“And you treated him,” said Holmes.
“I did what I could. I helped him heal physically, but there was no reaching into his mind to cure what he had seen and suffered. The body of Jim McGrory survived those savages, but his life was over as much as if he’d received a bullet to the head.”
I found myself shaking at the injustice of it all. “And now for this to happen to my poor friend. Holmes, there is something wrong here. Despite all he went through, Jim would never have killed himself. He was Papist, and devoutly so. He would never have condemned himself to hell by committing suicide. It seems impossible.”
As I said this, I knew I was lying to myself. Jim McGrory had been through so much he might not have been able to help himself. Who could understand the tortured mind, save one who had suffered some of the same maladies?
Holmes went to the door and called downstairs. “Mrs. Hudson. Please, a hansom cab for Charing Cross Station.” Then he turned to me. “The train for Dover leaves soon. Gather together whatever you need. We will go and see what befell your friend.”
“But Holmes,” I said, “There is nothing to be done. He is already dead.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes, “but for you to rest easy, we must find out why. You said your friend wouldn’t do this to himself. Let us go there and see what the evidence shows us.”
* * *
Pausing only to send a telegram to the sanatorium to signal our intentions, we left our rooms almost immediately. We made the train with time to spare, and finding ourselves alone in our compartment as we pulled out of Charing Cross, Holmes wasted no time in pressing me for more information.
“The Plane Tree Sanatorium is a small institute just north of the town of Dover. It was the home, many years back, of one who aspired unsuccessfully to the gentry. It is large, ostentatious even, and it sits on top of the cliffs, exposed to the sea breeze and all the elements. It is so named as there is a large London Plane tree in the grounds. It is said to be well over a hundred years of age, and with the great house, it dominates the landscape.”
“I am familiar with the spot,” said Holmes. “It is indeed a noticeable landmark.”
“When the owner died, he had spent his money as quickly as he’d earned it, so there was little enough to bequeath to the general repair of the estate. The house passed through the hands of various direct kin, family members who did not wish to live in such a place or could not afford the upkeep of such a precariously placed folly. Finally the youngest cousin, by then an elderly woman, left it to her only relative from her late husband’s side, the good Doctor Bishop.”
“You sound disapproving,” said Holmes.
“Forgive me,” I said. “If my emotions carry into my voice it has nothing to do with the doctor that runs the sanatorium. I don’t know what would have happened to Jim without his help. Indeed, Doctor Bishop, in setting up such a facility to cater to soldiers with injuries of the mind, has proved what our government is too blind to see. My frustration is with the powers-that-be, who would label these brave yet cowered soldiers cowards when all they may need is a healing of their souls.”
“The human mind is a mysterious place,” said Holmes. “My brother, as part of his work, has had access to some of the studies coming out of Austria recently, and I feel that once the crackpot ideas are sifted, the cure of the ailments of the mind may very well be the next grand leap in medicine. How successful has Doctor Bishop been?”
“Until the time I received that letter this morning, I would have said he had been very successful. He has been following some of the ideas of the German, von Gudden, who had advocated for humane treatment of mental patients, instead of the insanity of the Bethlem way.”
“I know of Bethlem hospital,” said Holmes. “Its other name has come to parallel that of insanity, has it not? Bedlam?”
“It has,” I said. “Bishop is anti-Bedlam. He, too, served in the Army as a doctor, and when he retired, he continued with this idea of his, to help treat the soldiers who do not wholly come back mentally. He called it mens sana in corpore sano, but he meant more than just a healthy mind in a healthy body. He was looking to prove that such repair was possible. By the time his Board of Governors realized he was treating soldiers that others labelled cowards, the establishment was up and running. He has managed to stay afloat because he owns the property and his work has had some striking early success. Notably, he was able to return a member of the Royal Family home to kith and kin.”
“Ah yes,” said Holmes, mentioning the name of the Prince in question. Once again, I was astounded by his knowledge of certain specifics known to so few. “His Royal Highness was suicidal for some years, was he not? If Bishop helped him, he must have felt the gratitude of the Realm thereafter.”
“He did, but who knows how long this will last. His sanatorium has been precariously funded for some years, until he can prove his ideas were working. Sadly, Jim’s death may have a deleterious effect on his financial wherewithal.”
Holmes he settled back into the seat and closed his eyes. He did not stir again until the train pulled in to Dover Priory Station, and when he did, there was a renewed vigour to my friend. I was glad that, however sad our excursion had started, it was doing Holmes some good.
* * *
We took a coach from the station, up from the harbour town of Dover.
The sanatorium was not far north, perched on top of the white cliffs. It was a garishly designed house, with a presenting side to the road as well as large gable windows and a veranda on the cliff side. Not thirty yards away from these windows, the plane tree stood tall and proud some ten yards short of the cliff’s edge. Its lower limbs had been trimmed over the years so that the bottom branches afforded headroom for even the tallest of men. The large canopy of its foliage created a pleasing shady area. Coupled with the sea breeze, the feel of the day was vastly different to the heat and smell of the London we had left behind.
