though considering something, before turning quickly and heading towards a door at the rear of the room. He moved awkwardly and within but two or three steps he listed to one side, like a ship encountering stormy seas, and plunged head first into the empty bath. There was a single strangulated cry followed by a crash.
We ran across to the bath-side and looked over.
Garnett lay some seven or eight feet directly beneath us, on his back, one leg doubled up beneath him and his arms spread-eagled as though he were relaxing on his bed. A pool of blood was spreading beneath his head.
Without a second thought, I sat on the edge of the bath and lowered myself down until I was standing alongside Garnett. He had lifted one hand and was pulling back the bandage on his wrist. With a gasp of horror, I watched a piece of shrivelled flesh fall from beneath the bandage onto the bath floor. His eyelids flickering, Garnett then proceeded to undo the buttons of his shirt, beneath which I could see a further bandage.
I knelt down and took hold of the hand, feeling for a pulse. It was there but only weak and fluttery. Garnett's lips were already turning blue.
He pulled the hand free and, in one movement, tore the bandage from his face. Crosby's stained cheek flesh lifted with it for a second and then slid down to cover Garnett's mouth.
'How is he, Doctor Watson?' Makinson asked softly.
I shook my head and watched as Garnett took the grisly trophy from his mouth and clasped it tightly. He began rubbing it feverishly between thumb and forefinger.
'Make me well again,' he muttered hoarsely. 'Make me well again…'
'Shall I get an ambulance, sir?' Sergeant Hewitt asked. I looked up at him and shook my head.
Makinson had clambered down to join us, watching as I undid the tape affixing the bandage to Garnett's chest. I had no doubt what we would find beneath that bandage and no doubt what lay beneath the one about his neck.
'Why did you do it, Frank?' Makinson said softly, kneeling by the man's head.
Garnett muttered something seemingly in response.
I had now exposed Garnett's chest and, as I expected, the skin which he had removed from Terence Wetherall. But beneath even that was a further mark, a port wine stain of such volume and intensity that, despite what the man had done, my heart went out to him. Garnett's own birthmark was clearly malignant, its surface covered by clusters of small pustules many of which had burst open and were weeping a pungent gelatinous liquid.
Makinson leaned closer to Garnett's face, his ear against the man's mouth. 'I can't hear you, Frank.'
Garnett whispered again and then settled back against the floor, still.
The Inspector knelt up and whispered, 'Who?' but there was no response. He got to his feet. 'He's gone, poor devil.' 'What did he say?' I asked.
'He said she told him as how it'd get better… that he'd been touched by the Almighty and how he mustn't complain.' Makinson shook his head. 'But he said it hadn't got better, it had got worse. He asked me to forgive him. That was the last thing he said.'
'Who's 'she'?' asked Sergeant Hewitt.
Makinson shrugged. 'He didn't say. Someone who cared for him, I expect.'
As I clambered out of the bath, Holmes was standing by the wall holding in his hands a walking stick bearing an elaborately carved head for its handle.
'That must've been what he was thinking about,' said Sergeant Hewitt. 'When he seemed to hesitate.'
'He needed it to walk,' Holmes said. He handed the stick to the policeman, running his slender fingers across the handsome features of the heavy ivory handle. 'But I think he used it for other things, too, Sergeant,' he said. Then he turned around and walked back towards the foyer.
When I got outside, Sherlock Holmes was standing on the steps staring into the wind.
'He thought he had been touched by God, Watson,' he said as I walked up beside him. 'But the truth was God had turned his back on him. In fact, God had turned his back on them all.'
I did not know what to say.
Then Holmes turned to me and smiled, though it was without any trace of humour. 'I find God does that far too often these days,' he said. Then he thrust his hands into his coat pockets and walked alone towards the waiting carriage.
The Adventure of the Persecuted Painter – Basil Copper
1
It was a dreary evening in early March when I returned to our familiar rooms in Baker Street. I was soaked to the skin for it had been raining earlier and I could not find a cab, and the dark clouds and louring skies promised a further downpour. As I opened the door to our welcoming sitting room, which was in semi-darkness, a familiar voice broke the silence.
'Come in, my dear Watson. Mrs Hudson will be up with a hot meal in a few minutes, as I had already observed you from the window, my poor fellow.'
'Very good of you, Holmes,' I mumbled. 'I will just get into some dry things and rejoin you.'
'It must have been very damp down Hackney way,' my friend observed with a dry chuckle.
'How could you possibly know that, Holmes?' I said in some surprise.
He burst into a throaty laugh.
'Because you inadvertently left your engagement pad on the table yonder.'
When I returned to the sitting room the lamps were alight and the apartment transformed, with the motherly figure of Mrs Hudson, our amiable landlady, bustling about laying the table, the covered dishes on which were giving off an agreeable aroma.
'Ah, shepherd's pie!' said Holmes, rubbing his thin hands together and drawing up his chair.
'You have really excelled yourself this evening, Mrs Hudson.' 'Very kind of you to say so, sir.'
She paused at the door, an anxious expression on her face. 'Did your visitor come back, Mr Holmes?'
'Visitor, Mrs Hudson?'
'Yes, sir. I was just going out, you see, and he said he would not bother you now. He said he would be back between six-thirty and seven-thirty, if that was convenient. I hope I have done right.'
'Certainly, Mrs Hudson.'
Holmes glanced at the clock over the mantel.
'It is only six o'clock now so we have plenty of time to do justice to your excellent meal. What sort of person would you say?'
'A foreign-looking gentleman, Mr Holmes. About forty, with a huge beard. He wore a plaid cape, a wide- brimmed hat and carried a shabby-looking holdall.'
I paused with a portion of shepherd's pie halfway to my mouth.
'Why, you would make an admirable detective yourself, Mrs Hudson.'
Our good landlady flushed.
'Kind of you to say so, sir. Shall I show him up as soon as he arrives, Mr Holmes?'
'If you please.'
