Cry of the Innocents

by Cavan Scott

  TELL SHERLOCK ALL WILL BE WELL STOP

  AM ON MY WAY TO BRISTOL STOP HIS

  LOVING BROTHER STOP

  I cannot describe the joy I experienced on reading the message. Although I had met Mycroft Holmes but a handful of times, I trusted the man implicitly. While the affection displayed in the telegram was surprising – neither of the Holmes brothers was what one would call sentimental – the thought that Mycroft was en route was encouraging. If any man alive could extract Holmes from prison it was Mycroft, who held a position of great influence at Whitehall. With the telegram safely tucked in my jacket pocket, I was convinced that Holmes would be free by the close of day.

  With a renewed sense of optimism, I dismounted outside Lower Redland Road Police Station to be greeted by a familiar voice.

  “Travelling in style, eh, Doctor?”

  Inspector Tovey was walking towards me, although his handsome face showed little sign of his usual geniality.

  “I am staying with Lord Redshaw,” I informed him, although it appeared my movements were already known to the man.

  “So I heard.” He shot a look at the driver, who was already parking the yellow and black carriage on the other side of the road in preparation for my return journey. “Tell me, is it the madhouse that everyone says?”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Redshaw’s an odd one, but his heart’s in the right place. Look how he took in his son-in-law…”

  “Mr Clifford.”

  Tovey nodded. “Poor sod’s had no end of troubles since he took over the family business.”

  “Lord Redshaw persuaded Clifford to sell his home, I understand.”

  “Persuaded? From what I heard he had little choice in the matter.”

  While this was all very interesting, I had other things on my mind.

  “How is Holmes?” I asked.

  “Do you want to see him?”

  “Is that allowed?”

  “No, but seeing I have nothing else to do…” He winked at me and smiled. “Come on.”

  He led me into the station and past the desk sergeant, who was again nursing a cup of tea.

  “Have you heard about Ebberston?” Tovey asked as he opened a door for me.

  “No. Has something happened?”

  “You could say that. I was forced to let him go.”

  “But the poisoning…”

  “Suspected poisoning,” Tovey reminded me. “We have no evidence and Father Ebberston, it appears, has no garden.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “No Naked Ladies. It’s a convincing theory, but unless Ebberston found the damned flower growing on the downs, how did he get hold of the bulb? With both Ermacora and Kelleher gone, we don’t even know if he broke bread with them in the first place.”

  “What has Ebberston said?”

  “He’s denying everything.”

  “As you would expect.”

  “Trouble is, no evidence—”

  “No case!”

  Tovey nodded. “And with no case I have no way of keeping him under lock and key. I’ve been told to forget about the entire thing.”

  “By whom?”

  “By those who could have me out on my ear for insubordination. They’ve had me rounding up beggars. ‘A better use of my talents’, apparently.”

  “But two men are dead!”

  “Of cholera. Or so the death certificates say.”

  I was unable to credit what I was hearing. “So all this was for nothing.”

  We were now in the bowels of the building, little in the way of light reaching the white-tiled walls.

  “Have you seen Holmes?” I asked.

  “Briefly,” Tovey said, holding another door open for me. “He seems in high spirits. The other prisoners aren’t so happy though.”

  “Why not?”

  “Since Mr Holmes has been here, he’s provided enough evidence to hang three of his fellow inmates, all from the confines of his cell. He even located the body of a prostitute by the way her murderer coughed after breakfast. I don’t know how he does it.”

  “He’s a remarkable man,” I said. “But surely if he’s bringing killers to justice…”

  “He’d be acquitted of his own crime? You would think so, but Gregory Hawthorne is a stubborn beggar. He’s not going to let Holmes off the hook that easily.”

  “He may not have a choice. Holmes’s brother is on his way from London.”

  “A force to be reckoned with, eh?”

  “Trust me, Inspector, it runs in the family.”

  We were now in the station’s cell block. I followed Tovey along the passageway, ignoring the jeers aimed at me.

