by Cavan Scott
Behind us Anna had followed her husband into the theatre and was sobbing uncontrollably.
“Lady Anna,” I said, stopping her from rushing to her father. “You must wait outside.”
“I can’t,” she cried.
“We must,” said Holmes.
“Thank you,” said Dr Melosan as we ushered her out into the corridor. I glanced back to see a needle being inserted into Clifford’s arm.
The doors shut behind me and we were led by a nurse to a hard wooden bench where we waited. Lady Anna sobbed quietly into her handkerchief the whole time, while her sister sat a little way off with a face like flint. She had shed not a single tear since her arrival, and she shrugged off every attempt Sutcliffe made to comfort her.
“Leave me alone,” Marie finally snapped, standing abruptly. “What are you doing here at all?”
“I am to be your husband,” he reminded her.
“No longer,” she barked back. “Get away from me. I don’t want to see you ever again.”
The man stood, trying to grab her arm, telling her that she was hysterical. She pulled away angrily, nearly barging into the nurse who was rushing forward to calm the situation.
“Please,” the nurse said. “This is a hospital. If you cannot act with decorum, I must ask you to leave.”
“Then leave I will,” Lady Marie said, storming away. Anna rose, calling after her sister, but Marie refused to stop.
“Go after her,” I told Sutcliffe, but Marie’s spurned suitor had obviously had enough.
“No, she has made her decision. If you need me, I will be at the club.”
“What club? Sutcliffe, wait.”
Anna put a hand on my arm. “No, leave them, Dr Watson. They deserve each other. Father is all that is important. If anything should happen to him, and to Clifford too…”
The tears returned. I comforted her as well as I could and after a while she grew calm.
There we sat, until Holmes drew me aside under the pretence of giving the lady some room.
“A curious turn of events, Watson,” he whispered when he was sure we were in no danger of being overheard.
“Is that all you can say? The man will probably die.”
“You did your best for him, I am sure. But the real question must be why?”
“Why I tried to save him?”
“Why he needed saving at all. Tell me, who would want Lord Redshaw dead?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
SUSPECTS
“Surely you don’t suspect Lady Anna,” I said, as Holmes stared at Redshaw’s daughter through his monocle. Anna looked so vulnerable as she sat on the bench alone, desperately trying to compose herself.
“Until the murderer is found, everyone in the house is a suspect, Watson.”
“She is devoted to her father,” I insisted.
“And her husband?”
I considered this. “There’s certainly something between Clifford and the old man. When we were away from the manor, Clifford’s stutter all but vanished, and yet as soon as he was in Redshaw’s presence, not to mention that of Sutcliffe…”
“Interesting, although the stutter might have been amplified by the stress of being discovered breaking you into the Lodge.”
“We hardly broke in. Clifford had a key.”
“Which he stole from Redshaw. No wonder there would be a level of awkwardness.”
“No, it goes deeper than that. Redshaw puts Clifford down at every opportunity. Their relationship is fraught to say the least.”
“Enough to commit murder?”
“The thing is, Holmes, why stab the man and then put yourself through a blood transfusion?”
“A guilty conscience? Regret?”
That made sense, at least. Clifford had made the snap decision to take me to the Lodge. What if he had acted on impulse in the study?
“His wife would be set to inherit a small fortune,” I said.
“Surely the majority of the estate would go to the elder daughter.”
“Marie? She’s a troubled one, that girl.”
“Evidently.”
“I caught her crying in the drawing room, just before you arrived.”
“An unhappy love affair, perhaps? The relationship between the lady and her intended is far from a healthy one.”
“I have seen little warmth between them since Lord Redshaw took me in. Or between the lady and her father for that matter.”
“Another suspect, then?”
“His own daughter?”
“And what of this Sutcliffe?”
“I’m not fond of the man, I can tell you that.”
“But was Lord Redshaw?”
“There’s certainly a bond there. Redshaw respects the young man’s business.”
“Importing curios from the Orient.”
“The late Lady Redshaw was a devotee of all things Japanese, apparently. And then there’s the business about the spells, although that is all stuff and nonsense, if you ask me. Clifford is obviously a trifle jealous of the attention Redshaw lavishes on Sutcliffe.”
“Jealous or not, it is an intoxicating mix. Mysticism and murder from the Far East.”
I raised an eyebrow at the detective, still in disguise. “And you say that I am the melodramatic one.”
“Either way, it seems that Sutcliffe and Lord Redshaw are as thick as thieves.”
“Yes, but he did become quite animated at the suggestion that Redshaw should try to have you released from prison.”
“Did he now? So it could be any of them.”
“But what I don’t understand is why we heard nothing until Lady Anna screamed.”
“The door to the study is thick and might have muffled the sounds of a struggle.”
“True. I could barely hear through it earlier.”
“Snooping around, Watson? I have never been more proud. The window in the study was locked from the inside, so the attacker must have come through the door, surprising Lord Redshaw. He turned, rising from the chair, and received the first blow to his stomach. The attacker pulled out the weapon and stabbed again; Lord Redshaw fell, knocking himself senseless against the desk. The attack must have been swift, the assailant leaving the way he came in. On the journey here, Lady Anna told me that she noticed that the door was ajar, which is not her father’s custom. She went to close it and saw him sprawled on the floor. Either that, or she committed the crime herself and merely backed out of the room before screaming.”
