The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Instrument of Death

by David Stuart Davies

  “Yes. Yes, I am. You behaved in an uncaring and brutal fashion in order to achieve your own ends without considering for one moment the delicacy of Miss Marshall’s condition.”

  Holmes threw his arms up in the air. “You are right, of course, Watson. In such circumstances I cannot help myself. I always place my investigation first before considering the effect my actions have on others. It is a weakness and a strength, I suppose.”

  “It is selfish and cruel,” I snapped. “And then you added insult to injury by spouting some kind of medical gobbledygook about the experience being cathartic and stating some nonsense about Freud in support of your outrageous behaviour.”

  “I stand well and truly chastised,” sighed Holmes, dropping into his chair. “Please accept my apologies.”

  “It is not I to whom you should apologise but to the old doctor, to our client, and most of all to Miss Marshall herself.”

  “I don’t think I wish to go as far as that. My behaviour was perhaps a little rash but it did bear fruit. In the end, that will benefit both the young woman and our client. Perhaps now we may return to our normal civilities?”

  I let out an inarticulate growl and snatched up the newspaper. I realised now that my anger had transformed itself into petulance and words failed me. I tried to read but the print swam before my eyes, and so after a while I cast the rag aside.

  “Why not have a pipe, old fellow. It will put you in a better humour.”

  I opened my mouth to utter a stinging rebuff, but instead I did as Holmes suggested. As I sat back in my chair, my ship’s tobacco having a soothing effect on my shredded nerves, one phrase that Holmes had used nagged at me and refused to leave my thoughts. In the end, I could not resist airing my curiosity.

  “What did you mean that your visit to Miss Marshall today ‘bore fruit’?” I asked in a calm, matter-of-fact manner.

  Holmes flashed me a warm smile. “I wondered how long it would be before you asked me that. Well, first of all, there were the remnants of the wound at the girl’s neck. I had seen those identical marks before. The same spacing of the spatulate fingers and, more importantly, the indentations in the flesh made by the long fingernails of the assailant. They were an exact replica of the marks left on Lady Damury’s throat.”

  “What!” I cried, sitting bolt upright in the chair.

  “Indeed, they were identical. I am convinced they were made by the same man.”

  “That is incredible.”

  “Remarkable but not incredible. Also, the girl told us he was tall, a fact that I established by studying the footprints left in Lady Damury’s boudoir. Miss Marshall also said a strange thing: that her attacker walked like a mechanical man. What does that suggest to you?”

  I paused for a moment and considered the question. “Could it be that he had some kind of physical disability… or perhaps that he was in some kind of trance?”

  Holmes beamed. “The latter scenario appeals to me. If the fellow was ‘in some kind of trance’, this suggests that he was not fully in control of his own actions. Certainly, Miss Marshall managed to foil his attempts by hitting him with a vase. Surely a savage murderer would not be put off by such mild violence. She did not knock him unconscious or he would have been discovered by the police. It would seem that this blow interfered with his intentions and broke his concentration.”

  I felt a chill run down my spine. “Holmes, what are you saying?” I asked, although the answer was already hovering in the darkness of my mind.

  “I am saying nothing precisely, merely playing with ideas. It seems to me, however, entirely possible that our assailant is the puppet of the man with the fake hair and the big moustache who turned up on Firbank’s doorstep. Perhaps in some way this fellow is able to manipulate the murderer to carry out his intentions. Remember the young woman’s reference to his dead eyes, as though he were unconscious of what he was doing.”

  “As though he were hypnotised!” I exclaimed. “I have just been reading in The Lancet about a series of experiments based on the early work of James Braid, who is regarded by many as the first exponent of the practice of hypnotherapy in his medical work. It was penned by Professor Christopher Clark, who has been carrying out a series of experiments to see how hypnotism might allow invasive surgery without the use of anaesthetics. Clark suggests that under deep hypnosis, the patient can be controlled utterly, to the extent that he can be commanded to ignore pain.”

