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

by Pirie, David

  Blythe moved over until he was within inches of the Doctor. He still held the metal spade in his hand and I thought for a moment he would launch a physical attack. I feared it too, for though I have said the two men were evenly matched, Blythe’s brawny arms were of the kind that could certainly snap a limb before they were restrained. And now, as if to prove this, he took the spade in both hands and bent it into a curve. ‘I would ask you to cease meddling in my affairs,’ he said and, though his tone was not loud, there was a harshness in it that could have shattered glass. ‘I can assure you my niece is not of sound mind. She was confined once before for her own good and we may do it again.’

  But the Doctor stood his ground, not moving a muscle through all this as he looked up at him. ‘Yes, rather than see her money disappear I am sure you would. But we intend to protect her and discover who is doing this.’

  It was Blythe who finally turned away, tossing the spade to one side and moving back to his work. ‘I have made myself clear I fancy,’ he said. ‘Now I have matters to settle. Indeed, Bell, you should leave your wild notions and help me here. You waste a good scientific brain.’

  ‘I imagine that is my privilege,’ replied Bell. ‘Though some might go so far as to say people are worth almost as much attention as insects.’ But Blythe did not even look round as we took our leave.

  I had been horrified by Blythe’s blatant threats against his niece and, once we had ascertained Greenwell’s whereabouts from his housekeeper and were travelling back into the town to find him, I poured out my feelings. It seemed to me there was clear evidence of a conspiracy between Miss Grace’s uncle and her suitor. If Miss Grace succumbed to the pressure and married her uncle’s close friend and ally, Guy Greenwell, the estate would effectively be his to reward her uncle as he wished. If she refused to marry him, even under the terrible pressure, then they could send her back to the asylum where she had evidently been confined for a short period after the terrible events at Abbey Mill and enjoy her estate between them. Both men had every motive for scaring the wits out of her. Indeed, perhaps our cyclist was not one man but two, for they could take turns as the cloaked figure.

  The Doctor was most interested by my logic, but occasionally he frowned and tapped the fingers of one hand against the other, adding there were other separate questions that puzzled him. By now we had reached the windswept esplanade where, the housekeeper had informed us, Greenwell was taking a small sketching class. We alighted and walked a little way until we reached the pier where we caught sight of a group of boys, about the age of twelve, who were sketching while their master pointed out aspects of the landscape. He turned with some surprise as we approached and came over to us.

  Bell was on to him at once. ‘Mr Greenwell, we wish to talk to you urgently. It is serious.’

  He looked most uneasy. ‘What is it?’

  ‘We know you take The Times, do you not?’ the Doctor asked. ‘Did you see the leader on free trade last Monday?’

  There was no smiling now. He looked upset. It seemed to mean something to him. ‘Why, yes. But what do you say?’

  ‘That’, said Bell, ‘you are guilty of intimidating Miss Grace.’

  One of the boys looked over at us and Greenwell insisted we move away further. ‘I utterly deny that. I am in love with her,’ he protested.

  ‘It is a very strange kind of love that causes such fear,’ I said.

  ‘I do not like your tone, Dr Doyle,’ he came back harshly. ‘It is you who have caused so much misery in her. Raising hopes that cannot possibly be fulfilled. Do you not understand her birthday is soon now and her uncle will challenge the settlement unless she accepts me? She may even be sent back to an asylum. You should not have interfered. Even if she cares for you it is only a passing infatuation as before. There is no question she will marry me in the end.’

  His words caused a confusion of emotions in me. He almost seemed to accept that she did care for me and yet he was also trying to threaten. But I had no time to reply for a boy had come over to show Greenwell his drawing.

  ‘A moment, Anderson,’ he said and the boy returned to the group. Greenwell regained his composure. ‘We cannot have this out here. Perhaps you disbelieve in the supernatural, gentlemen? Well, then, come to the Mill this evening. I will show you how much evil has returned. Then you will see why she needs my protection.’

