by Cavan Scott
Intrigued, I stood, crossing to the bookcase that housed my medical encyclopaedias. The mutation must have been some kind of medical disorder, a blight that would bring considerable distress to the sufferer, especially if it spread beyond the collarbone. Indeed, there was evidence of further growths along the medial end of the bone. If they continued on to the sternoclavicular joint, they might have restricted the movement of the arm itself. Of course, I could scarcely help but wonder why such a patient would be operated upon in the filth and grime of an abandoned hospital, but banished such thoughts as I searched for the correct book. This was a time for facts, not speculation.
My fingers fell upon the volume concerning skeletal abnormalities, but as I started to ease the book from between its neighbours, I heard the front door to the building open. I paused, the book half removed from the shelf, and turned to face the door to my consulting room, which I had left slightly ajar.
“Mr Stillwell?” I called out, thinking that it might have been my surgical lodger leaving for the day. “Is that you?”
There came no reply, save for the sound of the door shutting once again, more softly this time, not the carefree slam of a fellow heading off to work at all.
I listened intently, but there was no other sound, until the sudden creak of the loose floorboard in the hall.
“Hello? Who’s there?” I asked, fetching the cane I had left leaning against my desk and stepping into my waiting room. “I’m afraid that the surgery is closed until further—”
I broke off, as the door opened and two men entered. They both wore rounded collars beneath tweed jackets and waistcoats, dark stains on their cloth caps telling me that it had started to rain outside. The fellow to the right was short, with a thick moustache and piercing blue eyes. The other was clean-shaven with a noticeable scar on his top lip and eyes the colour of tar pits. A gold watch hung from his herringbone waistcoat, and, unlike his stockier companion, he wore a smart bow tie, expertly tied, and matched with a dandyish red carnation.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” I began, all too aware of the menace exuded by the newcomers, “but as I said, the practice is currently closed. If you need medical assistance then I can recommend a number of my colleagues.”
The stocky man sneered, his moustache bristling. “Oh, no one is in need of medical assistance yet, Doctor.”
“Then I must ask you to leave.”
“And that’s funny,” said his clean-shaven colleague, hooded eyes sparkling with amusement. “Because we’ve got something to ask you too, haven’t we, Mr Hartley?”
“That’s right, Mr Burns.”
Their voices were thickly accented, the unmistakable flatness of the Black Country. Holmes would have no doubt been able to tell me exactly what part of the Midlands they hailed from, but all I knew was that I wanted them out of my practice as soon as possible.
“I’m sure I’m not interested in anything you have to ask me,” I said, walking forward to show them to the door, trying to disguise the slight hobble in my step. It was never wise to show any sign of weakness with men such as these. “Now, if you do not leave, then I’m afraid I shall have no option other than to call for the police.”
“And that’s your problem right there, Dr Watson,” Hartley said, stepping forward to block my path. “Always running to the police, stopping them from getting on with their business.”
The ruffian had moved so close that I was forced to take a step back, if only to escape the reek of stale whisky on the man’s breath.
“You have something we want,” said Burns. “Something that should never have been found.”
The bone. He must be talking about the bone.
Burns’s wolfish smile widened. “Something which I reckon I’ll find in that room through there.” He pointed with tobacco-stained fingers to my consulting room.
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“I think you do, Doctor. You see, I’ve read some of your stories.
Oh, there’s no need to look so surprised. I can read, you know.”
“I wouldn’t presume to suggest otherwise—” I blustered.
“Picked up a few tricks, I have, from your pal Mr Holmes. Like how you went to look over your shoulder when I mentioned the bone. Because it is a bone, isn’t it, Doctor?”
I cursed myself, angry to have fallen for the same ruse that Holmes had used to ensnare Pritchard in the Mallard Club. It occurred to me once again what an old fool I had become.
“Now, this is what’s going to happen. I’m going to go in there, collect what we came for, and you’re not going to stop me. Is that clear?”
