by Cavan Scott
“I am in a meeting,” she pointed out, stepping around the desk to show me the door. I had no intention of leaving.
“And I apologise,” I said, acknowledging the hunched gentleman in the starched collar who was glaring at me in outrage. “But I am afraid this can’t wait.”
“It will have to,” Mrs Mercer insisted. “You can make an appointment at reception—”
I was having none of that. “Do you have any idea what you have done?”
The manageress turned to the elderly gentleman. “I am sorry about this, Sir George.”
“Perhaps I should leave,” he said in a thin voice, already pulling grey gloves onto his gnarled hands. Then he turned upon me a needle-like gaze. “This is most irregular.”
“Sir George!” Mrs Mercer exclaimed as the old man hobbled from her office without another word.
“That was intolerable,” the lady snapped, turning to face me.
“Intolerable?” said I. “Shall I tell you what is intolerable? Sherlock Holmes was found in his cell this morning, beaten half to death!”
At least the lady had the decency to raise a hand to her mouth. “I had no idea. Will he—”
“Will he live? If he does, it will be no thanks to you.”
“Me?”
“You are the reason he is there in the first place. If not for your lies, he would be a free man.”
She went to close her office door, but I blocked the way.
“There’s no hiding this time, Mrs Mercer. The truth will out, about you and this hotel. The sordid little secret you have worked so hard to protect. If you have a shred of decency you will go to the police right now and tell them that Holmes didn’t steal that book. Because if you don’t, so help me God, I shall see to it that you pay for what you have done.”
“Are you threatening me, Doctor?” she said, tight-lipped.
“I’m warning you. Someone wanted Holmes out of the way, and for reasons I have yet to ascertain you were only too happy to oblige. In my eyes, you are just as culpable as whichever thug broke his jaw.”
Her jaw dropped open at this, a chink in her armour finally showing. “They broke his jaw?”
But I was not fooled. This was concern not for Holmes, but for her own reputation.
“I’m so sorry.”
“I hope you are, madam, because by the time this day is out I shall see that everyone involved in this travesty is brought to justice, one way or another.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
BLINDFOLDED
Yes, it was an overreaction; and yes, I should not have said such things, but I cared not a jot, even as I stormed out of the hotel.
However, as I headed for Corn Street my temper cooled. Maybe it was the late morning air. Maybe it was concern over what my outburst would mean for Holmes’s case.
At the time of our altercation, I had been unable to see beyond my own anger. Now, I worried how it would look to others.
The friend of an accused man, threatening the woman who had condemned him.
I groaned at the thought. What an idiot I had been. I paused in the street. Should I turn back? Should I apologise?
No. My outburst, while hardly good manners, was justified. Mrs Mercer had set everything in motion when she called the police. Even if we believed her story, why the devil had she not confronted Holmes instead, so that he could prove his innocence? I stood by what I had told her. She was as responsible as whichever villain had attacked Holmes.
I continued on my way with a renewed belief in the rectitude of my actions. Holmes may have been incapacitated, but I would make damned sure that he had every scrap of information he needed upon his recovery.
Harold Clifford was waiting for me on Corn Street, standing beside one of Lord Redshaw’s carriages. I felt a tug of pity for the fellow. There was a proud man beneath that fleshy face, despite the best efforts of his father-in-law. Was that why he had offered me the tour of the Lodge? Was this all a secret act of rebellion?
“Dr Watson,” he said as I drew nearer. “I thought p-perhaps you would not come.”
“You piqued my interest, Mr Clifford,” I admitted, shaking his hand.
“Please, call me H-Harold.”
We clambered into the carriage and, at a rap of his knuckles against the roof, were off.
“As you d-discovered last evening, we’re a secretive bunch,” Clifford told me, “which is why I must ask you to w-wear this.”
He held out a blindfold.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m afraid not. I’m breaking enough rules simply taking you to the Lodge. I can’t r-risk giving away the exact location as well.”
“But the League’s existence is well known.”
“As is our official address…”
“But that’s not where you are taking me.”
“No. The real business of the League goes on behind very secret doors.”
“Surely you can trust me?”
“If I didn’t trust you, you wouldn’t be here.”
He held out the blindfold again. It was only when I took it that I realised that the man’s stutter had all but disappeared. It wasn’t only his speech impediment. Clifford seemed a different man out of his family’s presence. More assertive; more in control. Perhaps I was seeing – or at least hearing – a little of the fellow’s true nature before whatever troubles had overwhelmed his company.
Reluctantly, I tied the blindfold around my head. With the material in place, I was as blind as the proverbial bat.
“Thank you,” Clifford said, tapping the roof one more time.
The carriage lurched to the left.
Remembering how Holmes had foiled Professor Attercop in the Limosonian Diamond Affair, I set about memorising every aspect of the journey. I listened for the rattle of manhole covers, the thrum of machinery, even the shout of a newspaper salesman revelling in the grisly discovery of more missing apes found without their hearts.
Of course, the fact that I knew so little of Bristol’s landscape was something of a disadvantage. During the course of our journey I heard the blast of not one but four boat whistles, and was aware that we clattered across at least one bridge.
