Cry of the Innocents

by Cavan Scott

  Nurses poured into the room.

  “I’m afraid you are too late,” I said as I was asked to step aside. “I’m a doctor myself.”

  The staff ignored me, going straight to work. The pillow beneath the man’s head was removed and thrown aside, his head laid back to clear a now redundant airway. There was blood on the pillow. I could scarcely imagine the panic that had set in when the priest realised he couldn’t breathe.

  “Respiratory failure,” I continued. “The poor chap choked on his own vomit. Quite usual, considering his other symptoms.”

  Now a doctor had joined the throng and repeated my examination, drawing the same conclusion.

  A nurse asked if I could wait outside. I did as she asked, leading a crestfallen Inspector Tovey back out into the corridor.

  “We were so close,” Tovey said, as I shut the door. “All we needed was for Kelleher to tell us what they ate, what killed them both.”

  “What Holmes suspects killed them,” I pointed out. There was still no evidence that either priest had been poisoned.

  “Is he ever wrong, your Mr Holmes?”

  “Rarely,” I said with a sad smile.

  Tovey let out a grunt of frustration and spun around on his heel. I half expected him to pound the white-washed wall. “One more conversation, that’s all it needed. Just one more.”

  “Inspector Tovey?”

  I turned to see a man in his late fifties walking briskly towards us, his cane tapping against the floor tiles. His dark frock coat flapped open as he approached, revealing a rich velvet waistcoat. His silver beard was full but well groomed, its volume a perfect counterpoint to the bald pate of his domed head. As he neared the inspector, the newcomer extended a hand, his face the picture of concern. “Is everything quite all right?”

  Tovey had regained his composure as he shook the man’s hand. “It’s Father Kelleher, I’m afraid.”

  The bearded man’s face fell. “Oh no. You don’t mean…”

  “We found him ourselves,” I said. “Dr John Watson, at your service.”

  “Lord Redshaw,” the man replied, pumping my hand firmly. His grip was strong, but not overbearing. “But this is dreadful. It happened when he was alone?”

  “So it would seem.”

  Redshaw shook his head. “Then there was no one there to read the… oh, what are they called?”

  “The last rites?” Tovey offered.

  “That’s it. Not a Catholic myself, but know how important it is to them. Oh, this is very sad. He was a delightful young man, delightful.”

  “I didn’t realise you knew him, Lord Redshaw.”

  Now Redshaw’s hand was on the inspector’s shoulder. “Oh, I didn’t. Not well at least. I met him soon after he was admitted.”

  “You were a patient yourself?” I asked.

  “What? Oh, good heavens no. As tough as old boots, me. I do what I can to keep the place ticking over.”

  “Lord Redshaw is being modest,” Tovey told me. “He recently made a considerable donation to the upkeep of the hospital.”

  “Very decent of you,” I commented.

  “It’s nothing,” Redshaw insisted. “A dab of paint here and there.”

  “Enough paint that they’re naming the new wing after him,” Tovey said with a smile, despite his obvious frustration.

  “You are embarrassing me, Inspector. Anyway, I met young Kelleher as I checked on the renovations. He impressed me, and I agreed to come back when he had recovered to discuss how I could help his work with the poor and destitute.”

  “Is that why you are here?” I asked. “To visit Father Kelleher?”

  My question seemed to surprise the man. “Eh? Oh, no, no. I’m here to see Inspector Tovey.”

  “You are?” Tovey said.

  “I heard a worrying rumour at the League.”

  “The League?” I asked.

  “Of Merchants,” Redshaw replied. “A little organisation I belong to.”

  “You provided blankets for St Nicole’s.”

  Lord Redshaw’s face lit up. “We did, yes. You have been there then?” His eyes widened and he snapped his fingers in recognition. “Dr Watson. That’s what you said your name was?”

  “I did.”

  “Then you were there with Sherlock Holmes when the tomb was opened.”

  “As was I,” said Tovey, sounding a little peeved to have been left out of the conversation.

