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

by Pirie, David

  By eleven o’clock I supposed he must have finished and I went up to see. I had spent some of the evening reflecting on the events of the past few days, and recalling how foolishly I had doubted both his willingness and his ability to help me. Not only had he seen off Cullingworth, but he had helped to establish the beginnings of a practice for me as well. I did not want him to leave thinking I was ungrateful.

  I entered the room, which had contained only one mattress and a chair when I saw it last, and stopped in amazement. At one end there was equipment for chemical analysis, including a bunsen burner. There were a desk, some books and other signs of activity, and in the corner a basic but comfortable bed.

  ‘I thought you would not mind if I improvised a place up here,’ the Doctor said, looking up from where he was writing something. ‘My old colleague had some things he could spare so I had them sent over today. I think they may prove useful to you.’

  I was overwhelmed. ‘He is doubly kind,’ I said. ‘I am glad of any furnishings.’ Now I stared in further wonder at the pile of papers before him. ‘You are making notes of the Cullingworth business before you go back?’ I asked in some bewilderment.

  ‘My dear Doyle, I would hardly bother to write notes of Cullingworth’s feeble little joke, I told you when I arrived there was a matter that gave me reason to come here; it was in your letters.’

  ‘What matter?’

  ‘The matter of Miss Heather Grace and the solitary cyclist.’

  I was aghast.

  ‘I am grateful for your intervention, Doctor,’ I said, trying to make light of it. ‘And even more grateful for my patients. I scarcely want to see you disappointed. But the cyclist has not yet committed any crime and may just be some timid suitor. I made my own investigation.’

  ‘Yes,’ Bell said, getting up and putting on his coat, ‘and everything you did was useless while every conclusion you drew was wrong. Come now, the case is as strange and disturbing as the Cullingworth matter was trivial. Baynes has said he will assist us and we should find a cab. Enough time has been wasted. It is high time to see the ground.’

  THE HORROR OF ABBEY MILL

  So once again, this time with Baynes and the Doctor, I found myself at the same strange spot on that wooded road, still puzzled by the Doctor’s fascination with what I could have sworn he would normally regard as a minor matter. It was not as if he had set eyes on the cyclist and I had scarcely mentioned his more sinister qualities.

  Our cab waited out of sight round the corner and the wood seemed less inviting than ever in the darkness. Baynes was using a lantern to search the trees for clues, close to where I had last seen the cyclist. Meanwhile the Doctor, well buttoned up against the cold, studied the terrain. At last he stood in the exact spot where I had crouched on three occasions. ‘So,’ he asked, ‘was this where you saw the figure?’

  ‘I raced after him to the bend in the road and he was gone. But I had a good sighting and followed your precepts to the letter. Investigation, Observation, Deduction, Conclusion. What could possibly be wrong with that?’

  ‘Almost everything,’ he said dispassionately, staring at the ground. ‘First, your hiding place was useless. Had you been behind the hedge, you could have had a proper view of the cyclist. As it is, you can tell even less than your witness.’

  ‘But I saw him.’

  ‘You saw a vague outline,’ said the Doctor. ‘Indeed, the sum total of knowledge you gained from your expedition was the fact that her story was true. What of that? I never doubted it for a moment.’

  We were interrupted by a shout from Baynes at the turning. When we reached him he was crouched low and pointing at the ground. It was wet but there were distinct marks of a bicycle tyre.

  ‘Well done, Baynes,’ said the Doctor. ‘We will make a detective of you yet.’

  The locum was obviously delighted. ‘Well, I need something to do before I return to Barts, sir. And I do not much wish to stay on with Cullingworth. His pay is as low as his morals.’

  ‘Did he not compensate you as he promised?’ I asked.

  Baynes shrugged. ‘Oh, once the police lost interest he merely paid what he owed. He is not to be trusted for a moment. Maybe it is him in the cloak. He was always interested in Miss Grace. I have seen him spying on her.’

