Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Was Not

by Sequeira, Christopher;

  In the evenings I would don my flat cap and hiking boots to explore the trails and pathways that criss-crossed the terrain. Oftentimes, I would meander around the eerie heather-and- gorse covered landscape up as far as the Devil’s Punch Bowl. Local folklore had it that Satan had slammed his fist into the earth, creating this basin-shaped valley. Although I detected all manner of nocturnal spirits and pagan mischief-makers, at this moment in time I sensed no malevolent presence or the dregs of devilry and black magick.

  One day by coincidence or grand design—some would argue they were one and the same—I took a new route at the western juncture of the road from Haslemere with the Portsmouth Road only to discover a three-storey red brick home built into a natural alcove on a landholding of several acres. The house was asymmetrical, flush with mullioned windows, and capped by a steeply angled roof. There was a grove of trees and shrubs in its surrounds and a magnificent south-facing outlook of the undulating South Downs vista.

  I had heard of this house but couldn’t remember its name. I had thought it to be vacant until recent idle village chatter informed me it had been leased to a retired headmaster. It was now clearly occupied because one of its chimneys was smoking and the aforementioned man with angular features and a rather patrician bearing who looked to be in his fifties, stood staring into nothing. Even though it was on the cusp of sunset, from my vantage point I could see lines in his forehead etched into a grimace as if he had retracted his consciousness into a tight ball in his brain matter and was pondering some inevitable “why”. I did not want to linger for fear of intruding so continued on my way.

  I was to find out later he was certainly no schoolteacher. Rather, he was a detective and that our paths were about to cross on a criminal case that teetered on the edge of being unsolvable had he not been called in to consult on it.

  The Haslemere and District Cottage Hospital had been set up to tend to the poor in the parish. It was a small building nestled in a copse of thin pines. It had ten beds and two cots, as well as a large operating theatre the resident country surgeon had deemed to be scientifically sound and functional.

  On the morning Holmes and I first made our official acquaintance, I had arrived in the middle of a great commotion. A motor car was parked outside the hospital entrance. It was an unusual sight and still warm to the touch. I walked inside and hooked my hat and coat onto a rack. A nurse came scurrying around the corner—her apron flapping and her young, roundish face puckered up in obvious distress. She gesticulated to me to follow her into the main ward, which doubled as casualty.

  Dr Lambert was checking the vital signs of a young woman who lay limp and supine on the cast iron bed closest to the door. Her limbs were unceremoniously splayed out as if she had just been dumped there. Her carefully coiffed and pinned up auburn hair was in complete disarray. Her complexion was rosy and flushed. She also had blue circles under her eyes, which contrasted with her dry and blistered lips.

  Now, I am not customarily one to notice women’s garments, but in this instance her blue satin ball gown was rumpled and had edged up so much I noticed tears in her stockings; at the knees. The ward sister hastily pulled down the skirt to preserve the young woman’s modesty while I averted my gaze.

  A fresh-faced young gentleman was pacing backwards and forwards at the foot of the bed. He looked to be in his early twenties, and his thick, russet hair was sweat-stuck to his forehead. He wore a double-breasted driving coat, and was twisting a bowler hat in his hands.

  “Quick. The facts!” demanded Dr Lambert as he felt for a pulse on his unconscious charge.

  “The patient’s name is Sophie Brackenridge,” said the nurse, “She’s four-and-twenty and—”

  “And I found her just like this, slumped on the floor of her private quarters,” interrupted the young man, biting his lip. “There was nary a breath. Can you help her?”

  “I won’t know until I make a proper assessment…” mumbled the doctor, but the young man continued on in agitation, as if the words tumbling out of his mouth would somehow impact positively on the diagnosis, “I’ve never driven so fast in my life.”

  “May I inquire as to your name and your relationship with the patient?” I interceded quietly to divert the young man’s attention. The doctor trusted me in these instances as I often had a seemingly unnatural ability to calm people down.

  “Toby Brackenridge,” replied the young man whose breathing was beginning to slow. “Sophie’s my sister. Is she dying?”

  “I think the doctor needs some time to examine her more closely. Come…” I said pointing to the far wall, “…and help me fetch those partitions over there.”

  “Of course. Of course,” stammered Brackenridge. Before I could muster a step, he had walked over to the wall, hoisted up a folding screen under each arm and tottered back.

  “Where do you want them?” he asked.

  “To the side and foot of the bed,” I answered and he set them up promptly after which we positioned ourselves behind the side screen with our backs to the other patients in the ward.

  I could see that taking action on what even appeared to him to be a benign task helped him feel he was being useful. But there had been a practical goal to this enterprise. Creating a barrier also prevented other patients from seeing what was going on. Out of the corner of my eye I had caught them craning their heads to peer at the unconscious newcomer since it appeared by all accounts that rather than treating a charitable case, Dr Lambert was ministering to the local gentry. And one thing I had learned from my time as an observer of human nature was that no matter how many maladies a person was suffering or indeed what strata of society or part of the world they came from, when there was scandal to be had then they suddenly developed an added sensory capability that caused them to focus their attention with remarkable acuity.

