The Empty Birdcage

by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

  “Ah. My husband’s brother Rupert, for whom Rupert was named. He sends us a monthly stipend, quite generous. He works for Jobine, Mathison and Company,” she said proudly. “They deal in minerals. My brother-in-law Mr. Jurgins is a geologist, you see. But please do not ask what sort of work he performs, for it is much too technical for me.”

  Sherlock could tell by her untroubled expression when she spoke of financial matters that she was not being coy; she truly had little notion what her brother’s husband did for a living.

  “Do you perchance have a list of people with whom Mr. Jurgins works?”

  “Dear me, no, Mr. Holmes!”

  “No matter. Now, you said you found Rupert upon his back, across the threshold of your front door, on or about four p.m.?”

  “At one minute after, which is when I stopped the clocks. But he always opened the door at four on the button!” she replied. “Rupert liked to open the door and take in the fresh air at precisely four p.m., regardless of the weather. He had done it for years, was quite punctual about it. He had trouble reading words, but he well knew how to tell the time. I did not allow him to leave the premises on his own, and so I assume that the simple act of standing upon the threshold was akin to, well, standing upon the precipice of freedom! He was such a happy soul, but always at that moment in particular. That is how Cotton escaped.”

  “Cotton?” Sherlock asked.

  Mrs. Jurgins nodded. “Rupert was particularly kind to animals, especially any that had been ill-used, for he well knew what it was to be tormented. Cotton followed him everywhere. And now she is gone!”

  “Ah. A pity,” Sherlock said distractedly, for his mind was still on Rupert’s daily visits to the threshold, and what they could have meant to his stalker and killer.

  “Did you happen to hear Cotton bark?” he asked.

  “I should hope not!” Mrs. Jurgins replied. “For Cotton is a cat. White As Cotton, Rupert named her himself. I was looking through the upstairs window and saw her dash away.”

  “When?”

  “Right before I heard the bang upon the threshold, when Rupert fell.” Mrs. Jurgins blinked back tears and continued: “I expected her to be back by now, but perhaps all the strangers and the commotion frightened her. I did hear a peculiar sound the moment she ran off.”

  “A bird, perhaps?” Sherlock asked.

  “If so, it was no bird that I ever heard,” she replied. “It was a sort of a… a whistle.”

  “Mrs. Jurgins, did Cotton appear to be startled by something? Or was she perhaps pursuing something?”

  “Well I am sure I cannot say—”

  “It may be important,” Sherlock insisted. “Might you picture her in your mind’s eye?”

  Mrs. Jurgins concentrated mightily.

  “Yes! She was pursuing something!” she said triumphantly.

  “Mrs. Jurgins,” Sherlock said, “would you have any objections if my driver and I attempted to find Cotton?”

  “Oh, I should be gratified,” she said. “For White As Cotton is the only living thing of Rupert’s that I have left!”

  34

  CONTRARY TO MYCROFT’S SURMISING, CARLTON THE driver did not run away upon realizing that their destination would once again be Jennings Rents. And although his eyes grew wide and his eyebrows knitted into fleeting disapproval, his mustaches did not quiver; rather, he seemed determined to show fortitude in the implementation of his duty. And when they arrived at the designated locale, he held the umbrella with a steady hand and a noble bearing—though Mycroft could tell he would not so much as inhale until he was safely back in the carriage.

  Certainly, bad weather did not help Jennings Rents to look any more agreeable. Although the mist, as heavy as a marsh, did manage to mute the harsher sounds of local squabbling and bickering, it also heightened the smells of mold, offal, and putrefaction to a nearly intolerable degree.

  Mycroft considered placing a kerchief across his nose and mouth but thought better of it. His fine trap and attire already marked him as a well-to-do and entirely too-fortunate stranger. No sense in compounding the offense with loutish behavior.

  Near the entrance to Ai Lin’s makeshift hospital, Mycroft noticed two large men loitering underneath umbrellas. One bounced upon his heels and glanced about warily while the other felt for his pocket watch and toyed with the chain but did not look at it.

  He cannot, Mycroft thought. For it is too tempting to thieves, of which there are many more than he can fight off.

