CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EXOTIC DELICACIES

Lady Anna led us through to the dining room, fulfilling her late mother’s role as lady of the manor, despite being the younger of the two sisters. As we walked Lord Redshaw waxed lyrical about the fireplace. I nodded politely from time to time, although my interest in the behemoth was fading fast.

“Ten tons it weighs,” he said again, proudly. “Built directly into the gorge. I added that entire wing; my legacy for the future of this house. There’s also a billiard room, you know. Perhaps you’ll join me for a game later.”

I told him I should be glad to, my eye drawn to a door on the left as we passed. Like the others in the house it was of a dark mahogany, although this one had a Latin motto carved into the wood.

Redshaw followed my gaze.

“Non qui rogat sed qui rogathur admitto,” he read aloud.

“‘I admit not who asks, but who is asked,’” I translated, drawing a chuckle from my host.

“A little joke on my part. The door leads to my study. An Englishman’s home may be his castle, but this Englishman needs a private retreat, especially since Anna and Harold moved in.” “They live with you?”

“Made perfect sense,” he replied. “No point in them running their own household when Marie and I have all this space to ourselves.”

“Especially with the new wing.”

He clapped me on the back. “Exactly! Besides, I have little time to run a house this size, while Marie, unfortunately, has little inclination. Anna is happiest when bossing folk around, so I let her handle the household.”

The dining room was a more conservative affair, save for the large circular table set out for dinner. Every grand house that I visited had followed the convention of a rectangular table, with a seating arrangement firmly dictated by rank. Not so at Ridgeside. I was seated opposite Lord Redshaw with Lady Anna and Clifford to my left and Marie and Sutcliffe to my right.

Everything else seemed as expected until I looked down to find two thin wooden sticks beside the standard silver cutlery. I resisted the urge to pick them up, but stared so intently that Lady Marie noticed.

“They’re called chopsticks,” she told me, leaning in. “I’m afraid you’ve joined us on an evening when father is indulging Victor’s obsessions, although to be fair you would be hard pressed to dine at Ridgeside on a night when he doesn’t.”

“I hope you have an adventurous palate, Watson,” Lord Redshaw said as the first course was delivered. A small plate was placed in front of me on which were arranged delicate slices of a thin orange-pink fish on a bed of crisp lettuce.

“You’ll enjoy this,” Redshaw promised. “What’s it called again, Victor?”

“Sashimi,” Sutcliffe replied. “Raw salmon.”

“Raw…” I repeated. I watched as Redshaw picked up his chopsticks and, holding them in a peculiar pincer movement, plucked a portion of the fish from his plate and popped it in his mouth.

“Delicious,” he said, chewing happily. “It’s all the rage in Tokyo, you know.”

“And has been for hundreds of years,” Sutcliffe informed us, keen for an opportunity to show off his knowledge of the Orient. “I first ate sashimi during the Cherry Blossom Festival. Every year, Japan’s cherry trees erupt with tiny pink flowers. It’s quite spectacular. The Japanese themselves head out to gaze at the flowers in wonder.”

“Why would they d-do that?” Clifford asked.

“They believe that spirits live within the tree – the Kami.”

“And you saw this yourself?” asked Redshaw.

Clifford nodded. “I was incredibly lucky. My host, Mr Arakwana, took me to Mount Yoshino. It’s a wonderful place, home to thirty thousand cherry trees.”

“Never heard of it,” Lord Redshaw admitted. “Where in Japan is it?”

“I forget for now,” Sutcliffe said, which I thought odd as the experience seemed to have had a profound effect on the man. “But I can show you on a map after dinner. It was magical. Arakwana’s entire family came with us and we dined together under the shade of the blossom, finishing the meal with sake.”

Now it was my turn to ask a question. “Sake?”

Redshaw answered for Sutcliffe with a chuckle. “Victor brought a bottle back for me. Strong stuff, I can tell you. Puts hairs on your chest.” He glanced at my plate and the salmon, still untouched. “Come on. Tuck in.”

I looked down at the starter. While I had no desire to insult my hosts, the thought of raw fish was anything but appetising, and then there was the challenge of the chopsticks. The entire family seemed adept with the peculiar cutlery, although Clifford blatantly refused even to try and used a regular knife and fork instead.

It was a perfectly surreal end to a largely bizarre day. Here I was, sitting in a stately English home, with a stately English family in their stately English finery, eating the most un-English cuisine I had ever seen.

Well, I say I was eating, but in truth I was unable to bring a single morsel of the stuff near my mouth. I tried to replicate the Redshaw clan’s dextrous use of the wooden sticks, but had no luck, the salmon repeatedly slapping back to the plate.

Eventually, at Redshaw’s behest, I gave in and joined Clifford in using a knife and fork. It has to be said that the fish itself was delicious, with a strong buttery flavour unlike any salmon I had ever tasted, although I had little time to savour it before Clifford began firing questions at me.

“So you w-were there, when they f-found that Warwick’s body was missing?”

“Harold,” Anna chided, placing her chopsticks to the side of her plate on a tiny wooden rest.

“No,” Redshaw said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “It’s a worry to us all. Edwyn Warwick is something of a hero in these parts, Watson.”

“Not to everyone,” pointed out Marie quietly as she took a mouthful of lettuce.

Redshaw ignored the comment. “That his grave is empty is a concern to many.”

“Especially after the b-business with the r-ring,” Clifford said.

The temperature around the table seemed to drop several degrees.

“Ring?” I asked.

