by Cavan Scott
“In the servants’ quarters?”
“The very same.” Holmes reached a door at the top of the stairs and pushed it open a crack, checking the corridor on the other side. With no one to be seen, I followed him through, finding myself in a passageway full of doors, empty except for a trolley laden with laundry.
“How will we know which room belongs to Powell?” I asked.
“Only a few employees live on site,” he said, darting from one door to the next, examining each door handle in turn. “Fewer since the business of the larcenous maid. And here we have it.” He stopped, at the far end of the corridor. Out came the lock picks once again.
“Are you sure?”
The lock was opened in less time than it took for Holmes to answer. “Look to the handle, Watson. Even you can hardly miss the fingerprints.”
He was right. I could see them, dark smudges on the dirty brass. “Cole’s blacking?”
Holmes opened the door and slipped inside. “You’re learning, Watson. You’re learning.”
The room beyond could scarcely have been more distinct from the palatial suite I had stayed in during my brief time at the Regent, or even the Tombo Room at Ridgeside Manor. Illuminated by what little light pushed its way through a single grubby, narrow window, the meagre furniture consisted of a single bed with a thin mattress and coarse blanket, an empty clothes rail, and a small wooden table complete with one drawer. The surface of the table was bare and as I closed the door behind me, Holmes eagerly pulled open the drawer, to find it empty.
“Has our bird flown his cage, Watson?”
“It looks that way to me, unless he lives an extraordinarily frugal life.”
Holmes turned his attention to the bed and flipped the flimsy mattress with ease.
“A-ha,” said he, as he revealed a delicate silver picture frame more suited to a lady’s dressing table than a cobbler’s room. I knew whose face would be gazing back at me before Holmes held the frame up to the candlelight. Lady Marie Redshaw smiled from the photograph.
I looked around the dismal cell, wondering whether Marie had met with Powell here. Holmes read my expression in an instant.
“Watson, you are an insufferable snob.”
“I am not!” I blustered, offended by the accusation.
“I can see it in the way your nose wrinkles. Where do you think they met for their romantic assignations? You, a married man. Shame on you.”
I was about to offer a suitably witty rebuke when footsteps sounded in the corridor outside.
“Someone’s coming,” I hissed.
“A man who looks after his boots,” Holmes whispered as we took up position beside the door, so that it might shield our presence if opened. “In a hurry, too.”
I held my breath, willing the owner of the cared-for boots to continue past Powell’s door. Instead, he was halted by a sudden female voice.
“Nelson?” It was Mrs Mercer. “Nelson, I thought you were gone.”
“And I will be,” came a deep reply, “if you let me get on. I forgot something, that’s all. Something important to me.”
I glanced down at the silver frame in Holmes’s hand.
“I’ve had folk asking for you,” Mrs Mercer told Powell. “The police?”
“No. That brute of a doctor, and the brother of Sherlock Holmes.”
Brute of a doctor?
“What did you tell them?”
“That you are unwell.”
“And they believed you?”
“I think so. And that’s not all. Lady Marie was here earlier.”
“Marie?”
“Elsie found her in your room. You told me she would stay away. I can’t have the Regent mixed up in all this. If Redshaw dies…”
I glanced up at Holmes, who was listening intently.
“I was careful,” Powell assured the manageress. “There’s nothing to link what I did to the hotel, and soon I’ll be gone too. You need never see me again.”
There was a pause before Mrs Mercer said, “Nelson, I’m sorry.”
“That it ended like this, or that Redshaw didn’t die?”
“Nelson, please…”
I could hear the consternation in Mrs Mercer’s voice. She was worried that Powell would be overheard, and with good reason.
“He deserves everything he got,” Powell told her. “You said so yourself. Now, let me fetch what I came for and I’ll be away. My train leaves in an hour.”
“Where are you going?”
“It’s best you don’t know, but thank you. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”
“No,” Mrs Mercer replied. “Thank you.”
Thank you for what? For attempting to kill Lord Redshaw?
My mind was spinning with the revelations. Framing Holmes was one thing, but colluding in the murder of a man was another.