Doctor Bishop was most accommodating. He met us at the entrance himself and invited us in to his office.
The doctor’s rooms were in what would have been the library of the old mansion. It had an air of genteel dilapidation, common among many such Ozymandian piles created by the nouveau riche of the Empire. There were, however, a few signs of homeliness and effort. Some plants in pots that had not yet died, ornaments on the mantelpiece. The desk, too, had been recently cleaned and tidied, but it all gave the air of one who was trying unsuccessfully to hold back the tides, and I was sorry for Doctor Bishop. His work was important, and to have it hurt, albeit by my friend’s death, was an irony too far.
Somewhat incongruously, the latest copy of Boy’s Own Magazine lay on one of the visitor’s chairs. I placed it on the casual table so I could sit down. Holmes, enervated, could not settle and paced in front of the fireplace.
Doctor Bishop seemed almost apologetic in his manner.
“It has been a long struggle,” he said waving vaguely around the room, “to find the funding to survive. We have had some small successes which have been building our reputation, but we are at the unfashionable end of medicine, I’m afraid. The tradition of the British stiff upper lip does not rest easily next to a theory, largely unproven, that a healthy mind is such a vital component of a healthy body.”
“I’m sure you have done wonders here,” said Holmes. “Nevertheless, Captain McGrory’s death must be a setback to your work.”
“It is,” said Bishop.
“Then you would have no objection if my friend and I look further into the Captain’s death?” said Holmes. “Perhaps you could tell us what you know.”
If Doctor Bishop was taken aback at this turn of events, he didn’t show it. “I’m not sure how much I can share of Captain McGrory’s ailments,” he said.
“Please, Doctor Bishop,” I said. “Help us. I was once his battlefield physician and his friend, and Holmes
has my full confidence. You may trust us.”
“Very well,” said Bishop. “It was through your notes in his military file that I found out what happened to Captain McGrory, and I’m sad to say it was not an unusual case. The tribes we battled in Afghanistan were brutal and hard people, with little value for life. You know how they tortured him, forcing him to watch his men die unspeakably painful deaths. If that wasn’t enough, the sun and the insects destroyed what little sanity he had left. By the time I could admit him here, he had, in addition to a mind that distorted reality, a continuous scratching problem. While understandable, given what he had been through, it was imperative we treat this first. This we did with lotions and careful manicure of his hands and nails to prevent his self-harm, as well as some calming exercises I picked up in the East. I am pleased to say that we had been fortunate in this treatment, so much so that this past few weeks he was well enough to walk the grounds unattended, and his scratching had stopped. It was one small step on the road to his recovery, but it was an important one. Which is why I can’t understand what happened.”
Holmes, never the most patient of men, tried, asking in a soothing manner, “Please, Doctor, in your own words. Tell us how he died.”
“Better yet, I will show you.” He led us through to the part of the home that faced out towards the cliffs, the English Channel, and France. The entire back end of the house was a high-ceilinged room that was surrounded by stairs and balconies that led to the other rooms. It had the feel of a Georgian ballroom and, when I mentioned this, Doctor Bishop confirmed my thought. “It is used now as a common lounge for our patients,” he said. “The view is soothing and the room is airy and bright, thanks to the high windows.” As he led us closer to the left side of the great room and the comfortable chairs gathered round a low table, the big plane tree came into view.
“It happened yesterday afternoon. When Captain McGrory came here over a year ago, we were his last chance. He had been with his parents and his sister, and then he stayed at his cousin’s farm in Ayrshire. None of them could cope with his night terrors or give him the medical treatment he so clearly needed.” He paused, thinking about his next words. “I don’t wish to sound a braggart, but we have had successes here. The fears within my patients’ minds respond best to care and compassion, and Captain McGrory had been doing particularly well.”
“And why was that?” I asked. Holmes appeared more interested in the tree, and indeed he stood at the window and stared at its canopy for some seconds before rejoining us.
“My sister has been staying with us these during that period. She was widowed recently and I asked her and her son to come and visit for a while, to take her mind off her mourning. Although she has no nursing experience, she is a kindly soul and has been helping out wherever she has been able. Captain McGrory responded well to her ministrations. He still suffered nightmares, but I had hopes that their effect on him may one day have been ameliorated as his skin lesions ceased.”
“Was the Captain in the habit of taking the air under the plane tree?” said Holmes.
“In the last week.” said Bishop. “We have only had it cleared underneath recently, as it was overgrown and dangerous before. It has already become popular as a shelter for patients and staff.
“How then, did he die?” said Holmes
“It is as I said in my letter,” said Bishop.
“Please, Doctor. Tell us what you saw.”
“He was sitting under the tree on that bench you can see. Suddenly he stood up and started scratching at himself, as if all his worst nightmares and affections had returned in one fell swoop.”
“And there was no one near him.”
“No one at all,” said Bishop. “I almost wish there was a way to lay blame, but there is none.”
“Were his actions normal for the time when he was still afflicted with the continuous scratching?” Holmes asked.
