CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

AN EVIL BUSINESS

Looking back, I find it incredible that Holmes would have the gall to condemn another for displaying a flair for the dramatic. It was as though he had planned the timing of that last comment perfectly, delivering it on the instant that we drew up outside Lower Redland Road Police Station. He had opened the door and bounded out onto the pavement before I could ask him what on Earth he meant. Neither did he wait for me before he marched up the steps to the large blue doors and entered, demanding to see Inspector Tovey.

“How is my ‘brother’?” Holmes asked as the inspector led us into a private office.

“Still doped up to the eyeballs on laudanum,” came the reply as Tovey closed the door carefully behind us. Then he turned to me and smiled an impish grin. “I see you’ve met Sherrinford, Dr Watson.”

I did not return the good humour. “I have, and I cannot believe what you two put me through.”

Tovey eyed my disguised colleague. “By the looks of things, Sherrinford shares his brother’s nose for trouble.”

“It is a long story, which Watson will be more than pleased to share.”

“Will I?”

“You cannot expect me to walk around like this for much longer, Watson. The inspector has very kindly agreed to hold on to some luggage for me in case of emergencies, sartorial or otherwise.”

Tovey chuckled. “Evidence room two, down the corridor to the left. Here.” He passed Holmes his keys. “And be quick about it.”

With Holmes gone, I explained all, feeling more than a little guilty for breaking Lady Marie’s trust, whatever Holmes thought of her.

“But what I don’t understand is Holmes’s suggestion that the baby might already be dead,” I admitted as I finished the tale.

Tovey scratched his cheek. “There’s little proof, I’ll grant you, although I can see why he has his suspicions.”

“You can?”

The inspector sighed, leaning on his desk. “Have you heard the term ‘baby farmer’, Doctor?”

I told him I had not.

“They’re women who care for unwanted children on behalf of others, or, in some cases, find new homes for the infants, families willing to take them in. At least that’s the theory.”

“And in practice?”

“Most of the time they do as they’re asked, taking care of the children and saving the mothers from shame. However, where there’s money to be made, there are devils ready to make deals. We’ve encountered a few over the years, more’s the pity.”

“Devils? How so?”

Tovey sat back, tucking his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. “A few years back, I came across a woman by the name of Margaret Percival. She was paid to find new homes for unwanted children, and find a home she did, in a dirty back room in Bedminster. She’d slip them morphine to keep them quiet, and leave them in the dark, until they wasted away, poor little mites. Soon her doctor, well, he became suspicious writing so many death notices for one woman, so she moved her entire operation to Lewin’s Mead, changing her name and even her appearance. She couldn’t risk being discovered again, so instead of letting nature take its course, the old harpy took matters into her own hands. She strangled the babbers and dumped their bodies in the Frome, wrapped in old newspaper and weighed down by rocks.”

“Good Lord,” I said, horrified. “That’s… evil. Pure evil.”

“Not to women like Margaret Percival. It’s business, plain and simple.”

“You brought her to justice, though?”

“She got careless; didn’t weigh the bodies down well enough.

Dock workers found them, floating on the surface. And the thing is – and Mr Holmes, he’d like this – I realised that the knots were the same. Each and every one. My father was a fisherman, see, and I recognised them in an instant: gunner’s knots. Turns out Margaret’s old man was a fisherman too. So I knew that the babes were being killed by the same hand, and from where they were coming up, I knew where they were being dumped.”

“So you lay in wait.”

Tovey nodded. “On the third night she appeared, a bundle beneath her arm. I jumped out before she could drop it in the water, knowing all too well what I’d find when I cut those knots and peeled back the paper. I cried that night, I don’t mind admitting it, seeing the marks around that little one’s neck. I was too late to save that child, but she never killed again. They hanged her, and I was pleased to see it. Trouble is, scum like that, they’re like the head of a hydra, you know, from the old legends. Cut one down, and two grow back in its place. This city’s lousy with folk profiting from the misfortune of others.”

“But we have no reason to believe that this Protheroe woman is of the same ilk?”

Tovey raised his eyebrows. “Don’t we? You said yourself that she gave Lord Redshaw a false address. Most legitimate baby farmers I know don’t need to do that. Why would they? If you ask me, the very fact that she lied casts a shadow of suspicion over her. You say Redshaw found her in the Mercury?”

He crossed to a desk that was piled high with folded newspapers, and took one at random from the heap. He started flicking through its pages, checking the small advertisements until he found what he was looking for.

“Here we go.”

He stood aside so I could see.

