CHAPTER FIVE

SOMETHING ROTTEN

At times like this I often wondered what hold Holmes had over me. Why was I always so willing to go charging off into the unknown with the man, no matter what?

This was especially true during my all too brief time with Mary. If I had known then what I know now, how our life together would be cut so tragically short, I should like to think that I would have stayed at home, to cherish what little time we had left.

Not that she would have let me. Mary knew as well as I that when there was a mystery I would follow my friend to the ends of the Earth.

“Go with him, John,” Mary said, as Holmes announced that he was going to Bristol. “Until the repairs are completed we cannot return home, and Dr Mann will look after your patients as he has so many times before. Besides, you will be unbearable until he has returned.”

She smiled kindly, and I loved her all the more for it.

“Thank you,” I said, rushing to pack the case that the maid had only emptied two nights before.

Before long, we were on a train, heading for Bristol. In London, the snow had all but vanished from the roads, great heaps of slush piled high on the pavements. However, travelling west was like plunging into winter all over again. A thick blanket covered the English countryside, and sheep were huddled in the cold.

The news in the paper was no better. As Holmes studied a map of Bristol, I read of ships lost off the south coast, the death count already in the hundreds. Of particular concern was an American steamer known as the Suevia. According to The Times, she had arrived at Prawle Point on Monday afternoon only to have a valve of her low-pressure boiler give way. The strong east wind took her straight into the path of the storm. Another steamer, the Acme of London, responded to her SOS, but was too small to tow the Suevia to safety. Instead the Acme transported the chief officer to Falmouth. He set sail again, this time in a powerful tug, but the Suevia was nowhere to be found. Fears were growing that she had gone down, taking all hands with her.

I let the newspaper fall into my lap and sighed.

“Watson?” Holmes asked. “Are you quite all right?”

“It’s just this damned storm, Holmes. It’s brought with it such tragedy—”

“That it makes you wonder why we are charging across country to investigate the death of two men we do not know?”

I nodded, and Holmes smiled, drawing a folded piece of thick paper from his pocket.

“What is this?” I asked, as he handed it to me.

“A papal decree, found nestled in the pages of Monsignor Ermacora’s Bible.”

I looked at him askance. “You stole it?”

“I liberated it from Lestrade’s dunderheaded investigation. While I respect many things about the man, he has already made his mind up about this case. As soon as I recognised the paper stock, I removed the letter while the good inspector was fetching the register.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me what you were up to?”

“Watson, your talents are legion, but the keeping of secrets is not one of them.”

Affronted, I unfolded the paper. Naturally, Holmes was right. The decree bore the crest of his Holiness Pope Leo XIII. I scanned the text, pleased that my command of Latin remained unwithered since my university days. According to the missive, the Monsignor had been given the right of full access in the investigation of the miracle of one Edwyn Warwick.

The name was familiar and I said so.

“I availed myself of the index on our return to Baker Street,” Holmes said, referring to the vast catalogue of newspaper clippings and reports that he had carefully curated over the years. “Edwyn Warwick was a philanthropist and merchant, whose great fortune has more than benefited the city of Bristol since his death in 1721, as he died unmarried, his enemies insisting with relish that, despite his many charitable works, no woman in her right mind would consent to be his wife.”

“Good Lord,” I said. “And did he have many enemies?”

“He was exceptionally wealthy, and the green-eyed monster is a powerful master, especially when the person in question flouts social conventions. A man of means without an heir? To a certain stratum of society, such a thing is unthinkable. Of course, there is also the questionable manner in which Warwick amassed his fortune.”

“And that was…?”

“Slavery. Edwyn Warwick was one of the foremost slave traders of his time. Now, a century after his passing, his name is celebrated all across Bristol. There are streets, schools and even a concert hall named in his honour. His legacy is forever assured, thanks to the generosity of his estate.”

“Which some claim is tainted money?”

“As General Booth has been known to say, the only thing wrong with tainted money is that there’s jus’ taint enough of it. The people of Bristol have profited nicely from Warwick’s riches, that is for sure.”

“That’s a little heartless, Holmes. So much suffering—”

He waved away my admonition. “Watson, we are not here to debate the morality of Warwick’s chosen trade, or for you to judge me. Have you forgotten so easily my efforts to dismantle the slave ring of Bethnal Green?”

How could I? The investigation had nearly cost Holmes his life.

“I speak only of history. My own views on the matter are neither here nor there. What is of interest is the miracle. A senior member of the Vatican’s staff is dispatched to Bristol to investigate one of England’s most divisive figures. Instead, the priest ends up in a London mortuary, struck down by a disease many hope has been consigned to the history books. And remember his last words, Watson…”

“Il corpe,” I recalled.

“The body,” Holmes translated, his eyes sparkling. “Something is rotten here, Watson; rotten to the core, and I shall discover what it is.”