Cry of the Innocents

by Cavan Scott

  “The poor fellow in my cell was Jamie Miller, a tramp from these parts. He’s a similar height to myself, I grant you, although in desperate need of a good meal in his belly.”

  I remembered the skeletal hand, so unlike Holmes’s own. Suddenly it made sense. How could I have been so stupid?

  “But how did you do it?”

  “We swapped places in the middle of the night,” Holmes said, removing the monocle from his eye and placing it on the sofa beside him, “Miller changing into my clothes and vice versa. Then, by the light of a candle, I got to work.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “With the make-up, Watson. Please do try to keep up. I have to say, even I was impressed with the final result. Most life-like.”

  “So every bruise and scrape…”

  “Were as fictitious as the brother who sits before you now. The reason you have never heard of Sherrinford Holmes is that Sherrinford Holmes does not exist. Another brother? Heaven forfend. But the people of Bristol aren’t to know that. As far as everyone is concerned, Sherlock Holmes lies near death in Lower Redland Road Police Station—”

  “While his devoted brother walks free.”

  “I should think so. Sherrinford has done nothing wrong… yet.”

  I shook my head, struggling to take it all in. “But this Miller character?”

  “How did I employ his services?”

  I nodded.

  “You really need to pay more attention, Watson. Did Inspector Tovey not tell you he was clearing tramps from the streets?”

  “Tovey’s in on it?”

  “It is always good to have a man on the inside. He found a fellow who could pass for me and we went from there.”

  “But the blood?”

  “Pig’s blood. Tovey’s sister is married to a pig farmer in a delightful village called Hanham. As for the other evidence, the lock picks in the corridor and so on, those were Tovey’s idea. He got quite carried away, although why he permitted you to come down and find the body I shall never know. If you had realised what we were up to…”

  “Miller batted my hands away,” I remembered, “when I tried to examine him.”

  “And a good job too. While the make-up was impressive, there was no way it would fool a medical man like yourself, especially if you attempted to wipe away the blood.”

  “But it fooled Mr Woodbead,” I said with a chuckle. “Ha. Serves him right, the old fool.”

  “The old fool who happens to be Inspector Tovey’s uncle.”

  My face fell. “His uncle?”

  “On his mother’s side. And, it would appear, a fine actor to boot.”

  I slouched back on the sofa. “He knew it wasn’t you.”

  “Of course he did. Although I am glad he didn’t take your advice and have poor Miller’s jaw pinned. I wasn’t lying when I said that the fake me is trussed up. You have never seen such an elaborate frame of bandages and gauze. Inspector Hawthorne is utterly convinced that Sherlock Holmes is in there.”

  “You’ve seen Hawthorne?”

  Holmes grinned. “When I visited myself in the police station. He took me into the surgery himself. It’s a peculiar feeling to gaze upon your own broken body.”

  “You’re unbelievable,” I declared quietly, shaking my head. “Just when I thought… I was really worried about you.”

  Now Holmes laughed out loud, which only irked me all the more.

  “I’m sorry, Watson, but if it is of any comfort, you have played your part wonderfully.”

  “My part?”

  “You have helped convince everyone that Sherlock and Sherrinford Holmes are two separate people, from your dismay in the cell to your excitement over the telegram from London.”

  My brow furrowed. “Of course. The telegram. How on Earth did you send that?”

  Holmes took a sip of his drink. “A delightful young lady by the name of Mary helped me. Do you know her?”

  “Mary? You’ve involved her in your scheme as well? Oh, Holmes, this really is the limit.”

  “A man must have his sport, Watson. Surely you can’t deny me that? Although I truly am sorry for duping you again.”

  “What is that old proverb?” I said with a rueful sigh. “Fool me once, shame on you.”

  Holmes smiled. “Fool me twice, shame on me.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I expect you wish you’d had another drink now,” Holmes said, draining his glass and placing it on the table between us. “But enough of this. Tell me what has been happening since my incarceration. I need to know everything.”

