The big Scotsman had a curious way of understating current affairs, even when he was under strain. A new influenza and the winter season had come early to London. A fresh heavy snow had fallen, making it all the worse for the ill and infirm. Even now a driving sleet was pelting hard against the glass of the cab as we wended our way through the evening traffic. Christmas shoppers were in abundance: the Second Sunday of Advent had come and gone; it was now Wednesday, and Christmas was but a fortnight away.
My earlier Christmas cheer was replaced by worry for our friends at the Yard. Despite the friendly rivalry and differences of opinion, there were many cases I could name which required their police and warrant powers. Now they were friends in need. MacDonald was in a dark, quiet mood.
"How did it happen, Inspector? Who did it?"
"Vinny Shadwell!" exploded MacDonald in a rare burst of emotion. "I never thought he owned a knife! I wasn't there, but Constable Ranee saw the scuffle. If Lestrade doesn't make it, I'll... I'll personally walk that little scarecrow up to the rope!',
"Mac, calm yourself! Lestrade's a robust man if there ever was one. I'll do my best, I promise—and here we are!"
Both of us half walked, half ran from the cab into the huge complex known as Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. I let MacDonald lead the way, and his cape fluttered in the still, antiseptic air as he glided through the white halls and dun-coloured doors. We stopped outside a room guarded by a few well-known friends. Tobias Gregson and Athelney Jones looked anxiously at me as I hurried past them. Lestrade lay very still in a single bed.
"Still unconscious! Well, let's see this wound now...."
I tried to sound hopeful, but his colour was very pale. The knife thrust had entered the right side of his ribs and missed the heart area by inches. Since this was a police matter, the weapon was still in the room, which gave me a chance to see its length and potential depth. I mentally noted a possible three- or four-inch penetration. That was trouble. His pulse was weak, but steady. His lack of consciousness could be from shock, but I saw that the nursing staff had tried to bring him round with smelling salts, which should have worked. Why hadn't it? I did not know, but his breathing was laboured and shallow. I turned to MacDonald, who had brought in Jones and Gregson.
"Has he come out of it at all?" I asked. "Has anyone from the staff been here to see him?"
They all answered the first part in the negative. As for the staff, a nurse had come, applied some dressings to staunch the bleeding, and summoned a doctor. He promised to come soon.
"With this bleedin' plague, every hospital doctor is rare as gold," said Jones with a growl. "Take over, Doctor Watson. You know the ropes!"
MacDonald and Gregson muttered in agreement.
I know I should have asked about Lestrade's family. Had they been notified? This was what we called a battlefield decision in the Army Medical Corps. Since time was not on Lestrade's side, I decided to proceed. I tried exploring around the wound for hidden injuries, but found none. Aromatic camphor and ammonia smelling salts were handy, but Lestrade remained out cold. I looked for the floor nurse. MacDonald muttered something and left.
Two minutes later, there was a polite knock at the outer door. MacDonald came in, escorting Dr. Eden, a good man, but overworked. He was the one who had promised to come.
"Inspector MacDonald, please! Every patient is important to us, and the nurses did dress his wound! I can't see where Lestrade has been neglected—why, hello, John Watson! Nasty piece of business, what? Glad to have you here, old boy."
"I'm sorry, Dr. Eden, I should have contacted—"
"Me? For what, John?" Dr. Eden waved to the floor nurse. "Sister, if this man needs anything here at Saint Bart's, see to it, will you? Now the hospital is at your command, old boy, and I can deal with this epidemic."
As he left, there was a small commotion outside. Both of us left the room and came upon a couple of constables subduing a slender man in handcuffs with a torn coat. MacDonald came over with a dark look on his face and a raspy growl in his voice.
"Vinny Shadwell, you're in deep enough trouble! If ye' know any prayers, ye' best say them quick! Pray Dr. Watson got here in time!"
The slender man looked at me hopefully.
"You're the Dr. Watson from Baker Street?"
I nodded. Dr. Eden waved wearily to us and left. Shadwell tried to reach out to me, but was restricted by the handcuffs.
"Is Holmes with you?"
"No, I was called to Saint Bart's to help Lestrade. Holmes is away on another case," I said coldly.
