“It is a swamp adder!” cried Holmes; “the deadliest snake in India. He has died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence does, in truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he digs for another. Let us thrust this creature back into its den, and we can then remove Miss Stoner to some place of shelter and let the county police know what has happened.”
As he spoke he drew the dog-leash swiftly from the dead man’s lap, and throwing the noose round the reptile’s neck he drew it from its horrid perch and, carrying it at arm’s length, threw it into the iron safe, which he closed upon it.
* * * *
Such are the true facts of the death of Dr Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran. It is not necessary that I should prolong a narrative which has already run to too great a length by telling how we broke the sad news to the terrified girl, how we conveyed her by the morning train to the care of her good aunt at Harrow, of how the slow process of official inquiry came to the conclusion that the doctor met his fate while indiscreetly playing with a dangerous pet. The little which I had yet to learn of the case was told me by Sherlock Holmes as we travelled back next day.
“I had,” said he, “come to an entirely erroneous conclusion which shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from insufficient data. The presence of the gipsies, and the use of the word ‘band,’ which was used by the poor girl, no doubt, to explain the appearance which she had caught a hurried glimpse of by the light of her match, were sufficient to put me upon an entirely wrong scent. I can only claim the merit that I instantly reconsidered my position when, however, it became clear to me that whatever danger threatened an occupant of the room could not come either from the window or the door. My attention was speedily drawn, as I have already remarked to you, to this ventilator, and to the bell-rope which hung down to the bed. The discovery that this was a dummy, and that the bed was clamped to the floor, instantly gave rise to the suspicion that the rope was there as a bridge for something passing through the hole and coming to the bed. The idea of a snake instantly occurred to me, and when I coupled it with my knowledge that the doctor was furnished with a supply of creatures from India, I felt that I was probably on the right track. The idea of using a form of poison which could not possibly be discovered by any chemical test was just such a one as would occur to a clever and ruthless man who had had an Eastern training. The rapidity with which such a poison would take effect would also, from his point of view, be an advantage. It would be a sharp-eyed coroner, indeed, who could distinguish the two little dark punctures which would show where the poison fangs had done their work. Then I thought of the whistle. Of course he must recall the snake before the morning light revealed it to the victim. He had trained it, probably by the use of the milk which we saw, to return to him when summoned. He would put it through this ventilator at the hour that he thought best, with the certainty that it would crawl down the rope and land on the bed. It might or might not bite the occupant, perhaps she might escape every night for a week, but sooner or later she must fall a victim.
“I had come to these conclusions before ever I had entered his room. An inspection of his chair showed me that he had been in the habit of standing on it, which of course would be necessary in order that he should reach the ventilator. The sight of the safe, the saucer of milk, and the loop of whipcord were enough to finally dispel any doubts which may have remained. The metallic clang heard by Miss Stoner was obviously caused by her stepfather hastily closing the door of his safe upon its terrible occupant. Having once made up my mind, you know the steps which I took in order to put the matter to the proof. I heard the creature hiss as I have no doubt that you did also, and I instantly lit the light and attacked it.”
“With the result of driving it through the ventilator.”
“And also with the result of causing it to turn upon its master at the other side. Some of the blows of my cane came home and roused its snakish temper, so that it flew upon the first person it saw. In this way I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr Grimesby Roylott’s death, and I cannot say that it is likely to weigh very heavily upon my conscience.”
WATSON’S WOUND, by Sherlock Holmes (edited with Notes by Bruce I. Kilstein)
When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains—
And the women come out, to cut up what remains
Then roll to yer rifle, and blow out your brains
And go to yer God like a soldier!
—Rudyard Kipling “The Young British Soldier”
* * * *
It was during one of those periods of ennui, when a soaking November rain had left a damp chill over London like a pall. A lack of stimulating casework made for close company as Watson and I searched my study for a means to occupy the time. A chance glance at my colleague saved me from what, no doubt, would have been a needle-guided descent into the depths of Morpheus.
I put down the syringe and loosed the tourniquet from my arm, choosing a soothing bowl of tobacco over the seven percent solution to address the mystery that at once had my attention. Lighting the pipe, I turned to Watson, who was in the act of studying the taxidermy of a stuffed grouse mounted near the mantle. “Thinking of Afghanistan, are you?”
He turned in surprise. “As a matter of fact, I was just now recalling those days with the Sixty-sixth. How on earth could you know what I was thinking? I was just looking at this pheasant.”
“Grouse,” I corrected.
“Yes, grouse. But still…have you been studying that Mesmer fellow?”
“Mind reading? Poppycock. I glanced at you observing the bird, but as you craned your neck to inspect the rear, you winced slightly and absently touched your shoulder. As the taxidermy made you think of shooting, and the damp chill has no doubt aggravated your shoulder, your vacant stare must only mean that you were thinking of the wound you suffered at the hand of the Ghazis.”
“Savages. You astound me, Holmes.”
“Elementary,” I murmured, pausing to think for a moment.
It was Watson’s turn to be observant. “Your silence tells me there is something more to your observation.”