  “I’ve a visitor for you, Mr Holmes,” the inspector said, as we approached the end of the gloomy corridor. He opened a small window in the last door and his eyes widened. “Oh my God! Mr Holmes!”

  “What is it?” I asked as Tovey fumbled for the key and flung open the door. He darted inside and I followed, only to stop short on the threshold.

  Sherlock Holmes lay on the floor in a pool of blood.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  TO A PULP

  “Let me see,” I said, pushing Tovey aside.

  The cell was a mess, blood splattered up the walls, but Holmes was in a worse state. His face was almost unrecognisable, a swollen mass of contusions.

  I fell on my knees beside him, my hands shaking. I had seen him injured before, but never like this.

  I heard Tovey call for assistance. Footsteps thundered towards the cell in response. I checked for a pulse, finding it slow but steady. Holmes groaned at my touch and tried to turn his battered head towards me.

  “Holmes, can you hear me? It’s Watson.”

  His only answer was a gurgle of thick phlegm. His right eye was completely swollen over, his left open a crack, but it was clear he was unable to focus. He grabbed for my arm, his knuckles caked in gore. Holmes had obviously put up a fight. I clutched his hand, holding it tight. It felt so thin and weak, not like Holmes’s hand at all.

  He moaned again, his split lips forming indecipherable words.

  “Don’t try to speak, old man,” I told him. “We’ll sort you out, I promise.”

  Yet, even as I checked the extent of his injuries, a gruff Scottish voice growled behind me, “Step away from the prisoner.”

  I looked up to see a man in his fifties glaring down at me. A fine set of whiskers bristled across his face as he stared at me through wire-framed pince-nez.

  “Didn’t you hear me, man? Let me see my patient!”

  He shoved me rudely aside as I got to my feet. A hand touched my elbow. It was Tovey.

  “Don’t worry, Dr Watson. Mr Woodbead is the police surgeon. Holmes is in good hands.”

  “Very kind of you to say so,” said the surgeon from the floor beside Holmes. “Now, everyone out!”

  “I can help,” I said, as Tovey tried to guide me towards the cluster of policemen gawping at the door. “I’m a doctor myself.”

  “I’m very pleased for you,” Woodbead said. “But the last thing I need is a well-meaning sawbones beneath my feet.”

  “Sir, I’ll have you know—”

  “Get him out of here, Abraham, unless you want this man to die.”

  “Please, Doctor,” Tovey pleaded, his grip now forceful on my arm. “Come with me.”

  I attempted to struggle, but Tovey was having nothing of it. Clearing the policemen out of our way, he dragged me from the cell.

  “But you don’t understand, I’m his doctor. I’m his friend.”

  “Which is exactly why you need to let Mr Woodbead do his job. You’re too close.”

  I wasn’t having that. I shouted into the cell, “Everything is going to be all right, Holmes. Do you hear me? Your brother Mycroft is on the way. He sent a telegram this morning.”

  My words were drowned out by Inspector Hawthorne’s angry voice. “What the hell is going on here?”

  The inspector was marching towards us.r />
  “Tovey?”

  “It’s Holmes. He’s been beaten.”

  For the second time in ten minutes I was pushed out of the way as Hawthorne barged past.

  “How has this happened?” he demanded, only to be given the same short shrift by Mr Woodbead.

  “What is wrong with you people? Get out!”

  Tovey pulled Hawthorne from the cell and Hawthorne whirled around, his fist raised.

  “Gregory, calm down,” Tovey snapped.

  “Calm down? What have you done to my prisoner?”

  “This was how we found him!” I insisted.

  “In his cell?”

  “The door was locked,” Tovey told him.

  “That’s impossible!”

  “Is it? Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Hawthorne took a step towards Tovey. “What are you insinuating?”

  I was incensed at what I had heard. “What? He’s done this before?”

  “I haven’t done anything,” Hawthorne insisted, jabbing a finger towards me.

