CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE MANAGERESS’S TALE
I have never felt so helpless in my entire life. There I was, standing in the middle of the grand surroundings of the Regent, dressed as a Roman Catholic priest and watching my friend being taken away for a crime he could never have committed. The entire situation would have been laughable in any other circumstances.
I tried to argue with the departing policemen, but was firmly put in my place. I froze, not knowing what to do or where to go. Every eye was upon me. Every mind already made up. My attire only added to my discomfiture. Damn Holmes and his theatrical games.
Rousing myself, I made for the stairs. Of Mrs Mercer there was no sign. I needed to talk to her, but not in this state. I needed to clear my head, to become myself once more.
Bounding upstairs, I flung open the door to my suite and rushed to the sink. I tore at my face to remove the false beard and theatrical gum. It was a hard slog without the proper oils. When I had finished, the face in the mirror was rubbed raw, but it was the face of John Watson, not some half-baked caricature from a second-rate farce.
Before long, I was once again in my customary suit and waistcoat, a stiff collar around my neck and the cufflinks Mary had given me for my last birthday on my sleeves.
Pulling on my greatcoat and grabbing my hat, I hurried downstairs and asked to see Mrs Mercer. At first, the receptionist attempted to feign ignorance concerning the lady’s whereabouts, but she unwittingly gave the game away by means of a furtive glance in the direction of the manageress’s office.
Ignoring the flummoxed employee’s protestations, I rapped sharply on the glass.
“Mrs Mercer, I must speak with you.”
There was no reply so I tried again.
“Mrs Mercer, I apologise for the disturbance, but please, I ask but a moment of your time.”
I was about to knock a third time when the door opened. Mrs Mercer stood before me, her face pale as mine was flushed.
“Dr Watson, I realise you are upset—”
“Upset? Madam, I have just watched an innocent man arrested. What exactly is Holmes supposed to have stolen?”
Mrs Mercer glanced around the reception area before indicating for me to enter. She closed the door and gestured for me to sit, before taking her own seat behind the desk. Self-consciously, the lady adjusted her cuffs and began her account. “Earlier today, Mr Holmes asked to use my library.”
“Yes, I know. To consult the Annals of Bristol.”
“Of course, I was happy to oblige. I showed Mr Holmes what he wanted to see, and in the process he noticed a number of new additions to my collection.”
Her hand rested on a leather-bound book on her desk.
“Is that one of them?” I asked.
“My late husband was devoted to Chaucer,” she said, stroking its cover. “How he would have loved to hold this in his hands.”
“I assume it is rare.”
“Rare?” She let out a gentle laugh. “This is the 1476 Caxton printing.”
She looked at me as if that should mean something. When it was clear that I was still none the wiser, she added: “It is the first complete edition of The Canterbury Tales, a holy grail for any collector. Mr Holmes asked to see it and, somewhat reluctantly, I agreed. You must understand that I have searched for this book for many years, Doctor. To pass it into the hands of another, even someone I trusted…”
The sentence died in her throat.
“Well, he gave it back, and took his leave. I thought nothing more of it, until I later realised I had left my diary in the library. I returned upstairs, and discovered to my horror that a number of books, including the Caxton, were gone.”
“And you suspected Holmes.”
“Of course I didn’t. He is a friend, or so I thought. I rushed to his room, thinking he may be able to help, but there was no answer. I turned to leave, and that was when I saw it.”
“Saw what?”
“A scrap of material, tucked beneath the door. I recognised it at once.”
She opened the copy of The Canterbury Tales and retrieved a silk bookmark, which she placed in front of me. The slip of salmon-print silk bore the words of Wesley’s “Christ The Lord Is Risen Today” and below the hymn, a date: April 6, 1890.
“I’d placed it inside the Caxton on the day I brought the book home,” Mrs Mercer explained.
“Then what was it doing beneath Holmes’s door?”
“My question precisely.”