“It was all an act, you mean.”
“The flaw in that theory is that the lady had no trace of blood on her. None of them did. Without the weapon itself, I am reduced to conjecture, but at first glance I could see no sign of it, either in the room or the hallway outside.”
“It could be outside, if the assailant escaped through the window.”
“Indeed. I checked briefly before the carriage left, but could see nothing by moonlight. And of course, there is every chance the attacker took it with him. Not every villain is so considerate as to leave bloodstained evidence lying around. However, we do have the wounds.”
“What about them?”
“On the second blow, the knife was thrust with sufficient force to bury the blade to the hilt.”
“How can you tell?”
“The bruising around the wound.”
“Suggesting an assailant of considerable strength.”
“Unless the blade itself was exceptionally sharp, which is a distinct possibility.”
“But if it isn’t, you’re saying that the attacker had to be a man.”
“I’m saying nothing of the sort. They may be called the fairer sex, but there are plenty of physically adept women in this world, especially in service. However, I concede that neither Marie nor Anna would appear at first glance to possess the required strength.”
“But Lord Redshaw could have been attacked by a servant?”
“Quite possibly. Indeed, the shape of the wounds is of interest.”
Holmes pul
led a notebook and a stubby pencil from his pocket and drew the wounds from memory. They looked like two teardrops running horizontally along the page.
“See the corners, Watson. One rounded, while the other has a distinct point. That suggests a one-sided knife; one edge sharp and the other dull.”
“A kitchen implement?”
“Possibly. If only I had stayed behind to check the kitchens.”
“Sherrinford Holmes is supposed to be a landowner,” I reminded him, “not a detective.”
“Come now, Watson. All it would take is to become lost in the house and end up below stairs by accident.”
“Would you even know what you were looking for?”
“I shall remind you that I am not the one who suffered a blow to the head today. Even allowing for the elasticity of Lord Redshaw’s skin, the blade must be only two inches wide.”
Our conversation was interrupted by the reappearance of Dr Melosan, rolling down his shirtsleeves. Lady Anna rose as he approached.
“Papa?” she said, steepling her fingers in front of her mouth as if beseeching the Almighty. “Is he—”
“Alive, and as stable as can be expected, thanks largely to the ministrations of Dr Watson.”
I acknowledged the compliment and asked after my host’s injuries.
“The knife wounds were deep, but clean,” came the reply. “Both have been stitched, and we will monitor for infection or signs of internal bleeding.”
“And his heart?”
“Lord Redshaw’s pulse is weak but steady. We’ve given him morphine for the pain, and must now wait and see.”
“But he will live?” Anna begged him.
The grey-haired doctor turned to the lady and gave her a sad smile. “We will do everything we can. I suggest you go home and try to rest. Your husband will need to recover following the transfusion.”
“May we speak with Lord Redshaw?” I asked, eliciting a frown from Melosan.
“He is sleeping…”
“Which is understandable, but we need to know who did this to him.”
“I’m sure the police will want to speak to him when he wakes.”
“And when will that be?” Anna asked.
“Impossible to tell, I’m afraid. He is still very weak, so it may be some time, but rest assured that we will take good care of him. Now, if you have no other questions?”
“I do,” piped up Holmes.
“Yes?” said Melosan, peering at my friend, the only member of our small group whom he did not know.
“Your tattoo. Where was it done?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The tattoo on your forearm. I spotted it as you were rolling down your sleeve, a narrow band encircling your arm like a cuff. Most striking.”
“I hardly think this is the time to be discussing tattoos,” Lady Anna said, gathering her things. “I must go to my husband.”
“Quite so,” replied Holmes. “I apologise. It’s just that I have been thinking about having one done myself. They are quite the fashion now that the Prince of Wales has visited the tattooist’s chair. Eddie is such a trendsetter, always has been.”
Melosan was staring in confusion at my friend, rubbing his forearm as he replied, “An associate of mine dabbles with the inks, but I’m afraid his is not a public enterprise.”
“Ah well, thank you all the same,” Holmes said. “Maybe next time I am in London.”
Taking his leave of us, Dr Melosan called over a nurse to take us to Clifford.
“What was all that about?” I hissed as we followed her.
“What was what?” Holmes replied, innocently.
“All the nonsense about tattoos and what-not? Prince Edward hasn’t really got one, has he?”
“His Majesty? Why yes. A Jerusalem Cross. His mother is not amused. And where the Prince of Wales goes, the aristocracy follow, although I was surprised to see a Bristol doctor following the trend. And as for Lord Redshaw…”
“Redshaw?”
“I spotted it as he was being prepared for the transfusion, on his left arm. Two rings this time, compared with the doctor’s one. Definitely the work of the same artist.”
Ahead of us, Lady Anna had quickened her pace, reaching her husband who was slumped in a chair in the corridor ahead. The poor chap looked drained, quite literally.
“Oh, Harold. What you did for Papa. So brave.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Well done, old chap.”
