Sherlock Holmes 01: The Breath of God (2 page)

Dr Silence was also much discussed for reasons other than his generosity. In recent years, he had shifted his focus away from the purely physical aspects of medicine to concentrate on what he termed “psychic illness”. It was a source of much discussion amongst medical circles as to what he might mean by that expression. His talk of “demonic possession” and “intrusion from beyond the earthly realms” did little for his reputation (and indeed engendered precisely the sort of response evidenced by my colleague, a man thoroughly wedded to a rational view of the world). There were some, however, who saw his work as an extension of the alienist’s art.

However it may be dressed up, there was clear evidence of people who had benefited from Silence’s attentions. But then, Holmes would argue that many who visited so-called clairvoyants would leave after an hour’s theatre feeling emboldened by the experience, this was not to say the charlatan in question should be encouraged.

I was also sceptical, and yet the reports of Dr Silence’s character were so respectable I found it hard not to offer at least a sliver of consideration towards his practices. I would meet the man and have him explain his business before choosing to judge him. Holmes appeared to have no such inclination. At least he had agreed to an appointment, if nothing else his curiosity might be relied upon to secure that much of his time.

Holmes had been in a foul mood for some months, something Mrs Hudson, our landlady, was quick to tell me on my return. After marrying Mary I had, of course, taken my leave of these shared rooms. After her untimely passing, however, loneliness – and in truth a need to tighten the purse strings – had seen me return. It was clear that Mrs Hudson believed the lack of my calming influence in that intervening period was what had seen Holmes’ mood descend to these all-time lows. In truth I had never been able to control him, he would be who he would be, his mood as changeable and easily shifted as a boat cast out onto the ocean. One thing I can claim the responsibility for is the change in his professional circumstances, though it was not a change for the better. As the nineteenth century drew to a close it brought with it the last gasp of his consulting business. Within a few short years he would retire – retreating, against all prediction, to a life of rural comfort in Sussex – but those last years saw his time constantly bombarded with cases he considered beneath his attention. He had always been dismissive of my attempts to bring his work before a larger public, and time would eventually give him a solid reason for doing so. His practice had become so renowned that special arrangements were struck with the postal service to handle the quantity of mail he received. Much of it bore no case at all, from threats to job applications, erstwhile biographers (no doubt of the opinion that they could do a better job of it than I) to proclamations of love.

The latter was particularly common and never ceased to amaze me. Had I not made clear that Holmes, while not blind to the attractive qualities of women, never sought them for his own? Many a slanderous wag has attempted to suggest this was because his tastes lay in a different direction, in fact he simply possessed no interest in the subject whatsoever. Holmes was not a man of the body – as evidenced by how poorly he treated his own – he was a man of the mind, and no amount of cologne-drenched poetry by the first post would change the fact.

His morning routine had been to sit cross-legged before the fire, the smoke of discarded love letters and other dross combining with that of his post-breakfast pipe, as he winnowed down the correspondence to letters that at least held some professional content. A second pass would then sift those of some interest from the usual missing persons and suspicious husbands (of the former he had long since given up being able to satisfy the countless families that found their number lacking, people vanished every day and most of them didn’t want to be found).

So it was with some surprise to me that Dr Silence’s enquiry saw him pass through both postal stages to reach that most hallowed of positions: the appointment. Though by the time he appeared to claim it, Holmes’ mood had sunk even further. A few hours of unsatisfactory chemistry had seen him drape himself over the chaise, dangling his acid-stained hands by his side as he sucked on cigarette after cigarette, looking for all the world like a prone steam engine wrapped in a threadbare dressing gown.

“A guest, sir,” said Billy, Holmes’ page, at the due hour. “A Dr John Silence, ’e claims to ’ave an appointment.”

Holmes simply growled and flung what remained of his cigarette towards the fireplace. It fell short and had added yet another black wound to the rug by the time I reached it and extinguished it.

“Do send him up, Billy,” I replied, determined that one of us at least should show the man some civility on his arrival.

Doctor Silence was not as I had imagined, there was nothing showy or “mystical” about his appearance. He was in his late thirties, thin and with an immaculately trimmed beard. His dress was suitably formal yet not in the least ostentatious, an outfit designed to match his environment rather than draw attention. He appeared urbane, yet my exposure to Holmes’ methods were such that I automatically glanced at the knees of his trousers and discerned a dusting of animal hair. Light and short, too thick to be a cat so a likely sign that Silence owned a domesticated dog. He also had on a pair of new shoes, the lack of creasing in the leather could not simply be down to the attention of a decent valet.

I noticed Holmes glance at the man, no doubt taking in all that I had observed and more, before returning his attention to his cigarette case which was distressingly empty.

“Good morning,” Holmes muttered, waving towards an empty chair but making no effort to shake the man’s hand. He vanished instead towards the bookshelves, on the hunt for more cigarettes.

“Morning,” Silence replied, looking towards me as the only man in the room willing to make a civil effort.

