by Cavan Scott
“I have friends in low places,” she said with a sad smile, opening the door of the shop to let us enter.
We found ourselves in a gas-lit coffeehouse, the odour of freshly ground beans washing over us as we walked in from the curious street. The place was surprisingly clean considering its subterranean nature, sawdust covering the floor around wooden tables lit by flickering lamps on the wall.
“Poor Clifford would be proud, if he only knew about it,” she said, ushering us towards an empty table. “His father’s lamps still burning.”
Holmes and I sat beside each other on a wooden bench, the remarkable girl nodding to the other patrons as she joined us to sit opposite. They were a mixed bunch of both men and women, with clothes nowhere near the cut and class of Lady Marie, but they smiled happily as she greeted them.
“You are known here?” I asked.
“I would hope so,” she replied. “Father has his retreat at Ridgeside. This is ours.”
“Yours?” Holmes asked.
“Mine,” she corrected herself.
“Marie,” said a welcoming voice, and we turned to see a portly fellow with a stained brown apron approach from a small bar at the back of the shop. “Now this is a pleasant surprise, a pleasant surprise indeed.”
His accent indicated that he hailed from the East End of London, rather than the West of England, and his many chins were unshaven, his hair a mane of curls that the strongest of combs would struggle to tame.
“Jacob,” she said, her tone warmer than I had heard yet. “I’ve brought some new customers. I hope you don’t mind.”
“A friend of Marie Redshaw is a friend of mine. No Nelson today?”
Marie’s smile faltered. “I’m afraid not.”
Jacob scratched his jowl. “Haven’t seen him myself for best part of a month. Was starting to worry that you’d forgotten about us.” The chubby man’s eyes fell upon Holmes. “Looks like you’ve taken a tumble. Need to clean yourself up?”
Knowing Holmes as I did, the desire to rid himself of the mud of St Jude’s must have been very great. Holmes was like a cat in his personal grooming, not a hair out of place, no lint on his sleeve. To be in so dishevelled a state must have been hell, and yet he declined the offer, no doubt worried about smudging his disguise in the process.
“Just three cups of your finest brew,” Holmes said cheerfully, and Jacob tapped a podgy finger against his nose.
“Right you are.”
The shopkeeper returned a few minutes later to deliver cups of the strongest and most satisfying coffee I have ever tasted.
Across the table, Lady Marie sipped from her cup and looked at us both with curiosity.
“You seem to be taking all this in your stride, gentlemen.”
“Dr Watson has lived a full life,” Holmes replied as Sherrinford, “which I have observed from afar, but I pride myself in possessing an open mind. We all have our secrets, Lady Marie. We all wear masks.”
“Some more than others,” I muttered, shooting Holmes a look.
“You do not approve, Doctor?” Marie asked, misunderstanding my comment.
“Oh no, my dear. I did not mean you. From the moment we met you struck me as a young lady who marched to a different drum from the rest of her family.”
There was that smile again. It was a shame she wore it so seldom. “I hope so, Doctor.”
She took another sip of her coffee, delaying the explanation she had promised us.
Holmes had waited long enough. “Lady Marie, you mentioned a baby.”
She nodded, replacing the cup. “I did. My baby.”
“Which was conceived out of wedlock,” Holmes said.
“Holmes, really!” I admonished, but Lady Marie jumped to my friend’s defence.
“Mr Holmes is correct. I took a lover, and we were… unfortunate.”
“Could you not marry?” I asked.
She laughed, and shook her head. “Not exactly, no.”
“The joining of the houses of Redshaw and Powell,” Holmes said, causing me nearly to choke on my coffee. “A lady of the manor and a hotel bootblack.”
“A cobbler,” she corrected him. “And a proud one. But you are correct once again. My father would never have been ready to welcome Nelson to Ridgeside.”
“Because of his station?” I asked.
“That, and his heritage,” she replied. “Nelson’s family came to England on the slave ships. Father was furious when he found out.”