  He moved smartly back to his pupils and, with some reluctance after such an extraordinary interview, we turned away. ‘My God, Bell!’ I said. ‘Did you see the guilt when you mentioned the article? He must have sent it. I never believed all that painful honesty for a moment and now we see the truth.’

  The Doctor, too, was greatly energised by what we had heard and I could see his mind turning it over and over as we walked rapidly along the front. ‘I will need some time alone to think, Doyle. There is much I have to consider, not least the nature of Mr Greenwell’s involvement, for clearly he has an involvement. I will see you tonight for our expedition to the mill.’

  ‘But surely now we cannot leave her where she is?’ I persisted. ‘I have to go to her.’

  He turned to me severely. ‘If you bring her to town, you may only put her in greater danger. I have begged you not to become involved.’ His sudden anger was no surprise. Like me, he was thinking back to past events in Edinburgh.

  ‘You must understand that is my affair,’ I said, moving away to find a cab.

  I reached one within a few minutes, for there was a rank close by the pier, and looked back as I entered. Despite the weather the front had a good share of horse-drawn traffic and there were even a few brave boats in the bay beyond. But one figure was utterly unmoving. Bell still stood beside the railing, staring down at the sea. He was utterly still, more like a portrait of a figure than a man. For the moment, at least, I could see he had forgotten our quarrel and was immersed once more in his beloved data.

  THE DEATH IN THE CORRIDOR

  I was lucky when I reached the rectory in the late afternoon, for there was no sign of Charles Blythe and a servant showed me into the sitting room. Heather Grace was standing on the other side of the room, half turned away. A fire burned fiercely in the grate, sending flickering shadows to the wall behind her. She looked pale and tense, her eyes were a little red and she did not smile to see me.

  ‘I am glad you are here,’ I said. ‘Is your uncle … ?’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was strange. ‘He is not here. He is out.’ At this I moved towards her, but she backed away. ‘Please.’ She turned her head away, the shadows from the fire dancing behind her. ‘I do not want to be near you.’

  I stopped abruptly. Her tone was so different. Now I remembered that this was the room where I had spied her with Greenwell. It was not a cheerful memory.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she went on. ‘I have had time to reflect.’

  ‘I understand. But you must know I come only to help you.’ I spoke as gently as I would to a child.

  Still she would not look at me. ‘Then please,’ she said, ‘get away from here now. I am a coward. You have probably heard I entered an asylum for a short time. It is obviously where I should be.’

  It was horrifying to hear this from her. I could see they had succeeded in sapping her will and everything in me rebelled against it. ‘No!’ I spoke with some feeling. ‘There is no surprise or shame in it after what happened to you. Do not let anyone say you are mad. You are not.’

  My words did seem to have some effect. ‘No?’ she questioned. ‘I want to believe it so much but …’ I could see her struggling.

  Then a woman’s voice called, ‘Heather?’ and her aunt entered the room, carrying some embroidery. She looked relieved to see her niece. ‘Ah, here you are. I was worried.’ She saw me and stopped in surprise. ‘Doctor!’

  ‘He is leaving,’ said Miss Grace, giving me no choice. But as she moved past me she whispered, ‘For both our sakes, do not try to help me.’

  On my return, Bell was locked away in his room and there was no further
communication between us until we set out for Abbey Mill after nightfall. In the cab, the Doctor must have sensed I was in no mood to talk, for he carefully avoided asking about my visit to Miss Grace and instead outlined his plans for the night. Naturally Greenwell had instructed us to meet him in the main house where we first encountered him and his choir, but Bell had decided we should first investigate the summer house.

  After the cab had let us off, we walked across the lawn to the little building. It was one of those uncannily still evenings you sometimes get in early winter, lacking even the sound of pigeons or crows from the nearby wood, so we refrained from talking until we reached the summer house and found its door ajar. Entering, the Doctor struck a match to light its candle and we fell to examining the copies of The Times that were strewn around.

