Cry of the Innocents

by Cavan Scott

  “I did what I thought right.”

  “As d-did I,” stammered Clifford.

  “You have only made matters worse,” Sutcliffe insisted, but the rest of the conversation was lost to me as I heard someone approach. I stepped quickly away from the door, and continued on my way just as Brewer appeared around the corner.

  “Dr Watson?” he said. “We did not expect to see you out of bed.”

  “I needed a change of scenery,” I replied. “Thought I might sit in the drawing room for a while, catch up on the newspaper perhaps.”

  “Can I get you anything, sir?”

  “No thank you, Brewer. I’m sure you have duties to perform.”

  “Very good, sir,” he said, bowing just enough to be respectful. I waited for him to continue on his way, but he stayed rooted to the spot. The man was obviously waiting for me to stop lurking around his master’s study.

  “Yes, well… the drawing room,” I said, smiling weakly and turning to leave. Brewer watched me go for a moment, before carrying on about his business.

  I had half a mind to sneak back to the study door when I heard something nearby, the same sound that had so intrigued me in the thick of the night. Someone was crying nearby.

  Abandoning my eavesdropping, I followed the noise to find Lady Marie sobbing piteously in front of the dining-room fireplace.

  I hesitated at the door, caught between an urge to offer assistance and a reluctance to intrude upon a lady’s grief. Either way, I was caught out. Lady Anna appeared behind me, making me jump as she addressed me by name.

  “Dr Watson, are you well enough to be out of bed?”

  Flustered, I looked at Marie, who met my gaze with red-rimmed eyes.

  “I am fine,” I stammered as Lady Marie rose swiftly from her seat and exited through a door beside the chimneypiece. I guessed it must have led to Lord Redshaw’s much-prized billiard room. Somehow I doubted she was rushing to set up a game.

  I called after her, but she did not stop.

  “Leave her,” Anna said, her tone sharp.

  “But she is upset.”

  “My sister is always upset. It is her preferred condition, especially when others are happy.”

  It seemed to me that no one in this house was particularly happy, myself included.

  “Anna?” said Clifford behind her, appearing at the door. The meeting in the study had clearly come to an end. “Is s-something wrong?”

  “Oh, not a bit of it. Just Marie throwing one of her tantrums.”

  It had hardly seemed a tantrum to me, more like a heart breaking.

  Now Sutcliffe was in the drawing room too, asking after his fiancée.

  “She went through there,” I told him, and he set off to find her, almost shoving me out of the way in his haste.

  “No, please,” I declared with more sarcasm than I intended, “excuse me!”

  “Watson?” Lord Redshaw exclaimed as he too entered. “What are you doing up?”

  “I asked the very same thing, Father,” Lady Anna told him. I raised a palm to ward off the concern.

  “I’m fine,” I lied. “Really I am, save for a slight headache.”

  “You were lucky you weren’t killed. On behalf of the Worshipful League of Merchants, I offer you a heartfelt apology.”

  “No, Lord Redshaw, it is I who must apologise. I betrayed your trust. I should not have gone to the Lodge.”

  “You only went because you were invited,” Redshaw stated, shooting a look at his son-in-law, “by someone who should know better.”

  Clifford looked suitably contrite. “I am s-sorry to have d-dragged you into this, D-Doctor.”

  “Please. I became involved as soon as Ermacora set course for Baker Street. What of the periwig?”

  “The Grand Master is to launch an internal investigation,” Redshaw said. “Oh, and he sends his apologies for not greeting you in person. He wanted to return to the Lodge as soon as possible.”

  For this I was grateful. I had little wish to renew our acquaintance. “What have the police said?”

  “They will not be involved.”

  “Really? But if the periwig has been stolen—”

  “This is an internal affair—”

  “In which I was assaulted!”

  “In which you were trespassing!”

  Redshaw’s indignation took me by surprise. He regained his composure immediately.

  “I’m sorry. This is a stressful situation, and personally embarrassing seeing as Harold was involved.”

