The Patient's Eyes: The Dark Beginnings of Sherlock Holmes

by Pirie, David

  Anatomy/General Medicine/Pathology (Poisons)

  Geology

  Botany

  Typography

  Abnormal psychology

  Cryptography

  Weaponry

  Mathematics – some obscure

  Anatomy

  Law

  Popular literature

  I sat there staring at this list for many minutes, determined to see what it meant. For a wild moment it crossed my mind that the weaponry might indicate some military interests but then I realised there was not a scrap about the military in the rest of the collection. Finally I recall giving it up and deciding that all this showed me was what I already knew: namely that the Doctor was an eccentric, whimsical and infuriating individualist who followed his own tastes regardless of anyone else. I tore the thing up and threw it away in disgust. But in my heart I knew I had failed.

  And it was the knowledge of that failure which spurred me to more extreme action. The idea came to me as I was crossing the square a few days after the business with the books. Why in the world, I thought, should I have bothered with the Doctor’s so-called ‘method’, a process which I knew to be flawed and based on luck and bluff, when there was a far simpler and more direct means of pursuing the matter?

  That very night events played into my hands. All day the weather had been unsettled and by the evening it was foul; a great wind roared around the square, blowing gusts of rain against its walls and windows. The Doctor was, to say the least, unsettled. Twice he came through that locked door and twice returned inside it. Finally, as I sat there alone, one of the janitors handed in a telegram for him. I was about to go and knock on the door, but as so often Bell was ahead of me and came out before I could reach it, taking the telegram, which he had obviously been expecting, and turning back into the locked room. However, he reappeared almost at once, locking the door behind him. He had put on his coat and was clearly in a hurry, for he collected his cane and exited the room without even addressing me. Here was my chance.

  Outside, the rain was now coming in gusts, but despite the weather no black carriage appeared for him on this occasion. The Doctor buttoned up his coat and moved quickly, but I could be fast too when I wanted and soon I was suitably placed fifty yards or so behind him as he hurried past the shops and taverns of the Cowgate. Fortunately, despite the threatening weather, there were still people about and I was able to keep them between me and him. Once I had to duck into the opening by a butcher’s shop when he stopped for a moment to adjust his coat, but then he hurried on, turned into a side street and entered a large grey building.

  I waited a few moments and then I entered it too. It appeared to be a public office of some kind. Halfway up the stairs ahead of me a lamp with a badly trimmed wick gave out a flickering and unpleasant light. I looked down a grey stone corridor, which seemed empty apart from a black bucket. The only door Bell could have gone through was directly opposite me and had not been properly closed. Outside, the rain had started to lash down in earnest. Hugging the wall and keeping deadly quiet, I applied my eye to the crack.

  At first I could see nothing, for the room beyond was even more grim and shadowy than the hall. Then I made out the figure of the Doctor, looking down at something and talking softly to another man who was professional in appearance. All I could see before them was a blur and then Bell moved slightly and I caught a glimpse of pale skin and ghostly white hair. It was the body of a woman. I was in a mortuary.

  I felt slightly disappointed. Had I gone to all this trouble, merely to find the Doctor was engaged in more medical work? But then I reflected that in his normal duties Bell would rarely have reason or need to attend a mortuary. He was an indefatigable researcher but if there was research to be done, as I had seen when I first met him, the corpse would generally be brought to him. Moreover, there appeared to be nothing very medical about the conversation I could hear, which seemed highly confidential and rather urgent.

  ‘But who exactly was in the house?’ Bell’s eyes were fixed on the corpse. ‘Is nobody to question them?’

  The other man said something I did not catch. But I caught Bell’s reply, which was angry: ‘I do not care. Beecher is wrong, as he has been wrong before.’

  I had never heard of any doctor called Beecher, but the name did sound familiar.

  The other man turned back to the body. ‘But there is not a mark on her! Surely, you must be satisfied now?’

  ‘I will be satisfied’, said the Doctor grimly, ‘only when I know the whole truth. I would like you to tell Walton to prepare for a full post-mortem. At once. Time is crucial.’

