by Cavan Scott
Recovering his discarded cufflink, Holmes went to the door and, opening it, stepped outside.
“No sign of it out here either.”
I followed him into the hall and he closed the door behind me.
“Could it not have come from Redshaw’s own shoes?”
“Lord Redshaw was dressed for dinner. He was wearing black shoes. That shade of blacking could only have been intended for brown shoes. Now, correct me if I am wrong, but no one in the house was wearing brown footwear tonight.”
I was forced to admit that I had no way of confirming or refuting his statement.
“Because you see, Watson, but never observe. Now, I admit it is hardly compelling evidence, but it does spark a thought.”
Holmes said no more, but set off in the direction Hawthorne had gone, disappearing through the door that led below stairs.
“Where are you going?” I hissed after him, giving chase. I found him at the foot of the stairs, surprising a footman.
“Sir, may I be of assistance?”
“Who repairs the boots in this house?” Holmes asked.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“It’s a simple enough question. Lord Redshaw’s boots, who repairs them?”
The kerfuffle drew Brewer out of his office, where he was being interviewed by Inspector Hawthorne.
“What’s going on here?” The butler’s eyebrows nearly shot through the roof to see guests of the family in the domain of the servants. “Mr Holmes? Dr Watson?”
Holmes raised a placating hand. “I’m sorry, Brewer, I didn’t mean to disturb you. My right shoe is in need of a little repair, that’s all.”
“The hall boy can see to that when you’ve gone to bed, sir,” Brewer said, Hawthorne appearing behind him to peer at Holmes in puzzlement.
“No need to trouble him,” said Holmes. “Cobbling is an occasional hobby of mine. My own man at home is appalled, but what can I say, it relaxes me. Just show me to the lad’s tools and I can help myself. I promised Dr Watson I would show him how to trim a sole, you see.”
“This is most irregular—” Brewer began, until Hawthorne interrupted him.
“Mr Brewer, I still have questions. If the gentleman wants to mend his own shoes, let him do so, for heaven’s sake.”
Looking as if he were living through the end days, Brewer ordered the footman to show us where the hall boy kept his tools.
We were guided to the workroom by the equally perplexed footman. Holmes thanked him cheerfully and closed the door behind him. Once we were alone, he crossed over to the table that housed the hall boy’s stash of dubbin and brushes. Holmes rummaged through the various pots and bottles, discarding them one by one.
“No, not that one. Nor that.”
“What are you looking for?”
“The right shade, of course.”
“Isn’t it just black?”
Holmes looked at me as if I had just questioned his parentage. “Watson, have you not read my monograph, The Difference in Shade and Texture of 170 Brands of American and European Boot Blacking?”
“I can’t say that I have.”
“Remind me to provide you with a copy when we return to London. The blacking found in the study is obviously the product of Cole and Company of Fetter Lane, London.”
“Obviously,” I said, as if such a fact should be clear for anyone to see.
“Cole’s Blacking is a popular brand, sold as a paste in a pot, whereas this household prefers the wares of Robert Burrows of the Strand, sold as liquid in a bottle.”
“So the blacking did not come from Ridgeside Manor?”
Holmes paused, tapping a finger against the table. “I wonder how Mr Sutcliffe has his boots polished?”
His eyes fell on the hall boy’s tools of the trade, a series of knives and scrapers. He first picked up a wooden knife, much like a narrow spatula.
“I wonder…” he repeated.
“What?” I asked, as Holmes continued his exploration of the work area. I picked up the wooden implement that Holmes had already discarded. “You don’t think Lord Redshaw was stabbed with something like this?”
“Not the wooden knife. That is used for scraping excess polish from a boot, the wood soft so there’s no danger of damaging the leather. As you can plainly see, the shape is quite wrong. And besides, the pressure required to puncture skin with such an instrument would be immense.”
“You did say the knife was embedded to the hilt.”
“A hilt which that knife does not possess. No, I believe we are looking for something such as this.”