  “You can’t blame him?” exclaimed Anna.

  “Blame him? I staked my entire reputation on him! The Grand Master was all for expelling your husband for his actions.”

  “He did nothing wrong.”

  “I b-broke the r-rules,” Clifford admitted. “Your f-father stood up for me. I am in his d-debt… once more.”

  Redshaw sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what this city is coming to. It’s becoming harder and harder to make an honest living. Strikes. Workers’ rights. Just today I had a meeting with the damned unions, wanting more money for the men. How are we supposed to keep afloat with all these demands left, right and centre? Wasn’t like it in Warwick’s day. Back then they let you get on with things. Business was allowed to be business, none of this namby-pamby welfare rubbish. Harold knows it as well as I. Profits are going down, industry is moving elsewhere and no one will raise a finger to help. And then, after all that, I come home to this. Thieves in the Lodge. Watson nearly killed. The world’s going to the dogs.”

  My head was throbbing uncontrollably now. All I wanted to do was escape from this house with its secrets and quarrels. If not for Holmes, I would have set off back to London there and then.

  I must have swayed on my feet, because Lady Anna was at my side in a heartbeat, guiding me towards a chair.

  “I am quite well, I promise you,” I maintained, although I felt nothing of the sort.

  “Nonsense,” said Lord Redshaw. “Harold, get the man a brandy. Watson, sit down for God’s sake.”

  I did as I was told and gratefully accepted the drink a moment later.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your friend being beaten in custody,” Redshaw said as I sipped the oaky liquid. “Harold told me about Holmes. It’s a terrible business, all of it. I doubt you will ever want to see Bristol again.”

  The thought had occurred to me.

  “I have had a word with Dr Melosan,” Redshaw continued. “He is going to see what he can do about securing Holmes’s release into the Royal Infirmary.”

  His words felt like a sudden ray of light on a cloudy day. “Thank you.”

  “It is the least we can do, after everything you’ve been through. Do you want another?”

  I looked down at my glass, realising that I had drunk the lot.

  “No, thank you. One is enough.”

  “Well, I know I need one,” said my host, crossing to the drinks cabinet. “What a day it has been, eh?”

  As Lord Redshaw poured himself a glass, he had no way of knowing that the day would very nearly be his last.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  A VISITOR

  Lord Redshaw’s glass had barely reached his lips before the front door bell chimed.

  “What now?” his Lordship asked, as we waited to see who would present themselves.

  Within a few moments, Brewer appeared at the drawing-room door, haughty as ever.

  “A Mr Holmes to see Dr Watson, sir,” he intoned.

  I jumped to my feet so fast that my head was almost sent into another spin.

  “Mycroft?” I asked, expecting to see Holmes’s rotund brother waddle through the door.

  “I am afraid not,” came an unfamiliar voice. I stopped in my tracks, momentarily confused. A tall, lean figure had appeared behind Brewer, dressed in a smart blue suit. That he was related to Holmes there was no doubt. He shared the same hawk-like nose and bushy eyebrows, but was a good many pounds lighter than Mycroft, although
not as thin as Holmes himself. His hair was grey and sparse, a tidy angular beard perched on his chin, and he wore a monocle in one grey eye.

  When he spoke again, I realised that his voice was deeper than Sherlock Holmes’s own, a rich baritone that seemed to belong to a larger man.

  The newcomer bowed his head in our host’s direction. “Lord Redshaw, my name is Sherrinford Holmes, and I should like to thank you for accommodating Dr Watson during my brother’s troubles.”

  “I beg your pardon,” I said, holding onto the back of the chair to stop myself from pitching over. “I do not believe we have met.”

  “Indeed we have not.” Sherrinford Holmes walked towards me to extend his hand and I noticed he was limping on his left foot. “I apologise that I am not the man you were expecting. Brother Mycroft rarely ventures out of his chambers, let alone the capital.”

  He shook my hand warmly, cupping it between both palms.

  “And as for Sherlock, I doubt he has ever mentioned my name.”

