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Authors: Bruce Alexander
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face of the corpus, I found myself astonished, then fascinated by the destruction wrought by that single shot. Once I had forced myself to gaze upon the sight, I found I could barely take my eyes away.
What made it particularly irresistible was Mr. Bailey’s precise description of the wound. He had, I was to learn, spent half his life in a Guards Regiment: I shall not name it since there was some slight irregularity about his departure. He had been in battle against the French in North America. He knew wounds: It would not be overstating to say he was something of a connoisseur. Sir John had no reason to complain of his descriptive powers on this occasion. No surgeon could have done a better job of it.
If I may attempt to duplicate from memory, and with the aid of childish notes I took shortly afterward, his commentary went something as follows:
“Ooh, Gawd, it’s a nasty ‘un, Sir John. I’d say the muzzle of the pistol was close but not directly onto the face when the shot was fired. There’s black powder burns all over the skin. The ball entered at a thumb’s width from the bridge of the nose, two thumbs down from the right eye. It went upwards and across, making porridge of the nose and cutting the nerve to the left eye as it went into the brain. The wad slapped him sharp between the eyes. Not too much blood, though. I’ve seen more from like wounds.”
“The optic nerve of the left eye?” put in Sir John. “Not the right?”
“Aye, sir, it went across, so to speak.”
“Diagonally?”
“As you say. Sir John.”
“How can you tell the optic nerve was severed?”
“The left eye is popped a bit. It ain’t hanging, but it’s pushed out in a way that ain’t proper, if you follow me.”
“Yes, Mr. Bailey, I do.” Sir John was silent for a moment. “Is there a wound proving the exit of the ball?”
“Aye, indeed there is, sir. It’s blown his wig akilter. If I may remove it altogether, I’d have a better look.”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Bailey. Proceed.”
That he did, pulling off the periwig in one swift movement and tossing it upon the desk. The head of the dead man bobbed in a grotesque manner.
“Now here,” began Mr. Bailey, “we’ve a spot about half a palm’s width above the left ear and just behind it where a bit of skull about two thumbs wide has been blown away. There’s some nasty matter leaking out there. It wasn’t no dueling pistol did this but a proper piece of military weaponry.”
“Where is the weapon, Mr. Bailey?”
“Ah, let’s see now. It ain’t on the desk, so it must be …” He bent down, and I with him. The pistol lay at the feet of what once was Lord Richard Goodhope, butt on the floor, barrel across his left foot. I marveled at how the dead man’s hands simply rested in his lap, the unsullied hands of a gentleman. He seemed quite at peace.
Mr. Bailev picked the pistol up carefulh and inspected it as he rose to his feet. “Yes, it was here, sir, on the Moor beneath him. Its as I said, a mihtary sort of weapon, cahbered for a ball a good thumb’s width, nearly an inch, so to speak.”
“Well and good. Now, could you possibly trace the path of the ball and find where it entered the wall? If, indeed, it did. Perhaps you could help there, Jeremy.”
I did help, though not materially. It was Mr. Bailey who located it bv the gouge it had left. He pulled his knife out of the sheath on his belt and dug out the battered chimk of lead from the wall.
“Got it. Sir John.”
“I take it, since you have not mentioned it, Mr. Bailev, that no note of explanation has been left.”
“The desk is empty, sir.”
“Then I think our business here is complete. Take the pistol with vou.”
He rose from his chair then and led us from the library, touching the log of wood with his stick, turning to his left at that point, and walking out into the hall. I left last of all, and at the door could not resist one last look at the grotesque figure at the desk. And for
What made it particularly irresistible was Mr. Bailey’s precise description of the wound. He had, I was to learn, spent half his life in a Guards Regiment: I shall not name it since there was some slight irregularity about his departure. He had been in battle against the French in North America. He knew wounds: It would not be overstating to say he was something of a connoisseur. Sir John had no reason to complain of his descriptive powers on this occasion. No surgeon could have done a better job of it.
If I may attempt to duplicate from memory, and with the aid of childish notes I took shortly afterward, his commentary went something as follows:
“Ooh, Gawd, it’s a nasty ‘un, Sir John. I’d say the muzzle of the pistol was close but not directly onto the face when the shot was fired. There’s black powder burns all over the skin. The ball entered at a thumb’s width from the bridge of the nose, two thumbs down from the right eye. It went upwards and across, making porridge of the nose and cutting the nerve to the left eye as it went into the brain. The wad slapped him sharp between the eyes. Not too much blood, though. I’ve seen more from like wounds.”
“The optic nerve of the left eye?” put in Sir John. “Not the right?”
“Aye, sir, it went across, so to speak.”
“Diagonally?”
“As you say. Sir John.”
“How can you tell the optic nerve was severed?”
“The left eye is popped a bit. It ain’t hanging, but it’s pushed out in a way that ain’t proper, if you follow me.”
“Yes, Mr. Bailey, I do.” Sir John was silent for a moment. “Is there a wound proving the exit of the ball?”
“Aye, indeed there is, sir. It’s blown his wig akilter. If I may remove it altogether, I’d have a better look.”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Bailey. Proceed.”
That he did, pulling off the periwig in one swift movement and tossing it upon the desk. The head of the dead man bobbed in a grotesque manner.
“Now here,” began Mr. Bailey, “we’ve a spot about half a palm’s width above the left ear and just behind it where a bit of skull about two thumbs wide has been blown away. There’s some nasty matter leaking out there. It wasn’t no dueling pistol did this but a proper piece of military weaponry.”
“Where is the weapon, Mr. Bailey?”
“Ah, let’s see now. It ain’t on the desk, so it must be …” He bent down, and I with him. The pistol lay at the feet of what once was Lord Richard Goodhope, butt on the floor, barrel across his left foot. I marveled at how the dead man’s hands simply rested in his lap, the unsullied hands of a gentleman. He seemed quite at peace.
Mr. Bailev picked the pistol up carefulh and inspected it as he rose to his feet. “Yes, it was here, sir, on the Moor beneath him. Its as I said, a mihtary sort of weapon, cahbered for a ball a good thumb’s width, nearly an inch, so to speak.”
“Well and good. Now, could you possibly trace the path of the ball and find where it entered the wall? If, indeed, it did. Perhaps you could help there, Jeremy.”
I did help, though not materially. It was Mr. Bailey who located it bv the gouge it had left. He pulled his knife out of the sheath on his belt and dug out the battered chimk of lead from the wall.
“Got it. Sir John.”
“I take it, since you have not mentioned it, Mr. Bailev, that no note of explanation has been left.”
“The desk is empty, sir.”
“Then I think our business here is complete. Take the pistol with vou.”
He rose from his chair then and led us from the library, touching the log of wood with his stick, turning to his left at that point, and walking out into the hall. I left last of all, and at the door could not resist one last look at the grotesque figure at the desk. And for
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