CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

SUSPECTS

“Surely you don’t suspect Lady Anna,” I said, as Holmes stared at Redshaw’s daughter through his monocle. Anna looked so vulnerable as she sat on the bench alone, desperately trying to compose herself.

“Until the murderer is found, everyone in the house is a suspect, Watson.”

“She is devoted to her father,” I insisted.

“And her husband?”

I considered this. “There’s certainly something between Clifford and the old man. When we were away from the manor, Clifford’s stutter all but vanished, and yet as soon as he was in Redshaw’s presence, not to mention that of Sutcliffe…”

“Interesting, although the stutter might have been amplified by the stress of being discovered breaking you into the Lodge.”

“We hardly broke in. Clifford had a key.”

“Which he stole from Redshaw. No wonder there would be a level of awkwardness.”

“No, it goes deeper than that. Redshaw puts Clifford down at every opportunity. Their relationship is fraught to say the least.”

“Enough to commit murder?”

“The thing is, Holmes, why stab the man and then put yourself through a blood transfusion?”

“A guilty conscience? Regret?”

That made sense, at least. Clifford had made the snap decision to take me to the Lodge. What if he had acted on impulse in the study?

“His wife would be set to inherit a small fortune,” I said.

“Surely the majority of the estate would go to the elder daughter.”

“Marie? She’s a troubled one, that girl.”

“Evidently.”

“I caught her crying in the drawing room, just before you arrived.”

“An unhappy love affair, perhaps? The relationship between the lady and her intended is far from a healthy one.”

“I have seen little warmth between them since Lord Redshaw took me in. Or between the lady and her father for that matter.”

“Another suspect, then?”

“His own daughter?”

“And what of this Sutcliffe?”

“I’m not fond of the man, I can tell you that.”

“But was Lord Redshaw?”

“There’s certainly a bond there. Redshaw respects the young man’s business.”

“Importing curios from the Orient.”

“The late Lady Redshaw was a devotee of all things Japanese, apparently. And then there’s the business about the spells, although that is all stuff and nonsense, if you ask me. Clifford is obviously a trifle jealous of the attention Redshaw lavishes on Sutcliffe.”

“Jealous or not, it is an intoxicating mix. Mysticism and murder from the Far East.”

I raised an eyebrow at the detective, still in disguise. “And you say that I am the melodramatic one.”

“Either way, it seems that Sutcliffe and Lord Redshaw are as thick as thieves.”

“Yes, but he did become quite animated at the suggestion that Redshaw should try to have you released from prison.”

“Did he now? So it could be any of them.”

“But what I don’t understand is why we heard nothing until Lady Anna screamed.”

“The door to the study is thick and might have muffled the sounds of a struggle.”

“True. I could barely hear through it earlier.”

“Snooping around, Watson? I have never been more proud. The window in the study was locked from the inside, so the attacker must have come through the door, surprising Lord Redshaw. He turned, rising from the chair, and received the first blow to his stomach. The attacker pulled out the weapon and stabbed again; Lord Redshaw fell, knocking himself senseless against the desk. The attack must have been swift, the assailant leaving the way he came in. On the journey here, Lady Anna told me that she noticed that the door was ajar, which is not her father’s custom. She went to close it and saw him sprawled on the floor. Either that, or she committed the crime herself and merely backed out of the room before screaming.”

“It was all an act, you mean.”

“The flaw in that theory is that the lady had no trace of blood on her. None of them did. Without the weapon itself, I am reduced to conjecture, but at first glance I could see no sign of it, either in the room or the hallway outside.”

“It could be outside, if the assailant escaped through the window.”

“Indeed. I checked briefly before the carriage left, but could see nothing by moonlight. And of course, there is every chance the attacker took it with him. Not every villain is so considerate as to leave bloodstained evidence lying around. However, we do have the wounds.”

“What about them?”

“On the second blow, the knife was thrust with sufficient force to bury the blade to the hilt.”

“How can you tell?”

“The bruising around the wound.”

“Suggesting an assailant of considerable strength.”

“Unless the blade itself was exceptionally sharp, which is a distinct possibility.”

“But if it isn’t, you’re saying that the attacker had to be a man.”

“I’m saying nothing of the sort. They may be called the fairer sex, but there are plenty of physically adept women in this world, especially in service. However, I concede that neither Marie nor Anna would appear at first glance to possess the required strength.”

