The Patient's Eyes: The Dark Beginnings of Sherlock Holmes

by Pirie, David

  The Doctor went first to the windows. He seemed pleased and I knew why. We were three storeys up overlooking woods and fields and there was no way on earth anyone could have climbed up here along a sheer wall. Even if they did, the windows were shut fast. He pretended his pleasure derived from the view and then went to the fireplace, but that too seemed to offer little prospect for intrusion.

  Mrs Blythe’s face showed no expression as she watched, for I think she had been deceived by the Doctor’s manner into assuming, as he intended, that he was merely a little fussy and eccentric. Miss Grace, however, knew better. ‘Nothing has happened, has it?’ she asked.

  I felt at once that we could not maintain this charade and it would be better to tell them. The Doctor and I often disagreed about such things, for it was second nature to him to say as little as possible until all the facts were assembled. I was about to find the words but the Doctor read my thoughts and got in ahead of me: ‘We are following various avenues and there are always odd connections. I hope to have a solution for you in due course.’

  Again Mrs Blythe seemed to accept this but Miss Grace had noticed his glance at me and it clearly concerned her, for in that moment of anxiety her hand went, as ever, to her locket and found only thin air. She was not wearing it.

  The Doctor observed this at once. ‘You have no locket, I see.’ he said.

  Her aunt stepped forward, clasping her hands. ‘Oh, yes, it is very peculiar. She woke up today and it was gone. It was her parents’ locket.’

  ‘And it was removed from here?’ asked Bell, coming over to them. His tone was deliberately flat but I could see well enough how concerned he was.

  ‘I cannot think what happened to it,’ said Miss Grace, turning to her dressing table with agitation. ‘Last night I put it in my jewellery case here and this morning it had gone. Of course, I thought I might have been distracted and it was on the dressing table or even the floor, but it seems to have vanished.’

  At once Bell moved to examine the small but pretty engraved case, which sat on the dressing table. He opened it and a familiar tune played, ‘Over Yonder’s a Park’, known also as ‘All the Bells in Paradise’, the same haunting carol we had heard at Abbey Mill. ‘This is very fine,’ said Bell. ‘Now you are quite sure it was here?’

  ‘I am certain,’ she frowned as she tried to remember. ‘But I was very tired and I suppose it is possible I took it off elsewhere and merely thought I had put it away.’

  ‘That is surely the explanation,’ Bell stated firmly and she looked much happier. ‘I am certain it will turn up. This is a very lovely air, is it not?’ And he turned to the box, as if listening to the carol. I was, however, beside him and could see quite well that he was actually studying that whole section of the bedroom with urgent attention: the table, the wall, even the ceiling. I thought of Blythe and his strange menagerie of snakes, scorpions and God knows what else, and could well understand what came next.

  ‘It is a delightful tune,’ said the Doctor with a twinkle as he closed the lid. ‘Tell me, Mrs Blythe, would you have any objection to moving a servant in here to keep Miss Grace company? It seems a shame to leave her even for a moment if she is having nightmares.’

  ‘Why’ — Mrs Blythe went over to her niece — ‘I will sleep in here myself and lock the doors and windows. We will be snug.’

  She was not the most effusive of women, but I did see a tenderness in her eyes and Miss Grace’s expression was happy too. ‘I am foolish but I think I would feel much better,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  Here at least, it seemed, was some genuine affection. And I was relieved for if Mr Blythe did have some awful design on his niece and her fortune, surely he would think twice before exposing his wife to any danger?

  As if echoing my thought, Bell was now asking Mrs Blythe with great courtesy whether it might be possible to have a few words with her husband.

  ‘I have no objection,’ said Mrs Blythe, turning back from her niece. ‘But he has been on one of his long specimen hunts. In fact, I have not seen him since last night.’

  Bell and I exchanged a discreet glance. ‘Well,’ said the Doctor, ‘with your permission we would be glad to see him if he is available.’

  Mrs Blythe and Bell began to make their way to the door, but Miss Grace lagged behind and looked at me imploringly.

