A Case of Insanity

Chapter Four

It did not sit well with me that Holmes had chosen to disdain my offer and return to Baker Street. If I was honest, I was fully convinced that he had never intended to stay with me in Richmond at all and had agreed to do so only to circumvent any further discussion on the subject. Once I was safely installed in Surrey, he had then sprung his trap, knowing that I was powerless to prevent him going.

I could have been annoyed by this imperious behaviour. That I was not was tempered by our long association and the knowledge of what he had finally chosen to confide to me. Although I had said otherwise, I could not deny the possibility of what he feared; certainly I had been witness to enough in the past few months to make me realise that a less involved person would take the view that confinement was necessary for his safety as well as that of everyone else around him.

That may well have been advisable for a normal person suffering derangement of the nerves. But Holmes, at the best of times, was far from conforming to what might be considered the normal patterns of behaviour. What I accepted as his usual habits and eccentricities might be viewed very differently by an outsider. His bouts of depression, starvation, obsession, insomnia and flashes of temper would all be seen in a very different light, and treated accordingly.

The implications of that were appalling. In attempting to restore him to what they considered a 'normal' existence, his doctors would either have to admit defeat and keep him confined for years or would succeed in destroying that uniqueness of vision which had served to distinguish him in his particular field. I had an image of him being returned to me broken in mind, body and soul, an unrecognisable ruin of the friend and noble spirit I had once known.

It was not an idle fancy. The loss of control for Holmes would be devastating. For someone who would not permit his most intimate acquaintance the courtesy of agreeing to the simplest and well-meant of requests, the prospect of submitting himself utterly to the direction of a stranger would be unthinkable. He would rail against it, and his doctors, being neither as sympathetic or understanding as I, would take appropriate action. The circle would repeat itself until the most delicate part of the chain broke. Then what – long hours of silence with little to fill one's day but simple crafts and tasks for amusement? If that thought sent shivers down my spine, then I could only imagine the effect it would have on my restless friend.

It seemed to me that an alternative must be found. I had never heard of anyone dying from stagnation of the mind – and I had no intention of allowing Holmes to be the first. If he could be tended at home, I would see to it. If travel was recommended, I would accompany him. I did not believe for one moment that he was beyond redemption, as he had said; if he was, however, I had no intention of abandoning him to a torment of isolation, drugged stupors and cold baths.

My first thought was to abandon our proposed appointment with Dr Agar on the Wednesday, but I discounted that idea. I could not pretend that the situation was not worsening or that Holmes was correct in thinking his condition would right itself in its own time. I turned my thoughts instead to the root cause – the poisonous vapours of Radix pedis diaboli.

That the plant was largely unknown outside Europe was discouraging. Dr Sterndale had told us in no uncertain terms that knowledge of its properties had yet to find its way either into the pharmacopoeia or into the literature of toxicology. On the basis that such alkaline poisons may share features in common with others similar in composition, on the Monday morning I took myself across the Thames to Kew Gardens, that great repository of all things botanical.

I had a long and earnest discussion with one of the head gardeners about plants liable to cause delirium, such as mandrake, henbane and datura, and the dangers of prolonged exposure. He spoke of the unfortunate effects of certain of the fungi family and the potentially lethal consequences of misidentification whilst foraging. He enthused about the purple-blue flowers of Devil's-Bit, Succisia pratensis, and the toxic properties of Devil's-Backbone. But on Devil's-foot root, he could shed no light. He bitterly regretted his ignorance on the subject and added that if I could obtain a specimen for the collection, he would be most grateful.

With another avenue of investigation closed, it was in a dark frame of mind that I returned to Baker Street the following day. The London train was filled to capacity with those heading to the capital to celebrate the Jubilee and hopeful of catching a glimpse of the Queen. I found myself a seat in a crowded compartment between a rotund woman with a child perched on both knees and an elderly clergyman who smelt rather overpoweringly of mothballs. Both were pleased when I took out my newspaper for I became aware that they were reading over my shoulders.

News of the Jubilee celebrations and advice on where to obtain the best views were foremost, to the exclusion of all else. If one believed what one read in the papers, nothing else had happened in the preceding week. Obituaries had been forced to the back pages, grudgingly included as though the editor felt that the deceased had shown a lamentable lack of consideration by dying at so newsworthy a time. Hearings at the police courts were dealt with in a single paragraph and at the bottom of page five, a few lines served to enlighten readers that Scotland Yard had yet to make any progress in the case of Lady Bosham's stolen jewels.

