CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

A GRISLY DISCOVERY

Holmes and I ran with all speed from the drawing room. The cry had come from the hall, where we found Lady Anna standing at the open door to Lord Redshaw’s study. Her hands were at her mouth as she stared straight ahead. Holmes brushed past her, entering Lord Redshaw’s private retreat.

I followed him in and gasped in horror.

Our host was lying on his side by a large writing desk, blood already soaking into the carpet.

“Let me see,” I told Holmes, as my friend turned Redshaw onto his back. The man was out cold, a vivid gash on his temple.

“There’s blood on the edge of the desk,” said Holmes, using Sherrinford’s voice. “He must have hit his head when he fell.”

However, it was not the head wound that worried me. The front of Redshaw’s waistcoat was slick with blood, and I removed it quickly to find his shirt similarly drenched.

Holmes watched as I unbuttoned Redshaw’s shirt to reveal two stab wounds in his abdomen, fresh blood pumping out like water from a spring.

“Good L-Lord,” said Clifford, who had appeared behind his wife. “W-what has happened?”

“Get the lady away,” Holmes ordered.

“B-but—”

“And call for the driver,” I added. “We’ll need to get him to the hospital.”

Clifford hovered where he was, paralysed with shock.

“Do it, man!”

“Y-yes, of c-course.”

Lady Anna cried a plaintive “Papa” as Clifford pulled her away from the doorway, only for Sutcliffe to arrive in their stead. He rushed into the study, but I had no time to worry about an audience.

“We need to staunch the wounds.”

Holmes had already removed his jacket and was unbuttoning his waistcoat.

“Do you have bandages?” he barked at Sutcliffe.

“I don’t know…” the man stammered in reply.

“Then ask the servants!” Holmes said, Brewer having also appeared by the door.

They disappeared, but Holmes was already pulling at the seams of his waistcoat to use the material for dressings. Finding the stitching too tough to break he surveyed Lord Redshaw’s desk, yanking open drawers to find a pair of scissors.

“Hurry!” I urged, as Holmes sliced the front panels from the waistcoat’s silk back, and folded the navy material into squares.

He dropped to one knee beside me and whispered, “Let me see the wounds first. We need to know what the weapon was.”

“There’s no time!” I hissed back, snatching for the fabric. He held it tight for a second, his eyes locked on Lord Redshaw’s torso, before finally releasing his hold.

I pressed the makeshift wadding over the wounds and pressed down hard as Brewer appeared by my side with bandages.

“Excellent,” said I, instructing Holmes to keep pressure on the wound while I dressed Lord Redshaw’s head. Clifford returned to tell me that Redshaw’s driver Gordon was waiting outside. A crowd had gathered around the study door now, both family and servants, Lady Marie at the back, looking on with wide eyes.

With Holmes’s help, I tied the wadding in place and buttoned up Redshaw’s jacket to hold the dressing in place. Now came the real challenge.

“We’re going to have to carry him to the carriage without aggravating the wound. I’ll take the left arm, Sherrinford, you take his right. Sutcliffe and Clifford, you take his legs.”

“You give the word, Doctor,” Holmes said as everyone took their positions.

“Clear our path please, Brewer,” I instructed the butler, before nodding towards my accomplices. “Everyone ready? Right, on three. One… two… three.”

We moved as one, heaving Redshaw from the floor. The old man groaned, the pain rousing him.

“Brewer, take his head,” I ordered, and the butler hurried around us to support his master’s neck.

“Steady now,” I said, as we carried Redshaw through the open door, his body a dead weight. “One step at a time.”

The servants parted as we bore Lord Redshaw from his study into the hall. He started to move, squirming in our grip as we hurried as fast as we could to the front of the house.

Gordon had the carriage door open for us, and I asked him to take Lord Redshaw’s arm as I jumped inside to guide my patient into the vestibule.

“Lay him on the floor,” I advised.

“He won’t fit,” Sutcliffe argued. “We should sit him up.”

“We need to keep the wounds level. Easy now.”

Getting Redshaw on board was no easy task, but we managed it. He moaned again, more weakly this time. I removed my jacket, folded it into a rough approximation of a pillow and slipped it beneath his bandaged head.

“I’ll come with you,” said Sutcliffe, jumping in beside me.

“Shouldn’t you stay with Lady Marie?” I asked.

“We’re coming too!” Lady Anna insisted.

“I shall bring the ladies in my carriage,” Holmes said, gently adjusting Lord Redshaw’s legs so he could shut the carriage door. “Get his Lordship to the hospital. We’ll be right behind you.”

Lord Redshaw made not a sound as the carriage pulled away from the front of the manor.

“Will he live?” Sutcliffe asked, staring down at the old man.

“He will if I have anything to do with it,” I replied.

But as we sped through Clifton, Lord Redshaw arched his back and cried out in pain.

“No!” I shouted, dropping down beside him. “Lord Redshaw!”

“What’s happening?”

“Myocardial infarction. His heart’s giving up. Come on, Benjamin, stay with me. Not far to go now.”

