CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

TRUTH AND LIES

“You took it from Sutcliffe’s body?” I asked as Holmes slipped the key into the lock.

“He had no more need of it.”

“You can be a terrible ghoul at times, Holmes.”

“And you, Doctor, are a hypocrite.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Did you respect the man in life?”

“You know I did not.”

“Then why concern yourself with how he is treated in death?”

“Common decency.”

“Foolish sentiment,” concluded Holmes and opened the door. We paused at the threshold, peering into the dark corridor. The only sound was the hammering and whirring of machinery below. Satisfied, Holmes entered, beckoning for me to follow.

“No servants then,” I commented.

Holmes closed the door behind me. “When a man cannot afford carpet on the floor he has little need for maids and footmen.”

The walls were covered with faded wallpaper, the light fittings disconnected. What little light there was spilled through the three doors that opened from the main passageway, one on the left and two to the right.

The first revealed a sitting room of sorts, although one in complete disarray. There was a threadbare sofa, its cushions discarded on the floor. Books were scattered across the untreated floorboards, a tin bath upended in the corner. A mirror hung at an odd angle above the bare hearth and the thin curtains that had once covered the dirty windows were torn from their fittings.

We rushed from one room to the next. All three were in a similar state.

The second had been Sutcliffe’s bedroom. A clothes rail was toppled over, jackets and shirts ripped from their hangers. The bed itself was shoved beneath another grimy window, the sheets hanging loose. The only furniture to be found in the third room was a large empty chest. One hardly needed to be a detective to know that it had once housed the tangle of exotic silks that was now strewn across the floor.

“The place has been ransacked.”

“And yet there is no sign of forced entry,” replied Holmes, returning to the front door. He dropped into a crouch, and ran his fingers across the floorboards. “Yes. This is where Victor Sutcliffe died.”

“How can you be sure?” I asked.

“Sutcliffe opened the door and was attacked. The dust beneath our feet has been disturbed, probably by the same struggle that left scuff marks on the skirting board; there and there, do you see? Sutcliffe kicked the wall before submitting. Once he was dead, his assailant searched his rooms.”

“Looking for what?” I asked, following Holmes back into the sitting room. “There is little of value here, save for those silks and Sutcliffe’s clothes. I don’t understand it, Holmes. How could Lord Redshaw not have known that Sutcliffe was living like this?”

Holmes snatched up a book and flicked through its pages. “His clothes were of good quality. If Redshaw never ventured to Portland Square, how would he know?”

“But what of his business? Was that also a lie?”

“Not according to these records,” Holmes said, showing me the ledger in his hand. “What Lord Redshaw told you was true. Sutcliffe rents a warehouse in the docklands, trading in fabrics from the Far East. However, the enterprise is nowhere near as successful as Redshaw suggested. Sutcliffe’s income barely covers the rent of the warehouse and what little he pays for this place. He is surviving on a knife-edge, making just enough to maintain the illusion of prosperity and wealth, but enjoying none of the benefits.”

“Except acceptance into Lord Redshaw’s family.”

“And the Worshipful League of Merchants. See, he makes a regular donation to their good works, probably as a condition of his membership.”

Holmes handed me the ledger and continued to examine the rest of the scattered books as I flipped through the pages. “There is something else here,” I said, finding an outgoing payment month after month. “‘The Admiral’. Holmes, I’ve heard Sutcliffe speak of this admiral before. He mentioned him to Clifford in the carriage on the way back from the Lodge on the day I was attacked. Who do you think it is?”

“Not who, but what,” Holmes said, fishing something out of his pocket and holding it out to me without looking up from the books. I took the tiny object from his hand. It was a cufflink, monogrammed with the letters T.A.C.

“Is this…?”

“One of the cufflinks I removed from Sutcliffe’s body.”

I was unable to suppress a shiver. “Holmes. If that constable had spotted you…”

“He didn’t,” said Holmes, picking up another book, this one with a red cover. “And in case you are wondering, the initials that have so spectacularly failed to pique your interest stand for ‘The Admiral Club’. Sutcliffe was obviously a member.”

