The Bird and The Buddha

by A S Croyle

  Always curious about what interesting new and gory thing Uncle was hiding from Aunt Susan and me, I put the key in the lock and opened the cupboard. At the very top of a pile of papers, I found three photographs. One was taken on the day I graduated from nursing school, the second on the day I graduated from the London School of Medicine for Women. I turned the second photograph over and Uncle had written Priscilla Olympia Pamela Price Yavonna Stamford, M.B., June 1877.

  I smiled. My lengthy list of names had long ago been shortened to ‘Poppy,’ though only relatives and close friends addressed me by my nickname. Victor Trevor, however, the man everyone had expected me to marry, always called me Priscilla.

  The third photograph surprised me. It was a photo of Sherlock, Effie, Victor, and me. It had been taken at a dinner party in the spring of 1874, shortly after I met Sherlock. I had a miniature of the photograph that I had intended to place into a locket someday. I had forgotten that, at my uncle’s request, Sherlock had a copy printed for him.

  The memories of that year swilled around my mind like the last sweet sip of brandy at the bottom of the glass.

  I was with Victor Trevor, who was then a student at Oxford. We were attending the final day of Eights Week, the four-day regatta on the Thames, when Little Elihu bit Sherlock’s calf. Victor and I attended to his needs that day and continued to assist him for several weeks thereafter. Victor and Sherlock became friends and Sherlock and I worked with his brother Mycroft to apprehend the baby farmer about whom I had learned while attending nursing school at St. Thomas. I had overheard a suspicious conversation, related it to my uncle, who knew Mycroft Holmes who, in turn, enlisted me, and later Sherlock, to help with the investigation. That summer, Victor invited Sherlock to spend some time with him and his father at their country estate in Norfolk, not far from my own home, and my affections for him grew.

  But a dark cloud hovered over the Trevor estate. A man from the Squire’s past suddenly arrived, a man named Hudson who was married to Mrs. Hudson, who at that time was one of Squire Trevor’s servants. His appearance threw Squire Trevor into a tizzy. Soon after, he received a letter from yet another past acquaintance and he fell deathly ill. When Sherlock set out to solve the mystery that so plagued Victor’s father, he discovered that Hudson was blackmailing Squire Trevor, who had for many years hidden his unsavory past from everyone.

  Sherlock summoned me to join him at Holme-Next-the-Sea where he had finally found the truth. He wished to discuss how to proceed - in other words, he actually asked for my counsel regarding whether to tell Victor everything he’d learned about his father. I joined him there and it was then that we finally admitted how we felt about each other. But Sherlock quickly recoiled from this love and the memories of the night we spent together, especially when, shortly after the squire’s funeral, Victor discovered my true feelings for Sherlock - and Sherlock’s affection for me. This ended their friendship and destroyed my relationship with Victor Trevor. Heartbroken, Victor left England to manage a small tea plantation in India that his father owned. Heaped with guilt over betraying his one true friend and infused with distrust of me for so easily having ‘tossed Victor aside,’ Sherlock retreated from me emotionally. He wallowed for a time in self-introspection. Though he was intent on finding the answers to all the riddles of life, love was too nuanced for Sherlock Holmes. He was enthralling, captivating, but unforgiving, particularly of himself, and this experience was yet another grain of sand added to the already vast shore of his knowledge of the unpredictability, absence of logic and disappointing nature of human beings.

  I set the photographs aside and rummaged through the remaining papers and newspaper clippings in the cupboard. There were a few newspaper articles summarizing cases on which my uncle had worked with Scotland Yard, some legal documents, and several grisly photos taken during some of his surgical procedures. I was about to close the cupboard when I spied a small book. I took it out and stared, stunned, at the cover. The book was a series of essays concerning Tantric Buddhism. I leafed through it, scanning its contents. “The Truth of Suffering” was the title of the first section. Then the others followed: “The Truth of the Cause of Suffering,” “The Truth of the End of Suffering,” “The Truth of the Path that Frees Us from Suffering.”