  He assumed they were Ai Lin’s bodyguards, hired by her fiancé’s family and waiting to escort her home. This was confirmed when he was near enough to see that they were, indeed, Oriental. Though gratified at their diligence in protecting her, he was equally glad that he had arrived at her door before they spirited her away.

  “It is a quarter past the hour,” he murmured to one of them as he passed. And although the bodyguard did not acknowledge him with so much as a nod but continued to stare straight ahead, Mycroft knew he had heard, for his fingers holding the chain grew slack, and the jiggling ceased.

  He knocked upon the door and, when there was no answer, he opened it and called out:

  “Miss Lin? Are you about?”

  When she did not reply, Mycroft placed his damp hat and topcoat on a hook and went down the dim hall, wondering at the quiet. With an annoying sense of unease, he pulled aside the thick curtain that separated the reception area from the makeshift infirmary, and there he saw her.

  She was wearing a sage-colored, close-bodied gown with the skirt draped à la polonaise. Her black hair was pulled into a high chignon held in place with jade pins in the shape of grasshoppers. Unlike the time before, there was no one else in the sickroom, save a patient lying on a cot. Ai Lin was kneeling before it. At the sound of Mycroft’s entrance, she turned to look, thereby moving aside slightly, and Mycroft very nearly lost his bearings.

  She had been ministering to an old man. His skin looked black, as if he’d been burned alive. His eyes were the color of blood. He did not look human.

  “What in the world!” Mycroft gasped aloud—only to be greeted with a strict “Shhh!” from Ai Lin, one long, sleek finger pressed against her lips.

  She motioned for Mycroft to remain where he was; then she turned back to tend to her patient. Mycroft watched, disturbed, as she smoothed back his hair and placed a wet compress upon his forehead. Those red eyes stared up at her beseechingly and then fluttered closed. Within a few moments he was snoring lightly.

  “You should not be in here,” she whispered severely as she moved away from the cot and hurried Mycroft out of the sickroom. “Smallpox.”

  “And what of you, then?” Mycroft cried in a hushed voice. “You should be nowhere near him! And that looked nothing like smallpox!” he added by way of protest as she pulled the curtain closed and ushered him into the small kitchen.

  “I grant you have not likely seen it in this stage; and in fact, it is fairly rare—”

  “There are no pustules!” he protested again more feebly.

  “No, there are not. But you noticed how his lesions are very nearly flush with the skin?” she inquired, manifesting a great deal more enthusiasm about the subject of epidemics than they tended to warrant.

  “Do sit down, Mr. Holmes,” she added, “for you appear to be out of breath.”

  Mycroft pulled out a wooden stool near the kitchen table and did as instructed.

  “Yes, I… I noticed them,” he said, staring up at her, “the lesions, I mean, naturally I did, but I…”

  “He has a malignant, hemorrhagic form of the disease,” she explained. “Caught too late, I fear. There is nothing I can offer now but to allow him to die with dignity, and that is what I intend to do.”

  “Miss Lin, need I remind you that smallpox is infectious?” Mycroft declared, thereby retaining his compunction, with her, to state the obvious.

  “It is contagious,” she replied patiently, correcting him. “But I was inoculated some few years back
, and so am protected well enough.”

  “But… can you not wear a mask at the very least? And gloves?”

  Ai Lin shook her head. “A man like that, having endured such a hard life from cradle to grave, deserves more than to see his last human face shrouded in a mask.”

  I cannot imagine beholding a lovelier face than yours, Mycroft thought. If you were the last thing I saw, I would die in peace.

  “I must leave him for the night, for the Shi family does not permit me to remain here too much after dark, but I shall be back by eight tomorrow morning. He is stable for the moment, and I believe he shall wait for me. Tea, Mr. Holmes?” she asked, wielding an empty kettle.

  “I would happily do the honors,” he said, rising. “And so allow you to rest.”

  “Oh dear,” she laughed, brushing a stray hair off her forehead, “is it as bad as all that?”

  “No, no, I did not intend, that is to say, I…” he replied, stumbling over his words again.