My frustration grew with every corner taken. I would have struggled were I in London, let alone in a city I barely knew.
The process was made no more straightforward by Clifford, who babbled away, apologising over and over again for his behaviour at dinner the night before.
“Think nothing of it,” I assured him, wishing the man would be quiet. “As I told Lord Redshaw, every family has its own peculiarities, especially with a stranger in their midst.”
Clifford laughed. “Peculiarities? You have a talent for understatement, Doctor.”
“Not according to Holmes.”
“Of course, I shouldn’t rise to Sutcliffe’s nonsense, but the man r-riles me. Always has.”
“Have you known him long?”
“We n-never had much to do with each other as children, but then he took up with Marie on his r-return from the Orient. He’s after Benjamin’s money, of course, that much is obvious. He can’t have as much as Benjamin thinks.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The fellow lives in P-Portland Square,” Clifford said, as if that should be answer enough.
“I don’t follow you.”
“Well, I f-for one can’t see why anyone would choose such an address. No wonder he couldn’t wait to p-pop the question. No one expected her to say yes.”
“Why?”
“Marie’s tastes are… slightly more earthy. They haven’t even s-set a date for the wedding.”
“Maybe she won’t go through with it?”
“I can’t see Benjamin allowing that. All those books of spells and w-whatnot Victor’s brought back from Japan. It’s as if he’s put a hex on the old man.”
“Spells?”
“You heard him the other night. The story of Izanami and… whoever it was.”
“Iza
nabi,” I provided.
“That’s the fellow. Victor’s full of that stuff. Well, he’s full of something anyway, and Benjamin l-laps it up. He used to be such a rational man. An engineer, like me.”
“And Victor’s changed him?”
“I caught them m-meditating the other day, in the drawing room. Meditating, a m-man like Benjamin. It sickens me that in an age of science like ours, men can still be so damned superstitious.”
I chuckled. “You sound like Holmes.”
“I would like to m-meet him.”
“That may be difficult.”
“Because of his bother with the police, you mean?”
I told Clifford what had happened in the police cell, and the man seemed genuinely distressed.
“That’s d-dreadful. Absolutely dreadful. I’m sorry to hear it. You should have a word with Benjamin tonight. He’ll have to speak to the police now.”
“He has said he would…”
“And you must make him. My f-father-in-law is a man of influence. Trust me, I should know. If anyone can help your friend, it’s Benjamin. I’d head down to Redland Road and have it out with them myself, for all the good it would do.”
I smiled and let the conversation die. I needed to concentrate on the sounds and odours of the streets. We had travelled up a number of hills, of that I was sure. Then ahead there was a sudden clamour, a cry of “look out”, followed by an almighty crash, like tiles smashing on the road.
“What was that?” I asked as the carriage lurched to the right.
“N-nothing to worry about. Here we are.”
We came to a halt and I pitched forward. I threw my hand out and it found Clifford, who steadied me before I could fall.
“Whoa there.”
“Can I take this thing off now?”
“Not until we’re inside, I’m afraid, but not long now.” I heard the carriage door open.
“You cannot expect me to walk in the street like this. Besides, how inconspicuous will a man in a blindfold be? Surely you don’t want to draw attention to your mysterious lodge?”
I was trying to keep my voice light, but was incapable of disguising my frustration.
“I cannot apologise enough, Doctor, but we are nearly there. Here, let me assist you.”
The carriage shook slightly as he stepped onto the pavement, and I felt a hand grab my own. The thought of being helped out of a carriage like an invalid was abhorrent and I considered pulling my hand free. However, as I would no doubt end up sprawled across the pavement, I let myself be led from the carriage, one tentative step after another. Never have I felt so vulnerable.
“Wait here,” said Clifford, disappearing for a moment from my side. It was all I could do not to rip the mask from my eyes there and then. I heard feet on steps, followed by a key turning in a lock and a door opening, the hinges in desperate need of oil. Then, Clifford took my arm again, as one would a blind man.
“There are steps ahead,” he said, leading me forward. “Careful.”
I proceeded gingerly, stepping down… one, two, three. We passed through what I could only assume was the open door into a cool space. The sounds of the outside world grew muffled and then disappeared altogether as Clifford closed the door behind us.
“I assume we have arrived at our destination?” I asked him, cocking my head to the side in the darkness. There was a hiss of gas followed by the sound of ignition, and I saw a soft glow through the blindfold. I sniffed. The air was redolent with the stink of damp and animal droppings. The smell certainly indicated that Clifford had brought me to a somewhat insalubrious location.
“You may remove the blindfold,” came his reply. At last! “But please don’t judge us by your surroundings. I’ve been forced to bring you in through the t-tradesman’s entrance, as it were.”
I made no reply. I was too busy trying to disentangle the knot. I had tied it too well.
“Shall I—”
“I can do it,” I snapped, as the knot came apart in my fingers. With another tug the blindfold was free.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE WARWICK ROOM
I blinked as my eyes became accustomed to the dull glow of the gas lantern that swung from Clifford’s hand.