“He is African,” Holmes said. “Yes, I can see how that might cause problems in a family such as yours. How did the two of you meet?”
“At the Regent, while I was attending one of the League’s tedious balls.”
“The Regent?” I commented. “That surprises me. Your father is hardly fond of the place, or its manageress.”
“I don’t think he has a choice in the matter. Business is business as far as Sir George is concerned. Besides, the hotel bends over backwards to accommodate the League’s wishes. The balls are lavish affairs.”
“But not to your taste?” Holmes asked.
“No,” came the reply. “Of course, Anna is in her element, preening on Clifford’s arm as if he were the catch of Bristol. Usually I play along, ever the dutiful daughter, but that night, I could take it no longer. I felt suffocated by the hypocrisy.”
“How so?”
“Everywhere I looked I saw the same faces, so arrogant and pietistic. The great and good of Bristol, drinking the finest wines, stuffed like prize geese with more food than was decent. They stood there, wallowing in their own benevolence, while not half a mile away the poor they sought to rescue starved in their hovels. It made me sick to my stomach.”
“So you left?”
She nodded at Holmes. “I had promised myself I would stick it out to the bitter end. Anna never wastes an opportunity to remind Father of what a failure I am, both as a lady and a daughter. Why give her more ammunition? And Father had even been more attentive than usual, until I realised why. It was no society ball; it was a cattle market, and I was the stock.”
She put on a rough approximation of her father’s voice. “‘Poor Marie, still unmarried at her age. Never mind, we’ll find her the right man, for the right price.’ I could see him, talking with his cronies, lining up deals. Soon a parade of bachelors would appear at Ridgeside, invited to dinner and seated beside me. Young or old, it would be of no concern as long as their prospects were good, and new alliances could be made. We had played the game for so many years, and I had disappointed Father time and time again, but he never learned, he never realised that the more he pushed me into something – or someone – the more I ran. Mother understood, and when she was alive, she protected me, God bless her. Now she is gone, he thinks my life and my future are his to do with as he pleases.”
Her words were uncomfortable. I did not want to believe such things of Lord Redshaw, who had shown me such kindness. Nor was I so much of a fool, however, that I did not recognise the truth of it. It seemed to me that the very rich and the very poor had a great deal in common. Both were born into their respective states and could do little to alter them; they were governed by preordained destinies. The wretches in the slums were caught in the never-ending grind of day-to-day survival with no hope of escape; while Marie lived a life of privilege and wealth, she too had been set upon a track from the moment she was born, governed by expectations and etiquette. How lucky was I to be born in neither stratum. I, like Holmes, could make my own way in the world. However, when ladies such as Marie attempted to take control of their own destiny, only disgrace and dismay loomed large in their future.
“I chose my moment,” she continued, “and slipped out of the ballroom, not caring whether I was missed or not. I found myself outside at the back of the hotel, and there he was, leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette.”
“Nelson Powell,” Holmes said.
She smiled again, as if the memory were both sweet and sorrowful. “He was more of a gentleman
than anyone in that ballroom. He apologised and went to take his leave, but I said no. I was the one intruding on his world, not he on mine. Not that I would have minded. I had never seen such a handsome man. When he smiled…” She paused, embarrassed. “I am not a romantic soul and never have been, but he made my heart soar. Nothing happened that night; of course it didn’t, how could it? We talked for no more than five minutes at most, but a connection was made. I went back to the ball, and I played my part, dancing and laughing and wearing the masks you mentioned earlier…”
“But thought of nothing but Mr Powell,” Holmes said softly.
“He consumed me, both that evening and the day that followed. I found myself drawn back to the Regent, taking tea in the lobby, longing to see a glimpse of the only man who had ever made me feel alive. And I know what you are thinking, that it was an infatuation, the lure of the exotic, but it was more than that; it is more than that to this very day.