  “Well, I am a talented storyteller, after all,” I said with a grin of my own. “Your brother told me.”

  Before long I had recounted the full events of the last couple of days. When I had finished, he shook his head.

  “I’m sorry to hear about Father Kelleher.”

  “I know. It was very sad.”

  “No, you misunderstand me, Watson. I should have liked to see the corpse for myself.”

  “You say the strangest things, Holmes.”

  “Describe it to me.”

  “His corpse?” “Watson, please.”

  I did my best, although Holmes naturally had more questions. “And you say he choked on his own vomit?”

  “I could smell it on his breath, not that he… well, you know what I mean.”

  “And tell me, was there blood on his lips, or around his nose?”

  “Blood? No. But there was some on the sheets.”

  “The sheets? Are you sure it wasn’t the pillow?”

  “Actually yes. You’re right. The nurse removed the pillow and there it was. How did you know?”

  “Because Kelleher didn’t choke on his vomit. He was smothered, the pillow held over his face, hence the blood.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “The signs were all there, although you failed to see them. You say his lips were blue and that the blood vessels in his face were broken. Classic signs of asphyxia.”

  “And the vomit?”

  “Not to put too fine a point on it, the fellow was sick as he was smothered, but the vomit collected in his throat as it had nowhere else to go, thanks to the pillow pushed over his mouth.”

  “Good Lord,” I said. “I had no idea.”

  “And why would you? You have an innocent mind, Watson, which is what makes you so useful.”

  “So Kelleher was murdered.”

  “Twice. Once by poison and next by suffocation, only the latter was more successful.”

  “But if he was murdered to cover up the fact that Warwick’s body wasn’t in its grave…”

  “Why kill the priest after the tomb was opened? To stop him talking to Tovey perhaps?”

  “But none of this makes sense, Holmes. Why go to all this trouble to steal a corpse one hundred and seventy years old?”

  “And then make off with his periwig and ring? It is an intriguing problem.”

  “Could it be revenge? For the man’s involvement in the slave trade.”

  “Descendants of those he sold?” Holmes steepled his fingers in front of his lips. “An intriguing idea, Watson. It would have to be a person of influence. None of this has reached the morning papers.”

  “Except for your imprisonment.”

  “For a crime which I did not commit.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Holmes’s hands dropped from his mouth. “You doubted my innocence, Watson?”

  “Not for a moment. I simply can’t see why Mrs Mercer would blacken your name.”

  “Fear that I was getting too close, maybe?”

  “But she was your friend.”

  “She was my client, and a grateful one, I believed. She has a fascinating family history, you know?”

  “In what way?”

  “Her great-grandfather was originally from Africa.”

  “He was a slave?”

  He nodded. “Apparently so. Transported first to the Caribbean, then to Bristol, where he was gi
ven his freedom.”

  “So she could have a grudge against Warwick.” I snapped my fingers. “The library in the Lodge. According to Clifford it holds a ledger containing the name of every slave on Warwick’s books.”

  Holmes dismissed the thought. “I find that hard to believe. Why would he take the trouble to record their names?”

  “It’s the only lead we have. If Mrs Mercer has a copy in her own library…”

  “She is hardly likely to show us after your outburst, and we have no idea where this Lodge actually is.”

  “Sanctum sanctorum.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That’s what Clifford called the place.”

  “The holy of holies,” Holmes mused, before checking his watch. “Well, it’s getting late. I shall return tomorrow and request a visit to the Lodge.”

  “You’re heading back to Bathampton then?”

  “Of course not. I have rented a room near Temple Meads. My driver is another of Inspector Tovey’s tramps, only too glad of a few shillings.”

  I found myself chuckling. “I just can’t keep up with you, Holmes.”

  Holmes rose to his feet, but before he could reply a terrible scream echoed through Ridgeside Manor.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  A GRISLY DISCOVERY

  Holmes and I ran with all speed from the drawing room. The cry had come from the hall, where we found Lady Anna standing at the open door to Lord Redshaw’s study. Her hands were at her mouth as she stared straight ahead. Holmes brushed past her, entering Lord Redshaw’s private retreat.