I returned to Lestrade's bedside. I could hear Shadwell and MacDonald talking through the door. It was a sad situation, I thought, to see that little shadow of a man arguing with his captors and trying to talk his way out of trouble!
All my efforts with Lestrade produced no change. MacDonald was keeping Shadwell at the hospital for an ominous reason. If I couldn't save Lestrade, the charge would be murder, not assault. Gregson came in with a black look.
"Dr. Watson, that little twit's denying everything! That's not your problem, of course, but he says he never touched the knife! Is Lestrade any better?"
"No response yet, Gregson. The trouble with knife wounds are where they go, and how deep. I'm about to try to awaken Lestrade again, but keep Shadwell and Ranee here. Unless he wakes up, I want every bit of information I can get."
Gregson cast one anxious look at his rival before he left, leaving the door ajar. I could hear the conversation drop outside as Mac-Donald and Gregson exchanged my news between themselves. It rose a bit as they resumed questioning Shadwell, who had a high, whining voice.
"I tell you I never touched 'im!"
"Right-o! That knife just appeared in his chest!" said Jones, who was even more cynical than Gregson. MacDonald spoke next. His Scottish accent heightened occasionally when he was under strain.
"Shadwell, I ask you to conseedar the consequences of your deed! Whatever ye' say will be noted and used against ye' in a court of law, but a man's dying in there, and you're our only suspect! What ha' ye' to lose by tellin' the truth?"
"But I told the truth! I had no knife!"
"Argh!" growled MacDonald. "If this man dies, ye'll hang!"
Suddenly, I noticed Lestrade's eyes flutter—he was coming conscious! Mac came in at that moment and Lestrade reached out and grabbed my arm with an intense look on his face. His voice was a mere gasp, barely audible, but clear enough.
"Wats—! Sha—d'll! S'a—rts!"
"What, Lestrade?" we said together.
"Sha—d'll? S'a—rts?"
"Shadwell's outside, Lestrade. We're talking to him."
Mac nodded grimly, went out again, and Lestrade faded away once more. Despite my best efforts, I was losing him. I looked at the knife, a wicked instrument designed to do harm with a minimum of effort. It was a common enough type, what a chef would call a fillet knife; long, narrow, and sharp as a razor. The blood smear was longer than I first thought—at least four inches long.
Over four inches, and this man was still alive? I could hear the Yard inspectors continuing to question Shadwell, and becoming more impatient by the minute. I had to explore the wound further, but I caught an occasional glimpse and heard them as I worked.
"... I tell you I've never had a knife!"
"Oh, yes you did, Vinny Shadwell," said John Ranee in an angry voice. "I've been in your neighbourhood for ten years! You used to scare the kids with a sticker."
That seemed to deflate Shadwell. I heard a weak rebuttal.
"All right, I did that when I was a bully in school, but I just scared them, I never hurt anyone! And I'd be off my chump to try anything against a Yarder!"
"A crime doesn't have to make sense, Shadwell," said Gregson.
"That's right," said Ranee. "I know you said you ran to me after Lestrade went down, but I don't think you even saw me until I grabbed you. You were running away from the crime!"
"No, I wasn't! I tell you Lestrade was about to say something to me
when he fell down. I never saw a knife in his chest until after you grabbed me and brought me back to him! Somebody else had to do it, it's got to be somebody else!"
MacDonald snapped at Shadwell.
"Who? No one else was seen near him between the time you ran and Ranee brought ye' back, and that couldn't ha' been more than thirty seconds! I'm losin' ma' patience fast, Shadwell!"
The rest of the force glared at the suspect in sullen agreement. MacDonald started to say something more to him, then changed his mind. Jones was more vocal.
"Shadwell, we've pinched you before! What you say isn't worth the paper it's written on! Where's your witness?"
Shadwell was sweating now. He grasped at a final straw.
"What about Inspector Lestrade? He knows I didn't stab him!"
"If he says so—which I doubt very much—aye, you're a free man," said MacDonald. "But I've just been in to see him, and he mentioned your name. That's a dyin' accusation!"
