CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

DESPERATE ACTS

Holmes stood slowly, his arms raised.

“So you have seen through my disguise,” he said, looking past Mrs Mercer’s gun to stare her straight in the eye.

“I admit that you had me fooled,” she replied, her pistol following Holmes as he got to his feet. “But your voice betrayed you.”

Holmes acknowledged his oversight with a wry nod. It was only now that I realised that he had commanded Powell to remain still in the strident tones of Sherlock rather than Sherrinford Holmes.

Powell finally freed himself from the cat’s cradle of sheets. He threw the linen aside and backed away to stand beside his partner-in-crime, rubbing the back of his thick neck.

“So what now?” Holmes asked, acting with such indifference to the situation that one might think he was held at gunpoint every day. Looking back, that was not so far from the truth. “We seemed to have reached stalemate in this little game. I am a fugitive from justice, while you, Mrs Mercer, are harbouring a felon wanted for attempted murder.”

“A felon with whom you colluded,” I added, no longer able to hold my tongue.

Mrs Mercer looked at me in shock. “You think I was involved?”

“We heard you in the corridor, concerned that the hotel would be tarnished by Powell’s crime, the crime you yourself sponsored. No wonder you made up that nonsense about Holmes stealing those damned books. You had this planned all along. The last thing you wanted was a detective of my friend’s calibre staying beneath your roof while you were colluding with Powell to murder Lord Redshaw.”

“Mrs Mercer did nothing of the sort,” Powell insisted.

“There’s no good denying it,” I retorted. “I saw the way you looked at us when we collected my luggage, the contempt for Benjamin in your eyes.”

Powell laughed bitterly. “Benjamin?” He jabbed a finger at me. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“We know more than you think. We know about you and Lady Marie.” That silenced him. “We know about your affair, about the child you fathered.”

Powell took a step towards me, but I was in no mind to be intimidated.

“We also know how she left a door ajar,” I continued, “so you could steal into Ridgeside Manor and attack her father.”

Of course, we knew nothing of the sort for certain, but I had seen Holmes pull this trick many a time, trapping a suspect by presenting a suspicion as a statement of fact and watching the reaction.

“She did not,” Powell responded, clearly flustered. I had him on the ropes now.

“Is that so?” I continued. “She had ample opportunity that night, not to mention motive.”

“Watson.”

I raised my hand to silence Holmes, never taking my eyes from the cobbler. “For all we know, Marie came to you; she told you that Redshaw was planning to speak out in Holmes’s defence, to have those ridiculous charges dropped.”

“Watson!”

“That forced your hand. Lord Redshaw had to die, and Holmes would remain in gaol. The perfect crime.”

I stopped, feeling rather lightheaded. Neither Mrs Mercer nor Nelson Powell was interrupting me now that their entire plan had been laid bare. Mrs Mercer’s gun had even dropped to her side, the manageress staring at me in amazement.

I glanced at Holmes. Why had he not seized the moment and sprung forward to overcome Powell once and for all?

Finally, he acted, but not in the way I expected. As Mercer and Powell gawped at me, Sherlock Holmes raised his hands and applauded.

“Bravo, Watson. Bravo.”

I felt a swell of pride in my chest. While I had no desire to glory in the moment, the recognition from Holmes did me good.

I raised my hand modestly. “Please, it was nothing.”

“Nothing?” Holmes echoed. “You have done spectacularly well. To misconstrue the facts so thoroughly shows talent worthy of Scotland Yard.”

My face fell. “What?”

“That Mr Powell stabbed Lord Redshaw there is no doubt,” Holmes continued. “But what on Earth led you to the conclusion that he was sent by Mrs Mercer?”

I could feel my cheeks flushing as I looked at Holmes in sudden confusion. “Their conversation. She admitted it.”

“I did no such thing!” Mrs Mercer insisted, an assertion that Holmes immediately upheld.

“Quite right. You and I heard the same thing, Watson; that Mrs Mercer shared Mr Powell’s belief that Lord Redshaw deserved his fate. That she was concerned that the Regent would be linked to the act.”

“Exactly,” said I.

“Neither of which is a confession. If Mrs Mercer is guilty of anything, it is protecting a valued member of staff, of not turning him over to the police when she discovered what he had done.”

“And of false testimony against you, Holmes. She had you arrested for a crime you did not commit!”

“Because she was forced to, Watson, against her will.”

“What?”

