CHAPTER NINE

INSPECTOR TOVEY

So intent was I on Father Ebberston’s words that the sudden shout from behind almost had me jumping out of my counterfeit robes.

We turned to see a burly young man march into St Nicole’s. He was barely more than twenty years old, dressed in a light brown suit and overcoat, a bowler hat held respectfully in large, hairy hands. Even from a distance I could see that his eyes were sharp and intelligent, so much so that for a moment I was convinced that the fellow was none other than Sherlock Holmes in disguise, bushy beard and all.

Only the fact that Father Ebberston seemed to know the man personally quashed that particular theory. That, and the fact that the newcomer was flanked by a half dozen police officers, two of whom carried crowbars in their gloved hands.

“Inspector Tovey, this is beyond the pale,” Ebberston said, stepping forward to intercept the man who, if you have read my Adventure of the Patchwork Devil, would go on to become a great friend to both Holmes and me. “I have answered your deplorable questions over and over again. Your allegations are not so much insulting as outright sacrilege.”

“Allegations?” I asked, and Ebberston whirled on me. His patience and hospitality had come to an end and he took my arm, intending to lead me to the door.

“I’m sorry that you had a wasted journey, Father Morell, but the only miracle at St Nicole’s is that we somehow manage to squeeze in the Lord’s work between these constant interruptions. Now, I must ask you to leave. All of you.”

“I’d like the Father to stay, if it’s all right with you,” Tovey said, blocking our path. His voice was as sturdy as his frame, laced with a Bristolian accent that, while less broad than Pete’s, was tempered with steel. “He will be our witness. As will that gentleman.”

The inspector pointed at Pete, who almost dropped his beloved blanket in surprise.

“Who, me?” the vagrant stammered, his previous bravado evaporating. I suspected that Pete had had many a brush with the law.

“Why would we need witnesses?” Ebberston asked warily.

Tovey flashed an official-looking document. “This is a warrant to open the tomb of Edwyn Warwick.” The paper was duly folded and returned to the inspector’s pocket. Ebberston, in the meantime, looked set to drop into a seizure at any moment.

“This is an outrage.”

“No, Father, it’s the law of the land. Come on, boys.”

With that, the police inspector barged past the scandalised priest to approach Warwick’s effigy.

“But you can’t,” Ebberston said, lunging for the inspector. “Edwyn Warwick has lain unmolested for fifty years.”

The priest was stopped by the nearest policeman, and held back as Tovey used Ebberston’s words against him.

“Unmolested, Father. Are you sure about that?” He strode to the effigy and tapped a finger against the top of the marble slab. “Then what are these?”

When neither Ebberston nor I replied, Tovey turned to the old vagrant who stood shivering in his blanket.

“What about you? What do you think, Mr Holmes?”

You could have knocked me sideways. Before my eyes “old Pete” underwent something of a metamorphosis. He straightened, his blanket falling to the floor. His twisted spine was suddenly ramrod straight, the sloped shoulders now held wide. The bewhiskered chin jutted forward, and the once crazed eyes narrowed to slits.

The old beggar from the streets had vanished. In truth, he had never been present. All this time I had been talking to none other than Sherlock Holmes.

“I do not believe we have met,” Holmes said, his cultured tones replacing Pete’s Bristolian rasp.

Tovey extended a huge hand, which Holmes accepted and shook briskly.

Tovey beamed. “Indeed we haven’t, Mr Holmes, although I am a great admirer of both you and Dr Watson here.”

“Dr Watson?” Ebberston spluttered, his enraged eyes turning on me. “What deceit is this?”

Carefully avoiding the priest’s gaze, I too shook Tovey’s hand. “Very pleased to meet you, Inspector,” I muttered, not sure whether I was relieved or disappointed that my act was at an end.

Holmes moved towards Warwick’s monument and examined the spot that Tovey had pointed out. “There are indentations in the stone, Watson, come and see.”

Still furious that I had been duped, I joined Holmes as he ran a thin finger across the lip of the tomb. “Yes, very interesting,” I sniffed, unable to muster much enthusiasm.

“They are,” Holmes insisted. “And recently made too. The edges are sharp, not dulled by time.”

“Exactly,” Tovey said. “I noticed them the last time Father Ebberston insisted that my theories were the worst kind of blasphemy.”

“You have a keen eye, sir,” Holmes commented, obviously impressed.

“Able to see through any disguise, it seems,” I added.

“Not all, but I know both your faces. I’ve read your stories, Dr Watson. Fascinating stuff, absolutely fascinating.”

It was clear from the look Holmes flashed me that I was to later enjoy another lecture on how my stories had wrecked his hard-won anonymity.

“You cannot have recognised us from Watson’s published works,” Holmes said to the inspector. “The illustrator was under strict instructions to alter our appearances.”

Tovey rewarded this comment with another wide smile. “Ah yes, but I sent to Scotland Yard for copies of your official files.”

The thought appalled Holmes. “We have files?”

“Indeed you do, sir, extremely detailed files. Inspector Lestrade doesn’t mince his words.”

“I can well believe it, but why go to such trouble?”

“You intrigue me, Mr Holmes, it’s as simple as that.”

Holmes afforded the man a tight smile. “And you I, Inspector. Tell me more about these blasphemous theories of yours.”

“The man’s a lunatic,” offered Ebberston. “A madman. He believes that somehow Edwyn Warwick’s body has been removed from the grave. It is impossible.”

“The impossible is my business,” Tovey asserted, jabbing a finger at the incensed man of God. “And I shall prove it. Lads, shall we?”

It soon became clear why Inspector Tovey had selected such a brawny bunch of Bristol’s finest as his escort. Despite the protestations of Ebberston, the policemen began the Herculean task of shifting Warwick’s effigy from his tomb. Even considering their size and obvious strength I was dumbfounded as, with a shriek of marble against granite, the reclining statue seemed to shift easily.

Tovey chuckled as I watched the six men heave what must have been tons of marble to the floor.

“Don’t worry, Doctor,” the inspector said. “You’re not witnessing another miracle.” He patted Warwick’s bewigged head as a man would pet a dog. “The figure is hollow. Heavy enough to stay in place, but easy to remove when the time is right.”

“The time for what?” I asked.

The police officers were already hard at work with their crowbars, prising the genuinely heavy slab from the tomb.

After much huffing and puffing, the slab was laid out on the flagstones next to Warwick’s curious statue.

“No!” Ebberston cried out, as Tovey peered into the sarcophagus.

The inspector’s face said it all. Triumphantly, he beckoned us to approach. I deferred to Holmes, content for the detective to go first.

Surprised to find itself suddenly bathed in light, a large spider scuttled across the bottom of the tomb as I looked over the side. The arachnid’s bewilderment was akin to my own.

Aside from its eight-legged occupant, the tomb was empty. Of Edwyn Warwick’s casket, there was no sign.