  “I’m afraid not,” I admitted.

  “I thought as much. Regrettably, the Holmes brothers are less close than once we were. Both Sherlock and Mycroft were keen to fly the ancestral nest, whereas I stayed at home to manage the estate. I am sorry to say that I share little of their sense of adventure.”

  “Will you have a drink, sir?” Lord Redshaw asked, his own glass still in his hand.

  “Is that brandy?” Sherrinford asked.

  “Indeed.”

  “Then yes, that would be most pleasant, thank you. It has been quite a journey.”

  “Where have you come from?” asked Lady Anna, indicating that Sherrinford should take a seat.

  “Sussex. I came as soon as I could.”

  “How did you know?” I asked.

  “What had happened to my brother, you mean? I received a rare message from Mycroft, asking me to intercede on his behalf.”

  I wanted to ask more, but was forced to wait until Lady Anna introduced her husband.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you all,” Sherrinford said graciously.

  “If only it could have been under better circumstances.”

  “I shall take you to see Holmes in the morning,” I promised.

  “There is no need,” Sherrinford replied as Redshaw handed him a glass. “I have already seen him.”

  “You have?”

  Sherrinford nodded, taking a sip of the drink. “I came directly from the police station. Quite a mess.” He shook his head sadly.

  “How is he?”

  “Stable, although he had been drifting in and out of consciousness. The surgeon…”

  “Mr Woodbead,” I provided.

  “He has Sherlock trussed up like a spring chicken, but at least he seems not to be in too much pain, all things considered.”

  “My father is going to have him moved to the hospital,” Lady Anna told Sherrinford.

  “Is that so?”

  “That’s certainly the plan,” Redshaw told him, standing with one thumb tucked into his waistcoat pocket.

  “Very kind I’m sure, although I should prefer Sherlock to stay where he is.”

  “At the station?” I asked, flabbergasted.

  “In Mr Woodbead’s surgery. He is in good hands, Doctor, have no fear. And besides, my solicitors are looking into these scurrilous charges that have been levelled against Sherlock. They believe it would be better for him to remain in custody.”

  “Who are you using?” Redshaw said.

  “McCarthy and Turner,” Sherrinford replied. “Perhaps you have heard of them?”

  Redshaw shook his head. “Can’t say I have.”

  “Ah. Well, they are a local firm, but quite competent.”

  “Do you think they can help?” I asked.

  “Think?” Sherrinford scoffed. “I know they can. My brother is many things, Doctor, but a thief he is not. This woman, Mrs…”

  “Mercer,” Redshaw snarled.

  “Thank you. She is obviously mistaken. I’m sure we will be able to convince her to have the police drop the charges, as long as she does not feel intimidated in any way.”

  “Ah…” I said.

  “Ah?” Sherrinford echoed.

  “I, er, may have paid a visit to the Regent myself.”

  “You did?”

  “I was so angry, especially after what had happened to Holmes…”

  “That you had it out with Mercer.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Sherrinford dismissed the concern easily. “Your reaction is quite understandable. I am sure it will be no problem. And if it is, we shall make it go away.”

  “That’s the ticket,” Redshaw said with a laugh. “A man after my own heart.”

  Sherrinford Holmes was certainly sure of himself. Having seen Holmes and Mycroft together I could imagine the clash of personalities when all three Holmes brothers were in the same room. No wonder Holmes kept his distance.

  “You must stay with us, of course,” Redshaw announced. “I will have Brewer prepare a room.”

  “You are most kind, and yet I must respectfully decline. I am staying with friends near Bathampton, the Jarrett-Pettingales. Do you know them?”

  Lord Redshaw shook his head. “I’ve never had the pleasure.”

  “I am not surprised. They are a quiet couple, keep themselves to themselves. I plan to travel back and forth until we have Sherlock safely back in London. And Dr Watson of course.”

  “You two must have a lot to talk about,” Lord Redshaw realised. “We should leave you to it.”