  All the tenets that I had just learned of the previous afternoon.

  I sat back in the chair, pondering. Sappho jumped into my lap and I stroked her long, ivory fur. Purring, she nudged her head against my chest, insisting on a further display of my attachment, so I nuzzled her nose and gently scrunched the fur on her head.

  “Sappho, what am I to make of this? Why would Uncle be reading about the very things that relate to these murders?”

  The cat arched her back and looked up at me as if to ask, “Why indeed?”

  17

  I bathed, dressed, made another cup of tea and went to Uncle’s library, where I found several more books about Tantric Buddhism, most of them concerning specifically the Vairocana Buddha and the philosophy surrounding him. I retired to the drawing room, all the while ruminating on my discovery.

  One night at dinner, Uncle had mentioned that he was pleased with the new global interest in Eastern philosophy. He gave a synopsis of the works of a German philosopher, Arthur Schopenhauer, who devised a philosophical system based largely upon his studies of it. Uncle was similarly intrigued with Henry David Thoreau, the American philosopher, who had translated a Buddhist sutra from French to English, as well as the works of Henry Steel Olcott, a theosophist, and Lafcadio Hearn, known for his books about Japan. My ears perked up at the mention of Japan as I remembered the many Oriental artefacts and paintings that adorned the walls of Squire Trevor’s library.

  But these brief summations of Uncle’s readings were the extent of that dinner conversation.

  Now I sat in Uncle’s favourite wing chair near the fireplace and returned my attention to the little book I had found in his desk. The book explained, in simple terms, the basic tenets of the Four Noble Truths. I learned that the Buddha had set forth these truths during his first sermon after his ‘Enlightenment.’ Though the subject was complicated and confusing, the explanations were eloquent in their simplicity. Even I can understand these, I thought, as I read through them.

  The Truth of Suffering: The First Noble Truth often is translated as “Life is suffering.”

  The Truth of the Cause of Suffering, teaches that we continually search for something outside ourselves to make us happy, but no matter how successful we are, we never remain satisfied.

  The Truth of the End of Suffering: The first truth tells us what the illness is, and the second truth tells us what causes the illness. The Third Noble Truth holds out hope for a cure.

  The Truth of the Path That Frees Us from Suffering. In the fourth truth, the Buddha prescribed the treatment for our illness, which is walking the Eight-Fold Path to become aware of oneself, one’s feelings and thoughts, and gain a clearer picture of reality.

  I leaned back and closed my eyes. Uncle Ormond was an avowed atheist. Though he had expressed an interest in various religions and seemed intrigued by Eastern philosophy and the ancient Oriental cultures, an interest that had obviously deepened in recent times, we had never discussed any of this in depth. I also knew that these books were recently purchased because I had lived in this house with Uncle and Aunt Susan since my early adolescence while I attended a private school for girls in London, and later while I went to nursing and medical school, and I was totally familiar with his library. I had never noticed these books and Uncle had never alerted me to them... uncharacteristic of him, because he loved to share with me the books he acquired on his frequent trips to the bookselling district on Newgate Street.

  I opened my eyes and was about to close the book and return it to the shelf in the library when a slip of paper slid from between the pages to the floor. I picked it up and read a note that was written in Unc
le’s handwriting.

  Only Buddhism locates suffering at the heart of the world. Why do pain and suffering exist? Siddhartha Guatama, c. 566 BC - c.480 BC. Compassion toward all sentient beings.

  Then, he had written and underlined: Abolish suffering altogether.

  What had stirred my uncle’s new interest in the very things that Sherlock was investigating as possible clues to the British Museum Murders - a name I had affixed to them in my mind and which undoubtedly the newspapers would coin?

  I returned to the Four Noble Truths. Suffering was the common denominator. Suffering and how to alleviate it.

  How to alleviate it, I thought. How to end suffering. Euthanasia.