  Knowing he could not salvage the moment, he ceased to protest but sat back down.

  “Besides, when it comes to tea, I have my methods,” she said. “And I fear I am rather a stickler about them.”

  As she opened the cupboards and extracted her ingredients, she added, her back to him: “I hope you will forgive my turning round to look at you the other day. I know that it was improper. As is my announcing it now, I suppose…”

  “No need to apologize, Miss Lin, in truth I was much comforted by the gesture. But now I bring news.”

  “Yes, I… imagine you do,” she said. This time, she turned and gazed directly at Mycroft. “Please know that I cannot thank you enough for your kindness.”

  “It was a promise that I made to your father—” Mycroft began, but she interrupted.

  “Yes, that too is a kindness, but it is not the one to which I refer.”

  “I am sure I do not know what you mean, Miss Lin,” he replied. For indeed, he was so flustered that he had no notion.

  “Oh, come,” she teased, her tourmaline-colored eyes shining with good humor. “For who but you would dispatch a clean supply of water to a contaminated tenement house, one that is in the process of being pulled down board by board and cleared of its tenants? Who but you would pay to repair a water spout in order to care for fifty people whom no one else cares for?”

  “You would,” Mycroft said softly, suddenly recalling which good deed she was referring to.

  “Quite right, Mr. Holmes, I do care, there is no question,” she said as she took a seat across from him, the preparations for tea temporarily forgotten. “But as I am in limbo, neither fully my father’s child nor fully married, I do not have the resources at hand. Naturally, I inquired as to who the Good Samaritan might be, and the landlord informed me that the work had been paid for ‘in full’ by one Mr. J. Snow.”

  “Well,” Mycroft replied. “Other people besides me must know of your admiration for Dr. Snow, and certainly many people would deduce that a deposit of clean water to Jennings Rents in his name would be fitting and proper.”

  “‘Other people, many people’… and yet, never have I met a one who is anything like you. But, forgive me; I can see from your expression that I have once again overstepped my bounds. It is never my intent to embarrass you, although I do appear to do so with some frequency.”

  She rose again, removing a pinch of this and that from tins she had taken from the cupboards. He could smell turmeric and hawthorn leaf, and he realized that—irony notwithstanding—Ai Lin was still attempting to repair his ailing heart. He was tempted to tell her about his surgery, and how it had been a success, at least for the moment. But he could not think of one earthly reason why he would, and he felt himself suddenly aching for something that would never be.

  “Miss Lin,” he said abruptly. “I may have stumbled upon a plan to bring your fiancé home.”

  35

  NO MATTER HOW ASSIDUOUSLY HUAN TRIED TO KEEP Sherlock ensconced underneath a large umbrella, he was on the hunt for a fluffy white feline and would not allow an inconsequential issue like water falling from the sky to deter him. And although he had never experienced it before, he found that, rain and incipient darkness notwithstanding, tracking a cat over wet, muddy ground was not difficult.

  The ground was rife with human and animal prints. Even so, here and there were light but distinct impressions of the cat’s travels.

  Once in a while, in the boggier sections, they would lose sight of the prints, for the cat’s trajectory was never straight; rather, it looped and meandered. But if they paid attention, they could pick it up again within a few yards.

  After a half hour’s diligent search, they had found her, a white ball lying beside a silver birch. Even from a distance it was clear that she was deceased, for she was sopping wet and not moving so much as a hair.

  Sherlock approached. The cat was rigid to the touch, her eyes wide open, her tiny jaw fixed and slightly open.

  He took the umbrella out of Huan’s hands.

  “Sorry, old man,” he said to him as he stared up at the branches, searching.

  “Do not say ‘sorry’ to me!” Huan protested with a grin. “For I have been aiming to keep you dry for the past half hour. What is it you seek now?” he added, covering his own brow with his palm and staring up in the same general direction as Sherlock.

  “A bird,” he replied. “A strange bird. Perhaps with a wounded wing. For I believe that is what the cat was chasing.”

  “If so, she must have eaten it,” Huan said. “For her stomach is big and hard, you see?”

