by Cavan Scott
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
TO MAKE AMENDS
The sun was setting as we arrived at Ridgeside Manor. Brewer opened the door to greet us with an expression of abject disappointment.
“Back again, like a bad penny, Brewer,” Holmes said in the guise of Sherrinford. “We were hoping to see Lord Redshaw.”
The butler frowned. “He is not here, sir. He is still at the infirmary.”
“I beg to differ. Lord Redshaw has flown that particular nest. And yet he has not come home to roost? Interesting. Mr Clifford then. Is he home?”
“No, sir. I haven’t seen Mr Clifford since breakfast. Lady Marie has just returned, but—”
“Is taking no visitors. No, that is to be expected. Lady Anna?”
“In the ornamental garden. However—”
“Capital. I owe her an apology so I shall deliver it now.”
Holmes did not wait for the butler to respond, but stepped back out of the door. We walked around the house to find Lady Anna sitting on a bench in a high-walled garden. As we approached, it was clear that she had been crying.
She looked up, her expression hardening when she saw Holmes. To his credit, he was quick to put her at ease.
“Lady Anna, I owe you a sincere apology. My words at breakfast were tactless and insensitive. I pray that you will forgive me.”
For a moment, it looked as though Anna were about to tell Holmes what to do with his apology, before she thought better of it. “Thank you, Mr Holmes. Emotions were running high this morning. It would appear they still are, in my sister’s case.”
“You have seen Lady Marie then?”
“Oh yes,” Anna said. “She came in like a whirlwind, as always. Father has discharged himself from hospital and I am welcome to him, apparently. She says she is going to America.”
“America?” I asked.
“We have family over there. Distant cousins. We barely know them, but that won’t stand in Marie’s way. Nothing ever does.”
She looked away, putting a gloved hand to her mouth.
“Dear lady,” I said.
“Please, Dr Watson,” she said, firmly. “I do not need to be fawned over. You know, I honestly thought things were improving.” She placed a hand on her stomach. “With the baby on the way, and Marie set to marry.”
“Clifford made it seem that you didn’t approve of Sutcliffe.”
“Oh, she could have done a lot better, but I hoped that she would be happy all the same. We were close once, when we were children. Now, everything is changed.” She paused before adding, “Marie says Victor is dead.”
“I’m afraid so,” I said.
A tear ran down her cheek. “Then that is sad. Now Harold will be unable to make amends.”
“Your husband?” Holmes asked.
The lady stood. “It is growing cold. We should go inside.”
“Lady Anna,” Holmes said. “What do you mean? Why would your husband need to make amends to Victor Sutcliffe?”
She turned to the detective and looked him straight in the eye. “I didn’t know, not until this morning. Harold has kept it from me all this time, but it finally came out. I was saying that I hoped we would never see Victor again, but Harold said that I shouldn’t be so sure, that Victor would be unable to resist lording it over him after all that had happened. I told him that he needed to stand up for himself, not to let the likes of Victor bully him. ‘Imagine what your father would do,’ I said. And that was it. Something snapped in him.”
“What did he say, Lady Anna?”
“He told me what had really happened to the Sutcliffe family business.”
“There was a fire,” I said, “in the tannery.”
She nodded. “They put it down to the alcohol used in the tanning process. That’s what we believed for years, that Josiah Sutcliffe – Victor’s father – was cutting corners and the fire would never have happened if he had followed the right procedures. Do you know what happened to Josiah, Dr Watson?”
“He took his own life.”
She nodded. “The Sutcliffes were ruined and Victor disappeared on his travels. But all the time Clifford knew the truth.”
“Tell me, Lady Anna,” Holmes asked. “Did your husband have his stutter when he was young?”
She shook her head. “Not when we were children, no. It came later in life, but I didn’t care. I’ve loved him since I was a girl, for all his faults.”
“Was it around the time of the fire?”
This she considered. “Yes it was, and I suppose now I know why.”
