CHAPTER FIFTEEN

NEVER A VICTIM

“The princess was not what she seemed?” I asked.

“Not in the slightest,” Lord Redshaw told me. “Our so-called princess had never even set foot in Russia, let alone the Tsar’s court. She was a music hall girl, from Skegness of all places!”

“Good Lord!”

“That is not to knock the girl’s talent. Her accent was second to none; her poise and demeanour, while extravagant, convincing enough to fool everyone she met.”

“But her riches,” I asked, engrossed in the story. “Were they counterfeit?”

“Maybe to begin with, but soon they were genuine enough. The princess’s personal riches flourished as she befriended her fellow guests, beguiling them with her exotic charms. Such was her plausibility that often they would take her into their confidence, sharing secrets that she would later use as a source of blackmail. Eventually her sins were found out, and the Mercers claimed not to have known what she was doing, but I ask you… All those gifts? How much of Evangeline Mercer’s beloved library was funded by the princess’s private enterprise?”

“You believe they were in on it?”

Redshaw raised his hands as if warding off my question. “All I know is that the scandal went away. The princess vanished overnight and the rumours were silenced. Other hotels would have been ruined, but the Regent’s doors are still open. There’s talk that Her Majesty may even stay there on her upcoming visit. Imagine what she would say if she knew.”

I sat back in my seat, flabbergasted. “I should never have guessed. I know the Mercers employed Holmes a few years ago, and that the case was successful. Indeed, Mrs Mercer seemed pleased to see him, and yet… these accusations.”

I explained what had happened, how Holmes had been suspected of stealing the books.

“She could barely look at me.”

“You think your friend was… what’s the phrase? Framed?”

“Of course he was. Holmes is no thief, and his interest in literature in minimal.” I leant forward. “You don’t suppose Mrs Mercer is behind it? That she wanted Holmes out of the way? What if he found out about the princess?”

“Unearthed a scandal that she thought long forgotten, eh?” Lord Redshaw rubbed his chin. “I’m not sure. Evangeline Mercer is many things, but to make an enemy of a man like Sherlock Holmes? She is no fool. There has to be another explanation.”

“Which Holmes would reveal in seconds if he were here,” I said with a sigh.

“You know his methods. Could you not employ them yourself?”

The thought made me smile. “I wouldn’t know where to begin. Whenever Holmes reveals his thinking to me, it seems painfully obvious, but I can never make the connections for myself.”

“We cannot all be giants, Doctor,” Redshaw said. “The world needs little people too. But it’s good that you know your place.”

Know my place? The phrase rankled with me, but he was correct of course.

For now, there was little I could do to help my friend. I vowed to ask my host about it later. Lord Redshaw was obviously a man who liked to know what was going on in his city. He would have connections, associates who might be able to assist Holmes. I had hoped that Tovey would prove a valuable ally, but from what Redshaw had told me, the inspector was not held in the highest regard. Redshaw might be my best, and only, bet. If he could exert some form of influence…

The carriage pulled into pleasant gardens that were still dotted with snow. We proceeded along a well-maintained avenue towards an impressive house, which I assumed was Lord Redshaw’s home, a curious mixture of brooding Gothic arches and Tudor beams. The red-tiled roof was a cluster of turrets and chimneys, and ivy smothered the walls as if it were trying to protect the brickwork from the elements.

We came to a halt before a grand entrance to be greeted by a veritable army of footmen, and one immaculate butler.

“Ah, Brewer,” Lord Redshaw said as he dismounted from the carriage. “We have a guest, Dr John Watson, visiting from London. He will stay in the Tombo Room.”

“Very good, sir,” Brewer intoned with an expression that was both attentive and disinterested.

“Don’t mind Brewer,” Redshaw said as he led me into a surprisingly gloomy entrance, the walls decorated with dark green tiles. “He’s a good sort, if a little sullen.” He rested a hand on my shoulder, noticing me glance around the cheerless reception area. “And don’t worry, the Tombo Room is airier than this old place. Anna is always nagging at me to redecorate, but my father chose these tiles and I am rather attached to them.”

“Anna?” I enquired.

“My younger daughter. You will meet her at dinner. Eight o’clock sharp. Don’t be late or Brewer will have a coronary. Do you need a man sent up to you?”

I declined the offer, keen to dress myself.

“Well, if you change your mind, just ring the bell. That’s what servants are for, after all. Now if you will excuse me, I have business to attend to. Welcome to Ridgeside Manor, Dr Watson. Make yourself at home.”

With that, Lord Redshaw disappeared into the bowels of the house. I was led upstairs to a room that, as promised, was far brighter. Gas lamps burned on the walls, illuminating the elaborate teak furniture. Carvings of dragonflies were everywhere, in the panels of the wardrobe and perched on the knobs of the large bed. Paintings of the multi-coloured insects adorned the walls, and a cabinet filled with the creatures themselves, thankfully pinned to a backing board rather than buzzing around, was mounted next to the large bay window.

I sat on the bed, looking at the luggage that had been delivered and opened for me. What in the world was I doing here? I felt like a leaf that had been blown this way and that before being deposited far from the tree.

I stood, and walked over to the window to discover that the house stood at the very edge of the Avon Gorge, that great chasm that runs through Bristol, the river roaring deep below. The moonlit view in front of me was stunning. Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s famous suspension bridge spanned the gorge, a wonder of innovation and daring. I remembered reading stories of its construction. Brunel had suspended an iron bar across the gorge and would pull himself from one side to the other using a contraption of his own making, little more than a large basket suspended by a system of pulleys. On one occasion, a wheel jammed, leaving the engineer swinging there, high above the river. Brunel calmly clambered out of the basket and onto the iron bar. Freeing the wheel with no safety net, he continued on his way, whistling a merry tune. What an inspiration the man had been, and what a tragedy that he had never seen his precious bridge completed.

Possessed of a new purpose, I began to dress for dinner. One way or another, I was going to free my friend, and discover why anyone would want to besmirch the good name of the world’s greatest detective.

Tovey had been right about one thing; there was something rotten in this city, and I would be the one to expose it.