“There may be. If you have no objection, I propose we light the hearth and take refreshment while we probe the circumstances of your wound further.”
He looked perplexed, but quickly assented to the request, as the cheerful blaze, a brandy, and a tray of Mrs. Hudson’s tea and scones cut the gloom that had permeated our chambers. I watched my friend through the pleasant haze of my long cherry Churchwarden as he spread marmalade over his pastry and sleeve. “What was the bullet that wounded you?” I asked.
“The Jezail, Holmes. Bloody rifles killed over a thousand of our boys at Maiwand.”
“Yes, you have remarked as such many times. Pray, remind me of the circumstances. Try to leave nothing out.” I settled into my chair, staring at the fire, and pressed my fingertips together as Watson recalled the battle.
He brushed crumbs from his vest and took a draught of spirits. Clearly, the memory of events caused pain beyond the purely physical. “Eighteen-eighty. After transfer from the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, India to Afghanistan, I soon found myself under General Burrows near Candahar. Shortly after my arrival we prepared for one of the bloodiest battles of the war. The men had little fighting experience, but we thought that our superior training would carry our two thousand troops against the larger force of Ayoob Khan’s men. Our folly was not in underestimating our skill as soldiers, but in the lack of realization of what their sheer numbers could mean. They came at us with close to twenty-five thousand.”
There was no doubt of that; but I thought it not best to engage in the argument that General Burrows led an untrained force from a defensive stronghold, with little reinforcement and no water in the July desert, into the open against a fanatic native force. There could be no doubt that the campaig
n was doomed from the outset. I thought it best not to mention this, and let Watson continue
“The battle was a bloody Hell,” Watson said. “Confusion everywhere: the roar of artillery overhead, the screams, the clash of sabers, horses.”
“But as I understand it, it was the rifle shot that killed the most men,” I interposed.
“Quite right. We marched with twenty-four hundred. More than nine hundred were killed. One hundred seventy-five wounded. These barbarians didn’t take prisoners. If it wasn’t for my batman, Murray, I have no doubt that I should have been counted in the number dead. The Ghazis attacked with overwhelming numbers, using the dry riverbeds as cover. Wave after wave came over the banks. Our artillery did little to stanch the flow. We fought bravely, but I barely had time to attend the many wounded. Men were falling everywhere, and before we had time to retreat from the initial crush, we were outflanked.” He waved his hands in a desperate gesture.
After he had continued on with the details of the battle for many minutes I interjected, “The Ghazis were religious fanatics, Watson. They must have fought like fiends.”
“Crazed, Holmes. But they did not break our spirit. We killed fifty-five hundred of the madmen and they failed to pursue us to Candahar to finish the route.”
“The retreat must have been an ordeal in itself.”
“What I remember of it.”
“Pray, try your best to remember. No detail may be too small.” The evening was setting in quickly in the shortening days before winter. I lit a new pipe and rose to stir the ebbing fire.
“I recall the moment of the wound as vividly as if it were a day ago. I was attending the wounds of a young cavalry officer whose horse had been shot from under him, crushing his leg. I applied a tourniquet and was looking for Murray to dress and splint, when I was hit. The force of the bullet spun me around and I fell on the unfortunate patient.” Watson began to perspire as he recalled the trauma.
“Do you by chance recall the patient’s name?”
He thought for a moment. “Jenkins, I believe. A captain.”
“Go on.”
“The round, I was later to discover, struck me between the shoulder and the clavicle and sliced the subclavian artery. If it weren’t for Murray’s skill and loyalty, I wouldn’t be here to tell this story.”
I remarked that in an ironic sense, it was because of that wound, and Watson’s subsequent removal to England, that we were to make acquaintance. “Perhaps that is the so-called silver lining of the situation,” Watson said.
“Indeed, but we digress.”
“Yes. Well, Murray dragged me off the poor captain just as our position was about to be overrun by the screaming Ghazis. Knowing we would not be taken as prisoners, he used his kerchief as an improvised bandage, plugged the wound, and guided me to a cart with the Baggage Guard. The retreat was madness equal to the battle itself. With officers fallen, many of the company fell into disarray. Litter bearers dropped wounded and ran to save themselves, animals cast off their loads, and the wounded jammed any transport they could find in hope of escaping to the rear.
“The flight was forty-five miles back toward Candahar. A torture. No water for over thirty hours. Men losing blood and more dropping from exhaustion. Murray remained by my side as long as he could but was eventually off to aid others. I am sure that my consciousness lapsed during the ordeal. I am afraid I lost track of the good man as we eventually joined Roberts’s relief forces.
“I was eventually evacuated to Peshawar. The wound healed, thankfully, but the surgeons were loath to attempt to remove the bullet due to the close proximity to the artery. Blasted thing still gives me trouble on these damp days. A harsh reminder, Holmes. I soon contracted enteric fever, as did many in the camp, and so was shipped back to England where, as you well know, I have remained.”
