Cry of the Innocents

by Cavan Scott

  Enough was enough. I marched back to Lawrence and demanded to know what Hawthorne was after.

  Before the constable could answer, the office door opened and Holmes emerged, followed closely by the inspector himself.

  “Holmes, what the devil is going on?” I demanded, glancing through the still open door. A great pile of books was heaped on what I could only imagine was Mrs Mercer’s desk.

  “I’m afraid I shall have to accompany Inspector Hawthorne to the station, Watson,” Holmes said, as casually as if he had told me he was off for an evening stroll. “I have been arrested, you see.”

  “Arrested?” I exclaimed. “On what grounds?”

  “Theft,” Holmes answered, allowing himself to be led away. “It would appear that I am guilty as charged.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE MANAGERESS’S TALE

  I have never felt so helpless in my entire life. There I was, standing in the middle of the grand surroundings of the Regent, dressed as a Roman Catholic priest and watching my friend being taken away for a crime he could never have committed. The entire situation would have been laughable in any other circumstances.

  I tried to argue with the departing policemen, but was firmly put in my place. I froze, not knowing what to do or where to go. Every eye was upon me. Every mind already made up. My attire only added to my discomfiture. Damn Holmes and his theatrical games.

  Rousing myself, I made for the stairs. Of Mrs Mercer there was no sign. I needed to talk to her, but not in this state. I needed to clear my head, to become myself once more.

  Bounding upstairs, I flung open the door to my suite and rushed to the sink. I tore at my face to remove the false beard and theatrical gum. It was a hard slog without the proper oils. When I had finished, the face in the mirror was rubbed raw, but it was the face of John Watson, not some half-baked caricature from a second-rate farce.

  Before long, I was once again in my customary suit and waistcoat, a stiff collar around my neck and the cufflinks Mary had given me for my last birthday on my sleeves.

  Pulling on my greatcoat and grabbing my hat, I hurried downstairs and asked to see Mrs Mercer. At first, the receptionist attempted to feign ignorance concerning the lady’s whereabouts, but she unwittingly gave the game away by means of a furtive glance in the direction of the manageress’s office.

  Ignoring the flummoxed employee’s protestations, I rapped sharply on the glass.

  “Mrs Mercer, I must speak with you.”

  There was no reply so I tried again.

  “Mrs Mercer, I apologise for the disturbance, but please, I ask but a moment of your time.”

  I was about to knock a third time when the door opened. Mrs Mercer stood before me, her face pale as mine was flushed.

  “Dr Watson, I realise you are upset—”

  “Upset? Madam, I have just watched an innocent man arrested. What exactly is Holmes supposed to have stolen?”

  Mrs Mercer glanced around the reception area before indicating for me to enter. She closed the door and gestured for me to sit, before taking her own seat behind the desk. Self-consciously, the lady adjusted her cuffs and began her account. “Earlier today, Mr Holmes asked to use my library.”

  “Yes, I know. To consult the Annals of Bristol.”

  “Of course, I was happy to oblige. I showed Mr Holmes what he wanted to see, and in the process he noticed a number of new additions to my collection.”

  Her hand rested on a leather-bound book on her desk.

  “Is that one of them?” I asked.

  “My late husband was devoted to Chaucer,” she said, stroking its cover. “How he would have loved to hold this in his hands.”

  “I assume it is rare.”

  “Rare?” She let out a gentle laugh. “This is the 1476 Caxton printing.”

  She looked at me as if that should mean something. When it was clear that I was still none the wiser, she added: “It is the first complete edition of The Canterbury Tales, a holy grail for any collector. Mr Holmes asked to see it and, somewhat reluctantly, I agreed. You must understand that I have searched for this book for many years, Doctor. To pass it into the hands of another, even someone I trusted…”

  The sentence died in her throat.

  “Well, he gave it back, and took his leave. I thought nothing more of it, until I later realised I had left my diary in the library. I returned upstairs, and discovered to my horror that a number of books, including the Caxton, were gone.”

