CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

AN EMPTY ROOM

“I thought it was obvious why Sutcliffe wanted Redshaw dead,” I said, as we made our way back to the Bristol Royal Infirmary. “He didn’t want Benjamin releasing you from prison.”

“Watson,” the detective replied, “although it pains me to say as much, not everything in the world revolves around Sherlock Holmes. We have already established that Sutcliffe’s accomplice has considerable influence in this city. If the malignant George Tavener wants me to rot in jail, could Benjamin Redshaw overrule such a demand? ‘Things have gone too far.’ That is what Sutcliffe told Powell, but what things? What was so far along a road that death was the only answer?”

The carriage screamed around a corner, forcing me to cling onto my seat. “But why the hurry?” I asked. “Sutcliffe is dead.”

“But Tavener is very much alive. Sutcliffe’s instructions state that the ritual must take place on the day of the dead man’s first birth. When is Edwyn Warwick’s birthday?”

“Tomorrow,” I realised. “Clifford told me that the lecture for the anniversary of Warwick’s birth was meant to be this Saturday, but had been cancelled because Sir George had to be elsewhere.”

“Raising the dead?”

“Surely you don’t believe that?”

“Whether I believe it is neither here nor there, Watson. The question is whether Sir George believes it!”

The carriage pulled up outside the infirmary and Holmes jumped out. When he was in such a mood, I found it hard to keep up, both with the pace of his thoughts and his feet. He burst into the reception area and accosted a passing nurse. “Lord Redshaw. Where would I find him?”

The bewildered woman looked at Holmes in confusion. “I’m not sure, sir.”

“Come on, you must know. In his late fifties, stab wounds to the abdomen, an over-sentimental attachment to the past?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t the first idea of whom you’re talking about,” the nurse insisted. “If you ask at the administrator’s office—”

She was cut short by the approach of a wasp-faced matron, thin hands clasped in front of a narrow waist.

“Is there a problem, Nurse Robbins?”

“This gentleman is looking for a Lord Redshaw.”

The matron inspected Holmes quizzically. “He is in room forty-eight on the third floor, but—”

Now it was the matron’s turn to be interrupted. Holmes thanked her for her help and positively sprinted for the stairs. I took off after him.

“What did you mean about Redshaw’s attachment to the past?” I asked breathlessly as we bounded up the stairs.

“Isn’t it obvious? Redshaw’s cane, engraved ‘with love from Lucy’ on its side, has been repaired not once but twice, and according to the amount of ink on his fingers he persists in using a Japanese fountain pen that leaks profusely rather than the three perfectly good pens still in their boxes in his desk drawer.”

“A present from Sutcliffe?”

“Due to its age I would suggest it was another gift from the late Lady Redshaw.”

“So it’s not so much sentimentality for the past, but for his wife.”

“It’s more than that. Think of all the framed maps on his walls; Bristol as it used to be at the turn of the century or before. And as for that damned chimneypiece, celebrating the city’s past glories…”

I considered this as we barrelled onto the third floor. “And there are the tiles, I suppose?”

“Tiles?”

“All over the house. Lady Anna wants him to redecorate, but Benjamin can’t bring himself to get rid of the things as they remind him of his father.”

“He is a contradiction, your Lord Redshaw. Sentimental about the past, yet progressive in so many ways. The lack of segregation after dinner—”

“And the choice of menu. He has certainly embraced his wife’s love of the Orient.”

“That is the problem with people, Watson. Try as I might, they constantly rail against categorisation. How I wish they would merely accept the labels I place on them and be done with it.”

We passed door after door, eventually coming to room forty-eight. Holmes rapped once and opened the door without waiting for an answer.

The room was empty.

“Holmes, you don’t think…” I began, as my companion took a step towards the bed.

“Lord Redshaw is still alive, not dead. If he had died, the bed would have been stripped and remade. No self-respecting nurse would leave a sheet like this.”

He pulled back the cover and placed his palm on the mattress. “Cold. Wherever he is, Lord Redshaw has not been in this bed for quite some time.”

“So where is he?”

“Exactly what I want to know,” said Marie Redshaw, appearing at the door.

“Lady Marie!” I exclaimed. “I thought you were returning to Ridgeside?”

“I couldn’t go back there after what had happened. I went to the Mercury to see if they could tell me who placed that advertisement. I even asked to see Mr Lacey.”

“And he is?” Holmes enquired.

“The editor,” Marie replied. “A dreadful snob of a man whom unfortunately I know from League balls. He wasn’t there and no one could help me, so I went to the Admiral.”

“The Admiral Club?” I asked.

“He’s a member there, but apparently he has not been seen since last night, when he was with Victor of all people.”

“Was he now?” Holmes commented.

“No one has seen him since, so I came here, hoping that Father could tell me more about Mrs Protheroe. He owes me that at least.”

“But you found him gone.”

“Yes, and I can’t find Dr Melosan either. I found another doctor on his rounds, and he said that Father hasn’t been discharged. He is doing well by all accounts, but was to be kept in for observation.”

“Holmes,” I said, “could he have been taken?”

“Taken? Why ever do you ask that, Watson?”

“Perhaps he found out what Sutcliffe and Tavener were planning?”

“Victor?” Marie asked, but Holmes was too busy discrediting my theory to acknowledge her question.

“Found out? From his hospital bed?” Holmes strode over to the wardrobe and pulled open the doors to reveal that it was bare. “Besides, if he has been abducted, would they also take his clothes?” He returned to the bed and flipped over the pillow to reveal a neatly folded hospital gown. “Or tidy up after him. No, his Lordship left of his own accord.”

“You mentioned Victor,” Marie said, refusing to be ignored this time. “What has he been doing?”

Holmes sighed and turned to the young woman. “I’m afraid this will come as a shock to you. Your fiancé paid Nelson Powell to stab your father.”

Marie took a step back. “No. He can’t have.”

“He could and he did. Mr Powell has given himself up.”

“And Victor?”

“I’m afraid he is dead, my dear,” I said.

“Dead?”

“He took his own life,” Holmes stated flatly, and I looked at him sharply. We both knew that was untrue. “In the manner of his father.”

“But why?”

“He left no note, so we shall never know. Maybe it was remorse for what he had done.”

Marie was visibly shaking. I went to touch her arm, but she pulled back. “How could he involve Nelson?” she said. “And how could Nelson agree?”

“Sutcliffe told him about the baby,” I said. “Mr Powell accepted the money to find your son.”

“And now everyone will know my shame. Good. Let them all know. Let them know how I was treated.” She pointed angrily at the bed. “This is his fault. He caused this. All of it.”

“Lord Redshaw thought he was doing what was best,” I argued.

“For him. Not for me. Not for my son.”

“Lady Marie,” Holmes said. “I realise this is all very distressing, but there are other forces at play. Whatever you think of your father, he may be in danger. Your sister made it clear that I am not welcome at Ridgeside, but if you would grant me permission…”

“Do what you want,” Marie snapped. “Everyone does. I can’t stay here any longer. Not after this.”

She went to leave, but I called after her. “Lady Marie, I’m sure the scandal will pass. People will forget.”

She turned to me, her eyes flashing with anger. “You think that is what I care about? Let them think what they will. I’m not leaving for them. I’m leaving for myself.”

Marie swept from the room and I went to follow, but Holmes held me back. “Let her go, Watson. You will see her soon enough.”

“Why? Where are we going?”

“Back to Ridgeside. We need to find Lord Redshaw, and tell him everything.”