by Cavan Scott
As for Warwick the crusader, he was seen breaking the chains of the oppressed. Considering Warwick’s history, even his most apologetic of supporters must have found such a portrayal in rather poor taste.
There was something else odd about the windows. The light behind them flickered, as if each image were lit by a dozen candles.
“What do you think?” Clifford asked.
“Words fail me. The light behind the windows? It’s not natural…”
“We are at the heart of the building. The windows are illuminated by a series of gas lamps, installed by my own father.”
“He worked hard for the League, by the sounds of it.”
“He dedicated his life to its work. We all do.”
I turned on my heel, surveying what could only be described as a shrine. Banners hung between the windows, each representing a different aspect of Bristol’s economic history. There was boat-building, trade between nations, heavy industry and the arts. Of slavery and piracy there was no sign, both ugly stains on Bristol’s collective soul scrubbed clean.
The prosperity of the city, however, was clear to see. The pillars that supported the ornate plastered ceiling were smothered in gold leaf. Silver goblets and ornamental plates were displayed on plinths around the walls, each embellished with a glittering array of jewels. It was a temple of affluence, offering praise not to the Almighty, but to profit and gain.
“Are you ready for the greatest riches of all?” Clifford led me along the central aisle, rows of extravagantly carved pews to our right and left. Ahead, where one would expect an altar, was a cabinet containing but one item. A bust of Warwick watched our approach, the man’s own periwig on the effigy’s marble head.
“H-here it is,” Clifford said, with awe in his voice. “Edwyn’s wig.”
I was unsure exactly what to say. In all honesty, I felt a little underwhelmed after the majesty of the shrine itself. The wig was surprisingly modest, and obviously of great age. So I said the first thing that came into my mind.
“Is it ever worn?”
“Good heavens, no. It remains in the cabinet at all times, for all to see.”
“Who sees it though? What is this place for?”
“Reflection, and contemplation,” came Clifford’s considered reply. “Members often come in here and simply sit, hoping to soak up a little of Warwick’s industrious nature.”
“And his charitable heart?”
“Of course. And there are l-lectures. Sir George gives an annual address on the anniversary of Warwick’s birth, usually anyway.”
“Usually?”
“The next was due on Saturday, but it has been cancelled because Sir George is away on business. Caused a bit of a stir when it was announced. The League hasn’t missed a W-Warwick address for decades.”
“What about the ring?” I asked, keen to guide the conversation to the reason for our presence here.
“Ah yes. It was k-kept in this display case here.”
He moved towards the kind of cabinet usually to be found in museums or galleries, containing the accumulated knick-knacks of our ancestors. This was no different. The cabinet held a pearl letter opener as well as various wax seals and quills.
“These all belonged to Warwick?” I asked.
Clifford nodded. It was a curiously humdrum assortment for such grand surroundings, like entering the Great Pyramid only to find the Pharaoh’s nit-comb and a paperclip.
Perhaps I was being unfair. This worship of a mere mortal, no matter how altruistic he may have been, disturbed me, my initial wonder giving way to distaste. Still, I had a job to do.
“It sat there?” I said, pointing at a bare cushion in the middle of the collection.
“For decades, yes.”
“And it was taken from Warwick’s finger, when the body was displayed at St Nicole’s?”
“I’m afraid so,” Clifford confirmed, proving once and for all that the legend Holmes had related as old Pete was indeed true. “Ghoulish when you t-think about it. The ring was removed, as were the cross from around his neck and his shoes.”
“His shoes?”
Clifford gave a skittish laugh. “Yes, I know. Ridiculous, isn’t it? They used to be displayed here too, on one of the plinths, so we could ‘imagine walking in Warwick’s footsteps’. Now they are in storage, as is the cross. The ring is a m-mystery though. It vanished overnight, just two weeks ago. There was uproar as you’d expect, suspicion all round.”
I examined the cabinet, finding it locked.