“It’s true,” Mrs Mercer insisted. “I never wanted to say those things, but he made me.”

“Who did?” I asked, feeling my argument start to crumble.

“Sir George Tavener,” Holmes announced.

“The Grand Master of the League?” I said.

“The very same. The pieces of the puzzle were in front of me and yet I was unable to see them until now. As Lady Marie told us, scandal has dogged the Regent of late. There were the robberies that led to Mr Mercer seeking my employ, not to mention the exploits of Princess Vladlena.”

The very mention of the name brought an angry flush to Mrs Mercer’s face. “We were the innocent party in both cases. Thomas never recovered from the shock; he would lie awake at night, worrying that it would all come out and ruin us.”

“And yet Watson told me that the Vladlena scandal went away. That is an impressive achievement in a city this size. You need friends… influential friends… like the Worshipful League of Merchants. We know you have had dealings with Sir George of late. Watson interrupted your meeting, of course, and on the day I was arrested I couldn’t help but notice your diary open on your desk. The morning of the eleventh, the day I was arrested, was clear, save for one meeting: ‘G.T. at 11 a.m’.”

“George Tavener,” I realised.

“Perhaps he was meeting with you about the League’s ball, or perhaps he was alarmed that you knew the detective who was investigating St Nicole’s Church. If our suspicions are correct, the last thing Sir George wants is for anyone, let alone Sherlock Holmes, to investigate Edwyn Warwick’s missing body.”

“Warwick’s body is missing?” The shock on Mrs Mercer’s face appeared genuine. “Why would anyone take his body?”

“Revenge,” I told her. “For the enslaving of one’s ancestors, perhaps.”

“Do you mean my great-grandfather?” Mrs Mercer said. “Why would taking Warwick’s body put that right?”

“Precisely,” Holmes agreed. “Although why Sir George would want the corpse is still a mystery.”

“He is a vile excuse of a man, that’s all I know,” Mrs Mercer admitted. “Yes, he came to us after the Vladlena affair, offering to help. Little did I know what that help would cost in the long term.”

“Blackmail?” Holmes asked.

“Poetic justice, some would say. I must accede to his demands to this day. If the League wants a room for a function, the League must have it, no matter what. It doesn’t matter if the room is already booked, Sir George and his cronies can waltz in at the last minute and demand that we cancel everything in their favour.”

“Your disappointed guest,” Holmes recalled.

I raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“On the day we arrived,” Holmes reminded me. “A young man was telling Mrs Mercer exactly what he thought of her establishment.”

“So he was,” I realised. “I had quite forgotten about it. A mix-up of dates, you said.”

Mrs Mercer nodded. “If I refuse his demands, Sir George soon reminds me of what he has done for the Regent, and how damaging it would be for the truth to come out.”

“Surely if you revealed how you were being intimidated…” I suggested.

Mrs Mercer snorted in derision. “You think I would be believed? Sir George holds all the cards, Doctor, and who am I? The woman who has unwittingly harboured a thief of a maid, a faux princess, and now a despoiler of ladies.”

“Mrs Mercer!” Powell protested.

“You know it is not what I think, Nelson, but it is how they think. Sir George is the Worshipful League of Merchants, and the Worshipful League of Merchants make the rules in this city; they always have, and they always will. They think they can do what they want for one good reason: they can. They even forced me to lie about Mr Holmes, to accuse an innocent man. I had no idea why at the time—”

“But you could not refuse,” Holmes said. “And now Sir George has even more leverage against you.”

“I am sorry,” Mrs Mercer said, taking a step towards Holmes. “So very sorry. After everything you have done for the Regent…”

“Then why point a gun at us?” I asked.

“Because the lady lives in fear, Watson,” Holmes said, displaying more empathy than I. “And she is at the end of her tether. She knows Tavener can bring her business crashing around her at any moment. Fear makes us irrational. Once it has us in its grip, we find it impossible to trust anyone, even a friend.” He turned to face the manageress. “There is no need to apologise.”

“Oh, believe me there is. If I could be free of that man…”

“Then why have Powell attack Lord Redshaw?” I asked, still reeling from her revelations.

“She didn’t,” Powell interjected. “It was nothing to do with her.”

“I believe you,” said Holmes, crouching down to retrieve something from the sheets at his feet. It was an envelope, and I could tell by the way that Powell’s hand suddenly went to his left breast that it had fallen from his jacket pocket during his struggle with Holmes.

