?

  No sooner had the thought crossed my mind, than a passing gentleman touched the brim of his hat.

  “Good afternoon, Father,” he said, before continuing on his way.

  I was amazed. Perhaps I could carry this off, even with the ridiculous limp Holmes had insisted I adopt. The maniac had gone so far as to place a small pebble in my right boot to remind me which was supposed to be my weak leg.

  Before long I had reached the Church of St Nicole. It was a curious building, far smaller than I had expected, and nestled between the quarters of financial institutions on both sides. It was as though the neighbouring buildings were trying to bully the diminutive house of worship for daring to remind the faithful that the love of money is the root of all evil. It certainly looked far from grand enough to house the remains of such an influential figure as Edwyn Warwick. I placed a shaking hand on the ornate wooden door and, fighting the urge to cross myself, pushed it open.

  While it had been cold on the street, the temperature in the church itself was positively glacial. My breath misted as I called out, ignoring Holmes’s advice to adopt an Irish accent. Enough, after all, was enough. I was having sufficient trouble remembering my nom de plume. Surviving a conversation without a slip of my accent would be next to impossible.