“And who has the key?”
“The Grand Master, and Benjamin, of course.”
“Lord Redshaw?”
“He’s the High Warden, second only to Sir George. The two have been friends for years.”
I did what Holmes would do, checking for any sign of forced entry, but there was none.
“There’s currently an amnesty,” Clifford continued. “The League has announced that the culprit may return the ring without fear of indictment. As long as he also makes a sizeable donation to the poor fund, naturally.”
I stood again. “What does the ring look like?”
“Gold with an emerald set into the band,” Clifford told me. “There’ll be a picture in the library. You wait here. I’ll g-get it.”
Before I could argue, Clifford hurried out of the room. Left alone in the shrine, I was suddenly aware that Warwick’s bust seemed to be glowering at me.
Scolding myself for such whimsy, I turned my back on the effigy and wandered down the aisle as I waited. I looked up, gaping at the ostentatious ceiling. I failed to hear the door opening behind me, or the scrape of a candlestick being removed from a plinth. I didn’t even hear a step on the flagstones until it was too late.
I turned, at the last minute, as something hard came down on the back of my head and the world went dark.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CAUGHT IN THE ACT
“Dr Watson?”
The voice was familiar, but I was unable to place it, or indeed to identify my whereabouts. A hand was on my shoulder, trying to rouse me, the voice urgently repeating what I could only assume was my name.
“Dr W-Watson, can you h-hear me? Are you awake?”
I groaned, not so much in answer to his question but because it seemed the only rational thing to do in the circumstances.
“Steady now,” the voice said, as I examined the back of my head with a shaking hand. My fingers met inflamed skin and I flinched, the sharp pain bringing me halfway back to my senses.
“Here, let me help you up.”
“Never move someone who’s suffered a blow to the head,” I muttered, my words slurring, “unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“We can’t have you lying there.”
I attempted to get to my feet, my knees buckling almost immediately. I did not crash to the floor but was supported like a drunken man in another’s arms. I looked up, but my vision was blurred. Eventually, a fleshy face came into focus. “Clifford?”
“That’s it. Let’s s-sit you down.”
He lowered me onto one of the pews. “What happened?”
“I was about to ask you the s-same question. I was only g-gone for a m-moment, and returned to find you laid out on the floor.”
I made another tentative examination of the egg that had sprung up on the back of my head. My fingers came back red.
“Oh Lord, you’re b-bleeding. Let me see.” Clifford went to grab my head, but I swatted him away.
“He came up behind me…” I realised, trying to focus on the front of the shrine. There was a door, next to the cabinet I had examined. “What’s through there?”
“I d-don’t know,” Clifford admitted. “N-never been in there. A store room I t-think.” He walked over to it. “Do you think that’s where he c-came from?”
He tried the handle, finding the door locked.
“Someone could have been waiting inside.” “But f-for what reason? To attack you?”
“Why was H
olmes arrested? Why is St Nicole’s locked? Someone is trying to cover up what is happening here. First the body and now the ring.”
“It doesn’t m-make sense.”
“Words I seem to say most days around Holmes. Perhaps we disturbed an intruder and he hid. Does it lead anywhere?”
“I don’t think so. As I s-said—”
“You’ve never been in there.”
I massaged my temples. My head was throbbing uncontrollably. Two blows in two days would do that to a man. Or maybe it was more. I couldn’t even remember how long we had been in Bristol. I needed to think straight. I needed to think like Holmes!
I looked up and locked eyes with the bust of Warwick. Something was wrong, but my muddled mind was incapable of working out what.
And then realisation hit me. “The wig,” I exclaimed. “It’s gone.”
Clifford whirled around. “No. That’s not p-possible.”
And yet it was true. The bust was completely bald, the musty old periwig nowhere to be seen.
Clifford rushed forward, trying to open the cabinet. Its hinged door was locked as tight as the storage room.
“Is anything else missing?” I asked, trying to stand, only to find that sitting was far preferable.
