The Bird and The Buddha

by A S Croyle

  The inference is therefore this: if the man was murdered where he was found, the deed was done in the short period of twenty minutes. This is the approximate amount of time the police say a medical expert or someone with knowledge of chemistry would take to do it.

  The five previous victims have been identified as follows:

  George Blake, Jonathan Hartwig, Arthur Flincher,

  Andrew Baker and James Dixon.

  The identity of the most recent victim is being withheld until family members have consented to its release.

  Neither afternoon patrons nor employees heard or saw anything that led them to suspect that foul play was going on around them. A watchman was on duty at the back door to the museum at the time the assassin was operating, yet nobody heard or saw anything likely to rouse suspicion. The silence and secrecy around these senseless killings wrap them in an impenetrable veil of mystery for the moment.

  As in former cases the murderer seems to have been almost miraculously successful in securing his retreat. The public cannot fail to be impressed with one fact - the apparent bravado of the assassin. Until now the assassin has clearly baffled all ordinary means of detection, reveling in leaving behind these ominous clues to taunt the police. The patrols in the area have been trebled but a source at the highest level of government has indicated that, with the detention of Dr. Sacker, the investigation - and the killing spree - have likely come to an end.

  I felt ill. My eyes blurred and I felt myself sway into Michael’s chest. All I wanted to do was to repair to our home in Norfolk where there was light dancing on the rivers and my father’s music as he tinkered on the piano, and my mother’s chattering. Michael was silent, as was I, and we remained so for several long moments.

  “Would Mycroft have spoken to this reporter? Are they about to charge Uncle?”

  “I don’t know. Darling, I don’t know, but I wanted to warn you. We must keep the newspapers from Aunt Susan, if we can.”

  “Yes, yes of course.”

  “Now, the reason I was able to catch you just now is because Sherlock told me you were coming... and about what you are up to... and I am here to put a stop to it. You are not going to the museum on this insane mission of his.”

  “It was my idea, Michael, not Sherlock’s.”

  “Then he has driven you to the brink of insanity as well. I’ll have none of it.”

  “Michael,” I said, shoving the paper into his chest, “now more than ever, we must do everything we can to catch out the real killer. Uncle must be exonerated.”

  “But the authorities-”

  “The authorities-one of Her Majesty’s own - have done this to Uncle. And I am going to undo it as swiftly as possible.”

  He crossed his arms and stood in front of me like a beefeater and would not let me pass.

  “I shall scream, truly I shall, if you do not let me by.”

  “Poppy-”

  “I mean it, Michael.”

  He heaved a sigh and stepped aside. I knew he was angry but I didn’t care.

  Nonetheless, I had scant faith in my ability to remain composed, and even less confidence in young Archibald’s thespian ability. I doubted that he had been Sherlock’s protégé long enough to have acquired his penchant for disguises or his flair for the dramatic. As I stepped into the lab, I was very close to tears and even closer to telling Sherlock that I could not accomplish the mission.

  37

  Sherlock was fussing with the bow he was attempting to tie at Archibald’s thick neck. Archibald was dressed in a two-piece lounge suit made of wool twill in a tartan pattern and held a black top hat in his hands. He was tall and his arms were muscular but the rest of him was like a scarecrow.

  “The single-breasted jacket is all the rage,” Sherlock said.

  “I know. It’s an Albert. Michael owns several.”

  I felt a tear slip from the corner of my eye.

  “Poppy, what’s wrong? If I may so express it, you look positively saturated with fear.”

  “Do I? It’s that I just saw the newspaper and-”

  “Oh, yes, that drivel in the Evening Standard about your uncle.”

  “Drivel?”

  “Well, it is, is it not? Nonsense. And quite to our advantage.”

  “In what possible way could public accusations of my uncle be-”

  “The killer, Poppy. The killer can more easily be flushed out. The newspaper says that Dr. Sacker refuses to speak, does it not? So, if he knows anything whatsoever about the murders, he is not telling it, and now the murderer knows he is not talking. Dr. Sacker probably knows nothing about them, at all, of course. But in any event, the killer will feel free to pursue his course or he shall seize this opportunity to flee before he is found out. I have some theories about the identity-”

  “Then tell me!”

