by Cavan Scott
“Don’t mind Brewer,” Redshaw said as he led me into a surprisingly gloomy entrance, the walls decorated with dark green tiles. “He’s a good sort, if a little sullen.” He rested a hand on my shoulder, noticing me glance around the cheerless reception area. “And don’t worry, the Tombo Room is airier than this old place. Anna is always nagging at me to redecorate, but my father chose these tiles and I am rather attached to them.”
“Anna?” I enquired.
“My younger daughter. You will meet her at dinner. Eight o’clock sharp. Don’t be late or Brewer will have a coronary. Do you need a man sent up to you?”
I declined the offer, keen to dress myself.
“Well, if you change your mind, just ring the bell. That’s what servants are for, after all. Now if you will excuse me, I have business to attend to. Welcome to Ridgeside Manor, Dr Watson. Make yourself at home.”
With that, Lord Redshaw disappeared into the bowels of the house. I was led upstairs to a room that, as promised, was far brighter. Gas lamps burned on the walls, illuminating the elaborate teak furniture. Carvings of dragonflies were everywhere, in the panels of the wardrobe and perched on the knobs of the large bed. Paintings of the multi-coloured insects adorned the walls, and a cabinet filled with the creatures themselves, thankfully pinned to a backing board rather than buzzing around, was mounted next to the large bay window.
I sat on the bed, looking at the luggage that had been delivered and opened for me. What in the world was I doing here? I felt like a leaf that had been blown this way and that before being deposited far from the tree.
I stood, and walked over to the window to discover that the house stood at the very edge of the Avon Gorge, that great chasm that runs through Bristol, the river roaring deep below. The moonlit view in front of me was stunning. Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s famous suspension bridge spanned the gorge, a wonder of innovation and daring. I remembered reading stories of its construction. Brunel had suspended an iron bar across the gorge and would pull himself from one side to the other using a contraption of his own making, little more than a large basket suspended by a system of pulleys. On one occasion, a wheel jammed, leaving the engineer swinging there, high above the river. Brunel calmly clambered out of the basket and onto the iron bar. Freeing the wheel with no safety net, he continued on his way, whistling a merry tune. What an inspiration the man had been, and what a tragedy that he had never seen his precious bridge completed.
Possessed of a new purpose, I began to dress for dinner. One way or another, I was going to free my friend, and discover why anyone would want to besmirch the good name of the world’s greatest detective.
Tovey had been right about one thing; there was something rotten in this city, and I would be the one to expose it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MEET THE REDSHAWS
Determined not to be late, I descended the grand staircase at half past seven, my progress scrutinised by Lord Redshaw’s noble ancestors, peering down at me from a collection of magnificent portraits. My frown must have matched theirs as I stopped at an alcove halfway down the stairs. It housed a bronze statue of a semi-naked African girl, her head lowered and her wrists manacled together. I had failed to notice the figure when I ascended, but now that I had seen it, I found myself transfixed.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” said a voice behind me. I turned to see an attractive young lady in her late twenties descend the stairs from the first floor.
“I beg your pardon,” I said, caught between standing aside for the lady and continuing on my way. I opted for the latter, not wanting to make her pass me on the stairs.
“No, please,” she said. “Stand and look at her if you wish. Father would like that. He’s quite proud of her, you know.”
“Your father is Lord Redshaw. Then you must be Anna.”
She rewarded my deduction with a tight smile. “Anna is my sister. My name is Marie, and you must be Dr Watson.”
She held out her hand, which I kissed, although making introductions on the stairs hardly seemed proper considering our stately surroundings.
As if to spare my embarrassment, Marie Redshaw turned her attention back towards the statue. “They call her the ‘Daughter of Eve’. Father had her commissioned from an artist in New York. Apparently they are all the rage over there.”
“She is quite striking.”
“If not rather disquieting.”
I seized upon the word. “That’s it. That’s it exactly. She makes for uncomfortable viewing in this day and age.”