He presented me with a second implement, this one boasting a metal blade and a handle carved from beech. “Single-sided, for the trimming of leather.”
“Single-sided like the knife that stabbed Lord Redshaw!”
“Clearly,” said he, taking back the tool. “The point has been clipped from the tip of the blade, which is sharpened on only one edge. Four and a half inches, which means that Lord Redshaw’s additional girth around the waist saved his life. Had he been a lean man the blade would have struck an internal organ. And before you ask, this is not the murder weapon. The only stains upon its hilt are those of grubby fingerprints rather than Redshaw’s lifeblood.”
I raised a hand to stop him. “But wait a minute. You’re saying a cobbler stabbed him?”
“I’m saying it is a possibility. The wound matches the weapon.”
“Then why the bootblack? A cobbler wouldn’t be polishing shoes. That’s the work of children, not skilled men.”
“Any cobbler worth his salt will polish the shoes after a repair or have a boy to do it for him. All it takes is a smashed pot, the paste ground into the tread of the cobbler’s shoes by accident.”
“It seems rather a stretch to me.”
“And yet it is all I have to go on. For now, at least.”
There was a knock on the door. Holmes slipped the knife back into its box.
“Yes?”
The door opened to reveal a sour-faced Brewer. “I was wondering if you would be requiring any supper, sir. Inspector Hawthorne has been called away, and the ladies are retiring to bed.”
“That would be splendid, Brewer,” Holmes said cheerfully in Sherrinford’s deep voice. “I’m positively famished. Watson, what say you?”
I shook my head. “I wouldn’t have the stomach for it, not after everything that has happened.”
“I shall dine alone then, Brewer,” said Holmes, breezing past the butler. “Some sandwiches would be splendid. Ham if you have it, with a dash of pickle. Delicious. I shall be up in the drawing room.”
Offering Brewer an apologetic smile, I followed, leaving the bottles of blacking on the table behind me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
A BITTER BREAKFAST
The rest of the evening proved uneventful. Holmes’s request to stay had little to do with his imaginary hosts; he wanted to search for more clues. With the rest of the family gone to bed, he had ample opportunity, although I myself was struggling to keep my eyes open. The combination of my exertions with Lord Redshaw and the injury I had suffered at the Lodge had sapped what was left of my natural resources. I made my apologies as Holmes tucked into his supper, and retired to the Tombo Room, falling into a deep sleep the moment I crawled into my bed.
My sleep was restless, however, beleaguered by dreams in which I ran through an endless maze of stained-glass windows, only to find Lord Redshaw at the heart of the labyrinth, liquid blacking oozing from deep wounds in his belly.
I woke early and descended for breakfast to find that I was first to the dining room. I was ravenous, a good sign after my trauma, and so was tucking into a plate of scrambled eggs when Lady Anna and Clifford joined me. I rose as they entered, noting a certain redness around Anna’s eyes, understandable given the circumstances. Clifford looked better, the colour returning to his podgy cheeks.
Before long, Holmes also joined us, dressed as his apocryphal brother. He loaded his plate high
with kippers and set about his breakfast with enthusiasm.
“Will Lady Marie not be joining us?” he asked, his mouth full of salted fish.
Anna made no attempt to disguise her scorn. “Why should she? She has made her feelings abundantly clear. She is probably lounging in bed, waiting for Papa to die.”
“Anna!” Clifford said, looking more than a little abashed. “You’re em-embarrassing our g-guest. Such talk at the b-breakfast table.”
Holmes dismissed the concern with a wave of his fish knife. “It is only natural that passions are running high.” He paused, chewing thoughtfully. “Of course, if your father were to die—”
“Holmes!” I interjected, confounded by his tactlessness. He looked at me as if I, not he, had crossed the line of decency.
“At times of crisis, one needs to remain pragmatic, Doctor. I was about to say that if the worst were to happen, Lord Redshaw’s fortune would pass to Lady Marie.”
