by Cavan Scott
“No,” Redshaw said. “We are being bad hosts.”
“There is no need to explain,” I insisted, but Redshaw continued anyway.
“As you know, I belong to an… organisation. A guild, if you like.”
“The Worshipful League of M-Merchants,” Clifford offered, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was causing both his father-in-law and soon-to-be brother-in-law to squirm in their seats; either that, or I was watching the most subjugated member of the family attempt to score points. There was an air of defeat about Harold Clifford.
However, Lady Marie was correct. My curiosity had been well and truly piqued.
“Are you also a member?” I asked Clifford.
“I am, as was m-my f-father before me.”
“And mine,” Sutcliffe said, and I was sure Clifford, already pale, lost even more colour for a second.
“Victor is our most recent member,” Redshaw explained, raising a glass to Marie’s fiancé.
“For his success in the Orient,” I said, which Victor acknowledged with a bow of his head.
“Quite so,” said Redshaw. “We’re a charitable group, following the example of Warwick himself, although we do value a certain level of… privacy.”
“Secrecy, more like,” Marie commented, returning her chopsticks to their rest.
“We have certain r-relics at the League H-Hall,” said Clifford, clearly assuming that I had been welcomed into the circle of trust.
“Relics?”
“Historical artefacts,” Victor jumped in. “Such as Warwick’s ring and periwig. Bequeathed to the League following Warwick’s death.”
“As well as most of his fortune,” Marie said.
“Did he not leave most of his riches to the poor of the city?” I asked.
“Through the work of the League,” Redshaw said. “Which, of course, we are pleased to perform.”
“But you mentioned his ring. Has something happened to it?”
“I should s-say so,” replied Clifford. “It has been st-stolen from its case.”
“Stolen?”
“Mislaid,” Redshaw corrected. “It will turn up.”
“Maybe faster if we employ the s-services of Mr Holmes and Dr W-Watson,” Clifford suggested.
“Mr Holmes is otherwise engaged,” Sutcliffe said, glaring across the table. “We don’t want to embarrass the Doctor any further than we have already.”
“Please, think nothing of it,” I said. “In fact, while I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality, I was hoping that you could help Holmes, Lord… I mean, Benjamin.”
“As I said on the ride over, there is nothing I should like more,” Redshaw said as our dishes were cleared and the next course laid before us; a bowl of clear soup, which Brewer announced as suimono, although the look on his face told me that the butler had little stomach for it.
“What exactly are you asking my father to do?” asked Lady Anna as the servants retreated.
“Holmes is innocent,” I told her. “I just know he is. Now, a man in your father’s position must have a certain influence.”
To my right, Victor’s eyebrows rose. “Doctor, whatever are you suggesting?”
“I mean no insult, suggest no impropriety on Lord Redshaw’s part. I simply mean that, perhaps, Benjamin could have a word with the police, to vouch for Holmes’s character.”
“Father doesn’t even know your Mr Holmes,” Anna said, and I could feel the mood around the table rapidly turning against me.
“No, but I know Watson,” Redshaw said.
“Benjamin?” Sutcliffe said.
Redshaw raised a hand to quieten the young man. “The doctor seems an honourable sort, and, before you say another word, Anna, I’ll remind you that I am usually a good judge of character.”
“He had the measure of Harold when you first brought him home,” Lady Marie said, drawing a venomous glare from her sister.
“Marie,” Redshaw warned, before turning back to me. “I can’t promise anything, but I will speak to the Chief Inspector. Remind me, who was the arresting officer?”
“An Inspector Hawthorne,” I said.
Redshaw nodded. “Ah. Another good man, and a friend of the League himself. I’m sure they will listen to reason.”
“And I’m sure Holmes would be delighted to look into the matter of your missing ring,” I offered, wanting to seal the deal.
“As well as investigating Warwick’s m-missing body,” Clifford said, picking up my train of thought. “We are all eager for his r-return.”
“Of course,” I agreed. “As you said, we were both present when the tomb was opened.”
“In disguise, I believe,” Marie asked, raising an amused eyebrow. “How exciting.”