“But Lord Redshaw could have been attacked by a servant?”

“Quite possibly. Indeed, the shape of the wounds is of interest.”

Holmes pulled a notebook and a stubby pencil from his pocket and drew the wounds from memory. They looked like two teardrops running horizontally along the page.

“See the corners, Watson. One rounded, while the other has a distinct point. That suggests a one-sided knife; one edge sharp and the other dull.”

“A kitchen implement?”

“Possibly. If only I had stayed behind to check the kitchens.”

“Sherrinford Holmes is supposed to be a landowner,” I reminded him, “not a detective.”

“Come now, Watson. All it would take is to become lost in the house and end up below stairs by accident.”

“Would you even know what you were looking for?”

“I shall remind you that I am not the one who suffered a blow to the head today. Even allowing for the elasticity of Lord Redshaw’s skin, the blade must be only two inches wide.”

Our conversation was interrupted by the reappearance of Dr Melosan, rolling down his shirtsleeves. Lady Anna rose as he approached.

“Papa?” she said, steepling her fingers in front of her mouth as if beseeching the Almighty. “Is he—”

“Alive, and as stable as can be expected, thanks largely to the ministrations of Dr Watson.”

I acknowledged the compliment and asked after my host’s injuries.

“The knife wounds were deep, but clean,” came the reply. “Both have been stitched, and we will monitor for infection or signs of internal bleeding.”

“And his heart?”

“Lord Redshaw’s pulse is weak but steady. We’ve given him morphine for the pain, and must now wait and see.”

“But he will live?” Anna begged him.

The grey-haired doctor turned to the lady and gave her a sad smile. “We will do everything we can. I suggest you go home and try to rest. Your husband will need to recover following the transfusion.”

“May we speak with Lord Redshaw?” I asked, eliciting a frown from Melosan.

“He is sleeping…”

“Which is understandable, but we need to know who did this to him.”

“I’m sure the police will want to speak to him when he wakes.”

“And when will that be?” Anna asked.

“Impossible to tell, I’m afraid. He is still very weak, so it may be some time, but rest assured that we will take good care of him. Now, if you have no other questions?”

“I do,” piped up Holmes.

“Yes?” said Melosan, peering at my friend, the only member of our small group whom he did not know.

“Your tattoo. Where was it done?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The tattoo on your forearm. I spotted it as you were rolling down your sleeve, a narrow band encircling your arm like a cuff. Most striking.”

“I hardly think this is the time to be discussing tattoos,” Lady Anna said, gathering her things. “I must go to my husband.”

“Quite so,” replied Holmes. “I apologise. It’s just that I have been thinking about having one done myself. They are quite the fashion now that the Prince of Wales has visited the tattooist’s chair. Eddie is such a trendsetter, always has been.”

Melosan was staring in confusion at my friend, rubbing his forearm as he replied, “An associate of mine dabbles with the inks, but I’m afraid his is not a public enterprise.”

“Ah well, thank you all the same,” Holmes said. “Maybe next time I am in London.”

Taking his leave of us, Dr Melosan called over a nurse to take us to Clifford.

“What was all that about?” I hissed as we followed her.

“What was what?” Holmes replied, innocently.

“All the nonsense about tattoos and what-not? Prince Edward hasn’t really got one, has he?”

“His Majesty? Why yes. A Jerusalem Cross. His mother is not amused. And where the Prince of Wales goes, the aristocracy follow, although I was surprised to see a Bristol doctor following the trend. And as for Lord Redshaw…”

“Redshaw?”

“I spotted it as he was being prepared for the transfusion, on his left arm. Two rings this time, compared with the doctor’s one. Definitely the work of the same artist.”

Ahead of us, Lady Anna had quickened her pace, reaching her husband who was slumped in a chair in the corridor ahead. The poor chap looked drained, quite literally.

“Oh, Harold. What you did for Papa. So brave.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “Well done, old chap.”

Clifford smiled at me weakly. “N-not used to being the h-hero. I quite l-like it.”

“Let’s get you home,” I said.

“Are you sure we should leave Papa?” Anna asked.

“There’s nothing else we can do here. Your father needs rest, as do you.”

“That may not be an option,” Holmes commented, nodding down the corridor.

We turned to see Inspector Hawthorne marching towards us.