“Because of what your husband has told you.”
“Two weeks before the fire, Josiah had new lighting installed throughout the tannery. Gas lighting.”
“From your husband’s company.”
“It belonged to his father then, Richard Clifford, although Harold worked there, of course. Things had not been going well for a while. The business was in trouble. I don’t know all the details…”
“Except that Josiah Sutcliffe was not the one who cut corners,” Holmes prompted.
She shook her head. “The fire was caused by the new lamps. If the news had been made public, Richard would have been ruined. Clifford’s Lighting was struggling as it was.”
“Which is why your husband ultimately sold his family home.”
“Richard passed away soon after the fire, leaving Harold a company to turn around.”
“Which he did with your father’s help?”
This time Lady Anna was incapable of holding back the tears. She sat down on the bench again so fast that I feared she was going to miss the seat and end up on the ground.
I crouched beside her and took her hand. “Lady Anna.”
She could hardly bear to bring herself to look at me. “Father helped more than I thought. Harold’s father was an important member of the League of Merchants.”
“The librarian,” I recalled.
She nodded. “The other members rallied around him, my father included. Josiah Sutcliffe was told that he must take the blame for the fire, to protect Richard.”
“He was to be a scapegoat,” said Holmes.
“Harold didn’t find out until his father died, but by then it was too late. Josiah had taken his own life and Victor was gone. When he came back, Harold wanted to tell the truth, but Father wouldn’t let him. It would throw the League into disrepute. He promised he would see Victor right…”
“Which explains why he so welcomed Sutcliffe into your family,” Holmes said.
“But Victor knew, Harold was sure of it. He would make comments that made no sense to me, but Harold understood all too well. Father kept telling him to take it on the chin, reminding Harold what the League had done for him, what they had done for his father. All this time, I had no idea what was going on in my own home.”
“My dear, I’m so sorry,” I said, patting her hand. “Where is your husband now?”
She shook her head. “He went out, saying that he could stand it no longer, that he was going to put things right.”
“How?” I asked, wondering for a minute if he had gone to have it out with Sutcliffe.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I think he was going to see Sir George.”
“Sir George Tavener,” I said, looking up at Holmes sharply, but my friend appeared not to be listening. Instead he stood looking intently at one of the flowerbeds. “Sherrinford, did you hear that? Clifford went to see Sir George!”
Still he ignored us, asking a question of his own instead. “Lady Anna, did Monsignor Ermacora visit Ridgeside?”
She looked up at him in confusion. “Why, yes. The Monsignor stayed here, as Father’s guest.”
“Stayed here?” I asked. “But I thought he was a guest at the Regent.”
“Father wasn’t going to have that when he found out. He insisted that the Monsignor come here.”
“Which is why he suddenly left the hotel,” I realised, remembering Mrs Mercer’s words.
“And what of Fa
ther Kelleher?” Holmes pressed. “Did he come to Ridgeside?”
“They took tea with Father many times. Why?”
“Why did you not tell me, Watson?” Holmes snapped at me.
“I didn’t know!” I admitted, before a recollection of my first night at Ridgeside resurfaced. “Wait. Lady Marie was shocked when she heard that the Monsignor had passed away…”
“Meaning that she knew him. Watson, I was relying on you to be my eyes and ears.”
“I can’t be expected to remember everything, Holmes. I am not you!”
Lady Anna was looking between us now, visibly perplexed. “What do you mean by eyes and ears? Doctor, were you spying on us?”
“No,” I said quickly, realising that we were in danger of uncovering Holmes’s disguise. “Sherrinford has been trying to build a picture of recent events, to help his brother’s case.”
“And exactly what picture have you built, Mr Holmes?” the lady asked, rising to face my friend, her tears replaced by anger.
“That we have intruded too long on your hospitality,” Holmes said, maintaining Sherrinford’s voice. “Dr Watson will come to stay with me.”
“I will?”
“Perhaps that would be for the best,” Anna agreed. “Considering everything that has happened.”