There was a long silence, followed by the sound of a weeping man. It was then that I had my first doubts. Why would a street tough suddenly turn soft if he knew he was guilty? I came out of Lestrade's room; it was time for me to try surgery—nothing else was working. While the sisters were obtaining the cart used to transport the patient, I had a chance to see this man Shadwell once more.
As shabby as he looked when he was first brought in, he had become even more pathetic, like a rag doll with half the sawdust taken out of him. He was a small man who couldn't have weighed more than a hundred pounds. In truth, a knife was his logical weapon against a larger opponent, and the Yard obviously felt this was the whole case. I decided to try an idea of my own.
"May I see your hands, Mr. Shadwell?"
MacDonald, Gregson, and Jones looked at me in surprise. Ranee was holding the man, but he relaxed his grasp enough to let him reach them over to me. The handcuffs clinked slightly as he rotated his wrists at my direction. I saw the patient cart coming down the hall out of the corner of my eye. Whatever I was trying had to be fast.
"Are you right-handed, sir?"
Shadwell nodded yes. Jones broke into the questioning.
"Doctor, I realise the wound is on the right side, but he still could have done it with his left hand! It doesn't take that much strength!"
Jones was right: it was no proof of innocence, and MacDonald gave me an annoyed look. Still, I had another thought and just enough time to ask it. The nurses were moving Lestrade onto the cart and looking my way. I nodded a "go ahead" order to them.
"Shadwell, did Lestrade say anything to you?"
"N-no, nothing—at least, nothing that made sense."
Jones interrupted again.
"C'mon, Doctor, we'll get the truth out of 'im at the Yard! Holmes couldn't save this bird from the rope!"
"Just one more question, please, Jones! What did he say?"
Shadwell looked more desperate than defiant.
"It... it sounded like 'carts' or 'saris.' "
That was it! It had to be it! And not a moment too soon!
Lestrade was being wheeled past me towards the surgery room. I turned for one final moment before following him.
"Gentlemen, stay here—all of you! I have good reason to suspect Shadwell is as innocent as he claims. You should have my proof in half an hour!"
Everyone's jaw dropped, including Shadwell's. MacDonald found his voice and called out to me as I went down the hall.
"And Lestrade, Doctor?"
"Pray God he lives! But either way, I still believe Shadwell can be proven to be innocent! Don't touch that knife! There's an important piece of evidence on it!"
With that final shot, I ran to catch up to the nurses and Lestrade. Dr. Eden met me at surgery.
One hour later, Lestrade was in the post-operative recovery area looking much better, and Vinny Shadwell was swearing he was a changed man. He was so convincing that even Jones and Gregson warmed up to the reformed petty thief. MacDonald came in as happy as I've ever seen him.
"Lestrade verified everything, Doctor. You were as right as rain, and thanks to you, Shadwell, the Yard is twice in your debt! If it weren't for you and Dr. Watson, a good man would have died, you would have been sent to the hangman, and the Yard would have caused a grave miscarriage of justice."
MacDonald turned to me.
"How did you know what it was, Doctor? That was a bit of genius, realising how Lestrade fainted! He said so himself."
"So Lestrade did grab Shadwell for that reason?" I asked.
"Aye—exactly so!" exclaimed MacDonald. He turned to Greg-son and Jones, who were staring at me. "You were right about the knife, too, Doctor! It was a piece of evidence in another case, and he hadn't had time to leave it at his office. It came out of his breast pocket when he fell, and he's lucky it didn't penetrate straight in!" MacDonald shuddered at the thought. "But how did you determine all that?"
"It was the wound's nature, Inspector—or rather, what it wasn't. Four inches into the chest cavity is fatal, and the knife stain was that long. What I didn't see confused the issue. All of us assumed the thrust was straight, because that is how a stabbing is done. Once I realised that was impossible, to quote Holmes, I had to reason what was possible. It was no mystery."
"Aye, Doctor. Holmes would say that was elementary."
"Humph! Yes, he would! As a doctor, I should have caught that diagnosis sooner than I did, but Holmes has experienced similar problems with tardy conclusions. It's the risk of a professional.