Lady Anna’s tired eyes were wide as saucers. “What are you suggesting?”
“Nothing at all,” Holmes insisted. “I am merely stating facts of business. I apologise if I have caused offence. It is the landowner in me, I suppose. Marie is the elder child, is she not?”
“She is.”
“Then I would be not at all surprised if young Mr Sutcliffe were to come a-calling today.”
“I th-think we’ve seen the last of him,” Clifford insisted, taking a sip of coffee.
Holmes continued to needle away. “I wouldn’t be so sure. He seems a tenacious young man, and his betrothed is about to become an exceedingly wealthy woman.”
That was the last straw. Anna rose abruptly, her chair skidding back. “How dare you! My father is lying in hospital and you talk as if he is already gone. You must think me exceedingly foolish not to know the measure of Victor Sutcliffe. He has sniffed around my sister like a dog foraging for scraps, but if the worst happens – and I pray to God that it does not – he will not see a penny.”
Now Clifford chimed in. “It’s true that Marie hasn’t l-lifted a finger to help r-run the house since Lucy passed away. It has been down to my w-wife.”
“Which Lord Redshaw clearly knows,” I said, desperate to smooth the troubled waters. “He is exceptionally proud of you.”
“I should hope so,” Anna said, throwing down her napkin. “Now, I suggest you enjoy the rest of your breakfast, and leave.”
Clifford’s mouth dropped open. “My d-dear, after everything Dr Watson d-did for your f-father last nuh-night…”
“I am not talking about the doctor,” Anna replied, her eyes positively boring into Holmes, before she stormed from the room. Clifford apologised and chased after her like a loyal puppy.
The dining room was quiet except for the scrape of Holmes’s knife and fork on his plate.
I stared at him, astounded. “How could you, Sherrinford?”
Holmes dabbed at his lips with a napkin. “I appear to have outstayed my welcome. The lady has made her feelings known and I must abide by them. I shall leave at once.”
“And go where?”
“To the prison of course, to visit my dear brother. You will accompany me, Watson?”
I should have refused, but the thought of remaining in such a poisonous atmosphere was unbearable.
Half an hour later, we were rattling towards the gates of the estate in Holmes’s carriage. Holmes sat staring ahead, at least showing the decency to wait until we were out of the grounds before throwing back his head and roaring with mirth.
“I don’t see what there is to laugh about,” said I.
“You should have seen your face, Watson. The very picture of outrage.”
“I should think so. I’ve never been so mortified in all my life. What were you thinking, man?”
“I was wondering how far I could push the Cliffords before they told me what I wanted to know. Did you see the way she was standing, Watson?”
“It was difficult to ignore!”
“A hand over the child she is carrying. The legacy of the Redshaw line. She knows all too well that by rights the house should go to Marie, but as long as Marie remains unmarried and without child, the cards are stacked in Anna’s favour.”
“But you discounted both Lady Anna and Clifford as suspects.”
“I did no such thing, I merely said that it was unlikely. I doubt it was Sutcliffe, however. Whether he was angry that Lord Redshaw was considering coming to my aid or not, if he is the gold-digger that Lady Anna suggests, surely he would wait until the ring were on Marie’s finger?”
“Unless he hoped to hurry Marie on. She has yet to set the date for their wedding.”
“A wedding that you said Lord Redshaw supports wholeheartedly, almost as if Sutcliffe has him under a spell…”
“You think she’s being forced into it?”
“It would explain the antagonism she displayed to both her father and her betrothed. From what you have told me it is clear that Ridgeside was an unhappy house long before Lord Redshaw was attacked.”
“But what of the blacking on the study carpet? How does that fit with your theories?”
“That, my dear Watson, is a very good question.”
“And where shall we find a good answer?”
“At our destination, I hope.”
“The police station?”
Holmes smiled. “Oh my dear chap, you of all people should be able to tell the difference between fact and fiction. We are not bound for the station.”
“Then where are we going?”
