CHAPTER NINETEEN

POST-DINNER CONVERSATION

“Go and fetch your sister,” Lord Redshaw instructed his elder daughter.

“You expect her to listen to me?” Lady Marie asked.

“We have one last custom to observe,” Redshaw told her.

Dropping her napkin on the table, Lady Marie rose to her feet and slunk from the room. “One can hardly wait.”

“May the Lord grant you sons, gentlemen,” Redshaw chuckled as he too got to his feet. “Let us adjourn to the drawing room. The ladies can join us there.”

I must have glanced at Redshaw in surprise, because he clarified his statement. “We don’t stand on ceremony in this house, Doctor. We like to do things our own way.”

“Th-that’s for s-sure,” muttered Clifford.

Again Redshaw chose to ignore the barbed comment. “You three go on ahead. I need to fetch a book from the library. I think you’ll find it fascinating, Doctor.”

I wondered if I were to be treated to more tales of the East. I excused myself to visit the smallest room in the house, which in Ridgeside Manor turned out to be the size of my palatial suite at the Regent.

Suitably refreshed, I returned to the drawing room five minutes later, my head still pleasantly fuzzy from the evening’s libations. What I saw, and heard, however, caused me to hover at the doorway, embarrassed to stumble upon a conversation that was obviously intended to be private. Sutcliffe had Clifford backed into that gaudy monstrosity of a chimney breast, the acoustics of the room amplifying their disagreement for anyone to hear.

“What did you think you were doing?” Sutcliffe said. “Matters of the League are private, or have you forgotten?”

“Says a m-m-man who ran from buh-business,” Clifford replied. “Your f-father would be ap-appalled.”

“Don’t you dare bring him into this. He was more a man of business than—”

“What’s this?” said Lady Anna, appearing behind me. I stepped aside to let her sweep the length of the room towards the altercation. I became aware of another presence beside me, Marie watching the drama with a cool detachment.

Clifford swiftly grasped the opportunity to shame the other man.

“Victor here was a-accusing me of… actually, what was it, V-Victor? Being indiscreet in front of our g-guest? I should like to know what Dr W-Watson thinks of us now.”

I wished that I had turned around and left as soon as I had realised what I had chanced upon. “Perhaps I should return to my room.”

“I wouldn’t blame you,” said Marie, strolling coolly towards a nearby settee. She opened the silver box of cigarettes on a nearby table and lit one as if such ructions were a run-of-the-mill occurrence at Ridgeside.

“You wouldn’t blame him for what?” Lord Redshaw asked as he entered, a weighty-looking tome beneath his arm. I have often heard people talk about wishing the ground would swallow them up, but had never experienced the sensation until now. The situation was mortifying.

My embarrassment did not, however, prevent me from noticing a change in Sutcliffe. The young man visibly relaxed, a look of forced benevolence replacing the fury on his face. “I wouldn’t blame Dr Watson for wanting to return to that dreadful hotel,” he said, offering a smile that even a blind man would dismiss as disingenuous.

“There is really no need,” I offered.

“I think there is,” Sutcliffe insisted, striding towards me, seemingly to make amends. “You are a guest in Lord Redshaw’s house and I have made you uncomfortable.”

“Will someone please tell me what has happened here!” Redshaw blustered.

Clifford was only too ready to oblige, in a desperate attempt to save face. “Victor accused me of b-betraying the League’s s-secrets.”

“A misunderstanding,” Sutcliffe insisted.

“I should hardly call it that,” Lady Anna interrupted.

“Incited by high spirits, good sake and Dr Watson’s tales of intrigue and derring-do,” Sutcliffe continued, not to be subdued. “I hope you will accept my apologies. Here, can I get you something to drink? A brandy, maybe?”

“And there I thought my father was the host,” Lady Marie said, taking a pull on her cigarette.

At least that derailed Sutcliffe’s attempt at charm. Again I saw anger in his eyes, this time that his intended would dare to scold him so publicly. “Of course,” he forced himself to say. “It seems I must apologise again.”

“Good Lord,” Redshaw said, shaking his great head. “What must you think of us, Watson? I turn my back for a moment and the entire family are at each other’s throats. Victor is right, of course, you need a drink. Although I have something other than brandy in mind; Brewer will be bringing it presently.”

At that very moment, Brewer entered the drawing room, carrying a silver tray on which lay a curious metal teapot. Behind him came a footman, his own tray laden with china cups and saucers.

“Excellent,” Redshaw exclaimed. “Put it down here.” He indicated a table to the left of the fireplace.

Lady Anna groaned. “Must we really, Papa? You know I can’t stand the taste of it.”