We were standing in a dank, claustrophobic corridor, the crumbling brick walls devoid of decoration. I put the blindfold to my nose to protect myself from the foul reek of the place.
“As I said, you’re not exactly seeing us at our best.”
“That much is certain,” I agreed, to be rewarded by another well-meaning chuckle.
“This way then. Let’s get you back to civilisation.”
He walked ahead, holding the lantern high. The yellow glow of the flame cast strange shadows on the mould of the wall, and I jumped at the sound of tiny feet scampering away. Where had he brought me?
Clifford reached a simple door that was bolted from the inside. He threw the bolt and pulled the door open. Light streamed out, and I was led into such luxury that it was as though I had been transported from the tenements of Whitechapel to the grandeur of Buckingham Palace. The deep shag of a plush carpet was beneath our feet and velutinous purple flocked wallpaper covered the walls. Ornate light fittings blazed bright compared with Clifford’s lacklustre flame. He extinguished the lantern and, stowing it back in the squalid corridor, closed the door. Our curious entrance all but disappeared into the wall. If one did not know it was there, one would have passed the hidden door without question.
“Welcome to our sanctum sanctorum,” Clifford said in a theatrical whisper.
Our footsteps muffled by the thick carpet, we walked deeper into what I could only imagine had once been a grand house in the middle of the city. As at Ridgeside, I found myself scrutinised by the eyes of countless portraits as we passed. Each showed a knight of old draped in a white robe with a single red cross on his chest. They held swords in their hands and a look of zealous faith upon their faces.
“Templar Knights?” I asked.
“You know their links to Bristol?”
“Only what Lord Redshaw has told me,” I admitted. “Is there anyone else here?”
“In the Lodge? I shouldn’t think so, not at this time of day, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
He put his finger to his lips and tried an internal door. It opened to reveal an immense library split over two storeys, the walls lined with solid oak bookshelves that ran from ceiling to floor. Dust motes hung in the air, illuminated by the same gas lighting as the corridor outside, a necessity as I realised there was not a single window in the vast room.
“The accumulated knowledge of Bristol,” Clifford said proudly.
“My father was the librarian in his day. History, commerce, law; it’s all here.”
“It’s incredible,” I said, and meant it. While I read little other than the odd adventure story or my growing collection of medical journals, I could scarcely help but be impressed. If not for the lack of ventilation I could imagine myself spending hours exploring the bookshelves. As for Holmes, well, we would lose him for days at a time as he added to his vast repertoire of mental bagatelles, one of which would some day turn a case on its head.
Clifford ran a hand along a row of precious spines. “Father told me there is even a ledger here that contains the name of every poor soul sold by Warwick at the harbourside.”
“Surely not,” I said.
“I’ve never seen it myself, and I know there are others that would gladly see the book burn. Anything to forget how Warwick really made his money.”
“It doesn’t worry you then?”
“Don’t get me wrong, Doctor. Such enterprises were abominable, but it was a different time. I’m a firm believer that one must understand the mistakes of the past, to ensure that history doesn’t repeat itself.”
“Very wise,” I said, noticing a section of medical books. I turned my head to read the titles on the spines, and was excited to see treatises from the likes of Doctors Hervey, Vesalius and Pretor
ius. “This is a treasure trove.”
Clifford smiled at my enthusiasm. “Don’t worry, Doctor. I’ll be sure to bring you back this way.”
He opened a door on the other side of this Aladdin’s cave and reluctantly I followed. We were in another splendid passageway. More portraits graced the walls, the subjects of more recent years, each wearing an identical chain of office around his neck. As we approached the large double doors at the end of the corridor, I found a face I recognised.
“This man,” I said, stopping in front of the portrait. “We have met, although I cannot say where.”
Clifford glanced up at the gaunt features, perfectly captured in oils. “That is S-Sir George Tavener, our Grand M-Master.”
Shame washed over me as I realised where I had encountered those small penetrating eyes. Sir George was the understandably aggrieved gentleman who had been in conference with Mrs Mercer when I burst into her office this morning.
“So all these men were Grand Masters?” I asked, covering my embarrassment with the question.
“Yes,” Clifford replied. “Right back to the League’s foundation in 1322.”
“Impressive,” I said.
Clifford smiled. “Not compared with what lies through here.”
He led me to the doors, which bore a large coat of arms, the device being split between the two of them. A shoal of fish swam in the centre of the crest, which was supported by two braying unicorns. Beneath them ran a motto: vade et tu fac similiter.
“‘Go and do thou likewise’,” I translated. “From the parable of the Good Samaritan. The motto of the League?”
“No,” replied Clifford. “Of Edwyn Warwick. This is the Warwick room.”
He pushed open the doors and we entered a room not unlike a chapel in both size and decoration. Stained-glass windows shone from the walls, each portraying a different aspect of the philanthropist’s life: Warwick the businessman; Warwick the orator; Warwick the crusader for justice; and Warwick the saint. Yes, one would have thought, due to his depiction in the last window, that the man had already been sanctified. He was standing in the centre of Bristol surrounded by the poor, who reached up to touch his robe as if the fabric alone could deliver them from destitution.