Sutcliffe’s words from the previous night came back to me: If you need me, I will be at the club.

“Look at this,” Holmes said, showing me the book in his hands. “Punter’s Travels in Japan: A Journey through the Land of the Samurai.” He opened the pages at random. “Fascinating.”

“What is?”

“Sutcliffe has made extensive notes in the margins.” He turned to a bookmarked page and began to read: “‘As spring approaches, nothing can prepare the traveller for the glory of Japan’s cherry blossoms’.”

“Ah, yes,” I said. “Sutcliffe mentioned the blossom. Some kind of festival.”

“Apparently so,” Holmes said. “He has underlined the entire passage: ‘For thousands of years, the Japanese have left their homes to gaze in wonder at the vibrant colours of the pink flowers that adorn the sakura trees, and to pay their respects to the kami spirits who reside within the wood. My host, the honourable Arakwana-san, was keen—’”

I interrupted him. “What was that name?”

“Arakwana-san,” Holmes repeated. “Why?”

Discarding the ledger, I took the book from Holmes’s hands. “Sutcliffe said his guide in Japan was a Mr Arakwana, who took him to see the cherry blossom.”

I found the passage and continued: “‘My host, the honourable Arakwana-san, was keen for me to experience the festival myself, and arranged a visit to Mount Yoshino, home to more than 30,000 cherry trees.’ Holmes, Sutcliffe claimed the exact same thing; that this Arakwana fellow took him to see the trees at Mount Yoshino.” I ran my finger down the page, reading on. “It’s almost to the letter. He visited with his family and they shared sake under the shade of the blossom, exactly as it says here. But the odd thing was that he couldn’t remember the location of the mountain itself…”

“Almost as if he had never been there…”

“He lied about his time in Japan as well?”

“He certainly amassed quite a library about the place. History, geography…” Holmes plucked another book from the floor. “Mythology.”

He opened the book, turning to a page that was folded down at the corner. “Well, well, well; the legend of Izanagi and Izanami.”

“The woman in the painting. But, if all Sutcliffe’s knowledge of the Orient comes from books…”

“Has he ever been to the Far East at all? Watson, go and fetch those silks from the trunk, will you? I want to see if they are genuine.”

“Or as fake as Sutcliffe himself. Right you are.”

I hurried to the other room and gathered the brightly coloured fabrics into my arms. As I did so, a folded paper dropped from the silks.

“What’s this?” I asked out loud.

“Watson?” Holmes asked from down the corridor. “Have you found something?”

I scooped up the paper and unfolded it. “It’s a bill of sale. Holmes, you’d better see this.”

He appeared at the door, a small brown book in his hand. I passed him the receipt. “Another lie to add to the list. The silks are genuine, but Sutcliffe didn’t import them from Japan.”

“Instead he purchased them from a Farler and Mackenzie of Liverpool, ‘purveyors of the finest Japonisme’. Watson, there are numerous entries in that ledger marked ‘F&M’. Sutcliffe wasn’t importing goods at all—”

“But buying them from these Farler and Mackenzie folk. Holmes, check to see if the painting of Izanami is in the ledger. He said it had just come in.”

“I shall make a detective out of you yet, Watson,” Holmes said, turning once more towards the sitting room, when he paused and bounced up and down on his heels.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“This floorboard is loose.”

“Hardly surprising. Look at the state of the place.”

But Holmes had dropped to his hands and knees. “No, the nails have been removed. Remember what I said about the light-fingered maid at the Regent? Loose floorboards make for good hiding places.”

He pulled out his tools and, removing a pick from the pouch, used the implement to ease up the floorboard. Working his fingers beneath it, he pulled the board free, revealing a pile of papers secreted below. As he grabbed a handful, I noticed something glinting in the weak light.

“What’s that?”

Holmes reached into the gap and retrieved a small gold band set with a large green emerald. I knew what it was at once.

“Warwick’s missing ring!”