  Holmes’s eyes lit up. “Fascinating,” he said with some excitement. “In other words, when the patient is under the full influence of the hypnotist, he is completely in his power. And if the hypnotist is of evil intent, there is no knowing what he can persuade the patient to do.”

  “That is a horrible prospect.”

  “Indeed, Watson, we might easily move into the realm of murder by proxy. I have a little knowledge of the subject myself, but I would very much like to peruse that article in The Lancet. It may help me clarify some concerns and considerations which are beginning to form in my brain.”

  I retrieved the magazine from the bookshelf and passed it to my friend, who read the article with great interest. I waited in anticipation for his response.

  “Most interesting,” he said at length, casting the copy aside. “In lieu of any other avenues of investigation at present, it may serve us well to pursue this one. I think a visit to Professor Christopher Clark would prove most enlightening.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “And when I snap my fingers, you will return to full consciousness.” Caligari waved his hand before his patient and clicked his fingers. Enid Beaumont stirred on the couch. At first her eyes flickered erratically and then they opened wide in dreamy wonderment. She sat up and stared into the face of Gustav Caligari, which quickly came into focus.

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Beaumont, with some surprise. “Did it work? Did I go to sleep?”

  “Indeed you did, dear lady. I believe the session has been most successful. I made suggestions to your unconscious self which are now firmly lodged in your mind. No longer will you exhibit fear of any feline that you happen to encounter. That irrationality is now a thing of the past.”

  “Oh, my goodness, how wonderful,” she gushed. “You are a miracle worker, Dr. Caligari. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Thanks are unnecessary. The payment of my fee is sufficient reward.”

  “Ah, yes, of course.” Mrs. Beaumont reached inside her reticule and produced a number of notes, which she passed to Caligari. “That is correct, isn’t it?”

  Caligari counted the notes and nodded. “Indeed it is.”

  His patient rose from the couch and shook his hand vigorously. “Thank you so much. I cannot tell you how you have brought so much peace to my mind.”

  Caligari gave her an indulgent smile and ushered her out of the room. When she had gone, he dropped down into the chair behind his desk with a heavy sigh. He was so bored with ministering to these pathetic women with their tiresome foibles. The process of dealing with them was tedious in the extreme, but the fees they paid were essential to maintain his lifestyle. However, he realised that if he was honest with himself, the parade of weak-willed, needy clients he was forced to deal was not the cause of his misery and despondency; it was the failure of his last exploit with Robert. He had planned things meticulously only to be let down in the final moments. He might easily blame Robert for the failure, but in his heart he knew that it was himself who was at fault. He had omitted to prime his puppet for the eventuality that the victim would fight back. He had failed to instil into Robert’s psyche the rapacious, vicious killer instinct that would overcome such resistance. It was there, of course. He remembered the attack that Robert had launched upon the man who tried to steal his meat – the frenzy of the blows he rained down on him. However, the fact that Robert had been prevented so easily from killing the Marshall girl had undermined Caligari’s confidence and had brought a pause, if not a halt, to future plans. Could he reawaken Robert’s ferocity in ord
er to ensure that he would carry out the next killing without fail? Or was that beyond his capabilities?

  The more he mulled the situation over, the more confused and uncertain he became. Then a thought struck him, one that he realised should have occurred to him straight away. Perhaps, he now pondered, the sense of failure he was experiencing could be eradicated if a further, successful attempt were made on Ruth Marshall. As the thought settled in his mind, Caligari felt a lightening of the spirits. The notion heartened him. It certainly was a plan worth pursuing. He would have to discover where the girl was now, and then he would have to work hard with Robert in order to prepare him for the new mission. But these were challenges that he was more than ready to undertake.

  He chuckled to himself. This is indeed the way forward, he thought with great enthusiasm, his eyes alight with a dark malignant fire.