  “And you suspected Holmes.”

  “Of course I didn’t. He is a friend, or so I thought. I rushed to his room, thinking he may be able to help, but there was no answer. I turned to leave, and that was when I saw it.”

  “Saw what?”

  “A scrap of material, tucked beneath the door. I recognised it at once.”

  She opened the copy of The Canterbury Tales and retrieved a silk bookmark, which she placed in front of me. The slip of salmon-print silk bore the words of Wesley’s “Christ The Lord Is Risen Today” and below the hymn, a date: April 6, 1890.

  “I’d placed it inside the Caxton on the day I brought the book home,” Mrs Mercer explained.

  “Then what was it doing beneath Holmes’s door?”

  “My question precisely.”

  “It may be a coincidence,” I said, knowing full well how desperate that sounded. “Holmes could have one of his own.”

  She raised a sceptical eyebrow. “And is also in the habit of rubbing his bookmark between his finger and thumb when he reads, as I am?”

  She indicated where the silk was starting to fray at one end. I had to admit that it was unlikely.

  “I felt sick to my stomach as I realised what I must do,” Mrs Mercer continued. “While the privacy of my guests is paramount, there is no door in this hotel that is closed to me. I took my master key and opened Mr Holmes’s door to find the books stacked neatly on the dressing table next to pots of greasepaint.”

  “I don’t believe it!”

  “Neither did I, Doctor, but there they were, for all to see.”

  “So you sent for the police?”

  “Do you blame me? I was hurt, betrayed. That Mr Holmes would do such a thing was staggering.” She replaced the bookmark and closed the book. “Gregory came at once.”

  “Gregory?”

  “Inspector Hawthorne. He was a friend of my late husband since I don’t know when.”

  “And did he find any other evidence to incriminate Holmes?”

  “Other than the stolen books, you mean?”

  “The allegedly stolen books. Do you keep your library locked?”

  “Of course. I have the only key.”

  “And was there any sign of forced entry?”

  She shook her head. “Not that the inspector could see.”

  “May I see the door?”

  The question seemed to take her aback. “I beg your pardon?”

  “If I could see the door I might be able to ascertain how the thief entered the room. If indeed it was a thief.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “Doesn’t it seem odd to you that Holmes is arrested for a crime the moment we start an investigation, a crime that he would never commit?”

  Mrs Mercer bristled. “And what investigation would that be?”

  Something in the way she asked the question gave me pause. It was true that she appeared to be the victim here, and yet… If it were true that only she could unlock the library, and indeed any other door in the hotel, could she not have planted the books in Holmes’s room, if they were there at all? Someone had obviously tried to pin the blame on my friend, probably the same fiends who had poisoned the Monsignor when he discovered that Warwick’s body was gone. Mrs Mercer had known we were going to St Nicole’s, and was aware of the church’s connection to Warwick.

  I countered her question with one of my own. “Does the name ‘Ermacora’ mean anything to you, Mrs Mercer?”

  Again, the lady shifted in her seat. “The name
is familiar to me, yes. A Catholic priest of that name stayed here briefly recently.”

  “Monsignor Ermacora,” I said, seizing on the information, “from Rome?”

  “I believe so. He left rather abruptly.”

  Now I was onto something. Was that why Holmes had chosen this hotel? Had he seen something in the Monsignor’s notebook that had aroused his suspicions?

  “And these books that Holmes is supposed to have taken? Did anyone else see them in his room, other than yourself?”

  She shook her head. “I do not believe so.”

  “So, it is your word against his?”

  Her countenance hardened. “I am not sure I like what you are insinuating, Dr Watson.”

  I held her stony gaze. “I am not insinuating anything, merely… exploring avenues of investigation.”

  “And that is what you were doing when you returned to the hotel in your… costumes?” she asked. “Exploring avenues?”

