Chapter 14

We followed the constable to the designated practise, finding a tired and worn practitioner in his dressing gown, that desperately tried to warm his patient by wrapping hot compresses around the injured man's limbs. Hayward was by now half conscious, but unable to utter anything of any sense. His eyes were glassy and his forehead showed the first signs of an impending fever. He was in a pitiable state and his injuries, though not quite as severe as the policeman had made them out to be, where considerable. His head was badly bruised and the laceration on the forehead looked ghastly enough but had ceased bleeding. His rib cage also seemed bruised and one of the lower ribs was partially fractured as we where informed, giving him trouble with every breath he took. His left wrist and hand were broken and his feet both seemed sprained, swollen and twisted. The cold cramping did nothing to relieve the pain his injuries must ultimately cause him. On the contrary – every spasm brought new waves of agony and faintness on the man, making him groan and whimper.

"How is he?" Holmes asked, with little compassion in his voice, looking at the man in disdain.

"All right considering the circumstances. I try to get him warm enough so he'll stop shivering and cramping, which might still take a while. Currently, it is impossible for me, to set his feet and hand right, but alas, the splint I did manage to put on his hand, should at least keep the bones from dislocating any further. He must have been in the water for some time, considering the state he is in. I'll do what I can, but I cannot keep him here."

The doctor gestured around his small practice. It consisted of only a tiny waiting room and this one single consulting room, which held a large desk, a couple of chairs and the stretcher on which the ill-fated man now lay.

"If we only knew who he is, we could return him to his family." he carried on. "He is in a bad state obviously, but not in so bad a condition, that he cannot be moved to somewhere more suitable. I tried to ask his name, but all he did mutter was 'Find her!', 'There's danger' and 'Holmes' – So I assume, that this is Mr Holmes. But what he means by his other remarks, I do not know and I have no idea, how to contact his family, as I do not know any family of that name around here."

"His name is not Holmes. Mine is. This Gentleman there is Doctor Alastair Hayward." Holmes told him. "I think, we might just send someone over to the charity hospital and get his wife. In all likeliness, she is still there."

"No!" the man in question gasped, his teeth still shattering and his whole body shaking convulsively, but his eyes, though still glassy, were alert and something like fear had sprung up in them.

We all stared at him. Holmes stepped forward, bending down over the patient and the now frantic man grasped the detective's lapel with his uninjured hand, pulling himself up with an astonishing strength and energy, considering his condition, till he was able to look into the eye of the other man.

"They have got her!" he whispered. "I tried to… But they knocked her out. You have to find her!"

"I can assure you, your wife is up and well, Sir – but..."

The injured man cut him short: "Not Rhea – Doctor Stephens, man!"

Holmes stared at the man, whispering: "Where is she and who has got her?"

"I don't know who the man is, I think I should know him, but I just cannot remember – it was too dark for me to recognise him - but he is with..." it took all his strength to finish his sentence. "He is in league with my wife."

He was now sobbing, still clinging to Holmes.

"I have done so much wrong! How am I ever to set it right again?"

"Pull yourself together!" Holmes reprimanded him, but in a much gentler tone than he had used with the man before, while carefully taking Hayward's hand, prying it loose from his overcoat and helping the man to lay down comfortably again.

"I think we now know, where we have to start looking for our murderer.– Right under our noses, in the hospital. We'll send a servant to bring this man home to his own house."

Holmes' eyes fell on a police issue oil lamp on the practitioner's desk, where it obviously had been forgotten by the men, who had delivered Hayward.

"I'll take this, we might need it."

He picked it up and wheeled around, almost running out of the house and through the dark and quiet roads while Hopkins and I tried to keep up with him. Leaving the constable to organise the said servant.

xxx

Once again we entered the inornate brick building, the lights inside now lowered but still bright enough to make one's way around. It did not take long to establish, that Rhea Hayward was not in the building anymore. Not surprising at this late hour and as the night nurse told us, it had been rather unusual that Rhea Hayward had been there at all when we had met her. She usually was last of the volunteers to go, but hardly ever past six in the evening. Tonight she had left shortly after we ourselves had left the hospital and since then, she had not been seen. But at any rate, we had looked into every room and into the small courtyard behind. She had indeed left.

Apart from the sparse information, the nurse, a large woman but short, not unlike the nursemaid Lady Amaris employed, had nothing more to tell us. She looked apologetically from one to the other, her eyes finally resting on my friend.

"I have been feeding and changing babies ever since I arrived here. There should have been another nurse on duty since the hospital is that overflowing, but she did not turn up. Mrs Hayward helped me with a few young ones and told me to call for one of the midwives upstairs in case things got out of hand. But they did not, so far. All children are fairly well and I like it busy – it makes the night pass away more quickly."

"So Mrs Hayward had not been expected to be here?"

"No, not at all. I was quite surprised. But I thought she might have forgotten something. She did seem a bit distracted. But I was so busy, I am not quite sure about that."

Her friendly face glowed with zealousness and as another babe began to stir in the opposite corner of the large room – something the neither of us had even noticed, she bustled away, leaving us to our own devices.

