Sherlock Holmes

by Cavan Scott

  “Intriguing, isn’t it? For some reason the Frankensteins of Geneva changed their name to Balmer.”

  “When?”

  “Sometime before Ernest became a diplomat.”

  “Do we know why?”

  “Unfortunately not. All we know is that Ernest had two brothers, Victor and William. Other than that, the Frankensteins are shrouded in mystery. If our celebrated diplomat did change his family name, there must have been some kind of scandal.”

  “But one that surely has no bearing on our case?”

  “No, but it is fascinating all the same.” The envelope resting on his lap, Holmes sat back and tapped his index finger against his lips. “And there’s something about the name Frankenstein that strikes me as familiar, although I cannot recall in what regard, and could find no mention in my index.”

  “You went up into the attic?”

  “You really do take an inordinate amount of time to shave, Watson.”

  I handed Holmes the birth certificate and watched him stuff it and the envelope back into the case.

  “Either way, I don’t see how it helps us,” I said, letting my gaze wander out across the landscape that whistled past.

  “Neither do I, unless our artist, who by all accounts was destined for great things, had his career cut short by a debilitating disease.”

  “The curse of the Frankensteins?” I suggested.

  Holmes smiled. “Already conjuring up a name for the short story? Or is this little distraction worthy of a novel?”

  I chuckled. “Little distraction? Besides, do you really think Mycroft would let me publish it?”

  Now it was Holmes’s turn to regard the passing countryside. “Secrets everywhere, Watson. Official or otherwise. Just waiting to be uncovered.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  MRS STEVENS

  The rest of the journey passed without incident. Our distance from London seemed also to have a restorative effect on Holmes. It was only as I saw him relax, passing the time with anecdotes and reminiscences, that I realised precisely how much recent events had affected him. Before long, he was sitting a little straighter, becoming more effusive with his gestures and letting his laughter last longer, until both of us, on numerous occasions, were wiping tears from our eyes.

  Finally we arrived at the ever-busy London Road Station, and stepped out into the throng of Mancunians. The sound was incredible, louder than even the great stations of the capital. Holmes and I made our way through the crowd, looking for the exit, only to be greeted by a serious-looking girl in a modest hat and coat. In her hands she held a card, with a single name written in clear block letters.

  MR SHERLOCK HOLMES

  “So much for anonymity,” I grumbled beneath my breath.

  Holmes ignored the comment, breaking into a smile as he approached the lady. “Mrs Stevens?”

  “Mr Holmes,” she replied, her warm northern vowels instantly making me feel at home. I had never lived in this part of the country, but there was something about the accent that exuded welcome. Some southerners dismissed the people of the north as downcast and gruff. I had always believed that it was the other way round. Anyone south of the Peak District could learn much about hospitality from our northern cousins.

  “I am so glad that you got in touch,” Mrs Stevens said, leading us to the taxi rank. “I couldn’t believe it when I received your telegram. Sherlock Holmes coming here, to help us! Everyone at the campaign is so excited.”

  “Yours is a worthy cause,” Holmes said, opening a cab door for the lady. She climbed inside and we followed suit. Holmes took the seat alongside Mrs Stevens and I sat with my back to the driver, enabling me to observe them both. She was a handsome woman, although her hair had turned prematurely grey. Her green eyes were bright with excitement and yet had the tell-tale signs of care, lines creasing the skin that she kept free of make-up. There was sadness to this woman, and I could scarcely help but notice that she wore black from head to foot. A widow then? There were a lot of widows these days.

  “As soon as I read of this Hulme Giant I have to admit that my interest was piqued,” Holmes continued. “While I have long since retired from practice, I wonder if my meagre talents might help identify the poor fellow.”

  Holmes’s false modesty made me smile. Meagre talents indeed.

  “We came as soon as we could,” I added. “Any excuse to visit Manchester on my part. I find it such an exhilarating city, all this industry and commerce. A place where the future is forged.”

  She smiled, but there was little joy in the expression.