  Now, it was my turn to shift uncomfortably. “Well…”

  The lady shook her head. “I cannot express how disappointed I am. I welcomed you both as guests, offered you the best suites in the hotel, and this is how I am repaid. My trust betrayed, and my integrity questioned.”

  “Mrs Mercer—” I began, but she refused to let me finish.

  “I must ask you to leave,” she said, rising from her seat.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I will have your bags packed and delivered to reception. You may collect them later.”

  “Mrs Mercer, there is no need—”

  “There is every need,” the manageress said, showing me the door. “I’m sure you understand.”

  “I’m sorry to find you so resolute,” I said, rising from my chair, “but I remain convinced of my friend’s innocence. I shall get to the bottom of this one way or another.”

  She wished me a good evening and shut the door firmly behind me.

  Acutely aware that I was being scrutinised by her staff, I walked calmly out of the hotel with my head held high. I meant what I had said. There had to be an answer to all this, and by Jove, I was going to find it. Striding down the front steps, I hailed a cab.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  BLIND EYES

  My welcome at the Lower Redland Road Police Station was not cordial.

  “You don’t understand,” I told the gorilla of a desk sergeant. “I must see Inspector Hawthorne immediately.”

  “The inspector is busy,” he replied. “I have logged your enquiry and suggest you return in the morning. There is nothing else I can do for you.”

  “But—”

  “Good evening, sir.”

  The conversation was at an end. The sergeant turned away from me and stomped back to a desk where a steaming mug of tea awaited him. My stomach gurgled, and I was acutely aware of how long it had been since I had anything to eat or drink myself.

  “Dr Watson?” said a familiar voice.

  It was Inspector Tovey, walking towards me.

  “Inspector, it is good to see you. You’ll never guess what has happened.”

  “Mr Holmes has been arrested. Yes, I know. It’s all anyone can talk about here. For theft, too.”

  “Tell me you don’t believe what they are saying.”

  Tovey took me by the shoulder and guided me away from the front desk. “I don’t like to. There are many who would like to see Holmes brought low, that’s for sure.”

  “But, why?”

  “He’s an amateur.”

  “I should like to see you call him that to his face.”

  “Doctor, it’s hard enough to persuade people to trust the police in the first place, especially when the likes of Sherlock Holmes put us to shame. Now, the great detective of Baker Street has been exposed as a common thief.”

  “But it’s not true!”

  “I believe you, Doctor, but listen carefully and you’ll hear the laughter all the way from Scotland Yard. Remember, I’ve read the reports. Come on. Walls have ears.”

  He led me out of the redbrick station and lit a cigarette, offering me his pouch. I declined.

  “His arrest does little for my investigation, I can tell you. I’ve already had the top brass come down hard on me for daring to arrest a priest, not to mention opening a tomb.”

  “But you had a warrant.”

  “And you were a reporter for the Catholic Herald. Not everything is always what it seems, Doctor. What I waved in front of Father Ebberston was an invitation to last year’s Christmas ball.”

  I could hardly help but smile. “You scoundrel…”

  “I do what I need to get the job done. I’ve played by the rules long enough, and got nowhere.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “This town is rotten to the core.”

  “Holmes said something very similar.”

  “Then he is a wise man. Everywhere you look, a blind eye is being turned. Need to build a factory? Permission granted. Want to demolish a tenement building with no thought for the poor wretches you’re chucking out on their ears? Permission granted. Industrial accidents, dodgy deals, even missing persons; the rich get what they want and damn the consequences.”

  “And there is nothing you can do?”

  “Mud doesn’t stick around here, Doctor. It washes clean away.”

  The wind had started to whip up again. I grabbed the brim of my hat to stop it dancing down the slush-lined street.

  “I don’t see how your current investigation will help.”

  “The missing body of a man who’s been dead for the best part of two centuries?”

  “Precisely.”

  Tovey ground the butt of his cigarette beneath his heel. “Doctor, when Father Kelleher was admitted to the hospital, he was shouting about Warwick’s missing body. It was dismissed as the ramblings of a fevered mind.”