The detective opened the envelope to reveal a wad of banknotes.

“Payment due?” Holmes asked. “For the attack on Lord Redshaw?”

“Blood money,” I said, bitterly.

“Yes, but not from Mrs Mercer…” He removed the money and held the envelope up to the light. “There’s a watermark. Come and see, Watson.”

I did as he asked, and saw the mark for myself, a vertical row of elegant symbols. They were Japanese.

“Sutcliffe?” I asked in wonder.

“The very same. You see, Watson, during your earlier tirade, you missed something of note. When you blurted out that we were aware of the existence of Lady Marie’s child, Mr Powell showed no sign of shock. Angry, yes, but not surprised. He already knew.”

“And yet Marie said she hadn’t told him,” I realised.

Holmes nodded, before turning to Powell. “I assume we can take the lady at her word?”

“You can,” the cobbler confirmed, sadly.

“Then we can also assume that she was telling the truth about why she came to the hotel this morning,” Holmes continued. “To break the news. Now, only a handful of others knew Lady Marie’s secret.”

“Lord Redshaw,” I said.

“Who, I’m sure you will agree, is unlikely to organise his own assault. There is Dr Melosan, of course, but, as far as I can see, he would have nothing to gain from Lord Redshaw’s death. Which leads us to the third person who knew. The fiancé she attempted to shock into leaving her.”

“It was his idea,” Powell admitted. “All of it. He came to me and told me about the child, about what Redshaw had done. Then he offered me the money, telling me when to come to the manor and how to get in.

“I knew I couldn’t be with Marie, her father would never allow that, not now. Sutcliffe offered me a way out. I could take the money, make a new life for myself and let her live hers.”

“But, like Mrs Mercer,” Holmes said, “there was a price to pay for Sutcliffe’s ‘kindness’.”

“He said he needed the old man out of the way, that things had gone too far. He seemed… I don’t know… desperate.”

“He must have been,” I commented, thinking how Lord Redshaw had assented to free Holmes. “Do you think he’s in on it, Holmes? With Sir George I mean?” Sutcliffe had certainly been unhappy at the thought of anyone from outside investigating the robbery at the Lodge.

Holmes had no chance to reply. Powell lurched forward and for a moment I thought he intended to attack Holmes. Instead the cobbler merely seized my friend’s arm. “I did it for her. You see that, don’t you? I wasn’t going to leave her with Sutcliffe. How could I? But the money…”

“You were going to use it to find Marie’s baby,” Holmes said, making no attempt to pull his arm free. “To seek out Mrs Protheroe, and pay her to tell you who had adopted your child, maybe even buy your son back.”

“Mrs Protheroe?” the manageress asked.

“The woman Lord Redshaw paid to take the baby, if that is her true name.”

“Why would it be otherwise?” Powell asked.

“She gave a false address,” I told him. “We went there ourselves, and yet there was no sign of her. No one even knew of her. Holmes fears that she is not what she seemed to be.”

“It is a theory,” Holmes pointed out. “Nothing more.”

“I’ve read of such things in the papers,” Mrs Mercer said, wringing her hands together. “I wish to God I hadn’t.”

“What things?” Powell demanded, desperation colouring his voice.

“Of women who accept money to care for unwanted children,” I explained, “and then betray that trust, in the most horrific way possible.”

Powell’s eyes widened. “You mean they kill them, don’t you?

That’s what you’re saying. These women kill the babies.”

“And from what Inspector Tovey shared with me earlier, it is almost impossible to prove one way or another.” I told the pair about the advertisements, and how they were often used to deceive those in need.

“Often, but not always?” Powell said. “Just because this woman gave a false address doesn’t mean she used a false name, or that the names in the paper are not genuine.”

“True,” I replied. “The names are common enough, that’s for sure. Oh, what were they, Holmes? Garden?”

“Gardiner,” Holmes confirmed. “Gardiner and Stanton.”

“Protheroe, Gardiner and Stanton…” Mrs Mercer said, lost in thought for a moment.

“You recognise something about them?” Holmes asked.

She looked at him decisively. “Can I trust you, Mr Holmes, even after all I have done?”

Holmes smiled. “You know my secret as I know yours. It appears that the four of us have become ensnared in a web of deceit and intimidation, Powell included.”

“Then perhaps we can still salvage some good from this unholy mess,” Mrs Mercer said. “Come with me, please. I have something to show you.”