by Cavan Scott
“Your uncle is an honourable man, Inspector, of that I am sure, but the same cannot be said of others at Lower Redland Road. We have reason to believe that Inspector Hawthorne is at the heart of a conspiracy.”
The words piqued Tovey’s interest and he moved closer to Holmes. “It would never surprise me. I’ve caught Gregory taking bribes on more than one occasion. He has a flexible interpretation of justice, that one.”
“Then why have you done nothing about it?” I asked.
“Because Inspector Tovey’s superiors share Hawthorne’s view of the natural order of things, I suspect,” Holmes suggested, to which Tovey nodded.
“I only wish it wasn’t so. This conspiracy, then?”
Holmes told Tovey what we had found at the Regent, how Mrs Mercer had admitted being coerced into incriminating Holmes and how Sutcliffe had paid Powell to kill Lord Redshaw.
“Good Lord,” Tovey said as he listened to Holmes’s litany of indictment. “I had my suspicions, of course, but to hear it from your lips… You think Sutcliffe was driven to the bridge by remorse, then?”
“That is why we must inspect the body.”
Behind our huddle, the driver had taken up the reins and the constable was already on the back of the cart, sitting beside the corpse. “Ready to go, Inspector?”
“Hold on a minute, Hegarty,” Tovey said. “Dr Watson is going to take a look at the body.”
Hegarty’s eyebrows shot up beneath his helmet. “Here, sir?”
“Before rigor mortis sets in. It’s what they’re doing up in London; examinations at the point of discovery, less chance of contamination of evidence,” Tovey said, clutching at several straws at once. “Shift yourself out of that wagon.”
“But what evidence, Inspector?” Hegarty argued, jumping from the back of the cart. “The fellow jumped—”
“Enough of that,” Tovey berated Hegarty, even though the constable must have been ten years his senior in age if not rank. “Dr Watson, if you will?”
“I shall need an assistant,” I blustered, thinking on my feet. “Mr Holmes, I realise this is a dreadful imposition—”
“Nonsense,” said Holmes. “It will be a pleasure to watch a master at work.”
I hauled myself up onto the cart and, shuffling along beside Sutcliffe’s body, sat on one of the two benches.
“Give the doctor room,” I heard Tovey say as he led the constable a short distance away, before calling over to the driver. “You too, Bert.”
Grumbling, the driver dismounted. I leaned forward and made a show of examining Sutcliffe’s body.
“First thoughts, Watson.”
“What is there to tell? The man drowned.”
“Is that so?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“What’s obvious is that you cannot see what is in front of your eyes. Look to his face. Pale skin, with no sign of bruising.”
“Why would there be?”
Holmes ignored my question and turned to shout across to Tovey. “Inspector, Dr Watson would like permission to remove the victim’s shirt.”
“Remove his shirt?” Hegarty complained. “Why in God’s name—”
Tovey placed a hand on Hegarty’s arm, silencing him.
“Whatever the doctor thinks best, Mr Holmes.”
Holmes waved in acknowledgement and returned his attention to me.
“What are you waiting for, Watson? You heard the inspector. Undo the man’s shirt.”
“This is hardly respectful, Holmes.”
“Death seldom is,” he replied, as my fingers fumbled with the wet buttons to reveal a thin, pale chest. “Well?”
“It would help if I knew what I was looking for.”
“Bruising.”
“There is none.”
“Exactly. Now, let’s turn him over.”
Acutely aware that Hegarty was glaring at us, I helped Holmes manhandle the body onto its front. The detective quickly removed Sutcliffe’s cufflinks and peeled the wet shirt away.
“As I thought,” Holmes said, pressing his fingers against Sutcliffe’s mottled purple shoulders.
“That’s not bruising,” I pointed out.
“Of course it isn’t,” retorted Holmes. “Livor mortis. Blood has settled at the lowest part of the body, but what does that tell you?”
“That death occurred at least two hours ago.”
“Yes. And?”
“And…” I repeated, not knowing what else to say.