  I was intrigued by this. ‘And he was certainly enraged when he learned of my investigation. In fact, it was the cause of our quarrel.’

  Bell had been following the tracks minutely along the ground and now they came to an end. ‘They seem to lead nowhere,’ he said with disappointment. For a long time he trudged round and round the point at which they stopped, badly frustrated. ‘I think’, he added at last, ‘he must have carried it. But where the devil would he carry it to?’

  He strode back to the road, looking a picture of disappointment. ‘I agree with what you wrote in your letter, Doyle. There is a grim feeling about this place. Is it because highwaymen were hanged at that gibbet back there? Or something else?’

  He turned. The wind was picking up now, blowing the Doctor’s coat around him. ‘At least I can tell you one thing and that is who your patient feared was following her. His name is Ian Coatley.’

  I had no idea where he got this but I knew the Doctor well enough not to bother challenging it. ‘Is he dead?’ I asked with an uneasy feeling.

  ‘Oh, yes, he was hanged,’ said Bell. ‘The murder of Miss Grace’s family at Abbey Mill, which is a few miles away through the wood, was one of the very ugliest crimes of the 1870s.’

  ‘My God,’ I said. ‘Of course, she told me her parents were dead.’

  The Doctor had reached the road and turned to walk back to the corner. ‘Your patient was lucky to escape with her life. The man had killed at least four times.’

  So now I knew the truth. Little wonder the Doctor had been alerted by the name of Heather Grace. With his wide knowledge of crime, he would have been far ahead of me as soon as he had my letters. Here was why he took the affair so seriously. But now too I saw the full horror of the thing for my patient. Was it any surprise that, faced with this odd persecutor on a bicycle, Miss Grace feared her mind had given way? All the visions of past horrors must have seemed to be flooding back. As I thought about it, I felt an inner fury that anybody could be playing these strange tricks on her. In the circumstances it seemed uniquely cruel.

  From that night the Doctor stayed in my house. But his habits, when preoccupied with a case, were still as I remembered. After he had told me of the history, he made it clear he wished to say no more and later he retired to his newly acquired study with the door firmly closed.

  A few days later Miss Grace was sitting in my consulting room, describing the recurring nightmare she had mentioned previously. I would, I hope, in any event have been a sympathetic listener, but knowing the truth about her history made it a very memorable occasion. Afterwards I made detailed notes which are before me now.

  I am in a corridor in my old home. [I recall that she spoke quietly, looking down at her hands which were folded in front of her.] A long dark corridor. At the end of it lies safety, a bright, welcoming room. But I know, always I know with a sickening certainty that I will not be able to reach it. At first I try to ignore this, to hope. I move forward, the light is a little nearer. But soon something is behind me. A figure. I run on desperately but he is closer, and I am barefoot and there is glass on the floor and my feet are bleeding so I cannot move. And the figure is larger and nearer now, and I try to run, but the figure clutches me tightly. He holds me. And I hear him telling me I will never escape, he will always come for me. And then I awake.

  I did not speak for a little while after she had finished. It was indeed truly fearful to think how deeply this dream was rooted in past events. But at last I told her I understood what a torment such a nightmare must be.

  ‘You are the first I ever told,’ she said.

  I wanted so much to offer some reassurance. After we had talked a little more about the dream, I told her my old
teacher, Dr Bell, was going to investigate her cyclist. ‘I am quite certain he will discover who it is.’

  She seemed encouraged. ‘And,’ I went on, ‘he said to tell you your cyclist is flesh and blood. He is not Ian Coatley.’

  There was silence and I wondered if I had made a terrible error. She looked at me, but when she spoke her voice was calm. ‘It is so strange to hear someone say his name. Of course, nobody does now’.

  ‘I can understand that,’ I said. ‘But he is dead.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘If you knew how many times I have said that to myself. He is dead. They saw him hang.’

  ‘I swear to you, then,’ I said, ‘it is not him. He is in his grave.’