Holmes made no reply. Instead he leaned forward and removed his right shoe. I watched in perplexity as he turned the shoe over and, producing a penknife from his pocket, proceeded to prise off the heel.
“Whatever are you doing, Holmes?”
“One question at a time, Watson. You asked where we are going. Why, to the scene of my crime, of course.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
ST JUDE’S
“Have you gone quite mad?” I spluttered, as the carriage pulled up outside the Bristol Regent Hotel. “I thought I, not you, had taken a blow to the head.”
“Come now, Doctor,” said my friend as he slipped the now ruined shoe back onto his foot. “Sherrinford Holmes has nothing to fear in this particular establishment.”
Jumping from the cab, Holmes hauled himself up the front steps, his affected limp more pronounced than ever thanks to the heel that flapped away from his sole. I myself paused, remembering all too well my last visit to the Regent. I could imagine the reception I would receive, but Holmes was already inside. Taking a deep breath, I proceeded after him.
Mrs Mercer spotted me the instant I was through the revolving doors. Her face paled and it looked as though she was caught between the urge to fight and the desire to flee. I would have preferred the latter, but instead she strode from the reception desk towards me, bustling past the disguised Holmes.
“I am surprised to see you here, Dr Watson,” she said sotto voce as she stopped me in my tracks, “but unless you have come to apologise, I must ask you to leave. I have no desire to engage in more unpleasantness.”
“Nor do we, dear lady,” said Holmes in his false baritone. She turned quizzically.
“I beg your pardon?”
Holmes bowed his head. “My name is Sherrinford Holmes, and while I understand you have a quarrel with my unscrupulous brother, I hope to throw myself on your mercy.”
As she looked upon him, dumbfounded, Holmes simply lifted his right foot to display the heel flapping like a dog’s tongue.
“As you can see, my shoe has suffered some unfortunate damage. As we were passing, Dr Watson mentioned that the Regent employs its own cobbler. I was wondering if your man could save my sole.”
Mrs Mercer shook her head as if her ears were deceiving her. “Dr Watson brought you here, of all places?”
Holmes nodded. “He did. He is too proud to say it, but the poor chap is consumed with regret for his past actions.”
I o
pened my mouth to complain, before a sharp glare from Mrs Mercer persuaded me to shut it again. “So he should be; but while I have no argument with you, Mr Holmes, I’m afraid I must disappoint you. There are plenty of cobblers in Bristol. The concierge will be more than delighted to furnish you with a list.”
“I am willing to pay for the inconvenience. I would not expect your man to work for nothing.”
“I’m glad to hear it, but my answer remains the same. I’m afraid Powell isn’t in today.”
“Powell? Is that your cobbler?”
“He is, yes.”
“Then perhaps you could provide me with his address? Perhaps he undertakes private commissions?”
“He does nothing of the sort,” Mrs Mercer replied, her temper threatening to boil over. “And even if he did, he is at home, quite unwell.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Cobbler’s femur?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I read about it in The Times. Something to do with the constant pounding of leather on one’s lap. I’m sure Dr Watson could explain it better?” He looked to me, his eyes shining with amusement.
I shook my head, reluctant to be drawn into the conversation. Fortunately, Mrs Mercer brought the debate to a swift conclusion.
“Nelson is suffering from influenza.”
“Your cobbler.”
“Yes. Now if you would excuse me—”
Mrs Mercer was interrupted by the sight of a young lady rushing through the reception area towards the doors.
“Lady Marie?” I said, as Lord Redshaw’s daughter dashed past. The lady made no response, not even turning at her name. Instead she plunged through the revolving doors as if running for her life.
Mrs Mercer regained her composure and attempted to guide Holmes and myself towards the concierge. Holmes, however, had other plans.
“Come, Watson,” he said, limping towards the exit. “Mrs Mercer is quite correct. There are plenty of cobblers in town. Thank you kindly, madam.”
“What the blazes?” I asked when we were both safely through the doors.