Holmes sighed in frustration. “It tells you that Sutcliffe died on dry land. In cases of drowning, signs of livor mortis are found on the face, chest, lower arms and calves, sometimes even on the hands and feet due to constant movement in the water.
“Also, the lack of bruising is most peculiar.” Holmes glanced up at Clifton Suspension Bridge. “Sutcliffe fell at least two hundred and forty-five feet. Putting his weight at around ten stone, he must have hit the water within four seconds, travelling at a speed of thirty-eight to forty miles per hour. Bruising would have been inevitable.”
“Do you think he jumped at all? If you are right and he was killed…”
“Maybe the perpetrator simply dumped the body in the river?”
“Exactly.”
“Check his spine.”
“What?”
“Do it, Watson!”
I ran a hand up Sutcliffe’s back, checking each vertebra, until I came to a fracture obvious even through the clammy skin.
“Well?”
“He broke his back.”
“So, yes, Sutcliffe fell from the bridge, or rather his body was thrown over the side to make it look like a suicide.”
“Like father, like son,” I said, remembering Tovey’s earlier words.
“Precisely.”
“So how did he die?”
Holmes had me help him return Sutcliffe onto his back.
“There are no visible signs of violence, neither stab wounds nor blows to the head, but if you would be so kind as to open his eyes?”
Carefully, I pulled back Sutcliffe’s right lid to reveal a milky, sightless eye.
“Excellent. And now the other one?”
I obliged, and Holmes peered closer still.
“As I thought. Do you see the marks on the conjunctiva, Watson? Like tiny pinpricks.”
I leant in and said that I did. It was as if a crimson rash had spread across the white of Sutcliffe’s eyes.
“Tardieu ecchymoses, first identified by the eminent French doctor Auguste Ambroise Tardieu. A clutch of burst capillaries…”
“Like Kelleher,” I realised.
Holmes nodded. “Often found in victims of violent asphyxia, but rarely seen in drowning.”
“So he was strangled then?” I glanced at Sutcliffe’s throat. “But there’s no bruising around his neck.”
Holmes leant forward and pressed both sides of the body’s neck, abandoning all pretence of being an observer alone. “Both fingertips and ligatures would leave marks,” said he, “but the crook of an elbow is a different matter.”
“A chokehold? He was attacked from behind then?”
“If one compresses the carotid arteries, one’s victim will fall unconscious within fifteen to twenty seconds.”
“And death follows within a couple of minutes.”
“If the killer is strong enough, yes,” Holmes confirmed, moving to slip a hand into Sutcliffe’s trouser pocket.
“I’m sorry, but enough is enough!” We looked up at the shout.
It was Hegarty, stepping towards us angrily. “Having the doctor make an examination is one thing, but rifling through a fellow’s pockets is another. That’s tampering with evidence, that is!”
“Hegarty, I told you—” Tovey began, but Holmes leapt from the back of the wagon, talking over them both.
“No, Constable Hegarty is correct, Inspector. I was merely seeing if the deceased had left a note in his pocket, to explain his actions. As Dr Watson has confirmed, this is undoubtedly a cas
e of suicide.”
“Didn’t need a doctor for that,” Hegarty grumbled as I climbed down from the cart. “Even old Bert could have told you what did him in.”
Holmes pulled Tovey aside as Hegarty clambered back up beside the corpse, shaking his head.
“Well?” Tovey asked, expectantly.
“There is foul play afoot, that is for sure. Tell me, do we know where the not-so-dear departed lived?”
“Sutcliffe? I’m afraid I don’t.”
“I do,” I realised. “Clifford mentioned it. Oh, what was it? Port something. Portman Square?”
“Portland,” Tovey corrected me. “Portland Square, near St Paul’s Church.”
“That’s it. A less than desirable address from what Clifford suggested.”
Tovey stroked his beard. “That’s a little uncharitable, but the place has seen better days, that’s for sure.”
“Then that is where we must go, Watson, without delay.”
“Why, Mr Holmes?” Tovey asked.
“Holmes believes Sutcliffe was murdered,” I told the inspector.
“Then I must come with you.”