  ‘Please God, he is at peace there.’

  On a bright yet cold afternoon, some days after this interview, Dr Bell and I stood on a hillside overlooking Abbey Mill, where Miss Grace had lived when the tragedy occurred. We had arrived by cab and clambered along a path so we were looking down on the place.

  I did not care for what I saw at all. I have always hated the notion of living without a view, hemmed in by trees, and below me was a stark, yet grand enough building with woods on one side and rushing water from the old mill on the other. Its windows were mostly shuttered, adding to the general effect of gloom.

  The Doctor, however, looked far from gloomy. ‘Ever since I first read accounts of the crime,’ he said with animation as we stood there staring at it, ‘I have always been interested to see this place. It is a school now, shut up for the holidays.’

  A gust of wind whipped up the grass on either side of our path. ‘Not one I would choose to attend,’ I commented.

  ‘Ah’ — he was smiling — ‘but did not Stonyhurst have a similar bleakness?’

  ‘At least we did not fear for our lives,’ I told him, but I knew we were only putting off the moment. ‘What exactly happened here?’

  ‘Oh, it followed the pattern of Ian Coatley’s other murders to the letter,’ said the Doctor as we began to meander down the hill towards the place. ‘His style was unique. He had killed a mother and daughter in cold blood in Middlesex and taken their money. He was renting a room near here and evidently he heard gossip about the wealthy Grace family. They were perfect prey: they had money, they were isolated and they too had an attractive daughter.’

  ‘My God,’ I said, for it was truly horrible to think of a man like that descending like a wolf on the peaceful place below us.

  ‘Yes,’ Bell continued. ‘He was a handsome devil and not without charm. He always insinuated himself into the lives of the family and became a friend of the victims. Here, see for yourself. I dug this out of the records.’ He produced a small photograph from his pocketbook and it gave me quite a shock. The man was good-looking certainly, with long locks of hair, but more than that he looked sweet and even gentle.

  We had made a rapid descent and were now close to the building itself. It was not quite as dark and imposing as I had thought from above. An elegant elm tree grew up beside the large window and directly in front was a big door leading, from what I could see through the window, to an ornate hall. There was still something about the place I did not like. Coloured by the knowledge of what had happened, it seemed to lack a vital spark of life and warmth. I looked again a the photo of the man who had made it so. A wolf in sheep’s clothing was the phrase that came to me. Just as I was thinking this there came from above us, like some uncanny orchestration, the sound of sweet choral singing.

  Over yonder’s a park that is newly begun

  And all the bells in paradise I hear them a-ring

  Which is silver on the outside and gold within

  And I love sweet Jesus above all thing

  I knew the carol a little, though it is not one of the best-known. The singing was angelic. I looked at Bell and we made our way in that direction.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it seems I was wrong about the holidays.’

  ‘God forbid,’ I said for the singing had made me suddenly cheerful as we opened the door and walked inside.

  We found ourselves in a large hall, where there were some coloured hangings, beautifully illuminated by the light of the twostorey window. The singing was coming from above us and we went to the stairs. Certainly the effect was merrier than I had expected. But the picture of Coatley was still in my hand and as I looked down at it I could not suppress a shiver to think of what had been done in this place. ‘So,’ I said, taking a last look at the photo and handing it back as we walked up the large oak staircase. ‘This man became a friend. And then?’

  ‘He was increasingly frustrated in his plans. He wished to know where her father kept his money. In fact, although the family was wealthy, there was little of immediate value here. But when Coatley turned, his temper was foul. One night a labourer outside here heard the screams. He had killed the mother on these stairs. Miss Grace was stabbed but managed to get away into the trees. She was in a terrible state, quite distraught.’

  And in that park there stands a hall

  And all the bells in paradise I hear them a-ring

  Which is covered all over with purple and pall

  And I love sweet Jesus above all thing

  We had now reached the first landing and the singing was louder, the purity of those young choir voices making a strange contrast with Bell’s words.