“Before long we were meeting, tucked away from what is laughably called polite society. He brought me to places like this and told me so much: how his grandfather had been brought to Bristol by the traders; how they had won their freedom, despite such odds; how they had persevered and survived.
“Nelson had learnt a trade in the slums, fixing shoes like the tailor we met. He fought his way out, finding a sponsor in Mrs Mercer. She set up his workshop in the hotel, promised him a better life, and delivered on her promise, becoming almost a second mother.”
“You sound exceptionally fond of the lady,” I said.
“She found out about us, but kept our secret. For that I will be forever grateful. Nelson loves her. He would do anything for her, of that I am certain. The way she is treated by the League, the contempt she faces every single day, is scandalous.”
“How so?” asked Holmes.
“I know only what Nelson has told me. The Regent has something of a chequered past.”
“That business with the Russian princess, you mean?” I asked, to which Holmes shook his head.
“I am still amazed that Mrs Mercer has managed to keep such a scandal out of the public record. I had no idea.” He turned back to Lady Marie. “But we digress; please continue with your story. Mrs Mercer kept your secret, but I imagine your father was less than pleased when he discovered you were with child.”
“He was furious,” replied the lady. “I was confined to my bedroom for the whole time, the servants and the outside world informed that I was suffering from brain fever. Only Dr Melosan was permitted to see me. Sworn to secrecy, he delivered the child himself – a boy, so beautiful, so much like his father.”
“And Mrs Protheroe?” Holmes asked.
“She arrived soon after and whisked the baby away. I was told that she was a private nurse, taken on by my father, who would find a home for my son. From that day forward, Father watched my every move, and then Victor appeared, a surprise guest at dinner one evening, seated beside me at table. Once again, my life was not my own, my engagement a contract drawn up behind Father’s study door. There was nothing I could do. I even told Victor my secret.”
“About the child?”
She nodded. “I cared nothing what anyone thought of me by that point. I believed that if Victor knew what had happened, he would call off the engagement.”
“But he did not.”
“He said he would stick by me, come what may. I had only trapped myself further.”
“What of the Protheroe woman?” Holmes asked, steering the conversation back to the baby’s birth. “Can you describe her to me?”
“Well, my mind was on other things when she arrived,” Lady Marie said, gracing us with another tight, knowing smile. “But she looked respectable enough.”
Holmes fell easily into questioning, no matter what voice he used. “How old was the lady?”
“In her forties, I would say, maybe a little older.”
“Or younger, if she lived a tough life in the slums.”
“But you see, that is why I was surprised…”
“When you found the address in your father’s study?”
“How did you know?”
“The paper in your hand was torn from a ledger in his desk.
I noticed it when I searched for a pair of scissors following his attack. The rule and weight of the paper is most distinctive, the product of Barlow’s of Finchley. You copied down the address from his papers after the stabbing.”
“After?” I asked.
“The journal was at the top of the pile in the drawer, meaning that it was constantly in use. Lord Redshaw would have noticed a torn page.”
“You share some of your brother’s talents,” observed Lady Marie.
“More than you know. So you were shocked when you learned Mrs Protheroe lived in the slums. Why?”
“Because of her clothes. They were neither threadbare nor worn. In fact, I would say they were of this season, the styles modern but respectable. Don’t ask me to describe them, except for her boots. It’s odd the things you remember, is it not? Her boots were patent leather with a row of white buttons up the left-hand side. In my delirium, I remember thinking that I would like a pair of boots like that!”
“You would place her in the middle classes then?”
“She was certainly educated, and well spoken.”
“Curious then, although the fact that no one in Boyle’s Court knows of her existence points to the fact that she gave a false address. Why your father would hire a woman from St Jude’s, however, is a mystery.”
“He was desperate. I believe he found Mrs Protheroe in the Mercury, through an advertisement.”
“An advertisement? Interesting.”
“There was a receipt amongst his papers. Ten pounds. That’s what he paid for her to take away my child. Ten pounds.”