  Chapter Seventeen

  From the journal of Dr. John H. Watson

  Professor Christopher Clark carried out his psychiatric researches at St Mary Bethlehem Hospital, St George’s Fields. It was commonly known to Londoners as Bedlam, and had an infamous history of cruelty and barbarity in the treatment of its mentally disturbed inmates. I had on one occasion visited the establishment in my early days of medical training, and the experience was branded firmly on my memory. It is true to say that it was no longer the inhumane house of horror it had been in the distant past, but nevertheless I had left the building with a feeling of great sadness and sympathy for the poor souls incarcerated therein, and a fierce indignation at the brusque and harsh treatment they received at the hands of their supposed carers.

  Holmes had contacted Professor Clark expressing a wish to discuss his article in The Lancet. The professor had replied promptly, inviting us to his research laboratory at the hospital. I viewed a return visit to the place with a certain degree of apprehension. I knew that we would have no reason to come in contact with the wards, but nevertheless the whole place exuded an air of misery and despair that somehow infected the soul. I am not an over-sensitive man when it comes to medical matters; as a doctor, one has to build a protective shell around one’s feelings in order to do the job properly. But what affected me always was the cavalier and sometimes openly cruel ways in which certain medical personnel treated those patients with mental traumas.

  On arriving at the hospital, we announced our presence at the main desk and an orderly was dispatched to take us to Professor Clark’s laboratory. As we made our way up the wide, winding staircase, the air was filled with the sound of the patients’ muted cries and groans. I glanced at Holmes, and his stern features and pursed lips told me that he was experiencing the same feelings of sadness and unease as I. It was with some relief that we reached the door of the lab. The orderly knocked loudly, entered and introduced us before making a swift exit.

  Professor Christopher Clark, a man in his sixties, was short in height, but very bulky of body and in possession of a full grey beard, which in some way compensated for the loss of most of the hair on the top of his head. Two bright blue eyes peered out at us from behind a pair of gold spectacles and his rosy-coloured nose gave evidence that he was a regular imbiber.

  He stepped towards us with a broad grin on his face, took hold of my friend’s hand and shook it vigorously. “Mr. Holmes, how delightful to meet you. I have, of course, read much about your work. I find your methods of investigating crime absolutely fascinating. And you, sir,” he said turning to me, “must be the equally celebrated Dr. Watson.” He grabbed my hand and repeated the animated shaking.

  “We appreciate that you have found the time to see us,” Holmes said.

  “I must admit, when I received your telegram I was most intrigued and somewhat puzzled as to how on earth I could help you.”

  “I am interested in your work in the field of hypnotism.”

  Professor Clark’s face lit up. “Ah, yes. Hypnotism is a great passion of mine. I do believe it is one of the greatest boons to medical science. We have some way to go before methods are perfected, but already I am able to use it on the patients here with remarkable success.”

  “In what way?”

  “In several ways. So many of the patients – I insist on referring to them as patients rather than the crude term ‘inmates’ used by the orderlies and superintendents – so many of the patients suffer from an extreme anxiety complex. Through hypnotism it is possible to ease their troubled minds somewhat. Not to cure them, you understand, but to help regulate their behaviour to a degree. A tortured mind will always act without reason or rationale. If we can ease that torture – diminish its flame, as it were – we can reduce the patient’s unpredictability.”

  “The regulation of behaviour interests me greatly,” said my friend earnestly. “In particular I wish to learn just how much control you are able to exert over an individual.”

  The professor pursed his lips and touched his chin with his right index finger. “Ah, well, that is difficult to say. To a large extent it depends on the individual. The poor devils who live here have minds which are diseased, to a greater or lesser degree, and therefore are more susceptible to suggestion and control than, say, the man in the street, who may well make a conscious, determined effort to resist the hypnotic process. Each individual has a different level of resistance. For example, I very much doubt that I could place you in a hypnotic trance. You have a strong independent mind, which I am sure I would fail to master. But weak minds… that is another matter.”

  “And unsuspecting minds? Is it possible to hypnotise a subject if he is not fully aware that you are doing so?”

  The professor thought for a moment. “Yes, I suppose so, if the conditions were favourable for such an operation. However, here in this hospital there is no need for such subterfuge.”

