by A S Croyle
“Wait. You do not know my uncle that well. So you are admitting to intuition.”
He shook his head. “I admit to no such thing. Your uncle is logical. He is a clever man. Brilliant by all accounts. Dr. Sacker would not leave a trail of clues. He would never allow evidence to be traced back to himself. Now, I must encourage you not to dwell on this matter any further, and if you will not help me investigate, at the very least, wash it from your mind.”
“How can I do that? And why should I do that?”
His eyes were thick with thought, as if a dark syrup of data had seeped into his brain and he was stirring it about. Normally, I eschewed his incessant need for the most minute of details, but this time I hoped he could contain it and that he would not allow a single drop to slide through and away. I feared Uncle’s life depended on Sherlock’s ability to swiftly sort things out.
“Sherlock, Aunt Susan told me you were concerned about me. So, tell me, are you concerned about me, Sherlock?”
His eyes darted about and his lips turned to a frown. “Concerned? I am not concerned. Why would I be concerned? Should I be concerned?”
I had to smile a bit at the way he had prattled off the sentences, showing emotion whether he wished to or not, just as he had when he all but attacked his brother earlier in the library. He was trying so hard not to show it, but there was still something about me that moved him deeply. I felt that. And there was definitely an intense and perhaps neurotic attachment to his brother that gripped him, because his outburst had been as much a showing of disappointment in his brother’s behaviour as it had been a defence of my uncle.
Taking a deep breath, I said, “Let me ask you this, Sherlock. Do you think that someone could be trying to cast blame on Uncle to avoid suspicion himself?”
“That is quite probably the most intelligent thing that has been said in this room all evening. Poppy, you are a gifted woman. You must not allow circumstantial evidence to interfere with your sensible, clever mind. I fear you are suffering from sleep deprivation or something.”
“And so it’s true. As Aunt Susan said, you are concerned about me.”
“Your daily trips to the wharf, the way you are engrossed in the ritual of shrouding the corpses and trying to comfort the living... it borders on obsession. You are my assistant. I need you on other matters, and I need you to be rational and logical, able to judiciously sort the fact from the fiction.”
“Sherlock, the victims... their families. I cannot simply dismiss them as you do.”
He looked away and did not respond.
I took a deep breath and asked him to pour me another glass of port. He promptly complied.
“Sherlock, we have never talked about that night. That night at Holme-Next-The-Sea. Nor have we discussed the night of Victor’s father’s funeral.”
He poured port into his own glass as well. “Now? When your uncle has just been arrested, you wish to discuss the night of Squire Trevor’s funeral?”
“Did you not just tell me to wash Uncle’s predicament from my mind? But Holme-Next-the-Sea... nothing washes that away,” I said in a whisper.
He placed his glass on the table and palmed my cheeks with his hands. “Pray tell me, Poppy, what the point of rehashing that would be?” he asked.
Although his purpose was to inveigh on the topic - that being our fleeting flirtation with romance - as always, a blast of summer heat, a gust of fiery air, a tinge of warm gold as if the sun had just risen, slinked through, soaking my face and neck. Sherlock’s touch was the chink in my armour. I had tried to hate him. I almost did when he was somewhere else... when his hands and his eyes and his smile were somewhere else. I felt I was straddling the remains of what seemed like an ancient time in my life, a romance that had withered like dried mustard, and the stark truth of my present relationship with him. But when Sherlock was near, I travelled back to my dreams. I travelled back to the cottage, remembering the ripple of muscles just above his waist and the tautness of his arms.
Now I let my eyes roam down the slope of his shoulders and recalled my palms on them and the rise and fall of his chest as he slept and the sweet melody of the surf just beyond the window. I felt myself shudder and tremble.
I sighed and looked out the window, recalling the night that I had run into Sherlock at Oscar Wilde’s recital four years after the death of Victor’s father and Victor’s departure for India. I had severely chastised him for failing to attend the wedding ceremony joining my best friend Effie to my brother Michael, Sherlock’s sole friend now that Victor was gone. I had rebuked him for his failure to appear at Effie’s funeral and scolded him for his refusal to come to my nephew’s christening. But we had never discussed the night of passion we shared in the cottage by the sea, nor his immediate withdrawal from me afterwards, nor our momentary reconciliation in the ballroom in Victor’s home, which was torn asunder by Victor’s appearance, his jealous rage, and the violent fight that ensued.
“This is not the time for such reminiscences, Poppy,” he said.
“I am certain you believe there will never be a good time to talk about love,” I said.
“Love!” he shrieked, rising. “You want to talk about love? This is what I think of love. It is madness. It rips your innards out, it makes you reel with rage. It gives you a thirst you cannot quench and a hunger you cannot quell. Your logic slips from you as if you are in an oil bath. You see with one crazed eye. You try to hammer it to stillness and nothing you do will smooth the pits and bulges. It is the strongest of metals and the most recalcitrant. It refuses to melt. It refuses to bend. You pound away but it does not yield. Instead, it reduces you to a feeble tremor!” He threw up his hands. “What has love done for your brother?”
“What has Michael to do with this?”
