“I think so. It’s a large house, you know, Merrick. Much bigger than either of us had in Paddington.” I thought that I heard something then about “bloody lot more house than one man needs!” But he was almost out of earshot, so I may have been mistaken.
In fact, I did recall the library’s location, as well as the general layout of the house. There were two wings; and Anstruther’s bedroom was in this one, on the first floor immediately above the library. Merrick’s bedroom, in the servant’s quarters, was on the second floor of the other wing. For all practical purposes, therefore, Richard and I would be alone when he returned.
I found the library easily and waited for the stipulated time, trying to calm myself by reviewing my diagnoses of the patients I had seen that day. When the clock on the mantelpiece struck ten, I returned to the foyer, scribbled a note upon a calling card, and left it in a salver on a table by the door. Then, on impulse, I opened the door and walked outside, eager for a breath of air. It was a moonless night, but wonderfully clear by London standards. For one solitary moment in eternity, I stood there, gazing at the myriad of stars and offering a prayer for absolution. I did not place Merrick’s key under the doormat, for I intended to pass that way again.
Reentering the house, I removed my boots and carried them, with my medical bag, down the hallway in my stockings, keeping closely to the left-hand wall. In my present state of nerves, I was thankful that no stair creaked when I mounted to the upper floor, although Merrick could not in any case have heard it. Anstruther’s bedroom was indeed where I remembered it; the latch clicked softly as I opened his door and stepped inside. There, the bedside lamp cast a soft glow upon the sheets, which had already been turned back invitingly. Anstruther’s dressing gown and slippers lay ready for his use. On that June evening, Merrick had not lit a fire, so the bedroom was a trifle chilly. That suited my purpose very well. Setting down my boots, I put on my former colleague’s slippers. He was a smaller man than I was, so they were a little tight. Then I unclasped my doctor’s bag, placed it carefully open on its side above the turned-down sheets, and waited. At that hour of the night, every creature seeks out warmth and darkness. Afterward, I took my bag and boots and hid myself next to the fireplace, inside a recessed alcove in the far corner of the room.
It was past two when I heard Anstruther’s step out in the hallway. As the door opened and he entered, the pale lamplight shone full upon his face. Although he wore the apparel of a rich, successful man, the months since our last meeting had not been kind to him. He looked tired, faintly querulous, and older than his years, no longer the dashing young physician of poor Mary’s dreams. Burdened by this knowledge, I stepped out from my hiding place.
Anstruther turned toward me, and his face went white. “My God—Watson! What the devil are you doing here?”
“Is that the way you greet an old friend, Richard?” Having reminded him that we had once been close enough to use our Christian names, I sat down in the chair beside his bed. “Surely you saw my calling card left in the foyer? I must say, you keep extraordinarily late hours for a man engaged in serious research.”
“What do you know of my research?” he sniffed disdainfully, moving to the bed to retrieve his dressing gown. “And what on Earth are you doing in my slippers?”
“I hated to track mud onto your beautiful new carpet. As for your research, I may know more than you suppose. I ought to; you told me enough about the deuced fevers of the Ganges to last me all my life. Allow me to congratulate you on your illuminating article in last month’s Lancet.”
“Humbug! You probably didn’t even understand it. I could barely make you grasp the concept back in Paddington.”
“Well, not at first, perhaps. But I could hardly fail to be impressed by that remarkable demonstration you gave afterward. I would never have believed that so deadly an infection could be transmitted in a cup of tea, but you proved it entirely to my satisfaction.”
“What are you babbling about, Watson? You must be drunk.”
“Oh, come now, Richard. You remember that fine Darjeeling, the special blend from your father’s estate in the Himalayan foothills? It was your Christmas present to us. Mary drank a cup the afternoon I took it home, and the next night Mary died. You must have retrieved the canister during your visit the next morning, because I never saw it after that.”
Anstruther’s face was blotched with rage. “It wasn’t meant for her, you fool! Mary despised tea; I’d known that since I met her. In my wildest fancy, I couldn’t have dreamed that she would choose that day to break a lifelong habit.”
“She drank that tea because it came from you, as you might have known she would. I’m sure that Moran’s plan was to kill the two of us, whatever he told you—or whatever you may have tried to tell yourself since then.”
“Moran!” He started with amazement and sat down abruptly on the bed. At its foot, I saw the counterpane shift slightly. “How do you know about Moran?”