Clifford looked around. “I don’t think so. Everything seems in order.” His eyes fell upon an empty plinth to the right of the shrine. “Except for this. There should be a candlestick there, from Warwick’s house in London.”
“Big enough to knock a chap out?” I asked.
Clifford hurried back to me. “Doctor, I’m s-so sorry.”
“This isn’t your fault.”
“I should n-never have b-brought you here.”
“Trust me, this kind of thing happens with alarming regularity. I’m surprised my skull is still in one piece. Now, help me up before—”
My sentence was cut off by a cry behind us. “Harold? What the devil has happened?”
Thankfully there was no need for me to turn in order to identify the owner of the voice. Victor Sutcliffe charged into the shrine, appearing at my side.
“Dr Watson?”
Even in my weakened condition, I could hardly help but notice the change in Harold Clifford. In the presence of Sutcliffe, the man sagged, as if collapsing in on himself. His stutter even returned with full vigour as he babbled an explanation, telling Sutcliffe about my assault and the missing wig.
“This is terrible!” At first, I thought Sutcliffe was talking about my cracked head, but it soon became clear he meant the theft. “What were you doing here in the first place?”
“I w-was showing Dr W-Watson the ring, or rather the l-lack of it.”
“Is that right?”
“Absolutely.”
“You weren’t stealing the wig yourself?”
Clifford’s mouth dropped open. “Y-you think it was m-m-me?”
Sutcliffe’s arms were crossed over his chest. “You are the only ones in the building, against Benjamin’s wishes!”
“Mr Clifford wasn’t even in the room when I was attacked,” I said, pointing towards the storage room door. “Whoever did this to me came out of there.”
Sutcliffe ran across to the door.
“You won’t b-be able to open it,” Clifford told him. “It’s locked.”
Sutcliffe turned to face him. “How did you get in here? Did you take Benjamin’s keys?”
“So w-what if I did?”
Sutcliffe held out his hand. “Hand them over.”
Shame-faced, Clifford fished a set of keys from his pocket and proffered them to Sutcliffe, who snatched them without another word and set about finding the right one for the job.
“You could have opened the door?” I asked, incredulous.
“I d-don’t know which is w-which, only the s-side entrance.”
“Luckily I do,” Sutcliffe said, pulling open the door. I pushed myself up from the pew and staggered over. As Clifford had suggested, the door opened onto a narrow cupboard. Shelves built into the walls were filled with dust-covered boxes and files. One particular item above all attracted my attention.
“Is that the candlestick?” I asked, pointing at the nearest shelf.
Sutcliffe picked up a large silver candlestick that lay on its side. “What’s this doing in here?”
“Someone tried to hide the evidence,” I said. “May I see?”
He passed the candlestick to me and I turned it over in my hand.
Sure enough, there were traces of blood on the base. My blood.
“This makes no sense. How long did you say you were gone?”
“Only a f-few minutes. Th-three at most?”
“And yet my attacker had time to knock me senseless, hide the candlestick and get awa—”
The room shifted again, and I pitched forward, only for Sutcliffe to catch me.
“We need to get him back to Ridgeside.”
It appeared this was finally something upon which both men agreed. “We can send for M-Melosan.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Family d-doctor. He’ll see you right.”
“S’no need,” I slurred.
“There is every need,” Sutcliffe insisted.
“But what about the w-wig?” Clifford asked.
“We’ll deal with that later. Now, help me get Watson outside. I have a cab waiting.”
Sutcliffe’s arm wrapped around my back.
“I have the b-b-blindfold here,” I heard Clifford say as I took an unsteady step forward.