Redshaw let out a sigh that bordered on irritation. “It’s nothing. A mere trifle with which you need not concern yourself.” It was less a suggestion than a directive.

“How can you s-say that, B-Benjamin?” Clifford continued, unperturbed, drawing a glare from his wife.

“The doctor isn’t interested, Harold,” Sutcliffe said.

“Oh, I should say by his face that he most certainly is,” Marie said playfully.

“Really,” I said, keen to spare Lord Redshaw’s embarrassment. “It is fine. I’m just enjoying this delicious… what did you call it again?”

“No,” Redshaw said. “We are being bad hosts.”

“There is no need to explain,” I insisted, but Redshaw continued anyway.

“As you know, I belong to an… organisation. A guild, if you like.”

“The Worshipful League of M-Merchants,” Clifford offered, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was causing both his father-in-law and soon-to-be brother-in-law to squirm in their seats; either that, or I was watching the most subjugated member of the family attempt to score points. There was an air of defeat about Harold Clifford.

However, Lady Marie was correct. My curiosity had been well and truly piqued.

“Are you also a member?” I asked Clifford.

“I am, as was m-my f-father before me.”

“And mine,” Sutcliffe said, and I was sure Clifford, already pale, lost even more colour for a second.

“Victor is our most recent member,” Redshaw explained, raising a glass to Marie’s fiancé.

“For his success in the Orient,” I said, which Victor acknowledged with a bow of his head.

“Quite so,” said Redshaw. “We’re a charitable group, following the example of Warwick himself, although we do value a certain level of… privacy.”

“Secrecy, more like,” Marie commented, returning her chopsticks to their rest.

“We have certain r-relics at the League H-Hall,” said Clifford, clearly assuming that I had been welcomed into the circle of trust.

“Relics?”

“Historical artefacts,” Victor jumped in. “Such as Warwick’s ring and periwig. Bequeathed to the League following Warwick’s death.”

“As well as most of his fortune,” Marie said.

“Did he not leave most of his riches to the poor of the city?” I asked.

“Through the work of the League,” Redshaw said. “Which, of course, we are pleased to perform.”

“But you mentioned his ring. Has something happened to it?”

“I should s-say so,” replied Clifford. “It has been st-stolen from its case.”

“Stolen?”

“Mislaid,” Redshaw corrected. “It will turn up.”

“Maybe faster if we employ the s-services of Mr Holmes and Dr W-Watson,” Clifford suggested.

“Mr Holmes is otherwise engaged,” Sutcliffe said, glaring across the table. “We don’t want to embarrass the Doctor any further than we have already.”

“Please, think nothing of it,” I said. “In fact, while I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality, I was hoping that you could help Holmes, Lord… I mean, Benjamin.”

“As I said on the ride over, there is nothing I should like more,” Redshaw said as our dishes were cleared and the next course laid before us; a bowl of clear soup, which Brewer announced as suimono, although the look on his face told me that the butler had little stomach for it.

“What exactly are you asking my father to do?” asked Lady Anna as the servants retreated.

“Holmes is innocent,” I told her. “I just know he is. Now, a man in your father’s position must have a certain influence.”

To my right, Victor’s eyebrows rose. “Doctor, whatever are you suggesting?”

“I mean no insult, suggest no impropriety on Lord Redshaw’s part. I simply mean that, perhaps, Benjamin could have a word with the police, to vouch for Holmes’s character.”

“Father doesn’t even know your Mr Holmes,” Anna said, and I could feel the mood around the table rapidly turning against me.

“No, but I know Watson,” Redshaw said.

“Benjamin?” Sutcliffe said.

Redshaw raised a hand to quieten the young man. “The doctor seems an honourable sort, and, before you say another word, Anna, I’ll remind you that I am usually a good judge of character.”

“He had the measure of Harold when you first brought him home,” Lady Marie said, drawing a venomous glare from her sister.

“Marie,” Redshaw warned, before turning back to me. “I can’t promise anything, but I will speak to the Chief Inspector. Remind me, who was the arresting officer?”

“An Inspector Hawthorne,” I said.

Redshaw nodded. “Ah. Another good man, and a friend of the League himself. I’m sure they will listen to reason.”

“And I’m sure Holmes would be delighted to look into the matter of your missing ring,” I offered, wanting to seal the deal.

“As well as investigating Warwick’s m-missing body,” Clifford said, picking up my train of thought. “We are all eager for his r-return.”

“Of course,” I agreed. “As you said, we were both present when the tomb was opened.”

“In disguise, I believe,” Marie asked, raising an amused eyebrow. “How exciting.”

I felt my cheeks blush. “That was not my choice.”

“But you must tell us of your adventures,” Anna pressed, a request that was enthusiastically seconded by Clifford.

“Surely you don’t expect Watson to sing for his supper?” Redshaw said.

“I don’t mind,” said I, my belly warmed by the surprisingly tasty broth and my heart gladdened by my host’s promise to intercede on Holmes’s behalf. “There was one story that you might find diverting. The mystery surrounding the death of Sir Theobald Maugham was one of the most dangerous cases in our career. I hope it won’t put you off your dinner…”

And so I began, falling into my old storytelling ways, Clifford, Marie and Lord Redshaw hanging on my every word. Only two people around the table did not seem entertained. Anna Clifford picked at her meal, as if annoyed that her control of the evening had been well and truly lost, and to my right, I was all too aware of Sutcliffe’s emerald eyes upon me, scrutinising my every movement.