“Because it didn’t seem relevant.” Holmes seemed genuinely bemused. “Besides, I was aware that your battle scars were more than just physical. I did not wish to burden you further.”
“How considerate!” I snapped. “And of course it had nothing to do with not wishing to scare me off from sharing the cost of the rooms with you?”
“It was… a consideration,” said Holmes, a faint sheepishness creeping into his tone.
“And Mrs Hudson?”
“I counselled her to say nothing to you either, to spare your nerves. She was most sympathetic.”
“I see.” I felt angry, embarrassed and indignant, but I knew these feelings would achieve little, the injury having been inflicted over a decade earlier.
“What is to be done now?” I said. “With regards the case of the late Peter Allenby, I mean.”
“There is only one course of action as far as I can see,” remarked Holmes. “We must go and pay Professor Shawcross a visit.”
Located between the cathedral city of Hereford and the village of Stretton Sugwas, just north of the River Wye, The Briars was formerly a country manor house now converted into a mental institution catering for patients whose families were of no small wealth and status. The ancient wall encircling the grounds, a sturdy bastion from the days of the Civil War, had been substantially strengthened and topped with iron spikes. At the main gate, the guards, while being smartly uniformed, would not have looked out of place at a Shoreditch bareknuckle bout.
Upon reaching the entrance, the director, an anxious-looking American by the name of Dr East, was waiting for us. Short, slightly built, with a shock of sandy-coloured hair and round, wire-rimmed glasses, he gave the impression of a small mammal, ever-conscious of the lethal swoop of a hawk.
“Mr Sherlock Holmes?” he enquired in a soft, clipped tone.
“I am he,” declared Holmes, stepping down from the cab. “And this is my colleague Dr Watson and the inestimable Inspector Baynes.”
“Yes,” said East, somewhat disdainfully. “Your brother’s telegram said to expect you. I am not comfortable with this,” he continued. “Not at all! The families of our residents expect the utmost discretion and that does not include detectives, consulting or otherwise, being let loose in these halls.”
“You may have no fear of that, Doctor,” said Baynes, his cold making his voice course and rattling. “We are not seeking to roam unfettered. We only wish a few words with Professor Shawcross and we’ll be on our way.”
We began to make our way up the steps when East purposefully put himself between us and the building.
“About that,” East continued. “You are aware that given his condition, whatever the professor might disclose, it cannot in any way, shape or form be construed as an admission of guilt or used as evidence of any kind?”
“Yes, of course!” exclaimed Holmes and, pointing his cane forwards like a divining rod, marched boldly inside the building. “Your secrets are safe with us.”
East scurried after him. “This way, gentlemen,” said the flustered physician, leading us down a wide, wood-panelled corridor.
I quickly stepped into pace alongside Holmes. “I didn’t know Mycroft sent a telegram?”
“He didn’t,” he replied, flashing a quick smile. “But I dare say he would’ve done if I’d asked. Sometimes the mere mention of his name is enough to open doors.”
I stifled a burst of laughter, prompting East to cast me a scowl over this shoulder.
“Holmes,” I began, “I’m sorry about what happened earlier. Whether rightly or wrongly, I took offence at an ages-old incident without taking into consideration how much richer my life has been for knowing you.”
“The feeling is mutual,” Holmes replied. “After all, I’ve done considerably worse things to you and we have still remained civil.”
“Such as?”
“Letting you think I’d died and returning out of the blue some years later?”
“There is that.”
We followed Dr East down one corridor after another, passing several stern-faced members of staff clad in spotless white uniforms. I noticed a brief flicker of curiosity as they caught sight of us. It appeared that visitors were not a common occurrence.
East asked us to wait as he went to speak to an attendant leaving one of the rooms. There was a sign baring Professor Shawcross’s name on the door.
“This is a house of secrets and no mistake,” said Baynes. “And that young fellow is the keeper of the keys.”
“You suspect something is askance, Inspector?”
“Nothing I can put my finger on, but I have heard of more than one case where an elderly or infirm relative has been committed in order to free up an inheritance. A place like this with its locks and whispers could well facilitate such a practice.”
Dr East returned to us, smiling. I did not take that as a good sign.
“My apologies, gentlemen, but Professor Shawcross has been given his medication a little early today. I afraid he won’t be in a fit condition to answer any questions.”
Holmes gave the doctor a thin, humourless smile. “That is indeed inconvenient. Tell me, Doctor, how long is it before the medication takes full effect?”
“Ten… perhaps fifteen minutes given he’s just eaten.” East replied with some caution.
“And it was administered when?”
“No more than five minutes ago.”
I could sense East’s growing agitation.
“Then we may proceed as planned. We need only five minutes of his time and we shall be on our way.” Holmes walked briskly past the bemused attendant. “Come gentlemen, tempus fugit.”
He ushered me and Baynes inside before turning to block East’s admission.
“I really should be in attendance…”
“There’s no need. We would hate to be a drain upon your time, and Dr Watson is a most eminent physician. If we encounter any problems, you and your staff are just on the other side of this door.”
Holmes stepped inside.
“I shall be sure to tell my brother of your most obliging cooperation. I’m certain he will be interested to know how well this institution is being managed.”
Holmes shut the door and permitted himself a short sigh of relief. “That will have given him something to think about,” he remarked. “If the good inspector is correct, the last thing Dr East will want is the authorities taking an interest in this place. Now, we have little time and much to do!”
The room was cordoned off down one side by steel bars running floor to ceiling. Beyond this artificial annex there was what appeared to be a very compact yet comfortable bachelor’s apartment.
On our side was a desk bearing a pair of white enamel surgical dishes. One contained the remains of a snapped glass vial and a spent syringe while the other had several more but unopened. I picked up the broken vial.
“Holmes, we may have less time than you imagine. This is a potent sedative. It has even been proscribed in some hospitals for its potentially deleterious effects. They clearly intended to have the professor too incapacitated to speak to us.”
“Thank you, Watson. Nevertheless, we must do what we can.”
“Hello? Can I help you?” Professor Shawcross, who had been reading in an armchair, rose to greet us. He was easily six feet tall and broad across the shoulders. He’d possibly been an athlete in his youth, a rower perhaps? His hair was thinning but close cut at the sides and back. His cheeks were heavily pock-marked, suggesting a brush with the measles or chicken-pox.
“Professor Shawcross, my name is Sherlock Holmes. This is Dr Watson and Inspector Baynes of the Surry Constabulary.”
“Surrey…” Shawcross interceded. “You’ve found Peter?”