by Cavan Scott
“It was his idea,” Powell admitted. “All of it. He came to me and told me about the child, about what Redshaw had done. Then he offered me the money, telling me when to come to the manor and how to get in.
“I knew I couldn’t be with Marie, her father would never allow that, not now. Sutcliffe offered me a way out. I could take the money, make a new life for myself and let her live hers.”
“But, like Mrs Mercer,” Holmes said, “there was a price to pay for Sutcliffe’s ‘kindness’.”
“He said he needed the old man out of the way, that things had gone too far. He seemed… I don’t know… desperate.”
“He must have been,” I commented, thinking how Lord Redshaw had assented to free Holmes. “Do you think he’s in on it, Holmes? With Sir George I mean?” Sutcliffe had certainly been unhappy at the thought of anyone from outside investigating the robbery at the Lodge.
Holmes had no chance to reply. Powell lurched forward and for a moment I thought he intended to attack Holmes. Instead the cobbler merely seized my friend’s arm. “I did it for her. You see that, don’t you? I wasn’t going to leave her with Sutcliffe. How could I? But the money…”
“You were going to use it to find Marie’s baby,” Holmes said, making no attempt to pull his arm free. “To seek out Mrs Protheroe, and pay her to tell you who had adopted your child, maybe even buy your son back.”
“Mrs Protheroe?” the manageress asked.
“The woman Lord Redshaw paid to take the baby, if that is her true name.”
“Why would it be otherwise?” Powell asked.
“She gave a false address,” I told him. “We went there ourselves, and yet there was no sign of her. No one even knew of her. Holmes fears that she is not what she seemed to be.”
“It is a theory,” Holmes pointed out. “Nothing more.”
“I’ve read of such things in the papers,” Mrs Mercer said, wringing her hands together. “I wish to God I hadn’t.”
“What things?” Powell demanded, desperation colouring his voice.
“Of women who accept money to care for unwanted children,” I explained, “and then betray that trust, in the most horrific way possible.”
Powell’s eyes widened. “You mean they kill them, don’t you?
That’s what you’re saying. These women kill the babies.”
“And from what Inspector Tovey shared with me earlier, it is almost impossible to prove one way or another.” I told the pair about the advertisements, and how they were often used to deceive those in need.
“Often, but not always?” Powell said. “Just because this woman gave a false address doesn’t mean she used a false name, or that the names in the paper are not genuine.”
“True,” I replied. “The names are common enough, that’s for sure. Oh, what were they, Holmes? Garden?”
“Gardiner,” Holmes confirmed. “Gardiner and Stanton.”
“Protheroe, Gardiner and Stanton…” Mrs Mercer said, lost in thought for a moment.
“You recognise something about them?” Holmes asked.
She looked at him decisively. “Can I trust you, Mr Holmes, even after all I have done?”
Holmes smiled. “You know my secret as I know yours. It appears that the four of us have become ensnared in a web of deceit and intimidation, Powell included.”
“Then perhaps we can still salvage some good from this unholy mess,” Mrs Mercer said. “Come with me, please. I have something to show you.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
THE HIGH SHERIFFS OF BRISTOL
Finally, after having heard so much about it, I was standing in Mrs Mercer’s now infamous library. While it was certainly impressive, it paled into insignificance compared with that I had seen in the League’s secret lodge.
Mrs Mercer’s collection was housed in the attic of the Regent Hotel, curtains pulled across the large windows to protect the precious tomes. Holmes was in his element, whereas I was still uncomfortable standing alongside a man who had admitted to attacking Lord Redshaw. Whatever the motives for his crime, there was no evading the fact that he had tried to kill a man who had helped me in my hour of need.
“Here,” said Mrs Mercer, bringing a thin leather-bound book to the reading table at the centre of the room. “The High Sheriffs of Bristol from 1373 to the Present Day.”
“How does this help?” I asked.
“Let me show you.”