I felt my cheeks blush. “That was not my choice.”
“But you must tell us of your adventures,” Anna pressed, a request that was enthusiastically seconded by Clifford.
“Surely you don’t expect Watson to sing for his supper?” Redshaw said.
“I don’t mind,” said I, my belly warmed by the surprisingly tasty broth and my heart gladdened by my host’s promise to intercede on Holmes’s behalf. “There was one story that you might find diverting. The mystery surrounding the death of Sir Theobald Maugham was one of the most dangerous cases in our career. I hope it won’t put you off your dinner…”
And so I began, falling into my old storytelling ways, Clifford, Marie and Lord Redshaw hanging on my every word. Only two people around the table did not seem entertained. Anna Clifford picked at her meal, as if annoyed that her control of the evening had been well and truly lost, and to my right, I was all too aware of Sutcliffe’s emerald eyes upon me, scrutinising my every movement.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
IZANAMI-NO-MIKOTO
If you had told my wife that her husband would be licking his lips after an evening of Japanese cuisine she would have laughed, and with good reason. While Holmes had dined in courts and palaces the world over, I was usually content to stick with what I knew: good old-fashioned British food.
However, the night at Ridgeside had been a revelation, with a succession of delicious steamed and boiled dishes, the majority of which possessed names I could barely pronounce. Most seemed to include fish, although one particular dish, which Sutcliffe described as mushimono, contained the most succulent chicken I had ever tasted.
The meal concluded with a selection of fruit, although I could barely eat another thing.
“Are you sure?” Redshaw asked, tucking into slices of Bramley apple served in a sweet syrup.
“Absolutely,” I replied. “That was delicious. Every last scrap.”
“Well, good for you for having a go. Most Englishmen would have balked at the first dish.”
“I considered it an education, and a tasty one at that.”
The others agreed, although I had a suspicion that Clifford had endured rather than enjoyed his meal.
“Compliments to Mrs Pennyworth,” Sutcliffe said, raising a glass.
“Working from the recipes you provided,” Redshaw said, returning the gesture.
“Which reminds me,” Sutcliffe said, standing up from the table. “If you will excuse me for a moment…”
He left the room, to return a minute later carrying a large rectangular parcel, wrapped in brown paper. Drawing puzzled looks, Sutcliffe walked around the table and presented the package to Lord Redshaw.
“This came in yesterday,” he said. “A thank you for welcoming me into your family.”
“You’re n-not married yet,” Clifford muttered, but if Redshaw heard his son-in-law, he failed to acknowledge the fact. Instead, he took the gift gladly and tore the paper away to reveal a framed painting.
“Well, will you look at that?” his Lordship said, turning the canvas towards us. It was a full-length portrait of a woman in what I could only assume was the Japanese style. She was wearing flowing white robes and had long black hair that hung down to her waist. While the picture was certainly not to my taste, Lor
d Redshaw seemed enchanted.
“Does she have a name?” he asked.
Sutcliffe took his seat. “She does. Izanami-no-Mikoto.”
The name had an energising effect on the older man. He looked up at Sutcliffe with wonder in his eyes. “The goddess from the story?”
“What story, Father?” Marie asked.
“One I shared with Lord Redshaw,” Sutcliffe explained. “A tale of sadness and terror, but ultimately of joy.”
“You should tell them it,” Redshaw said, still holding the painting in his hands.
“Are you sure now is the time?” Lady Anna asked. “If the story is a gruesome one—”
Redshaw cut across her. “Where’s your spirit of adventure, girl? We Redshaws have strong stomachs. Why, I was saying only this afternoon how I loved telling ghost stories. Isn’t that right, Watson?”
“Really, I couldn’t,” insisted Sutcliffe before I could answer. “Not after Dr Watson has dazzled us with his own stories.”
“Nonsense,” Redshaw said. “Go on. Tell them.”
“Very well,” said Sutcliffe, leaning his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers beneath his chin. “According to the Japanese, Izanabi and Izanami were the ancient gods of creation, and their children became the eight great islands of Japan itself: Awaji, Iyo, Ogu, Tsukushi, Iki, Tsuhima, Sado and Yamota.”