“I shall help him pack,” Holmes said, escorting me from the garden.
“What was all that about?” I hissed as we climbed the manor’s grand staircase.
Holmes waited until my dragonfly-encrusted door was closed behind us before answering.
“Watson, when did you first meet Lord Redshaw?”
“In the Royal Infirmary.”
“When he was about to visit Father Kelleher?”
“That’s what he said.”
“What else did he say? How well did he know Kelleher?”
“Not well at all. He said they’d only met…” Sickening realisation dawned once again. “… after Kelleher was admitted to hospital.”
“Which we know was not true. Kelleher came to Ridgeside on numerous occasions.”
“But why lie?”
“Isn’t it obvious, Watson? Benjamin Redshaw murdered them both. The blood of Monsignor Ermacora and Father Kelleher is on his hands!”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
IN PLAIN SIGHT
“I refuse to believe it,” I said.
Holmes clapped his hands together. “What are you waiting for, Watson? You need to pack.”
“Just because Redshaw lied about knowing Kelleher, doesn’t mean he killed the Monsignor.”
“No,” Holmes admitted. “But the fact that his ornamental garden is overflowing with Colchicum autumnale is certainly of interest.”
“Autumn crocus,” I said, eyes wide.
“The very same. I wonder if Ermacora and Kelleher took tea with Lord Redshaw before the Monsignor left for London?”
I thought of Redshaw’s ritual, pouring green tea for his guests.
“Fumeiyo,” I muttered.
“What’s that?”
“Something Redshaw said before he took tea. A custom Sutcliffe brought back from Japan.”
“But Sutcliffe has never been to Japan,” Holmes argued. “Otherwise he would know that the Japanese say kanpai before taking a drink, meaning ‘drain your cup’.”
“No, but that’s what he said fumeiyo means. Something else he got wrong.”
“Did he? Watson, fumeiyo means disgrace or dishonour in Japanese. Sutcliffe had Redshaw and Clifford raising their glass and saying ‘disgrace’ every time they drank tea together.”
“He was playing a joke on them?”
“I wonder if it’s more than that. Either way the epithet fits, for Redshaw at least. Think about it. Why were you visiting Kelleher at the hospital?”
“So Tovey could ask where he and Ermacora had eaten.”
“And the answer would have been Ridgeside Manor. But Father Kelleher is silenced before he can tell Inspector Tovey. Lord Redshaw’s secret is safe, but to make doubly sure he greets you and the inspector, taking you in – in every sense of the word.”
“You think he killed Kelleher too?”
“He lied about knowing the priest. Why not lie about why he was in the hospital in the first place? It was certainly convenient that he was so quickly on the scene, like Sutcliffe in the secret lodge. Now, if you are not going to pack your clothes, may I suggest that you at least bring your service revolver?”
“My revolver? Why? Where are we going?”
“To find Lord Redshaw.”
I did as he asked, slipping my gun into my coat pocket and following Holmes downstairs. Without a second thought, he marched into Redshaw’s study, much to the dismay of Brewer, who called after us.
“Sir? Sir, what do you think you’re doing? That is Lord Redshaw’s private study!”
“We’re looking for the location of the League of Merchants’ Sacred Grove.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“‘Take the completed body to the Sacred Grove,’ Holmes said, reciting the Saisei ritual even though the reference would obviously be lost on Brewer. “The Lodge. Clifford called it their sanctum sanctorum. All I need is the address.” He looked at the bemused butler in anticipation.
“It is on Stephen Street, sir.”
“No, not the official address, the private one. The secret one.”
Holmes opened the drawers to Redshaw’s desk, searching through the contents. Brewer had already called for assistance from the footmen.
“No need, Brewer,” Holmes said, stalking out of the study. “There’s nothing here. But what about the drawing room? All those maps on the walls.”
“Mr Holmes!”