  “Not yet. I never guess. But we must act quickly before he is able to escape. I have my young charges all over the city. At the docks, at the railway stations - every one of them. They are keeping watch.”

  “But if they do not know who to look for, Sherlock-”

  “Actually, they do. Now, are you ready to proceed?”

  I sighed and turned to peruse Archibald’s disguise. Though I had never met him, I knew it was a remarkable transformation from what he must look like on any given day, since he was living in the slums.

  I looked down at his tubular trousers and saw that there was some revision required. They were supposed to be at equal length at knee and ankle, but one trouser puddled at the floor, covering one of the short ankle-length boots.

  I took a deep breath. The youth was here at the ready, eager to do Sherlock’s bidding. I knew that I could not back out now.

  “No Billy today, Archibald?”

  “No, Miss. Me bruva’s wif Mum.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  I had thought a baby would enhance my disguise, but we would manage, and I was glad their mother was actually looking after the little one for a change.

  I dropped my bag, took off my cape and offered it to Archibald.

  “Wha’ are yer doin’?” he asked.

  “Put the cape around you and drop your trousers. I need to fix your pants leg.”

  “Wha - ?”

  “A bit of field triage, Dr. Stamford?” Sherlock quipped.

  I grimaced.

  “Just go along,” Sherlock said, grinning.

  Archibald took off his shoes and wrapped my cape around to cover himself from the waist down, took off his trousers, and handed them to me. I retrieved a needle and thread from my bag. Archibald glanced at Sherlock in puzzlement.

  “A lady always comes prepared, Archibald,” Sherlock quipped. “And in this case, arguing with her is of no use. This particular lady always has the last word.”

  I quickly turned up the hem and basted it, then broke the thread with my teeth and handed the trousers back to Archibald. He slipped them back on and handed my cape back to me. I tossed it over the back of a chair.

  Sherlock started to fashion the tie again and I nudged him out of the way. I had watched my father many times. I positioned the tie around Archibald’s neck with one end about two inches longer than the other end. I crossed the long end over the short one, pushed it under with my thumb, pulled the long over the short to form a bow with the other end, using my thumbs and forefingers. Then I pulled the second piece behind the first, made another loop and brought the first end up and under the loop.

  I glanced over at Sherlock. “Where did this suit come from?”

  “Sampson’s. We made a quick trip to Oxford Street. And before you ask, Sampson owes me a favour, so he sold the suit at a discount.”

  “What kind of favour?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  I wa
s quite certain that I did not.

  “Straighten up, now,” I instructed Archibald and he pulled back his wide shoulders and puffed out his chest. I lifted his chin with two fingers and resumed my tie endeavour. Holding the longer piece of the bow firmly, I pushed it behind through the knot. I pulled the looped end to lengthen the bow and tightened the knot. I stepped back to appraise my masterpiece and said “Success!”

  “She is a woman of many talents, Archibald. Put your shoes back on.”

  As the boy slipped into his shoes, I said, “Braces would have helped.”

  “To hold up his pants?” Sherlock asked. Returning his eyes to a book, he grumbled, “Hadn’t thought of that.”

  I went over to him and touched his shoulder. “What’s this? A medical textbook?”

  “One loaned to me by your brother.”

  I reached over and flipped the book to the cover. “Theodore Wormley’s Micro-Chemistry of Poisons Including Their Physiological, Pathological, and Legal Relations. For second-year medical students, yes?”

  He nodded. “There is some brewed tea over there on the table. Help yourself. You, as well, Archibald.”

  Archibald quickly poured himself a cup of tea, but as he brought it to his lips, he paused and held it out to me. “Suga’, Miss?”

  “Yes, Archibald. Thank you.”