The conversation in the corridor outside was at an end, Mrs Mercer’s heeled footsteps fading as she walked briskly away.
Powell entered the room, and Holmes was crushed against me between the door and the wall. Powell moved quickly to his cot. I dared to peer around the door and realised that I had seen the man before, leaning against the railings when Lord Redshaw collected my luggage. The African was tall, with shoulders as broad as I had ever seen. As I watched he felt beneath the mattress and, finding the photograph gone, pulled the bedding up to search for his missing treasure.
Letting out a cry of dismay, he flung the mattress aside as if it were made of cardboard. I gasped and Powell wheeled around, his eyes widening as he saw us in our hiding place. He sprang towards the open door but Holmes slammed it shut. There was a nauseating crunch as Powell was caught between door and doorframe, but he pushed back with considerable force, and ran into the corridor.
Holmes and I took off after him, back towards the stairwell. Holmes ran ahead, throwing himself towards the cobbler. Wrestling, the pair tumbled to the ground, but I raced forward and, grabbing Powell by his jacket, hauled him off Holmes. My assistance did not go as planned. Powell used the momentum against me, pushing back, slamming an elbow into my chin. I crashed to the floor, throwing up my arms to stop my head smacking against the wall. Powell was already running for the stairwell when Holmes pushed the laundry trolley into his path. Unable to stop, Powell crashed into the trolley and ended up on the floor, draped in sheets. Holmes was upon him like a shot.
“It’s no good, Powell,” Holmes said, pinning the large man down. “We know what you’ve done. Call for a policeman, Watson. Tell them we have captured Lord Redshaw’s would-be murderer.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you, Doctor,” said a voice, “unless you want me to put a bullet in the head of Sherlock Holmes.”
Mrs Mercer stood behind us, and I would find it impossible to tell you what was more terrifying; the look of fury on the lady’s face, or the pistol in her hand, pointed straight at Holmes.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
DESPERATE ACTS
Holmes stood slowly, his arms raised.
“So you have seen through my disguise,” he said, looking past Mrs Mercer’s gun to stare her straight in the eye.
“I admit that you had me fooled,” she replied, her pistol following Holmes as he got to his feet. “But your voice betrayed you.”
Holmes acknowledged his oversight with a wry nod. It was only now that I realised that he had commanded Powell to remain still in the strident tones of Sherlock rather than Sherrinford Holmes.
Powell finally freed himself from the cat’s cradle of sheets. He threw the linen aside and backed away to stand beside his partner-in-crime, rubbing the back of his thick neck.
“So what now?” Holmes asked, acting with such indifference to the situation that one might think he was held at gunpoint every day. Looking back, that was not so far from the truth. “We seemed to have reached stalemate in this little game. I am a fugitive from justice, while you, Mrs Mercer, are harbouring a felon wanted for attempted murder.”
“A felon with whom you collude
d,” I added, no longer able to hold my tongue.
Mrs Mercer looked at me in shock. “You think I was involved?”
“We heard you in the corridor, concerned that the hotel would be tarnished by Powell’s crime, the crime you yourself sponsored. No wonder you made up that nonsense about Holmes stealing those damned books. You had this planned all along. The last thing you wanted was a detective of my friend’s calibre staying beneath your roof while you were colluding with Powell to murder Lord Redshaw.”
“Mrs Mercer did nothing of the sort,” Powell insisted.
“There’s no good denying it,” I retorted. “I saw the way you looked at us when we collected my luggage, the contempt for Benjamin in your eyes.”
Powell laughed bitterly. “Benjamin?” He jabbed a finger at me. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“We know more than you think. We know about you and Lady Marie.” That silenced him. “We know about your affair, about the child you fathered.”
Powell took a step towards me, but I was in no mind to be intimidated.
“We also know how she left a door ajar,” I continued, “so you could steal into Ridgeside Manor and attack her father.”
Of course, we knew nothing of the sort for certain, but I had seen Holmes pull this trick many a time, trapping a suspect by presenting a suspicion as a statement of fact and watching the reaction.