  The paper, which had been the source of that evil letter, was nearly two weeks old. There were three weeks’ worth of papers on the desk but it was not among them and I suppose we both now assumed that it had been destroyed. But I went to a shelf at the back where there were some other much older copies of local papers. And my heart leapt when I saw an isolated copy of The Times had been hurriedly thrust under them. It was the edition we sought, though I could hardly believe it had been hidden so casually. I brought it to the table, and the Doctor turned to the leader and gave a cry of excitement. For the column had been mutilated with nail scissors and many words removed.

  ‘Let us see what Mr Greenwell has to say about this,’ I said in triumph. ‘What a conceit the man has that he leaves it here.’

  But the Doctor had turned over to the rugby football scores. And now he frowned. They were unread, untouched even. ‘But he said he cut the scores out daily.’

  ‘Then he lied,’ I said. ‘He seems to be fond of the practice. I know his arrogance is breathtaking but this is enough. We must get to him.’

  There was still little sound as we walked back across the lawn towards the lighted windows of the Mill, but I heard an owl hooting somewhere behind us. A moon had appeared and the pale light made the building in front of us even more grey and mysterious. I can still recall the elation I was feeling that all my doubts about Greenwell appeared to be vindicated. I had never liked the man and was now quite happy to believe the worst of him, even down to the stupid arrogance of leaving that newspaper for us to find. In any case, I reflected, since he did not know the letter had arrived, what reason did he have to conceal it? Once again Mrs Blythe’s discretion appeared to have worked in our favour. Surely now we could prove he had committed a criminal offence?

  The big door leading to that ornate hall was open and Greenwell had left candles burning to guide our way. Climbing the stairs of the main house, Bell told me he had asked Inspector Warner to join us here.

  ‘You think we can arrest him?’ I asked with hope. But the Doctor frowned and raised his hand for urgent silence.

  At once I knew why, for I could hear voices from above. One was Greenwell’s and he sounded agitated, even terrified. ‘No!’ he was shouting now. ‘I do not wish to give it to you … I had thought you …’

  Now came choking and then a horrible rasping sound like someone slashing cloth.

  Bell and I began to run. Reaching the landing, I was first along the corridor, which led to the music room and there, ahead of me on the wooden floor, a crimson puddle was spreading. Above it a dark shape slumped against a wall, clutching what looked like some sort of notebook. It was Greenwell. The broad gash in his throat was pumping blood and certainly mortal. Bell ran to try to staunch it but I could see there was no hope. Quickly I moved into the room ahead. It was largely in shadow and at first I could make out nobody. But then I saw it.

  The figure from the road was standing on the edge of the window seat. There was blood all over its cloak and it threw back that horrible bobbing head, as if it were laughing, but no sound came. Then it stepped out of the open window.

  I ran toward to the sill, and saw it had clambered down the ivy to the ground and, without pausing, I followed at once, clutching wildly at branches which burned my hands as I scrambled down them.

  Once on the ground, I could see the figure was ahead of me and already two-thirds of the way to the trees which bordered the Mill. It moved with a horrible bobbing motion, and at times weaved an erratic course as if it were sightless. Even so, it covered the ground rapidly.

  I raced after it, and my days on the rugby field served some purpose for I was moving faster than it and gaining ground, yet still I was not close as it entered the trees.

  When I reached the wood, I did not stop but plunged in. This was foolish, for in these thick trees it was pitch-black and I could see very little. I blundered on for a few moments until I stumbled on a stone and was forced to stop and listen.

  It was eerily quiet in the darkness, especially on so still a night. From far behind me back at the Mill there were distant shouts and the faint flicker of torches. Warner and his men had evidently arrived and were coming after me, but all my senses were taken up by what lay ahead. I strained to listen. There was a slight sound, perhaps a twig breaking, or a branch in wind, for I thought I felt a waft of breeze. I could just make out a large tree I took to be an oak. Was there a shape beside it or had the figure moved on and away? If it were truly sightless, that would perhaps be an advantage in this blackness. Already I was having to use my hands to feel my way.