“No, Inspector,” Holmes said. “You must follow protocol to the letter. Go back to the station, make whatever report you will, but mention none of my suspicions. I would know more of Sutcliffe before his death becomes public knowledge.”
“If you say so, Mr Holmes, but report back as soon as you find something. If what you said about Hawthorne is right, he’ll be keen to cover this up.”
We bade the inspector farewell, and waited for him to clamber onto the back of the cart and trundle away, Bert at the reins.
As soon as he was out of sight, Holmes and I returned to our own carriage and instructed the driver to take us straight to Portland Square.
* * *
Our destination turned out to be exactly as Tovey had described. The once grand Georgian buildings surrounded a muddy patch of parkland, many of the houses converted from homes to business premises, largely manufacturers of boxes or bottlers of ink. Indeed, the malodorous reek of heated solvents permeated the air from the ink works. I found it hard to imagine anyone willing to wake each morning to such a mephitic atmosphere, let alone a man with such pretensions as Sutcliffe.
Holmes crossed the road, pausing only to let a rag and bone cart rattle by, before addressing a number of ragged boys on the street. As I watched, coins exchanged hands and the lads scampered off.
He returned to me a satisfied man. “Sutcliffe lives at number two,” he said, showing me a row of houses, the once light stone blackened and stained.
“Are you sure? The place looks like a factory.”
“A shoe factory,” Holmes told me, obviously amused. “Perhaps Powell should have sought employment there, instead of at the Regent. Sutcliffe rents rooms at the top of the building, in the attic no less.”
“He is obviously not the man of means we believed. Does he have servants?”
“So one would assume. Shall we find out?”
We made our way to the factory and, on making enquiries, were pointed in the direction of a stairwell that led up the side of the building. The stairs were filthy, and creaked ominously beneath our tread as we climbed to the top floor and found a modest doorway in a cobweb-infested hall. There was no number, nameplate or knocker, and so Holmes rapped on the wood, waiting patiently.
No one came as we stood listening to the cacophonous sounds of industry below. Holmes tried again, with the same result.
“If the man does have servants they are either absent or deaf,” he suggested.
“I’m surprised they can hear anything over that racket.”
“Well, I’m sure Sutcliffe won’t complain if we let ourselves in.”
“Your lock picks?” I asked.
Holmes fished something from his pocket and held it up for me to see. “No need for that, Watson; not after Sutcliffe so kindly furnished me with this.”
In his hand, Sherlock Holmes held a long metal key.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
TRUTH AND LIES
“You took it from Sutcliffe’s body?” I asked as Holmes slipped the key into the lock.
“He had no more need of it.”
“You can be a terrible ghoul at times, Holmes.”
“And you, Doctor, are a hypocrite.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Did you respect the man in life?”
“You know I did not.”
“Then why concern yourself with how he is treated in death?”
“Common decency.”
“Foolish sentiment,” concluded Holmes and opened the door. We paused at the threshold, peering into the dark corridor. The only sound was the hammering and whirring of machinery below. Satisfied, Holmes entered, beckoning for me to follow.
“No servants then,” I commented.
Holmes closed the door behind me. “When a man cannot afford carpet on the floor he has little need for maids and footmen.”
The walls were covered with faded wallpaper, the light fittings disconnected. What little light there was spilled through the three doors that opened from the main passageway, one on the left and two to the right.
The first revealed a sitting room of sorts, although one in complete disarray. There was a threadbare sofa, its cushions discarded on the floor. Books were scattered across the untreated floorboards, a tin bath upended in the corner. A mirror hung at an odd angle above the bare hearth and the thin curtains that had once covered the dirty windows were torn from their fittings.
We rushed from one room to the next. All three were in a similar state.
The second had been Sutcliffe’s bedroom. A clothes rail was toppled over, jackets and shirts ripped from their hangers. The bed itself was shoved beneath another grimy window, the sheets hanging loose. The only furniture to be found in the third room was a large empty chest. One hardly needed to be a detective to know that it had once housed the tangle of exotic silks that was now strewn across the floor.
“The place has been ransacked.”