“You have no right—”
“No, but I’m going to do it anyway.”
Burns took a step forward, but I would be damned if I was going to let him simply stroll past me to steal valuable evidence. I went to step around Hartley, my cane already raised, when the thug of a man slapped a tattooed hand onto my bruised left shoulder. Waves of agony swept through my body and I sank to my knees, my cane clattering across the floor. The brute maintained his vice-like grip, rendering me near immobile with pain as his partner sauntered into my consulting room to reappear mere moments later, patting his jacket, the bone no doubt secreted in an inside pocket.
“You have what you came for,” I hissed through gritted teeth, fighting back nausea, “so I suggest you leave. Unless you’re also planning to finish the job on me.”
Burns paused, trying to look offended. “Finish the job? You must think us barbarians.”
“You have no qualms about torturing a helpless old man,” I gasped. “What am I supposed to think?”
The man laughed. “Old, yes, there’s no doubt about that. But harmless?” He gave another snort of derision. “I don’t think so. As I said, I’ve read your stories, unless they really are fiction.”
He nodded at his companion, who released his hold on my shoulder. I slumped forward, gasping for breath. Burns’s polished brogues stepped towards me and he crouched down.
“The thing is, Doctor, this is a story you should abandon, a case that does not concern you.”
I reached for my stick, aiming to stand and regain what little was left of my dignity. Instead, Burns denied me even that.
“Here, let us,” he said, standing and looping a hand beneath my arm. Before I could resist, he and his compatriot had hauled me painfully to my feet. I cried out again, and staggered back, Hartley manoeuvring me to land awkwardly in one of the waiting room chairs, breathing heavily. I glared at the two men, even as Burns bent to pick up my cane.
“Forget about what you saw, Doctor. Forget about what you found.”
“And if I don’t?” I panted in reply, straightening myself in the chair.
“Then a dodgy shoulder will be the least of your worries, and as for Mr Holmes…”
He left the words hanging in the air.
“What of him?” I asked, the insinuation of the pause too much to bear.
“He should return to his bees, that’s all I’m saying,” came the reply. “Keep eating that honey of his. Stay healthy, if you know what I mean.”
All the time, the lout was turning my cane over and over in his hands. He stopped, grinning again, showing a row of uneven yellowing teeth. “Do we understand each other?”
“Absolutely,” I spat.
“Good,” said he, throwing my cane towards me. Instinctively I snatched it out of the air, drawing another agonised gasp as my aggrieved shoulder burned in response.
“Then we’ll be off,” Burns said, touching the brim of his cap. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Doctor. Shame that I didn’t bring one of your books. You could have signed it for me.”
And then he strutted out, his hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets, his bulky companion falling in behind. I had neither the energy nor the inclination to try to stop them, not even when I heard the latch to the front door click open and that damned voice call out again.
“Of course, I could drop round an
d leave one with your wife. Sixty-seven Cheyne Walk, isn’t it?”
Growling with anger, I pushed myself from the seat, but they were already gone, slamming the door behind them. I struggled out into the hall, pulling the front door open and stepping out into the rain. I looked from right to left, but of the two invaders there was no sign. My shoulders sagging, I stepped back inside, shutting out the bad weather. My two visitors had left, but their threat remained. They knew where I worked and where I lived. That they had wanted to frighten me, there was no doubt. That they had succeeded was obvious, but if they thought that John Watson could be intimidated, they had made a grave error.
My heart still hammering in my chest, I limped into my consulting room to fetch my coat, pausing only to note that, as expected, the bone was gone.
It mattered not. I had overcome worse obstacles in my life, and had been threatened before, but with the Almighty as my witness, had never capitulated. Damned if I was going to start now.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CLOSED SHUTTERS
“That is not possible. I saw him only last evening.”
The desk sergeant at New Scotland Yard could only shrug.