  As lightly as I could I moved forward to that tree and the shape beside it, ready to do battle if necessary. I managed to get quite close, making as little sound as possible, half crouched in case the figure fell on me. Soon I was near enough to make the shape out. But it was only another of those infernal bramble bushes. I relaxed, disappointed.

  In that moment I heard a sound, turned and saw the figure a few inches from me, something raised in its hand.

  And then everything was truly dark.

  THE BEDFORD COUNTY CIPHER

  The next thing I knew I was in a darkened room, staring at the arm of a chair. Panic gripped me. I shouted out.

  The door opened and a shadowy shape stood in the doorway carrying something. For an awful moment I thought of the figure in the wood and shrank away in terror. But it moved forward and I saw it was the Doctor, who smiled reassuringly. He was carrying water. ‘I only went to get some more liquid. You are concussed.’

  I looked around now and slowly realised I was in my own barely furnished bedroom at the practice.

  ‘What has happened?’ I asked, trying to sit up. The room became a blur again and I sank back, dizzy with the effort.

  The Doctor came over and looked down on me, obviously assessing my state. ‘Greenwell did not recover,’ he said grimly. ‘You were luckier. Your attacker could not linger for we were getting close. They would have you in hospital, but I thought I had better take charge of your case. Meanwhile, of course, they are stampeding over the scene of the crime like elephants.’

  I smiled, knowing how much it must have cost him to leave the place and return here with me. But then a thought darkened my mind. ‘Heather?’

  ‘Have no fear,’ he said. ‘I had word a short time ago. She and her aunt are perfectly well. Indeed, Warner had a man with her and the aunt all evening. He is staying there till daylight just to be sure. But again, Doyle, note the uncle was out.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I was immensely relieved. ‘Tomorrow … ?’

  He knew what I was going to say. ‘Yes, I agree. We will make new arrangements for her. But what did Greenwell have to show us, Doyle? If we only knew that. His notebook is most uninformative, nearly empty apart from a number, a word and a sign that means absolutely nothing.’ He showed me an almost blank page in a small, tattered pocketbook, which I recognised as the one Greenwell had been clutching when he died. As he said, there was a number ‘1’, a word and a strange letter.

  I stared desperately at this but could make nothing of it, though the word looked like ‘love’.

  ‘He was evidently rushed when he wrote it,’ said the Doctor. �
��See the writing and he broke off more than once.’

  The Doctor took it back up and stared at it himself for a moment, before returning with it to his seat by the window.

  I lay there, looking at him, reflecting that the room was indeed one of the emptiest in the house. My mattress lay on bare boards and, apart from the plain but comfortable chair that the Doctor had placed by the window, there was nothing else other than the clothes that hung from a length of string I had nailed in a corner, and a small jug and basin. I noticed that a mass of papers lay by the Doctor’s chair and assumed these were his notes on the case. But as he lifted them I could see that they were ciphers, not unlike the one Cullingworth had concocted. For a wild moment I thought perhaps he had found them at Abbey Mill, but the Doctor laughed at this suggestion.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I have told you how little there was to find. But I have spent two hours looking at Greenwell’s notebook without the slightest enlightenment as to what it means or could mean. Yet I am sure it has a meaning. And sometimes, in such circumstances, I find it helps to reinvigorate the mind by turning back to old successes of a similar nature. Solutions, I have found, can sometimes present themselves while you are not struggling.’ So saying, he put the papers down and came over to insist I drank some water before I went back to sleep.

  I slept for two more hours, and when I awoke I was alert and quite unable to lie quietly any longer. I felt less weak but my mind was overactive, and I found myself turning over and over the mystery which faced us and asking Bell endless questions. Who could possibly have hit me? Was it Blythe? Or Cullingworth? Or another, though I dreaded to think who that might be for I had heard enough of Miss Grace’s dreams. Did the fragments in Greenwell’s notebook contain some pointer we had missed? A letter, a word, a code, a strange hieroglyphic? If so, Bell’s expertise in ciphers would surely lead him to an understanding of it sooner rather than later.