  “A reasonable supposition,” I admitted.

  “But that’s just the thing, they’re always reasonable. The excuses. The justifications. Everyone is so keen to sweep the dirt under the rug, but all it takes is one lie to be exposed for what it is and the rug itself will start to unravel. If I can prove that one crime has been covered up, then I know in my bones that others will follow. Besides, if the Monsignor and Father Kelleher were poisoned…”

  “Careful,” said I. “Holmes came here because he thought Ermacora had been poisoned and look where he has ended up.”

  Tovey nodded. “There are plenty of folk who wouldn’t want a detective of Mr Holmes’s calibre wandering free.”

  “So they framed him? Could Mrs Mercer be in on it too?”

  “It’s not the first time that strange things have happened at the Bristol Regent, and it won’t be the last. All I know is that you and Mr Holmes are key witnesses in my investigation. You were there when Warwick’s tomb was opened. Now, Holmes’s word has been discredited.”

  “I could still give evidence,” I pointed out.

  “Guilt by association, Doctor. As long as Holmes is in custody, you won’t be trusted.”

  “Then help me get him out,” I begged him.

  Tovey shook his head. “It wouldn’t do any good. There’s nothing I can do to help Holmes now, in fact any interference on my part would only make matters worse.”

  He clapped a large hand on my shoulder. “We’re not beaten yet, Doctor. We need to carry on as if none of this has happened.” He looked up at the darkening sky. “It’s getting late.”

  “Trust me, I have nowhere else to go,” I admitted.

  “Then come with me, assist this local policeman with his enquiries. Will you do that for me?”

  “Come where?” I asked.

  “To the Bristol Royal Infirmary. I want to find out exactly where Ermacora dined before he left for London.”

  “Where he was poisoned, you mean.”

  Tovey nodded. “Are you a gambling man, Doctor?”

  I thought of the chequebook that Holmes had kept for me in our days back at Baker Street, safely locked away to k
eep me from temptation. “It has been known,” I told him.

  “Then what’s the betting that the Monsignor ate with Father Samuel Ebberston?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE BRISTOL ROYAL INFIRMARY

  Every doctor in the land had heard of the Bristol Royal Infirmary. One of the oldest medical institutions in the country, it had been training medical staff for well over a century. I must admit to experiencing a certain frisson of excitement as I stepped past the imposing columns of the entrance and in through the doors.

  Inside was the usual hubbub of hospital life, the sound of wheels against stone, footsteps both shuffling and eager. It felt as much a frontier of medical endeavour as the hospital tents I had experienced in Afghanistan. There, beneath the blazing sun, innovation had been a matter of necessity. Here, it was the lifeblood of the building and those who worked within it. You could taste the history of the place in the air, along with the fresh tang of tomorrow.

  Outside the police station, I had felt at sea; far from home and tossed from one wave to the next. Here, in this bastion of medical excellence, my feet were back on solid ground.

  Whatever ailed Father Kelleher, be it bacteria or poison, he was in safe hands, I was sure of that.

  Tovey led me through the maze of passageways and corridors, acknowledging every nurse and doctor that we passed. Everyone seemed to know his name, and we received a warm welcome wherever we went.

  “Just down here, Doctor,” he said, having delivered us to the appropriate wing. “Kelleher has himself a private room. Must have had words with Him upstairs.”

  He paused in front of a recently painted door, and knocked. When there was no answer, he tried the doorknob.

  “Father Kelleher?”

  A look of dismay came over Tovey’s features. “Oh no. No, no, no!”

  He rushed into the room, and I saw the young priest lying on his back on a bed. His eyes were open, but there was little doubt that they saw nothing. Dropping my hat onto a chair by the door, I crossed to the bed and felt for a pulse. Tovey went back out into the corridor and called for assistance, but the patient was beyond help. His blue lips were parted, his face a mass of broken capillaries. I bent over and sniffed above his open mouth, only to recoil as the acrid stench of fresh vomit filled my nostrils.