The Bird and The Buddha

by A S Croyle

  “So he is - was just thirty-three when he died?”

  “Yes. He was unable to adjust, even in the peaceful surroundings. He ran away and the relatives could not find him. Somehow he made his way to London earlier this year. He may have been living on the streets. It is highly improbable that he could find employment, other than perhaps as a cook or washing dishes in a pub. Somehow he made his way to a Dr. Elkins who could not help him.” He shook his head again.

  “The third victim, Arthur Flincher, saw the same physician who treated Dixon, Dr. Price. Flincher suffered from a disease with which I am not very familiar, a shaking palsy first detailed by a Dr. James Parkinson over fifty years ago. It causes-”

  “Tremors, slowness of movement, rigidity and postural instability. Yes, I know of it. Many also suffer from incontinence, blurred vision, uncontrollable eye movements. There is no cure.”

  Nodding, he said, “And the fourth victim, the man discovered a week before Dixon, one Andrew Baker, sustained a head injury in a carriage accident. He was, according to his family, never the same. According to the notes of his physician, a Dr. Aldridge, he lost many of his cognitive functions and was dismissed from his employment. Now, we are still tracking down the medical history of the first victim, a man named George Blake, and that of the sixth victim whose name Mr. Carttar has not revealed to me. I shall find it out, naturally, and I am certain his death will be of similar circumstances.”

  “So,” I soliloquized as I paced, “their difficulties were all related somehow to the brain, and all experienced life-altering symptoms.”

  “Yes. Precisely!” He jumped up excitedly and took from his pocket a newspaper article. “But look at this. It’s not unlike our baby-farming case. You remember Mrs. Hardy was foolish enough to wrap dead infants in papers with her address and that we were also able to trace her through newspaper advertisements?”

  “Of course, I remember.”

  “Well, while I have little respect for the sensationalizing of the media, once again the newspapers will help us find our killer.”

  I looked at the classified advertisements on the page.

  “Which one - ?”

  “The one that says, ‘And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

  Shall be lifted -- nevermore! Suffer no more.’

  “Do you see how it has been signed? ‘The Raven. British Museum.’ The mercy killer is directing them to seek help from him, Poppy. Every man had a copy of that advertisement in his pocket.”

  34

  As I gazed at Sherlock, I saw in his eyes exactly what I had spotted when he came up with his scheme to catch the baby-farmer. He would answer the advertisement. He would meet with the killer himself. Likely by himself this time, however, and the risk be damned. The confrontation was inevitable and fraught with danger. The memories of that harrowing night he had arranged to meet the baby-farmer, Margaret Hardy, infused me. I had accompanied him as part of the subterfuge, been dragged down an alley by her partner and daughter. I’d nearly been killed.

  “I have a better way,” I said. “A bit more cautious, but-”

  He could not help himself; he had to interject his own remarks. “You have not even heard my plan yet. You don’t know what-”

  “I do know what you plan to do. I have studied your methods.”

  He rose and stood in front of me. “Poppy, you are in a considerable state of excitement, and it is understandable given your uncle’s predicament. Not to mention your preoccupation with our - with other things. But you must hear me out.”

  “No, Sherlock, it is you who must listen. We do not know the identity of this Asian man young Archibald saw at the museum. He may be the killer, he may not. He may be the one who prearranges what follows or simply be giving the killer the Buddha statues, or he may, as you say, simply be a messenger. I shall go to the museum and see if I can find out who he is.”

  “I will go. I shall talk to the curator and-”

  “And tell him what? That you are following up on the story you are writing, and oh, by the way, that to complete it, you need to know the identity of an Asian man who keeps strange hours at the museum?”

  Comprehending my logic and my eagerness to once again involve myself in this adventure, his face went momentarily grey and his eyes became restless. “I am discerning a leitmotif here, Dr. Stamford. You inject yourself into an investigation, cavalier about the jeopardy, and making yourself quite vulnerable. Do I deduce a strange affinity for endangerment? Or is it simply that you wish to make yourself indispensable to me?”