"What none of us saw was the type of bloodstain on the knife. If you look more carefully, you will notice Lestrade's blood on the blade near the tip—about an inch or so—but the rest of the stain is older and already dried. We were all being misled by a wound that wasn't there!
"That left the puzzle of why Lestrade was unconscious. He was /'//, not injured. His windpipe was nearly closed. This wasn't the London influenza, but a fast-acting strain similar to diphtheria, and that's a killer disease! Dr. Eden called in a specialist just to be safe, but Lestrade responded well to pure oxygen. With his iron constitution, I daresay he'll be along in a week or two. Any other questions?"
Shadwell had one.
"Now that it's obvious, it seems so simple—the knife, I mean! How did you get on to that clue? It saved the day."
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a pen knife.
"This is a handy tool, but you can be assured it has stuck me a few times! It opens up. and all I have to do is bump into something—I have the scars on my leg to prove it. It just takes a moment of carelessness."
"Well," said Gregson, "you also said Shadwell was a hero, unknown to himself, Doctor. What did you mean by that?"
"Oh, that? He probably saved Lestrade's life."
Gregson and Jones looked popeyed at me. "How?"
"I'd like to know that myself!" added Shadwell.
"By slowing the fall! Lestrade fell forward and Shadwell broke the momentum. The knife caught the skin and changed the angle of thrust. Any other direction could have been fatal: that's my professional opinion, gentlemen. When Lestrade said 'sarts,' he was trying to say "Saint Bart's,' but he could hardly breathe. He was asking Shadwell for help! You might have fled out of fear, Shadwell, but you were honest enough to stand by the truth, and that made a difference. Well, sir! You're a free man! Now you have another chance!"
Shadwell seemed to grow in stature as he spoke.
"Thanks to you, Doctor," he said. "It's a chance I'll not be wasting either. I can't pay you anything just yet, but I will—"
"Oh, no! That's not necessary. I was glad to be of service."
"But I want to do something. I need to prove to all of you that this isn't just some idle chatter!"
I was at a loss for words, but MacDonald was not.
"Hmm! If you really mean that, Shadwell, I know a position that needs filling. The pay isn't that much, but we need a good man at the jail."
"The jail?" he exclaimed. "What do you mean?"
"We call
it rehabilitation, someone who can talk sense with the prisoners. Some are beyond reform, but many are not. I have always noticed they trust reformed lawbreakers better. We have a vacancy because our last man married and moved away from London. I'd be happy to recommend you—"
"Done!" said Shadwell. "Here's my hand on it!"
For two weeks I had delayed telling Holmes about Lestrade and Saint Bart's; 1 just didn't know what to say. Now it was Christmas Eve, and we were enjoying a nog and pudding at Baker Street when we heard a choir on the street below.
God rest ye, merry gentlemen, Let nothing you dismay!
Remember Christ the Savoir was born on Christmas Day!
To save us all from Satan's powers,
when we have gone astray,
Oh, tidings of comfort and Joy, comfort and Joy!
O-h ti-i-dings of corn-fort and Joy!
It was Gregson, Lestrade, MacDonald, Shadwell, Jones, and Ranee! You could hear the deep bass of Gregson and Lestrade booming the low notes, while Shadwell and MacDonald carried the high tenor. Ranee and Jones filled in the baritone centre. As they finished, we waved them in. Ranee opened the lower door and up they all came, frosty, red, and cheery from the winter's cold. Holmes was talking to me as they came in.
"Watson, I recognise that new chap. He used to be a petty criminal in the Soho district. The Yard must be recruiting an irregular force of its own."
MacDonald introduced Shadwell to Holmes formally, and described his new position at Newgate Prison. The Yard was making progress in several cases, thanks to prisoner cooperation, and the jail's reform program was hailed as an act of justice tempered with mercy.
The caroling was also Shadwell's idea; he had sung in his youth. The normally gruff detectives had taken to it like ducks to water, and there was a favourable public goodwill in the local papers. Holmes nodded in agreement.
"My compliments, gentlemen, jolly good show! Music always makes better men of us! Sit down, warm your fingers, and have a bit of Christmas cheer!"
Lestrade sank into my chair, and Holmes looked at him more carefully.
Holmes for the Holidays Page 19