  The man made ready to leave, but I lingered, for after all he did not know me and I could pretend to be on some errand if he saw me in the hall. I was intrigued by what I had learned. If the Doctor was ordering a post-mortem, it showed me he was involved in some kind of forensic work, even though I was sure that was neither his speciality nor his official vocation.

  His next words, however, turned my legs to jelly. ‘Oh, Summers,’ he said. ‘Could you send my clerk in on your way out? You will find him on the other side of that door.’

  THE MURDERS OF MR CARSTAIRS

  I stepped back, but it was far too late. Escape was now useless even if it had been possible. I had to stand there like an idiot while the man came out. ‘Are you his clerk?’ he asked with a smile. ‘Well you’d better go in.’

  ‘A word of advice,’ said Dr Bell as I hung back in the doorway, not knowing whether to go over to the slab where he stood or stay where I was. ‘When you are following someone, keep well away from lighted windows.’ I reddened, feeling very foolish. ‘Did you enjoy scrutinising my library last week? What did it tell you?’

  I said nothing, amazed. ‘Oh,’ he continued. ‘I have followed your enquiries with interest. In fact, I will admit you have shown more application than any other clerk. Therefore I propose to make you an exception.’ And he beckoned me over.

  I moved forward until I stood across the body from him. ‘Forensic work?’ I asked.

  He nodded. ‘Yes, initially it was forensic advice I was asked for in confidence by the city’s constabulary. It was many years ago. Summers, the forensic pathologist whom you just saw, was away and they wanted urgently to know how a man had died. That was the beginning. But everything I have seen since, Doyle, confirms me in my most cherished belief that there is so much beyond forensics. We have only scratched the surface of the thing. I am utterly sure now that crimes can be diagnosed in the same fashion as we diagnose a disease.’

  ‘So it is the “method” again?’ I still felt sceptical.

  ‘Yes and there, right in front of you, is its practical application. Her name is Mrs Canning.’

  I had been so intent on the Doctor, that it was only now I looked closely at the corpse. I was a medical student. I had seen plenty of dead bodies. Yet something about this one was deeply distressing. On the slab lay a woman of around forty covered up to the waist by a pale sheet. You could see that once she had been very beautiful. A mane of long silver hair was brushed back over her shoulders. Her features were pale and rather fine. But there was an expression on her face I still recall to this day.

  Dead she was, but the emotion in that face was living. Her eyes started from their sockets, the teeth were set, the mouth contorted. She had bitten a lip at the edge for the mark of the tooth was visible. In spite of its immobility that face still screamed at you.

  Seeing this, I looked down, expecting to see the marks on her body of some fearful accident or attack that had caused such anguish. There were none. The body seemed quite untouched, the skin unbroken. From what I could see, there was not the slightest evidence of any violence.

  Bell’s voice broke through my thoughts. ‘From this point I will need an undertaking of absolute confidentiality.’ He was staring at me, my answer was clearly important to him.

  ‘You have it,’ I said, making the promise I had kept faithfully until now.

  He seemed sat
isfied and proceeded to pull back the rest of the sheet carefully, almost tenderly. The lower body showed nothing unusual and he glanced from it to me. ‘So what is your opinion?’

  I turned back to him. ‘She is quite unmarked. Do you believe she was murdered?’

  ‘Yes, I do, but they fall back on heart failure.’ He waited a moment, then he took a pace back and turned away, evidently frustrated. ‘Soon after I took up this work, Doyle, I discovered one of its great problems, namely that the authorities investigate as little as they can and only when they are absolutely sure of obtaining a conviction. The result is, of course, that most of the murders they detect are so stupid they are hardly worth the name. A traveller is bludgeoned to death over a game of cards. A man steals a horse after slitting its owner’s throat. A woman sets out to poison her husband and uses so much arsenic she is half dead herself. That is the type of murder the authorities prefer. It gives comfort to the ignorant while enabling the worst kinds of crime to continue unremarked.’