  “When an individual is in a hypnotic trance, to what extent can you take control of his actions? Is it possible to make your subject behave contrary to his own nature?”

  “To act against his will, you mean?”

  Holmes nodded.

  “Yes, it is possible to some extent. We all have within us dark elements that a skilled hypnotist may well be able to tap into. The hypnotised person appears to heed only the communications of the hypnotist and typically responds in an uncritical, automatic fashion to his instruction, while ignoring all other aspects of the environment. In a hypnotic state an individual tends to see, feel, smell, and otherwise perceive in accordance with the hypnotist’s suggestions, even though these may be in apparent contradiction to the stimuli actually present in that environment. The effects of hypnosis are not limited to sensory change, you understand; even the subject’s memory and awareness of self may be altered by suggestion. It is also the case that the effects of ideas, notions and, indeed, instructions presented by the hypnotist may be extended post-hypnotically into the subject’s subsequent waking activity. You may make a person forget what he has done while in a trance, or indeed, believe he has done something he has not.”

  “Is it possible to instruct a hypnotised person to kill?”

  Clark’s eyes widened in surprise. “My goodness, Mr. Holmes, that is a question!” he said, with some degree of warmth.

  “And the answer?”

  “The answer is not a simple one. It certainly is possible if the subject has within him an inherent violent nature, one that can be enhanced by hypnotic suggestion. I very much doubt you could persuade a loving mother or a virtuous member of the clergy to commit such a crime, for example, but certainly you may have more success with a criminal lowlife or an individual who has successfully hidden a predisposition to violence.” He paused and thought for a moment before continuing. “There is one other possibility.”

  “Yes,” Holmes responded softly.

  “I have no evidence to support what I am about to suggest. It is not an area of research that I have dealt with, but it seems to me that it may be possible for a very skilled hypnotist to create the kind of aggression required to kill in the mind of his subject, perhaps
by planting a false idea that he is under extreme threat, to foster this urge to destroy while eliminating all moral barriers to committing such an act.” The professor shrugged his shoulders. “It is only an idea, not even a theory.”

  “But very interesting none the less,” observed my friend with a tight smile.

  “Mr. Holmes, may I ask what particular interest in hypnotism brings you here?”

  Holmes paused for a moment. I knew that he was reluctant to reveal the details of his enquiry, but at the same time it was necessary to provide some convincing answer for the professor.

  “I am in the early stages of an investigation where it is possible that hypnotism has been used,” he said at length. “It is by no means certain, but I am aware my knowledge of the subject is sketchy and I wished to learn more. That is all I feel I can convey to you at this moment. The situation is rather delicate.”

  “I see.” There was more pursing of lips before our host continued. “In that case, perhaps you would care to witness a demonstration. A practical experience is worth a raft of words.”

  “That would be most interesting,” agreed Holmes with enthusiasm.

  “Come, then, let us go down to the cells and visit a patient of mine who is particularly susceptible to the powers of hypnotism.”

  Without further discussion, Professor Clark led us to the rear of the lab, through a door and down a shadowy spiral stone staircase to the lower reaches of the hospital. At the bottom we reached a large antechamber, illuminated by flickering gaslight which sent eerie ill-formed shapes skittering across the damp stone walls. It was here that we encountered a burly, black-bearded, uniformed individual, seated by a large metal door. I assumed that he was a guard, keeping watch over the patients. He stood up as we approached.

  “Ah, Jenkins, I have two important visitors with me and I should like to look in on Margaret,” said the professor.

  “Very well, sir,” came the muted reply. The fellow unhooked a large ring of keys from his belt and opened the metal door. Beyond I could see a narrow corridor with a series of doors on either side. Odd, subhuman noises could be heard emanating from some of them: souls in torment, I assumed, each one trapped in his or her own little cell with only their doomed and twisted thoughts to keep them company. It struck me that to be incarcerated in such a fashion was enough to send even the sanest fellow mad. I shuddered at the thought of their terrible plight. Leading the way, the guard moved along to the third door and gazed through the small barred aperture.