  Brackenridge must have caught the other patients staring too because he lowered his voice and quietly pressed me, “Please, sir. I must speak to the doctor at once on a most confidential matter. Would you be so kind as to arrange it?”

  By then the senior nurse, Mary, a plump middle-aged woman who was exceptionally competent, had joined the medical team. I guessed they were disrobing the poor girl because a moment later the aforementioned blue dress was tossed over one of the screens. The entire process was laborious and seemed to take an eternity.

  “I don’t know why these swan-bills are legal,” murmured Nurse Mary from behind the barrier. She emerged a moment later, holding up the offending corset with two fingers and then tossed it with contempt into a receptacle on the floor, “They should be criminalised for the harm they do.

  “More often than not this hospital has become a fainting room for young ladies who lace themselves too tightly,” she nattered on to anybody who was listening, “Is that what you think has happened in this case, Doctor?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” came the reply, “I give no credence to the theory that young women swoon because they’re all hysterics. But I do fear that fashion dictates the female body be forced into this unnatural S-shape, thrusting the chest forward like that of a courting pigeon…”

  “Faut souffrir pour etre belle,” proclaimed a strange man’s voice from the doorway. The words were articulated precisely and with supreme condescension. Both startled, Brackenridge and I spun our heads in the direction of the voice’s possessor, although from our vantage point we could not see who it was.

  “Only the French and their obsession with fashion would make up an inane utterance like that,” continued the soliloquy, “But I’ve always thought it counterproductive to the human condition. It wouldn’t be necessary to suffer in order to be beautiful if we’d concentrate on cultivating our intellect instead.”

  The nurses tittered.

  “I don’t know who you are, sir, but you’re intruding,” said the doctor from inside the partitioned space, “Please leave at once.”

  “Tha
t’s not possible,” replied the disembodied voice, “I’m here on official business.”

  And with that, I heard the man stride up, and saw the two screens being pulled apart with great indiscretion.

  I recognised him at once.

  Backcombed hair the colour of onyx inter-mixed with streaks of grey, the sharp profile, the grandiose manner. The man in the purple robe, only this time he was dressed in a tweed day suit and coat that had the lingering scent of tobacco trapped in its fibres. In his hand he held a gold-tipped black cane that I suspected was less a walking implement and more of tool to brandish when making a point.

  He leaned in and peered at Sophie Brackenridge with his dark eyes. There was no latent significance—carnal or otherwise—to his gaze. It was more a measured inspection from head to toe as if he was gleaning information.

  Sophie now lay on her back, dressed only in a muslin shift. The doctor lifted her eyelids to reveal misty, dilated pupils. Indeed, her irises were practically obliterated so I could barely discern their bluish-grey rims. Her skin appeared scarlet, as if she had been sitting too close to a fire. There were also abrasions on her hands and knees, and her fingers and toes were twitching. The doctor then began raising her gaunt arms above her head and pushing them down and then back up to stimulate the muscles around her chest to force air into her lungs.

  “Get out!” he said plainly with a fierce look on his face.

  The intruder did not budge.

  “Now look here, man, step aside,” said young Brackenridge, pushing his way in and positioning himself between the visitor and the bed, “Who are you anyway? And why are you here?”

  “I’ll answer your second question first, my dear fellow,” said the stranger, leaning in to examine Toby’s face closely. “You’re the young woman’s brother, I take it? I can see the family resemblance.” He gently thrust Toby aside with his cane to reposition himself so he could observe everything that was happening, “I’m actually here by your invitation…”

  I saw Toby relax.

  “And to answer your first question,” he said, looking young Brackenridge straight in the face in a supercilious manner, “Since you have so shockingly forced me out of not only my bed but also my so-called retirement to hire me… I’m a consulting detective and my name is Sherlock Holmes.”

  Miss Brackenridge had stabilised somewhat after the doctor had given her an injection of a pharmaceutical he later told me was derived from the leaflets of a South American shrub. It reversed some of the effects of her ailment because her breathing became steadier, although her pulse still remained rapid and weak, her skin hot and dry, and she lingered in a state of unconsciousness. The doctor wore a worried look as he placed her dress, shoes, petticoats and stockings into a box that was to be sealed and made available for later inspection. He had also insisted that Holmes get out; even though it appeared for all intents and purposes that Brackenridge had hired the detective to stave off trouble for his sister. The problem at this point in time was that I had no inkling what that prospective strife could be.

  I was given the task of escorting Holmes out of the premises and, as I was in the process of complying, he extended his hand to me in a grip I instantly recognised as that of the London lodge. I reacted almost by instinct and sought to respond with the corresponding token but suppressed my inclination just in time when I glanced at him and saw his eyes alight with mischievous glee. He had set a trap and I had well and truly nearly walked into it. Holmes then accompanied an agitated Brackenridge into the grounds where they had an intense but muted conversation I was not privy to.

