by Cavan Scott
“Because it was a safe place to confess her shame?”
“Because of the pregnancy, you mean? Tell me, Watson, does Lady Marie strike you as a woman who feels shame? She is angry, that much is certain. Angry enough to conspire to kill her own father?”
“I’m not sure about that, Holmes. You saw the way she reacted when you accused her lover.”
“I saw shock, yes, but how are we to know that it was not an act? I would suggest she took us to old Packhorse Lane precisely because it was a singular experience; a theatrical one. Think of it, Watson. Bored with her old life, she throws herself into an affair with a man below her station, a man with an exotic heritage, a taboo in her father’s eyes. Forbidden trysts in forgotten streets? They obviously frequented the place as a couple, away from prying eyes. Her notion of class structure is breaking down. A lady brought up in a stately home, sitting at the next bench to anarchists and revolutionaries.”
“Anarchists? Surely not.”
“You have eyes but you do not see, Watson. The fellow at the next table had three cups of coffee in the time we had one. If the broken veins in his nose tell us anything he has swapped one addiction for another, from gin to caffeine. Coffee palaces, be they above or below the ground, are a breeding ground for radicalisation. Reformers and agitators are known to induct their followers into coffeehouse culture. Why?”
I was unsure whether Holmes’s questions were rhetorical or not, but I had no answer, either way. Holmes answered for me, as I knew he would. “Because coffeehouses do not serve alcohol, which, as every reformer knows, is the bane of the working class. How can the downtrodden masses revolt against their oppressors if they are sunk in a drunken stupor? No, keep them alert, and keep them sober, so they can read pamphlets promoting social upheaval such as that which was sticking out of our red-nosed friend’s jacket pocket.”
“Yes, yes, Holmes, you’ve made your point.”
“Have I? Lady Marie has begun to question the privileges and perils of her social station. You heard her talking about the
Worshipful League’s charitable works. You saw her walk into a slum, with no thought of the dangers that might befall her. She is railing against her breeding, and against the man who is the very personification of her place in society.”
“Her father,” I answered reluctantly.
“Her father. A man who now lies dangerously wounded in hospital. Watson, I checked every door and window I could in Ridgeside Manor. They were all locked, with no way of opening from the outside, especially on the side of the house that looks over the gorge. And yet somehow our attacker got in and out, with no one noticing.”
“Maybe he had a key?”
“Maybe he had an accomplice.”
“Lady Marie?”
“She is grieving for her lost child, trapped in a house with a family she despises. Her future is not her own. To make matters worse, her sister announces that she is with child. Tell me, Watson, how did Lord Redshaw respond to the news?”
“With joy,” I said, remembering the scene all too well. “As one would expect.”
“A man celebrating his first grandchild. But it wasn’t his first, was it? The heir to the Redshaw fortune had already been born, of the wrong stock, and, dare I say it, the wrong colour. What else could Redshaw do? Present his mixed-blood bastard of a grandson to his peers?”
“Holmes, really!”
“And there you have it, in your own reaction, Watson. Embarrassment. Shame. This is the world that Redshaw’s class has created and which the rest of us maintain.”
“The ‘Daughter of Eve’,” I said, struck by a memory.
“What’s that?”
“Something I said to Lady Marie on the night we first met. I was admiring a statue of a slave girl in chains. I suggested it was a reminder of how far we have come as a society.”
“And what did she say?”
“‘Or not, as the case may be.’ The look in her eyes, Holmes. She was haunted.”
“By what she had lost, and maybe by the realisation that the chains placed upon us by society are equally binding today.”
“But invisible.”
“Ever the poet, Watson. Is it too much a leap of the imagination to suggest that such grief and anger would boil over to hatred? Perhaps she had met with Powell after all to concoct their own revolution.”
“That Jacob fellow said he hadn’t seen either of them for some time.”
“As I have observed, there are other coffeehouses in which to plot a murder. On the night of my arrival, Powell came to Ridgeside Manor and found a door left open as planned. His prey was in the study and the rest of the house occupied. Powell slipped in, surprised Lord Redshaw in his sanctuary and, the deed done, disappeared back into the night. As for Lady Marie, she had the perfect alibi. She was with her soon-to-be-estranged fiancé.”
“But why, Holmes? What would they gain from such a barbaric act?”
“Revenge. Revenge against the man who stopped them being together. Revenge against the man who forced Marie into an engagement she neither wanted nor could stomach. Revenge against the man who took away their son.”
“A son Powell knew nothing about, remember.”
“We have only Lady Marie’s word for that. Either way, it’s a son she now wants back.” A shadow passed over his face. “That is the most tragic aspect of all, Watson. If my suspicions are correct, Lady Marie’s baby may well be long since dead.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
AN EVIL BUSINESS
Looking back, I find it incredible that Holmes would have the gall to condemn another for displaying a flair for the dramatic. It was as though he had planned the timing of that last comment perfectly, delivering it on the instant that we drew up outside Lower Redland Road Police Station. He had opened the door and bounded out onto the pavement before I could ask him what on Earth he meant. Neither did he wait for me before he marched up the steps to the large blue doors and entered, demanding to see Inspector Tovey.