"Still no arrests, I see," snorted the clergyman in my ear, his eyes still trained on this brief account.

"Apparently not," I replied.

"I don't know why they don't arrest that stepson of hers," said the woman to my right. "It's as clear as day that he's the only one who could have done it."

The case, as readers may recall, was an unusual one and I had harboured futile hopes that it was of sufficient interest to rouse Holmes's attention. Jewels to the value of sixty thousand pounds, including the famed Bosham diamond, had been taken from a house in Mayfair in the dead of night by a burglar who left no trace and had allegedly achieved that rare talent of walking through walls and reaching into locked safes. Only Lady Bosham and her stepson, the Hon. Henry Devis, had been in residence at the time, and neither had heard anything. The papers, in their usual fashion, had already dubbed the burglary as being the work of the 'The Mayfair Phantom'.

"One must assume," opined the clergyman, "that since Devis still has his liberty, that the police do not have grounds for a charge."

"If it was only him and the old lady in the house, then who else could it have been?" said the woman. "Her ladyship would have hardly stolen her own jewels, would she?"

Thereafter, I found myself in the midst of a discussion without being a part of it. Normally, conversation with one's fellow passengers is a rarity, but days of national celebration have a way of blurring the usual boundaries. People who would not usually pass the time of day find themselves thrown into close proximity, and the spirit of courage in the face of adversity and enforced confinement is liable to produce a more convivial mood for travel than might typically be expected.

Tomorrow, all would return to normal, and the clergyman and the child-festooned woman would be passing strangers once again. For now, however, both were keen to express their opinions and soon the case was the talk of our compartment. As we were pulling into the station, one gentleman concluded the debate by saying that the matter should be laid before Mr Sherlock Holmes, who was, in his opinion, the only man in London capable of solving the mystery of the phantom thief.

Had I been of a mind to appreciate the irony of that statement, I should have surely smiled. As it was, I could think only that Holmes in his present state was as far from being capable of shedding light on the problems of others as he was of mastering his own condition. I tried to tell myself that the day would come when he would once more live up to the expectations of the public and that I would have that rare pleasure of accompanying him as he did so, but the thought nagged at the back of my mind that I was deceiving myself. I feared for him, as I feared for myself faced with the prospect of witnessing the destruction of a friend.

So it was that with a heavy heart I made my way to Baker Street. Every cab was employed in ferrying people into the City, and after giving my up ride for the fourth time to a person more in need of transport, I set out on foot. By the time I arrived, I had quite convinced myself that placing Holmes in the hands of professionals was the wrong course of action. It went against every medical instinct I possessed, and yet that part of me that had come to know his character as intimately as he would allow knew that the outcome would surely be disastrous. I anticipated no resistance to my change of mind and my conscience eased – until that moment I saw Mrs Hudson waiting for me on the doorstep.

Her news was grave. "Mr Holmes came home on Sunday evening in something of a state," said she. "He locked himself in his room and I haven't seen hide nor hair of him since. I've been leaving his food outside his door because he won't let me in, but he won't touch it. I'm sore worried about him, Doctor, I can tell you."

I was not comforted by this report. Holmes had been in a depressed state of mind when we had parted and it appeared that his condition had deteriorated.

"And the talking, sir, you should have heard him, all night long," she went on.

"Talking? To whom?"

Mrs Hudson shrugged apologetically. "I'm sure I couldn't say, Doctor, because he's had no visitors and there's no one up there. Last night was the worst," she confided. "I could hear him walking up and down and having a terrible argument with someone. Then he was laughing and shouting as though he was as pleased as punch."

"And today?"

Her gaze turned to the first floor window above us. "Not a word, sir. Quiet as the grave it's been all morning. I find that's more worrying than when he's making a racket. It always makes me wonder what mischief he's getting up to."

That was a sentiment with which I could sympathise. "I shall see to him, Mrs Hudson, have no fear," I said, trying to be as reassuring as possible. "Are you going to the Jubilee celebrations?"

"I was meant to be meeting my niece who's come down from Newcastle for the day," she said uncertainly. "But I didn't like to leave the house and Mr Holmes alone. I'll not go now if you need me, sir."

"Of course you must go," I urged her. "We can't have you disappointing your niece."

"Well, if you're sure."

Given the uncertainty of what awaited me upstairs, I was keen to have Mrs Hudson leave in case the situation proved distressing. From her hesitation, I sensed that she too expected the worst and it took all my powers of encouragement to persuade her to leave. When at last she did, I took myself up to the room which had proved the starting point for so many of Holmes's cases and found myself confronted by a locked door. I rapped gently and a hoarse cry sounded from inside, demanding to know my identity.

