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

  Naturally, I examined the ground for tyre marks and hunted all around the edge of the wood. But it would have been hard and slow (and noisy) work to push the machine through these thickets and surely impossible to avoid a broad trail. I searched every inch of ground the cyclist could possibly have reached. Eventually I had to accept it was quite gone. Worse, there was not the slightest evidence that it had been here at all.

  After a time I abandoned these futile endeavours and took up my position to watch Miss Grace’s return journey. I waited patiently, crouched low in the same spot. But this time, though I waited and looked, there was nobody behind her and she seemed to know it, for she was no longer rigid but more relaxed. I watched as she reached the rectory drive quite safely. Then I turned to walk back to the town, feeling that I had fulfilled at least one small objective in my new practice.

  Naturally I hoped for some letter from Miss Grace on the Monday, but none came. This saddened me because I longed to communicate what I had seen and did not think the subject was suited to a letter. If the figure I had observed never approached her, I could not suppose she was in any immediate danger but the affair was still very curious. If necessary I could visit her but it would be infinitely preferable to discuss it in private and so I decided to wait, contenting myself with another letter to Bell, though I was now sure he had given up on me. Perhaps, I thought, gloomily reflecting on my current unpopularity, Miss Grace had decided to reappoint Cullingworth as her doctor, for he would certainly have done everything in his power to ensure it, including blackening my name. If she chose not to follow me to the new practice or have any further dealings with me I would never see her again and there was nothing whatsoever I could do about it.

  On Monday and Tuesday of the following week I sat staring out of my upstairs window again, willing a single patient to ring my bell. Nobody did. My funds were running extremely low, indeed I was living largely on a stale loaf I had purchased when I moved in and a few ounces of bacon cooked over my gas lamp. But at last, when I had reached Wednesday and thought I would go mad if nothing happened, the postman called. For the most part he carried bills, but there was another letter among them. I was to have one patient at least and it was the one I wanted.

  At first she sat opposite me in my consulting room, rather gravely discussing her eye condition. She was wearing an olive-grey woollen dress with a purple velvet ribbon at its neckline and, as she talked more intensely, she would put up a hand to lift her hair from the nape of her neck in a way that was very affecting, for there was something so gentle and unknowing about the action. But once I told her of my discovery and what I had seen on the road behind her, the transformation was quite startling. She smiled, a wondrous smile, and pressed me for more and more details. ‘It is a miracle,’ she said. ‘You saw it too! You know what I feared?’

  I had been longing for this moment and was eager to offer reassurance. ‘You need fear it no more for I swear you are not imagining things and it certainly has nothing to do with your eye trouble. He was there exactly as you described. Hard to make out but the man is perfectly human.’

  She leant forward and her eyes reminded me of a child with the longed-for present on Christmas morning. ‘It is just such a relief to know I am not mad. Believe me, Dr Doyle, I consider myself to be a modern woman. And it is awful to doubt yourself. But who could he be?’

  ‘I have hopes we will discover. I am glad you say he does not come after you if you stop, but even so I will do my best to find out more. You are sure you do not recognise him?’

  ‘No,’ she said with such speed that I was taken aback and some of her merriment left her. There was a long pause. ‘But it is certainly true he makes me think of someone.’

  ‘Someone you know?’

  I could see her visibly tense at the question. ‘Someone dead. I don’t wish to talk of it. I am sorry. I suppose we all have things we do not care to remember.’

  ‘And cannot forget.’ My words had slipped out almost unintentionally. She looked at me sharply. ‘Yes, certainly,’ I went on, hoping to smooth over the moment, ‘it is common enough to all of us. You said you had bad dreams?’

  ‘Yes, though I rarely talk of it. The truth is I have not spoken of these matters to anyone. I suppose I should be able to tell Mr Greenwell. He knows I have seen someone following, though not more.

  ‘Mr Greenwell?’

  ‘He is a local schoolteacher who has asked me to marry him.’

  ‘And you accepted?’