“John Watson,” I said, shaking his hand and repeating Holmes’ direction to sit down.

“Ah,” Silence nodded, settling into the armchair, “I’ve heard of you, of course.”

“All of London has heard of Watson,” Holmes agreed, pulling a set of shipping timetables from the shelf so that he could reach the small brown parcel behind them, “his popular writings have seen to that.”

“Well, indeed,” Silence admitted, “though I did mean in a professional capacity. We shared the same anatomy professor at Barts.”

“Really?” I laughed, while Holmes tore at the brown paper of his tobacco order. “You learned under Bloodthirsty Barrow too, did you?”

Silence smiled and nodded. “And like you, I dare say, I winced at the pleasure he seemed to take in each and every cut.”

I turned to Holmes. “It wouldn’t surprise me in the least were Sir Lionel Barrow to have crossed your path Holmes, there was certainly a homicidal air to him.”

My friend shrugged and put a cigarette to his lips. “The name means nothing.” He exhaled a large mouthful of smoke that partially obscured his bored face. “Perhaps I should give the two of you some privacy in which to...
chat
?” The half-tone of disgust he gave that last word was not lost on me. There was nothing smaller to Holmes than small talk.

“Forgive me,” Silence said, “but as much as it’s a pleasure to find you in Dr Watson’s company, it is your attention that I was hoping for.”

“You have it,” Holmes replied, reclining once more upon the chaise. “But only because of the singular evidence of the Labrador hair on your trouser shins.”

Silence glanced down and began to pick off the hair. “Most observant of you,” he said. “Though I fail to see its relevance.”

“You are clearly as fastidious as a cat in your appearance,” Holmes answered. “The fact that you’ve travelled here without once taking note of the state of your trousers suggests to me that your mind is greatly occupied. It is a condition of which I am extremely envious so I lie here in the hope it might be contagious.”

“I can assure you I have an incredible story to relate. You may be aware that I am not in the habit of consulting others, in point of fact I’m rather more comfortable as the one consulted.”

“I am aware – by reputation at least – of your practice, though it would be dishonest of me to suggest I approve of it.”

Silence smiled. “I seek nobody’s approval, Mr Holmes, and time will tell if you maintain your views.”

Holmes waved the thought away, as if it were so impossible that his opinion could shift that it was scarcely worth mentioning. In truth though I had noted a change in his behaviour. For all of his outward show of disinterest – even disdain – he was attentive to every detail of the doctor’s tale, indeed, by its conclusion he was rapt with attention.

“It can scarcely surprise you,” said our guest, “that scepticism is a common response to my work. Indeed, when discussing my practice, the only thing more potent and freely offered than derision is the gratitude of those few I am fortunate to be able to help. That the balance is thus maintained explains why I find it easy to rise above my detractors. Besides, far from being – as most of my critics believe – intangible, irrational theories and practices, the tenets of my work are deeply researched and honed. I dedicated five years of my life to expanding what I had been taught about the body to include what I could also learn of the spirit. I studied all over the world, from the ashrams alongside the Sabarmati River to the temples that lie in the most inhospitable regions of Tibet.”

“My friend also has some knowledge of Tibet,” I interjected, hoping that this might be the foundation for some mutual respect between client and detective.

“Knowledge is not valued by its geographical location,” Holmes said, “rather by intellectual worth.” He dismissed my interruption with a wave of his hand. “Please, Dr Silence, if we could progress beyond
justification
into the realm of
information
. Tell me what it is that you wish me to investigate.”

“Very well, though I am less a potential client than a messenger, as you shall soon see.

“My medical practice has dwindled over the last year or two. I find that my esoteric services are in more demand and I must dedicate an increasing amount of my time to them. However, yesterday I was visited by an old medical patient, a sailor I had treated after an accident amongst the rigging had threatened to rob him of his left leg.”

Silence then launched into his tale:

“Simcox,” I greeted him, noting a slight limp to his stride but no more than might be expected given the cold this winter. “I trust your old infirmity has not returned?”

“Indeed not, Doctor,” he replied, “these old bones are stronger than ever, it is for the sake of another that I call. You remember my Elsa?”

Elsa was his daughter, a bonny-faced thing that had hung at my elbow throughout my earlier visits to the Simcox household, equally full of concern and fascination at my work. “Indeed,” I assured him, “what ails the poor girl?”

“I only wish I knew, sir,” he replied and with that he dropped into a chair and began to sob. It was clear that this stolid man had spent a considerable time strung as tight as one of his own sails. Now he was here, and hopeful of my relieving him of his strain, that strength was gone. I poured him a brandy from the decanter on the sideboard – we doctors know that sometimes the most beneficial medicines are the simplest – and forced him to drink it before he attempted any further explanation.

“Forgive me, Doctor,” he said finally, “the last few days have been more than I could stand. For a moment there, the weight of them quite overtook me.”

“No need for apologies,” I assured him. “I only hope I might help. Pray tell me all.”