  Hadn’t Uncle mentioned this recently as well? Hadn’t he and Aunt Susan discussed that very topic just the other night when he reminded her that even as far back as ancient Greece and Rome, before the coming of Christianity, attitudes toward active euthanasia and suicide were tolerant?

  “Many ancient Greeks and Romans had no defined belief in the inherent value of individual human life,” he’d said, “and pagan physicians performed both voluntary and involuntary mercy killings.”

  I had reminded him, as I thrust myself into the conversation, of the Hippocratic Oath which prohibits doctors from giving a deadly drug to anybody, not even if asked for. I had also reminded him of the edict of Thomas Inman, an eminent surgeon who had just died two years ago. “Primum non nocere,” I said. “First Do No Harm.”

  And Uncle had promptly reminded me that, “Sometimes life is not worthy of life,” and then expounded on the essays of Samuel Williams, who advocated the use of drugs not only to alleviate terminal pain, but to intentionally end a patient’s life. “Williams’ drive to legalize euthanasia has received serious consideration, Poppy,” Uncle said.

  I had turned on my heels but not before shouting, “No! Medication should be administered only to alleviate pain, not to hasten death.”

  Now, I slammed the book shut and marched back to Uncle’s study to return the little book to the desk cupboard. It was unthinkable, what I was thinking. Which was that perhaps the victims were terminally ill. Which was that perhaps one had sought Uncle out to end his life and now Uncle was sending a message to others that they, too, could seek his help to end their suffering, their lives.

  My mind raced. My thoughts grew darker. I’d often found Uncle deep in conversation with Mr. Brown at St. Bart’s. Uncle said they talked about new medicines and engaged in discussions about Buddhism. What if my uncle had relieved the victims of their suffering and left, as Sherlock put it, a calling card, hoping to send a message that people need not end their lives in misery and pain?

  I paced the floor. Had Uncle Ormond been to the British Museum lately? Yes, less than two months ago, we’d spent the day there when my mother came into London to visit with Michael and my little nephew Aleister Alexander, born just prior to Effie’s death. He was just a little over a year old, and I had carried him from room to room, holding him close, hoping that somehow he would feel his late mother’s warmth through my embrace.

  Had we visited the room that housed the Buddha? We had. Had Uncle shown any particular interest in it? Lingered there to gaze at it? He had!

  He had pointed it out to me specifically and said, “There is much to learn from these Statues... these symbols of how to vanquish ignorance and suffering.”

  I nearly passed out as the blackness of my thoughts and rekindled memories ravaged me.

  Impossible. My Uncle? A killer?

  And what had he told me as we treated the wounded at the scene of the horrible train crash near Oxfordshire on that blustery, rainy night in September of 1874? What had he said to me as he stopped me from trying to treat the two hopeless women who, pinned together by some part of the wreckage, were minutes from death?

  I remembered now. Uncle had touched the hand of a man who was near death, and then another who was gasping his last. I watched as he moved on right past them. Without a word, he bent over the next man, who was sobbing like an infant.

  As he opened his medical bag, I touched his shoulder and asked, “Uncle, what of the other two?” He stared at me, obviously puzzled by such a question. “They are close to death. Tonight I am a physician. Not a coroner.” And on the way home, he’d said, “We should be thankful for those who died quickly. They did not suffer.”

  My thoughts, the absurdity of them, the uncertainty and brutality of them, choked my mind.

  Uncle had moved on. He helped the living and left the dying. Was he also capable of moving the dying along a little faster? He certainly had the means and the acumen, and possibly the mindset, to do so.

  Impossible. Or was it?

  18

  That afternoon, Sherlock and I met for tea at the same restaurant where I’d had lunch with Oscar. It was busy, even for a Saturday afternoon, but with autumn upon us and winter not far behind, many people wished to enjoy the balmy weather. We settled in on the sweeping, colonnaded Nash terrace and ordered finger sandwiches. When they served a pot of Indian tea, I immediately thought of Victor. I had written to him a hundred times, but all letters had gone unanswered. I wondered how he was doing at the tea plantation in India.