“He loved Effie and he lost her. He has barely survived that loss and has only done so because of people who helped him with the loss. Who would help me through it if I lost - ?” He stopped mid-sentence. Then he added, “Who? Mycroft? Sherrinford?”
“Sherlock-”
Sherlock shook a clenched fist in the air. “Why must women do this?”
“Do what?”
“Women dwell in the past,” he said waving a hand behind him. “They penalize when you do not explore the uncertain future. They reprove you when you are honest.”
“I do none of those things.”
I looked away and thought for a moment. I knew that lately I had not been very sensible or levelheaded where Sherlock was concerned - that fact was not lost on me. But I also knew that logic and rationality were my only imprimatur. I had to appeal to his logical mind if I were to sway him to my disposition on this matter. I surprised even myself by remaining so calm when I spoke again to him.
“I simply believe that we are compatible,” I said. “You said it yourself. These feelings that you - that we have for each other... rather than let them get in the way, we should teach them to live side by side with logic and deduction. I think we should be open with each other. After all, we have never discussed the fact that I lost my innocence to you, that you immediately tried to push me out of your life, and then tried to seduce me again when-”
He pumped his fist into the air again. “You see? You embark on the very journey of which I speak. Talking about the past will not change it. Reproaching me for a momentary lapse that led directly to the end of your satisfying relationship with Victor and my burgeoning friendship with him will serve no purpose. Why do you seek to exhume our past history? To disinter it from its very solid place in-”
“In what? In your brain attic? In the depths of my heart? Do you even know where these painful memories are buried? Or if they are, in fact, buried, for I have not embalmed them.”
“And you see some point in fossicking all of that?”
“I do.”
“And what point is that, Miss
Stamford?” he yelled. “It is inconceivable to me that under the present circumstances you wish to discuss-”
“Whether we wish to or not, we must be honest about our feelings, so that we can deal with them,” I urged. I held fast to my composure and continued. “You must ferret out your emotions and acknowledge them, so that you can apportion an appropriate part of your life to them.”
He sat down again and said, “I have no problem whatsoever knowing or dealing with my feelings. To begin with, I have few of them, and those I do, I choose to ignore. Absolutely nothing good can come of dredging up those youthful moments of indiscretion or allowing to spring to the surface a companionship that was best nipped in its nascent bud.”
I wanted to lash out. With everything I was feeling about my uncle’s predicament and all the emotions I had held back from Sherlock for so long, I desperately wanted to savage him, to strike him. But longing to get through to him, I rose, went to where he sat, knelt before him and placed my palms on his knees.
“It was not nipped in its nascent bud, Sherlock Holmes. Not for you and certainly not for me. You were my first... you are the only man that I... with whom I have ever...” I heard myself start to stutter.
“Oh, can you not complete a sentence now?”
“You were the first man I ever...” I felt my cheeks redden.
Finally he understood. “You mean you never... then you never... with Victor?”
“I was not in love with Victor. As I have told you a thousand times. But I am still in love with you.”
“Love!” he shouted, taking up his glass of port again. “I tell you that I have no need of it!”
“That isn’t true, Sherlock. I see that now. You cannot live with nothing in your life except cases and deduction. There is more to life than that for you. More to life than the work of your brain for you and more to life than medicine for me.”
“Oh, no, Dr. Stamford, it is true. I have decided I cannot live without working my brain for there is nothing else to live for. Least of all love.”
“You may try to suppress your thoughts and sensitivities and the physical sensations you feel when I am near you, but, Mr. Holmes, you make it clear in so many ways that you are fighting a battle you cannot win.”
“No, you are wrong, and I was wrong to entertain foolish, youthful thoughts. I shan’t give in to such a notion again.”
“What youthful thoughts?”
“That I could - that there could exist any parabiosis of love and logic.”
“You do not even realize that you still care for me, do you? When even the gift you gave me the other day is indicative.”
“What? A stethoscope?”
“Of all the instruments in my medical office that require replacement, the stethoscope was the one you chose. And what does a stethoscope do, Mr. Holmes? It allows you to listen to internal sounds, to listen to the air breathing in and out, and to the sounds of the heart.”
I returned to my chair and sipped my port, staring at him over my glass. We sat in silence for some minutes, yet I could tell he was as shaken as I had ever seen him. And at a loss for words, which was utterly impossible.
“Do you not understand, Sherlock, that whatever gifts are within my power to give, they are yours?”
He stared at me.
“Sherlock, must you dwell on the negative aspects only? Love is a true treasure.”
“Treasures are fleeting, Poppy. They sparkle but only for a moment. Then they grow dim, dull, tarnished. They slip through your fingers. Love stops us, then makes us dance, then halts us yet again and cuts us off at our knees. It cannot stand the test of time.”
“You’re wrong, Sherlock. A century of wind and rain and all the elements cannot eradicate that night. It still stands, like a castle, like a fortress on the cliffs. Weathered, perhaps, but its stone is still strong.”
He swallowed the remainder of his port. “No, Poppy. From afar, it may seem perfect, solid. But close up, it must give up its imperfections. As time carves into it, the flaws are revealed.”