  ‘No. I have told him that I wished to consider. You see,’ she said with a slight hesitation, ‘I was engaged before to someone who asked to be released from his obligation. And so I am cautious.’

  I could only nod, any comment would have seemed superfluous. But her tone changed. ‘Dr Doyle,’ she said. ‘When we first met, we discussed my loss. And you seemed to be talking — forgive me if this is forward – as if from experience. Are your parents living?’

  Her tone was so sweet and brave that I felt compelled to offer some answer. ‘Yes, they are,’ I said. ‘But someone … like you I never speak of it. Someone I cared for a great deal died.’

  ‘How?’ she asked.

  ‘It was a crime.’ I had no intention of saying any more.

  ‘It is why I feel I can talk to you,’ she said and we left the subject.

  Later I established she had not in fact seen the cyclist for a few days, so it was even possible he had been scared away by my intervention. As our interview came to a close, I told her I would hire a retinoscope to try to discover what lay at the root of her eye condition. I was just reflecting rather guiltily that little of our conversation had been in any strict sense medical at all when she demanded that I send her a bill for the consultation.

  ‘You are generous, Miss Grace,’ I came back rather quickly, ‘but I cannot possibly accept a fee for merely conversing. You will have your bill only when I have procured the retinoscope and made an eye examination.’

  She looked at me with concern. ‘I am grateful,’ she replied at last. ‘But you must be aware of one thing. Without connections of some kind, this town is not open-minded. Dr Cullingworth is not to be relied on. I very much hope and pray you have the resources to carry on for some months until you are accepted.’

  How could I tell her the truth? That I doubted my ability to last another fortnight. By then bills would be due and I had nothing whatsoever left over with which to pay them. However, I merely thanked her with what I hoped was a confident smile and ushered her from the room.

  THE LOCUM’S SECRET

  I woke abruptly the following morning from a dream in which I chased a figure like Miss Grace’s cyclist along a dank path covered in undergrowth.

  Something was standing over my mattress.

  I started; for one moment I could have sworn it was the creature of my dream. It spoke my name and gradually I made out Baynes, the young locum from Cullingworth’s practice. He looked fearful. Dishevelled and pale, and visibly trembling.

  ‘Baynes?’ I said, sitting up in alarm. ‘What is the matter? How did you get in?’

  ‘I am sorry to disturb you.’ He said, twisting his long-fingered hands in agitation. ‘There was a window open and I climbed through. I am in terrible trouble and I recall Cullingworth saying you talked to him of detection. I need your help.’

  I was fully awake now. Had he been robbed? But he shook his head and said I must come with him at once.

  Reflecting that I could probably be more help to Baynes than to my non-existent patients, I agreed. But he still refused to tell me what had happened, saying it would be better to show me.

  After I got dressed, he would still say nothing but indicated we had to do some walking. Outside, as we left the house, the prospect was not at all cheerful. There was a thin drizzle and the streets were only just getting light. I tried to ask more questions but he moved ahead of me, saying nothing. We turned north and walked through a good many streets where people were starting to go about their busine
ss until we reached the outskirts of the town. Baynes’s steps were becoming faster and more urgent as we climbed a steep hill. At the top he stopped.

  In front of us was a large and rather forbidding modern house in its own grounds. It had an ugly turret and was exactly the kind of building favoured by those who make their money quickly and wish to flaunt it.

  I turned to Baynes, who stood staring at the house as if it held some unknown terror for him. ‘Who lives here?’ I asked.

  ‘It belongs to Señor Garcia, that wealthy patient,’ said Baynes. ‘He asked me here three days ago for dinner and cards.’

  ‘So what of it? Is he the cause of your problems?’ I was curious but also irritated with his reticence, for I was well aware I had enough worries of my own without taking on his.

  ‘I do not know,’ he said bleakly. ‘Oh, I do not know, Doyle, but if you come with me I will show you.’

  We walked up the gravel drive. The place looked quiet. Baynes rang the bell. ‘Will he tell us what has happened?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh,’ said Baynes distractedly, ‘if he answers the door, all my worries are over but he will not answer it!’