"Holmes, it's me," I called back. "Open this door this instant."

The key rattled in the lock and the door creaked back on its hinges. I started inside – and felt the cold metal of a gun barrel pressed to my temple. The hissed command that I was not to move was superfluous; the prospect of a bullet through one's brains has a habit of transfixing one to the spot.

"Did you think you could inveigle your way in here on so flimsy an excuse?" Holmes hissed. "Hah! I have you now, you villain! Come to rob me, have you? Well, sir, an Englishman's home is still his castle, and I would be quite within my rights to shoot you where you stand as a common burglar!"

"Holmes, for goodness sake," I began.

"Silence! I shall not suffer you to speak unless I allow it. Now, sir, who sent you? Was it Professor Bennett?"

The pressure against my temple increased as my hesitation provoked his irritation. I could not see him, for he was slightly behind me and to my left, with his back against the wall while I was stranded just inside the darkened room. I did not need to see his face, however, to know that he was deadly serious.

His tone was all vehemence and his conviction utter. Whatever had happened in the preceding days seemed to have robbed him of his reason, even of the memory of me. One way or another, I was going to have to give him an answer; whether it was the right one would soon make itself obvious, and I hoped not fatally so.

"Holmes, it's me, Watson," I said, trying to keep the edge from my voice. "Put the gun down."

The barrel was indeed ground harshly into the side of my head. "A poor disguise, very ill indeed," said he tersely. "Did your perfidious master not tell you with whom you are dealing? Did you expect that I would be fooled so easily? I see through your designs and devices, and I am not deceived. You and your master have erred, my friend. Watson is not due here until Tuesday."

"It is Tuesday."

"You think I do not know what day it is? You are a full day early. It is Monday."

"No, Holmes, I promise you it is Tuesday, 22nd June, the day of the Queen's Jubilee. Look at my paper if you do not believe me."

He spared it a passing glance. "A forgery," he declared.

"My train ticket then."

"Imitated."

"My cigarette case, it has my name on it."

"Stolen."

"The vesta case you gave me last Christmas."

"Copied."

I was beginning to tire of this conversation. "Then for pity's sake, what would convince you?"

He considered. "The case of the Repentant Vegetarian," said he firmly. "Tell me the details, and mind that you do not leave anything out. Your very life depends upon it."

I was sure that my heart skipped a beat. Of all the cases we had shared, he had chosen one that his fevered brain had invented.

I swallowed heavily, fully expecting that my next words would be my last. "I cannot," I replied. "Because there was no such case."

The next I knew, the gun had been swiftly removed from my head and I was dragged by the arm down behind the sofa. For the first time, I caught sight of his wild eyes, high colour and the gleaming perspiration on his forehead, and I counted myself fortunate to have escaped with my life.

"Well met, old fellow, well met," he whispered, keeping his iron grip on my arm. "Forgive the smoke and mirrors but I had to be sure, I had to be sure, you see. Only Watson would know there was no Repentant Vegetarian. No, none at all! You do see, my boy?"

I nodded vaguely, more concerned by the strange ferocity of his speech than what he was saying. I was uneasier still that he retained possession of his pistol; given the unpredictability of his mood, I was fully expecting to find it once again aimed in my direction.

"Good to have you here," he went on over-enthusiastically. "It is always vital to have the assistance of a brother in arms, just as in the old days. Good old Watson, he never lets me down. Have you brought your old service revolver? We shall need it, for I do not see how a confrontation with the blackguards may be avoided. But we are prepared. We shall counter their every assault!"

"Whose assault?" I asked, humouring him in the hope of distracting his attention from the weapon.

"Them!" he hissed, gesturing with his pistol in the direction of the window. "No, stay down. They are keeping close watch on these rooms and those blinds are no deterrent. They saw you enter no doubt. Or did you climb over the wall? Yes, yes, you must have done. That mud on your shoes speaks of adventures, my dear fellow. Were you followed?"

"I don't think so, Holmes."

"Did you see anyone?"

"No. Most people have gone to see the celebrations."

He snorted viciously. "Ah, there you see the artfulness of their plan. This day was made for thievery, Watson! While the populace carouses, their homes will be robbed. Why do you think Mycroft remains at the Diogenes? My brother is the sentinel of the club. Should they be invaded, he will drop from a great height onto the burglars and foil their plans. Yes, I too am prepared. Let the populace be lured away by the promise of petty entertainments, but I shall remain, besieged in my own home!"

