A Study in Terror

Chapter IV Dr. Murray’s Hostel

“One does what one can,” said Dr. Murray, a few moments later, “but, in a city of the size of London, it is a little like trying to sweep back the sea with a broom. A sea of destitution and despair.”

We had left the morgue, and crossed a flag-stoned inner courtyard. He ushered us through another door, and into a shabby but more cheerful atmosphere. The hostel was very old. It had been built originally as a stable, a long, low, stone building with the places for the stalls still clearly marked. Again, buckets of whitewash had been used, but the eternal odour of the carbolic was here mingled with a slightly less disagreeable effluvium of medicines, steaming vegetable stew, and unbathed bodies. As the building extended onward in railway fashion, the stalls had been fashioned into larger units, double and sometimes triple their original size, and put to appropriate uses. Black-lettered cards identified them variously as dormitories for women and for men. There was a dispensary, and a clinical waiting-room with stone benches. Ahead of us, a sign read: This Way to Chapel and Dining-Hall.

Curtains had been drawn across the entrance to the women’s dormitory, but that of the men stood open, and several sorry-looking derelicts slept upon the iron cots.

In the clinical area, three patients awaited attention, while the dispensary was occupied by a huge, brutish man who looked freshly come from sweeping a chimney. He was seated, a sullen scowl upon his face. His eyes were fastened upon a pretty young lady ministering to him. One of his vast feet rested upon a low stool; the young lady had just finished bandaging it. She came up from her knees and brushed a lock of dark hair back from her forehead.

“He cut it badly upon a shard of broken glass,” she told Dr. Murray. The doctor stooped to inspect the bandage, giving the brute’s foot no less attention than it would have received in any Harley Street surgery. He straightened and spoke kindly.

“You must come back tomorrow and have the dressing changed, my friend. Be sure, now.”

The oaf was entirely without gratitude. “I can’t put my boot on. ’Ow am I goin’ to get about?”

He spoke as though the doctor were responsible, with such surliness that I could not restrain myself. “If you had stayed sober, my good man, perhaps you could have avoided the broken glass.”

“ ‘Ere now, guv’ner!” says he, bold as brass. “A man’s got to ’ave a pint once in a while!”

“I doubt if you’ve ever held yourself to a pint.”

“Please wait here a few moments,” interposed Dr. Murray, “I’ll have Pierre bring you a stick. We keep a small stock for emergencies.”

Turning to the young lady, he went on, “Sally, these gentlemen are Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his colleague, Dr. Watson. Gentlemen, this is Miss Sally Young, my niece and good right arm. I don’t know what the hostel would be without her.”

Sally Young extended a slim hand to each of us in turn. “I am honoured,” said she, cool and self-possessed. “I have heard both names before. But I never expected to meet such famous personages.”

“You are too kind,” murmured Holmes.

Her tact in including me, a mere shadow to Sherlock Holmes, was gracious, and I bowed.

Said Dr. Murray, “I’ll get the stick myself, Sally. Will you conduct Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson the rest of the way? Perhaps they would like to see the chapel and the kitchen.”

“Certainly. This way, please.”

Dr. Murray hurried away in the direction of the morgue, and we followed Miss Young. But only for a short distance. Before we reached the door, Holmes said abruptly, “Our time is limited, Miss Young. Perhaps the tour can be finished during another visit. We are here to-day for professional reasons.”

The girl seemed not to be surprised. “I understand, Mr. Holmes. Is there something I can do?”

“Perhaps there is. Some time ago you pledged a certain article in a pawn-shop on Great Heapton Street. Do you recall?”

With no hesitation whatever, she replied, “Of course. It was not so long ago as that.”

“Would you object to telling us how you came by the case, and why you pledged it?”

“Not at all. It belonged to Pierre.”

I thought this startling news, but Holmes did not move a muscle. “The poor fellow who has lost his wits.”

“A pitiful case,” said the girl.

“A hopeless one, I venture to say,” said Holmes. “We met him a few minutes ago. Could you enlighten us as to his background?”