“And your father told you nothing else about the woman?”
Marie shook her head. “No one in the house was allowed to talk about what he so delightfully described as ‘the sorry affair’, myself included. I couldn’t see Nelson. I feared what my father would do to him.”
“You mean physically?”
“There are more ways to hurt someone in this city than violence, Mr Holmes, and my father knows them all. He is not the man you think he is.”
“Then who is he?” asked I.
“My gaoler.” The words were delivered with no venom, but as a statement of fact. “At least he was.”
“Before you went to see Powell at the Regent this morning.”
“That’s right. After everything that has happened…” She paused, her voice wavering. “I can live a lie no longer.”
“But Mr Powell wasn’t in his workshop?” I asked.
“Nor in his room.”
Holmes frowned. “He lives at the hotel?”
Marie nodded. “Mrs Mercer provides him with a room as part of his terms of employment.”
“But she said he was at home,” I remembered.
“Maybe she was protecting him?” Holmes said.
“From what?” Marie asked.
“From arrest.” Holmes had lowered his tone as he levelled his accusation. Marie’s eyes widened.
“For what crime?”
“For the attempted murder of your father.”
“What?” Marie gasped.
“If I am correct,” Holmes revealed, “and I believe I am, Lord Redshaw was stabbed with a shoe knife.”
“And we found blacking on the carpet of the study,” I added. “The same brand that is used at the Regent.”
“No,” she insisted, her voice dropping to a whisper. “That is impossible.”
“Is it?” Holmes countered. “The father of your child kept away from you. Is it not likely that he would want to take revenge on the man who took away his son?”
“But Nelson didn’t know,” Marie insisted. “I never told him about the baby. That’s why I went to the Regent this morning, to tell Nelson everything that had happened and to ask him to go with me to St Jude’s.”
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“To find your child?”
“To get him back. To escape from all this, just the three of us.”
“To start a new life,” Holmes said.
Marie’s eyes were hard. “Let Anna have the house, with her perfect family and her perfect husband. Let Father die for all I care. I hope he does. He deserves it!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
REVOLUTION
“Marie, is everything all right?”
It was Jacob, hovering behind us. It was obvious what he was thinking, that Holmes and I were somehow threatening the lady. Perhaps that was indeed the effect of Holmes’s questioning, as he slipped easily from confidant to interrogator.
Opposite us, Lady Marie regained her composure. “Everything is fine, Jacob. Thank you. It has been a tiring morning, that is all.”
“And it’s not over yet,” the owner of the coffeehouse said, still viewing us with poorly disguised suspicion. “Would you like more coffee?”
“No. Just the bill, thank you.”
“It’s on the house,” Jacob said. “It’s good to see you again. Don’t leave it so long next time, eh?”
“Most kind of you,” Holmes said, laying on the Sherrinford charm, before turning back to Marie. “I apologise if I upset you.”
“I thought you wanted to help me,” she retorted.
“And we will.”
“By accusing Nelson? He would never hurt Father, no matter what he’s done.”
“I’m sure you are correct, but for now we shall never find Mrs Protheroe if we lurk underground. I suggest you return to Ridgeside. Dr Watson and I will proceed to the police station to look in on my brother. We can take the opportunity to avail ourselves of Inspector Tovey’s assistance and see what light he can shed on your mysterious midwife. If only my brother were awake. He would see through this mess in a moment.”
If only, indeed. We accompanied Lady Marie back up to the street and waited for her to depart in her carriage.
“What do you make of it, Holmes?” I asked as we set off back to town in our own conveyance.
“I think that I need to get out of these clothes.”
“Of the case, Holmes!”
“Lady Marie is a curious beast, Watson, adept at hiding what she is really thinking thanks to years spent in high society. She is also a woman who lives to break rules, and to shock. There are over a hundred cocoa and coffeehouses in Bristol; why take us to Jacob’s singular establishment?”