  He broke off, as a man in dark overalls entered the room, accompanied by a young tousle-haired assistant who carried an array of grisly saws and knives, and cleared his throat.

  The Doctor was evidently pleased to see them. ‘Ah, Walton.’ He put his hands together. ‘Good, you are starting …’

  Later, the Doctor and I moved down South Bridge in a hansom cab, which Walton had instructed to wait for us, and just as well, for the storm had truly begun and there was not a soul out. I was doubly excited not only that I had discovered the truth but that I was being allowed to witness an investigation. What I could not know then was the particular urgency of the affair. Ever since the Chantrelle case, which I will describe in due course, Bell had endured a very fallow period in his work as an investigator. It was only recently that the police had, somewhat grudgingly, consulted him again. He was, therefore, risking a great deal by his insistence on further enquiries into Mrs Canning’s death and neither he nor anyone else could possibly be sure of the outcome. Cases like this one rarely occurred, and even more rarely came to such a quick and dramatic conclusion.

  Eventually the cab deposited us at a large but slightly forbidding town house on the edge of the new town. On that street, at that hour, it was one of the only houses where lights were still burning. A policeman opened the door and nodded respectfully at Bell. I had just taken to wearing my father’s pocket watch, which had been newly cleaned and, as we entered and passed the policeman, I remember the pride with which I removed it from my breast pocket and consulted it, noting that it was already nearly ten o’clock.

  Ahead of us were a staircase and a corridor. I followed Bell up the stairs past some fine portraits of steamships to the second floor where my feet sank into one of the thickest hall carpets I had ever seen as I walked behind him through a door ahead of us.

  We had entered a very ornate and luxurious lady’s bedroom with rich hangings, brocaded wallpaper and a large bed. Two men were standing by the window and they turned as we came in. One of them was Summers, the pathologist, whom I had seen earlier.

  The other was a large and impressive-looking figure, with thick dark hair and an official manner. ‘Ah, Bell.’ He turned. ‘At last you are here; we have hung on long enough. Have your autopsy by all means and then I think we can close the matter and let the poor woman rest.’

  Bell ignored this and introduced me to them as his clerk. The larger man was Beecher and I remembered where I had heard the name: he was a senior detective of the city’s constabulary and often mentioned in the newspapers.

  Beecher looked at me for a moment. ‘In confidence, I take it?’ I nodded but I could sense his irritation. ‘Well, I doubt you will learn anything tonight for I wish to conclude the matter as soon as possible. There are some unusual features, but the fact remains she was locked in here, with her maid outside. There is no evidence of any crime and no living person could have got near her.’

  Bell had been examining the area around the bed, but now he looked up. ‘No living person! Perhaps I agree.’

  ‘She was locked in!’ I said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, the woman was an hysteric,’ said Summers. His words were so brutal and dismissive that they made me almost indignant, for I remembered the expression on the corpse’s face. I was suddenly conscious of the pain and suffering this room had seen, and I found myself staring at the bed where she had died.

  Beecher was keeping his eyes on Bell. ‘It is fortunate for us in a way that she was. Her maid tasted all her food and drink in the presence of other servants. That is confirmed by the whole house, so I feel sure we can rule out poison.’

  Partly to get away from the bed, I walked over to the window, looking for signs that someone had broken in. Since the Doctor had been generous enough to include me in this expedition, I wanted to try to defend his cause. ‘Have you considered suffocation?’ I asked. ‘It would not necessarily leave marks.’

  ‘Except you will find no possible way in there or anywhere else except the door,’ said Beecher scathingly. ‘The walls are solid. And there is no hiding place.’

  I felt very foolish now for I saw he was right. The window was nailed down from the inside and from the look of the wood had not been opened for many weeks. Beecher clearly enjoyed my embarrassment. ‘Oh, yes, apart from Bell here we are all quite certain this death was natural.’

  ‘Tell me,’ asked Bell from where he was studying the carpet at the end of the bed, ‘did you follow up the matter of the husband?’