“R-ridiculous,” muttered Clifford, only to be shushed by his father-in-law.
“Please, Victor. Carry on.”
“Unfortunately, Izanami became ill, and died. Izanabi wept for his bride, and his tears became the Pacific Ocean. Now, Izanabi could not accept that his beloved was gone, and so he travelled to Yomi, the shadowy domain of the dead. He searched high and low for Izanami and eventually found her, hiding in the shadows. He asked her to step into the light, but she said that she could not. She had already eaten the fruit of the tree of death, and could never return to the land of the living.”
To my left, Lady Anna squirmed in her seat, clearly hating every minute of Sutcliffe’s tale, but the fellow continued anyway.
“He finally persuaded her to go with him, but only if he agreed never to look at her again. They started the long walk, Izanami shrouded by shadows. All was well, until they stopped to rest in a sacred grove. While Izanami slept, Izanabi lit a torch and held it above his love to gaze upon her beauty. What he saw horrified him. Izanami was nothing more than a rotting corpse, her body riddled with maggots and worms.”
“R-really!” Clifford complained, as his wife screwed up her face in disgust. “That is en-enough.”
“No, listen,” urged Lord Redshaw, revelling in the story. “There is a happy ending, I promise you.”
And this from the man who had told me that he preferred facts to fantasy.
“Izanabi fled, and Izanami awoke to find herself alone. She wept bitter tears, thinking that she would never see him again. She could hear the claws of the damned crawling ever nearer, ready to take her back to the underworld, but her husband returned at the last minute and placed a bowl of soup before her. She drank from the bowl and, all at once, was whole again. Her skin was smooth, her hair like silk and her eyes bright. ‘What was in the soup?’ she asked her love, and Izanabi told her how he had found a new-born lamb, innocent and pure. He had sacrificed the animal and used its blood to make a soup from his own heart. He had given his life so that she could live.”
His story at an end, Sutcliffe sat back, as if waiting for applause. Instead we all sat in stunned silence, not quite sure what to say.
All, that is, except Clifford, who had one question: “So, w-what happened to the husband. Did he d-die without his h-heart?”
Sutcliffe was forced to shrug. “I do not know. The legend does not say.”
“Doesn’t s-sound like a h-happy ending to m-me.”
“It was positively beastly,” said Lady Anna, standing to leave. “Sacrifice and maggots, at the dinner table? It really is too much.”
She swept from the room, saying that she needed air. Clifford went to follow, but Redshaw stopped him.
“She’ll be fine, just you wait and see.” Then Lord Redshaw’s eyes fell on me, and he chuckled. “What must you think of us, Watson? I assure you that not every night is like this at Ridgeside.”
“No,” said Lady Marie, rising from her seat. “They are usually worse.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
POST-DINNER CONVERSATION
“Go and fetch your sister,” Lord Redshaw instructed his elder daughter.
“You expect her to listen to me?” Lady Marie asked.
“We have one last custom to observe,” Redshaw told her.
Dropping her napkin on the table, Lady Marie rose to her feet and slunk from the room. “One can hardly wait.”
“May the Lord grant you sons, gentlemen,” Redshaw chuckled as he too got to his feet. “Let us adjourn to the drawing room. The ladies can join us there.”
I must have glanced at Redshaw in surprise, because he clarified his statement. “We don’t stand on ceremony in this house, Doctor. We like to do things our own way.”
“Th-that’s for s-sure,” muttered Clifford.
Again Redshaw chose to ignore the barbed comment. “You three go on ahead. I need to fetch a book from the library. I think you’ll find it fascinating, Doctor.”
I wondered if I were to be treated to more tales of the East. I excused myself to visit the smallest room in the house, which in Ridgeside Manor turned out to be the size of my palatial suite at the Regent.