With Sutcliffe yelling for Gordon to speed up, I manoeuvred myself behind Lord Redshaw’s head. I had to keep him breathing, although the only method I knew would play merry hell with his injuries.

Grabbing Redshaw’s wrists, I drew his arms up to expand his chest, pressing them back down to his sides to compress the lungs again.

“What are you doing?” Sutcliffe asked.

“The Silvester Method. It draws air into the lungs.”

“But his wounds…”

“Best not to think about what it’s doing to them!”

What worried me most was that Redshaw, having again fallen silent, remained so even as I repeated the process over and over again. Was I going to lose him before we even reached the hospital?

Sutcliffe looked out of the window. “Why is it taking so long?”

“We’ll get there when we get there,” I said, more to calm myself than to comfort the young man. I was unable to shake the feeling that it was already too late and I was wasting my time trying to save Redshaw.

The driver called for help as we arrived at the hospital, and a gaggle of medical staff rushed out, led by none other than Dr Melosan.

“Dr Watson?”

“I hope you are not going to tell me I should be in bed,” I told him as two porters lifted Lord Redshaw out of the carriage and put him on a stretcher. I jumped down, following them through the front doors. Melosan made no comment as I told him what I had done, merely thanking me before asking me to wait outside as Redshaw was whisked into the operating theatre.

I looked down at my hands, which were stained with blood. Had I done enough to save the man who had taken me in?

My hands screwed into fists as I made a decision. I was sick of having doors slammed in my face.

Holmes was rushing up the corridor towards me when I pushed my way into the operating theatre.

“Dr Watson?” Melosan exclaimed.

“I can help,” I insisted, before my eyes went wide. Dr Melosan was standing in front of some kind of mechanical pump, a length of rubber tubing in his hand. “What on Earth do you think you’re doing?”

“Says the man who bursts in unannounced on my theatre. I am preparing to make a transfusion, of course. Lord Redshaw has lost a lot of blood.”

I could barely believe what I was hearing. Looking back, my horror seems strange, but you must understand that at this time, blood transfusions had fallen out of favour in most hospitals; the risks to patients were simply too great. The previous two decades had seen all manner of experiments: Germans had transfused pig’s blood into humans, while the Americans had even tried cow’s milk. Even when human blood was used, patients usually failed to survive the operating table.

“Shouldn’t you be using a saline solution?” I suggested.

“Not in my hospital,” Melosan insisted. “I must ask you to wait outside.”

“I have no intention of doing that,” I told him, rolling up my sleeve. “If you’re going to do this, then you can use my blood.”

“That’s out of the question,” Melosan argued. “You are suffering from concussion.”

“B-but I am n-not,” came a voice from behind. Clifford had entered the operating theatre and was already removing his jacket. “Whatever I t-think of Benjamin, he is my f-father-in-law. I would g-gladly donate the last drop in my veins if it would save him.”

“Oh, very well,” Melosan agreed. “Nurse, prepare Mr Clifford, but I must have silence.”

Behind us Anna had followed her husband into the theatre and was sobbing uncontrollably.

“Lady Anna,” I said, stopping her from rushing to her father. “You must wait outside.”

“I can’t,” she cried.

“We must,” said Holmes.

“Thank you,” said Dr Melosan as we ushered her out into the corridor. I glanced back to see a needle being inserted into Clifford’s arm.

The doors shut behind me and we were led by a nurse to a hard wooden bench where we waited. Lady Anna sobbed quietly into her handkerchief the whole time, while her sister sat a little way off with a face like flint. She had shed not a single tear since her arrival, and she shrugged off every attempt Sutcliffe made to comfort her.

“Leave me alone,” Marie finally snapped, standing abruptly. “What are you doing here at all?”

“I am to be your husband,” he reminded her.

“No longer,” she barked back. “Get away from me. I don’t want to see you ever again.”

The man stood, trying to grab her arm, telling her that she was hysterical. She pulled away angrily, nearly barging into the nurse who was rushing forward to calm the situation.

“Please,” the nurse said. “This is a hospital. If you cannot act with decorum, I must ask you to leave.”

“Then leave I will,” Lady Marie said, storming away. Anna rose, calling after her sister, but Marie refused to stop.

“Go after her,” I told Sutcliffe, but Marie’s spurned suitor had obviously had enough.

“No, she has made her decision. If you need me, I will be at the club.”

“What club? Sutcliffe, wait.”

Anna put a hand on my arm. “No, leave them, Dr Watson. They deserve each other. Father is all that is important. If anything should happen to him, and to Clifford too…”

The tears returned. I comforted her as well as I could and after a while she grew calm.

There we sat, until Holmes drew me aside under the pretence of giving the lady some room.

“A curious turn of events, Watson,” he whispered when he was sure we were in no danger of being overheard.

“Is that all you can say? The man will probably die.”

“You did your best for him, I am sure. But the real question must be why?”

“Why I tried to save him?”

“Why he needed saving at all. Tell me, who would want Lord Redshaw dead?”