by Cavan Scott
CONTENTS
Cover
Also Available from Titan Books
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One: March Comes in With a Roar
Chapter Two: The Morning After
Chapter Three: New Scotland Yard
Chapter Four: Monsignor Ermacora
Chapter Five: Something Rotten
Chapter Six: The Bristol Regent
Chapter Seven: The Memorial
Chapter Eight: The Legend of Edwyn Warwick
Chapter Nine: Inspector Tovey
Chapter Ten: Triumph and Despair
Chapter Eleven: The Manageress’s Tale
Chapter Twelve: Blind Eyes
Chapter Thirteen: The Bristol Royal Infirmary
Chapter Fourteen: Judge Not
Chapter Fifteen: Never a Victim
Chapter Sixteen: Meet the Redshaws
Chapter Seventeen: Exotic Delicacies
Chapter Eighteen: Izanami-No-Mikoto
Chapter Nineteen: Post-Dinner Conversation
Chapter Twenty: Post-Dinner Controversy
Chapter Twenty-One: A Visitation at Midnight
Chapter Twenty-Two: All Will be Well
Chapter Twenty-Three: To a Pulp
Chapter Twenty-Four: Recriminations
Chapter Twenty-Five: Blindfolded
Chapter Twenty-Six: The Warwick Room
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Caught in the Act
Chapter Twenty-Eight: A Meeting of the League
Chapter Twenty-Nine: A Visitor
Chapter Thirty: The Long-Lost Brother
Chapter Thirty-One: A Grisly Discovery
Chapter Thirty-Two: Suspects
Chapter Thirty-Three: Upstairs and Downstairs
Chapter Thirty-Four: A Bitter Breakfast
Chapter Thirty-Five: St Jude’s
Chapter Thirty-Six: Boyle’s Court
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Marie’s Story
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Revolution
Chapter Thirty-Nine: An Evil Business
Chapter Forty: The Silver Frame
Chapter Forty-One: Desperate Acts
Chapter Forty-Two: The High Sheriffs of Bristol
Chapter Forty-Three: The Coward’s Way
Chapter Forty-Four: Examination By the River
Chapter Forty-Five: Truth and Lies
Chapter Forty-Six: The Saisei Ritual
Chapter Forty-Seven: An Empty Room
Chapter Forty-Eight: To Make Amends
Chapter Forty-Nine: In Plain Sight
Chapter Fifty: All in the Wrist
Chapter Fifty-One: An Innocent’s Cry
Chapter Fifty-Two: The Temple
Chapter Fifty-Three: Five Minutes to Midnight
Chapter Fifty-Four: The Perfect Spell
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Sherlock Holmes
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CAVAN SCOTT
TITAN BOOKS
Sherlock Holmes: Cry of the Innocents
Print edition ISBN: 9781783297160
Electronic edition ISBN: 9781783297177
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP
First edition: September 2017
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Cavan Scott. All Rights Reserved.
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A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
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For George
CHAPTER ONE
MARCH COMES IN WITH A ROAR
“I thought it was the end of the world.”
“Come now, darling,” I said, gently admonishing my wife. “Merely supply Mrs Hudson with the facts. There’s no need to over-egg the pudding.”
My former landlady peered over half-moon glasses and fixed me with the look she usually reserved for pedlars of dubious merchandise. “Over-egg the pudding? Doctor, what is it they say about men in glass houses? Remember, I’ve read those stories of yours. As has Mr Holmes.” She paused, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. “What did he call them again?”
I sat back in my old armchair and nursed the glass of brandy that Mrs Hudson had pressed into my hand on our arrival.
“He thought they read very well,” I lied.
“Really? That’s not what I remember. Wasn’t it something about ‘sensationalised twaddle’?”
“Mrs Hudson,” my wife gasped, although I could tell by the amusement in her voice that the reprimand was anything but genuine.
I smiled despite myself. “That sounds… rather familiar.”
Mrs Hudson was not about to let me get away with it that easily. “So if the doctor’s worried about the pudding being over-egged, maybe we should head down to the kitchen and introduce Mr Pot to Mr Kettle.”
I raised my hands in mock surrender. “Like the eggs themselves, I know when I am beaten.”
At that Mary laughed, and the sound warmed my frozen bones more than the fire that roared in the hearth.
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” Mrs Hudson said, an apology I immediately waved away.
“Mrs Hudson, who else is going to put me in my place while Holmes is on the continent? Now, Mary, please, the stage is yours.”
I sipped my brandy as Mary continued her tale. It began, like so many stories told by the English, with the weather. The February of 1891 had been surprisingly mild and March had looked as if it would follow in its predecessor’s footsteps. I had been reminded of the old saying that March comes in like a lion, and goes out like a lamb. Little did we know how wild an animal it would be.
