Death on a Pale Horse - By Donald Thomas Page 0,36

that you came from Afghanistan. Why? My reasoning was very simple. Here was a gentleman of a medical type but perhaps in low water. His clothes are not new, even his waistcoat has seen a good deal of student wear. The nap is worn just where a stethoscope might hang. But there is also the air of a military man, one who holds himself upright as though having learnt to drill and march. Clearly, then, the probability is that we have an army doctor of some kind. Where has he been lately? He has probably just come from the topics, for his face is dark and that is not the natural colour of his skin, for his wrists are fair.”

He made a vague gesture with his right hand as if the problem had been almost too easy for him. Then he resumed.

“Our medical man has also undergone hardship and sickness. Pardon me, but the sunken eyes and his haggard face say that clearly. His left arm has been injured. He holds it in a stiff and unnatural manner, but he can hardly have set out with it in that condition! Where in the tropics, in the present state of affairs, could an English army doctor have got his arm wounded? Most probably in Afghanistan. What battle has been fought there recently ending in a rout of our troops and injuries to many of them? You see? It could only be at Maiwand. The process is really very simple.”

“Very plausible, at any rate,” I said ironically. He demurred at once.

“Of course I could not be certain of all this, but where else would the path of reason lead me? If one follows it, one almost invariably reaches the correct conclusion. There is no trick to it, I assure you.”

Soon afterwards, I was able to put this theory to the test. Until then, I still thought there was a certain boast and bluster in his claims. Little by little, Sherlock Holmes’s associations with Scotland Yard and the extraordinary abilities of which he repeatedly gave evidence made me think again. On this second occasion, however, we were looking down from the sitting-room window one morning. A man in plain clothes, carrying a blue envelope, was evidently looking for a number on one of the house doors.

“I wonder who that fellow is after,” I said, thinking aloud.

“You mean the retired sergeant of Marines?”

How absurd! He could not possibly know that the Royal Marines had been the man’s career, unless he knew this visitor already. That seemed unlikely, for the man appeared to be having a little trouble in finding the right door. I saw my chance when this messenger crossed the road and there was a loud rap on our street door. Then came the sound of voices and footsteps on the stairs. A tap at our sitting-room door heralded the appearance of this wanderer. Determined not to be forestalled, I crossed the room and opened the door. There was our visitor with the blue envelope in one hand and his walking-cane in the other.

“For Mr. Sherlock Holmes, sir,” he said, handing over the envelope.

I had my chance now.

“One moment, if you please! What is your trade?”

“Commissionaire and messenger, sir. Uniform away for repairs just now.”

Good! I thought.

“Any previous occupation?” I inquired.

“Yes, sir! Sergeant, sir! Royal Marine Light Infantry, sir! No answer to the message? Right, sir! Much obliged, sir.”

He brought his heels together, raised his right hand in salute, and went back down the stairs.

The face of Sherlock Holmes was all innocence.

“Very clever,” I said. “But how could you know, unless you had met the fellow before?”

We were standing at the window again, watching the man as he walked slowly down the busy street towards the Metropolitan station.

“If you had observed more closely, Watson, you would have seen an anchor rather distinctly tattooed on the back of his left hand. Only a sailor, I think, would submit to wearing that. On the other hand he walks with a military step, does he not, rather than a seaman’s roll? He also sports army side-whiskers of regulation cut. Who would combine all these traits? Surely a Royal Marine. Clearly he is no longer in the service, therefore he has retired. Indeed, he is a commissionaire and messenger. Now watch him as he goes. That poise of his head and the swing of his cane give him a certain authority and command. Does not that suggest something more than a common ranker? Not an officer to