"How is he, Doctor Watson?" Makinson asked softly.
I shook my head and watched as Garnett took the grisly trophy from his mouth and clasped it tightly. He began rubbing it feverishly between thumb and forefinger.
"Make me well again," he muttered hoarsely. "Make me well again…"
"Shall I get an ambulance, sir?" Sergeant Hewitt asked. I looked up at him and shook my head.
Makinson had clambered down to join us, watching as I undid the tape affixing the bandage to Garnett's chest. I had no doubt what we would find beneath that bandage and no doubt what lay beneath the one about his neck.
"Why did you do it, Frank?" Makinson said softly, kneeling by the man's head.
Garnett muttered something seemingly in response.
I had now exposed Garnett's chest and, as I expected, the skin which he had removed from Terence Wetherall. But beneath even that was a further mark, a port wine stain of such volume and intensity that, despite what the man had done, my heart went out to him. Garnett's own birthmark was clearly malignant, its surface covered by clusters of small pustules many of which had burst open and were weeping a pungent gelatinous liquid.
Makinson leaned closer to Garnett's face, his ear against the man's mouth. "I can't hear you, Frank."
Garnett whispered again and then settled back against the floor, still.
The Inspector knelt up and whispered, "Who?" but there was no response. He got to his feet. "He's gone, poor devil." "What did he say?" I asked.
"He said she told him as how it'd get better… that he'd been touched by the Almighty and how he mustn't complain." Makinson shook his head. "But he said it hadn't got better, it had got worse. He asked me to forgive him. That was the last thing he said."
"Who's 'she'?" asked Sergeant Hewitt.
Makinson shrugged. "He didn't say. Someone who cared for him, I expect."
As I clambered out of the bath, Holmes was standing by the wall holding in his hands a walking stick bearing an elaborately carved head for its handle.
"That must've been what he was thinking about," said Sergeant Hewitt. "When he seemed to hesitate."
"He needed it to walk," Holmes said. He handed the stick to the policeman, running his slender fingers across the handsome features of the heavy ivory handle. "But I think he used it for other things, too, Sergeant," he said. Then he turned around and walked back towards the foyer.
When I got outside, Sherlock Holmes was standing on the steps staring into the wind.
"He thought he had been touched by God, Watson," he said as I walked up beside him. "But the truth was God had turned his back on him. In fact, God had turned his back on them all."
I did not know what to say.
Then Holmes turned to me and smiled, though it was without any trace of humour. "I find God does that far too often these days," he said. Then he thrust his hands into his coat pockets and walked alone towards the waiting carriage.
The Adventure of the Persecuted Painter – Basil Copper
Watson recorded 1895 as the year in which Holmes was on top form. The earliest case he recorded for that year was "The Three Students" which took place at the end of March. Earlier that month, however, Holmes and Watson found themselves in Dorset in "The Adventure of the Persecuted Painter". Watson may have written this case up and lost it along with his other papers, but thankfully descendants of the residents in the local village remembered the story vividly. I am most grateful to that fine scholar of Sherlock Holmes and his successor Solar Pons, Mr Basil Copper, for investigating the case and restoring it for the first time in over a century.
1
It was a dreary evening in early March when I returned to our familiar rooms in Baker Street. I was soaked to the skin for it had been raining earlier and I could not find a cab, and the dark clouds and louring skies promised a further downpour. As I opened the door to our welcoming sitting room, which was in semi-darkness, a familiar voice broke the silence.
"Come in, my dear Watson. Mrs Hudson will be up with a hot meal in a few minutes, as I had already observed you from the window, my poor fellow."
"Very good of you, Holmes," I mumbled. "I will just get into some dry things and rejoin you."
"It must have been very damp down Hackney way," my friend observed with a dry chuckle.
"How could you possibly know that, Holmes?" I said in some surprise.
He burst into a throaty laugh.
"Because you inadvertently left your engagement pad on the table yonder."
When I returned to the sitting room the lamps were alight and the apartment transformed, with the motherly figure of Mrs Hudson, our amiable landlady, bustling about laying the table, the covered dishes on which were giving off an agreeable aroma.
"Ah, shepherd's pie!" said Holmes, rubbing his thin hands together and drawing up his chair.
"You have really excelled yourself this evening, Mrs Hudson." "Very kind of you to say so, sir."
She paused at the door, an anxious expression on her face. "Did your visitor come back, Mr Holmes?"
"Visitor, Mrs Hudson?"
"Yes, sir. I was just going out, you see, and he said he would not bother you now. He said he would be back between six-thirty and seven-thirty, if that was convenient. I hope I have done right."
"Certainly, Mrs Hudson."
Holmes glanced at the clock over the mantel.
"It is only six o'clock now so we have plenty of time to do justice to your excellent meal. What sort of person would you say?"
"A foreign-looking gentleman, Mr Holmes. About forty, with a huge beard. He wore a plaid cape, a wide-brimmed hat and carried a shabby-looking holdall."
I paused with a portion of shepherd's pie halfway to my mouth.
"Why, you would make an admirable detective yourself, Mrs Hudson."
Our good landlady flushed.
"Kind of you to say so, sir. Shall I show him up as soon as he arrives, Mr Holmes?"
"If you please."
Holmes was silent as we made inroads into the excellent fare and it had just turned seven when he produced his pipe and pouch and sat himself back in his chair by the fire.
"A foreign gentleman with a beard and a shabby case, Holmes," I said at length, after the débris of our meal had been cleared and the room had resumed its normal aspect.
"Perhaps, Watson. But he may be an Englishman with a very mundane problem. It is unwise to speculate without sufficient data on which to base a prognosis."
"As you say, Holmes," I replied and sat down opposite him and immersed myself in the latest edition of The Lancet. It was just half-past seven and we had closed the curtains against the sheeting rain when there came a hesitant tap at the sitting room door. The apparition which presented itself was indeed bizarre and Mrs Hudson's matter of fact description had not prepared me for such a sight.
He was of great height, and his dark beard, turning slightly grey at the edges, now flecked with rain, hung down over his plaid cloak like a mat. His eyes were a brilliant blue beneath cavernous brows and his eyebrows, in contrast to the beard, were jet-black, which enhanced the piercing glance he gave to Holmes and myself. I had no time to take in anything else for I was now on my feet to extend a welcome. He stood just inside the door, water dripping from his clothing on to the carpet, looking owlishly from myself to Holmes, who had also risen from his chair.
"Mr Holmes? Dr Watson?" he said hesitantly in a deep bass voice.
"This is he," I said, performing the introductions.
He gave an embarrassed look to both of us.
"I must apologize for this intrusion, gentlemen. Aristide Smedhurst at your service. Artist and writer, for my pains. I would not have bothered you, Mr Holmes, but I am in the most terrible trouble."
"This is the sole purpose of this agency – to assist," said Holmes, extending a thin hand to our strange guest.