“It may be a coincidence,” I said, knowing full well how desperate that sounded. “Holmes could have one of his own.”
She raised a sceptical eyebrow. “And is also in the habit of rubbing his bookmark between his finger and thumb when he reads, as I am?”
She indicated where the silk was starting to fray at one end. I had to admit that it was unlikely.
“I felt sick to my stomach as I realised what I must do,” Mrs Mercer continued. “While the privacy of my guests is paramount, there is no door in this hotel that is closed to me. I took my master key and opened Mr Holmes’s door to find the books stacked neatly on the dressing table next to pots of greasepaint.”
“I don’t believe it!”
“Neither did I, Doctor, but there they were, for all to see.”
“So you sent for the police?”
“Do you blame me? I was hurt, betrayed. That Mr Holmes would do such a thing was staggering.” She replaced the bookmark and closed the book. “Gregory came at once.”
“Gregory?”
“Inspector Hawthorne. He was a friend of my late husband since I don’t know when.”
“And did he find any other evidence to incriminate Holmes?”
“Other than the stolen books, you mean?”
“The allegedly stolen books. Do you keep your library locked?”
“Of course. I have the only key.”
“And was there any sign of forced entry?”
She shook her head. “Not that the inspector could see.”
“May I see the door?”
The question seemed to take her aback. “I beg your pardon?”
“If I could see the door I might be able to ascertain how the thief entered the room. If indeed it was a thief.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Doesn’t it seem odd to you that Holmes is arrested for a crime the moment we start an investigation, a crime that he would never commit?”
Mrs Mercer bristled. “And what investigation would that be?”
Something in the way she asked the question gave me pause. It was true that she appeared to be the victim here, and yet… If it were true that only she could unlock the library, and indeed any other door in the hotel, could she not have planted the books in Holmes’s room, if they were there at all? Someone had obviously tried to pin the blame on my friend, probably the same fiends who had poisoned the Monsignor when he discovered that Warwick’s body was gone. Mrs Mercer had known we were going to St Nicole’s, and was aware of the church’s connection to Warwick.
I countered her question with one of my own. “Does the name ‘Ermacora’ mean anything to you, Mrs Mercer?”
Again, the lady shifted in her seat. “The name is familiar to me, yes. A Catholic priest of that name stayed here briefly recently.”
“Monsignor Ermacora,” I said, seizing on the information, “from Rome?”
“I believe so. He left rather abruptly.”
Now I was onto something. Was that why Holmes had chosen this hotel? Had he seen something in the Monsignor’s notebook that had aroused his suspicions?
“And these books that Holmes is supposed to have taken? Did anyone else see them in his room, other than yourself?”
She shook her head. “I do not believe so.”
“So, it is your word against his?”
Her countenance hardened. “I am not sure I like what you are insinuating, Dr Watson.”
I held her stony gaze. “I am not insinuating anything, merely… exploring avenues of investigation.”
“And that is what you were doing when you returned to the hotel in your… costumes?” she asked. “Exploring avenues?”
Now, it was my turn to shift uncomfortably. “Well…”
The lady shook her head. “I cannot express how disappointed I am. I welcomed you both as guests, offered you the best suites in the hotel, and this is how I am repaid. My trust betrayed, and my integrity questioned.”
“Mrs Mercer—” I began, but she refused to let me finish.
“I must ask you to leave,” she said, rising from her seat.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I will have your bags packed and delivered to reception. You may collect them later.”
“Mrs Mercer, there is no need—”
“There is every need,” the manageress said, showing me the door. “I’m sure you understand.”
“I’m sorry to find you so resolute,” I said, rising from my chair, “but I remain convinced of my friend’s innocence. I shall get to the bottom of this one way or another.”
She wished me a good evening and shut the door firmly behind me.
Acutely aware that I was being scrutinised by her staff, I walked calmly out of the hotel with my head held high. I meant what I had said. There had to be an answer to all this, and by Jove, I was going to find it. Striding down the front steps, I hailed a cab.