Clifford smiled at me weakly. “N-not used to being the h-hero. I quite l-like it.”
“Let’s get you home,” I said.
“Are you sure we should leave Papa?” Anna asked.
“There’s nothing else we can do here. Your father needs rest, as do you.”
“That may not be an option,” Holmes commented, nodding down the corridor.
We turned to see Inspector Hawthorne marching towards us.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
UPSTAIRS AND DOWNSTAIRS
The police inspector insisted on accompanying us all back to Ridgeside Manor, Holmes included. It was amusing to see him treating my disguised friend with such respect, unaware that he was the very same man he had falsely imprisoned.
Lady Marie had already left for the house, having hailed a hansom. Of Sutcliffe there was no sign, so the rest of us bundled into our carriages and returned to the manor.
Back at the house, Hawthorne gathered us all in the drawing room, taking statements and asking questions. He then asked me to show him where the body had been found and I, of course, obliged, Holmes dogging our footsteps.
“What a shame my brother is not here,” Holmes commented as the inspector examined the now dried blood on the desk and the carpet. Hawthorne ignored the jibe, running through the course of events once again. As I answered his questions, I could see Holmes wandering around the study, hands thrust in pockets, feigning a casual interest in the maps and paintings on Lord Redshaw’s walls. I knew all too well that it was an act, and that those sharp eyes would be sweeping the room for clues.
The inspector closed his notebook and, slipping it into his inside pocket, rattled the window in its frame.
“Locked, from the inside,” he commented. “Meaning the attacker must have struck from within.”
“You should interview the staff,” Holmes commented, turning to smile at Brewer. The butler had been waiting patiently in the corridor outside with a look of disgust that strangers were abroad in his master’s private refuge.
“That’s exactly what I intend to do, Mr Holmes,” Hawthorne replied.
“My apologies,” Holmes said. “I’m teaching my granny to suck eggs. You don’t read Chinese, do you, Inspector?”
Hawthorne looked confused at the sudden change of subject. “I beg your pardon?”
“Chinese,” Holmes said, pointing at a small frame at the wall. It contained two ornate letters in an oriental language, painted impeccably in black on yellow paper.
Hawthorne looked at the calligraphy and sniffed. “I’m afraid I don’t, not that it would help. That’s Japanese.”
“Japanese?” Holmes exclaimed. “I’m impressed. Do you know what it says?”
“I’m afraid not. Now, if you’d excuse me…”
“Yes, you have work to do, of course,” Holmes said, indicating that Hawthorne should take the door.
“No, please,” replied Hawthorne, standing his ground. “After you!”
Holmes smiled politely as he was ejected from the study, stopping to address the butler. “Mr Brewer, the hour is late and I fear that my hosts in Bathampton will have retired already. Might I trouble you for a bed tonight?”
“I will check with Lady Anna,” the butler intoned, before leading the inspector away.
“Did you hear that, Watson?” Holmes whispered as we watched them go. “He’ll check with Anna, not Marie.”
“I told you. Anna does seem to run the household. Marie shows very little interest.”
Holmes waited for the coast to bec
ome clear before he quickly reopened the door closed by Hawthorne moments before.
“What are you doing?”
“Stop gaping and come in,” I was told, Holmes shutting the door behind me.
“What if we’re caught?”
Holmes removed one of his cufflinks and tossed it across the room. “I’ll say we were looking for that.”
He began stalking around the room, pointing at the oriental writing in the frame as he passed. “Interesting that Hawthorne could identify that as Japanese.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t know the difference.”
Holmes sighed. “Of course I did, Watson. The question is, how did Hawthorne? Everyone seems obsessed with the Land of the Rising Sun around here.”
“What does it say then?”
“Saisei.”
“And what is that?”
“Rebirth, or the return to life.”
“Resurrection, you mean. Like Christ.”
“Most cultures have resurrection myths, gods springing back to life.”
“Like Izanami and Izanabi for the Japanese.”
Holmes looked at me in amazement. “Watson, I am impressed. I had no idea you were such a scholar of Eastern mythology.”
“Oh, I’m not. Sutcliffe told us the story over dinner, Izanabi venturing into the Underworld to rescue his wife.”
“Did he now? Perhaps he is less familiar with the legend than he thought.”
“How so?”
“It is Izanagi not bi. Izanagi-no-Mikoto.”
“Anyone can make a mistake, I suppose.”
“And my mistake was letting everyone in here,” Holmes commented, hands on his hips as he looked down at the carpet. “This room has seen more footfall than the Great Exhibition this afternoon, with the world and his wife tramping in and out.”
He crouched down by the door and pointed towards a minute stain on the carpet. “But look at this!”
“What is it?” I said, joining him. “Soil?”
Holmes rubbed a finger across the stain and then brought it to his nose. He took one decisive sniff.
“No. Boot blacking.”
He stood, scanning the rest of the carpet. “But no trace of it elsewhere. This is where it would have happened, Watson, the struggle between Lord Redshaw and his assailant. If the fellow had blacking trapped in the treads of his shoe, it might have been ground into the carpet as they tussled.”
