Sherlock Holmes

by Cavan Scott

  “This is appalling,” I said. “His life must have been unbearable.”

  “The condition is debilitating, yes, although, as I’m sure you must have discovered over the years, Dr Watson, the human spirit is more resilient than the flesh it inhabits. The men and women I treat, why, they are some of the bravest souls you could ever meet.”

  “Is there a cure?” Holmes asked, his voice impassive as always.

  Gapton showed us back into his main consulting room. “I’m afraid not, which is the tragedy, especially as, in most cases, the condition first manifests in infancy.”

  “At what age?” I asked, taking my seat.

  “I’ve seen children as young as five years old. Symptoms often appear following a trauma, a fall or some such.” Gapton fetched a book from a shelf and joined us, sitting behind his desk. “There have been mentions of the disease since the late 1600s, although the first clear description was made by John Freke of the Royal Society nearly two hundred years ago.” The doctor found the appropriate passage in his book and offered it to me. I skimmed the page, finding a passage dated the fourteenth of April 1740. I read it aloud to Holmes.

  “There came a boy of healthy look and fourteen years of age, to ask of us at The Hospital, what should be done to cure him of many large swellings on his back which began about three years since, and have continued to grow as large on many parts as a penny-loaf – Good Lord – particularly on the left side. They arise from all the vertebrae of the neck, and reach down to the os sacrum.” I looked up from the book to offer Holmes an explanation. “That’s a triangular bone at the base of the spine, part of the—”

  “Pelvis, yes, I know,” Holmes interrupted.

  “Very well. They likewise arise from every rib of his body, and joining together in all parts of his back, as the ramifications of coral do, they make, as it were, a fixed bony pair of bodice.”

  “It’s as good a description as any that has been offered since,” Gapton commented.

  I nodded, recalling the misshapen skeleton in the other room.

  “Two hundred years and we are no nearer a cure,” I commented.

  “Not for want of trying, I assure you.”

  I raised an appeasing hand. “It was no criticism, Doctor. I often feel that while we have achieved so much in the last century, performing medical feats that would once have had us either praised as miracle-workers or condemned as witches—”

  “There is still much that we do not know, or seem able to combat. I agree, which is why I have dedicated my life to this particular curse.” He gave Sherlock Holmes a good-natured smile. “You have your mysteries to solve, this is mine.”

  “An admirable attitude, Doctor,” said Holmes. “So, these swellings; they are the first symptom?”

  “Usually, although there are other indicators that a child may suffer from M.O.P.”

  “Such as?”

  I jumped in, still consulting Gapton’s book. “There’s mention in this report of an abnormality in the toes.”

  “The toes?” echoed Holmes.

  “Yes,” replied Gapton. “Sufferers are often born with malformation of the great toe.”

  “It is stunted?” Holmes asked.

  “Why, yes,” Gapton responded. “With a valgus deformity.”

  “Meaning that the bone is twisted away from the body slightly.”

  “Quite so. The greater the deformity—”

  “The greater the severity of the condition.”

  “I see you’ve been doing research of your own.”

  “So, every time that the child is injured…” Holmes prompted, ignoring the suggestion.

  “The condition goes to work,” Gapton replied. “Normally, the immune system rids us of infection, while broken bones knit back together, but with M.O.P., the body’s response is amplified. The muscle itself ossifies, encasing the original skeleton at the point of injury.”

  “And the extraneous bone cannot be removed?” I asked.

  Gapton shook his head. “Not without more growth. It’s a vicious circle. Before long the patient’s joints seize up, leaving him with restricted movement at best.”

  “And at worst?”

  “Complete immobility.”

  Holmes leant back in his chair, considering his next question.

  “How many patients are you currently treating, Doctor?”

  “Well, as you know, the condition is thankfully extremely rare, although I do have one on-going case, here in London.”

  “Would we be able to interview your patient?”