  And in that hall there stands a bed

  Which is hung all around with silk curtains so red

  And in that bed there lies a knight,

  Whose wounds they do bleed by day and by night

  We could see that the singing came from a brightly lit room at the end of a corridor to our left. The Doctor continued his account as we walked towards it.

  ‘They arrested Coatley at an inn some miles away. He had some of Mr Grace’s clothes and he confessed soon enough. What was worse, he even wrote gloating letters from his condemned cell, glad for what he did.’

  ‘And the father?’

  ‘If I remember the details correctly, he was found here. In this corridor. He had been stamped to death, there were heel marks all over his skull.’

  I had no time to contemplate this horror for we had arrived at the room where the choir was singing. It was a very elegant room with two large windows and beautifully cushioned window seats. The choir comprised about eight boys, aged between eleven and twelve, who stared at us as we entered, for their song had just ended. In front of them was a man somewhere in his thirties with a pleasant boyish appearance. He turned and smiled at us without the slightest surprise. It was almost as if we were expected.

  ‘We did not mean to interrupt,’ said Dr Bell. ‘I understood the school was on holiday.’

  ‘Oh, it is,’ said the man, smiling. ‘These boys have the furthest to go. They set off at dawn tomorrow. You will find the whole place deserted then.’ He turned to me. ‘And it is a beautiful place, is it not, Dr Doyle?’

  I reacted with amazement.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He addressed me, smiling again, and I found I was beginning to wonder if he did not smile a little too much. ‘I know who you are. The truth is I have stood outside your house, debating whether to come and see you. I am Guy Greenwell. I hope very soon to be Miss Grace’s fiance. I expect you have heard of me.’

  We shook hands and I introduced him to Dr Bell. Disregarding the boys, Mr Greenwell instantly proposed he should show us round the house and proceeded to walk us through some of the main rooms, though I must confess I could take little interest in the history of the place or its decorations when I thought of what had happened here. Bell, however, seemed most intrigued by everything he saw, asking questions like some moonstruck student of architectural history and drinking in all the sights and sounds of the place. I wondered what Greenwell would say if he knew the real reason for this interest.

  As we reached the gardens Greenwell, who had become quite animated, started talking of the song we had heard. ‘She taught me the song,’ he said. ‘Evidently her family sang it.’ Then a
gain he turned to me, most deferentially. ‘I know Dr Doyle must find it strange that I am attached to a place where such awful events happened. But I can assure you, Dr Doyle, it is a wonderful setting and has, when you come to know it, a serenity that is uniquely its own.’ We had arrived at a rather pretty little summer house and he opened its door and took us in. ‘And here is the perfect hideaway.’

  Copies of The Times were strewn around and he told us he was an avid follower of rugby football. He was cutting the scores out each day and mounting them into a book. ‘Perhaps I will combine them into an almanac one day. Greenwell’s, it has a nice ring to it.’

  I was, I must admit, slightly repelled by his attachment to the place. ‘Surely’, I said as we looked out from that little house surrounded by Scotch firs, ‘you would not expect Miss Grace to come back and live here?’

  ‘No,’ he agreed, ‘I would never ask that of her. Her family still own the freehold, it is true, but I teach for pleasure and not for a living. I have an estate up the valley here, past the Blythes, called Wade House. You must come and take tea with me there one day.’

  I noticed Bell’s interest at once. ‘So it is close by her uncle’s wood?’ he asked quickly.

  ‘Why, yes,’ said Greenwell. ‘Miss Grace’s uncle and I are very old friends. You will find he has a most wonderful scientific collection. And he is very keen indeed on the match I propose. But even so I have no wish to press Miss Grace too hard for an answer. She suffered terribly in the tragedy here. And not so long ago she was engaged to a military man who left her for another. It was shameful. So I will wait. Otherwise the imminence of her inheritance might seem a motive.’