  “It was exhilarating, once. No offence to the south, but we pride ourselves on being strong up here, ready to roll up our sleeves and get the job done. But with so many of the men gone…” Her voice faltered and, for a moment, she looked straight through me, as if searching the horizon. Then she was back, focusing on my face. “It’s been hard,” she concluded, “but we struggle on.”

  “Concilio et labore,” said Holmes, smiling fondly at the young lady, who was obviously still grieving. He glanced over to me to explain: “The city’s motto.”

  “By wisdom and effort,” I translated.

  Holmes nodded. “A fine maxim no matter where one lives. How did you become involved with Dignity for Ex-Servicemen, Mrs Stevens?”

  Another kindness from Holmes. No doubt he could have dazzled the young woman with his detective prowess, gleaning everything he needed to know from her appearance, but this was no time for showmanship.

  Mrs Stevens paused, as if summoning the courage to tell her story. “My Alfred never came home from the war. No one knows what happened to him. There are those who think he was taken prisoner, but they can’t be sure. When the boys started coming back, I volunteered at the shelters.”

  “A noble calling,” Holmes commented.

  “No, a selfish one, Mr Holmes. Every night I worked there, I searched for him. So many faces, haunted the lot of them. The things some of them talked about, what they saw, what they had to do. Living nightmares. And then there were those who just sat there, staring at the walls, seeing God knows what staring right back at them. They say that war’s hell, Mr Holmes, but for those men, peace is worse.”

  “Surely not,” I said.

  “At the front, they had a purpose in life. A regimented existence, in every sense of the word. Not now. Now they’ve come back, wounded and scarred, what reward do they receive? We turn our backs on them, Dr Watson. They fought for us, and now they’re an embarrassment, an inconvenience.” She gestured out of the taxi window with a gloved hand. “Look around you. You say this is where the future is forged. What about those men on the street corners, do you see them?”

  How could I not? They were everywhere, leaning against walls or huddled in groups.

  “There’s more down by the canal. Hundreds. No one gives them the time of day. You see, they’re not fit to work, that’s what they’re told. Men who dug trenches and buried their friends day after day. It makes me sick. What future have they got, Dr Watson? What hope?”

  Her tone had gained a harder, accusatory edge. There was steel beneath this woman’s sorrow.

  “And it only gets worse for them,” she continued, as the cab sped away from the city centre. “No jobs. No homes. Is it any wonder so many turn to crime, just to survive? We do what we can. We have a hostel, although there’s only so many we can take in. For the rest, we become a voice when no else will speak up. The authorities would rather people forgot about them, but we won’t let that happen. We owe these men far too much to let them fade away.”

  “Men like the Giant,” Holmes prompted, bringing the conversation back to the reason we had travelled to Manchester.

  “We don’t call him that,” Mrs Stevens said, although there was no condemnation in her voice. It was a statement of fact, nothing more. “John’s no monster.”

  “John?” I asked.

  For the first time since she started her polemic, Mrs Stevens smiled. “He needed a name. J
ohn seemed as good as any.”

  “It’s a fine choice,” Holmes said, catching my eye before turning back to the lady. “You have met him?”

  “They allow me to visit him in the asylum.”

  “A progressive institution, from what I’ve read,” I said.

  “They like to think they are,” came Mrs Stevens’ reply. “Oh, I’ve seen worse, Dr Watson, trust me. Prestwich prides itself on seldom using restraints or even sedatives unless it’s really necessary, but at the end of the day, it’s not a hospital. Not really. It’s a prison. Yes, there are exercise yards and activities, but most have no hope of being released, especially folk like John.”

  “What can you tell us about him?” Holmes asked.

  “The papers have got one thing right about him, Mr Holmes. He is a mystery man. He has no memory, you see, other than flashes of who he used to be.”

  “Amnesia?” I enquired.

  “Possibly. Although Dr Dougherty thinks it is shell shock.”

  “John has a doctor at the asylum?”