  Tovey had no intention of giving up. “This isn’t your handiwork?”

  “I never laid a hand on him,” said Hawthorne. “More’s the pity.”

  “Then who did?”

  “Holmes’s knuckles,” I realised. “They’re red raw.”

  “So?” Hawthorne asked. “He’s an accomplished boxer,” I told the man. “Whoever did this to him would bear the marks.”

  “Who was on watch last night?” Tovey asked the two policemen who were loitering nearby.

  “Hanson, sir,” replied the taller of the two, a red-haired constable with a flat nose.

  “And where is he now?” Hawthorne asked.

  “Gone home I think. Not feeling well.”

  “Well, there you have it,” I said, triumphantly.

  “You know where he lives?” Tovey asked.

  “I do,” the other policeman replied. “Has a place down Temple Back.”

  “Then get round there, both of you,” Tovey ordered. “See what’s wrong with him.”

  The constables did as they were told, hurrying out of the cell block. Hawthorne, meanwhile, had spotted something on the floor.

  “What’s this?”

  He bent down to retrieve from the floor a small length of metal.

  “A file of some kind?” I guessed.

  Hawthorne turned it over in his hand. “It’s a lock pick.” He looked at the floor again, finding another near the wall. “This too.”

  “What are they doing out here?”

  Hawthorne rubbed his fingers through a stain by the door. They came back red. “Blood out here too.”

  He stood, shaking the picks in front of me. “Recognise these, Doctor?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Could they belong to your friend in there?”

  “He has a set; I’ll not deny it.”

  Tovey took the tools from him. “What are you suggesting?”

  “I’m suggesting that Holmes tried to escape in the night, but came up against Hanson.”

  He turned back to the door. There were traces of footprints across the threshold, trodden in blood.

  “Hanson saw to it that the prisoner was in no state to get away, and dragged him back inside the cell.”

  Hawthorne looked up and saw the incredulity on my face. “Don’t look so surprised, Doctor. Holmes isn’t the only one who can find clues.”

  “I was more surprised that you seemed to see no problem in the fact that an innocent man has been beaten to a pulp and dumped in a cell.”

  Hawthorne’s lips drew back in a snarl. “Hanson was only doing his job.”

  “Or what he was told,” Tovey said.

  “You’d better watch that mouth, Tovey,” Hawthorne snarled, squaring up to him. “It’ll get you in trouble.”

  “Like Holmes, you mean?”

  “I’m warning you…”

  “If you two are quite finished,” said Woodbead from where he had appeared at the door, his hands smeared with Holmes’s blood.

  “Come to rescue your boy, eh?” Hawthorne sneered.

  “Only one man needs rescuing around here,” Woodbead replied. “Abraham, go to the surgery. Get me towels, water and morphine. You’ll find a bottle in the cupboard above the sink.”

  “What is your diagnosis?” I asked, as Tovey hurried away.

  “My diagnosis is that the prisoner is bloody lucky to be alive, no thanks to any of you.”

  I was about to retaliate when he finally answered my question.

  “Lacerations to the face, severe bruising and a jaw broken in at least two places.”

  “His jaw?”

  “Not badly by any means, but enough to cause problems. I’m going to wrap his head for now, to keep the teeth in alignment.”

  “Wrap it? Surely it needs pinning. Only the other day I was reading about a new technique of rigid stabilisation—”

  “Yes, thank you, Doctor. I know what I’m doing.”

  “You’re taking him to the hospital, then? The Royal Infirmary?”

  “He stays here,” growled Hawthorne.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “He’s tried to escape once—”

  “There’s no evidence—”

  “And I’m not about to give him the opportunity to try again,” Hawthorne insisted, talking over me.

  Woodbead raised a bloody hand. “Have no fear, Doctor, I will care for Mr Holmes personally. He’ll be quite safe.”

  “And secure,” Hawthorne added.

  Somehow, this failed to put my mind at rest.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  RECRIMINATIONS

  “Is that it?” I asked Tovey as we stepped outside the police station half an hour later. “Surely there is something you can do?”

