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“I’ve told you before, John, that I’ve organized my brain. Nothing is placed randomly. I can navigate it precisely to access the facts I need,” said Sherlock. “I’ve mentally constructed a series of locations. Each room is based on a place whose specifics I remember precisely. I tie the facts I need directly to those details.”
“And you used that to understand how not to die when you were shot? Amazing.”
“Not so easy as that. I did negotiate the corridors of my mind. But I needed to access things at the depths.”
“The depths? What do you mean? I don’t understand.”
“I can’t keep everything at the top level. You’ve seen me searching for data; I need to navigate the paths I’ve laid out. Some data I keep more deeply set aside. There are some ways I don’t use often.”
John quirked his lip in a half-smile. “I’ve seen what happens when you’re processing. The whole ‘best man’ conversation, remember? But what’s in the depths?”
“I have a room where I lock things away. A room made for that. Before… before, I had a safe.”
“Before what, Sherlock?”
“I came upon the perfect room when I was at university…”
* * *
It was a university trip. Unusual to take one so far from London, but the data was available nowhere else.
The university van pulled up to the kerb in front of the Stanley Royd Hospital. The three story yellow brick building sprawled the better part of the block. It stood far enough back from the road that any evidence of life within the hospital had to be inferred from the number of parked cars we had passed in the nearby lot. There would be empty halls within, and darkened corridors.
Inside the van, Professor Bell looked back at us, gauging our attention. I was studying the hospital, the grounds, observing the deterioration, and wondering what would become of the place now, after deinstitutionalization and Community Care. Two boys behind me laughed quietly and watched the people on the pavement. “Holmes. I need you to focus on the present. Smith, Davies, attend to psychology, not the nurses.”
I diverted the barest fraction of my attention to his words.“We’re here in Wakefield as part of the overview for the Introduction to Abnormal Psychology course. Remember, your essay on the treatment of patients in the mental health system is due in two weeks. The van back to the College will be leaving promptly at 4:00. If you miss it, there’s no train until late tonight, and I’m sure you all will prefer to be back home on time. We’ll meet here, in front of the hospital.”
Boring. Obvious.
“I have admittance tickets for everyone...”
Behind me, Davies snickered. I could feel his attention -- and Smith’s -- directed towards me.
Bell gave them a quelling look, and continued, “to the Museum of Mental Health on the ground floor. If the docents don’t have the information you need, there’s a library is on the first floor. If your research requires access to old patient records, they’ve been moved to storage in the town hall. It’s about a mile away. I have maps, or you can catch a bus at the corner.”
We went in, and spread out within the museum. Smith, Davies and I stood in front of a display case. I have a section of my mind palace set with dozens of them now -- curiosity cabinets to organize minutia. This one contained a mortal and pestle, some glass vials, a skull, a dried frog, and a medical text in Latin. I committed the structure and arrangement to memory, and went to work on the details.
The book: Typeset label, ‘Praecox medicae Opus’. I recalled my Latin, ‘Early medical work.’ “Surely not the actual title. And open to a page on mouth pain. ‘Tounge, gums, cheek, palate….’ Tedious.”
Smith edged away from me.
The frog: Dessicated, preserved in glass. Typeset label: ‘It was believed in medieval times that wearing a dried frog around your neck in a small bag would cure headaches and melancholy.’ I huffed air from my nose. “Unscientific medieval thinking. No logical connection.” But I thought it worthy of filing with other information on frogs. One encounters so many ill-informed people who base their actions on such beliefs. “Other frog cures -- swallow to cure asthma . Macbeth - eye of newt, toe of frog. Peru - blended for strength and virility. Phyllobates - fast neurotoxin, no treatment.”
Smith raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Well now I know more than I ever needed to about half a dozen random things. Thanks so much, Holmes.”
“Five little speckled frogs, eating some scum, boy was that dumb, Holmes”, said Davies. He laughed, and moved on towards the next display.
I was saddled with idiots for classmates. But I was also ready to move on, so I followed.
This case contained: crude leather handcuffs, a straightjacket, and a copy of a log book documenting restrained patients, listing dates, times, methods and reasons.
Davies glanced at me, then turned and spoke to Smith in a low voice, “I can think of times when a straightjacket would be a useful thing.”
Ignoring them as best I could I studied the canvas jacket, thinking how it would feel to wear one. I crossed my arms in front of me, grasping opposite hips, and twisted my shoulders experimentally.
“You have to dislocate your shoulder to pull yourself out of one of those things,” said Smith.
I shook my head. “Wrong. Houdini fabricated that idea to make his escapes seem more difficult.”
“What, you think you could get yourself out of one?”
I looked more closely at the buckles and straps, and the size of the jacket. “I can in theory. Not something I’ve tried. Could be useful.”
“Useful?” said Smith, “What, you think you’re likely to end up restrained in the loony bin?”
Davies laughed, “One flew east, one flew west…”
“No. Restraints were permitted under the Lunacy Act and subject to audit by the Board of Control and Seclusion until the Act was repealed in 1959.” I was surrounded by fools. “Did you read the textbook, or did you think ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’ was a documentary?”
I turned my back on them, and walked over to where a narrow door stood ajar next to the display. “Restraints were often used in conjunction with padded rooms if a patient was deemed likely to harm himself. This one’s been kept in good condition for the museum. No tears in the canvas walls, recently repainted, too.” I stepped inside to examine the placard.
Davies swung the door shut.
“It’s raining, it’s pouring, Sherlock is boring.”
The latch on the outside of the door was also in good repair, which I’d failed to notice before stepping inside. I’d also failed to anticipate that my evaluation of my classmates had failed to endear me to them. Not that I cared about anything then but continuing to build an easily accessible library of facts.
I recognized the utility of the space, and as it was clear that neither Smith nor Davies had any intention of releasing me, I took the time to scrutinize the details.
* * *
“I move the rooms sometimes. But this one always lies at the bottom of the stair to the deepest places in my memory. I chain to it what I must remember but would rather forget.”