  I turned to Mrs Blythe. ‘With your permission, ma’am, I wish to talk with Miss Grace about her symptoms. I will be along presently.’ The Doctor looked impassive. Mrs Blythe merely nodded and exited with him.

  And so I found myself alone with my patient. At first, of course, I thought it prudent to make some pretence of medical discussion. For a few minutes we talked about her symptoms and the results of my tests. I asked if she had been drinking more water, for I had suggested this as a common panacea for eye trouble.

  She showed me a carafe by her bed and picked up the glass, smiling. And in this way we got around to more personal matters. ‘Dr Bell seems so concerned,’ she said with an apprehensive smile. ‘I hope after our last conversation you might be able to take me into your confidence if something has happened.’

  ‘Yes.’ It was not, after all, such a difficult decision. I had wanted to tell her though I had no intention of going into details. ‘A man, whom I do not think you know, has been murdered in the wood.’

  Because I had wished to inform her in the first place I was much too abrupt. She turned and stared at me as if not understanding and then I saw her sway. The glass dropped from her hand, shattering into pieces on the floor.

  I moved quickly to comfort her and she fell into my arms, her whole body trembling as we clung to each other. I felt the softness of her skin below me, her hands clasping me so tightly. Perhaps it was a gross abuse of my position, but I did not care about that any more than I would care about getting my clothes wet when a person was drowning in front of me.

  She was sobbing now, her face pressed against my shoulder. ‘He died and it should have been me.’

  ‘No,’ I answered vehemently. ‘We will discover why.’

  ‘But do you not see?’ she went on wildly, still holding me as if I would vanish in her grip. ‘I cannot bear it all coming back. It is my dream coming true.’

  ‘No, I swear it is not.’ I held her more tightly, as if I could force the fear away.

  ‘I was foolish to think I could ever leave it behind. If I marry Mr Greenwell, this nightmare will stop. The dead will be dead. I will be free. He has told me so.’

  ‘That is not a reason,’ I said, shocked. ‘It is more like a threat.’

  There were steps outside the open doorway. We moved apart and the Doctor stood there. Of course, he knew at once he had hardly interrupted a normal interview between doctor and patient, but he said nothing except that Blythe appeared to be out and we must be on our way.

  As we walked back through that rambling house to the stairs, he still said nothing and I had no wish to start a conversation for I knew quite well where it would lead. So we descended the long staircase in silence and I believe I saw the figure at the bottom just before he did. We stopped, expecting to see an angry Blythe.

  But it was his wife who stepped out of the shadows and, much to our surprise, her whole demeanour was quite altered. In the bedroom she had been placid. Now her expression was anguished and she was ringing her hands.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ she whispered, ‘I am glad I have caught you for I have just had something of a shock. Will you come with me?’

  She showed us into a small yet comfortable parlour by the stairs, which she evidently used for household matters. There were a desk, a small sofa with some cushions and embroidery, and a table covered by a red cloth. Letters were scattered on the table and she led us to them. ‘My husband often takes the mail to his study when he comes in,’ she explained. ‘He is not the tidiest of men and occasionally letters for myself or my niece only reappear a few days later. I have rebuked him for it in the past.’

  Bell looked interested, but I
could hardly see the relevance of this until she picked up a letter that had been hidden under another. ‘These are already a few days late,’ she went on, speaking very quickly in her agitation, ‘and after leaving you I came down here to go through them. Oh, it is lucky for me I did for there was one … Well, you will see for yourself. I will say nothing of it to my niece for it would only terrify her. It must surely be some joke, a silly trick. If you would take it?’

  The Doctor accepted the letter eagerly. It was an envelope on which someone had cut out type from a newspaper. On the front in disparate letters, it read:

  miss grace

  the rectory

  Bell studied it. The postmark was local. Then he lifted the already opened flap and took out a plain piece of paper with a message gummed to it. This consisted entirely of words also evidently cut out of a newspaper. They read:

  your grave

  waits In the wood

  THE MAD NOTE

  That night I felt doubly grateful to Mrs Blythe, not merely for keeping watch over her niece, but also for ensuring this mad note had never reached her, for I dreaded to think what effect it might have had.