“Which is precisely the point,” Marie said. “A reminder of the horrors of slavery, on both sides of the Atlantic. Bristol, of all places, should never forget.”
“A reminder also of how far we have come,” I suggested.
She smiled, as if I were a child who had unwittingly said something charmingly naive. “Or not, as the case may be.”
“And what is going on here? Loitering on the stairs?”
Lord Redshaw’s booming voice made me jump. I looked down to see him standing in the hallway in his evening finery. “What would Victor say, eh?”
“He’d say that you shouldn’t tease your guests,” Marie replied, indicating for me to continue.
I joined my host in the hall and waited for the lady.
“Ha! Watson doesn’t mind, do you, old boy?”
“Not at all, Lord Redshaw.”
“Please, call me Benjamin. We don’t stand on ceremony here at Ridgeside. Come and meet everyone.”
Ever the genial host, Redshaw led me to the drawing room, where I was greeted not only by the other members of the dinner party but by the most ostentatious chimneypiece I had ever seen. It dominated the south wall, a vast column of polished marble covered in an illustrated map. Sailing ships were moored at the harbour, spires reached for the skies and chimneys belched smoke. There was even another reminder of Bristol’s more troubling history, with a row of slaves lined up on the harbourside, chained together by the neck.
“What do you think, eh?” Redshaw said, placing an arm around my shoulders as if to hurry me towards the monolith. “Impressive, is it not?”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I said, with no word of a lie.
The fireplace itself was set into an alcove at the bottom of the chimneypiece, the resulting space large enough to easily accommodate a pair of full-size settees. A young woman rose from one of these, the resemblance to Marie Redshaw so striking that this could only be Anna. To her side was a man in his twenties, with an apologetic, dough-like face.
“Papa wants you to be awestruck,” Lady Anna said, stepping out from beneath the marble colossus.
“Then I’m happy to oblige,” I said, kissing her proffered hand.
“That’s ten tons of the finest Italian marble,” Redshaw explained proudly. “Had it shipped over specially, along with the fellows to carve the blessed thing. Designed the map myself. Bristol in all its glory.”
“With the Worshipful League of Merchants’ lodge at its heart,” Lady Anna said fondly.
“A small conceit on my part,” Redshaw admitted.
“The funny thing is,” added Lady Marie, “that the fire isn’t needed at all. This entire wing is heated through the floor. It’s all for show.”
“Don’t be such a spoilsport, Marie. Allow your father to have his fun,” said the final member of the party, a tall, darkly handsome man with piercing green eyes. While the pasty chap with Anna attempted to disguise his poor complexion with enormous sideburns and a rather lacklustre moustache, Marie’s companion was clean shaven, displaying a strong jaw and cheekbones my wife would have gleefully described as chiselled.
“Let me make the introductions,” Redshaw said, starting with the daughter I had already identified. “This is Anna, the girl who will forever be my babe in arms no matter how domineering she becomes.”
“Papa,” she scolded.
“And this poor chap is her husband,” Redshaw continued. “Harold Clifford, manufacturer of t
he finest gas lighting this side of London.”
Clifford stepped from behind his wife and shook my hand. His grip was as doughy as his face. He went to offer me a greeting, but Redshaw spoke over the fellow, continuing the introductions. “You’ve met Marie, of course, and this is Victor Sutcliffe, soon to be my other son-in-law.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Sutcliffe said. His grip was as strong and confident as Clifford’s was feeble.
“Sutcliffe’s one to watch,” Redshaw said, oozing pride that his daughter had managed to snare such an obvious catch. “Thought he’d turned his back on commerce. Off he went, travelling the world, armed only with a damned camera. And then his pictures started coming back, exotic scenes of the Orient. Oh, how my Lucy would have loved them. She adored the East. Never went herself you understand, but collected all manner of trinkets from China and Japan. The Tombo Room, that was her last project before the good Lord took her from us.”
“Papa,” Anna said, stepping forward to Redshaw to offer comfort, although the large man seemed in little need of it.
“Stop fussing, Anna. I’m perfectly capable of talking about your mother without blubbing. Where was I? I’ve lost my train of thought.”