  I followed him in and gasped in horror.

  Our host was lying on his side by a large writing desk, blood already soaking into the carpet.

  “Let me see,” I told Holmes, as my friend turned Redshaw onto his back. The man was out cold, a vivid gash on his temple.

  “There’s blood on the edge of the desk,” said Holmes, using Sherrinford’s voice. “He must have hit his head when he fell.”

  However, it was not the head wound that worried me. The front of Redshaw’s waistcoat was slick with blood, and I removed it quickly to find his shirt similarly drenched.

  Holmes watched as I unbuttoned Redshaw’s shirt to reveal two stab wounds in his abdomen, fresh blood pumping out like water from a spring.

  “Good L-Lord,” said Clifford, who had appeared behind his wife. “W-what has happened?”

  “Get the lady away,” Holmes ordered.

  “B-but—”

  “And call for the driver,” I added. “We’ll need to get him to the hospital.”

  Clifford hovered where he was, paralysed with shock.

  “Do it, man!”

  “Y-yes, of c-course.”

  Lady Anna cried a plaintive “Papa” as Clifford pulled her away from the doorway, only for Sutcliffe to arrive in their stead. He rushed into the study, but I had no time to worry about an audience.

  “We need to staunch the wounds.”

  Holmes had already removed his jacket and was unbuttoning his waistcoat.

  “Do you have bandages?” he barked at Sutcliffe.

  “I don’t know…” the man stammered in reply.

  “Then ask the servants!” Holmes said, Brewer having also appeared by the door.

  They disappeared, but Holmes was already pulling at the seams of his waistcoat to use the material for dressings. Finding the stitching too tough to break he surveyed Lord Redshaw’s desk, yanking open drawers to find a pair of scissors.

  “Hurry!” I urged, as Holmes sliced the front panels from the waistcoat’s silk back, and folded the navy material into squares.

  He dropped to one knee beside me and whispered, “Let me see the wounds first. We need to know what the weapon was.”

  “There’s no time!” I hissed back, snatching for the fabric. He held it tight for a second, his eyes locked on Lord Redshaw’s torso, before finally releasing his hold.

  I pressed the makeshift wadding over the wounds and pressed down hard as Brewer appeared by my side with bandages.

  “Excellent,” said I, instructing Holmes to keep pressure on the wound while I dressed Lord Redshaw’s head. Clifford returned to tell me that Redshaw’s driver Gordon was waiting outside. A crowd had gathered around the study door now, both family and servants, Lady Marie at the back, looking on with wide eyes.

  With Holmes’s help, I tied the wadding in place and buttoned up Redshaw’s jacket to hold the dressing in place. Now came the real challenge.

  “We’re going to have to carry him to the carriage without aggravating the wound. I’ll take the left arm, Sherrinford, you take his right. Sutcliffe and Clifford, you take his legs.”

  “You give the word, Doctor,” Holmes said as everyone took their positions.

  “Clear our path please, Brewer,” I instructed the butler, before nodding towards my accomplices. “Everyone ready? Right, on three. One… two… three.”

  We moved as one, heaving Redshaw from the floor. The old man groaned, the pain rousing him.

  “Brewer, take his head,” I ordered, and the butler hurried around us to support his master’s neck.

  “Steady now,” I said, as we carried Redshaw through the open door, his body a dead weight. “One step at a time.”

  The servants parted as we bore Lord Redshaw from his study into the hall. He started to move, squirming in our grip as we hurried as fast as we could to the front of the house.

  Gordon had the carriage door open for us, and I asked him to take Lord Redshaw’s arm as I jumped inside to guide my patient into the vestibule.

  “Lay him on the floor,” I advised.

  “He won’t fit,” Sutcliffe argued. “We should sit him up.”

  “We need to keep the wounds level. Easy now.”

  Getting Redshaw on board was no easy task, but we managed it. He moaned again, more weakly this time. I removed my jacket, folded it into a rough approximation of a pillow and slipped it beneath his bandaged head.