“How is my ‘brother’?” Holmes asked as the inspector led us into a private office.
“Still doped up to the eyeballs on laudanum,” came the reply as Tovey closed the door carefully behind us. Then he turned to me and smiled an impish grin. “I see you’ve met Sherrinford, Dr Watson.”
I did not return the good humour. “I have, and I cannot believe what you two put me through.”
Tovey eyed my disguised colleague. “By the looks of things, Sherrinford shares his brother’s nose for trouble.”
“It is a long story, which Watson will be more than pleased to share.”
“Will I?”
“You cannot expect me to walk around like this for much longer, Watson. The inspector has very kindly agreed to hold on to some luggage for me in case of emergencies, sartorial or otherwise.”
Tovey chuckled. “Evidence room two, down the corridor to the left. Here.” He passed Holmes his keys. “And be quick about it.”
With Holmes gone, I explained all, feeling more than a little guilty for breaking Lady Marie’s trust, whatever Holmes thought of her.
“But what I don’t understand is Holmes’s suggestion that the baby might already be dead,” I admitted as I finished the tale.
Tovey scratched his cheek. “There’s little proof, I’ll grant you, although I can see why he has his suspicions.”
“You can?”
The inspector sighed, leaning on his desk. “Have you heard the term ‘baby farmer’, Doctor?”
I told him I had not.
“They’re women who care for unwanted children on behalf of others, or, in some cases, find new homes for the infants, families willing to take them in. At least that’s the theory.”
“And in practice?”
“Most of the time they do as they’re asked, taking care of the children and saving the mothers from shame. However, where there’s money to be made, there are devils ready to make deals. We’ve encountered a few over the years, more’s the pity.”
“Devils? How so?”
Tovey sat back, tucking his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. “A few years back, I came across a woman by the name of Margaret Percival. She was paid to find new homes for unwanted children, and find a home she did, in a dirty back room in Bedminster. She’d slip them morphine to keep them quiet, and leave them in the dark, until they wasted away, poor little mites. Soon her doctor, well, he became suspicious writing so many death notices for one woman, so she moved her entire operation to Lewin’s Mead, changing her name and even her appearance. She couldn’t risk being discovered again, so instead of letting nature take its course, the old harpy took matters into her own hands. She strangled the babbers and dumped their bodies in the Frome, wrapped in old newspaper and weighed down by rocks.”
“Good Lord,” I said, horrified. “That’s… evil. Pure evil.”
“Not to women like Margaret Percival. It’s business, plain and simple.”
“You brought her to justice, though?”
“She got careless; didn’t weigh the bodies down well enough.
Dock workers found them, floating on the surface. And the thing is – and Mr Holmes, he’d like this – I realised that the knots were the same. Each and every one. My father was a fisherman, see, and I recognised them in an instant: gunner’s knots. Turns out Margaret’s old man was a fisherman too. So I knew that the babes were being killed by the same hand, and from where they were coming up, I knew where they were being dumped.”
“So you lay in wait.”
Tovey nodded. “On the third night she appeared, a bundle beneath her arm. I jumped out before she could drop it in the water, knowing all too well what I’d find when I cut those knots and peeled back the paper. I cried that night, I don’t mind admitting it, seeing the marks around that little one’s neck. I was too late to save that child, but she never killed again. They hanged her, and I was pleased to see it. Trouble is, scum like that, they’re like the head of a hydra, you know, from the old legends. Cut one down, and two grow back in its place. This city’s lousy with folk profiting from the misfortune of others.”
“But we have no reason to believe that this Protheroe woman is of the same ilk?”
Tovey raised his eyebrows. “Don’t we? You said yourself that she gave Lord Redshaw a false address. Most legitimate baby farmers I know don’t need to do that. Why would they? If you ask me, the very fact that she lied casts a shadow of suspicion over her. You say Redshaw found her in the Mercury?”
He crossed to a desk that was piled high with folded newspapers, and took one at random from the heap. He started flicking through its pages, checking the small advertisements until he found what he was looking for.
“Here we go.”
He stood aside so I could see.
Married couple with no family would adopt healthy child, nice country home.
Terms £10 – Gardiner, care of Ship’s Letter Exchange, Stokes Croft, Bristol.
Tovey looked at me as if I should see something in the words.
“What do you think, Doctor? Does it look plausible enough to you?”
“Well, yes. A family is willing to pay ten pounds to adopt a child.”
“Ah, but that’s not how it works, see. The ten pounds is paid by the mother, given over with the baby, to help pay for the child’s upkeep. More often than not, the mother is even given a receipt, to keep everything above board. We found out, too late, that Margaret Percival was doing the same thing, placing adverts to attract desperate folk, accepting money and then… well, you know the rest.”
“But how can you tell which ones are false, and which are genuine?” I asked, my head spinning from the revelation.