“I don’t know what else to say, Dr Watson. I asked after Inspector Tovey, but apparently he left early this morning.”
“For Cornwall? Why there?”
“An important case, by all accounts, and one that requires his…” The sergeant chose his words carefully, “…own particular methods.”
I gripped my new cane hard, trying not to take out my frustrations on the poor man before me. He was merely the messenger.
I had travelled straight from Queen Anne Street to the Yard, intending to inform Inspector Tovey about my disagreeable callers, sure that he would help get to the bottom of their warning, and yet now found that Tovey was already hundreds of miles away, rushing towards a new investigation. It made no sense. Tovey was a tenacious sort, the kind of man who was incapable of resting until a task was completed. For him to abandon London after the events at Abberton Hospital was unthinkable, and yet it had happened nonetheless.
“What of Inspector Gregson?” I asked, clutching at what few names I still knew at the Yard. In days gone by, I would have asked for Lestrade, God rest his soul, but I was sure that Tobias Gregson was still active, although he too would be reaching retirement.
“I’m afraid that Inspector Gregson is also unavailable, sir,” the sergeant said, matter-of-factly.
I frowned. “You know that without checking?”
“He is currently investigating a crime in the East End, and we won’t be expecting him back until sundown. I wish there was something I could do for you.”
“Well, you could tell me who else I can see, unless every detective in the Metropolitan Police Service is currently occupied.”
“Crime does not rest,” the sergeant replied, without a hint of irony. “And neither must we. Now, if you leave me your details, I can enquire about the possibility of an appointment—”
“An appointment?”
“Do you have a telephone, sir?”
“Of course I do, however—”
“Then if you leave me your number, I’ll make sure that someone contacts you as soon as they’re able.”
I was flabbergasted. To think of all the times I had assisted Scotland Yard in their investigations, and here I was being dismissed like a stranger; no, worse than that, I was being treated like an irrelevance.
“Sergeant, I don’t think you understand. Not one hour ago, I was assaulted by a pair of ne’er-do-wells in my own medical practice. I have reason to believe that this intrusion has everything to do with an investigation being carried out by Inspector Tovey, an investigation that he invited us to be a part of.”
“Us, sir?”
“Sherlock Holmes and myself.”
“Ah, but Inspector Tovey is not here…”
“So you have said—”
“So, if you leave your telephone number, I will make sure that he gets back to you as soon as he returns.”
“From Cornwall.”
“From Cornwall, yes.”
I could feel my blood pressure preparing to erupt. “Oh, this is intolerable. They threatened me, Sergeant. Worse than that, they threatened my wife. Do you see? They said that they would hurt us.”
“Did these ne’er-do-wells of yours specifically use those words, Doctor?”
“Not exactly, but their meaning was clear.”
“I see. Then, until we get in touch, I suggest you go home and make sure Mrs Watson is safe. I’ll send someone presently to take a statement.”
It was clear that I could protest as much as I wanted, but the sergeant would remain unmoved. Reluctantly, I left my details as instructed and traipsed back out into the drizzle, fuming that I had been dismissed out of hand. If this was how people were treated when they turned to the police, no wonder that crime flourished on every street corner.
I consulted my watch. It was just turning ten. I would heed the sergeant’s advice, exasperating though it had been, and check on my wife. But first, as I was in town, I decided to visit Holmes and see if there had been any improvement in my friend’s condition. Not fancying the four-mile walk in the rain, I hailed a cab and sat brooding in the back, more injured by my treatment than by any trauma suffered at the hands of Burns and Hartley earlier that morning. At least the day could only get better, I considered. If Holmes was awake, we could discuss what had happened and make sense of it together.
It was a vain hope. On arrival at the hospital, I made my way to Holmes’s room, but was astounded and not a little dismayed to find the bed without an occupant, the sheets neatly made.
“Oh no,” I gasped, fearing the worst, and looked around for assistance. “Nurse? Nurse!”