  “Much good it’s doing him. John has this tic, you see, in his cheeks, his muscles sort of twitch when he speaks. Dr Dougherty thinks that John was forced to run his bayonet through the face of a German. His body’s reacting to the trauma—”

  “His guilt made manifest,” I interrupted. “I’ve read about this in the Lancet. The terrors of the battlefield haunt those who come home. Men who were trained as snipers lose their sight, for no apparent reason.”

  “Other than they don’t want to see what they’ve done,” Mrs Stevens cut in.

  I nodded. “Other men report that one minute they are having normal conversations with their family and then suddenly they see the faces of those they killed, or hear their screams. Conflict demands behaviour that would usually be condemned. When violence becomes the norm, it’s hard to go back.”

  “You sound like a man who understands, Doctor,” Mrs Stevens observed.

  “I served in Afghanistan, although my experiences were nothing compared to those of the men you care for.”

  “And this is Dr Dougherty’s diagnosis?” Holmes asked. “That John is suffering from a wartime neurosis?”

  “Something terrible must have happened to him,” Mrs Stevens replied. “You read the descriptions of his face, all the scarring. We see a lot of deformity in the hostel, limbs lost, faces twisted beyond recognition, but this… this is different. It is as if John was pieced back together, but with such skill. His scars are extensive, but so neat. I wish I could sew with such a steady hand. Whatever happened out there, it’s little wonder it unsettled his mind.”

  “And what of the woman he attacked?” I asked.

  “Ellie Grimshaw,” Mrs Stevens replied. “But he never attacked her. I know that’s what the paper said, but it weren’t the case. She was scared, of course she was. Why wouldn’t you be? It was late, she was on her way home from the pub, and he comes at her, out of the shadows. While I don’t approve of what the papers call him, he really is a giant of a man. Huge, and clumsy, like he can’t always control himself. Another symptom, according to Dr Dougherty, the lack of co-ordination, as if his body doesn’t want to work any more.”

  “But you say it was no assault?” prompted Holmes.

  “He knew her name, even though she said she’d never seen him before, and trust me you’d remember if you had. He called out to her, wailing her name over and over. She tried to get away, but he wouldn’t let go, holding onto her arms. He’s strong. You can see that just looking at him. And his touch, it’s cold, no warmth at all. Anyway, she screamed and men came running from the pub to pull him off her. There was a fight and one of them got his skull cracked open. Still in the Royal Infirmary he is, but John was scared, Mr Holmes. He didn’t know what was happening. He’s like a child.”

  “The only trouble,” said Holmes, “is that according to the newspaper report, he is a child who needs six men to subdue.”

  “I understand why they put him away, Mr Holmes, really I do. But I can’t leave him in there, not knowing who he really is. I keep thinking, well, what if it were my Alf? What if Alf is out there, not right in the head, not knowing how to come home? He’s a big man, too, not as big as John, but…”

  “There by the grace of God…” I said, hoping to be a comfort. It appeared I was anything but. Mrs Stevens’ expression hardened once more.

  “God has nothing to do with it, Dr Watson. It was us that sent people like John out there; us that put them through hell. And all the time God sat watching His creations rip each other apart. I’ve had people bless me for the work I do, saying it’s the Lord’s work. It’s not. I don’t want it to be. I’m not interested in saving anyone for the hereafter. I want them to find peace now, on earth, where it matters. People like John.”

  “If I can help John find peace I shall,” Holmes said softly.

  She smiled again, reaching out and grasping Holmes’s hand. To his credit, Holmes didn’t flinch. “Thank you, Mr Holmes.”

  She broke away, turning quickly so we were unable to see the tears in her eyes as she looked out of the window. “We’re nearly there. This is Bury Old Road.”

