The Bird and The Buddha

by A S Croyle

  “Dear Lord,” I said. “And was there some buried treasure?”

  “In fact, there was. Some things that we found were of no consequence, but in the mire, we did find something that, though quite bent and battered and dull, was quite the treasure. It was a crown! The crown of Charles II.”

  “A royal crown buried in a cellar at Hurlstone?”

  “One of Reginald’s ancestors served as Cavalier to Charles II, whose father had handed the crown down to him, and he, in turn, gave it to Reginald’s family. The riddle, this ritual as they called it, gave the clues to its whereabouts.”

  “That’s quite fascinating.”

  “It’s more than fascinating, Poppy, for I have been well compensated. Upon returning the crown to Her Majesty, Reginald was given several thousand pounds because his family had been guardian of the treasure trove. He generously shared some of that with me. But best of all, I have bested the King of Controlling Catastrophies.”

  “I don’t understand. Who - ?”

  “Mycroft! He had to report to the queen that his younger brother had recovered the missing crown. I must say, he did seem rather proud, in his own way. And I’ve enough money to keep me in beef and beer for some time to come.”

  “You really are living by your wits then.”

  He just smiled.

  When we finished tea, I walked to St. Bart’s with Sherlock, hoping to see my brother. We paused at a newspaper stand. The entire front page of The London Times was covered with a depiction of the paddleboat and the steamer and the crowds on the wharf. Authorities continued to drag the river and many bodies had been recovered, but hundreds were still missing.

  “Have you seven pence?” Sherlock asked. “I have not had time to cash Reginald’s cheque. I believe I spent the last of my coin on our tea.”

  Laughing, I handed him the pennies.

  “Thank you. We shall stop at the bank on the way,” he said, patting his vest pocket, “and I shall pay you back.”

  As he reviewed the front page story about the collision, I thought to myself how fortunate he was to have made such an impression on Musgrave back at Oxford. I had often wondered how Sherlock managed to keep a roof over his head or any food in his stomach. Living by his wits alone did not seem any more prosperous than my medical practice had been, and I survived only because I lived with Uncle and my parents were most generous with ‘loans.’ As far as I knew, Sherlock had had no extraordinary cases prior to deciphering Musgrave’s coded documents, yet he wore very decent attire and maintained suitable lodgings in an upscale area, far nicer, for example, than the two-story row house in Finsbury Park where the victim James Dixon and his family resided. Sherlock told me that Dixon’s wife was much younger than her husband and their son was an infant. Sherlock surmised that he had married late for most banks did not permit the men in their employ to marry until they had reached a certain level of salary. Employers were concerned that, family in tow and strapped for money, a clerk might be tempted to help himself to the contents of a drawer.

  From everything that Sherlock had told me about his own past, the Holmes family was part of the landed gentry. Simply by virtue of the fact that Mycroft held a position of considerable importance in the government, it was likely that their father had been held in high esteem and had significant connections. But I doubted that Mycroft assisted Sherlock financially, and I deduced that he continued to receive some sort of subsidy from his eldest brother Sherrinford, who managed the family holdings.

  Having finished reading the article, Sherlock tri-folded the newspaper and placed it under one arm. As we continued to St. Bart’s, he said, “Your uncle... you said he’s back from Scotland?”

  I tried to hide my grimace. Uncle and I had barely spoken since his return. I was doing what I could at the wharf and Uncle had resumed his duties at the hospital. We rarely saw each other, but, in truth, I was avoiding him. I had trouble facing him for fear I would blurt out the ridiculous questions that swirled in my brain about his books and notations concerning Buddhism and suffering. They frequently blighted my thoughts, and I didn’t know what to do about it. I repeated Sherlock’s logical approach to deduction in my brain a hundred times a day. Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.

  And it was quite impossible, inconceivable to believe that Uncle was a murderer. The truth must lie elsewhere.

  23

  On Sunday, when I came back from a long walk with Little Elihu, I found Aunt Susan down below, mixing the ingredients for the sweet biscuits she was about to bake. When I looked around the kitchen, I realized that she and the servants were in the process of putting together an elabourate meal. Aunt Susan need not ever step into the kitchen, but it was not unusual for her to contribute her considerable talents for cooking and baking when she planned a special dinner party. In fact, she insisted upon it.

  “Aunt Susan, are we having guests this evening?”

  Smiling at me, she said, “Indeed we are.” She turned to Martha and said, “Now pick the most excellent potatoes. They must be served smoking hot with melted butter of the first quality.”

  “Aunt Susan, who - ?”

  She turned back to me. “We’re having consommé and pigeons comport. And also Fricado Veal.”

  “Uncle’s favourite? The stew with mushrooms and garlic and saffron?”

  She nodded. “We’re also having pork loin and Florentine of Rabbit.”

  “My goodness, I haven’t had that in ages. When Papa took me hunting, he always said there was nothing like it. But he didn’t have to prepare it,” I added, laughing.

  I had often watched our maid Marie skin and bone a whole rabbit that Papa brought home. She stuffed it with a forcemeat made of bread, rabbit liver, bacon, anchovy, wine and herbs, then covered it with a veal stock white sauce, flavored with anchovy, lemon, eggs, cream and nutmeg, and let it simmer.