A blonde nurse immediately ran up. “Can I help you, sir?” she enquired, her accent cheerfully cockney. “Are you all right?”
“No, no I am not. My friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes. What has happened to him?”
A look of confusion passed over the girl’s pretty young face. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
“The patient who was in this room, where is he?”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t know. I’ve just come on duty, and there’s been no one in there all morning.”
“But that’s impossible. Dr Gibbs, is he here?”
“Dr Gibbs?”
“Yes, he was treating my friend. He’ll know what’s happened.”
“I’m afraid Dr Gibbs is on holiday, sir.”
“On holiday?”
“So I believe. Taken his family to the coast I’ve heard, lucky souls. I hope the weather’s treating them better than us.”
She smiled, but my head was spinning. “He didn’t mention he was going away,” I said. “I was talking to him here, last night. There was another nurse with him, older than you perhaps, with dark hair.”
“Nurse Eddison?”
“Maybe, I don’t know.”
She smiled again. “Let me check for you. I’ll be right back. Why don’t you sit down for a moment? You look as though you could do with taking the weight off your feet.”
I had to admit that she was right. My mind was racing, imagining all kinds of horrors: that Holmes had deteriorated in the night, his injuries proving too great, the swelling in the brain, internal bleeding. It was too much to bear.
I was roused from my fears by the light footsteps of the returning nurse. “I’m sorry, Dr Watson, but there’s no sign of Nurse Eddison, and no one seems to know anything about a patient in that room. Are you sure you’re not mistaken? Was it definitely this room?”
“Yes,” I cried, rising from the seat, frustrated beyond belief. “I sat right here, waiting for Dr Gibbs to examine Holmes.”
“But Dr Gibbs is on holiday, sir.”
“Well, he wasn’t last night,” I bellowed, the concern on the nurse’s face disappearing with my outburst.
“Doctor, please. This is a hospital.”
“It is,” I replied, incensed. “And one, it seems, that loses its patients!”
The nurse crossed her arms, and it was clear that I had exhausted her goodwill. Not that I cared one jot.
“Sir, I am going to have to ask you to leave. There’s obviously been some mistake, and I’m afraid I can’t help you. We have no record of your friend, and even if we did, your tone is not helping.”
“Very well,” I said, incensed beyond measure. “But don’t think for one moment that this is at an end. I shall be writing to your council of governors. Sherlock Holmes has served this country all his life, and for him to be treated in such a manner in his hour of need is an outrage.”
The nurse indicated the exit at the end of the corridor. “Good morning, Doctor.”
I took my leave without another word, storming from the corridor and, minutes later, from the hospital itself. First Scotland Yard and now here? Doors were slamming in my face, and, worst of all, I now had no idea where to find Holmes. For that damned nurse to suggest that he had never been in the room in the first place, why, it was preposterous. I had seen him there with my own eyes, lying in that bed. If Tovey hadn’t fled for the West Country, he could have attested as much. I had half a mind to go back to the ward and read the riot act to the girl. She obviously had no idea who she was dealing with.
Then it struck me. She did know who I was. “Dr Watson”, that was what she had called me, using both my name and my title, and yet I had never introduced myself properly, I was sure of it. She knew who I was, and yet still she claimed to have no knowledge of Holmes.
I staggered, dizziness washing over me. A passer-by stopped, ready to be a good Samaritan, grabbing my arm, asking if I needed to sit down. That was the last thing I needed. I thanked him, sending his fine intentions on his way. He couldn’t help. Perhaps no one could. Everything had suddenly become clear. The louts in my surgery, Inspector Tovey’s sudden absence, and now Holmes’s disappearance; these events had to be connected to the case, to the amputated hand, the attack in the hospital, the mutated bone, that blood-stained operating theatre. Whatever we had stumbled upon had led to my being threatened and turned away by the authorities. And if that had happened to me, what of Holmes, in his weakened condition?