CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
IN PLAIN SIGHT
“I refuse to believe it,” I said.
Holmes clapped his hands together. “What are you waiting for, Watson? You need to pack.”
“Just because Redshaw lied about knowing Kelleher, doesn’t mean he killed the Monsignor.”
“No,” Holmes admitted. “But the fact that his ornamental garden is overflowing with Colchicum autumnale is certainly of interest.”
“Autumn crocus,” I said, eyes wide.
“The very same. I wonder if Ermacora and Kelleher took tea with Lord Redshaw before the Monsignor left for London?”
I thought of Redshaw’s ritual, pouring green tea for his guests.
“Fumeiyo,” I muttered.
“What’s that?”
“Something Redshaw said before he took tea. A custom Sutcliffe brought back from Japan.”
“But Sutcliffe has never been to Japan,” Holmes argued. “Otherwise he would know that the Japanese say kanpai before taking a drink, meaning ‘drain your cup’.”
“No, but that’s what he said fumeiyo means. Something else he got wrong.”
“Did he? Watson, fumeiyo means disgrace or dishonour in Japanese. Sutcliffe had Redshaw and Clifford raising their glass and saying ‘disgrace’ every time they drank tea together.”
“He was playing a joke on them?”
“I wonder if it’s more than that. Either way the epithet fits, for Redshaw at least. Think about it. Why were you visiting Kelleher at the hospital?”
“So Tovey could ask where he and Ermacora had eaten.”
“And the answer would have been Ridgeside Manor. But Father Kelleher is silenced before he can tell Inspector Tovey. Lord Redshaw’s secret is safe, but to make doubly sure he greets you and the inspector, taking you in – in every sense of the word.”
“You think he killed Kelleher too?”
“He lied about knowing the priest. Why not lie about why he was in the hospital in the first place? It was certainly convenient that he was so quickly on the scene, like Sutcliffe in the secret lodge. Now, if you are not going to pack your clothes, may I suggest that you at least bring your service revolver?”
“My revolver? Why? Where are we going?”
“To find Lord Redshaw.”
I did as he asked, slipping my gun into my coat pocket and following Holmes downstairs. Without a second thought, he marched into Redshaw’s study, much to the dismay of Brewer, who called after us.
“Sir? Sir, what do you think you’re doing? That is Lord Redshaw’s private study!”
“We’re looking for the location of the League of Merchants’ Sacred Grove.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“‘Take the completed body to the Sacred Grove,’ Holmes said, reciting the Saisei ritual even though the reference would obviously be lost on Brewer. “The Lodge. Clifford called it their sanctum sanctorum. All I need is the address.” He looked at the bemused butler in anticipation.
“It is on Stephen Street, sir.”
“No, not the official address, the private one. The secret one.”
Holmes opened the drawers to Redshaw’s desk, searching through the contents. Brewer had already called for assistance from the footmen.
“No need, Brewer,” Holmes said, stalking out of the study. “There’s nothing here. But what about the drawing room? All those maps on the walls.”
“Mr Holmes!”
The detective ignored the butler and strode into the drawing room to perform a swift circuit of the walls. “There has to be something here. No, not this one. Nor this.”
“What are you looking for, Holmes?” I asked.
“I shall know when I see it,” Holmes replied, stopping in front of the great marble chimney breast. “That’s odd.”
“Odd? It’s a monstrosity, that’s what it is.”
“No, I mean the map, carved into the marble. It is slightly askew, with much of the old city to the right. Why position it like that?”
“Because the League’s headquarters are at the centre. Redshaw told me so himself.”
“But they are not.” Holmes peered closer. “Look, there is Stephen Street, to the right. It is not central at all – but that is.” He pointed towards a small lane.
Holmes hurried over to a framed map on the wall, finding the same lane on the yellowed parchment. “Lye Close,” he announced, with a chuckle. “How very appropriate. That’s where the League really are, just off Canynge Square in Clifton.”
“The secret lodge,” I realised.
“I knew you would get there in the end, Watson.”
Holmes’s triumph was short-lived. Brewer stepped forward, his expression telling us that enough was enough, as did the presence of several large footmen standing behind him.
“I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to leave, sir.”
“No need. We are on our way. Watson will send for his things later. Be a good fellow and pack them up for him, will you?”
Lady Marie was struggling down the stairs with a large suitcase as we approached the front door.
“Lady Marie,” Holmes said, skipping up the last few steps to help her with her luggage. “Let me assist. We are going into town, quite near to Temple Meads Station, if you require a lift?”
“Thank you, Mr Holmes, but I can take one of my father’s carriages. I have relied on others for too long.”
“A wise decision,” the detective said, placing the suitcase at the bottom of the stairs. “Then we shall bid you farewell. Don’t worry about us, Brewer. We can see ourselves out.”
Holmes rushed ahead of the now beetroot-faced butler and yanked open the door to find Inspector Gregory Hawthorne about to ring the doorbell.
“Ah, there you are,” the inspector said with a tight smile as he laid eyes on my disguised friend.
“Good to see you, Inspector,” Holmes said, trying to step around the policeman. “If you wish to see Lady Marie, there she is. She already knows the fate of her late fiancé, I’m afraid, if that is what you have come to tell her.”
Hawthorne moved to block Holmes’s path.
“I haven’t come to see Lady Marie,” he said, his smile becoming savage. “I’ve come to see you. You’re under arrest… Sherlock Holmes.”