  Sherlock looked down again. In truth, he was not well acquainted with cats. He had not grown up with them. It seemed that everywhere he turned of late, there was a distinct and deeply disquieting chasm in the depth and breadth of his knowledge.

  He handed the umbrella back to Huan, and as Huan kept him covered, he crouched down beside the cat and turned her so that her belly was facing upward.

  “Kittens?” he wondered dubiously.

  Huan shook his head. “She is too old.”

  He looked at Huan quizzically. “Truly? How does one discern the age of a cat?”

  “You can feel how bony she is,” Huan replied, palpating her ribs. “Her teeth, they are worn,” he said, pushing wider her tiny mouth. “Her fur, thin.”

  “Well. If she is not expecting,” Sherlock replied, “then I shall require your penknife.”

  “You must take care,” Huan warned as he placed it in Sherlock’s hand.

  “She is dead, Huan.”

  “I am speaking of your fingers, Master Sherlock, for the knife is sharp, and it grows dark.”

  Sherlock sat down upon a nearby rock and then set to work. Cutting through fur and tissue, even of such a small creature, was more laborious than it looked. Clearly, he was not an experienced surgeon, but he was a persistent one, especially since the only tool at his disposal was Huan’s penknife.

  As the darkness grew, Huan commenced to light one match after the other so that Sherlock might complete his onerous task without slicing into his own skin.

  At last, he reached the miniscule invader.

  “No! Do not touch it!” Huan cried out.

  “Why?”

  “The color!” Huan declared.

  “What of it?”

  Huan lit another match and brought it as close as he dared without setting the cat on fire.

  “You see there? It is too bright,” he said. “Bright colors are to attract, or to warn other animals: ‘Bad taste! Poison!’ That is why I say to you do not touch.”

  “Huan, that thing, whatever it is,” Sherlock countered, pointing at it, “is no larger than an inch in diameter. Surely, there is nothing that it can do to me…”

  Just as he was reaching inside the stomach cavity to retrieve it, the cat slid away from him.

  “Huan! Truly, this is outrageous!” Sherlock exclaimed—for Huan had pulled the dead cat by the tail out of Sherlock’s reach.

  “Master Sherlo
ck,” Huan replied—holding Cotton’s body behind his back—“whatever the cat ate, that is what killed the cat, yes? We are in agreement there, yes?”

  “Huan…” Sherlock warned; but Huan would not be deterred.

  “Now. It is my job to care for you,” Huan replied firmly. “I cannot let you near this animal again until you swear to me that you will not handle it with your naked hands.”

  Since attempting to wrest the cat from Huan’s grasp would be futile, Sherlock let out a martyr-like sigh.

  “I swear,” he agreed.

  Whereupon Huan gingerly returned the cat to the same spot where it had been. He then snapped two twigs off the tree and held them up.

  “What I could use,” Sherlock replied testily, “is a good set of tweezers. But, as I failed to pack a shaving kit, and as you do not grow any sort of a beard, I suppose your sticks will have to do.”

  Sherlock took them and, with the utmost care and dexterity, lifted out the object in question.

  “Hullo!” he exclaimed. “What might you be, then?”

  Huan lit another match, and they both stared in wonder.

  It was still perfectly intact, as if it had crawled inside of the cat’s belly and fallen asleep.

  Between the two sticks was a tiny golden frog.

  36

  AS AI LIN HUNG THE KETTLE OVER THE FIRE, MYCROFT, in a flood of words, repeated all that he had been told: that Bingwen Shi was being held in the town of Zhouzhuang, in Jiangsu Province; that someone related to him would have to make the trek in person so as to plead his case; and that said emissary would have to bring proof that Shi had not been hired by Vizily Zaharoff in the capacity of arms dealer, merchant, or conduit.

  “But where would we find such proof ?” she asked.

  “Zaharoff himself shall furnish a letter,” he told her, “in which he declares that Bingwen Shi was not employed by him nor scheduled to sell arms on his behalf on the 4th of April. It shall be delivered to Stafford Terrace within the next few hours.”

  “To Stafford Terrace? Not to his family?”