  ‘It is just as he told us,’ said Beecher. ‘He was away that night until long after her death, playing in his club’s annual bridge competition, which lasted throughout the entire night. There are innumerable witnesses. You wish to meet him?’

  ‘In time,’ said Bell. ‘First I want to talk to the maid.’

  A few minutes later we were seated in a neat servant’s sitting room in the basement of the house. Mary, a tearful, dark-haired Irish maid, sat opposite us, twisting a handkerchief in her lap, which she used occasionally to dab at her eyes … ‘Myself and the cook and the other maid, we all took turns to stand watch outside the mistress’s door all night, sir, as she asked,’ she was saying in answer to Bell’s first question. ‘It reassured her. But I heard and saw nothing.’

  ‘Why was it you guarded her in this way?’ said the Doctor who had utterly cast aside the imperious manner of the lecture room and spoke with every appearance of genuine kindness. ‘I understand the door was in any case locked and bolted from the inside, so you could not have entered.’

  ‘That is true, sir, but she was still frightened. She said she feared she would be attacked.’

  ‘By whom?’ Bell spoke gently but I could see how interesting he found this.

  ‘Someone invisible. That’s all she would say about it. She talked of an invisible thing that would come and murder her.’ She bit her lip but could not stop a fresh flood of tears.

  ‘And do you think, Mary,’ enquired the Doctor looking concerned, ‘that anyone was trying to hurt her?’

  ‘I cannot see why,’ spoke the girl fiercely through her tears. ‘For a nicer, sweeter person never lived. But she had been all nerves for some time. And she was not helped by the loss of her poor cat. I did not mention that before, sir. But it ran off some days ago.’

  ‘While she was away?’ Bell asked quickly.

  ‘Why, yes, sir,’ she answered in surprise. ‘But how did you know that for as I say, I have mentioned it to nobody. It was while she was staying with her sister.’

  Bell seemed thoughtful as we left the room after this talk, though it was hard to see how he could have learned much from it. I asked how he had deduced that the woman was away when her cat had gone missing, but he gave me a glance which indicated that such questions were highly unwelcome.

  Perhaps I should have known better, for the longer we stayed in that house the more clearly I began to observe a change in the Doctor. He was demonstrating all the signs of a man who has begun to immerse himself in a favourit
e, even a sacred, activity. Not only was he more intent, focused and involved than I had yet known him, even his movements became more precise. He would fall into long silences then equally sudden bursts of urgent conversation. Once he asked me to comment on an arrangement of flowers in the drawing room, which was clearly nothing to do with the case but momentarily preoccupied him. I felt the quickening of his whole being.

  In due course I would come to recognise this rush of energy, but here was the very first time I ever saw it. In the midst of a criminal investigation it was as if he came at last on to his native ground, at one with himself and the work he loved.

  Outside, the wind had now become almost a tempest and the rain was lashing against the windows. For a time the Doctor moved lithely around the house in thought, throwing out an occasional observation, which it was clear required no answer. Then, quite late in the night, he suddenly asked if we might be introduced to Mr Canning.

  We met in Canning’s study along the corridor from his wife’s bedroom. He was a stocky and good-looking man, who certainly seemed tortured by his loss. I recall how he stood with his back to us, staring out of the window with tears in his eyes.

  ‘What a night,’ he said with a shudder of horror. ‘I understand you are performing an autopsy at last. Well, I only pray it will tell us the answer. Please God, there is some answer. It is bad enough that she had these fears but now …’

  While Canning talked I noticed the Doctor was continuing his manic activity and taking a great interest in this study. He lingered around the fireplace, looking at the mantelpiece and even ran his hand along the wall on the panelling to one side of it almost as if he were checking for dust.

  He also scrutinised the books on the shelf with far more interest than I thought they warranted, for there was nothing remarkable about them. There were some annuals, dictionaries and novels, and a shelf of architectural studies, which was Canning’s trade. Bell even removed several books from the shelves and glanced at them, yet he was still listening to Canning by the window.