  His tone disconcerted me and indeed, nobody came in answer to the bell. Baynes looked at me, then pushed open the door. It was not locked. I was becoming impatient, but I followed him into the hallway. ‘We will be had up for trespassing,’ I said, ‘and I still cannot fathom your problem. You came here for dinner and from what you say you had dinner. What is there in that?’

  Baynes turned to me, evidently unnerved by the eerie stillness of the place. ‘Firstly he has not been seen since. He broke an appointment with Dr Cullingworth yesterday.’

  ‘Good. He has probably found a better doctor.’

  ‘But it is not merely that. His manner was odd throughout the evening and he invited me to stay the night, but when I woke up he had gone.’

  ‘You say his manner was odd? In what way?’

  ‘He was behaving strangely, agitated. He was not very sociable. He ate little dinner though there was plenty and kept leaving the table. He would not even play; he said he felt discomposed. I told him there was no need for me to stay the night but he insisted.’

  ‘And you last saw him in the morning?’

  ‘No,’ said Baynes. ‘We said goodnight normally enough. I was shown to a comfortable room. But I woke up at daylight with a terrible feeling that something was wrong. I rang the bell by my bed, nobody appeared. I got up. And the house was just like it is now. There was nobody here at all. No servants, nobody. All the bedrooms were empty. Come in here, it is where we dined.’

  I had not been very impressed by Baynes’s rambling story. But now he led me into a large room off the hall and my mood changed. For the place was a remarkable sight. We were in a grand formal dining room with dark-blue flock wallpaper and long, stillcurtained windows. The house was ill-ventilated and the last few days had been mild, so the atmosphere was warm and very stuffy. The table appeared to have been set for a sumptuous and lavish meal, but it showed every sign of having been suddenly abandoned. Everywhere were plates of mouldy food, the candles were gutted and right in the middle a huge side of mutton was adorned by buzzing insects. It looked as if the whole room had been left untouched since Baynes was here three days earlier.

  Until we entered this place, I had assumed the matter worrying Baynes must be trivial. Perhaps he had been accused of cheating at cards and would be admonished by his wealthy host. Or there had been some kind of drunken quarrel. But now I sensed a real mystery.

  ‘You see, Doyle?’ said Baynes, observing my reaction. ‘Nobody has been back here. We left this table suddenly and I went to bed, for my host said he had urgent business. In the morning I came down here and it was just as now.’

  I examined the food, which was beginning to smell foul. ‘Well, perhaps there was a telegram,’ I suggested. ‘He was called away urgently.’

  ‘And the servants? Where are they? None of the beds had even been slept in. The whole house was deserted.’

  ‘What about the kitchen?’

  Baynes indicated a door, and I went through it and down a short corridor. We entered a shadowy room, which was messy and somewhat disgusting with many unwashed pots and dishes. Here again it was warm and insects had gathered on rotting food. I stared down at a plate of mouldy curds and another of what I took to be leftover jam omelette.

  My eye fell on a zinc pail beside the table that was half open. I went over and removed the lid. There was a congealed crimson mush in the pail and I knew its sickly smell at once.

  ‘But this is blood!’ I said.

  Then I saw that there were more stains on the floor. It was as if someone had used the pail for washing. I looked back at Baynes who was cowering away by the door. Until this moment I had trusted him. Now the first terrible doubts emerged.

  ‘Baynes, I am sorry but I have to ask you.’ I moved over to him, avoiding getting the blood on my shoes. ‘You spoke once about cheating or robbing this man. They say you have gambling debts. Have you carried out your plan?’

  Baynes kept looking over at the blood; he could not keep his eyes off it. ‘I swear I did not, Doyle. I am telling the truth. You must believe me.’

  His expression was pitiable yet I was hardly satisfied. ‘But this was three days ago. Why did you wait and what brought you to my house today?’