  “Aunt Susan, who are the honoured guests?”

  “Mycroft Holmes,” she said.

  “Mycroft!”

  “And his brother Sherlock.”

  “Sherlock!” I screeched. “Now for the second course,” Aunt Susan prattled on but I was still stuck on why the Holmes brothers were coming to dinner.

  “But... why?”

  She removed her apron and touched my shoulder. “Come into the drawing room, Poppy.” She turned to Martha and Genabee. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Follow the recipe in the Elizabeth Acton cookbook for the pudding.”

  I shivered. The book had been a gift from Effie to my aunt. She had given it to me to take to Aunt Susan on the day I met Sherlock.

  “Or it could be in Mrs. Beeton’s book,” Aunt Susan said. “And please finish cutting the ends off the haricots verts,” she added with a flair of her hand, in her best French accent.

  The girls looked at her blankly. “The green beans,” I explained as Aunt Susan whisked me from the kitchen and up the stairs to the drawing room.

  “Would you join me in a glass of wine?” she asked, pouring red wine from a decanter into a glass.

  “No, thank you. Aunt Susan, why are Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes coming to dinner?”

  “Sherlock invited himself, apparently,” she said after taking a sip. “But Mycroft came to the hospital and expressed a need to discuss that horrible tragedy on the Thames. It’s a week today, can you believe it? It is the sole topic of conversation, as you know, and the Queen has been unremitting in her inquiries about it. She has given special orders that all military resources in Woolwich are at the disposal of the civic authorities. Ormond said Mycroft told him that Friday evening, the latest estimate of the number of persons on board the Princess Alice was sent to Her Majesty, and they believe it nears eight hundred.”

  “But I heard the company’s estimate. It was far less than eight hundred.”

&
nbsp; Nodding, she said, “I know. But Mycroft told Ormond that this is due to the fact that the company’s calculation is based upon the fact that children in arms are not charged for on these excursion boats, and little ones under the age of seven are booked at half price. And there were a great many babies. The Coroner, at Friday afternoon’s first sitting of the inquest, received an official communication about the number of turn-stile tickets, and the company now deeply regrets to say that eight hundred may be the lowest estimate. Seven hundred are feared drowned.”

  I listened solemnly. I could not speak.

  “So, I presume Mycroft wishes to discuss this with your uncle.”

  “What has Uncle to do with inquiries and estimates?”

  “Nothing. I suppose, nothing at all. But Mycroft has absolutely no true friends other than Ormond, and Ormond did, after all, spend his third year of medical school as a ship’s surgeon on a whaling ship sailing for the Arctic Circle. So he is someone Mycroft trusts, and he has some maritime experience. This is simply conjecture, of course, darling, but I believe Mycroft is quite shaken by all of this, and the Queen is barking orders at him about resolving the matter as quickly as possible.”

  “But Sherlock?”

  “He is fully engaged in the investigation as well, to the extent that he has apparently abandoned something else of a pressing nature. According to Ormond, Sherlock is quite concerned about you and would like the matter laid to rest.”

  “Concerned about me? Regarding the Thames accident? I don’t understand.”

  She took my hand. “Poppy, that young man cares about you. Ormond said Sherlock told him that you are neglecting your medical practice, going to the wharf each day although there is, most regrettably, no need for your considerable skills as a physician.”

  “No, there are none left who need a physician.”

  I thought of the way we cleaned each face and put a number on its chest and placed whatever possessions had clung to the deceased in a tin box at its feet. I had meandered up and down the rows with relatives who were fearful they would identify a missing loved one. Many fainted dead away when they did. I could tell some barely hung on to their sanity. It was a grisly, awful thing, especially now that bodies were decomposing. I had heard that because of the number of unidentified bodies, the Coroner had ordered a mass burial, and I planned to go back to the wharf tomorrow to help with removing clothing, washing more bodies, and shrouding them for the make-shift ceremony.

  Lost in my thoughts, my aunt’s voice startled me when she spoke again.

  “He wants you to move on.”

  “What?”

  “Sherlock wants you to move on, Poppy.”

  Move on, I thought. He wants my help on the British Museum Murders, that’s what he wants!

  “Poppy, you must admit there is nothing more you can do at the wharf. Questions about the collision are now up to the civic authorities and people like Mycroft. Next week, the inquest will commence.”

  “I know, I know. Sherlock told me some of these things, and I have heard many discussions at the steamboat office. The Board of Trade is involved as well. Most believe that the captain of the Princess Alice broke some kind of rule and cut right in front of the cargo ship.”

  “My point is we must leave this investigation in the good hands of the authorities and people like Mycroft and Sherlock. It was a terrible disaster, but you need not continue to expose yourself to these horrors.”