“It began a week or so ago,” he explained, “in the early hours of the morning when my wife and I were asleep. I had been ashore for a couple of days, and had been enjoying the feel of solid ground beneath me. I am often away from home, of course, such is the lot of my profession, but I try and make the most of the time I do have and we had spent the day at the park, a few games, a packed hamper.” He gave a full, warm smile at the memory. “We had leisured like gentry. But that night, with the sound of my Elsa’s happy laughter still fresh in my ears, I awoke to find her screaming from her cot, as if the very devil himself had his nails in her. And perhaps, after all, he did...

“I was straight from my bed with my beloved Sally a mere hair behind me as we both ran to where our daughter lay. She was sat upright, the bed linen clutched in her fists as if she wished to tear it apart. Her eyes were fixed to a point on the ceiling where, look as I might, I could see nothing. Visible to me or not, it was clear that Elsa believed something to be there. ‘Can you not see it squirm?’ she asked before her eyes rolled back in their sockets and she passed out.

“I don’t mind telling you, Doctor, I thought she was done for. I have seen my fair share of death on the waves, oceans claim their number year on year and there’s not a man who has worked them that hasn’t seen death. In that moment, when my daughter fell slack in my arms, I was quite sure that all life had vanished from her, so light, so insubstantial was she as I held her face towards the candlelight, desperate for sign of breathing. No sooner had I convinced myself she was gone but she stiffened in my arms and opened her eyes.

“‘Daddy?’ she asked, as if unsure for a moment who it was that held her.

“‘That it is, my love,’ I assured her, ‘your mam and I are right here and there’s nothing to be afeared of.’ She smiled at that and, God help me, I’ve wondered since if that were the first sign of trouble.

“We laid her back in her bed and returned to sleep, putting it down as nothing more than a dream on her part. It wasn’t until the following night that we were disillusioned of that fact.

“Again, it was long after my wife and I had fallen asleep that Elsa’s attack came – yes, ‘attack’, I can think of no other word for it... We were woken by the sound of her cries and drew to her bedside in time to see her dash from the mattress and leap towards the ceiling of her room. I ran forward, eager to catch her before she fell, but imagine my surprise, Doctor, when she did no such thing. Her fingers adhered to the dry plaster above us as she pulled herself along towards the shadows in the corner of her small room. ‘It runs!’ she cried. ‘It tries to escape! I will have it! I will!’ She smacked at the ceiling as if trying to grind imaginary spiders beneath her palms.

“‘Elsa!’ Sally cried, unable to bear the sight of our daughter in such impossible circumstances. ‘Elsa!’

“She stopped pounding at the ceiling and slowly turned her head towards us. Doctor, I know the face of my own child, so I trust you will believe me when I say that the face that looked down at me from the shadows of the eaves was most certainly not hers. It was a shining, waxy thing, a grinning mask of teeth and sweat, an evil face, Doctor, the face of whatever it was that had – in that moment – possessed my girl as its own.

“My wife screamed and I may well have joined her, in truth I cannot remember. I will admit that the memory of that night is more than enough to make such a noise swell within my breast even now.

“At the sound of my wife’s cry, Elsa returned to her own body. Her face softened in the light of the candles and her fingers lost whatever infernal magic they had possessed as she fell from the ceiling, dropping into my arms as I stepped beneath her.

“Oh but how she burned, Doctor! Her whole body gave off the heat of hot coals. Indeed, for a moment my instinct was to drop her lest my own skin be singed. I took her back to her bed, making a face at my wife to stop her cries. I didn’t blame her for the reaction, but at that moment I wanted nothing more than for my daughter to return to sleep. I needed her to be normal again, to draw a veil over what we had seen.

“I tucked her in and pulled my wife back to the doorway. Little Elsa made no fuss at all, she looked for all the world like a girl who had just roused from an unusual dream, perhaps in her head that’s all it was. Within a few minutes she was sleeping soundly and my wife and I withdrew to talk.

“We’d heard of your more recent work, Doctor, having always held you in esteem after you saved me my livelihood. I’ll confess that some of the stories we heard sounded unbelievable. Even then, sir, believe me when I say we never doubted your reputation, just wondered whether exaggeration had crept into the telling. I mean, some of those stories...”

“I have lived an interesting life of late,” I assured him, “whether the particular stories you heard were true or not I couldn’t say but rest assured I have seen enough not to dismiss your account.” At this reassurance he showed a considerable relief.

“Even with all I’ve heard,” he admitted, “I half expected you to laugh in my face.”

“Not a bit of it,” I insisted. “In fact, if you will give me a moment to grab my hat and coat I will return with you to see your daughter myself right away.”

The gratitude in his eyes was considerable. It will not surprise you when I say that I have seen that look many times in my profession, the first step in helping these unfortunates is often simply believing their stories.

I took the liberty of flagging down a hansom, time was of the essence and while my companion may not be accustomed to such decadent travel I am lucky enough to have the means.