“We know nothing about him prior to his arrival here. But that arrival, I must say, was dramatic. I came through the morgue late one night, and found him standing beside one of the corpses.”

“Doing what, Miss Young?”

“He was doing nothing whatever, merely standing by the body in the confused state you must surely have noticed. I approached him and brought him to my uncle. He has been here ever since. The police were evidently not seeking him, for Inspector Lestrade has shown no interest in him whatever.”

My opinion of Miss Sally Young went higher. Here was courage indeed. A girl who could walk at night about a charnel-house, see a gargoyle figure such as Pierre’s standing over one of the corpses, and not flee in terror!

“That’s hardly a criterion,” began Holmes, and stopped.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“A random thought, Miss Young. Please proceed.”

“We came to the opinion that some-one had guided Pierre to the hostel and left him, as unwed mothers leave their infants at the door of a sanctuary. Dr. Murray examined him, and found that he had once sustained a terrible injury, as if he had been brutally beaten. The wounds about his head had healed, but nothing could be done to dispel the mists that had permanently settled over his brain. He has proved to be harmless, and he is so pathetically eager to help about the place that he has made his own berth. We of course would not dream of sending him back into a world with which he cannot cope.”

“And the surgeon’s-kit?”

“He had a bundle with him, containing wearing apparel. The kit was buried in their midst, the only thing of value he possessed.”

“What did he tell you of himself?”

“Nothing. He speaks only with effort, single words which are hardly intelligible.”

“But his name―Pierre?”

She laughed, an attractive touch of colour coming into her cheeks. “I took the liberty of baptising him. What clothing he carried bore French labels. And there was a coloured handkerchief with French script interwoven in the cloth. Thus, and for no other reason, I began calling him Pierre, although I feel sure he is not French.”

“How did you happen to pawn the case?” asked Holmes.

“That came about quite simply. As I have told you, Pierre brought virtually nothing with him, and our funds at the hostel are severely allocated. We were in no position to outfit Pierre properly. So I thought of the surgical-case. It was clearly of value, and he could have no need of it. I explained to him what I proposed, and to my surprise he nodded violently.” She paused here to laugh. “The only difficulty was in getting him to accept the proceeds. He wanted to put it into the general fund of the hostel.”

“Then he is still capable of emotion. At least of gratitude.”

“Indeed he is,” replied Sally Young, warmly. “And now perhaps, sir, you will answer a question of mine. Why are you interested in the surgeon’s-kit?”

“It was sent to me by an unknown person.”

Her eyes widened. “Then someone redeemed it!”

“Yes. Have you any idea who that person might have been?”

“Not in the least.” After a thoughtful pause, she said, “There does not necessarily have to be a connection. I mean, some-one could have come upon the case and redeemed it as a bargain.”

“One of the instruments was missing when it reached me.”

“That is odd! I wonder what could have happened to it.”

“The set was complete when you pledged it?”

“Indeed it was.”

“Thank you, Miss Young.”

At that moment the door before us opened; a man came through. And, although Lord Carfax was perhaps not the last person I expected to see, he was certainly not the first.

“Your Lordship,” exclaimed Holmes. “Our paths cross again.”

Lord Carfax was as surprised as I. Indeed, he seemed utterly discomposed. It was Sally Young who broke the silence. “Your Lordship has met these gentlemen?”

“We had that privilege only yesterday,” said Holmes. “At the Duke of Shires’s residence.”

Lord Carfax found his voice. “Mr. Holmes refers to my father’s country-home.” Then, turning back to Holmes, he said, “This is a far more likely place for me to be than for you gentlemen. I spend a good deal of my time here.”

“Lord Carfax is our angel from Heaven,” said Sally Young, rapturously. “He has given of his money and of his time so generously, that the hostel is as much his as ours. It could hardly exist without him.”

Lord Carfax flushed. “You make too much of it, my dear.”

She laid an affectionate hand upon his arm; her eyes were very bright. Then the glow faded; her whole manner changed. “Lord Carfax. There is another one. Have you heard?”