  Dr Lambert emerged for a brief period drying his hands with a cloth and then took me aside and whispered something in my ear.

  “I don’t know whether she is readying herself to walk out to death or to walk back in to life but there’s something peculiar about the manner in which she was brought here and the cause of her condition,” he murmured, “Perhaps you’ll be able to shed light on the matter.”

  He could not be spared, as he needed to monitor his patient’s progress. Instead he asked me to accompany Holmes and Brackenridge to the family estate—he had a theory as to what might be keeping his patient non-responsive but it needed confirmation. He had already sent a messenger to report his suspicions to the police. Beyond that I knew nothing more except that I was to provide an account on any findings that could have a direct bearing on his treatment regime.

  Holmes and I were now travelling in a hansom cab, as Holmes had refused to step into Brackenridge’s “infernal metallic wheeled contraption” as he had put it. I did not take him for a Luddite but I suspected the familiar rhythm and sway of our current mode of transportation would have been more conducive to deliberation. However, as it was, young Toby was forced to follow us in his automobile, albeit at a pace that must have seemed ponderous for him.

  Holmes turned his attention upon me, as soon as we sat down in the carriage.

  “I understand your name is Moriarty…” he said, with grit in his voice.

  “Yes, indeed; Dr Theodore William Moriarty, to be specific. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Holmes.”

  He seemed bemused.

  “Not related to any criminal masterminds I gather…unless, of course, you’re the single white sheep in a notoriously black flock.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I responded in exasperation.

  “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. For one thing, you have a very obvious Irish accent that instantly sets you apart from your namesake. Furthermore, a long sojourn in Africa would have meant you’re not always privy to sensational news from home.”

  I turned to him and stared.

  “Let it further be said, Dr Moriarty, that I don’t subscribe to spiritualism,” he continued contemptuously, “It is a prestidig­itation, sleight of hand, a mere conjuring of a speckled band.”

  I absorbed what he had to say for a moment but chose not to be insulted or provoked. Nor did I attempt to remain hidden in the shadows as others of my kindred might have done because I unequivocally understood there could be no subterfuge with him… his sense of observation was so acute that he could see hidden truths as plainly as a red fox on virgin snow.

  “That’s your privilege, Mr Holmes,” I said, “My earthly calling is not to convince you as to the veracity of what I do nor what beliefs I subscribe to.”

  He didn’t say a word, and sat there rather smugly knowing what he had revealed to me about myself had been verified by my response. I sensed him waiting for the subsequent question that he invariably must have heard a thousand times before, “Oh, my goodness. However did you figure that out?”

  But I could not give it to him. It was not that I wanted or indeed needed to compete with his expertise—that was not my modus operandi nor my intention—but I did not want to play his game, either. I grasped he was a master manipulator…setting up bait in the form of a curiosity trap that inevitably his audience would walk into and whereby he could bear witness to them gasping at his cleverness. I already knew him to be exceptionally intelligent and a rationalist. The yellow told me so. I also sensed his vibration and empathically understood that despite his condescension and superior manner, that I had a most rare opportunity to take on a role of student; for I had an inkling that what he could teach me would prove important in my later career. In order for this to happen, I needed to earn his respect. In order to earn his respect and perhaps give him an insight into my world, I had to answer with something from my own repertoire of skills. But before I drew breath, he continued.

  “How did I deduce that, might you well ask?”

  I cocked an eyebrow and listened without responding, as the cab continued clattering over the road towards its destination with the clip clopping of hooves.

  “Well, it was really a simple matter.

  “Your Celtic complexion is sun-bronzed but not sun-roasted.
It is not a mere tint from a sunny picnic by the riverbank, rather the deep lines around your eyes and mouth give you the appearance of somebody older than your biological age of…hmmmm…thirty-five or thereabouts. This suggests a long stay in a hot climate. Australia, perhaps, where the Irish are prone to emigrate either as freemen or in shackles in its not-so-distant convict past? No; too hot and extreme. Your face would have been even more degraded and be covered in cancerous growths by now. Much closer to home…Africa; but not the desert. A more temperate clime.

  “And before you protest, I will confess when I entered the hospital I took the liberty of poking my head into an office to look for a person in authority before finding my way to the ward. There was an ostrich feather quill with an engraved bronze tip together with an inkpot on a writing desk. Too frivolous and feminine to be used on the job but sentimental enough to remain in plain sight every time its owner—you—would sit down. A gift from your wife, I suspect, to remind you she’s waiting your return.

  “Now tell me, are you partial to mussels?”

  “Yes…with stout and black pepper,” I replied, more in fasc­ination than resentment at his impertinence. He gave me a self-satisfied look that I was to see again and again during our acquaintance. He gazed out of the window and then inexplicably began whistling a tune that I was more than familiar with. The lyrics tumbled over in my head.