"Why are you besieged?"

"Because they know! Because I have discovered the truth!"

As he spoke, he winced, as though struck by some great pain. The hand that had held my arm now went to his head and trembled as it probed the near translucent skin at his temples. A deep breath went some way to relieving his discomfort and swept away a little of the vehemence from his eyes when he next looked up at me.

"Would that you had been here, my friend," said he, his voice quieter now. "You would have revelled in the moment, as I did. It was so gloriously elementary in nature that a child could have deduced it. Mine eyes were dazzled by the light of revelation. Have I been so blind? Did you see it?"

"See what, Holmes?"

"The voiceless alveolar lateral fricative!" he exclaimed. "How did I miss it?"

With such a cry, his body suddenly went limp and he near collapsed onto me. I caught him, found a pillow for his head and gently lowered him to the ground. I had time to feel his febrile forehead and the rapid fluttering of his pulse before my hand was enclosed in a vice-like grip. The gun clattered from his grasp to the floor, forgotten now, and I stowed it out of harm's way in my pocket. In the silence that followed, he held onto me like a frightened child, and I, in my ignorance, did not know what to do to ease his sufferings.

"I have supp'd full with horrors these last few days," he murmured. "I have found myself bereft of your light, my dear friend. Perpetual night has fallen across this place in your absence. Man was born to fear that darkness and the twilight that heralds it. I am my own dungeon, as Milton tells us, hiding a dark soul and foul, foul thoughts. I had thought I was abandoned."

"Never, Holmes, you should know that."

"I do, but they told me, Watson, mocked me and laughed at me and told me you would not come."

"And you believed them? You had only to send word."

"I could not leave this house!" he insisted. "They were waiting, Watson. They still wait."

"For what, Holmes? To whom do you refer?"

"Professor Bennett and his cronies. I have in my grasp the final piece of evidence to prove the Cornish-Chaldean connection, and they would take it from me. Oh, they shall not. They shall have to prise it from my cold, dead fingers before I ever give it up. But I am so tired, Watson. I need to sleep."

"Of course you do."

"Yet if I do, they will come. You must help me. You are the only person I trust." From the depths of his dressing gown, he drew out a hefty, bound manuscript and pressed it into my hands. "My life's work," he said. "The fruit of my endeavours. I entrust it to you. Take it to Scotland Yard. Tell them what has transpired here, that my life is threatened and that this work contains the key."

"Holmes, I would rather stay here with you."

He shook his head. "Let them kill me, I care not. But I would not have your blood on my conscience. Go, Watson, while you still can, before night falls. Help may yet arrive in time. I shall lock the door, and open to none but you."

With strength I should not have thought him capable, he staggered to his feet and hauled me over to the door.

"Do not fail me," said he, and then with a smile, added: "No, I forget. My Watson has never failed me. I need hardly remind you of the dangers we face. That Dartmoor mist, my friend, it will not rise up and take us unawares this time. Guard that manuscript with your life. Godspeed, my friend. I await your return."

The door slammed in my face and the key turned in the lock. I stood there for what felt like an eternity, unsure what to do for the best. I had listened to insane ravings and wild rambling talk about murderous professors of language and burglars, borne of a festering obsession with the roots of an extinct dialect. I cursed myself for not insisting that he remained with me in Richmond; something had transpired on his return, something which had tipped the balance of his mind. The collapse, which had occurred in so short a time, was absolute.

I could not deceive myself into thinking now that his condition could be contained. When he was unable to recognise his friends and had threatened me with a gun, I knew that the situation was out of my hands. It was not a responsibility I could take solely on myself, and my thoughts naturally turned his brother. What would I tell him? The charge of insanity must surely seem fantastic based on the deluded importance he placed on the theory contained in the manuscript I held.

Holmes had spoken of it as 'containing the key'. Out of interest, I turned to the first page to find two words inscribed in large letters: 'ud rocashaas'. It meant nothing to me, and I supposed it formed the basis of his theories. I was less certain when I found the same phrase repeated on the next ten pages. Thereafter, the pages were blank.

It seemed the decision had been made for me. One of the most remarkable minds of his generation was disintegrating before my very eyes, and I saw no cause to believe that the decay was either treatable or reversible. I left him that day certain in the knowledge that the bright soul who had shed light into the darkest of mysteries and brought hope to the despondent had gone forever. My grief was already inconsolable. But I should not have gone to Mycroft Holmes.

Continued in Chapter Five