“And yet there is no sign of forced entry,” replied Holmes, returning to the front door. He dropped into a crouch, and ran his fingers across the floorboards. “Yes. This is where Victor Sutcliffe died.”
“How can you be sure?” I asked.
“Sutcliffe opened the door and was attacked. The dust beneath our feet has been disturbed, probably by the same struggle that left scuff marks on the skirting board; there and there, do you see? Sutcliffe kicked the wall before submitting. Once he was dead, his assailant searched his rooms.”
“Looking for what?” I asked, following Holmes back into the sitting room. “There is little of value here, save for those silks and Sutcliffe’s clothes. I don’t understand it, Holmes. How could Lord Redshaw not have known that Sutcliffe was living like this?”
Holmes snatched up a book and flicked through its pages. “His clothes were of good quality. If Redshaw never ventured to Portland Square, how would he know?”
“But what of his business? Was that also a lie?”
“Not according to these records,” Holmes said, showing me the ledger in his hand. “What Lord Redshaw told you was true. Sutcliffe rents a warehouse in the docklands, trading in fabrics from the Far East. However, the enterprise is nowhere near as successful as Redshaw suggested. Sutcliffe’s income barely covers the rent of the warehouse and what little he pays for this place. He is surviving on a knife-edge, making just enough to maintain the illusion of prosperity and wealth, but enjoying none of the benefits.”
“Except acceptance into Lord Redshaw’s family.”
“And the Worshipful League of Merchants. See, he makes a regular donation to their good works, probably as a condition of his membership.”
Holmes handed me the ledger and continued to examine the rest of the scattered books as I flipped through the pages. “There is something else here,” I said, finding an outgoing payment month after month. “‘The Admiral’. Holmes, I’
ve heard Sutcliffe speak of this admiral before. He mentioned him to Clifford in the carriage on the way back from the Lodge on the day I was attacked. Who do you think it is?”
“Not who, but what,” Holmes said, fishing something out of his pocket and holding it out to me without looking up from the books. I took the tiny object from his hand. It was a cufflink, monogrammed with the letters T.A.C.
“Is this…?”
“One of the cufflinks I removed from Sutcliffe’s body.”
I was unable to suppress a shiver. “Holmes. If that constable had spotted you…”
“He didn’t,” said Holmes, picking up another book, this one with a red cover. “And in case you are wondering, the initials that have so spectacularly failed to pique your interest stand for ‘The Admiral Club’. Sutcliffe was obviously a member.”
Sutcliffe’s words from the previous night came back to me: If you need me, I will be at the club.
“Look at this,” Holmes said, showing me the book in his hands. “Punter’s Travels in Japan: A Journey through the Land of the Samurai.” He opened the pages at random. “Fascinating.”
“What is?”
“Sutcliffe has made extensive notes in the margins.” He turned to a bookmarked page and began to read: “‘As spring approaches, nothing can prepare the traveller for the glory of Japan’s cherry blossoms’.”
“Ah, yes,” I said. “Sutcliffe mentioned the blossom. Some kind of festival.”
“Apparently so,” Holmes said. “He has underlined the entire passage: ‘For thousands of years, the Japanese have left their homes to gaze in wonder at the vibrant colours of the pink flowers that adorn the sakura trees, and to pay their respects to the kami spirits who reside within the wood. My host, the honourable Arakwana-san, was keen—’”
I interrupted him. “What was that name?”
“Arakwana-san,” Holmes repeated. “Why?”
Discarding the ledger, I took the book from Holmes’s hands. “Sutcliffe said his guide in Japan was a Mr Arakwana, who took him to see the cherry blossom.”
I found the passage and continued: “‘My host, the honourable Arakwana-san, was keen for me to experience the festival myself, and arranged a visit to Mount Yoshino, home to more than 30,000 cherry trees.’ Holmes, Sutcliffe claimed the exact same thing; that this Arakwana fellow took him to see the trees at Mount Yoshino.” I ran my finger down the page, reading on. “It’s almost to the letter. He visited with his family and they shared sake under the shade of the blossom, exactly as it says here. But the odd thing was that he couldn’t remember the location of the mountain itself…”