“At least you showed a little sense,” Sutcliffe replied, before grabbing my arm. “Watson, sit over here and we’ll put it on you.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” I slurred, before collapsing to the floor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
A MEETING OF THE LEAGUE
I remember little about the journey back to the manor. I sat sandwiched between the two men, fading in and out of consciousness. I caught snippets of their conversation, but was unable to put much of it into context. There was something about an admiral and an anonymous tip-off about a break-in that had sent Sutcliffe running for the Lodge. It was also clear that if Sutcliffe had his way, Clifford would face expulsion from the League for his actions.
By the time we reached Ridgeside, I had regained enough of my senses to be led rather than carried to the Tombo Room. I was deposited on the bed and Lord Redshaw sat with me himself until the family doctor arrived. Dr Melosan was a fussy man who had been fetched from the Royal Infirmary in town. However, by the time he had shone lights into my eyes and prodded the painful lump on my head I was sensible enough to have performed my own diagnosis.
I could not be completely sure that my skull was not fractured but both Melosan and I doubted that permanent damage had been done. The swelling was already going down, and I was responding well, despite collapsing earlier. That was put down to pain, and I was offered an opiate, but refused. I wanted to remain as alert as possible for the arrival of Mycroft Holmes, whenever that might be.
Dr Melosan bid me good day and I was left alone to sink into a deep sleep. By the time I opened my eyes again, the sun had vanished behind the gorge.
Ignoring the pounding in my head, I sat on the edge of the bed, working up the courage to stand. Holding tight onto one of the dragonfly-topped bed-knobs I rose unsteadily. An onrush of dizziness almost had me falling back onto the mattress, but I leaned against the wall and the world steadied itself again. My mouth was dry, but a jug of water had been set by the bed. I poured myself a glass with a shaking hand, and sipped gratefully.
My thirst quenched, I looked down and realised I was still in the clothes I had worn earlier that day. I changed, taking longer than usual, but managed both my buttons and necktie on the first attempt, which I took as a small victory. The walk to the stairs was slightly more fraught, but I was able to reach the ground floor without tumbling head over heels, and paused in the hall to catch my breath.
I heard the sound of raised voices n
earby, and realised they were coming from the direction of Lord Redshaw’s study. Feeling bolder than I had any right to, I edged towards the door and placed my ear to the wood. While the voices were muffled, I could make out the tones of Redshaw himself, poor stuttering Clifford, the loathsome Sutcliffe and another gentleman possessing a thin, reedy voice that I recognised from our brief encounter in Mrs Mercer’s office. It could only be the Grand Master himself, Sir George Tavener.
“Well, it has to be found…” That was Sutcliffe.
“Obviously,” said Sir George. “In the meantime, we will replace the wig with one from my private collection.”
“You mean there’s another?” Sutcliffe asked, sounding shocked. “I thought ours was unique.”
“You think Warwick had only one wig? His sister gave one to my grandfather as a memento. I shall happily donate it to the League in our hour of need.”
Sutcliffe seemed in no hurry to let the matter go. “This changes everything—”
“I don’t see why,” Sir George snapped. “And you are distracting us from the main issue – why Clifford was at the Lodge in the first place.”
“And g-good th-thing I w-was,” Clifford replied, the man’s stutter more distinct than ever. “Otherwise w-we’d never even have kn-known it was g-gone.”
“What of this Watson fellow?” asked Sir George. “Could he have taken it?”
“And then knocked himself out?” Redshaw said, echoing my own thoughts. “Besides, he wasn’t even in Bristol when the ring went missing.”
“Or so we are led to believe,” Sir George suggested. “From what the Mercer woman has told us, Holmes delights in deviousness. Look at how he and Watson disguised themselves to visit Warwick’s memorial. How do we know they weren’t sticking their noses into our affairs before they announced their presence?”
“You are seeing conspiracies where there are none, Grand Master,” Lord Redshaw said, jumping to our defence once more. A good job too, as I had been about to burst in and tell the assembly exactly what I thought of their scurrilous accusations, no matter what words were inscribed above Redshaw’s study door.
“You should never have taken him in, High Warden,” Sir George told my host. “It’s too much of a risk.”