  He took a few steps, turned away from me, then snapped back to face me. “Or do you simply wish to be in my company?”

  Though he was correct in his assumption, I inwardly raged as he said it, but I kept my voice steady and paced as I disavowed them. Paradoxically, of course, I knew they were correct. In my fantasies, I was always by his side, whether he liked it or not.

  “It is the aggregation of the circumstances, Sherlock. Your ploy with the museum curator is finished. You cannot use your disguise as a reporter yet again. I believe, for the time being at least, Mycroft will be keeping his eyes on you, rather than on me. And you still need to find out more about this sixth victim. Perhaps you can also extort some information from Detective Inspector Lestrade about why Mycroft has singularly focused on my uncle in this matter. Or from that nice young inspector who was so eager on the baby-farming case, Inspector Hopkins. Meanwhile, I can go to the museum and try to find out something about this mysterious Asian man that your street urchin observed.”

  He stared at me, perplexed. Finally, he said, “I am all attention, Poppy. Tell me what you will do. And pray, do be precise in the details.”

  “I shall visit the museum. I shall ask if there is anyone knowledgeable about the artefacts in the room where the Buddha is kept. It seems logical to me that if there is an employee of Asian descent, it would be him to whom I shall be directed. I will have Archibald in my company. I realize it was dark when he observed the exchange, but hopefully he will recognize the man. Can he keep his wits about him if he does?”

  “As I said, Archibald is quite imperturbable. But he will likely have little Billy with him.”

  “All the better. Who would suspect a young woman on a visit to the museum with her younger brother and her infant son?”

  His eyebrows arched. “Indeed. But one moment... assuming you are introduced to the man that Archibald saw and if, in fact, he does identify him as the man he saw the other evening, what shall you do then?”

  “I-” I stopped and stumbled. I had not thought quite that far ahead. “After a brief conversation about the art in the room, I will ask if he knows anyone who might fashion a replica of the Buddha. Archibald will have expressed an eager interest in such things. We shall see where it leads from there.”

  “But if it appears that he is the man, that he is in any way involved in this nefarious pursuit... if he is the artist who recreates the Buddha, he must be apprehended.”

  “The replicator shall be apprehended when he delivers the replica to me. If he is involved, but not the killer, you can get him to talk. Or he may alert the killer... or the killer may be suspicious if he is keeping tabs on his artist and he may be nearby. And you will be nearby as well.”

  He paced the room, shaking his head. “This is all speculation. It will take too long. Who knows how long he would require to make the replica?”

  “I shall tell him time is of the essence because Archibald’s birthday is imminent and I wish to give it to him as a birthday gift. I shall offer him a substantial amount of money if he can produce it very quickly.”

  “Again, conjecture. Poppy-”

  “Sherlock, I know you. If I could see through a mirror to all the years you were growing up with a father who seemed disappointed in you and a brother who seemed to overshado
w you, I would say that you are once again trying to be bigger, better, smarter. You are all of those things but let me help you prove it, and without getting yourself killed. We shall exonerate Uncle, catch the killer and - as you said, show Mycroft once and for all who has the better mind.”

  “You will depart at the slightest indication of danger? You will swear it?”

  I nodded.

  There was a long silence, during which Sherlock stared at his reflection in the pane of glass above the fireplace. Then he turned to me. “I am going to talk to Mr. Brown again.”

  “The apothecary? Why?”

  “He has knowledge of the ingredients in this poisonous potion. He is also a member of an ornithological society. There may be some clues there, given the killer places a bird at the crime scenes.”

  “What if Mr. Brown is the killer?

  “Hopefully I can confirm that. Now, there are many details which I should desire to know about what you are going to say, and I must also coach young Archibald before we take this course of action.”

  “Yes, but we have not a moment to lose. And Sherlock, there is one very large detail to discuss before we embark on this adventure.”

  “What is that?”