“I saw him leaving your consulting room,” I answered coldly, “on the afternoon you presented me with your accursed tea. Of course, I didn’t know then whom I was seeing. That surprise came later, when Holmes and I caught the good colonel shooting air guns into our rooms in Baker Street.”
“Listen, Watson, you don’t understand.” Rising from the bed, Anstruther paced about the room in agitation. “I had no choice. Moran had been my commanding officer in India, and he knew about my research on the Ganges fevers. I’d lost every farthing I possessed playing whist against that man. I was going to lose my practice, my career!”
“Oh, but your career picked up amazingly after Mary’s death. You went from Paddington to Brook Street, and at last you had the money to finance your research.”
“Well, what of it?” Now he turned to face me with an effort at bravado. “Should I have remained a general practitioner in that dismal little hole in Paddington? I’m not a medical nonentity like you, making my living by dogging the footsteps of the great detective. All I had was talent, but by God I did have that! I finally found a way to make the most of it.”
“And all it cost you was the woman you’d once loved.”
“Damn you for all eternity! I loved Mary Morstan until the day she died. Do you think I haven’t cursed myself with every breath I’ve taken since that day? But my work, man! How many lives will it save in the end—hundreds, thousands, millions? Cannot all those lives together absolve me for the one I took?”
“Only God can tell you that, Anstruther.” To keep myself from striking him, I glanced down at the bed. “But you must not come to me for absolution, or beg me not to add my curses to your own. For when you murdered Mary, you cursed me as well.”
“I’m sure of it, Watson. And that, I can tell you, is my only consolation.”
We were both standing now, glaring at each other with a hatred we no longer bothered to conceal. Then Anstruther turned haughtily away; removed his studs, shirt, and trousers; and put on his dressing gown (ridiculously, it had remained draped across one arm throughout our confrontation), while I relapsed into his bedroom chair. When he turned back to me, there was a smile upon his face.
“Just what do you propose to do about it? Poor Mary’s in her grave, and the fatal Darjeeling is somewhere at the bottom of the Thames. I doubt that Moran will accommodate you by admitting his part in the matter. You’ve no evidence at all. Why, I can have you arrested as a common trespasser, and you can howl your story to the moon!”
“That’s right, Richard. I’ve wasted my time in coming here, except for hearing you confess to murder. So I’ll take myself off now, and you can go to bed.”
He laughed at me incredulously. “You really are mad, aren’t you? I’d never realized it before. Well, get out, then. It’s hardly in my interest to stop you. What are you waiting for?”
“For you to go to bed.”
“You mean right now, b
efore you’ve left?” Perhaps it was a glimmer of foreboding that caused his sneer to fade. “What for?”
“For my amusement. I may as well get something for my efforts as a housebreaker.” At that, I reached into the pocket of my coat and drew out my revolver, an Eley’s No. 2. “Get into the bed, Richard.”
He knew then, although no doubt he simply expected me to shoot him. His hands trembled slightly when he took off the dressing gown; but he nodded to me, as though in resignation, and slipped beneath the turned-back sheets.
The scream was instantaneous, but fortunately not prolonged or loud. Dr. Richard Anstruther had encountered the other occupant of his final resting place. It was a swamp adder, the deadliest snake in India. He died within ten seconds of being bitten. For the rest of my long life, I have tried to convince myself that it was as merciful a death as he deserved.
After my interview with Lestrade the next day, I wrote a note to Sherlock Holmes, to be delivered upon the night of his return. It stated briefly that my friend Anstruther had just died under questionable circumstances, and that Scotland Yard desired him to examine the scene of death as soon as possible on Thursday. I added only that I would wait for him that evening in our rooms in Baker Street. It shames me now to write how much I quailed before the prospect of facing my friend as a malefactor.
It was shortly after four o’clock when I arrived. For half an hour, I was a distrait and graceless host to Mrs. Hudson, who, when she finally left, was no doubt as bewildered as I was. Darkness had fallen by the time that Holmes returned. After one quick glance in my direction, he lit the lamp (which I had neglected), took a pipeful of tobacco from the Persian slipper, and fell into the chair opposite my own. When his pipe was drawing well, he commanded simply: “Tell me.” So I told my friend how I became a murderer, much as I have told it here.
When I had finished, Holmes sighed deeply, but he continued sitting in a silence that I found interminable. The words that finally passed his lips were his own epitaph for another murderous physician.