  Holmes had been transferred to Woodbead’s police surgery and was being treated at that very minute. Not even to be allowed to assist was unbearable.

  “Clarence Woodbead is one of the best, Doctor. He’ll do whatever he can to help Holmes.”

  “Holmes should be in a hospital,” I insisted.

  “And if it comes to that, Clarence will transfer Holmes himself, I have no doubt. You said Holmes’s brother is on his way?”

  “Mycroft, yes. He didn’t say at what time he would be arriving.” I checked my watch, realising that it was not yet ten o’clock. Another two hours before I had arranged to meet Clifford.

  “Perhaps I can meet the gentleman. If he’s something in government, then perhaps he’ll be able to exert some pressure around here, get those charges against Mr Holmes dropped.”

  I frowned. “How did you know Mycroft is in government, Inspector? I’m sure I didn’t say.”

  Tovey rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve done my homework. I’m afraid I’ve rather made it my business to know all there is to know about your friend.”

  I was impressed. Tovey was certainly thorough, but to find out anything about Mycroft was something of an achievement. No matter what Lord Redshaw thought of the man, Tovey was obviously not the kind of fellow who took no for an answer.

  It came as no surprise therefore when he told me that he was making a return visit to St Nicole’s to see if he could discover anything else from Father Ebberston. “Do you fancy tagging along?”

  “I thought you were off the case?”

  “I am. But confession is good for the soul. I want to give Father Ebberston one more chance.”

  Yet, when we arrived at St Nicole’s, the front door was bolted shut. No sanctuary would be offered today.

  “Could he be at home?” I offered. “Or visiting his congregation?”

  “Or suddenly decided to whisk himself off on a pilgrimage.”

  “Do you think that’s likely?”

  “As likely as anything in this case. Perhaps I should pay a visit to the bishop.”

  “To enquire as to Ebberston’s whereabouts?”

  “Or whether they have another key. Although after my stunt with the wa
rrant, somehow I think my prayers will go unanswered.”

  Now it was Tovey’s turn to check his watch.

  “Do you need to be somewhere else?”

  “The vagrants won’t clear themselves, more’s the pity. Are you going back to Ridgeside Manor?”

  “Not yet,” I replied, keeping my cards close to my chest. “I didn’t sleep well last night. A walk will do me the world of good.”

  “Hardly surprising, considering everything that’s happened.” The inspector touched his hat and took his leave.

  “You’ll send word if there is any change in Holmes’s condition?” I called after him.

  “Of course,” he replied, and strode away. I consulted my watch. My appointment with Clifford was still over an hour away. Alone in the city, I had no choice but to make good on my lie to Tovey. I strolled down to the river that flowed through the heart of Bristol. It was a veritable hive of activity. Tugboats and steamers chugged up and down, while labourers unloaded crates and barrels onto the harbourside.

  I looked into the murky water, wishing that I were standing beside the Thames rather than the Frome. Why had Holmes insisted we come here? Why could he not have gone back to France? Whatever dangers he faced on the continent could hardly be worse than being beaten to within an inch of his life in a stinking police cell.

  I looked up from the water towards College Green on the far side of the river. There stood the towering walls of the Regent.

  Before I knew what I was doing, I had crossed the river and was marching up the steps of the hotel.

  Once inside, I saw a female silhouette through the glass of Mrs Mercer’s office door. This time I would not be sent away. This time I would have it out with the woman once and for all.

  My mind made up, I strode over to the door and, not stopping to knock, grasped hold of the handle.

  “Sir? Sir, can I help you?”

  Ignoring the receptionist, I pushed open the door and barged into the office. Mrs Mercer was already on her feet. She looked at me in amazement, as did the elderly gentleman with whom she was in conversation.

  “Dr Watson,” she exclaimed. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “I wish to speak with you,” I told her, uncertain who was more taken aback by my impudence, the manageress or myself.