I stared back. “Its purpose has not been abandoned. It is an organic living thing and it is unfinished.”
Finally, I rose and walked to the door. “I must attend to Aunt Susan. I will help you exonerate my uncle, and when we have done so, we shall revisit this conversation. Good night, Mr. Holmes.”
28
After Sherlock left, I roamed the house to seek out Aunt Susan. I felt uncomfortable with myself, with the conversation I’d had with my miserable, loutish friend at such a time. A pang of shame washed over me for having dallied with Sherlock to engage in a discussion of our past when my Uncle had just been hauled off to the Yard, and my aunt was in a state of shock and concern. I thought I might retch.
Damn you, Sherlock Holmes, I thought. When I was with him, it seemed that my life stretched and pulled, slowed down and sped up. I could not understand my behaviour nor could I comprehend why he was so willing to entirely sacrifice the possibility of a full and balanced life for the immediate pleasure of solving a puzzle, a case, or a crime. Yes, criminal investigations were exciting. Being on the precipice of danger was exhilarating; I had to concede that. But the delicious and impassioned satisfaction he took in seeking the truth, no matter how horrific, and in being able to show everyone what he knew - always so much more than they knew - to the exclusion of all else... this I could not absorb. Had ever a man been such a conundrum?
I wandered from room to room and finally found Aunt Susan in my bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, the fingers of her right hand pinching the bedspread, the hat Effie had fashioned for me resting in the left.
I tip-toed across the bare wooden floor, trying to avoid the creaks so I would not startle her. “Aunt Susan,” I whispered.
She looked up. Her eyes were rimmed in red, which came as no surprise, but the eyes themselves were hard as agates. I could see that she was angry, more angry than upset, and that was an emotion I knew to be inconsolable. I sat down next to her on the bed.
“Your mother ordered this coverlet from France.”
“I remember.”
“I had described one very much like it that I saw when your uncle and I went to France for the first time, and based just on my description, she decided she had to have one like it for you. And then I purchased one for you to have here to remind you of home. Does it remind you of your room in the Broads?”
I shrugged. “I suppose. Aunt Susan-”
“Now and then I imagine you wish you were back home, back in Norfolk at Burleigh Manor. It’s so lovely there. So quiet. Do you fancy you’ll ever go back?”
“Aunt Susan, this is my home now. London. Living here with you and Uncle. It has been for a long time and-”
She flipped the hat over and then back again. “Effie made a hat like this for me.”
“I know.”
“Only mine is the colour of dark red wine. I suppose you miss her terribly.”
“Yes, I do, Aunt Susan.”
“She told me once that you would go away one day. Far away. She told me this on a visit to your parents’ home when you were both quite young. And then you came to live with us to attend school here, and I thought what she meant by far away was London. Here with us. But I wonder if she meant something else. Do you ever think about going far away, Poppy?”
Right now I would like to be in a distant land, I thought. Anywhere but here.
“Do you know how long Mycroft and your uncle have been friends?”
I shook my head.
“Fifteen years. The same number of years between them. Ormond was on a visit to see a friend of his from university who was teaching at Mycroft’s boarding school. His friend - his name was Phillip - told Ormond that there was a boy in his class who needed help. He was not a pretty boy, not thin and athletic like your Sherlock.�
�
There it was again - ‘my’ Sherlock. Why did everyone reference him thus? Why did everyone think of him as my Sherlock, except for Sherlock?
“Mycroft was - is brilliant, of course,” Aunt Susan continued. “A bit lazy, from what Ormond tells me, but he was always focused, intent even then to be of service to Her Majesty. But he was odd, not like the other boys. Ormond talked to him, shared stories of his own unhappy childhood because he, too, had always been odd and friendless. He would visit Mycroft from time to time and they corresponded. By the time Mycroft graduated from Cambridge, Ormond had ingratiated himself to many in the House of Lords. With his influence and Mycroft’s impeccable scholastic record...” She paused, then asked, “Poppy, how could he do this to Ormond?”
I dared not breathe a whisper of my own suspicions. Aunt Susan would never forgive me.
“Sherlock will sort it out, Aunt Susan. I will assist him.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Assist him?”
“He thinks of me as his assistant in some of his investigations. Much in the same way that we worked together on the baby-farming matter, I shall-”
“No, Poppy. You are a physician. Your endeavours all these years have been toward that one goal. And I will not have you caught up in another criminal investigation. Ormond blames himself for your narrow escape from that woman, that baby farmer. I will not let you put yourself in harm’s way again. Not even to help your uncle.”
“I will be in no danger, Aunt Susan. I promise you.”
“You think Sherlock will protect you, don’t you?”
“I think you should try to get some rest, Aunt Susan.”
Aunt Susan rose, placed the hat back on its stand, and smoothed the front of her dress.
“No, I am going to pay a visit to our solicitor. Ormond has often spoken to Mr. Havershal about the need for further reform, and he says that things have progressed. Mr. Havershal will be able to cross-examine the prosecutor and witnesses, and he can question the motives for bringing the prosecution, which in this case are completely spurious. And he can keep Ormond from saying more than he should. You know how your uncle gets, especially when specious accusations about something are set forth.”