  “Of course, and that is why I wanted to talk to you. I was visiting the bursar when I heard you were in the building, and felt compelled to see you. Is it true?”

  “Is what true, sir?” Tovey said, although the meaning was quite clear.

  “Please don’t play games with me, Inspector. You know how I abhor games. Old Edwyn’s body. They say it is gone.”

  Tovey confirmed that it was so.

  Redshaw took a step back, his hand to his chest. There was something melodramatic about the gentleman.

  “Well, this is terrible. One tragedy after another. But how and when did it disappear?”

  “That is precisely what I am attempting to find out, Lord Redshaw.”

  “With the help of Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson,” Redshaw said, bringing me back into the conversation.

  “I’m afraid not. Well, I am attempting to assist the Inspector, but my friend—”

  “Mr Holmes has been arrested,” Tovey explained. I shot the inspector a look. Was it really necessary to advertise Holmes’s predicament to everyone we met?

  “Arrested?” Lord Redshaw boomed. “On what grounds?”

  “There has been a dreadful mistake,” I insisted.

  “Then you must tell me all about it.” Behind Redshaw the door to Kelleher’s room had reopened and the nurses were filing out. “First Warwick, then poor Kelleher and now this! Where are you staying?”

  “That in itself is a long story. I was at the Regent—”

  “The Regent!” Redshaw exclaimed. “A glorified dosshouse with delusions of grandeur. You must stay with me.”

  The offer took me aback. “That is very kind of you, but—”

  It appeared Lord Redshaw’s mind was made up. “We will dine tonight and discuss how to liberate your friend. It is clear to me that Bristol needs one man and one man alone. Have no fear: Sherlock Holmes will be free by morning!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  JUDGE NOT

  Buoyed by Lord Redshaw’s words, I allowed myself to be led out into the street once more. Inspector Tovey doffed his hat, and began his long walk back to the station. Redshaw offered him a ride, but the inspector insisted that the fresh air would help clear his head. His disappointment over Kelleher’s death was clear for all to see, and he struck a dejected figure as he began the trudge across town.

  “Poor Tovey,” Redshaw said, as his opulent yellow and black carriage drew up alongside the pavement. “I like the man, but he will find it a struggle to get ahead. Rubs people up the wrong way, you see. Always has. It’s a wonder he reached inspector at all.” The carriage door opened and a set of steps automatically dropped down in front of us. “Please, after you.”

  I nodded my appreciation and climbed on board. The interior of the carriage was equally impressive. The seats were handsomely padded, the filling firm but comfortable. Rarely had I travelled in such luxury.

  Redshaw struck the roof with his walking stick. “To the Regent, Gordon.”

  The carriage moved into the road as smoothly as a swan gliding over water.

  “The inspector does have… intriguing views,” I offered, keen to find out more about the man.

  Lord Redshaw seemed keen to oblige. “Let me guess, conspiracies at every turn? Dark secrets in the halls of power?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m not surprised. From what I have heard, Tovey can see collusion in a Sunday school outing. Not to mention ghosts and goblins.”

  I laughed, not quite sure what I had just heard. “I beg your pardon?”

  “He is a spiritualist, or som
e such. Believes in all kinds of nonsense, from fairies at the bottom of the garden to the Fishman of Durdham Downs. Most people nod and smile when he starts on one of his crackpot theories, but they try not to be stuck in the same room as him, I can tell you that.”

  “You seem to get on well enough.”

  “He’s harmless, and a good policeman at heart. Investigated a break-in at my factory a few years back, found the culprits too. Told me that the factory was built on a confluence of… what was it he called them? Ancient sources of power, criss-crossing the land?”

  “Ley lines,” I suggested.

  “That’s it. Tovey thinks that is what brought the Templar Knights to Bristol all those years ago. The ley lines. Now, there is no doubting that the Knights were here. Bristol has the highest concentration of temples in the country. Fascinating period of history. That’s where Temple Meads got its name, you know. Temple Gate too.”

  “Are you interested in local history?” I asked.