  Gapton looked uncomfortable at the suggestion. “That might not be possible, Mr Holmes. The family in question values their privacy, and are wary of their son becoming a curiosity.”

  “It is a boy then?”

  The doctor’s expression darkened. “Why do I have the impression that I’m being interrogated? I welcomed you into my surgery as I believed you were interested in my work, not my patients.”

  “We are interested in both,” I cut in. “The case we are investigating is of national importance.” For all I knew, my claim was not a complete lie. The fact that everyone had turned us away, from the Metropolitan Police to Holmes’s own brother, suggested that we had stumbled upon something of political import. “If we can understand this terrible condition, then we may be able to find a connection.”

  “Between your case and the bone you discovered.”

  “Exactly. Dr Gapton, as one doctor to another…”

  The doctor examined my face before coming to a conclusion. “Very well. I shall contact the family and see if they will meet with you, but if they want to keep out of whatever this is – and I warn you, I suspect they will – then I shall have to respect their wishes. As a doctor, I am sure you understand the importance of the Hippocratic Oath.”

  “Whatever I may happen to obtain knowledge of, if it be not proper to repeat it—”

  “—I will keep sacred and secret within my own breast,” Gapton finished.

  Handing back his book, I assured the doctor that we quite understood. Holmes himself apologised for any offence and thanked Dr Gapton from the bottom of his heart.

  After a congenial farewell, we retired to my practice to await Dr Gapton’s verdict. As Holmes perused my library for mentions of the abominable disease, I had a question of my own.

  “Holmes, how did you know about the toes?”

  “What’s that, Watson?”

  “When Gapton was describing the symptoms you knew about the irregularity of the toes before he mentioned it. What was it? Something you noticed on the skeleton?”

  Holmes smiled, returning his attention to the book in his lap. “Not at all, Watson. I was merely thinking back to the footprint we found in the operating theatre.”

  “The one in the blood? The woman’s?”

  Holmes nodded. “Quite so. I am surprised you failed to notice yourself, Watson. Her toe was stunted.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ON THE TRAIL

  I was curious when Holmes suggested that we lunch at Bourne & Hollingsworth on Oxford Street, rather than in any of the numerous eateries near Queen Anne Street. He claimed that the short walk would help clear his mind, and yet, as we made our way along Wigmore and then Wells Street, he talked non-stop, pointing out every scrap of trivia that seemed to be flowing through that incredible head of his. This was not his way. When in contemplation, Holmes would usually fall silent, discarding useless facts and obsessing over observations that lesser men would have dismissed as irrelevances. Yet today it was as if Holmes were incapable of stopping the words, as he babbled about everything and nothing. What was more, the man was positively dawdling. Again, I was used to having to stride after Holmes; today, he seemed content to dilly-dally, much to the annoyance of anyone trying to walk behind us.

  Even when eating, Holmes took his time, picking over his lunch while regaling me with more stories about life on the South Coast than I had ever heard before, or indeed wanted to know. I was subjected to
village tittle-tattle and gossip; the ins and outs of local quarrels; and even a full review of the ales on offer in every hostelry within a five-mile radius of Holmes’s house.

  As we meandered back along Oxford Street, turning up Holles Street to amble through Cavendish Street Gardens, I began to think that the great man was suffering a relapse. Sudden changes in personality often followed head injuries. Maybe Holmes’s recovery was less complete than I had hoped.

  However, as soon as we were back within the confines of my practice, Holmes thanked me.

  “For what?” I asked.

  “For letting me ramble on for the last hour.”

  “More like two,” I remarked. “I’ve never known you walk so slowly. Are you feeling quite yourself?”

  “Never more so, Watson. And I apologise. I would have told you that we were being observed, but I knew that you would have unwittingly given the game away.”

  “Observed? Over lunch?”

  “From the moment we left this building, dear boy. And by professionals, too. I counted not one tail but four, working together. They were subtle, switching positions at regular intervals.”