  Speechless, I rose, poured myself some wine and drank almost the entire glass in one gulp. Then I turned to her and said, “I do not wish to dine with you, Aunt Susan, not with Sherlock and Mycroft and Uncle. I would rather-”

  She cut me off. “Now, that’s the other thing I want to speak to you about. You have barely spoken to your uncle since we returned from Scotland. He’s very perplexed. What has gotten into you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Priscilla Stamford, do not tell me that there is nothing wrong. Your behaviour speaks volumes. Why are you angry with your uncle?”

  “I’m not angry, Aunt Susan. I’m... I’m...”

  I’m afraid he is helping people die, I screamed in my head. I am confused and upset and terrified.

  “Poppy, please tell me what is bothering you.”

  I couldn’t. I lost my voice again.

  “Dearest girl, I know you. You are never at a loss for words, and you have never ignored your uncle or me. Please, talk to me.”

  I said nothing.

  She stood up, finished her wine, and walked to the door. “I shall not have you barricade yourself in your room whilst we have dinner guests, particularly someone as prestigious as Mycroft Holmes. I insist you join us. It is up to you whether you choose to engage in conversation.”

  I stood as well. “Aunt Susan, if you insist, then I shall see you at dinner.”

  Then I turned and ran to my room.

  24

  I sat at the foot of my bed, staring into space for a long time. Then I called to Martha and asked her to draw me a bath. Once finished, I tossed on a dressing gown, and she twirled and looped my hair up in an intricate style. When she left, I wore out the rug, pacing back and forth, to and fro, wringing my hands. Move on, I thought again. As if I could simply dismiss the appalling loss of life, a death toll even greater than that of the two Norfolk train wrecks combined.

  I knew Sherlock’s passionate nature first-hand, and I knew that Sherlock’s emotions were not as shrunken as he let on. But he suppressed them these days, almost to the point of atrophy, and it could be chilling. I admired and respected his ability to be analytical and rational; I’d always prided it in myself. But his quest to completely repress his feelings until they were nothing more than a vestigial flicker was shocking. So why did I still find him so beguiling?

  He was the confident centre of his own universe, unwilling to conform to social norms, independent, protective of his self-sufficiency, always in control, and driven in an almost primal fashion. He happily solved cases to relieve boredom, but often seemed to lack compassion for the victim. After Effie died, I remembered telling Sherlock that it was so hard to lose someone you loved. His answer? Don’t get attached. My reply? That hasn’t worked for me.

  I treasured logic and deduction as well. I had always prided myself on being extremely observant and perceptive to details, on possessing a keen ability to focus and concentrate despite distractions, to predict human behaviour. With Victor Trevor, I had generally been calm, composed, restrained, and usually able to keep my emotions in check. Oh, occasionally I was wound a bit too tight. There were times I sprang from my coil like a cobra emerging from his basket, poised to strike. But generally, I was unruffled, self-possessed, collected. With Sherlock, when I was around him, I was intimidated, almost submissive at times, and far too emotional. I hated it... but relished it at the same time.

  “Ohhh!”I yelled and took off my dressing gown.

  I looked through my wardrobe and finally settled on wearing something that was out-of-date, out-of-style - Mum would have been mortified. But it was the same outfit I had been wearing on the day I met Sherlock, a pale blue skirt with ruffles, pleats and draped layers at the back, and a white blouse with wide lace. As I dressed, I found myself seeing Sherlock through the prism of that day, seeing him as the elusive man he was and had been all along, quintessentially icy on the surface, constantly shifting to meet the demands of his mind, and unattainable.

  I glanced over at the hat on my dresser bureau. Effie had made it for me, and I had worn it to her funeral. It was made of bright blue fabric with a black lace ruffle around the narrow brim. It had a black feather plume and a short train of black tulle. Effie’s early prediction seemed so eerily prescient.

  “Poppy,” she had told me, with a shade of deep concern on her face, “please stay away from Sherlock Holmes. He is dangerous to your heart.
”

  “Dangerous? No, Sherlock Holmes, you are infuriating!” I yelled to no one, and hoped my voice did not carry too far because I’d seen the hansom cab pull up and Mycroft Holmes was by now knocking at the door.

  I finished dressing, pinched my cheeks for colour, swept a brush through my fringe, and slowly walked down the steps to the dining room.

  25

  I did not say a word during dinner. I pushed my food around my plate and, anxious to retire to my room, I was about to ask to be excused when Sherlock changed the entire course of the conversation about the Thames accident - during which he had been his usually compulsive, aphoristic self - to the recent murders. As usual, he disarmed me with this unexpected swerve, though for the life of me, I didn’t know why. The Thames accident was behind him; the murder case was not.

  “A bird symbolizes the Lord Buddha - and freedom,” Sherlock piped up halfway through dinner. “Did you know that many cultures believe the raven to be a symbol of impending death because the raven bird is believed to be able to smell death before it occurs? And in China, specifically, it is believed that the soul of the sun takes the form of a crow or a raven.

  He turned to Mycroft. “So, it’s even more telling that the birds left beside the dead men were ravens. Nothing particularly exotic but extremely representational, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Mycroft peered over his glass of wine and smirked. “Next my brother will be quoting Poe. ‘Quoth the raven, Nevermore’.”

  “I hate that poem,” Aunt Susan interjected. “And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,” she said. She recited another verse.