  “Who isn’t? And trust me, I like a ghost story as much as the next man. Used to scare the Dickens out of my sister back when we were children. Just prefer facts to fantasy, that’s all.”

  I smiled. “You sound like Holmes.”

  “I shall take that as a compliment, sir.”

  We approached College Green and the Regent Hotel. “Have you seen Mrs Mercer’s library?” I asked, as we drew up. “I understand it’s quite impressive. Second to none.”

  Redshaw snorted, and wagged a finger at me. “Pah! That’s another one to be wary of. Didn’t trust her late husband, and don’t trust her.”

  Following our earlier conversation, I was beginning to have doubts myself. I leant forward, eager to learn more. “Anything I should know?”

  Redshaw tapped the roof again. “Let’s get your luggage out of her clutches, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  As promised, my case was packed and waiting to be collected. I hated the thought of strangers handling my belongings and always had, ever since my army days. As the porter delivered my luggage to Lord Redshaw’s carriage, I wished I had taken the time to pack my own belongings, although my priority had of course been Holmes.

  Of Mrs Mercer herself there was no sign, and the Regent staff were courteous and professional. Not that Lord Redshaw took that into account. Standing on the pavement outside the grand building, the outraged merchant made it abundantly clear how disappointed he was with my treatment.

  I myself offered no recrimination. My expulsion, unjustified or not, was no more the porters’ fault than a soldier could be blamed for the decisions of a deluded general. I tipped my hat to them, and encouraged Lord Redshaw back into his carriage. As he finally clambered on board again, I realised that the scene had attracted something of an audience. A lady walking a small dog had stopped, while a tall African watched our fracas with interest from where he leant nonchalantly against the Regent’s railings, smoking a cigarette.

  I have never been so grateful to climb into a cab and shut the door firmly behind me.

  Lord Redshaw was still complaining loudly as our carriage climbed Park Street towards Clifton.

  “I’m sorry, Doctor, but it makes my blood boil. That woman waltzes around the city as if she were Victoria herself. Anyone would think she built the Regent, rather than landed on her feet because her husband had the good sense to drop dead.”

  His words shocked me, despite my misgivings. “That sounds a little harsh,” I exclaimed.

  My rebuke brought an embarrassed smile from my host. He chuckled, throwing off the last vestiges of his bad humour.

  “You sound like my Lucy. ‘Judge not, Benjamin,’ she used to say.”

  “‘Lest ye be judged,’” I said, completing the quote.

  “She was right, of course, bless her soul.” He glanced out of the window in an attempt to disguise the fact that his eyes had misted over. His use of the past tense was enough for me not to press the point. The carriage fell silent for a few seconds, and I too looked out of the window, gazing absently at the passing shop displays. We slowed to a crawl, Lord Redshaw’s horse struggling to climb the steep gradient of the hill, although the usual pace resumed as we reached the top and the road levelled, as did our conversation.

  Lord Redshaw gave a loud sniff and offered me a contrite smile. “You must forgive me, Doctor. I’m getting old in my ways and my opinions. The world is moving so fast, it is hard to keep up, and the old ways… well… younger chaps like yourself, you have your ideas of course, you shape the future, and old men like me should stand aside.”

  “You are too hard on yourself,” I said, wanting to help the man who had already shown me such kindness. “And I would hardly call you old.”

  Redshaw chuckled. “You hear such stories in town, that is all,” he continued, tapping his cane against the floor as he spoke. I could see words engraved on the shaft, yet was unable to make out exactly what they were.

  “Stories about the Regent?” I prompted.

  “There was a guest, back when the late Mr Mercer was manager; a lady of Russian origin. She claimed to be a princess, a cousin of the Tsar or some such. Vladlena Mikhailov, that was her name. And such a beauty. Heads turned every time she stepped into a room. The princess installed herself in the Regent, and by all accounts was free with her riches. Not a porter or maid went by without a sizeable tip. Mr and Mrs Mercer themselves were showered with gifts, tokens of gratitude for their kind service. Weeks turned into months and months into years and still the princess resided at Bristol’s most fashionable hotel. But she never showed her face, striking though it was, at social events; never attended balls or galas, keeping herself to herself in her suite of rooms on the top floor of the hotel.”