The detective ignored the butler and strode into the drawing room to perform a swift circuit of the walls. “There has to be something here. No, not this one. Nor this.”
“What are you looking for, Holmes?” I asked.
“I shall know when I see it,” Holmes replied, stopping in front of the great marble chimney breast. “That’s odd.”
“Odd? It’s a monstrosity, that’s what it is.”
“No, I mean the map, carved into the marble. It is slightly askew, with much of the old city to the right. Why position it like that?”
“Because the League’s headquarters are at the centre. Redshaw told me so himself.”
“But they are not.” Holmes peered closer. “Look, there is Stephen Street, to the right. It is not central at all – but that is.” He pointed towards a small lane.
Holmes hurried over to a framed map on the wall, finding the same lane on the yellowed parchment. “Lye Close,” he announced, with a chuckle. “How very appropriate. That’s where the League really are, just off Canynge Square in Clifton.”
“The secret lodge,” I realised.
“I knew you would get there in the end, Watson.”
Holmes’s triumph was short-lived. Brewer stepped forward, his expression telling us that enough was enough, as did the presence of several large footmen standing behind him.
“I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to leave, sir.”
“No need. We are on our way. Watson will send for his things later. Be a good fellow and pack them up for him, will you?”
Lady Marie was struggling down the stairs with a large suitcase as we approached the front door.
“Lady Marie,” Holmes said, skipping up the last few steps to help her with her luggage. “Let me assist. We are going into town, quite near to Temple Meads Station, if you require a lift?”
“Thank you, Mr Holmes, but I can take one of my father’s carriages. I have relied on others for too long.”
“A wise decision,” the detective said, placing the suitcase at the bottom of the stairs. “Then we shall bid you farewell. Don’t worry about us, Brewer. We can see ourselves out.”
Holmes rushed ahead of the now beetroot-faced butler and yanked open the door to find Inspector Gregory Hawthorne about to ring the doorbell.
&nb
sp; “Ah, there you are,” the inspector said with a tight smile as he laid eyes on my disguised friend.
“Good to see you, Inspector,” Holmes said, trying to step around the policeman. “If you wish to see Lady Marie, there she is. She already knows the fate of her late fiancé, I’m afraid, if that is what you have come to tell her.”
Hawthorne moved to block Holmes’s path.
“I haven’t come to see Lady Marie,” he said, his smile becoming savage. “I’ve come to see you. You’re under arrest… Sherlock Holmes.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
ALL IN THE WRIST
“So, it appears the game is up,” Holmes said, dropping Sherrinford’s voice without argument.
Hawthorne’s grin bordered on a snarl. “You can run if you want to. I’d like that.”
Behind him Constable Hegarty was standing by a carriage, driver Bert at the reins. Behind us were Brewer and his footmen.
There was no escape.
“Don’t worry. We shall come peacefully, won’t we, Watson?”
“We?” I exclaimed, surprised by the comment.
Holmes turned to face me. “Aiding and abetting a fugitive of the law, Doctor? Surely you didn’t think you would escape justice?” The detective returned his attention to Hawthorne and held out his wrists. “I assume you will be wanting to use cuffs.”
Five minutes later, we were both cuffed and sitting in the carriage, hands behind our backs. Hegarty sat in with us, my confiscated revolver in his hand. Hawthorne was up front with Bert, every inch the conquering hero.
“So my double was discovered,” Holmes called up to the inspector.
“Mr Woodbead forgot to administer his morning morphine,” Hawthorne replied. “The fellow was still asleep, but talked in his sleep – with a broad Bristolian accent. Luckily one of my men was passing and heard it, Mr Holmes. I have to applaud you on the make-up. An excellent job. Most life-like.”
“And I assume Mr Woodbead is already in custody?”
“I wouldn’t worry about him, Holmes. He’ll be keeping you company in the cells, where you’ll stay this time.”
“Well, to lose me twice would be embarrassing, would it not, Inspector?”
Hawthorne’s only reply was a mirthless laugh.