“’When a doctor goes wrong, he is the first of criminals. He has the nerve, and he has the knowledge.’ My compliments, Watson. You really did it very well.”
Many times over the years, I had hoped for words of praise from Sherlock Holmes, but these were unendurable. I could not answer him. So I merely sat and listened, as wretchedly self-contemptuous as I have ever felt, while he began to dissect my performance.
“It was unexpectedly clever of you to wear Anstruther’s slippers. A good thought, that, although ultimately it was ineffective as a blind. Upon examining the victim’s body, I was able to determine that his slippers did not conform precisely to his feet. And to anyone who really knows you, Doctor, that inward turn of your left foot (the result of your old war wound) is readily apparent, regardless of how—or whether—you are shod.”
“I know.” Somehow, I managed to choke out a response. “I did try to sit as much as possible.”
“Well, no matter. Most investigators would not have noticed it. Lestrade, I can assure you, has no more than a suspicion—and certainly no proof—that Dr. Anstruther was not alone in the bedroom where he met his end.”
“I am relieved, though not surprised, to hear it.”
“Still, I could not tell just how you had done it until I saw the body. The police had removed it from the house—that was necessary to ensure its preservation—but upon Lestrade’s instructions they had postponed the autopsy until after my examination. Thanks be to God, I have taught that man something over these past years.
“A look of horror, Watson, was still upon Anstruther’s face. It recalled so forcefully the terrible visage of Dr. Grimesby Roylott that I divined immediately what you had done. Moreover, the serpent’s fang-marks were still visible upon the left foot of the corpse, once I knew to look for them, and there was also some discoloration of the tissue. It is most fortunate for you that Lestrade’s medical examiner—“
“Davies,” I interjected. “Yes, I was rather counting on him.”
“Well, he is evidently as much an ass as his employer. I am not certain that he would have recognized a python wrapped around the victim’s neck.
“But you could not fool me, Watson,” chided Holmes, shaking an admonitory finger. “Just to make assurance double sure, I followed your tracks to Pinchin Lane this afternoon. Old Sherman confirmed that you had borrowed and returned the Roylott adder—he was curious to learn what I had wanted with it—and I knew that I had made my case.”
“Yes, Holmes,” I acknowledged, “as you so often do. But now I must ask what you intend to do with your solution. Naturally, I shall accept you as my judge—you have done as much for other criminals that we have caught together—but this time I am debarred from my usual role as juror. I must stand mute, my lord, and await your verdict.”
Sherlock Holmes was silent for even longer than before. He sat and inhaled his stimulative tobacco, while I devoutly hoped that mine would not prove to be a three-pipe problem. When he finally answered, it was with words I would recall one day when writing of another of his cases.
“I have never loved,” said Holmes. “But if I loved, and if the woman whom I loved was killed in such a way, and by a man whom she had valued as a friend and suitor; if that same man by killing her had also robbed me of the prospect of a son and heir; then—yes—I think I might have done as you have done. It is difficult for me to say, Watson. As I have told you, all emotion is abhorrent to me, and I have never loved.
“But I do know, Doctor, that I missed your help and counsel during my three lost years of wandering more than I can ever say. I would rather have my friend beside me, here in Baker Street, than to bring another murderer to justice. What is justice? What is law? In our imperfect world, it can hold no remedy for such a case as yours. So God—if He exists—must judge you, Watson, for I find that I cannot. My dear fellow,” he concluded sadly, “I know you well enough to know that you will judge yourself.”
And so I have. For the question that I failed to ask, in deciding to kill Richard Anstruther, is what Mary would have wanted. In my remorse, as in my actions, I am no better than the man I murdered; and remorse for actions taken in cold blood may offer little mitigation in the eyes of Heaven. Yet, if I have been permitted to escape the earthly consequences of my crime; and to lead a productive, full, and even honoured life; then let me now, at the end of it, reveal my guilt within these pages and add one last, terrible chapter to these chronicles of my devoted friend.
I trust that in so doing, I shall cast no shadow on his fame. Sherlock Holmes always insisted that he was not retained by the official police to supply their deficiencies. He lived and worked by his own standards; and while those standards may occasionally have been tempered or suspended, they were always in accordance with the dictates of his heart. For my friend possessed a nobler heart than he would ever have acknowledged, and even now I regard him as the best and wisest man whom I have ever known.
John H. Watson, M.D.
August 14, 1931
Also available
Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Tainted Canister Page 3