"Whom are you looking for?" a small boy of about eight, with a bandaged head asked us quietly, as we passed him, sitting up in his bed drowsily. The rustle of our search and the quiet conversation with the nurse had woken him up and alert as any street urchin, he had taken in the situation in a nick.

"Mrs Hayward," Holmes replied. "Have you seen her?"

"Is that the lady with the brown hair and the friendly eyes?" the boy asked keenly.

Despite the darkness, I could rather feel than see a small smile spread across my friends face.

"No, she's got red hair and is smaller than the lady you have in mind."

"Oh, that one! - I don't like her. She's got an evil eye, has she."

"What do you mean by that?" Hopkins interjected.

"I cannot tell, Sir. It is just, that she looked and sounded familiar, and it was not in a good sense. The way she glanced at me, made my blood run cold. Her smile was insincere. When she came back later, I dared not to sleep, in case she would come over without me noticing and I did not want to be close to her at all, lest alone when not wide awake."

"What did you fear she would do?" the inspector asked him further.

"I don't know, but certainly nothing good. She came over a couple of times and every time she saw I was awake, she turned around again. - As if she was stealthing me and just looked for an opportunity to catch me unawares."

He looked a bit ashamed at this statement, not able to explain his feelings properly, but Holmes to his astonishment took him seriously.

"What did she do, when she did not try to sneak up on you?"

"She spoke to the night nurse shortly and then proceeded to feed one of the little ones. - I think the nurse might have asked her to do so, as she was busy with another babe."

Holmes nodded to indicate that that had been the case.

"And which one was fed by Mrs Hayward? Do you know that perhaps?"

The child pushed aside the sheets and got up, limping over to the small cot. The baby slumbered deeply and without any signs of being unwell. All three of us let out a sigh of relief.

"The dark-haired woman was not around at that time?"

"No."

"What about Doctor Hayward?" Holmes suddenly changed the subject. "Have you met him, also?"

"Is he a tall man with brown hair and a beard?"

"Yes."

"He held me, while I was getting my stitches, which really hurt and then left, but came back, while the nice lady had gone to get me something to eat – he walked in there." The boy pointed at the doctor's office.

"And then?"

"Then I got my soup and was just falling asleep when the red-haired woman came in saying something about an emergency on which the other lady took her coat from that hook over there and left with her." he pointed at a coat rack next to the door to the entrance room.

"And Doctor Hayward?"

"He came back out after several minutes, also wearing his overcoat and hat and then looked around, saw I was awake still came over and asked me, where Doctor Stephens was – I think that must have been the friendly woman's name, I told him that I did not know anything of a doctor of that name, but that the brown haired lady had been called away and had left with another one with red hair."

"What did he do then?"

"He swore like a drayman and hurried out of the door."

"So Hayward was telling the truth so far." Holmes quietly stated. "It was his wife and not him, who lured Harriet away and it was clearly without his knowledge. I have been completely wrong in my conclusions, Watson. Hayward is not our culprit, he has been set up. As were we."

"And now?" I wondered, thinking about the beaten up man and the missing woman. Looking down at the heavily bandaged boy, I could not help but ask, what had happened to him.

"I cannot really say, Sir," he replied, looking confused. "I was walking towards the dovecote to sleep in there when I heard a creaking sound and footsteps and suddenly a shadow was hovering over me – I mean no ghost, sir, but the shadow of a man. He had something like a cudgel in his hand and before I could run away, he had beat me and kicked me against the rough stone of the cote. I could hear a woman cackle, saying something like: 'Oh these waifs are such a nuisance, are they not, dearest?'. I was almost knocked out, but not quite and when they had gone, I limped towards the hospital as my head would not stop bleeding and I was scared I would bleed to death."

"The dovecote, again." Holmes cried out. "Well done, Watson!"

Looking at the frail boy, who by now shivered in the draughty air of the badly heated ward, wearing only his nightshirt, but neither socks nor slippers, Holmes picked him up, carrying him back into his bed and tucking him in.

"You said, you were not completely knocked out – could you hear any more of their conversation?"

"Yes – but it did not make sense. My head was hurting and I think I might have gotten something wrong. He said something about a trap and lure – and that it was so much nicer since the nagging old one was packed up and gone. The lady just laughed. I am not sure what was supposed to be so funny, but I felt really sick to the stomach and my head hurt like hell."

In the dim light, I could see Holmes clench his fist in anger.

"What is your name? You have helped us very much, young man, and I want to know whom I have to thank, but now I suggest, you close your eyes and sleep."

"Tom, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

My friend's voice had been composed, but I could see in his normally so inexpressive face, that he was angered. But also that he had gotten a clue from what the boy had told him and that Hopkins and I had not been able to make out, as we had stayed behind, halfway towards the exit.

xxx

In the time we had to spend inside, the air had gotten considerably colder and a light gale had begun to join the drizzle. It was now as uncomfortable a night as was possible. Putting up our collars, we followed Holmes once again through the gaslit streets and alleyways till we reached an open space.