  “Have you something that poor Archibald can wear that is suitable for a patron of the British Museum?”

  Nodding, he smiled.

  35

  A few minutes after Sherlock left, Aunt Susan came home. I was so elated to see her, I burst into tears as I ran to her.

  “Is Uncle with you? Did they catch the killer?”

  Her face was drawn, her eyes frightened like a trapped animal and the expression she wore was drained and haggard.

  “Aunt Susan, tell me.”

  “He has not been charged with anything, according to Mr. Havershal. But he is locked away. Poppy, he refuses to speak to anyone. Anyone! He does not admit guilt, from what I understand, but he says nothing to exculpate himself from these ridiculous accusations.”

  “If they have not set forth a charge of prosecution, then how can they keep him?”

  “For further interrogation. That’s all Lestrade would tell me. Mycroft refuses to speak to me at all.”

  “Is there not some law to prevent this? Must they not-”

  Before I could finish my sentence, she had walked to the library. She poured herself some port and drank it quickly. Then she poured herself another and went into her morning room. She sat down on the piano bench and I knelt at her feet.

  “Aunt Susan, talk to me.”

  She tinkered on the piano, playing a few notes from The Maiden’s Prayer by Tekla Badarczewska. It was incredibly popular and Uncle had purchased the score for her last Christmas. Suddenly, she stopped and gazed at me. “As I said, there has been no indictment yet. But there will be, I am certain of it.”

  “And then?”

  “Mr. Havershal says that the prosecutor, judge, and jurors have great discretion, much flexibility in interpreting the law. I don’t know what that means, really. Once charged, Ormond will have to plead Guilty or Not Guilty. If he confesses-”

  “He will not confess. He did not do this.”

  “But he also won’t speak! And refusing to plead is deemed the same as pleading guilty. Then evidence will be presented and Ormond must explain away the evidence against him to prove his innocence. From what I am told, Ormond has access to the poison used to kill these men. He has spoken to all the physicians who treated the victims and diagnosed them. Mycroft told Mr. Havershal that there will be witnesses who will describe him as cold, as someone who has frequently voiced his approval of euthanasia. He does not go to church. He makes no overt affirmation of the sanctity of life. He-”

  I stopped her mid-sentence. “Of course, he believes in the sanctity of life, Aunt Susan. He’s a surgeon. He saves people’s lives. If you could have seen him at the train collision. If you-”

  This time she interrupted. “Did you see him at the wharf, Poppy? Did you ever really see him there?”

  I did not answer.

  “Do you remember that discussion we had not long ago at dinner? Do you remember he said that sometimes life is not worthy of life? Those were his very words. And he went on and on about his advocacy of the use of drugs to intentionally end a patient’s life. He agreed with the legalization of euthanasia. He has said so to people at the hospital.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Mycroft told Mr. Havershal. And Detective Inspector Lestrade and Mycroft’s people are now talking to everyone at the hospital who ever heard Ormond say anything on the subject.”

  “There is nothing to tie Uncle Ormond directly to these murders, Aunt Susan.”

  “Mr. Havershal read to me from an old case, Poppy. The case of John Donellan. He said that... that... wait, I wrote it down.” She pulled a slip of paper from her pocket. “This is what the judge read to the jury in that case.”

  She read the excerpt of the judge’s jury charges to me. “A presumption, which necessarily arises from circumstances, is often more convincing and more satisfactory than any other kind of evidence because it is not within the reach and compass of human abilities to invent a train of circumstances which shall be so connected together as to amount to a proof of guilt... But if the circumstances are such, as when laid together bring conviction to your minds, it is then fully equal, if not more convincing than positive evidence.

  “He called it circumstantial evidence,” she added. “So if there is enough, Ormond could be hanged for these murders. He said people have been convicted on less.”

  I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out.

  She drank down the rest of the port and ran from the room.