“The T-T-Tombo Room,” Clifford offered, revealing a noticeable stutter.
“The dragonflies are quite beautiful,” I said.
“I’m glad you like them,” Redshaw said, “although when she put them in I had to ask Lucy what the bloody things had to do with Japan myself.”
“Tombo means dragonfly in Japanese,” Victor told us. “Although the literal translation is ‘Victory Bug’. I think it was the Emperor Shōmu who first called Japan ‘our precious island of Butterflies’.”
“Apparently they were a symbol of courage for samurai warriors,” Redshaw added.
“I had no idea,” I told him.
“What was it, Victor?” Redshaw asked. “Because they always fly forwards, or something.”
“That’s right; forwards and never back,” Sutcliffe confirmed. “A healthy philosophy for life.”
“Yes, f-fascinating,” Clifford grumbled beneath his breath, drawing a sharp look from his wife.
Redshaw seemed not to have heard Clifford’s comment and so continued to praise Marie’s fiancé to the hilt. “Anyway, Victor starts to build up a reputation with these photographs of his. Before you know it, he’s importing all manner of Japanese paraphernalia. Art, furniture, fabrics; even teapots. Never seen so many of the blessed things. Before long he’ll be richer than all of us.”
“You still haven’t introduced Dr Watson,” Lady Marie pointed out.
“I was just getting around to that, although you have rather stolen my thunder. Anna, Harold, Victor; this is Dr John Watson, known for his association with—”
“Sh-Sh-Sherlock H-Holmes,” Clifford cut in, showing more enthusiasm with those two mangled words than at any other point of the conversation. “I’ve r-read your stories. Absolutely b-brilliant.”
“Thank you.”
“We were shocked to hear of your friend’s… troubles,” said Anna, the insinuation clear in her voice. “What a dreadful business.”
News certainly travelled quickly in this city. However, before I could offer a defence, Brewer entered the room and announced that dinner was served.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
EXOTIC DELICACIES
Lady Anna led us through to the dining room, fulfilling her late mother’s role as lady of the manor, despite being the younger of the two sisters. As we walked Lord Redshaw waxed lyrical about the fireplace. I nodded politely from time to time, although my interest in the behemoth was fading fast.
“Ten tons it weighs,” he said again, proudly. “Built directly into the gorge. I added that entire wing; my legacy for the future of this house. There’s also a billiard room, you know. Perhaps you’ll join me for a game later.”
I told him I should be glad to, my eye drawn to a door on the left as we passed. Like the others in the house it was of a dark mahogany, although this one had a Latin motto carved into the wood.
Redshaw followed my gaze.
“Non qui rogat sed qui rogathur admitto,” he read aloud.
“‘I admit not who asks, but who is asked,’” I translated, drawing a chuckle from my host.
“A little joke on my part. The door leads to my study. An Englishman’s home may be his castle, but this Englishman needs a private retreat, especially since Anna and Harold moved in.” “They live with you?”
“Made perfect sense,” he replied. “No point in them running their own household when Marie and I have all this space to ourselves.”
“Especially with the new wing.”
He clapped me on the back. “Exactly! Besides, I have little time to run a house this size, while Marie, unfortunately, has little inclination. Anna is happiest when bossing folk around, so I let her handle the household.”
The dining room was a more conservative affair, save for the large circular table set out for dinner. Every grand house that I visited had followed the convention of a rectangular table, with a seating arrangement firmly dictated by rank. Not so at Ridgeside. I was seated opposite Lord Redshaw with Lady Anna and Clifford to my left and Marie and Sutcliffe to my right.
Everything else seemed as expected until I looked down to find two thin wooden sticks beside the standard silver cutlery. I resisted the urge to pick them up, but stared so intently that Lady Marie noticed.
“They’re called chopsticks,” she told me, leaning in. “I’m afraid you’ve joined us on an evening when father is indulging Victor’s obsessions, although to be fair you would be hard pressed to dine at Ridgeside on a night when he doesn’t.”