The morning of Monday 9 March had started pleasantly enough. The barometer that hung i
n the hallway of our Kensington home had been rising steadily, promising a fine and pleasant day. There had been reports of a smattering of snow elsewhere in the country, but nothing more than moderate winds were expected. Mother Nature, however, is a fickle mistress. As if to punish mankind for daring to predict her ways, she turned on us, sending a storm to end all storms.
“I was glad when John shut up the surgery,” Mary admitted to Mrs Hudson. “The windows were already rattling in their frames, and the snow falling hard.”
Mrs Hudson placed a hand on my wife’s arm. “I was caught out in it myself. Nearly lost my hat on Bickenhall Street.”
“We dined and retired to the sitting room, where John lit the fire. I tried to distract myself with needlepoint, but my attempts to relax were punctuated by the sound of roof tiles smashing on the road outside. John was at the hearth when it happened, adding more wood to the fire. An incredible squall thundered through the house, and before I knew what was happening the chimney stack fell through the ceiling. John was nearly crushed.”
Again I felt the need to interject. “I was able to throw myself clear.”
“But not before taking that bang to your head,” Mrs Hudson pointed out. Instinctively, my hand went to the bandage she had helped my wife apply.
“All that mattered was that Mary was safe,” I said. “We couldn’t stay at home with a gaping hole in the ceiling…”
“…so you came here,” Mrs Hudson said, completing my sentence in a manner she had picked up thanks to years of looking after Sherlock Holmes, a necessity if she wanted to get a word in edgeways. “And I’m glad you did. 221B is a fortress, always has been. You can return home when the storm has passed, and see what the damage is.”
My wife made to reply, but the thought made her voice catch in her throat. I put aside my glass and went to her, kneeling in front of the settee where so many clients had revealed their woes. “Try not to worry, my dear. I’m sure it won’t be half as bad as we imagine.”
As if to contradict me, the sounds of the tempest outside intensified. The journey across town had been traumatic. I had bundled my wife, maid and housekeeper into a cab and we had held on for dear life as the poor horses negotiated the snow-bound roads. The wheels of the carriage stuck fast not once, but three times on the way to my former lodgings in Baker Street. On the third occurrence, I was forced to disembark and help the beleaguered cabbie dig us out. Smashed tiles littered the freshly fallen snow, windows were blown out and gates hung loose from railings. It struck me that the only folk who would welcome the storm were the slaters, carpenters, glaziers and gardeners who would no doubt find themselves in gainful employment for many months to come.
By the time we neared Baker Street, the roads had become impassable. Paying our courageous cabbie, we braved the last part of the journey ourselves, crunching through snow that was already up to our knees. It was slow progress, our extremities chilled and our hearts low. I had never been so glad to see 221B in all my life, although the steps leading up to that well-remembered door were completely covered with snow.
Mrs Hudson had taken one look at us and ushered us in. We were soon ensconced in the cosy sitting room, drinks delivered into our hands and the fire stoked, while our staff warmed themselves in Mrs Hudson’s kitchen.
As the flames danced in the grate, Mary glanced furtively at the ceiling, as if expecting 221B’s own chimney breast to follow the example of its counterpart in Kensington and come crashing down.
I, myself, had never felt safer. Sitting here, with the paraphernalia of Holmes’s singular life all around, made me feel that nothing could touch me. From my friend’s eternally chaotic desk to that damned Persian slipper stuffed with tobacco, it was as if Holmes himself were with us, holding back the storm. Little did I know that the events of this calamitous evening would pale into insignificance compared with the perils that lay ahead.
And so we settled in for the night, holed up in these most familiar of surroundings. Mrs Hudson made a comfortable nest for our own housekeeper and maid in her rooms downstairs, while Mary would sleep in my old bedroom, the single bed meaning that I faced a night on the settee. The windows were secured against the elements and the curtains drawn. As Holmes’s grandfather clock chimed midnight, I lounged on the sofa reading a long-forgotten adventure novel I had found upstairs, Mary having retired some hours before.
The house was at peace, save for the wind whistling a merry tune down the chimney and the steady tick of the clock. Everything felt so familiar that I half expected the sound of Holmes’s Stradivarius to emanate from his empty bedchamber in the adjoining room.
Cocooned in a blanket, I forced myself to turn off the light when I realised that I had read the same paragraph three times. I extinguished the lamp, plunging the sitting room into darkness. Sleepily I turned over, trying to make myself comfortable, when an unexpected sound catapulted me back to my senses. I sat up, eyes wide in the gloom. Where had it come from? Not from the steps that led up to my old room, or from the narrow landing on the other side of the sitting-room door. I was suddenly aware of every creak and groan in the house. What had it been?