“Now that you mention it, this ultimate instance before his death was far more frantic than any other I had ever witnessed. I can check with the other staff if you wish.”
“No need,” said Holmes. “It is best if we discover the information ourselves. You mentioned some other witnesses?”
“The others who may be of some assistance are two members of the staff - here are their names - my sister, Emily Crowley, and her young son, though I don’t believe he’ll be any help. He is a flighty child. Any others who may have seen it are patients. They are here because their minds have been damaged, so you must make what you will of what little they can tell you.”
* * *
“You must question the patients, Watson. Try to get as complete a picture as possible. Their impressions may be vital.” We separated, arranging to meet later. I was pleased he had given me such an important job, or so I thought.
There had been three patients sitting within view at the time. Major Grimsby was unable to remember much and said even less. The scar across the top of his head, where a bullet had ploughed through, told me I wouldn’t get anything from him. Neither was Captain Appleyard much help at first. He had been sitting in the lounge and had heard the commotion but had seen nothing, nor had he for some years since shrapnel had torn through his eyes on the Indian border.
“There’s nothing wrong with my ears though,” he said. “And from what was said later, it was surprising there wasn’t more noise.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Well, from the way the story has been told to me, he was sitting under the tree when he suddenly stood up and ran over the cliff. It’s only about fifteen or twenty feet, but he never made a sound. Did you ever charge into the guns of the enemy, Doctor Watson?”
“No,” I said.
“Well, let me tell you,” said Appleyard. “It is not a quiet event. People scream and yell to get their blood boiling, to make them feel braver. Now obviously I didn’t see what happened, but I also didn’t hear anything, and it strikes me that if Captain McGrory had decided to charge over the cliff, he’d have been making a lot of noise as he did so.”
The third soldier was no help either. Lieutenant Hopgood sat in his chair and looked over the cliffs and saw not a thing. His hands trembled and his eyes watered, but he said nothing, and had not done so for many years. He was one of the many reasons that Doctor Bishop’s work was so important and it troubled me that he might be forced to close.
“Lieutenant Hopgood is as Captain McGrory was, a troubled victim of enemy captivity,” the doctor told us by way of explanation later. “Each patient manifests their trauma uniquely. With Captain McGrory, it was the imagined skin condition and his constant scratching, a reaction to his means of torture, no doubt. We have yet to ascertain what the Lieutenant is seeing in his mind’s eye. Maybe if we can learn that, we can help him. For now he sits in a state of what Kahlbaum refers to as catatonia.”
“Why did you send me to them if you knew they couldn’t help me?” I asked.
“All my patients are treated with the same value,” he said. “Just because a man hasn’t said anything for three years, it doesn’t mean we give up on him. We never gave up on Captain McGrory either. Which is why the bitter pill of his death is so hard to swallow.”
* * *
Holmes had confirmed the oddity of Jim’s death through his interviews with the staff ladies. By all accounts, Jim had run over the cliff as fast as possible, scratching at his head and collar. There was no extra agent, no sense of foul play. Despite Holmes’s investigations, it looked like Jim had reverted to his madness and taken his own life.
Holmes had also picked up on the soundlessness of McGrory’s death when he had interviewed the assistants - how like him to note the events that did not occur - but I had not had a chance to ask him his views. It didn’t seem to matter. All the witnesses’ statements were similar. He had not been coerced into jumping, and there was no other way to have force
d him into his final action.
“Come, Watson,” Holmes said suddenly. “We must go and look at the plane tree. Doctor Bishop, I have not been able to speak to your sister or her son. When we return, please make them available.”
“Certainly. Doctor Watson, would you care to examine the body later?”
“There is no need,” said Holmes before I could answer. “I know how he was killed. I need to check two more minutiae, and then we will have our answer.”
“How can it be a murder, Holmes? Surely he did this to himself.”
“Do you remember the case I had that you so flamboyantly wrote about in your journals as ‘The Speckled Band’?” This is the same kind of event, Watson. It is a locked room mystery, save in the open air. Yet someone did kill your friend, in full view of everyone. It was really quite ingenious, in a way.”
As we left the sanatorium building, unanswered questions tripping over my tongue so that I must confess I may have sounded as a babbling fool to any who were in the vicinity. Fortunately, it was the time of the evening meal in the sanatorium, and all were occupied elsewhere, so my ranting was private and less embarrassing. After his astonishing pronouncement, Holmes behaved as if he had not heard me at all, and as we reached the shade of the plane tree, he commenced scrutinizing the ground. “A-ha!” he said as he picked up a seed ball. “Help me, Watson, would you? Look over on the other side and see how many of these you can find. I need a count only.”
Suppressing my irritation, I did as asked.
“I have found seven, Holmes.” I said some minutes later.
“And I have nine,” said Holmes. “It’s not enough, just as I suspected. One last thing, Watson. I need to see the clearings and cuttings the doctor said had been removed from under the tree.”
I trailed after him and I found my irritation dissipating. I could put up with Holmes being obtuse and frustrating. It meant that he could see that which we mere mortals could not: A solution.
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX Page 22
