Cry of the Innocents

by Cavan Scott

  “I’d like the Father to stay, if it’s all right with you,” Tovey said, blocking our path. His voice was as sturdy as his frame, laced with a Bristolian accent that, while less broad than Pete’s, was tempered with steel. “He will be our witness. As will that gentleman.”

  The inspector pointed at Pete, who almost dropped his beloved blanket in surprise.

  “Who, me?” the vagrant stammered, his previous bravado evaporating. I suspected that Pete had had many a brush with the law.

  “Why would we need witnesses?” Ebberston asked warily.

  Tovey flashed an official-looking document. “This is a warrant to open the tomb of Edwyn Warwick.” The paper was duly folded and returned to the inspector’s pocket. Ebberston, in the meantime, looked set to drop into a seizure at any moment.

  “This is an outrage.”

  “No, Father, it’s the law of the land. Come on, boys.”

  With that, the police inspector barged past the scandalised priest to approach Warwick’s effigy.

  “But you can’t,” Ebberston said, lunging for the inspector. “Edwyn Warwick has lain unmolested for fifty years.”

  The priest was stopped by the nearest policeman, and held back as Tovey used Ebberston’s words against him.

  “Unmolested, Father. Are you sure about that?” He strode to the effigy and tapped a finger against the top of the marble slab. “Then what are these?”

  When neither Ebberston nor I replied, Tovey turned to the old vagrant who stood shivering in his blanket.

  “What about you? What do you think, Mr Holmes?”

  You could have knocked me sideways. Before my eyes “old Pete” underwent something of a metamorphosis. He straightened, his blanket falling to the floor. His twisted spine was suddenly ramrod straight, the sloped shoulders now held wide. The bewhiskered chin jutted forward, and the once crazed eyes narrowed to slits.

  The old beggar from the streets had vanished. In truth, he had never been present. All this time I had been talking to none other than Sherlock Holmes.

  “I do not believe we have met,” Holmes said, his cultured tones replacing Pete’s Bristolian rasp.

  Tovey extended a huge hand, which Holmes accepted and shook briskly.

  Tovey beamed. “Indeed we haven’t, Mr Holmes, although I am a great admirer of both you and Dr Watson here.”

  “Dr Watson?” Ebberston spluttered, his enraged eyes turning on me. “What deceit is this?”

  Carefully avoiding the priest’s gaze, I too shook Tovey’s hand. “Very pleased to meet you, Inspector,” I muttered, not sure whether I was relieved or disappointed that my act was at an end.

  Holmes moved towards Warwick’s monument and examined the spot that Tovey had pointed out. “There are indentations in the stone, Watson, come and see.”

  Still furious that I had been duped, I joined Holmes as he ran a thin finger across the lip of the tomb. “Yes, very interesting,” I sniffed, unable to muster much enthusiasm.

  “They are,” Holmes insisted. “And recently made too. The edges are sharp, not dulled by time.”

  “Exactly,” Tovey said. “I noticed them the last time Father Ebberston insisted that my theories were the worst kind of blasphemy.”

  “You have a keen eye, sir,” Holmes commented, obviously impressed.

  “Able to see through any disguise, it seems,” I added.

  “Not all, but I know both your faces. I’ve read your stories, Dr Watson. Fascinating stuff, absolutely fascinating.”

  It was clear from the look Holmes flashed me that I was to later enjoy another lecture on how my stories had wrecked his hard-won anonymity.

  “You cannot have recognised us from Watson’s published works,” Holmes said to the inspector. “The illustrator was under strict instructions to alter our appearances.”

  Tovey rewarded this comment with another wide smile. “Ah yes, but I sent to Scotland Yard for copies of your official files.”

  The thought appalled Holmes. “We have files?”

  “Indeed you do, sir, extremely detailed files. Inspector Lestrade doesn’t mince his words.”

  “I can well believe it, but why go to such trouble?”

  “You intrigue me, Mr Holmes, it’s as simple as that.”

  Holmes afforded the man a tight smile. “And you I, Inspector. Tell me more about these blasphemous theories of yours.”