Suitably refreshed, I returned to the drawing room five minutes later, my head still pleasantly fuzzy from the evening’s libations. What I saw, and heard, however, caused me to hover at the doorway, embarrassed to stumble upon a conversation that was obviously intended to be private. Sutcliffe had Clifford backed into that gaudy monstrosity of a chimney breast, the acoustics of the room amplifying their disagreement for anyone to hear.
“What did you think you were doing?” Sutcliffe said. “Matters of the League are private, or have you forgotten?”
“Says a m-m-man who ran from buh-business,” Clifford replied. “Your f-father would be ap-appalled.”
“Don’t you dare bring him into this. He was more a man of business than—”
“What’s this?” said Lady Anna, appearing behind me. I stepped aside to let her sweep the length of the room towards the altercation. I became aware of another presence beside me, Marie watching the drama with a cool detachment.
Clifford swiftly grasped the opportunity to shame the other man.
“Victor here was a-accusing me of… actually, what was it, V-Victor? Being indiscreet in front of our g-guest? I should like to know what Dr W-Watson thinks of us now.”
I wished that I had turned around and left as soon as I had realised what I had chanced upon. “Perhaps I should return to my room.”
“I wouldn’t blame you,” said Marie, strolling coolly towards a nearby settee. She opened the silver box of cigarettes on a nearby table and lit one as if such ructions were a run-of-the-mill occurrence at Ridgeside.
“You wouldn’t blame him for what?” Lord Redshaw asked as he entered, a weighty-looking tome beneath his arm. I have often heard people talk about wishing the ground would swallow them up, but had never experienced the sensation until now. The situation was mortifying.
My embarrassment did not, however, prevent me from noticing a change in Sutcliffe. The young man visibly relaxed, a look of forced benevolence replacing the fury on his face. “I wouldn’t blame Dr Watson for wanting to return to that dreadful hotel,” he said, offering a smile that even a blind man would dismiss as disingenuous.
“There is really no need,” I offered.
“I think there is,” Sutcliffe insisted, striding towards me, seemingly to make amends. “You are a guest in Lord Redshaw’s house and I have made you uncomfortable.”
“Will someone please tell me what has happened here!” Redshaw blustered.
Clifford was
only too ready to oblige, in a desperate attempt to save face. “Victor accused me of b-betraying the League’s s-secrets.”
“A misunderstanding,” Sutcliffe insisted.
“I should hardly call it that,” Lady Anna interrupted.
“Incited by high spirits, good sake and Dr Watson’s tales of intrigue and derring-do,” Sutcliffe continued, not to be subdued. “I hope you will accept my apologies. Here, can I get you something to drink? A brandy, maybe?”
“And there I thought my father was the host,” Lady Marie said, taking a pull on her cigarette.
At least that derailed Sutcliffe’s attempt at charm. Again I saw anger in his eyes, this time that his intended would dare to scold him so publicly. “Of course,” he forced himself to say. “It seems I must apologise again.”
“Good Lord,” Redshaw said, shaking his great head. “What must you think of us, Watson? I turn my back for a moment and the entire family are at each other’s throats. Victor is right, of course, you need a drink. Although I have something other than brandy in mind; Brewer will be bringing it presently.”
At that very moment, Brewer entered the drawing room, carrying a silver tray on which lay a curious metal teapot. Behind him came a footman, his own tray laden with china cups and saucers.
“Excellent,” Redshaw exclaimed. “Put it down here.” He indicated a table to the left of the fireplace.
Lady Anna groaned. “Must we really, Papa? You know I can’t stand the taste of it.”
“Nonsense,” said Redshaw, rubbing his hands as he approached the teapot. “I’ll take it from here, Brewer.”
The butler bowed respectfully. “As you wish, sir.”
“Have you tried green tea, Dr Watson?” Sutcliffe asked as we gathered around the table.
“I don’t believe I have.”
“A-another ritual Victor’s d-dragged back from the Orient,”
Clifford told me.
“Don’t be such a bore, Harold,” Redshaw said. “The host brews the tea and pours it himself. I think it’s charming.”
“I think it’s disgusting,” Lady Anna said.
“That I would honour our guest in such a way?”