  I stood as he began ushering both Anna and Clifford from the room. “Lord Redshaw, please. I have inconvenienced you enough.”

  “Nonsense,” came the reply. “Take as long as you need, and please help yourself to another drink. I’ll be in my study if you need me.”

  And then the door was closed, and I was alone with a brother of Holmes I had never even known existed.

  “It is good to meet you finally, Doctor,” Sherrinford said, rising to limp across to the drinks cabinet. “I have read your stories with great interest. You are a talented storyteller, sir.”

  I felt myself blush. “I’m not sure your brother would agree.”

  “Sherlock? Oh, what a philistine my brother can be.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Then you are either a loyal friend, or a saint.” He poured himself a second brandy. “Sherlock wouldn’t know culture if he was battered around the head with the Complete Works of William Shakespeare. Talking of which, how is your injury?”

  “My injury?” I said, raising my hand to the back of my head.

  “A-ha, I thought so,” Sherrinford said with glee. “I could tell you were unsteady on your feet, and your pupils are slightly dilated, suggesting a blow to the head. The fact that you reacted by reaching for the affected area only proves my suspicion.”

  I laughed. “You’re definitely a Holmes.”

  “Because of the guessing games? That is all they are, and don’t let my brother tell you otherwise.” He replaced the stopper on the crystal-cut bottle. “The three of us were brought up by an ogre of a nanny and survived only by tormenting her mercilessly. Who would have thought that our childhood games would provide Sherlock with a profession?”

  He limped over to the drawing-room door and opened it a crack, peeking outside. What the deuce was the man up to? A smile flickered across his lips and he closed the door again, turning back to me.

  “Tell me honestly, Watson, what do you think of my brother?” The question flummoxed me.

  “He’s my closest friend.”

  “Of course he is, but there must be times when you want to take that service revolver of yours to his head.”

  The suggestion appalled me. “I would never do such a thing.”

  “I would hardly blame you if you did. All those infuriating habits of his. Is he still as untidy as ever?”

  “Holmes is always immaculately dressed.”

  “Of course, bu
t so slovenly at home. All that mess and confusion everywhere you turn. And then there are the mood swings, and the inappropriate demands on one’s time. Tell me, did he actually ask you to accompany him to Bristol, or merely assume you would follow?”

  “I was happy to accompany him.”

  “As I said, a saint. As is your wife. Mary, isn’t it?”

  He limped towards me, but paused to bounce up and down on his heels. “Oh, that won’t do. No, not at all.”

  I looked at him quizzically. Was the man right in the head?

  Sherrinford held his glass out to me. “Doctor, would you be so kind as take my drink for a moment?”

  I accepted the glass and watched as this remarkable brother of Holmes perched on the edge of a sofa and undid his left boot. As I watched in bewilderment, he pulled out his stockinged foot, turned the boot over and gave it a shake.

  A small round pebble fell to the floor, and bounced once before rolling over to my feet.

  “That’s better,” said Sherrinford, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “As you know, Watson, it is always best to keep a stone in your boot…”

  “To remind yourself on which leg you are limping,” I said, dumbfounded.

  “Quite so. But between you and me, it’s damned uncomfortable all the same.”

  He smiled, and I saw in an instant that the monocled man in front of me was none other than Sherlock Holmes himself.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  THE LONG-LOST BROTHER

  I nearly dropped the brandy in amazement. “Holmes, is it really you?”

  “Keep your voice down, Watson,” Holmes whispered as he pulled on his boot and retrieved the pebble, slipping it into his jacket pocket. “When I checked outside, the corridor was empty, but you can never be sure, hence all that nonsense about Nanny.”

  “But I don’t understand…”

  “Evidently.”

  “I saw you. In the cell. Your injuries…”

  Holmes took the glass from my hand and sat on one of the settees in front of the fireplace. I sat opposite him, still stunned by the revelation.

  “I was never injured,” Holmes explained, taking another sip, “just as this brandy is not half as good as Lord Redshaw thinks it is.”

  “But your face, your jaw.”