Placing the slim volume on the table, she began carefully turning the pages. “Bristol has had High Sheriffs since medieval times.”
“What do they do?” asked Powell.
“The office has existed in Britain for one thousand years or more,” Holmes explained, “its holder being the sovereign’s representative in matters of law.”
“Indeed,” said Mrs Mercer. “However, some names from our more recent history may be of interest.”
She stopped at a page tallying the High Sheriffs from 1800 onwards. “For the first half of the century two men shared the position, each pair taking office every September.” She ran a finger down the list of names. “Here we are.”
Holmes looked where her finger had stopped. “1804 – Levi Amis Junior and Philip Protheroe.”
“And now here,” Mrs Mercer said, indicating another name. “1819. James George and John Gardiner.”
Now Holmes was scanning the names himself. “A-ha! 1826 sees Daniel Stanton taking up the post.”
“The names from the advertisements,” Powell said.
“A coincidence?” I asked.
“Possibly. Mrs Mercer, I assume the hotel supplies its guests with newspapers if required?”
“Of course.”
“Then perhaps you would be so kind as to have someone gather as many copies of the Mercury as you can lay your hands on.”
The order was sent out and in due course a member of staff returned with a bundle of newspapers, which were deposited on the reading table. Holmes went to work, rifling through the small advertisements.
“But can the names help us find the woman?” Powell asked.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Holmes replied. “But they can help us identify a pattern. Here we are, another one. A Mrs Castle, wanting to adopt a quiet baby.”
“Michael Hinton Castle,” Mrs Mercer said, checking the list of sheriffs. “1832.”
Out came another paper, and another name was found. “Mrs Hillhouse?”
“Abraham Hillhouse, 1817,” Mrs Mercer announced.
Now we were all at it, rifling through the newspaper to find one advertisement after another. Soon the names were piling up: Mrs Walker, Mrs Haythorn, Mrs Hassell, each and every one taken from the distinguished company of royal representatives.
“The coincidence grows with every passing page,” Holmes said, “unless someone is indeed choosing pseudonyms from the ranks of the High Sheriffs of Bristol. We’ve seen such habits before, have we not, Watson?”
“We have?”
“Of course. Remember the Strangler of Birdcage Walk. He used a long line of nom-de-plumes to arrange rendezvous with his unfortunate victims, each and every one an Archbishop of Canterbury.”
“I don’t think I was involved in that case, Holmes.”
“Were you not? Then I must furnish you with the details when this business is over. I think you will find it diverting. I identified the culprit by means of a stuffed squirrel.”
“But why use a list of names at all?”
“Because the constant creation of new identities is a drain on the imagination, Watson. Far easier to plunder an obscure list that no one will notice, unless they are an expert like Mrs Mercer.”
It was just as Tovey had said. Hardly an edition went by without the inclusion of a similarly worded advertisement, all with the same fixed terms of ten pounds per child.
“Surely there can’t be that many unwanted children in the world, let alone one city,” I said.
“Try not to be naive, Watson,” Holmes said sternly. “Besides, not every advertisement
would bring success.”
“But you are sure they are the same woman?” asked Powell.
“The similarities in content are too great to be a coincidence, as are the assumed names. Always mention of her home, always ten pounds; the same amount paid to Mrs Protheroe. This is the woman who took your child, I am sure of it.”
“So if we find her, we can find my son?”
“Possibly, if he is still alive.”
“Surely he has to be, Holmes,” I said. “If the woman is harming such a large number of children, wouldn’t the police—” I stopped myself, glancing at Powell.
“Wouldn’t the police have discovered any bodies?” the man said matter-of-factly.
“One would hope so, unless our High Sheriff of baby farmers has found a way to stay one step ahead of the authorities. Inspector Tovey is a good man, an intelligent man; but like all his breed, he is hampered by resources if not vision.”
“Still, he could help us all the same,” I said.
“If you can trust him,” Mrs Mercer added.