  The Doctor was galvanised by the new evidence and, before beginning a full-scale chemical analysis, ordered me to try to collect every national daily newspaper for the past fortnight. It was by no means a simple task but I was fortunate. A co-operative newsagent on the front had a large collection of back copies and was able to meet almost all my needs. I took these to Bell and then completed the collection with a trip to the station and a hotel.

  When I returned to his converted bedroom on the second floor with my last armful, he had already separated most of what I had brought before and was directing his attention solely to The Times, which was my final burden.

  ‘Well done, Doyle,’ he said, taking them from me, evidently cheerful to have concrete evidence at last. For the moment, at least, this latest development had entirely distracted him from questions about my involvement with Miss Grace, but I knew they would come soon enough. ‘That is them all,’ he was saying as he sorted through them furiously. ‘And here is where my hopes lie. In The Times leader.’

  He tore one paper open, then another, then another, all at the leader page. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No.’ Then his eye settled on one like a hawk. ‘Yes, Doyle!’ he said. ‘Read this paragraph here. It concerns free trade.’

  I started to read:

  ‘In the last analysis, a protective tariff is the grave of free enterprise for my protection soon becomes your dense wood of obstruction. Yet it is missing the point to see free trade as some state of grace. It awaits only …’

  I broke off in amazement for I could see the paragraph contained all the words of the note even down to Miss Grace. Only the address of the rectory had defeated its sender, who had resorted to single letters.

  ‘Yes, all the words but how in heaven did you go straight to this one?’

  ‘Oh, because type is an important part of criminal work and there is as much difference between the leaded bourgeois type of a Times leader and the thin face of the Herald’s fount as between oil and water. But there is more. This was cut with nail scissors, for the cutter had to take two snips over “in the”. Moreover, it was done in great haste – see, the words are not gummed in an accurate line. Perhaps he feared interruption.’

  Both our thoughts lay now with Guy Greenwell for we remembered the summer house filled with copies of The Times, and his daybook of cuttings. But in the event he proved a difficult man to find. Knowing the school was closed, we made a fruitless journey in the dark to his property, Wade House, which was shuttered and empty. On the way back an ageing ground keeper came out of a cottage on the drive to ask our business and from him we learned Wade House was being sold urgently because of the same debts Bell had already uncovered. Its owner was staying with friends in the town, but only the absent housekeeper could provide details and we would have to call back for these in the morning.

  The Doctor was thoughtful as we made our return journey. ‘Well, it would seem’, he mused, ‘that Mr Greenwell has been guilty of one small deception at least. Of course, it may purely be pride on his part but the wealthy estate owner teaching only for pleasure rapidly gives way to a debtor who must procure money wherever he can.’

  We had done all we could for the day but I was not to escape Bell’s strictures so easily. After we had made a late and hasty meal in my consulting room, he broached the subject I had been hoping to avoid. ‘Tell me,’ he said as he leant back, putting his fingertips together and half closing his eyes, ‘have you considered the dangers both to yourself and your profession of becoming too close to Miss Grace?’

  I suppose I should have confided in him properly and told him all that had occurred between us, but it was the kind of subject I avoided with the Doctor. So I said little.

  Now his hawklike eyes were full on me. ‘Do you not understand?’ he pressed. ‘It is not merely a question of some romantic attachment. She is part of a case.’

  ‘If she is at risk,’ I answered carefully, ‘it would hardly be honourable to withdraw on those grounds. Do you not see that she is terrified of Greenwell and what he will do? Even to us he talked of some visitation of the dead. And from what she said to me today it seems clear he is trying to convince her that Coatley, the man who murdered her parents, has come back from the grave. I think we should seriously consider whether we can leave her in that place.’ The Doctor did not seem inclined to argue the point further but he made it clear he was far from happy.

