CHAPTER SIX

THE BRISTOL REGENT

Fortunately, our journey was not too heavily delayed by the weather. We arrived at Bristol Temple Meads only forty-five minutes after our due time, and were met by the cab that Holmes had arranged to whisk us to the Bristol Regent Hotel on nearby College Green. I could not help but be impressed as we ascended the short flight of steps to the palatial lobby. It really was as fine a hotel as any I had seen in the capital, the smell of polished mahogany furnishings greeting us as soon as we set foot through the doors.

The grandeur was only slightly spoiled by an argument that was in full flow at the reception desk. A man in his early thirties was giving a handsome woman in a navy dress what for. She in turn listened intently, her hands clasped together patiently, nodding in agreement even though she must have been the angry fellow’s senior by a good decade or more.

Not wanting to add to her embarrassment, we hovered by a display of boot blacking and tools advertising the hotel’s in-house polishing and repair service, and waited for the disagreement to come to an end. Thankfully, the aggrieved gentleman was soon stomping past us to exit through the revolving doors.

“Mr Holmes,” proclaimed the lady in the navy dress as she swept towards us. “I do apologise. That you should arrive when I’m caught in the middle of a… disagreement…”

“The fellow did seem a trifle upset,” Holmes noted.

“And that is a trifle of an understatement. A mix-up of dates, unfortunately. Part and parcel of running a hotel. Still, seeing you puts a smile on my face. I’m so glad you have come to stay with us once again.”

“And I am glad to be here.” My companion turned to bring me into the conversation. “Dr Watson, may I introduce Mrs Mercer, manageress of the Bristol Regent.”

“Enchanted,” I said. “You have stayed here before, Holmes?”

“Mr Holmes came to the rescue of my husband,” Mrs Mercer told me.

“Mr Thomas J. Mercer,” Holmes explained. “The former manager of this fine establishment.”

“You took over from your husband?” I asked.

“After the dear Lord took him from us, yes.”

“Oh my dear woman, I do apologise. You have my sincere condolences.”

The manageress smiled sweetly. “Please, there is no need. Thomas passed two years ago now. I miss him terribly, but he lived well, and was a happy man. I am determined to remember him in the same way.” She returned her gaze to Holmes. “Now, I have placed you in two of our finest rooms, overlooking the green no less. I think you will be most comfortable, and before you argue, there is no charge.”

“Madam,” Holmes began, “I must insist—”

“I insist,” said she with a voice used to being obeyed, “as would Thomas if he were still with us. You served him well. The Regent owes you a great debt.”

“Nonsense,” Holmes insisted. “Your late husband paid handsomely for my services, but I thank you for your generosity all the same.”

“Whatever you wish, you need only ask.”

“Including a peek into your extensive library?”

Mrs Mercer laughed. “Of course. It would be my pleasure.”

“You collect books?” I enquired.

“Local history,” the lady replied. “It is something of a passion of mine. A hobby. You’re a literary man yourself, aren’t you, Dr Watson?”

“Oh, I dabble. The odd story here and there.”

“Mostly about me, unfortunately,” Holmes commented. “But do not concern yourself, Mrs Mercer, Watson always changes the names to protect the innocent.”

“Or the guilty?” she asked with a smile.

“There is something you may be able to help us with,” I said, remembering the contents of the Pontiff’s letter. “Do you know the Church of St Nicole?”

“On Corn Street?”

“Yes. I don’t suppose you know anything of interest about the place?”

“You’ll find it within the walls of the Old City,” she told me, “dating back to either the eleventh or the twelfth century, I believe. I’m afraid I have never visited myself; although it is, of course, the last resting place of old Warwick.”

“Edwyn Warwick?” Holmes asked.

“The very same. There is a rather impressive monument; you should see it for yourself.”

“An excellent idea,” Holmes said with a bow. “An excellent idea indeed.”

* * *

My room was as sumptuous as Mrs Mercer had suggested. The bed was carved from the most exquisite English walnut and the dressers topped with Sicilian marble. The Bristol Regent was living up to its regal name.

That evening, we dined in the Regent’s equally grand restaurant, before making for the lounge to sample the hotel’s fine collection of brandies. It was little wonder that, when we eventually retired to our rooms, I slept like the dead.