“She did not,” Powell responded, clearly flustered. I had him on the ropes now.
“Is that so?” I continued. “She had ample opportunity that night, not to mention motive.”
“Watson.”
I raised my hand to silence Holmes, never taking my eyes from the cobbler. “For all we know, Marie came to you; she told you that Redshaw was planning to speak out in Holmes’s defence, to have those ridiculous charges dropped.”
“Watson!”
“That forced your hand. Lord Redshaw had to die, and Holmes would remain in gaol. The perfect crime.”
I stopped, feeling rather lightheaded. Neither Mrs Mercer nor Nelson Powell was interrupting me now that their entire plan had been laid bare. Mrs Mercer’s gun had even dropped to her side, the manageress staring at me in amazement.
I glanced at Holmes. Why had he not seized the moment and sprung forward to overcome Powell once and for all?
Finally, he acted, but not in the way I expected. As Mercer and Powell gawped at me, Sherlock Holmes raised his hands and applauded.
“Bravo, Watson. Bravo.”
I felt a swell of pride in my chest. While I had no desire to glory in the moment, the recognition from Holmes did me good.
I raised my hand modestly. “Please, it was nothing.”
“Nothing?” Holmes echoed. “You have done spectacularly well. To misconstrue the facts so thoroughly shows talent worthy of Scotland Yard.”
My face fell. “What?”
“That Mr Powell stabbed Lord Redshaw there is no doubt,” Holmes continued. “But what on Earth led you to the conclusion that he was sent by Mrs Mercer?”
I could feel my cheeks flushing as I looked at Holmes in sudden confusion. “Their conversation. She admitted it.”
“I did no such thing!” Mrs Mercer insisted, an assertion that Holmes immediately upheld.
“Quite right. You and I heard the same thing, Watson; that Mrs Mercer shared Mr Powell’s belief that Lord Redshaw deserved his fate. That she was concerned that the Regent would be linked to the act.”
“Exactly,” said I.
“Neither of which is a confession. If Mrs Mercer is guilty of anything, it is protecting a valued member of staff, of not turning him over to the police when she discovered what he had done.”
“And of false testimony against you, Holmes. She had you arrested for a crime you did not commit!”
“Because she was forced to, Watson, against her will.”
“What?”
“It’s true,” Mrs Mercer insisted. “I never wanted to say those things, but he made me.”
“Who did?” I asked, feeling my argument start to crumble.
“Sir George Tavener,” Holmes announced.
“The Grand Master of the League?” I said.
“The very same. The pieces of the puzzle were in front of me and yet I was unable to see them until now. As Lady Marie told us, scandal has dogged the Regent of late. There were the robberies that led to Mr Mercer seeking my employ, not to mention the exploits of Princess Vladlena.”
The very mention of the name brought an angry flush to Mrs Mercer’s face. “We were the innocent party in both cases. Thomas never recovered from the shock; he would lie awake at night, worrying that it would all come out and ruin us.”
“And yet Watson told me that the Vladlena scandal went away. That is an impressive achievement in a city this size. You need friends… influential friends… like the Worshipful League of Merchants. We know you have had dealings with Sir George of late. Watson interrupted your meeting, of course, and on the day I was arrested I couldn’t help but notice your diary open on your desk. The morning of the eleventh, the day I was arrested, was clear, save for one meeting: ‘G.T. at 11 a.m’.”
“George Tavener,” I realised.
“Perhaps he was meeting with you about the League’s ball, or perhaps he was alarmed that you knew the detective who was investigating St Nicole’s Church. If our suspicions are correct, the last thing Sir George wants is for anyone, let alone Sherlock Holmes, to investigate Edwyn Warwick’s missing body.”
“Warwick’s body is missing?” The shock on Mrs Mercer’s face appeared genuine. “Why would anyone take his body?”
“Revenge,” I told her. “For the enslaving of one’s ancestors, perhaps.”
“Do you mean my great-grandfather?” Mrs Mercer said. “Why would taking Warwick’s body put that right?”