Holmes regarded her with interest. “You are thinking of our mutual friend, the loathsome Inspector Hawthorne.”
“He is in the pocket of Sir George,” Mrs Mercer said.
I shook my head again. “Sir George again. He had everything worked out, didn’t he? St Nicole’s. Your arrest…”
“Well, he had failed to take Inspector Tovey into account. Tovey is an honest man, dedicated to the pursuit of justice. Besides, one only has to look at the cut of his jacket to see that Tovey survives on very little, while Hawthorne wears a suit of the finest quality, far beyond the means of a police inspector. Most of what Tovey earns goes to his sister in Weston-super-Mare.”
“Then we should go to him,” Powell insisted before I could ask how Holmes could possibly know about Tovey’s family situation. “And explain everything that has happened.”
“Nelson, you’ll be arrested on the spot,” Mrs Mercer pleaded with the young man.
“So be it,” said Powell. “Which matters more? My freedom, or the fate of my child?”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
THE COWARD’S WAY
Perhaps I had done Powell a disservice. The man certainly showed more honour than I would have imagined as he marched into Lower Redland Road Police Station and declared his guilt. He was taken away by a sergeant, but of Inspector Tovey there was no sign.
“What do you want with him?” said Inspector Hawthorne on hearing of our enquiries. “Come to see your brother, Mr Holmes?”
“I am understandably concerned,” said Holmes in Sherrinford’s deep timbre, “although I gather from Mr Woodbead that there is little change in Sherlock’s condition.”
Nor would there be, until Woodbead stopped administering the sedative. The thought of doping an innocent fellow rankled with me, but Holmes had assured me that the vagrant who had taken his place would be remunerated generously for his troubles. Better for him to be drugged than only feigning sleep.
“I hear you brought in Lord Redshaw’s attacker,” Hawthorne said. “I thought your brother was the detective.”
“Dr Watson tracked the fellow down,” Holmes lied. “Using Sherlock’s methods. I have to admit that I was quite impressed. Perhaps the doctor is the brains of the partnership after all.”
He laughed, but neither Hawthorne nor I joined in the merriment.
“Still,” Holmes continued, playing the buffoon, “do you know where I can find Inspector Tovey? You see, I understand that he has an interest in the folklore of the region.”
“Folklore?”
“I have discovered something that he might find interesting.”
Hawthorne snorted. “You’re welcome to him. Last thing I heard he was called down to the gorge. Another jumper.”
“Jumper?” I asked.
“A suicide,” Hawthorne growled. “They throw themselves from the bridge. Waste of time and manpower if you ask me. If the idiots want to do themselves in, so be it. The coward’s way out – the world’s better off without them.”
* * *
Hawthorne’s harsh words ringing in our ears, we took Holmes’s carriage down to the Avon Gorge. We found Tovey and the flat-nosed constable from the police station already on the mudflats. Like the Thames, the River Avon was tidal, and the murky water had retreated. Tovey was instructing the policeman, who in turn was trying to haul a body from the silt without being dragged in himself.
I looked up at Brunel’s majestic bridge suspended high above the gorge. The coward’s way? Surely not. To throw oneself from such a height spoke to me only of despair and anguish.
“He was spotted when the tide went out,” Tovey said as we approached. “Poor fellow. Pockets full of rocks to weigh him down.”
“But no coat,” Holmes commented. “The body is in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat.”
“Guess he didn’t think he’d feel the cold where he was going.”
The constable slipped and landed noisily in the mud. Tovey struggled down to lend a hand. I went to follow, but Holmes stopped me.
“Let the police do their work, Watson. In the meantime, tell me, what do you think of the case now?”
“Which one? What the devil have we got ourselves wrapped up in, Holmes? First the Monsignor and then Father Kelleher dead.”
“Poisoned,” Holmes reminded me.
“And then a missing corpse, a stolen ring and wig, and a stabbing, not to mention my own assault in the Lodge, wherever that is.”