  “I’ll come with you,” said Sutcliffe, jumping in beside me.

  “Shouldn’t you stay with Lady Marie?” I asked.

  “We’re coming too!” Lady Anna insisted.

  “I shall bring the ladies in my carriage,” Holmes said, gently adjusting Lord Redshaw’s legs so he could shut the carriage door. “Get his Lordship to the hospital. We’ll be right behind you.”

  Lord Redshaw made not a sound as the carriage pulled away from the front of the manor.

  “Will he live?” Sutcliffe asked, staring down at the old man.

  “He will if I have anything to do with it,” I replied.

  But as we sped through Clifton, Lord Redshaw arched his back and cried out in pain.

  “No!” I shouted, dropping down beside him. “Lord Redshaw!”

  “What’s happening?”

  “Myocardial infarction. His heart’s giving up. Come on, Benjamin, stay with me. Not far to go now.”

  With Sutcliffe yelling for Gordon to speed up, I manoeuvred myself behind Lord Redshaw’s head. I had to keep him breathing, although the only method I knew would play merry hell with his injuries.

  Grabbing Redshaw’s wrists, I drew his arms up to expand his chest, pressing them back down to his sides to compress the lungs again.

  “What are you doing?” Sutcliffe asked.

  “The Silvester Method. It draws air into the lungs.”

  “But his wounds…”

  “Best not to think about what it’s doing to them!”

  What worried me most was that Redshaw, having again fallen silent, remained so even as I repeated the process over and over again. Was I going to lose him before we even reached the hospital?

  Sutcliffe looked out of the window. “Why is it taking so long?”

  “We’ll get there when we get there,” I said, more to calm myself than to comfort the young man. I was unable to shake the feeling that it was already too late and I was wasting my time trying to save Redshaw.

  The driver called for hel
p as we arrived at the hospital, and a gaggle of medical staff rushed out, led by none other than Dr Melosan.

  “Dr Watson?”

  “I hope you are not going to tell me I should be in bed,” I told him as two porters lifted Lord Redshaw out of the carriage and put him on a stretcher. I jumped down, following them through the front doors. Melosan made no comment as I told him what I had done, merely thanking me before asking me to wait outside as Redshaw was whisked into the operating theatre.

  I looked down at my hands, which were stained with blood. Had I done enough to save the man who had taken me in?

  My hands screwed into fists as I made a decision. I was sick of having doors slammed in my face.

  Holmes was rushing up the corridor towards me when I pushed my way into the operating theatre.

  “Dr Watson?” Melosan exclaimed.

  “I can help,” I insisted, before my eyes went wide. Dr Melosan was standing in front of some kind of mechanical pump, a length of rubber tubing in his hand. “What on Earth do you think you’re doing?”

  “Says the man who bursts in unannounced on my theatre. I am preparing to make a transfusion, of course. Lord Redshaw has lost a lot of blood.”

  I could barely believe what I was hearing. Looking back, my horror seems strange, but you must understand that at this time, blood transfusions had fallen out of favour in most hospitals; the risks to patients were simply too great. The previous two decades had seen all manner of experiments: Germans had transfused pig’s blood into humans, while the Americans had even tried cow’s milk. Even when human blood was used, patients usually failed to survive the operating table.

  “Shouldn’t you be using a saline solution?” I suggested.

  “Not in my hospital,” Melosan insisted. “I must ask you to wait outside.”

  “I have no intention of doing that,” I told him, rolling up my sleeve. “If you’re going to do this, then you can use my blood.”

  “That’s out of the question,” Melosan argued. “You are suffering from concussion.”

  “B-but I am n-not,” came a voice from behind. Clifford had entered the operating theatre and was already removing his jacket. “Whatever I t-think of Benjamin, he is my f-father-in-law. I would g-gladly donate the last drop in my veins if it would save him.”

  “Oh, very well,” Melosan agreed. “Nurse, prepare Mr Clifford, but I must have silence.”