“Precisely,” Holmes agreed. “Although why Sir George would want the corpse is still a mystery.”
“He is a vile excuse of a man, that’s all I know,” Mrs Mercer admitted. “Yes, he came to us after the Vladlena affair, offering to help. Little did I know what that help would cost in the long term.”
“Blackmail?” Holmes asked.
“Poetic justice, some would say. I must accede to his demands to this day. If the League wants a room for a function, the League must have it, no matter what. It doesn’t matter if the room is already booked, Sir George and his cronies can waltz in at the last minute and demand that we cancel everything in their favour.”
“Your disappointed guest,” Holmes recalled.
I raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“On the day we arrived,” Holmes reminded me. “A young man was telling Mrs Mercer exactly what he thought of her establishment.”
“So he was,” I realised. “I had quite forgotten about it. A mix-up of dates, you said.”
Mrs Mercer nodded. “If I refuse his demands, Sir George soon reminds me of what he has done for the Regent, and how damaging it would be for the truth to come out.”
“Surely if you revealed how you were being intimidated…” I suggested.
Mrs Mercer snorted in derision. “You think I would be believed? Sir George holds all the cards, Doctor, and who am I? The woman who has unwittingly harboured a thief of a maid, a faux princess, and now a despoiler of ladies.”
“Mrs Mercer!” Powell protested.
“You know it is not what I think, Nelson, but it is how they think. Sir George is the Worshipful League of Merchants, and the Worshipful League of Merchants make the rules in this city; they always have, and they always will. They think they can do what they want for one good reason: they can. They even forced me to lie about Mr Holmes, to accuse an innocent man. I had no idea why at the time—”
“But you could not refuse,” Holmes said. “And now Sir George has even more leverage against you.”
“I am sorry,” Mrs Mercer said, taking a step towards Holmes. “So very sorry. After everything you have done for the Regent…”
>
“Then why point a gun at us?” I asked.
“Because the lady lives in fear, Watson,” Holmes said, displaying more empathy than I. “And she is at the end of her tether. She knows Tavener can bring her business crashing around her at any moment. Fear makes us irrational. Once it has us in its grip, we find it impossible to trust anyone, even a friend.” He turned to face the manageress. “There is no need to apologise.”
“Oh, believe me there is. If I could be free of that man…”
“Then why have Powell attack Lord Redshaw?” I asked, still reeling from her revelations.
“She didn’t,” Powell interjected. “It was nothing to do with her.”
“I believe you,” said Holmes, crouching down to retrieve something from the sheets at his feet. It was an envelope, and I could tell by the way that Powell’s hand suddenly went to his left breast that it had fallen from his jacket pocket during his struggle with Holmes.
The detective opened the envelope to reveal a wad of banknotes.
“Payment due?” Holmes asked. “For the attack on Lord Redshaw?”
“Blood money,” I said, bitterly.
“Yes, but not from Mrs Mercer…” He removed the money and held the envelope up to the light. “There’s a watermark. Come and see, Watson.”
I did as he asked, and saw the mark for myself, a vertical row of elegant symbols. They were Japanese.
“Sutcliffe?” I asked in wonder.
“The very same. You see, Watson, during your earlier tirade, you missed something of note. When you blurted out that we were aware of the existence of Lady Marie’s child, Mr Powell showed no sign of shock. Angry, yes, but not surprised. He already knew.”
“And yet Marie said she hadn’t told him,” I realised.
Holmes nodded, before turning to Powell. “I assume we can take the lady at her word?”
“You can,” the cobbler confirmed, sadly.
“Then we can also assume that she was telling the truth about why she came to the hotel this morning,” Holmes continued. “To break the news. Now, only a handful of others knew Lady Marie’s secret.”
“Lord Redshaw,” I said.
“Who, I’m sure you will agree, is unlikely to organise his own assault. There is Dr Melosan, of course, but, as far as I can see, he would have nothing to gain from Lord Redshaw’s death. Which leads us to the third person who knew. The fiancé she attempted to shock into leaving her.”