As nothing out of the ordinary happened, and the seconds turned into minutes, I relaxed. I lay back, laughing at myself nervously. What a fool I had become, jumping at shadows.
I closed my eyes… and there it was again. A tap, followed by a scrape, metal against wood. I leapt from the settee, nearly upsetting the lantern from the table beside me. I froze, listening intently.
There. It was coming from Holmes’s bedroom, not the scrape of horsehair against violin string, but that of a window being opened, followed by a great gust of wind that rattled the bedroom door in its frame.
The blood boiled in my veins. An opportunistic thief was using the storm to invade Holmes’s inner sanctum. How dare he!
Not wanting to alert the intruder to my presence, I took up the poker and crept forwards, the weapon raised in my hand, ready for action.
I paused by the door and listened to the creak of the floorboards on the other side of the wood. I reached for the doorknob, but it was pulled from my hand, the door opened from within.
A tall, lanky frame slammed into me and I tumbled back, the poker tumbling from my hand. My already injured head made contact with the floor and stars spiralled across my vision. My arm was pinned to the ground, a grip like iron grasping my wrist. Light bloomed in the darkness and I turned to see Mary rushing down the stairs from my former bedroom, a lantern in her hand.
“John?”
“Mary, stay back,” I warned, before I looked up at my attacker and the voice caught in my throat. Sharp grey eyes were staring down at me, thick eyebrows raised in amazement on a large domed forehead.
“What the devil are you doing sneaking around in the dark, Watson? exclaimed Sherlock Holmes. “I could have killed you!”
CHAPTER TWO
THE MORNING AFTER
Those of you who have read my earlier work will know that I previously claimed not to have seen Holmes at all during the winter and spring of 1891. For this deception I must apologise. While it is unlikely that this manuscript will ever see print, I feel now more than ever that I should commit to paper all the adventures I shared with Sherlock Holmes. This includes that handful of cases which, due to their sensitive or potentially scandalous nature, I have vowed never to enter into the public record.
Of course, as Holmes helped me back to my feet, I had no idea that the affair in which we would soon be embroiled would be one that Holmes’s brother Mycroft would deem inappropriate for publication.
“Holmes,” said I, brushing myself down, “I thought you were overseas.”
“I am, or rather I was. I have been working in France, Watson, at the behest of Monsieur Marie François Sadi Carnot.”
“The President?” Mary exclaimed, recognising the name from the papers.
“The very same,” Holmes replied. “Although please do not ask me the nature of my case.”
“A m
atter of national security, eh?” I asked, drawing a look of reproach from my friend. “Sorry. Say no more, old chap.”
“The work has reached somewhat of a natural lull, and so I took the opportunity to return to England and deal with several matters at home.”
“Your timing could have been better.”
“Thankfully the crossing was relatively calm, although the journey from Dover was positively hellish. The thought of Baker Street drove me on, and yet on arrival I found 221B’s front door behind three foot of snow.”
“Did you not think to wake Mrs Hudson?”
“And face her wrath? Come, Watson. Not even the residents of Bedlam would attempt to rouse our redoubtable landlady from her slumber. I deduced that it would be far safer to shimmy up the drainpipe and enter through my bedroom window.”
Holmes’s account was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Mrs Hudson at the sitting-room door, and her delight in seeing her prodigal lodger. I could not help but recall the dull October afternoon three years previously when Holmes had occupied his not-inconsiderable mind by attempting to break into every window and door of 221B Baker Street in order to ascertain the security of the house. That was until Mrs Hudson had returned home to find him hanging from the roof. Her expression, and indeed her language, was far more congenial today, although both Holmes and I glossed over the true nature of his ingress.
Energised by Holmes’s sudden appearance, all thought of sleep was banished from my mind. The ladies returned to their respective beds while the two of us sat opposite each other by the fire, talking into the early hours. The conversation was as effortless as ever; Holmes sat puffing away at his noxious black shag while I enjoyed the subtle delights of my own Arcadia mix.
Eventually, when our tobacco pouches were as exhausted as our limbs, we retired to bed, Holmes to his room and I to the settee. This time I slipped easily into the arms of Morpheus, despite the valiant efforts of the storm outside.
* * *
The following morning saw welcome helpings of Mrs Hudson’s renowned kedgeree before Holmes and I braved the weather to scope out the fate of my Kensington home. The wind had subsided although a powdery flurry of snow fell steadily from the grey skies. London was returning to life, the roads already cleared by the enterprising unemployed ready and willing to earn an extra penny from businesses and cab companies keen to get the capital moving once again.