  “The man’s a lunatic,” offered Ebberston. “A madman. He believes that somehow Edwyn Warwick’s body has been removed from the grave. It is impossible.”

  “The impossible is my business,” Tovey asserted, jabbing a finger at the incensed man of God. “And I shall prove it. Lads, shall we?”

  It soon became clear why Inspector Tovey had selected such a brawny bunch of Bristol’s finest as his escort. Despite the protestations of Ebberston, the policemen began the Herculean task of shifting Warwick’s effigy from his tomb. Even considering their size and obvious strength I was dumbfounded as, with a shriek of marble against granite, the reclining statue seemed to shift easily.

  Tovey chuckled as I watched the six men heave what must have been tons of marble to the floor.

  “Don’t worry, Doctor,” the inspector said. “You’re not witnessing another miracle.” He patted Warwick’s bewigged head as a man would pet a dog. “The figure is hollow. Heavy enough to stay in place, but easy to remove when the time is right.”

  “The time for what?” I asked.

  The police officers were already hard at work with their crowbars, prising the genuinely heavy slab from the tomb.

  After much huffing and puffing, the slab was laid out on the flagstones next to Warwick’s curious statue.

  “No!” Ebberston cried out, as Tovey peered into the sarcophagus.

  The inspector’s face said it all. Triumphantly, he beckoned us to approach. I deferred to Holmes, content for the detective to go first.

  Surprised to find itself suddenly bathed in light, a large spider scuttled across the bottom of the tomb as I looked over the side. The arachnid’s bewilderment was akin to my own.

  Aside from its eight-legged occupant, the tomb was empty. Of Edwyn Warwick’s casket, there was no sign.

  CHAPTER TEN

  TRIUMPH AND DESPAIR

  “So my allegations are sacrilege, are they? My questions deplorable?” Inspector Tovey said, whirling to face Father Ebberston. The detective was revelling in his moment, the grandstanding a symptom of his relative youth. Looking back, I should have reminded him of the old saying that pride often pre-empts a fall; a lesson the young firebrand would soon learn for himself.

  “I-I didn’t know,” the priest insisted. “How could I? I would never be a part of this.”

  Tovey grinned like a wolf, displaying a set of sturdy gapped teeth. “Take him back to the station. I’ll question him later.”

  Ebberston was led from his church still professing his innocence.

  “How did you know, Inspector?” Sherlock Holmes asked as Tovey sent one of his men to find the keys to the front door. St Nicole’s had become the scene of one of the most repugnant of crimes: body snatching.

  “Father Kelleher,” Tovey answered.

  “The priest with suspected cholera,” Holmes stated.

  “The very same. He’s doing well. They have him in isolation at the BRI. He’s dangerously dehydrated, but they’re pumping liquids into him as fast as his body’s pumping them out.”

  “Did he meet with Monsignor Ermacora?” I asked.

  “He was his aide, assigned by the bishop here in Bristol,” Tovey explained. “Word had reached the Vatican of Edwyn Warwick’s uncanny preservation.” He paused, looking at us both. “I assume you know the stories.”

  “Oh yes,” I said, shooting a look at Holmes. “A fellow of questionable character relayed them to me.”

  Holmes responded to my barbed comment with an amused nod.

  “The Monsignor was dispatched from Rome to ascertain whether a true miracle had occurred. I suspect t
hat what with

  Warwick’s charitable work, the pontiff was wondering whether he should canonise the old goat.”

  “From what I understand,” Holmes said, “there are some in this city who would question Warwick’s suitability for sainthood.”

  “Not enough in my opinion. You gentlemen are acquainted with Monsignor Ermacora, then?”

  “Only briefly, alas,” I informed the inspector. “The Monsignor died almost the moment he was through our door.”

  “No! The same symptoms?”

  Holmes regarded the young man with interest. “We have been told it is cholera, but like us, you question the diagnosis, do you not?”

  “I’m that easy to read, eh, Mr Holmes?”

  “You made no comment when I said that Kelleher had been diagnosed with suspected cholera. If the thought had not crossed your mind, I daresay you would have questioned my choice of words.”