  ‘I was worried.’ He forced himself to look at me. ‘But I tried to put it out of my mind. I hoped Garcia would arrive yesterday for his appointment and explain. But he did not appear and then I became more agitated, for I was sure I was being followed. I hardly slept last night and this morning decided I had to get help from someone. I had no hope of Cullingworth. You were the only one I could …’

  He would have gone on but I put up a hand to stop him. For heard a noise in the corridor and then footsteps. There was hardly time to move away from the door before it was flung open and a tall man with a long face and a military bearing stood there and stared at us.

  ‘You are John Baynes?’ said the man with his eyes fixed on my companion. Behind him I could now see a uniformed policeman.

  Baynes was so nervous it was all he could do to nod.

  ‘Detective Inspector Warner.’ I would ask you both to come with me,’ said the man gravely. He led us to a small room near the front door. It was evidently a study but in the middle of it on the floor was a large black metal strongbox, whose lid had been forced. Baynes looked at this in horror.

  Warner watched him. ‘Three nights ago a neighbour heard voices raised in this house,’ he said. ‘We did not take it seriously at the time, but we have had more reports since, so yesterday morning we made an investigation. This box had been pushed into a cupboard but it evidently contained money. We also found a note of Mr Baynes’s name and address, which referred to a dinner engagement three nights ago. Rather than question you, I decided it might be preferable to watch your movements for a day and I think I am proved right.’

  ‘My friend here was merely a dinner guest,’ I protested. ‘He is a respectable doctor working in a medical practice.’

  ‘He is a struggling locum, sir, with gambling debts.’

  ‘I will vouch for the fact he has nothing to do with it,’ I insisted. ‘Why would he come back here if he did?’

  ‘I swear to you’, said Baynes, who was pale and shaking, ‘I had nothing to do with this.’

  The Inspector ignored him and addressed me. ‘He came back here because there was more to do. And he may have enlisted you in his scheme. This was concealed hurriedly enough and it so happens we made another find only a short time ago. I can assure you we would have come to you, Mr Baynes, if you had not come to us. Will you follow me?’ He pushed past us out of the room.

  At the front of the house was a large and not particularly well-kept garden with a lawn and poorly stocked borders. Inspector Warner escorted us to the bottom of it and on the way he questioned me, dwelling with discomforting eagerness on the fact that I had
virtually no patients. Policemen were digging under an ash tree by the wall at the end of the grounds. The work had evidently been going on for a while but it was not visible from the house. Something was covered by a sheet and I recall a thrush sang inappropriately from the tree above our heads. Warner nodded and the sheet was removed.

  I had not remotely anticipated what was underneath. The corpse’s lower body was partially covered in wet earth but no earth obscured what was left of its head, which was little more than a pulpy mass of blood and tissue. His skull was completely caved in. But I easily recognised that expensive velvet suit and the rings on the hand. It was Garcia.

  THE DESPERATE DOCTOR

  And so it was that I became acquainted with the dreary interior of a south-coast police station.

  In my memory, now, the Garcia affair demands attention partly for its oddity, partly for my direct involvement and also, like the business with the watch, for the insight it showed into the ‘method’. If I had been less engaged, perhaps I would have been able to see that the matter’s curious features masked an essential simplicity. But there was one aspect of it which did make a lasting and profound impression: namely the degrading interrogation that came now. The police questioned Baynes and me entirely separately that day. I was in a small room with a desk and chairs, and very little else other than my two interrogators.

  These men took gross pleasure in exposing an entirely imaginary corruption. Once they had discovered my practice was near the docks, they assumed at once I was using it for immoral purposes and their tone alternated between an icy contempt, which was bad enough, and a leering innuendo, which was worse. One of them asked repeatedly how many women I employed and whether I ever caught disease from ‘eating my own apples’. Another, who was younger with bright-red cheeks, disparaged my family history (though he knew nothing of it and just as well) and asked if I helped my female ‘patients’ with a powder when they were ‘inconvenienced’. Perhaps their approach was better than the blatant hypocrisy I had witnessed in Edinburgh. But even so, they awoke memories I would rather forget.