  “So that’s why you were all but crawling along the pavement.”

  Holmes laughed. “Perhaps I should have literally crawled to see what they would do, but yes. When being followed, one’s natural response is to quicken one’s pace, to see if one’s pursuers do the same. However, I always find it is better to meander, stopping as often as possible. It is very hard to follow someone who insists on walking slowly, not without being noticed.”

  “And were they in the restaurant too?”

  “The woman in the brown dress, with the silver brooch. Did you notice her?”

  “I can’t say I did.”

  “Because your eye was taken by the lady in the red hat, as it was supposed to be. When our woman in brown picked us up on the corner of Great Titchfield Street, her outfit was hidden beneath a long black coat, which she had swapped for a navy-blue tunic by the time she entered the restaurant. Another sign that we are dealing with professionals: the changing of outer garments to confuse their quarry. Hats and coats are easily substituted; shoes, on the other hand, are not.”

  “And she wore the same shoes?”

  “She did. Patent leather with a velvet top and a military heel. A style neither in vogue nor noticeably unfashionable. The perfect camouflage. Indeed, when she passed us in Cavendish Street Gardens, she had changed into a moss-green coat and matching hat—”

  “And yet was wearing the same shoes.”

  “You’re learning.”

  “So who were they?”

  “Government I would say, rather than gangland, by the sophistication of the surveillance. No doubt the work of brother Mycroft, keeping tabs on his errant sibling.”

  “Then they would have seen us visit Dr Gapton this morning?”

  “More than likely. I wonder if he is suddenly going to take a well-earned holiday?”

  An appalling thought struck me. “You don’t suppose they’ll do anything to him, do you?”

  Holmes dismissed my fear with a shake of his head. “Other than apply a little pressure, I doubt it. Or, at least, so I hope.”

  It was with a certain amount of relief that I received a telephone call from the doctor himself within the hour. He had contacted the family of his patient – the Sellmans of Hampstead – who had, to Gapton’s surprise, agreed to see us. He passed on their address and telephone number, and impressed upon me that he did not wish to see the Sellmans inconvenienced in any way.

  I assured him that we would treat them with the utmost respect, which he said that he believed in my case, and thanked him once again before returning the receiver to the cradle.

  “So, I shall be driving to Hampstead this afternoon?” I enquired.

  “Tomorrow, Watson. Let the hounds’ trails grow cold, for tonight at least. We shall telephone the Sellmans from your house, as if we have nothing to hide.”

  “Which we don’t!” I insisted.

  “No, but others obviously do.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  A HOUSE CALL

  The following morning Holmes suggested that we take the tube to Hampstead, saying that public transport would offer a better chance to spot anyone on our tail. Now I realised why he had omitted to share his suspicions with me the day before. It was all I could do not to glance furtively over my shoulder at every turn.

  As it was, I was convinced that I spotted the same car pass us on three occasions.

  “Head forward,” Holmes instructed as we descended to the platform. “Eyes ahead. You let me worry about our friends on the streets.”

  “So we’re being followed again?”

  “A bearded gentleman with a bowler and umbrella, a woman walking her dog and a fellow with a cloth cap.”

  “A cloth cap?” My mind immediately threw up an image of the sadistic visitors to my surgery two days previously.

  “Do not concern yourself, Watson. There wasn’t a bushy moustache in sight, and neither did he match the description of your bowtie-wearing assailant, Mr Burns.”

  “Are any on the station now?”

  Holmes made a show of consulting the train timetable.

  “On the platform opposite. The lady’s canine companion seems to have slipped its leash. I do hope she is not too upset, although the way she is reading the latest edition of The Gentlewoman would indicate that she has not even noticed.”

  Knowing full well that I shouldn’t, I turned to examine the opposite platform as nonchalantly as I could. There was the woman Holmes described, studying her periodical on a bench with an intensity I am sure I would have failed to notice had not my senses been heightened.