He nodded, sombrely. “I wonder if it will ever end! Mr. Holmes, are you by any chance applying your talents to the hunt for the Ripper?”

“We shall see what develops,” said Holmes, abruptly. “We have taken up enough of your time, Miss Young. I trust that we shall meet again.”

With that we bowed and departed, going out through the silent morgue, that was now deserted except for the dead.

Night had fallen, and the street-lamps of Whitechapel dotted the lonely thoroughfares, deepening rather than banishing the shadows.

I drew up my collar. “I don’t mind saying, Holmes, that a good fire and a cup of hot tea―”

“On guard, Watson!” cried Holmes, his reactions far sharper than my own; and an instant later we were fighting for our lives. Three toughs had leapt out of the darkness of a courtyard and were upon us.

I saw the flash of a knife-blade as one of them shouted, “You two take the big cove!”

Thus I was left with the third thug, but he was quite enough, armed as he was with a glittering weapon. The savagery of his attack left no doubt as to his intentions. I whirled to meet his attack not an instant too soon. But my stick slipped from my grasp, and I would have gone down with the brute’s blade in my flesh if he had not slipped in his eagerness to get at me. He fell forward, pawing the air, and I acted from instinct, bringing my knee upwards. A welcome bolt of pain shot up my thigh as my knee-cap connected with my assailant’s face. He bellowed in pain and staggered back, blood spouting from his nose.

Holmes had retained his stick and his wits. From the corner of my eye I witnessed his first defensive move. Using the stick as a sword, he thrust straight and true at the nearest man’s abdomen. The ferrule sank deep, bringing a scream of agony from the man and sending him down, clutching at his belly.

That was all I saw, because my assailant was up and at me again. I got my fingers around the wrist of his knife-arm and veered the blade off its course towards my throat. Then we were locked together, struggling desperately. We went to the cobble-stones in a frantic sprawl. He was a big man, strongly-muscled, and even though I strained against his arm with every ounce of my strength, the blade moved closer to my throat.

I was in the act of consigning my soul to its Maker when a thud of Holmes’s stick glazed the eyes of my would-be murderer and pitched him over my head. With an effort I heaved off the weight of the man’s body, and struggled to my knees. At that moment there was a cry of rage and pain from one of Holmes’s assailants. One of them cried, “Come on, Butch! These blokes are a bit thick!” and, with that, my attacker was snatched to his feet, the trio ran off into the shadows, and disappeared.

Holmes was kneeling beside me. “Watson! Are you all right? Did that knife get into you?”

“Not so much as a scratch, Holmes,” I assured him.

“If you’d been hurt, I should never have forgiven myself.”

“Are you all right, old chap?”

“Except for a bruised shin.” Helping me to my feet, Holmes added grimly, “I am an idiot. An attack was the last thing I anticipated. The aspects of this case change swiftly.”

“Don’t blame yourself. How could you possibly have known?”

“It is my business to know.”

“You were alert enough to beat them at their own game, when every advantage was on their side.”

But Holmes would not be comforted. “I am slow, slow, Watson,” said he. “Come, we shall find a hansom and get you home to that fire and a hot tea.”

A cab hove in sight and picked us up. When we were rattling back towards Baker Street, Holmes said, “It would be interesting to know who sent them.”

“Obviously, some-one who wishes us dead,” was my retort.

“But our ill-wisher, whoever he is, appears to have used poor judgement in selecting his emissaries. He should have chosen cooler heads. Their enthusiasm for the job impaired their efficiency.”

“Our good fortune, Holmes.”

“They achieved one goal, at least. If there was any doubt before, they have wedded me irrevocably to this case.” Holmes’s tone was grim indeed, and we rode the remainder of the journey in silence. It was not until we were seated before the fire with steaming cups of Mrs. Hudson’s tea that he spoke again.

“After I left you yesterday, Watson, I corroborated a few small points. Did you know that a nude―a quite good work, by the way―by one Kenneth Osborne, hangs in the National Gallery?”

“Kenneth Osbourne, did you say?” I exclaimed.

“The Duke of Shires.”