However, I was awoken at first light by a knock on the door. Thinking it was a maid, I called out that she should come back later.

“I think not,” came Holmes’s voice in reply.

I went over to the door and let him in, finding my friend fully dressed. He took one look at me and tutted.

“Really, Watson. What would your wife say if she caught you lounging around at such an hour?”

I looked to the clock on the mantel. “It’s seven a.m.”

“Precisely, and we have work to do. Get yourself dressed and come to my room.”

“What about breakfast?” I complained.

“I think you ate your fill last night.” He glanced at his watch. “Time is ticking, Watson.”

Calling my companion every derogatory name under the sun, and a few of my own creation, I washed and dressed, and made my way across the hall to his suite. He opened the door at my first knock and I was treated to a veritable cornucopia of delights: a food trolley laden with cold meats and cheese.

“You have ordered room service,” I said gratefully.

“Well, you know what they say about armies and their stomachs. I assume the same rules apply to retired surgeons.”

I pulled up a chair and helped myself to a slice of bread and butter. “So, what’s the plan?”

“The plan is that you pay a visit to St Nicole’s.”

“Me? What about you?”

“Unfortunately, I have matters to attend to. As you know, I was due to return to Paris. There is nothing that cannot wait, but my employer has questioned why I chose to jaunt across England’s not-so-green and pleasant land rather than make my way straight to the City of Lights. A few carefully worded telegrams will assuage their concerns, but time is not on my side. We must discover who poisoned Monsignor Ermacora and return to London tout de suite or they may well introduce me to Madame Guillotine.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“Good man,” Holmes exclaimed, clapping me on the back. “As soon as I have dispatched my telegram, I intend to pay a visit to our Father Kelleher. You, in the meantime, will follow Mrs Mercer’s advice and visit the final resting place of Edwyn Warwick.”

“The Church of St Nicole. But what exactly am I looking for?”

“Nothing, absolutely nothing,” Holmes said. “John Watson will not even set foot in the place.”

“But you just said—”

“I know what I said. It is time for a disguise!”

* * *

In the ten years I had known Sherlock Holmes, I had seen my friend don all manner of disguises. He had stepped out onto the streets of London dressed as pedlars and princes, sailors and heads of state. Once, he had even spent a week as the Bearded Lady of Professor Spindleberry’s Gallery of the Grotesque on Hampstead Heath.

I had never expected, however, to don a disguise of my own!

As you can imagine, I did not go quietly into the make-up chair. Even as Holmes later wheeled the depleted room service trolley out into the corridor for collection, I pointed out that I was no actor, and, as he had so recently commented, incapable of keeping secrets.

“Nonsense,” said he. “You wear different masks every day, depending on whom you are with: Watson the general practitioner; Watson the ex-serviceman; Watson the dutiful husband; Watson the Boswell. This is no different. You already inhabit the characters in your stories. Think of it as a writing exercise, a fiction made flesh.”

His prattle did little to calm my nerves, even as he went to work on my appearance. Little by little, as I stared into the mirror, John Watson disappeared, to be replaced by a man I did not recognise. My own moustache was joined by a full fake beard, my then-healthy head of hair hidden beneath a bald cap, a few straggly strands combed over my newly barren crown. A large mole appeared on my right cheek while brows almost as bushy as Holmes’s own bristled above hooded eyes. The effect was completed by a pair of pince-nez that rested on the bridge of a thick nose. The transformation was incredible, although I still failed to see the point of such blatant subterfuge.

“Like it or not, Watson,” Holmes said, revealing the next stage in my transformation, “your name is known thanks to your repeated insistence on bringing us both into the public eye. If Monsignor Ermacora was poisoned in Bristol, he had an enemy in these streets. That same enemy may have known of his fateful journey to 221B Baker Street. Imagine their surprise when who should appear in Bristol but Dr John Watson, associate and friend of the world’s greatest consulting detective.”

“But, Holmes, half the staff in this hotel know who we are. If you wanted to remain inconspicuous—”

“I have my methods, Watson. Please, do not question them.”

“And here I was thinking that only the Lord worked in mysterious ways.”

“Well, you should know,” Holmes said cryptically. “Or rather, so should Father Morell of the Roman Catholic Church.”

With that, Holmes opened the large trunk on his bed to reveal the vestments of a priest.