CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

A BITTER BREAKFAST

The rest of the evening proved uneventful. Holmes’s request to stay had little to do with his imaginary hosts; he wanted to search for more clues. With the rest of the family gone to bed, he had ample opportunity, although I myself was struggling to keep my eyes open. The combination of my exertions with Lord Redshaw and the injury I had suffered at the Lodge had sapped what was left of my natural resources. I made my apologies as Holmes tucked into his supper, and retired to the Tombo Room, falling into a deep sleep the moment I crawled into my bed.

My sleep was restless, however, beleaguered by dreams in which I ran through an endless maze of stained-glass windows, only to find Lord Redshaw at the heart of the labyrinth, liquid blacking oozing from deep wounds in his belly.

I woke early and descended for breakfast to find that I was first to the dining room. I was ravenous, a good sign after my trauma, and so was tucking into a plate of scrambled eggs when Lady Anna and Clifford joined me. I rose as they entered, noting a certain redness around Anna’s eyes, understandable given the circumstances. Clifford looked better, the colour returning to his podgy cheeks.

Before long, Holmes also joined us, dressed as his apocryphal brother. He loaded his plate high with kippers and set about his breakfast with enthusiasm.

“Will Lady Marie not be joining us?” he asked, his mouth full of salted fish.

Anna made no attempt to disguise her scorn. “Why should she? She has made her feelings abundantly clear. She is probably lounging in bed, waiting for Papa to die.”

“Anna!” Clifford said, looking more than a little abashed. “You’re em-embarrassing our g-guest. Such talk at the b-breakfast table.”

Holmes dismissed the concern with a wave of his fish knife. “It is only natural that passions are running high.” He paused, chewing thoughtfully. “Of course, if your father were to die—”

“Holmes!” I interjected, confounded by his tactlessness. He looked at me as if I, not he, had crossed the line of decency.

“At times of crisis, one needs to remain pragmatic, Doctor. I was about to say that if the worst were to happen, Lord Redshaw’s fortune would pass to Lady Marie.”

Lady Anna’s tired eyes were wide as saucers. “What are you suggesting?”

“Nothing at all,” Holmes insisted. “I am merely stating facts of business. I apologise if I have caused offence. It is the landowner in me, I suppose. Marie is the elder child, is she not?”

“She is.”

“Then I would be not at all surprised if young Mr Sutcliffe were to come a-calling today.”

“I th-think we’ve seen the last of him,” Clifford insisted, taking a sip of coffee.

Holmes continued to needle away. “I wouldn’t be so sure. He seems a tenacious young man, and his betrothed is about to become an exceedingly wealthy woman.”

That was the last straw. Anna rose abruptly, her chair skidding back. “How dare you! My father is lying in hospital and you talk as if he is already gone. You must think me exceedingly foolish not to know the measure of Victor Sutcliffe. He has sniffed around my sister like a dog foraging for scraps, but if the worst happens – and I pray to God that it does not – he will not see a penny.”

Now Clifford chimed in. “It’s true that Marie hasn’t l-lifted a finger to help r-run the house since Lucy passed away. It has been down to my w-wife.”

“Which Lord Redshaw clearly knows,” I said, desperate to smooth the troubled waters. “He is exceptionally proud of you.”

“I should hope so,” Anna said, throwing down her napkin. “Now, I suggest you enjoy the rest of your breakfast, and leave.”

Clifford’s mouth dropped open. “My d-dear, after everything Dr Watson d-did for your f-father last nuh-night…”

“I am not talking about the doctor,” Anna replied, her eyes positively boring into Holmes, before she stormed from the room. Clifford apologised and chased after her like a loyal puppy.

The dining room was quiet except for the scrape of Holmes’s knife and fork on his plate.

I stared at him, astounded. “How could you, Sherrinford?”

Holmes dabbed at his lips with a napkin. “I appear to have outstayed my welcome. The lady has made her feelings known and I must abide by them. I shall leave at once.”

“And go where?”

“To the prison of course, to visit my dear brother. You will accompany me, Watson?”

I should have refused, but the thought of remaining in such a poisonous atmosphere was unbearable.

Half an hour later, we were rattling towards the gates of the estate in Holmes’s carriage. Holmes sat staring ahead, at least showing the decency to wait until we were out of the grounds before throwing back his head and roaring with mirth.

“I don’t see what there is to laugh about,” said I.

“You should have seen your face, Watson. The very picture of outrage.”

“I should think so. I’ve never been so mortified in all my life. What were you thinking, man?”

“I was wondering how far I could push the Cliffords before they told me what I wanted to know. Did you see the way she was standing, Watson?”

“It was difficult to ignore!”

“A hand over the child she is carrying. The legacy of the Redshaw line. She knows all too well that by rights the house should go to Marie, but as long as Marie remains unmarried and without child, the cards are stacked in Anna’s favour.”

“But you discounted both Lady Anna and Clifford as suspects.”

“I did no such thing, I merely said that it was unlikely. I doubt it was Sutcliffe, however. Whether he was angry that Lord Redshaw was considering coming to my aid or not, if he is the gold-digger that Lady Anna suggests, surely he would wait until the ring were on Marie’s finger?”

“Unless he hoped to hurry Marie on. She has yet to set the date for their wedding.”

“A wedding that you said Lord Redshaw supports wholeheartedly, almost as if Sutcliffe has him under a spell…”

“You think she’s being forced into it?”

“It would explain the antagonism she displayed to both her father and her betrothed. From what you have told me it is clear that Ridgeside was an unhappy house long before Lord Redshaw was attacked.”

“But what of the blacking on the study carpet? How does that fit with your theories?”

“That, my dear Watson, is a very good question.”

“And where shall we find a good answer?”

“At our destination, I hope.”

“The police station?”

Holmes smiled. “Oh my dear chap, you of all people should be able to tell the difference between fact and fiction. We are not bound for the station.”

“Then where are we going?”

Holmes made no reply. Instead he leaned forward and removed his right shoe. I watched in perplexity as he turned the shoe over and, producing a penknife from his pocket, proceeded to prise off the heel.

“Whatever are you doing, Holmes?”

“One question at a time, Watson. You asked where we are going. Why, to the scene of my crime, of course.”