  I twisted in my seat and saw an imposing redbrick building ahead of us. We had arrived at Prestwich Asylum.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  JOHN

  Like most institutions founded during the reign of Victoria, the asylum was a large gothic building, intended to inspire rather than intimidate. The terracotta-coloured walls were replete with elegant carvings, angelic faces peering out of swirling leaves and bountiful vines. The extensive grounds were equally beautiful, patients strolling between long avenues of trees, or working on flowerbeds and vegetable plots. Perhaps it was the warmth of the sun after days of rain, or the smell of freshly cut grass, but I felt my spirits lift, especially after the forlorn conversation in the taxi ride from London Road. I had begun to doubt whether enough was being done to care for the poor wretches who returned from the front, but here, in these verdant gardens, I greeted Dr Dougherty with renewed optimism.

  The doctor himself was a genial enough fellow, approaching retirement if his crop of near-white hair was any indication. He was obviously proud of his institution, giving us chapter and verse as he led us through the doors and into the maze of corridors within.

  “Prestwich opened in 1851,” he said as we passed workshops and wards, “a direct result of the Country Asylum Act.” His impromptu lecture was directed at me, a fellow medical man, rather than Holmes who walked a few steps behind, those keen eyes sweeping the corridors. “Before that the afflicted would have been sent either to the workhouse or to prison, neither option what one would call conducive to rehabilitation. The original building was constructed to accommodate a mere three hundred and fifty patients, although now, I am pleased to say, we are the largest institution of our type in Europe.”

  “How many inmates do you have?” I asked.

  “We prefer to think of them as patients, Doctor,” came the reply.

  I apologised, suitably chastised.

  “We have the capacity for two thousand, three hundred,” he continued, “both here and in the Annexe, which is situated three-quarters of a mile away.”

  “Good heavens.”

  “The estate covers over one hundred acres, with a road linking the two main buildings. It’s a village in its own right. We have a church, St Mary’s, and a fire station, bookbinders and printing shops. There is even a brewery.”

  “Most industrious,” Holmes commented from behind.

  “I wish we could do more, to be honest. Our numbers may sound grand, but in a county of two million, our work is a mere drop in the ocean, I’m afraid.”

  “What treatments do you employ?” I asked.

  “Everything from hard work to good old-fashioned Bible lessons.” I could almost feel the glower from Mrs Stevens at the mere mention of religious education. “We have a strict routine. Our female patients make clothes, run the laundry, do the cleaning
and so on.”

  “And the men?”

  “They work the garden, growing food for the kitchens as well as taking part in vocational training. Many a man comes through those doors an unskilled wastrel, but leaves a carpenter or farmer.”

  “And what of John?” asked Holmes.

  Dr Dougherty’s smile faded. “I am afraid he is not quite ready to be put to work just yet.”

  By now, we were in the heart of the main building. Dr Dougherty led us through a set of double doors and I noticed immediately that the decor had changed. The brightly coloured walls of the outer rooms had been bedecked with paintings, cheerful flower arrangements set upon regular tables, no doubt utilising blooms from the grounds. Here there were no such fripperies. We had stepped out of a home and into a hospital. The smell of disinfectant hung in the air, as did the disturbed cries of the folk Dr Dougherty preferred not to call inmates.

  I had the feeling that this was where the real work of the institution took place. I glanced at Mrs Stevens and saw that she was noticeably holding her tongue. There was nothing unsavoury as such; everything seemed hygienic enough, if not as clean as before. Even the clothes of the patients in the open wards seemed shabbier than those at the front of the house. There was none of the chatter that we had previously heard, no one toiling away in workshops or playing musical instruments. Here, the patients lay pathetically in bed, or shuffled about the wards like somnambulists.

  “You said that John was making progress,” challenged Mrs Stevens. Dr Dougherty nodded in response, walking all the faster down the corridor.

  “And he was, but unfortunately we had an incident overnight. I almost denied your request to visit today, such was its severity.”

  “What kind of incident?” I asked.

  Dr Dougherty halted, turning to us. “John became agitated after lights out. Getting out of bed, roaming the corridors. He was shown back to his ward, and yet it happened over and over again, each time causing more distress for the other patients. Eventually, he refused to co-operate and we were forced to sedate him.”