The small park was basically divided into two parts, separated by a little stream that flowed merrily along, burbling and glistening in the lights of the few street lamps dotting the green. In some little distance, an oddly shaped building stood, towering over the flat expanse of the lawn, right behind it, a wall running all along one side of the common, bordering it off to the private gardens beyond. As we crossed the narrow cast iron bridge the ominous looking building became more and more distinct and soon it proofed to be the very medieval dovecote we had heard of.

Holmes finally lit the lantern he had been carrying, not without difficulty, as the wind blew out the match more than once, but making it possible at last to take in the surroundings more clearly, but also increasing the shadows.

The dovecote was an ancient building made from quarry stone and timber with a slanting slate roof, giving it the overall appearance of a beehive kiln. Next, to it, the little brook, that I now realised had almost been the end of Alastair Hayward, innocently flowed, it's gentle burbling a reminder of the time passing.

While I looked around me, Holmes kept his eyes on the ground, kneeling down at the base of the cote, he pointed at a dark smudge about a foot above ground, sheltered by a protrusion of the roof.

"I presume this is, where the boy had hit his head," he remarked, picking up something I could not recognise. "He has lost his scarf, look." Holmes held it up, before stuffing the dirty item into his pocket. Carrying on in his task, slowly and in half circles walking away from the dovecote, sometimes kneeling down again, taking in every possible trail, while the official detective and I stood still, knowing better than to disturb my friend in his work.

"Not good..." I heard Holmes mutter before turning towards us. "The men who rescued Hayward have basically destroyed all evidence. I cannot discern which are the ones that were left by Harriet and her abductors. Damn it! - All I have found is this hat pin of which I am sure belongs to my wife."

"Holmes!" Hopkins cried suddenly. "There is something over there. Lying on the grass."

His face seemed alert in the yellow light of the lantern as he pointed at something on the ground a little further away from the dovecote and close to the rough stone wall, opposite from the point where Hayward had been found. Holmes got up from his knees and turned around, walking slowly towards the indicated spot, his eyes still fixed mainly on the ground and his face growing paler by the moment. He seemed as if in a trance.

"Holmes?" I asked, but did not get a reply. "Holmes?"

"Watson, look at this. - They dragged her along this piece of lawn, see, how her heels have dug into the soft ground? She must have fought them violently," his voice was almost indiscernible as he pointed at the marks on the ground.

"But what is that?" I pointed at the thing the inspector had indicated.

"It is her hat, Watson."

Holmes had reached the spot where it lay and bend down to pick it up, his hands shaking, the lantern forgotten on the ground at his feet as he just stared at the simple broad-rimmed hat with the plain bunch of light coloured silk roses adorning its rim and the narrow dusky pink hatband. For a moment no-one dared to say a word, but then, with an outcry of anger, Holmes threw away the hat, clenching his fists, cursing under his breath. The hat landed in the water with a soft splatter.

"I'll get those bastards, Watson. – I'll get them! No-one does that to my wife and goes unpunished."

Hopkins and I still did not know what to say, and so, unable to utter a word of solace for fear it would be unappreciated, we instead followed the unofficial detective, who by now had picked up the lantern again and once more followed the indentations in the soft muddy ground, where before the gravel footpath had proven to be such a disappointment.

The trail ran along the wall for a couple of yards, to a spot, where it was covered all in ivy – thick and heavy, hiding the stones that supported it. Only a moment later, Holmes cried out in surprise, as another item caught his attention. This time it was a white handkerchief that got entangled in the bushy branches of the ivy.

"It's hers as well," he announced, looking at the delicate piece of cloth, with its crocheted lace trim and the embroidered initials H. S. This time though he did not throw it away, but carefully pocketed it, stuffing it deep into his waistcoat pocket.

"Odd..." he remarked after he had done so, looking at the wall before him, before whistling through his teeth, reaching out and pushing a curtain of ivy aside to reveal a narrow door.

"I should have expected this," he carried on, trying to open it, but failing as it was clearly locked from the inside.

"How could you?" I dared to ask.

"Because the boy had heard a creaking sound only moments before he was beaten to a pulp. - It was this door, I am certain. Just look at its rusty iron fittings, it would certainly make a creaking noise and look, we have walked away from the brook, but basically rounded the dovecote. Only a few steps and an adult would have reached it easily."

While Hopkins and I looked behind us, Holmes kept on glancing inquisitively at the wall before him.

"Watson, give me a hand, will you?"

"What do you want me to do?" I wondered.

"Give me a leg-up. I need to climb that wall," he answered, taking off his overcoat, letting it slip to the ground where it lay in a crumpled heap that was soon followed by his top hat and gloves. Grabbing the ivy, he stepped into my crossed hands and those of Hopkins, who had joined me promptly and together we lifted him up high enough so Holmes could get hold of the edge of the wall and pull himself up and onto the narrow top.

"Go, get around and try the other side."

"But whose house is this?" I inquired.

"Peter Granville's."

With that, he swung his legs over and a dull thud on the other side told us, he had landed on the ground there.