  36

  As part of the plan we had discussed, the next day I went to St. Bart’s to meet Sherlock and Archibald. It had rained the night before, so I trudged through the black mud. The soot that vitiated the air filled my lungs as I made my way to the hospital. Blazing fires and cheery hearths gave way to dust and smoke and fog. Nothing squelched it, and I had taken to washing my face at least three times a day. A dustman called out “Dust-ho!” as he approached in his high-sided horse-drawn cart, his youthful carrier beside him with his large wicker basket. The old man still wore an old-fashioned ‘uniform’ - a fan-tailed hat, loose flannel jacket, velveteen red breeches, worsted stockings and short gaiters to protect his legs and feet. And the street sweepers were out and about, their clothes sullied with cascades of blacks, covered from head to foot with dirt and grime. They reminded me of the children on the balcony after the Thames disaster. Even though the sewer system removed much of the filth from central London, it shifted upstream to Beckton and Crossness, and when the sewer was discharged, as it had just been on the night of the crash, the river, as described in The Times, hissed “like soda-water with baneful gases, so black that the water is stained for miles, discharging a corrupt charnel-house odour.”

  And I knew that Sherlock’s little friend Archibald came from some back-street, some pig-sty littered with decayed vegetables and fish guts, bones and bottles and oyster shells and rags. The idea of children living in such turmoil turned my stomach. I hoped Sherlock remembered to find appropriate attire for Archibald. I doubted the boy owned anything except the clothes on his back.

  I said hello to several people in the hospital corridors, but they ignored me. It unnerved me - what game was afoot about which I was unaware?

  I had almost reached the lab when I saw Michael running toward me. He pulled me into a supply room and shoved a newspaper at me. “Have you seen this?”

  I looked down at the page. The headline read: Ostrich Farming in South Africa.

  Michael’s eyes followed mine as they left the ostrich article and swept down to the headline that read: Terrible Accident on The Thames. Below it was an illustration. Its caption wa
s, “Recovering bodies from the Thames after the Princess Alice Disaster.” The article that followed read:

  At high water, twice in 24 hours, the flood gates of the outfalls are opened when there is projected into the river two continuous columns of decomposed fermenting sewage, hissing like soda water with baneful gases, so black that the water is stained for miles and discharging a corrupt charnel house odour.

  Of course, I already knew that swallowing water from this part of the Thames at that time was fatal. Few victims died in the actual collision. Most suffocated and drowned in the toxic combination of raw sewage and industrial pollutants. I felt the bile rise up in my own throat and looked up at Michael.

  “I’m sorry, Poppy. It’s another article I wished to have you read. Turn to the next page.”

  Now I saw what had so excited and agitated him. The headline at the top of the second page read:

  SUSPECT IN FIVE MURDERS IS PHYSICIAN AT ST. BART’S HOSPITAL

  “Oh, sweet Jesus, Michael!”

  “You didn’t talk to anyone who might have leaked this to the press, did you?”

  “No” I whispered. “I’ve spoken only to you and Aunt Susan and Sherlock.”

  “Well, surely neither of them would speak to a reporter.”

  I fixed my eyes on the article again.

  A prominent physician, Dr. Ormond Sacker, is being questioned in connection with six murders. Dr. Sacker has worked at St. Bart’s Hospital as a surgeon for over a decade and currently engages in pathology work as well. He resides with his wife and niece in the Regent Park area.

  According to sources at the highest level, though Dr. Sacker is patently implicated in these crimes, thus far, he has refused to confess or even to speak on the matter.

  In recent weeks, the bodies of six men have been found near the British Museum. The sixth man was found in the same condition as the others, likely poisoned, with a blackbird, also poisoned, positioned near his head and a small replica of a Buddha statue that is on display in the museum. An employee of the museum, Mr. Morris Engelwood, discovered the body. Employees who had exited the museum just minutes before Mr. Engelwood had not seen anything unusual near the premises. Even if it was too dark to see the body of this man, it is impossible to suppose that the employees who preceded Mr. Engelwood would not have tripped over it had it been there when they left.