CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

ST JUDE’S

“Have you gone quite mad?” I spluttered, as the carriage pulled up outside the Bristol Regent Hotel. “I thought I, not you, had taken a blow to the head.”

“Come now, Doctor,” said my friend as he slipped the now ruined shoe back onto his foot. “Sherrinford Holmes has nothing to fear in this particular establishment.”

Jumping from the cab, Holmes hauled himself up the front steps, his affected limp more pronounced than ever thanks to the heel that flapped away from his sole. I myself paused, remembering all too well my last visit to the Regent. I could imagine the reception I would receive, but Holmes was already inside. Taking a deep breath, I proceeded after him.

Mrs Mercer spotted me the instant I was through the revolving doors. Her face paled and it looked as though she was caught between the urge to fight and the desire to flee. I would have preferred the latter, but instead she strode from the reception desk towards me, bustling past the disguised Holmes.

“I am surprised to see you here, Dr Watson,” she said sotto voce as she stopped me in my tracks, “but unless you have come to apologise, I must ask you to leave. I have no desire to engage in more unpleasantness.”

“Nor do we, dear lady,” said Holmes in his false baritone. She turned quizzically.

“I beg your pardon?”

Holmes bowed his head. “My name is Sherrinford Holmes, and while I understand you have a quarrel with my unscrupulous brother, I hope to throw myself on your mercy.”

As she looked upon him, dumbfounded, Holmes simply lifted his right foot to display the heel flapping like a dog’s tongue.

“As you can see, my shoe has suffered some unfortunate damage. As we were passing, Dr Watson mentioned that the Regent employs its own cobbler. I was wondering if your man could save my sole.”

Mrs Mercer shook her head as if her ears were deceiving her. “Dr Watson brought you here, of all places?”

Holmes nodded. “He did. He is too proud to say it, but the poor chap is consumed with regret for his past actions.”

I opened my mouth to complain, before a sharp glare from Mrs Mercer persuaded me to shut it again. “So he should be; but while I have no argument with you, Mr Holmes, I’m afraid I must disappoint you. There are plenty of cobblers in Bristol. The concierge will be more than delighted to furnish you with a list.”

“I am willing to pay for the inconvenience. I would not expect your man to work for nothing.”

“I’m glad to hear it, but my answer remains the same. I’m afraid Powell isn’t in today.”

“Powell? Is that your cobbler?”

“He is, yes.”

“Then perhaps you could provide me with his address? Perhaps he undertakes private commissions?”

“He does nothing of the sort,” Mrs Mercer replied, her temper threatening to boil over. “And even if he did, he is at home, quite unwell.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Cobbler’s femur?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I read about it in The Times. Something to do with the constant pounding of leather on one’s lap. I’m sure Dr Watson could explain it better?” He looked to me, his eyes shining with amusement.

I shook my head, reluctant to be drawn into the conversation. Fortunately, Mrs Mercer brought the debate to a swift conclusion.

“Nelson is suffering from influenza.”

“Your cobbler.”

“Yes. Now if you would excuse me—”

Mrs Mercer was interrupted by the sight of a young lady rushing through the reception area towards the doors.

“Lady Marie?” I said, as Lord Redshaw’s daughter dashed past. The lady made no response, not even turning at her name. Instead she plunged through the revolving doors as if running for her life.

Mrs Mercer regained her composure and attempted to guide Holmes and myself towards the concierge. Holmes, however, had other plans.

“Come, Watson,” he said, limping towards the exit. “Mrs Mercer is quite correct. There are plenty of cobblers in town. Thank you kindly, madam.”

“What the blazes?” I asked when we were both safely through the doors.

Holmes whistled for his carriage and, after a word with his tramp-turned-driver, we were off.

“Well?” I demanded, as the cab rocked to and fro.

“Cole’s Blacking,” he replied.

“The stuff from Lord Redshaw’s study? What about it?”

“It’s the brand favoured by the Regent. Pots of the stuff were on display alongside the advertisement for Mr Powell’s services to the Regent’s patrons: ‘Shoes repaired and polished. A complete service.’ Surely you recognised the label?”

“Why would I?” I exclaimed. “Besides, did you not say it was a popular brand?”

“Indeed I did.”

“So surely it must be favoured by boot-blacks on every street corner. Why make your way straight to the Regent?”

“Because every investigation has to start somewhere. And besides, if we hadn’t visited the Regent we would not now be following Lady Marie Redshaw.”

“We are?” I said, thrusting my head out of the window. Sure enough, another of Lord Redshaw’s carriages with its recognisable yellow trim was speeding ahead. Holmes’s driver kept a safe distance, so not to alert Marie’s man to the fact that we were in pursuit. “Where the devil is she heading?”

“To the wrong side of town,” Holmes said, removing the heels from both shoes to balance his gait.

The road narrowed as we descended into the dark heart of Bristol, crumbling tenement buildings clustered together as if crowding for warmth.

“St Jude’s,” Holmes explained as I covered my nose with the back of my hand. As in all great cities, the physical boundaries between rich and poor in Bristol were wafer thin. We had travelled no more than two miles and already the cobbles had become uneven beneath the carriage’s wheels. Ragged children stood on every street corner, their eyes hollow with hunger, holding out bunches of wilting cress or matchboxes, desperate to earn a few pennies.

We sped on, passing not only the destitute, but also Lady Marie’s carriage.

“Holmes, she has stopped.”

“And so shall we; although Rawnsey knows better than to come crashing to a halt behind a quarry, even if you do not. Really, Watson. You must learn to engage that brain of yours! How you survived a war I shall never know.”

Trying hard not to take offence, I fumed as the driver brought us to a stop. Holmes was across the road before I had even exited the carriage. I did likewise and saw Holmes slip a shiny coin into the palm of a street urchin.

“What was that?” I asked, as the girl scampered into a nearby porch.

“That was a child,” Holmes replied. “Your powers of observation decline by the second.”

“The money,” I growled.

“A transaction. According to my grubby-faced informant, Lady Marie vanished into Parson’s Close.”

“Are you sure?” I said, eyeing the cesspit of an alleyway with suspicion. “Why would she come here, of all places?”

“Why indeed?” Holmes said, disappearing into the gloomy lane.

My boots squelched in thick mud as I followed Holmes into Parson’s Close. At least I chose to believe it was mud. As we ventured deeper into the maze of passageways, tenements all but blocked out the sun on either side of us.

“She came this way,” Holmes insisted, following a path through the muck that only he could see.

“How do you know?” I asked, having long since lost my sense of direction.

“Her dress has left a clear trail in the mud.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

But I could see for myself the tableau that greeted us as we turned a corner. Lady Marie was pinned against a wall, a blackened hand around her neck.