“And now our mysterious baby farmer so hard at work in Bristol’s streets.”
“It’s a mess, Holmes. A damned mess.”
“And yet, all interlinked. Monsignor Ermacora and Father Kelleher, silenced to halt the investigation of Warwick’s missing body. Inspector Tovey taken off the case, I incarcerated and you knocked senseless. All to protect those guilty of removing Warwick’s mortal remains.”
“Sir George Tavener…”
“And, it seems, Victor Sutcliffe. He told Powell that things had gone too far. Because he was endeavouring to free me from the clutches of the law, maybe, or the man Sutcliffe believed was me?”
“What of Clifford? Do you think he is part of the conspiracy?”
“He is certainly a man under a great deal of pressure, if that stutter is anything to go by.”
“It vanished almost completely when he took me to the Lodge.”
“Because for once he was being his own man, not kowtowing to the wishes of Sir George and the others.”
“There is certainly animosity between Clifford and Sutcliffe. Clifford can hardly look the man in the eye.”
“From what little I’ve seen, his stammer increases in Sutcliffe’s presence, as does Clifford’s tendency to tuck his chin into his chest when they converse.”
“He does what?”
“It’s quite natural. Just as an animal will flatten itself or curl up in a ball to protect itself in the presence of a predator, Clifford’s body attempts to make itself smaller when Sutcliffe is around. Such ticks are commonplace; a defence mechanism triggered by anxiety. You, for example, massage the thenar musculature of your left hand when under stress.”
“I do not!”
Holmes’s only response was to glance at my hands. I followed his eyes to find myself rubbing the web of flesh between my thumb and index finger just as he had described. I pulled my hands apart, annoyed with myself.
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Watson. Mrs Mercer rubs the inside of her wrist, a pacifying gesture similar to that of a mother soothing a child. Either that or she points a revolver at people, it seems. One or the other.”
“And what of you, Holmes?” I asked. “What do you do to calm yourself?”
“Torment you, mostly,” came his reply as he took a cautious step forward. “The rest of our conversation must wait for now. It appears that Inspector Tovey has his man.”
Both Tovey and the constable were pulling the dead weight of the suicide victim up the bank. We joined t
hem, unable to resist our own morbid curiosity.
“Let’s turn him over and see who we’ve got,” Tovey told the policeman, who manhandled the corpse onto its back.
I could not help but gasp when I saw whose lifeless eyes stared up at us. It was Victor Sutcliffe.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
EXAMINATION BY THE RIVER
“Like father, like son,” Tovey commented, as Sutcliffe’s body was loaded into the back of a police cart.
“I beg your pardon?” Holmes asked, a cold wind whipping the length of the gorge to cut through our coats.
Tovey took another pull on the cigarette he had lit while the constable and the cart driver dragged Sutcliffe’s body onto a stretcher.
“Sutcliffe’s father, Ernest, threw himself from that bridge not four years ago. Fell to his death at low tide. A horrible business.”
“Do we know why he did it?” I asked.
“The Sutcliffes were in the tanning business, had a place down by the docks. There was a fire, a bad one. The roof came down, trapping the workforce inside.”
“Was there much loss of life?” Holmes asked.
Tovey finished his cigarette and ground it into the road with his heel. “Only a few men got out. It was terrible. Sutcliffe was ruined. Two weeks later, he walked onto the bridge and threw himself over the side.”
“And Victor?”
“Disappeared. We discovered later that he’d gone travelling, taking what little money the family had left. There was just Ernest and Victor, see. Ernest was a widower, his wife having died when Victor was a boy.”
“Tovey, will you let Watson examine Sutcliffe before he is taken away?”
The inspector was taken aback by the request. “Here?”
Holmes took a step closer. “We cannot trust that evidence would not be tampered with back at the station.”
Tovey frowned. “What are you suggesting, Mr Holmes? Mr Woodbead—”