“I hope you have an adventurous palate, Watson,” Lord Redshaw said as the first course was delivered. A small plate was placed in front of me on which were arranged delicate slices of a thin orange-pink fish on a bed of crisp lettuce.
“You’ll enjoy this,” Redshaw promised. “What’s it called again, Victor?”
“Sashimi,” Sutcliffe replied. “Raw salmon.”
“Raw…” I repeated. I watched as Redshaw picked up his chopsticks and, holding them in a peculiar pincer movement, plucked a portion of the fish from his plate and popped it in his mouth.
“Delicious,” he said, chewing happily. “It’s all the rage in Tokyo, you know.”
“And has been for hundreds of years,” Sutcliffe informed us, keen for an opportunity to show off his knowledge of the Orient. “I first ate sashimi during the Cherry Blossom Festival. Every year, Japan’s cherry trees erupt with tiny pink flowers. It’s quite spectacular. The Japanese themselves head out to gaze at the flowers in wonder.”
“Why would they d-do that?” Clifford asked.
“They believe that spirits live within the tree – the Kami.”
“And you saw this yourself?” asked Redshaw.
Clifford nodded. “I was incredibly lucky. My host, Mr Arakwana, took me to Mount Yoshino. It’s a wonderful place, home to thirty thousand cherry trees.”
“Never heard of it,” Lord Redshaw admitted. “Where in Japan is it?”
“I forget for now,” Sutcliffe said, which I thought odd as the experience seemed to have had a profound effect on the man. “But I can show you on a map after dinner. It was magical. Arakwana’s entire family came with us and we dined together under the shade of the blossom, finishing the meal with sake.”
Now it was my turn to ask a question. “Sake?”
Redshaw answered for Sutcliffe with a chuckle. “Victor brought a bottle back for me. Strong stuff, I can tell you. Puts hairs on your chest.” He glanced at my plate and the salmon, still untouched. “Come on. Tuck in.”
I looked down at the starter. While I had no desire to insult my hosts, the thought of raw fish was anything but appetising, and then there was the challenge of the chopsticks. The entire family seemed adept with the peculiar cutlery, although Clifford blatantly refused even to try and used a regular knife a
nd fork instead.
It was a perfectly surreal end to a largely bizarre day. Here I was, sitting in a stately English home, with a stately English family in their stately English finery, eating the most un-English cuisine I had ever seen.
Well, I say I was eating, but in truth I was unable to bring a single morsel of the stuff near my mouth. I tried to replicate the Redshaw clan’s dextrous use of the wooden sticks, but had no luck, the salmon repeatedly slapping back to the plate.
Eventually, at Redshaw’s behest, I gave in and joined Clifford in using a knife and fork. It has to be said that the fish itself was delicious, with a strong buttery flavour unlike any salmon I had ever tasted, although I had little time to savour it before Clifford began firing questions at me.
“So you w-were there, when they f-found that Warwick’s body was missing?”
“Harold,” Anna chided, placing her chopsticks to the side of her plate on a tiny wooden rest.
“No,” Redshaw said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “It’s a worry to us all. Edwyn Warwick is something of a hero in these parts, Watson.”
“Not to everyone,” pointed out Marie quietly as she took a mouthful of lettuce.
Redshaw ignored the comment. “That his grave is empty is a concern to many.”
“Especially after the b-business with the r-ring,” Clifford said.
The temperature around the table seemed to drop several degrees.
“Ring?” I asked.
Redshaw let out a sigh that bordered on irritation. “It’s nothing. A mere trifle with which you need not concern yourself.” It was less a suggestion than a directive.
“How can you s-say that, B-Benjamin?” Clifford continued, unperturbed, drawing a glare from his wife.
“The doctor isn’t interested, Harold,” Sutcliffe said.
“Oh, I should say by his face that he most certainly is,” Marie said playfully.
“Really,” I said, keen to spare Lord Redshaw’s embarrassment. “It is fine. I’m just enjoying this delicious… what did you call it again?”