* * * *
The story was tragic, a great loss for our forces, but the details as told by my friend raised some disturbing questions. The sober lens of the drawing room is often the best place to analyze the heat and strategy of former battles. “You have cherished the souvenirs, I am certain.”
He gingerly removed from his breast pocket his decoration, the Roberts Star, and a scrap of cloth stained rust, which could have only been Murray’s bloodstained kerchief.
“Watson, I fear there may be more to this story than you realize.”
“What’s this!” he started in surprise.
“I should think that we need to examine the bullet.”
“A bit too late for surgery, my good man.”
“There is a way, I understand, without disturbing the slug. You’ve no doubt read the work of Roentgen?”
“Why, yes. Yes, the chap with the X-rays. Fascinating. A dicey business, though.”
“What if I told you that the bullet might be linked to a matter of national importance?”
He pondered for a moment, unsure of what to make of my sudden and strange observations. “Well, if you think so, Holmes.”
“Splendid. I believe there must be a doctor at the Royal London Hospital dabbling in this new science.”
“Hedley, I think it is. Met him at a medical society meeting. Experiments with all the new electronic kit.”
I rang for Mrs. Hudson. She appeared in her usual fluster wanting to know why we should require her services again so soon. “You cannot be ready for supper now?”
“No, Mrs. Hudson. Be so kind as to fetch one of the boys to run a message to the telegraph office. A matter of some urgency.” I wrote two messages and handed them to her along with money for the boy. “We should have our answers soon, Watson.”
* * * *
The next day dawned equally dank but our spirits were undampened by the weather. The responses to our telegrams came with the morning post. We hastened through breakfast and hailed a hansom on Baker Street to guide us to the first of what would be several destinations.
We soon arrived at the London Hospital and I had the cab remain in waiting. We were shown to the offices of Dr. Hedley in the department of electrotherapeutics. “Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes, a pleasure to receive you. I so enjoy reading about your cases that I was naturally excited to learn that I could be of service in an actual investigation,” Hedley said.
“You are too kind, sir,” I replied. “I would think that this promising new device would one day be a valuable tool in the fight against the criminal mind. We look forward to the demonstration. The delight, I assure you, is all ours.” I was surprised when he bade us to leave our outer clothes on and then led us out into the rain through the hospital gardens. We arrived at a small tin shack near the back wall.
“Not much to look at now,” Hedley explained. “Safety, you know. Keeping us away from the main building for now, but someday I hope to have a whole new department of radiology”
We entered and found several assistants already at work on the apparatus. The thin metal wall of the building did little to ward off the chill. Watson seemed more than perturbed at stripping to the waist upon Hedley’s request.
“Sorry, Dr. Watson. Best way to sit for the radiograph.” An assistant positioned Watson on a stool behind a complicated machine of tubes and wires. He positioned the end of a tube near Watson’s shoulder and then had him hold what must have been the photographic plate to his chest.
“I feel like the meat in a kidney pie,” he mumbled.
Hedley looked up from a notebook he used to check the exposure distances and settings. “Try to hold still now, Doctor. The exposure will only take twenty-five minutes.” Hedley set a timer and let the assistant perform the exposure.
* * * *
Upon finishing, we escorted the chilled Watson back to Hedley’s office. He rang for tea, and I explained the investigation to him over the repast. Hedley’s assistant soon arrived with the radiographic plate.
Hedley held the X-ray photograph next to a lamp on his desk and we could clearly see the image of the bullet lodged in Watson’s shoulder. The bones were neatly visible, but less so than the round.
“I take it, Dr. Hedley, that the bullet appears denser than the bone because the X-rays do not penetrate the metal to the degree that they do the bone.”
“That is correct, Mr. Holmes. The bone also contains minerals, and we theorize that the x-ray waves or particles, we are not quite sure, penetrate to varying degrees.”
“Astounding!” Watson cried. “The application of these X-rays will change the whole art of diagnosis. To think that we can now see inside the body without cutting into it. Clever. Bloody clever.”
“You are most kind, Doctor. We are still refining the technique and hope to soon establish a full department of X-ray diagnostics as more becomes known.”
I checked my watch, noting that we were soon due at our next rendezvous. “Watson, have you your notebook?” He replied in the affirmative. I withdrew a small draftsman’s case that I had brought and removed a pair of fine calipers. “Are the actual sizes of objects on the radiograph true to life, or is there a magnifying effect when the final image is produced?” I asked Dr. Hedley.
“You will find that the image is near exact to the finest detail, allowing that there may be some blurring to the border of an object due to the effect of motion.” He gestured at our example. “Dr. Watson did an admirable job of remaining still.”
“Bloody near frozen,” Watson mumbled.
I examined the image with my glass and the two men drew closer. “Look here, Doctors. See how the edge of the clavicle is deformed. Must be the result of fracture and then healing. And the bullet is deformed on one end. This flattening, the result of impact with the bone. The tail end, I should think, is undamaged.” It was at that end that I took the measurements. “Record, Watson, that the diameter of the bullet is zero point four five inches.”
Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #3 Page 7