“Nonsense,” said Redshaw, rubbing his hands as he approached the teapot. “I’ll take it from here, Brewer.”

The butler bowed respectfully. “As you wish, sir.”

“Have you tried green tea, Dr Watson?” Sutcliffe asked as we gathered around the table.

“I don’t believe I have.”

“A-another ritual Victor’s d-dragged back from the Orient,”

Clifford told me.

“Don’t be such a bore, Harold,” Redshaw said. “The host brews the tea and pours it himself. I think it’s charming.”

“I think it’s disgusting,” Lady Anna said.

“That I would honour our guest in such a way?”

“No, the tea. You don’t even add milk.”

Redshaw tutted at his daughter and, lifting the lid, stirred the contents of the teapot with a silver teaspoon. He then proceeded to pour the weak liquid into the cups and passed them round. I looked into my own cup and noted that the liquid did indeed have a green tinge to it.

“Fumeiyo,” said Redshaw, raising his cup to me before taking a sip. The rest of the gathering echoed the strange word, some with more gusto than others.

“Fumeiyo?” I asked Sutcliffe as we sat on the settees.

“It means ‘drain your cup’,” Redshaw answered for him.

“Lord Redshaw is my most accomplished student,” Sutcliffe said with a condescending smile that Redshaw seemingly failed to notice.

I sat in a rather uncomfortable chair and tried the tea. I soon realised that I agreed with Lady Anna. The taste was earthy and bitter, leaving an unpleasant tang in the mouth. I took another sip to be polite and then sat with the cup and saucer in my lap, letting the contents go cold.

“Well?” Redshaw asked, seeking my approval.

“Lovely,” I replied. “This evening has been most illuminating.”

“Which reminds me. I fetched you this.” Placing his cup on a nearby table, Redshaw handed me the thick book he had brought in with him. I took the opportunity to rid myself of my own frightful brew.

“The Life and Charity of Edwyn Warwick,” I read from the spine.

“The definitive biography, if you ask me.”

The book opened on a portrait of a man I recognised from the monument at St Nicole’s. “And here he is,” I said. “The man himself. Edwyn Warwick.”

“Such an inspiration,” Sutcliffe offered.

“Indeed he is, Victor, indeed he is,” acknowledged Redshaw.

I seized upon the opportunity to turn the conversation back to the events of the day. Perhaps I could continue to gather information that Holmes might be able to use on his release. “The disappearance of his body must have come as such a shock.”

“It has, old chap.”

“And then the revelation of Father Ebberston’s part in the conspiracy.”

“C-conspiracy?” Clifford queried, his curiosity finally compelling him to join us rather than to remain sulking beside the chimney breast.

“He’s been arrested,” Sutcliffe revealed. “That inspector chap seems to think that he knew the body was missing, and tried to hush it up.”

“I’m afraid it’s more serious than that,” I said.

Lord Redshaw frowned. “How so?”

“Holmes believes that Ebberston poisoned both Father Kelleher and Monsignor Ermacora.”

“The Monsignor is dead?” Lady Marie exclaimed.

“I’m afraid so. We believe that Father Ebberston tried to stop the Monsignor from bringing the missing body to Holmes’s attention.”

“Nonsense,” Redshaw said. “I’ve known Ebberston for years. He is a good and honourable man.”

I was too wrapped up in the conversation to stop myself from contradicting my host. “Inspector Tovey agrees with Holmes’s assessment of the situation.”

“Well, you know what I think about that young man,” Redshaw reminded me.

“I do, but the facts seem incriminating.”

“I won’t believe it.”

“Do you th-think Father Ebberston has something to d-do with the r-ring?”

“Harold, not now,” Sutcliffe warned, the menace in his voice for all to hear.

“If not n-now then w-when?” Clifford continued, refusing to be silenced. “Surely you can s-see how sus-sus-suspicious this all is. Warwick’s ring goes m-missing, and then his b-body v-vanishes. Now M-Mr Holmes finds himself incarcerated in the very same pr-prison as the man he accused of p-poisoning. What else are we s-supposed to think?”

“I think you have read too many second-rate detective stories,” said Sutcliffe. “No offence to Dr Watson.”

“And n-now he insults B-Benjamin’s guest.”

“Really,” I insisted. “There’s no need to—”

Clifford would not listen.

“He b-bullies everyone to get his own way, and when that d-doesn’t work the accusations start flying. Well, I’ve h-had my fill of it. I’m sorry you’ve had to w-witness this, Dr Watson, but it feels as though Anna and I are being p-pushed out by this cuckoo in the n-nest, or should I say s-snake in the grass.”