discovered? And for whose benefit was the false clue made? For the police? It is only chance that they noticed the rag at all. Was it done to lead me astray? But it is only by chance, again, that I was called in on the investigation. No, Watson. Besides, the indications are that a real man has recently worn this shirt.'
'Indications?' I asked. 'Well, the bloodstains, for example.'
'Here, now!' Lestrade was beginning to bristle. 'You've just now told us that the bullet drew no blood.'
My friend spread out the shirt again in his long fingers—which, I saw unhappily, had just acquired a slight tremor. 'That is so. But I shall be very much surprised if these traces here upon the right sleeve, just at the elbow, do not prove to be dried blood. The spots are quite small but they are several in number, as if more than one sample of blood had been drawn from the wearer. Yes, Lestrade, a man has worn this garment recently. But apart from the obvious facts that he is tall, lean, robust though no longer young, and is or was an unwilling patient, there is as yet little that I can say about him.' He crumpled the shirt together in his hands, but continued to stare at it.
Lestrade opened his mouth, closed it again, then spoke at last. 'I won't argue any of those points with you, Mr. Holmes.' Still, he appeared to be not at all convinced.
Holmes raised his head and smiled, like one recalled from an unpleasant train of thought. 'Surely 'obvious' is not too strong a word. Assuming this garment to have fit its wearer at all, its length indicates that his height must be at least roughly equal to my own. This is borne out by the length of the sleeves, which were worn fully extended, not rolled or turned back; although the cloth ties at the back of the shirt have been ripped loose, those upon the sleeves are still fastened, down to the last strings at the wrists.' He paused. 'Also, the bullet's passage was a rising one from front to back, which of course suggests a gun in the hand of a short person firing at a tall one. That would be perfectly consistent with the high lodging-place of the bullet in the shed wall.'
I was mystified. 'Holmes, I thought you had just proven that this garment could not have been on a man when the bullet passed through it.'
My friend did not answer. Still gazing at the offending shirt, he shook it as if a drop of truth might be squeezed out of it like water.
Since Holmes' slighting remarks about the discovery of clues being a matter of chance with the police, Lestrade had been scowling. Now he shook his head. 'It seems to me that the evidence here—the hard, solid evidence, that is—is pretty plain and straightforward. As to the height of the man who wore this shirt, I fancy we'll know that soon enough when we find out where he's escaped from. Oh, I'll grant you he's likely tall, but as to the rest of your guesses, sir, I have my doubts.'
'Guesses?' Holmes' temper flared for a moment, so sharply that both Lestrade and I were taken somewhat by surprise. But only a moment, and then my friend was calm again. I could see it was not really Lestrade's attitude which had upset him; that was only an additional irritation coming on top of something that had struck him far more deeply.
Holmes went on: 'That the wearer is, or was, lean is perhaps a riskier deduction than his height. But the close tying of the sleeves assures us that at least his arms are far from being grossly fat. And something of his age can be deduced from this short gray hair, evidently from a hirsute arm, caught in one of the small knots.
'He is, or was, a patient of some kind, as evidenced by the fact that his blood was sampled. As for his being robust and unwilling, surely the usual elderly inmate of an asylum or hospital would be clothed in something more ordinary. Anyone wearing this special garment may be presumed to be under strong restraint. Nor, perhaps, is the common variety of ill old man likely to be drenched in carbolic acid, and then to have a bullet fired through his nightshirt as he enjoys his customary midnight stroll along the docks.'
'Well, of course—all that is rather plain and straightforward, as I say.'
'Quite so.' Holmes smiled, and for the moment seemed completely himself. 'Nevertheless, I believe I shall just keep this garment—that is, if the official police have no objection?'
'Keep it, and welcome.' The Scotland Yard man, too, had regained his good humor. 'When we've heard just which madman has jumped a fence, and have got our hands on him, maybe there'll be a good explanation for that strange bullet hole—if anyone's still interested.'
'Perhaps.' Holmes rolled up the shirt and stuffed it into his coat pocket. 'Come along then, Watson—I feel the need to give my violin a bit of exercise. Meanwhile, Lestrade, if you were to ask my advice as to your own best course of action, beyond inquiring for escaped madmen—'
'I do indeed, Mr. Holmes. You've steered me right before this.'
'—it is to have the bottom of the river dragged, in the area near these two piers.'
The other seemed a trifle disappointed. 'And just what, Mr. Holmes, are we to go a-looking in the river for?'
Holmes spoke thoughtfully. 'I should look, Lestrade, if I were you, for any—grotesque—oddity.'
'Oddity?' Lestrade plainly did not understand; no more did I, I must confess.
'You may find none. But when there are several, as I find here, experience suggests that one more is not unlikely.'
Well fed there in the dead of night, the old man—no, let me be done with this transparent literary coyness, this pretense that that old man was someone else. Well fed, I say, I found myself greatly restored in strength, although each atom of my being still cried out for the repose that my days of prisoned immobility had not afforded me.
Rummaging in the woman's purse, I took what money came to hand, considering it my due as the spoils of a just war. As I recall, there were some eight or nine pounds in gold sovereigns, silver crowns, and shillings, as well as a five pound Bank of England note. This last served me to wrap the coins for carrying, I being at the moment pocketless. Then, so overwhelming was my need for rest, that naked as I was I lay down like a wounded animal, seeking the darkest shadows close beside the abandoned boathouse.
The plain wood should not have been too hard for an old soldier, but it might as well have been bare thorns and jagged glass for all the rest it could provide me. Even exerting all my powers of will, which are not inconsiderable, I could not force my muscles to relax. When I tried, my body tossed this way and that, a puppet on a madman's strings. First one set of muscles and then another tensed. My left hand held my money in a spasmodic clutch, whilst my right clawed uncontrollably at the rough planks. In a few minutes I gave up and got to my feet again, though my knees quivered with my weariness, thinking that if my energy must be spent it had better be to some good purpose.
So I began to walk. With no clear idea of where I was within London, still less of where I might be going, I let my feet carry me away from the docks, along one narrow, deserted way after another, keeping always to the shadows. Somewhere, I knew, there existed a place, a condition, wherein I could rest… some haven must exist for me, else I never could have lived at all. But still my battered memory would not produce the vital information.
Meanwhile I had a secondary need, and toward its satisfaction I could try to make a conscious plan. I looked for a chance to obtain clothing as I prowled on, my money still clutched in my hand.
Although the time was now past midnight—about the time I left the docks, I heard church clocks tolling twelve—not all the streets of the East End were yet asleep. Throngs of the poor working folk, the unemployed, the beggars, thieves, and prostitutes still walked the pavements of these lighted thoroughfares, and many of their shop doors were still open. Laughter drifted to my ears, and music, ground out on a hand-organ by a street entertainer.
I paused, in a gloomy vantage point, to watch. Past the mouth of my dark mews there rumbled wagons, whose horses pricked their ears in my direction but then turned away their heads in silence, keeping a secret from their masters. The smells of gin and beer, tobacco and cheap perfume came mingling softly with the night's new fog. I was standing, although I did not know it at the time, in Shadwell, not far from the noisome slums of Whitechapel. It was not a part of London that would have been familiar to me even had I been in full possession of my faculties.