  He was still silent the next day as we returned to the rectory to interview Charles Blythe. I hoped to see Miss Grace, but the servants informed us she was visiting the town with her aunt. They did not know whether Charles Blythe was available or even if he had returned so, with our cab waiting, we were again led into that grim, darkened display room while they attempted to discover.

  The door closed behind us and the place seemed to be empty. Once again I peered into those glass cases, filled with every kind of poisonous insect and reptile. Bell directed my attention to a Hadrurus Arizonensis, which sounded innocent enough until I saw it was an orange scorpion about five inches in length with a vicious sting in its tail which it pointed towards me as if it would dearly love to get at me through the glass.

  I was staring at the thing, when suddenly there was movement behind it and a huge caped shape rose up in front of me. Charles Blythe had been lying on a low sofa that bordered part of his collection and he stared at me angrily.

  But then he saw Bell and, as on our first visit, his respect for the scientist seemed to overcome his dislike of me, though he was still fairly abrupt in his tone. ‘Dr Bell,’ he asked, ‘what are you doing?’

  Bell was for the time being as charming as could be. ‘We must apologise for the intrusion,’ he said, coming over to face Blythe. As he did so, I could not help comparing the two men. Bell was tall but Blythe was almost a foot taller. Bell was lithe and wiry, while Blythe had weight and stamina. I would not have much cared to predict the winner in a wrestling ring.

  ‘Of course,’ the Doctor was continuing smoothly, ‘I am always glad of the opportunity to revisit your collection, but there have been certain events close to here and we are helping the police with their enquiries. So you have been in the wood I see?’

  ‘Yes,’ Blythe replied. ‘I have been on a marathon hunt, returning late last night. I did not wish to disturb the house so I slept in here.’

  Blythe would have moved away but the Doctor kept his gaze fixed on him. ‘Did you see anyone?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ answered Blythe. And he took a small box out of his pocket and opened it lovingly. Inside were an assortment of beetles and a lizard. ‘I saw these pretty friends. Nobody else, though.’

  Now, for the first time, I could sense the Doctor’s impatience and irritation. ‘Nobody? A man has been murdered in the wood.’

  To our mutual astonishment, Blythe did not even look up from his ‘friends’ at this
news. ‘Is that so?’ he remarked gently. ‘We live in a barbaric age, do we not?’ With that he went over to one of his glass cabinets and opened the door.

  ‘Indeed we do.’ Bell’s anger was restrained but I knew he was thinking of Baynes’s body lying in that blasphemy of a grave. Even if Blythe was not responsible, his indifference to human suffering was still monstrous. ‘Tell me, Mr Blythe,’ — the Doctor had moved closer to him and his glass cabinet — ‘do you recall the night of the Abbey Mill murders?’

  This had some effect, for Blythe paused a moment, before continuing with his preparation of a display case for his new finds. ‘It is not something one forgets,’ he said.

  ‘That old case has always interested me,’ Bell told him. ‘There were many inconsistencies. But what I had never realised before making a full study of the trial transcripts was that on that terrible night you were here with Guy Greenwell. So both of you had alibis.’

  ‘We hardly needed one.’ Blythe had taken a small metal spadelike implement about a foot long and was using it to transfer some earth and grass into the case before he added his insects and closed the door.

  Bell’s tone softened, which usually meant he was going for the jugular. ‘I am not so sure,’ he mused. ‘For of course it turns out you both benefited handsomely. You have had eight years of interest and now, with your encouragement, Greenwell stands to gain the principal.’

  If, as I suspect, Bell was intending to provoke Blythe and force him to engage with us, he had at last hit his mark. For the man now turned like an angry bull. His muscles were tense and his reddening colour was a wonder to behold.

  ‘That is quite outrageous, sir! You imply a false alibi. And you must know Coatley confessed.’

  ‘I know it well,’ said Bell with infuriating mildness, evidently pleased by the reaction. ‘But I am equally aware that someone or something threatens your niece now.’