Married couple with no family would adopt healthy child, nice country home.
Terms £10 – Gardiner, care of Ship’s Letter Exchange, Stokes Croft, Bristol.

Tovey looked at me as if I should see something in the words.

“What do you think, Doctor? Does it look plausible enough to you?”

“Well, yes. A family is willing to pay ten pounds to adopt a child.”

“Ah, but that’s not how it works, see. The ten pounds is paid by the mother, given over with the baby, to help pay for the child’s upkeep. More often than not, the mother is even given a receipt, to keep everything above board. We found out, too late, that Margaret Percival was doing the same thing, placing adverts to attract desperate folk, accepting money and then… well, you know the rest.”

“But how can you tell which ones are false, and which are genuine?” I asked, my head spinning from the revelation.

“That’s the problem. You can’t,” Tovey said, flicking through another edition. “Here’s another, see? ‘Grieving family seek adoption of healthy baby boy or girl. Well-appointed Gloucester home. Terms £10 – Stanton, care of 7 Wilbur Court, Midland Road, Bristol.’ The pattern is always the same; similarly worded advertisements, all asking for ten pounds to care for the child. The trouble is, we can’t follow up each advertisement just in case there’s foul play at work. The newspaper’s full of the damned things, all with different names and addresses. Turns out Percival used four or five pseudonyms in her career.”

“You could trace who is placing the advertisements?” I suggested.

“Even if I could get the Mercury to co-operate, there’s no guarantee it’s the women themselves. They often have lads working for them. I tell you, Doctor, it’s impossible.”

“I thought the impossible was your business, Inspector?” Holmes said, opening the door to the office. He had changed into a fresh suit and shoes, his face finally free of dirt.

“The inspector has just been telling me about this baby farmer business,” I told him. “I can’t believe it.”

“That is because you are an innocent, Watson.”

“Let me see what I can do,” Tovey said, as I showed Holmes the advertisements from the papers. “Perhaps someone’s heard of a woman matching the description of this Protheroe character. It’s not as if I have anything better to do.”

“The investigation is not going well, Inspector?”

Tovey perched himself on the side of his desk. “Surely you don’t mean the Warwick investigation, Mr Holmes?” he asked, his eyes twinkling. “As you know, I’ve been taken off the case.”

“Of course you have,” Holmes said. “Officially.”

“And unofficially?” said I.

“Unofficially, I’m getting nowhere fast, Doctor. No one’s seen hide nor hair of Father Ebberston since his release, and St Nicole’s is locked up tight. I did manage to talk to one of Ebberston’s congregation, a Mr Garrett. Apparently, this isn’t the first time the doors of St Nicole’s have been unexpectedly closed this year. Not four weeks ago, Ebberston had Tavener’s stonemasons in.”

“Tavener?” I asked. “You mean Sir George Tavener?”

“The very same. Do you know him, Doctor?”

“I met him briefly at Ridgeside. The Grand Master of the Worshipful League of Merchants.”

“Is he now?” said Holmes, tapping a long finger against his lips.

“Apparently there was a problem with an arch above the church entrance,” said Tovey.

“The narthex,” Holmes offered.

“That’s it. Crumbling mortar by all accounts, but Garrett, he’s a retired mason himself. He says the archway was repointed a year or so back. Should have lasted for years.”

“How long did the work take?” Holmes asked.

“No more than a day or so.”

“Long enough to remove a body from a tomb.”

“My thoughts precisely, Mr Holmes.”

“But why steal it in the first place?” I asked.

“From what you have said, the League of Merchants is rather preoccupied with Warwick’s relics.”

“Some personal effects, yes, but his corpse?”

“The work would give them ample cover,” Holmes said. “The marks you discovered on the top of the tomb, Inspector, the evidence that led you to believe that it had been prised open recently?”

“The crowbar marks?” Tovey replied. “What about them?”

“That is the point, Inspector. I doubt very much that they were made by a crowbar. If they had been, the indentation would have been shaped like a wedge. These marks were arched as if the end of the tool were curved, like a brick jointer, used for repointing mortar.”

“So Tavener was involved,” I exclaimed.

“It is a distinct possibility.”

Tovey stroked his beard. “Then we’ll have to tread carefully. Sir George is an influential man.”

“Fingers in many pies, eh?” I asked.

He nodded. “Let me do some digging.”

“Capital,” said Holmes. “In the meantime, Watson and I are to return to College Green.”

I groaned. “Back to the Regent? Mrs Mercer will have us turned out the moment we walk through the front doors.”

Holmes produced a small leather pouch, which I recognised immediately as his lock-pick kit. “Then we shall just have to make sure she doesn’t see us, won’t we?”