CHAPTER FOURTEEN

JUDGE NOT

Buoyed by Lord Redshaw’s words, I allowed myself to be led out into the street once more. Inspector Tovey doffed his hat, and began his long walk back to the station. Redshaw offered him a ride, but the inspector insisted that the fresh air would help clear his head. His disappointment over Kelleher’s death was clear for all to see, and he struck a dejected figure as he began the trudge across town.

“Poor Tovey,” Redshaw said, as his opulent yellow and black carriage drew up alongside the pavement. “I like the man, but he will find it a struggle to get ahead. Rubs people up the wrong way, you see. Always has. It’s a wonder he reached inspector at all.” The carriage door opened and a set of steps automatically dropped down in front of us. “Please, after you.”

I nodded my appreciation and climbed on board. The interior of the carriage was equally impressive. The seats were handsomely padded, the filling firm but comfortable. Rarely had I travelled in such luxury.

Redshaw struck the roof with his walking stick. “To the Regent, Gordon.”

The carriage moved into the road as smoothly as a swan gliding over water.

“The inspector does have… intriguing views,” I offered, keen to find out more about the man.

Lord Redshaw seemed keen to oblige. “Let me guess, conspiracies at every turn? Dark secrets in the halls of power?”

I nodded.

“I’m not surprised. From what I have heard, Tovey can see collusion in a Sunday school outing. Not to mention ghosts and goblins.”

I laughed, not quite sure what I had just heard. “I beg your pardon?”

“He is a spiritualist, or some such. Believes in all kinds of nonsense, from fairies at the bottom of the garden to the Fishman of Durdham Downs. Most people nod and smile when he starts on one of his crackpot theories, but they try not to be stuck in the same room as him, I can tell you that.”

“You seem to get on well enough.”

“He’s harmless, and a good policeman at heart. Investigated a break-in at my factory a few years back, found the culprits too. Told me that the factory was built on a confluence of… what was it he called them? Ancient sources of power, criss-crossing the land?”

“Ley lines,” I suggested.

“That’s it. Tovey thinks that is what brought the Templar Knights to Bristol all those years ago. The ley lines. Now, there is no doubting that the Knights were here. Bristol has the highest concentration of temples in the country. Fascinating period of history. That’s where Temple Meads got its name, you know. Temple Gate too.”

“Are you interested in local history?” I asked.

“Who isn’t? And trust me, I like a ghost story as much as the next man. Used to scare the Dickens out of my sister back when we were children. Just prefer facts to fantasy, that’s all.”

I smiled. “You sound like Holmes.”

“I shall take that as a compliment, sir.”

We approached College Green and the Regent Hotel. “Have you seen Mrs Mercer’s library?” I asked, as we drew up. “I understand it’s quite impressive. Second to none.”

Redshaw snorted, and wagged a finger at me. “Pah! That’s another one to be wary of. Didn’t trust her late husband, and don’t trust her.”

Following our earlier conversation, I was beginning to have doubts myself. I leant forward, eager to learn more. “Anything I should know?”

Redshaw tapped the roof again. “Let’s get your luggage out of her clutches, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

As promised, my case was packed and waiting to be collected. I hated the thought of strangers handling my belongings and always had, ever since my army days. As the porter delivered my luggage to Lord Redshaw’s carriage, I wished I had taken the time to pack my own belongings, although my priority had of course been Holmes.

Of Mrs Mercer herself there was no sign, and the Regent staff were courteous and professional. Not that Lord Redshaw took that into account. Standing on the pavement outside the grand building, the outraged merchant made it abundantly clear how disappointed he was with my treatment.

I myself offered no recrimination. My expulsion, unjustified or not, was no more the porters’ fault than a soldier could be blamed for the decisions of a deluded general. I tipped my hat to them, and encouraged Lord Redshaw back into his carriage. As he finally clambered on board again, I realised that the scene had attracted something of an audience. A lady walking a small dog had stopped, while a tall African watched our fracas with interest from where he leant nonchalantly against the Regent’s railings, smoking a cigarette.

I have never been so grateful to climb into a cab and shut the door firmly behind me.

Lord Redshaw was still complaining loudly as our carriage climbed Park Street towards Clifton.

“I’m sorry, Doctor, but it makes my blood boil. That woman waltzes around the city as if she were Victoria herself. Anyone would think she built the Regent, rather than landed on her feet because her husband had the good sense to drop dead.”

His words shocked me, despite my misgivings. “That sounds a little harsh,” I exclaimed.

My rebuke brought an embarrassed smile from my host. He chuckled, throwing off the last vestiges of his bad humour.

“You sound like my Lucy. ‘Judge not, Benjamin,’ she used to say.”

“‘Lest ye be judged,’” I said, completing the quote.

“She was right, of course, bless her soul.” He glanced out of the window in an attempt to disguise the fact that his eyes had misted over. His use of the past tense was enough for me not to press the point. The carriage fell silent for a few seconds, and I too looked out of the window, gazing absently at the passing shop displays. We slowed to a crawl, Lord Redshaw’s horse struggling to climb the steep gradient of the hill, although the usual pace resumed as we reached the top and the road levelled, as did our conversation.

Lord Redshaw gave a loud sniff and offered me a contrite smile. “You must forgive me, Doctor. I’m getting old in my ways and my opinions. The world is moving so fast, it is hard to keep up, and the old ways… well… younger chaps like yourself, you have your ideas of course, you shape the future, and old men like me should stand aside.”

“You are too hard on yourself,” I said, wanting to help the man who had already shown me such kindness. “And I would hardly call you old.”

Redshaw chuckled. “You hear such stories in town, that is all,” he continued, tapping his cane against the floor as he spoke. I could see words engraved on the shaft, yet was unable to make out exactly what they were.

“Stories about the Regent?” I prompted.

“There was a guest, back when the late Mr Mercer was manager; a lady of Russian origin. She claimed to be a princess, a cousin of the Tsar or some such. Vladlena Mikhailov, that was her name. And such a beauty. Heads turned every time she stepped into a room. The princess installed herself in the Regent, and by all accounts was free with her riches. Not a porter or maid went by without a sizeable tip. Mr and Mrs Mercer themselves were showered with gifts, tokens of gratitude for their kind service. Weeks turned into months and months into years and still the princess resided at Bristol’s most fashionable hotel. But she never showed her face, striking though it was, at social events; never attended balls or galas, keeping herself to herself in her suite of rooms on the top floor of the hotel.”

“A woman of mystery.”

That drew another laugh, this time a little crueller. “A woman of disrepute, more like.”