“That’s the problem. You can’t,” Tovey said, flicking through another edition. “Here’s another, see? ‘Grieving family seek adoption of healthy baby boy or girl. Well-appointed Gloucester home. Terms £10 – Stanton, care of 7 Wilbur Court, Midland Road, Bristol.’ The pattern is always the same; similarly worded advertisements, all asking for ten pounds to care for the child. The trouble is, we can’t follow up each advertisement just in case there’s foul play at work. The newspaper’s full of the damned things, all with different names and addresses. Turns out Percival used four or five pseudonyms in her career.”
“You could trace who is placing the advertisements?” I suggested.
“Even if I could get the Mercury to co-operate, there’s no guarantee it’s the women themselves. They often have lads working for them. I tell you, Doctor, it’s impossible.”
“I thought the impossible was your business, Inspector?” Holmes said, opening the door to the office. He had changed into a fresh suit and shoes, his face finally free of dirt.
“The inspector has just been telling me about this baby farmer business,” I told him. “I can’t believe it.”
“That is because you are an innocent, Watson.”
“Let me see what I can do,” Tovey said, as I showed Holmes the advertisements from the papers. “Perhaps someone’s heard of a woman matching the description of this Protheroe character. It’s not as if I have anything better to do.”
“The investigation is not going well, Inspector?”
Tovey perched himself on the side of his desk. “Surely you don’t mean the Warwick investigation, Mr Holmes?” he asked, his eyes twinkling. “As you know, I’ve been taken off the case.”
“Of course you have,” Holmes said. “Officially.”
“And unofficially?” said I.
“Unofficially, I’m getting nowhere fast, Doctor. No one’s seen hide nor hair of Father Ebberston since his release, and St Nicole’s is locked up tight. I did manage to talk to one of Ebberston’s congregation, a Mr Garrett. Apparently, this isn’t the first time the doors of St Nicole’s have been unexpectedly closed this year. Not four weeks ago, Ebberston had Tavener’s stonemasons in.”
“Tavener?” I asked. “You mean Sir George Tavener?”
“The very same. Do you know him, Doctor?”
“I met him briefly at Ridgeside. The Grand Master of the Worshipful League of Merchants.”
“Is he now?” said Holmes, tapping a long finger against his lips.
“Apparently there was a problem with an arch above the church entrance,” said Tovey.
“The narthex,” Holmes offered.
“That’s it. Crumbling mortar by all accounts, but Garrett, he’s a retired mason himself. He says the archway was repointed a year or so back. Should have lasted for years.”
“How long did the work take?” Holmes asked.
“No more than a day or so.”
“Long enough to remove a body from a tomb.”
“My thoughts precisely, Mr Holmes.”
“But why steal it in the first place?” I asked.
“From what you have said, the League of Merchants is rather preoccupied with Warwick’s relics.”
“Some personal effects, yes, but his corpse?”
“The work would give them ample cover,” Holmes said. “The marks you discovered on the top of the tomb, Inspector, the evidence that led you to believe that it had been prised open recently?”
“The crowbar marks?” Tovey replied. “What about them?”
“That is the point, Inspector. I doubt very much that they were made by a crowbar. If they had been, the indentation would have been shaped like a wedge. These marks were arched as if the end of the tool were curved, like a brick jointer, used for repointing mortar.”
“So Tavener was involved,” I exclaimed.
“It is a distinct possibility.”
Tovey stroked his beard. “Then we’ll have to tread carefully. Sir George is an influential man.”
“Fingers in many pies, eh?” I asked.
He nodded. “Let me do some digging.”
“Capital,” said Holmes. “In the meantime, Watson and I are to return to College Green.”
I groaned. “Back to the Regent? Mrs Mercer will have us turned out the moment we walk through the
front doors.”
Holmes produced a small leather pouch, which I recognised immediately as his lock-pick kit. “Then we shall just have to make sure she doesn’t see us, won’t we?”
CHAPTER FORTY
THE SILVER FRAME
There was no locked door in all of England that could stop Sherlock Holmes. In the years when I shared lodgings with the detective, we would regularly take delivery of boxes packed to the brim with padlocks and latches sent from reclamation yards the length and breadth of the country. Of an evening, while I sat with the newspaper, Holmes would be hunched over the dining table, dismantling the blasted things like a mortician performing one autopsy after another. Manufacturers would even bring locks of innovative new design to see whether Holmes could break them. They would enter our sitting room convinced that they had invented the holy grail of locksmiths everywhere – the unpickable catch – only to leave despondent after Holmes had opened it with ease.
I had lost count of the times that Holmes had put his questionable skills to good use on a case. All I knew is that I made for a nervous accomplice every time the lock picks came out of his pocket. I would stand there while he went to work, convinced that we would be sprung before the lock. Even then, as we stood in a narrow alleyway around the side of the Bristol Regent, Holmes crouching in front of a door, I glanced nervously about. Holmes had already been arrested for theft once this week. On that occasion he had been innocent, but now, as I heard the lock spring open, we were both guilty as charged.
Holmes bundled me in and led me down a corridor until we reached a stairwell leading high into the building.
“How do you know where to go?” I asked as we climbed the stairs.
“You forget that I have been here before. The late Mr Mercer hired me to trap a thief. It turned out that the Regent had a light-fingered maid who was hiding the proceeds of her thievery beneath a loose floorboard.”