  Tovey moved close to Holmes as if concerned that others were listening. “It’s Kelleher. He’s started losing his hair. Now, I know that such a thing can happen when the body is under attack, but he’s a strong lad, a year younger than me. It just doesn’t seem right somehow.”

  “It’s certainly not one of the usual symptoms,” I admitted.

  “Not for cholera,” said Holmes, “but quite common for colchicine poisoning!”

  “Colchicine, Holmes?”

  “Colchicum autumnale, commonly known as meadow saffron or autumn crocus. It grows quite readily in the west of England, producing a vibrant crop of thick leaves in spring, followed by a flower in autumn.”

  Tovey clicked his fingers. “Naked Ladies, that’s what me old ma called them, on account that the flowers appear after the foliage has completely died away. Her garden was blooming with the things every September.”

  Holmes nodded. “I have often thought that the Colchicum bulb would make the most ingenious murder weapon during a cholera epidemic. If ingested, its effects are staggered over a period of days, sometimes even weeks. At first there is an initial stomach upset followed by more serious symptoms, including convulsions, severe cramps, organ failure, and even respiratory or cardiac arrest. In many cases hair loss is also reported. But think of the prevalent symptoms, Watson: stomach pain; vomiting; severe diarrhoea.”

  “All symptoms associated with cholera,” I conceded.

  “Which in itself often brings on heart failure. If the poison were administered during an outbreak, the tell-tale symptoms would be misdiagnosed, lost in the wider pandemic.”

  “But there is no outbreak,” I said, “either here or in London.”

  “Which makes it all the more unlikely that two healthy specimens would go down with the disease in isolation.”

  Tovey spoke up. “Mr Holmes, Kelleher told me that Ermacora opened the tomb and found it empty.”

  “Did he not go to the authorities?” I asked.

  “He did, Doctor, but the authorities would not listen. Like myself, Father Kelleher has read of your exploits, Mr Holmes. He recommended that the Monsignor go to you, to ask for your help.”

  “Il corpe,” commented Holmes.

  “But before he left Bristol, Ermacora was poisoned?” I asked. A terrible thought struck me. “Ebberston! He said he liked to cook. He could have administered the bulb. But, Holmes, you ate his broth.”

  Holmes waved away my concern. “If Ebberston is our poisoner, he would have had little reason to kill a harmless tramp.”

  “Unless, like Inspector Tovey here, he saw through your disguise.”

  “I believe I am safe, although I would ask you to keep your eye on my hairline, once I have removed all this,” he added, indicating his theatrical appearance.

  “So where is Warwick’s body now?” I asked.

  “That is what I intend to find out,” Inspector Tovey said, his eyes gleaming. “Perhaps after you have become yourself again, you could join me at the station, Mr Holmes? You’re staying at the Regent, are you not?”

  “Good Lord,” I said. “Have you been following us, Inspector?”

  “I make it my business to know what’s happening in this city, Doctor.” He gave Holmes another of his gap-toothed grins. “Especially when a celebrity is in town.”

  I tried not to be insulted that Tovey obviously considered Holmes alone worthy of that title. Even after a decade, my ego had yet to be tamed. Perhaps I too still shared some of Tovey’s youth and inexperience.

  * * *

  A nearby clock tower was tolling noon as we stepped from St Nicole’s, and Holmes requested that I wave down a hansom.

  “Can’t you do it yourself?” I asked, still smarting from his deception in the church.

  “Watson, I think a man of the cloth will find it considerably easier to hail a cab than a dweller of no fixed abode!”

  Once safely ensconced in a carriage and well on our way back to the Regent, Holmes threw back his head and laughed.

  “What sport, Watson!”

  “Sport, Holmes?” I spluttered. “A man is dead and another in hospital.”

  “In a stable condition,” Holmes reminded me, and he began to peel off his disguise. “But you should have seen your face. Old Pete was a triumph!”

  Once again, my companion erupted into merriment. Despite my best efforts, his glee proved to be as contagious as any plague. Soon, I was sitting back in my seat, tears running down my cheeks.

  “It was a consummate performance, Holmes. You had me completely fooled.”

  “Of course I did, Watson. That was the objective. Well, partly at least. I apologise for the deception, but I wanted to observe rather than question—”

  “So you sent me in as your puppet interrogator.”