  As if Sherlock had read my thoughts, he asked, “I often think of Victor when I have a flavourful cup of Indian tea. Have you heard from him?”

  Shaking my head, “I doubt I shall.”

  “You have not heard a word?” Sherlock asked.

  “Nothing, Sherlock. Pour me some tea, will you?”

  We left it at that.

  I knew that Sherlock still felt guilty about what had happened. He felt he had betrayed his only friend. I could never forget his words after we had spent the night, that one night, together. I have betrayed my only friend in the world, and I have betrayed you as well because we both know a relationship is out of the question. I would not be a good husband and to be effective in my work, I must never marry. I must not succumb to love again. I never shall.

  It was true that I had not heard from Victor directly, but my brother received the occasional letter from him. Michael told me it was Victor’s way of keeping in touch with me.

  Several times he shared Victor’s correspondence with me. Victor wrote of the long, humid days, the starchy, fibrous, green jackfruits that tasted like a combination of apple, pineapple, mango and banana. He described his house and his verandah with its moss-speckled walls. “Rat snakes forage beneath it when they are not glistening in the sun as they rest.” In a recent letter, Victor had written about bees that settled in the hollows of trees; many of the locals left indentations in their walls so that the bees could build honeycombs in their homes. I had wanted to tell Sherlock about the bees in which he seemed so keenly interested.

  Michael also had related Victor’s descriptions of glossy black jungle crows with their harsh, guttural, grating squawk, and of the bluebottles that swelled around his home like an eager throng at a public hanging, waiting for the remains. I’d asked Michael what those were.

  “Come now,” Michael had said. “You know your Shakespeare. They are blow flies that like the smell of rotting meat and fruit. Victor says they curl and cluster around flowers with strong, disagreeable odors.”

  Unsurprisingly, Sherlock pushed his food around. He was never one to eat or sleep very much when he was focused on a problem. “I have confirmed the poison in the bird and the victim,” he said. “It is, as I predicted, hydrocyanic acid.”

  Chemistry not being my forté, I asked about its attributes.

  “It is colourless and lethal. It has a faint, bitter, almond-like odor, as you now know.”

  Now I understood why the word ‘almond’ had triggered his impatience at the fountain when he’d mentioned the word almond in connection with his diatribe on bee cultures.

  “It seems to be quite effective as a roden
ticide and is used in killing whales as well,” he said. “A lethal dose can kill a human being in one minute.”

  “One?”

  He nodded. “So now I know who, where, when and how.”

  “But not the elusive ‘why.’ And not the ‘who’ either.”

  “No. I know the victim’s name.”

  “I meant the killer. The ‘who did it?’”

  “Ah, yes. Who committed the crimes? No, not yet,” he admitted with a sigh. “But James Dixon is the identity of the man you examined yesterday. His young wife had reported him missing to the Metropolitan Police and his employer said he did not come to work for two days.”

  “Could it be a suicide, Sherlock?”

  “Interesting you should say that. James was recently diagnosed with a brain tumor. I suppose he may have wished to end his life sooner rather than later. Before he suffered further.”

  I winced, trying desperately to discard the horrible thoughts that clouded my mind.

  “His wife said that he had crippling headaches. There were gross personality changes as well. His employer noted the same. James possessed a high degree of mathematical prowess, but, of late, he could barely make correct change or tally up at the end of a day. Just last week he was given a rather abhorrent evaluation. The wife agreed that he could no longer balance their personal account. She urged him to see a physician.”

  “And did he?”

  “His regular physician, one Dr. Price, whose knowledge of the brain, of any neurology whatsoever, is limited. He, in turn, referred him to a physician in Scotland.”

  “Scotland?”

  “Dr. William Macewen, who is fairly prominent in the field. Dr. Macewen has attempted to remove brain abscesses.”