  “A woman of mystery.”

  That drew another laugh, this time a little crueller. “A woman of disrepute, more like.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  NEVER A VICTIM

  “The princess was not what she seemed?” I asked.

  “Not in the slightest,” Lord Redshaw told me. “Our so-called princess had never even set foot in Russia, let alone the Tsar’s court. She was a music hall girl, from Skegness of all places!”

  “Good Lord!”

  “That is not to knock the girl’s talent. Her accent was second to none; her poise and demeanour, while extravagant, convincing enough to fool everyone she met.”

  “But her riches,” I asked, engrossed in the story. “Were they counterfeit?”

  “Maybe to begin with, but soon they were genuine enough. The princess’s personal riches flourished as she befriended her fellow guests, beguiling them with her exotic charms. Such was her plausibility that often they would take her into their confidence, sharing secrets that she would later use as a source of blackmail. Eventually her sins were found out, and the Mercers claimed not to have known what she was doing, but I ask you… All those gifts? How much of Evangeline Mercer’s beloved library was funded by the princess’s private enterprise?”

  “You believe they were in on it?”

  Redshaw raised his hands as if warding off my question. “All I know is that the scandal went away. The princess vanished overnight and the rumours were silenced. Other hotels would have been ruined, but the Regent’s doors are still open. There’s talk that Her Majesty may even stay there on her upcoming visit. Imagine what she would say if she knew.”

  I sat back in my seat, flabbergasted. “I should never have guessed. I know the Mercers employed Holmes a few years ago, and that the case was successful. Indeed, Mrs Mercer seemed pleased to see him, and yet… these accusations.”

  I explained what had happened, how Holmes had been suspected of stealing the books.

  “She could barely look at me.”

  “You think your friend was… what’s the phrase? Framed?”

  “Of course he was. Holmes is no thief, and his interest in literature in minimal.” I leant forward. “You don’t suppose Mrs Mercer is behind it? That she wanted Holmes out of the way? What if he found
out about the princess?”

  “Unearthed a scandal that she thought long forgotten, eh?” Lord Redshaw rubbed his chin. “I’m not sure. Evangeline Mercer is many things, but to make an enemy of a man like Sherlock Holmes? She is no fool. There has to be another explanation.”

  “Which Holmes would reveal in seconds if he were here,” I said with a sigh.

  “You know his methods. Could you not employ them yourself?”

  The thought made me smile. “I wouldn’t know where to begin. Whenever Holmes reveals his thinking to me, it seems painfully obvious, but I can never make the connections for myself.”

  “We cannot all be giants, Doctor,” Redshaw said. “The world needs little people too. But it’s good that you know your place.”

  Know my place? The phrase rankled with me, but he was correct of course.

  For now, there was little I could do to help my friend. I vowed to ask my host about it later. Lord Redshaw was obviously a man who liked to know what was going on in his city. He would have connections, associates who might be able to assist Holmes. I had hoped that Tovey would prove a valuable ally, but from what Redshaw had told me, the inspector was not held in the highest regard. Redshaw might be my best, and only, bet. If he could exert some form of influence…

  The carriage pulled into pleasant gardens that were still dotted with snow. We proceeded along a well-maintained avenue towards an impressive house, which I assumed was Lord Redshaw’s home, a curious mixture of brooding Gothic arches and Tudor beams. The red-tiled roof was a cluster of turrets and chimneys, and ivy smothered the walls as if it were trying to protect the brickwork from the elements.

  We came to a halt before a grand entrance to be greeted by a veritable army of footmen, and one immaculate butler.

  “Ah, Brewer,” Lord Redshaw said as he dismounted from the carriage. “We have a guest, Dr John Watson, visiting from London. He will stay in the Tombo Room.”

  “Very good, sir,” Brewer intoned with an expression that was both attentive and disinterested.