  “I knew that whoever you encountered would be wary of a stranger posing questions, so I provided a distraction.”

  “You certainly did that.”

  “It was clear that Father Ebberston was guilty of some secret or another, especially when he denied and then admitted to meeting the Monsignor.”

  “But all that guff about the legend, Holmes.” I put on a West Country accent that was as bad as my Irish brogue. “‘Warwick’s skin was soft and flushed’.” Again we both dissolved into near hysterics. “Where on Earth did all that come from?”

  “From Mrs Mercer’s library,” Holmes explained, pulling the worst of the theatrical gum from his chin, the tramp’s beard now resting like a bedraggled cat on his lap. “Byrne’s Annals of Bristol: Volume Thirteen to be precise, although I may have employed a little poetic licence. You’re rubbing off on me, Watson.”

  Still laughing, we were deposited outside the Regent, the discombobulated cabbie uttering a surprised oath as he laid eyes on the partially transformed Holmes.

  “Come, Watson,” said Holmes, bounding up the steps two at a time, “before we attract more stares.”

  As it turned out, all eyes were upon us as we stepped into the lobby. We had barely made our entry through the revolving doors when a man wearing a tweed suit and bowler hat approached us.

  “Mr Sherlock Holmes?”

  “The same. And you must be a colleague of Inspector Tovey.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “You know me?”

  Holmes shook his head. “Only that you walk like every policeman I have ever met, and have brought reinforcements to boot.”

  He indicated a pair of uniformed police officers who were standing patiently by the concierge.

  “The name’s Hawthorne,” the man said, to which Holmes made a show of shaking his hand. “Inspector Hawthorne.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Inspector. This is my friend and associate, Dr Watson.”

  Hawthorne looked me up and down. “Just back from a fancy dress party, are we?”

  Holmes gave a polite laugh. “Just a little undercover work. Although I doubt that you rushed your dinner to discuss our sartorial decisions. Was it enjoyable by the way, your chicken broth?”

  “Holmes…” I counselled, all too aware that the inspector’s irritatio
n was increasing with every second that passed.

  But Holmes was unable to help himself. “An excellent choice, incidentally, while recovering from a head cold.”

  Hawthorne’s nostrils flared as he gave a bitter snort. “You think yourself a clever man, don’t you, Mr Holmes?”

  “There’s no think about it,” Holmes replied matter-of-factly.

  “What is it then? A scrap of chicken caught in my teeth?”

  “More the spoonful of broth slopped down your lapel…”

  “And the cold?”

  Holmes pointed at the inspector’s ruddy nose. “The skin is chapped around your nostrils from repeatedly wiping your nose on a handkerchief. I’m sure Dr Watson would be happy to recommend an ointment or cream.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Hawthorne said, a fixed smile beneath his greying moustache. “Can you come this way please, sir.”

  Hawthorne led us past reception and towards Mrs Mercer’s private office, the two uniformed officers falling in behind us. On reaching the office, Hawthorne opened the door and indicated for Holmes to enter.

  “Will Mrs Mercer not be joining us?” Holmes enquired, turning to the manageress who was standing behind the reception desk, her head turned away from us.

  “If you could just come in,” Hawthorne insisted. Holmes obliged and I went to follow, until the inspector blocked my path. “Not you, sir.” He indicated to the two policemen. “You’re with me, Hegarty. Lawrence, you keep the doctor company.”

  The door was slammed in my face. I tried to listen until Constable Lawrence asked me to move away.

  I rushed over to the manageress. “Mrs Mercer, whatever is happening?”

  She looked at my disguise with moist eyes. Had the lady been crying? “Is this a joke?” she said, indicating my outfit.

  I self-consciously smoothed the front of my faux cassock. “I can explain all this later, but please tell me, what does Inspector Hawthorne want with Holmes?”

  “It is not my place to say,” the lady replied sharply, her voice catching in her throat. “If you will excuse me.”

  She stepped away from the desk and disappeared around the corner. Perplexed, I looked around the lobby to find everyone staring at me. As I turned, my fellow guests looked away or muttered to each other.