  “I’m assuming she’s not alone,” I asked, careful not to turn as soon as I spotted her.

  “No. Our friend in the bowler hat is at the end of the platform, although this time I suggest you trust me in the matter and avoid looking yourself.”

  Casually swinging his umbrella, Holmes led me down the platform towards the exit, and I thought we were going to leave when a sudden rush of air from the tunnel’s entrance told me that a train was approaching. The train came to a halt and we stepped on board, Holmes whispering to me not to make myself comfortable. I knew immediately what he had planned. Checking that the individual wearing the bowler hat had also boarded a carriage, Holmes waited for the last moment before he grabbed the door and jumped from the already moving train. I followed suit, nearly losing my footing before chasing after him as he charged back up the stairs to the station entrance. I dared not glance back to see if bowler hat had followed us back out onto the platform, but spotted the woman who had been reading the magazine already outside the station. Holmes did not hesitate, even as a taxi rolled up beside us without being hailed and my friend opened the door.

  “Holmes, this could be—”

  “Get in, Watson.”

  I did as he insisted and soon we were being whisked away down the street.

  “Good morning, Doctor,” said the driver, touching a finger to his cap.

  “Good Lord. Geller, is that you?”

  The former Irregular, with the same squirrel-like cheeks and flattened nose I remembered from when he was a child, smiled back at me in the rear-view mirror.

  “The very same. Good to see that you two are in as much strife as ever.”

  “I hope you don’t mind, Watson, but I made use of your telephone before you awoke this morning to contact Geller.”

  “It was you who shadowed us on the way to the station?”

  “Just following Mr Holmes’s instructions, same as always.”

  “So you planned the whole thing?”

  Holmes allowed himself a smile. “I have no doubt that agents will be awaiting us at our destination, just as they already know where we are going.”

  “Then why all that tomfoolery at the station? We could have broken our necks jumping off that train.”

  “He wanted to send
a message, didn’t you, Mr Holmes?”

  “Quite right, Geller. If my brother knows that I am on to his cloak and dagger antics, it may force his hand. If he wants to stop us in our enquiries, then let him arrest us.”

  “I would rather he didn’t,” I insisted.

  “And I would like to know what crime we would be charged with. Fleeing a hospital bed? Visiting an innocent family in their home?”

  “If they’re still there,” I suggested, thinking of everyone else who had already disappeared.

  However, as we drove up to the Sellmans’ impressive house on East Heath Road, there was a light on in an upstairs bedroom.

  “At least someone is at home,” Holmes commented, thrusting some coins into Geller’s hand.

  “Shall I wait for you, Mr Holmes?” the cabbie said.

  “If it’s no trouble.”

  “None at all. I’ll park on Well Walk. Just whistle and I’ll come running. Well, driving anyway.”

  With a friendly wave, Geller drove off, leaving us alone. At least I thought we were alone. The street was deserted in both directions.

  “Mycroft must be slipping,” Holmes said, starting up the path to the Sellmans’ front door.

  “Or he has agents waiting for us inside,” said I.

  “You have a suspicious mind, Watson.”

  “Can you blame me?”

  The Sellmans’ house dated from the 1700s if my layman’s eye could be trusted. Ivy clung around the bay windows, a small balcony having been added above the front door in recent years. While their home was less grand than either of its redbrick neighbours, the Sellmans must have been no strangers to money to reside in the village, especially these days. Since the turn of the century, the Heath had been highly favoured as a place to live. Even my wife, before settling on Chelsea, had toyed with the idea of relocating to these leafy avenues.

  Reaching the threshold, Holmes rang the bell. Before long the door was opened by a woman with an austere expression and greying hair swept up in a monumental bun that was perched on her head as if gravity were a mere inconvenience. She wore a long black dress, buttoned to the neck; a pair of pince-nez gripped the bridge of her straight-edged nose, the safety chain attached to a discreet loop around her left ear.