  He put a spoonful of sugar in the teacup and handed it to me. Then he poured himself one and wandered over to a shelf filled with jars of organ specimens, likely waiting to be analyzed after recent autopsies.

  “I looked up the possible uses for the poison that killed all of these men,” Sherlock said. “For example, bitter almonds contain three basic components: benzaldehyde, glycoside amygdalin and hydrogen cyanide, which is also known as prussic acid. The toxic compound glycoside amygdalin, present in bitter almond oil, affects nerves and make them insensitive to any sensation, even pain. This induces numbness and anesthetic effects.”

  “I vaguely remember this from medical school,” I said. “But because of its toxic nature, it is for external use only, as an anesthetic. Bitter almond oil cannot be digested. It will cause vomiting.”

  “Yes, apparently it is an effective purgative, but the dose must be very low and mild or it may have severe adverse effects. As we well know.” He opened the book again. “Listen to this, Poppy. It says here that it’s not only found in almonds, but can be obtained from many fruits which have a pit, like cherries, apricots, apples. Many of these pits contain small amounts of cyanohydrins and mandelonitrile and amygalin that slowly release hydrogen cyanide. Just one hundred grams of crushed apple seeds can yield seventy mg. of hydrogen cyanide. I have just learned that it is present in tobacco and wood smoke as well. Something for further study.

  “Now, here is something quite fascinating, Poppy. There is a theory that hydrogen cyanide is a precursor to amino acids and nucleic acids. Some believe it played a part in the origin of life.”

  “The origin of life?”

  “It is speculative, of course.”

  “Well, in this case, Sherlock, it is the origin of death. And Archibald and I must be about our business.”

  I pulled the bow tie taut again and Sherlock handed Archibald his hat. “Now, your accent will give away your humble beginnings in the East End, so speak as little as possible. Try to pronounce the ‘g’ at the end of words like singing or ringing.”

  “Say again?”

  “When you speak, Archibald, you drop off the g’ in words that end in ‘ing’ so you say, singin’ instead of singing. And you don’t pronounce your ‘T’s in words like ‘bottom.’ You say ‘ba-ahm.’ Now try this. Say, ‘I don’t like you.’”

  Archibald stared at him for a moment and hissed, “Righ’ now, Mr. ’olmes, I don’ fu’in li’e yer!”

  I covered the broad smile on my lips.

  “Do try it again without the profanity. Slowly, Archibald.”

  “I don’ fu... I don li’e-”

  “No. I don’t,” Sherlock corrected, emphasizing the ‘T’ at the end of the word. “Pronounce the ‘T,’ please.”

  “I don’t,” Archibald repeated, spitting out the ‘t.’ “I don’t like yer.”

  “You. I don’t like you. Say it again.”

  Cheeks reddening, parroting the words very deliberately and with painful emphasis, Archibald said, “I don’t like you.”

  “Fine. That’s fine. Just let Dr. Stamford do the negotiating, will you?”

  “Oh, fu’ that,” Archibald said, pronouncing the ‘T’ at the end of ‘that’ very, very hard.

  Sherlock leaned toward me and muttered. “He’s a bit rough around the edges, but he’s a good lad.”

  “All right, then, Archibald. Are you ready?” I asked.

  “A’ course I am, Miss.”

  Sherlock raised an eyebrow, then held out the door for us and said, “Good luck.”

  38

  “Archibald, have you eaten today?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then before we go to the museum, you must have a decent meal.”

  “Bu’, Miss, I-”

  “Remember what Mr. Holmes told you, Archibald? Arguing with me is of no use.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “Now, some restaurants do not permit ladies, even with as fine an escort as you. We shall find one that is more progressive. Wilton’s, I think, on Ryder Street, just off St. James. Or, no, The Criterion. My mother likes to dine there when she comes to London to go shopping in Piccadilly.”

  “Wha’ eve’ yer say, Miss.”

  He ate everything in sight. But between mouthfuls of roast and potatoes, he told me a little about his background. He could have been one of Dickens’ characters in Oliver Twist. He and his friends had been leading a subhuman life in the darkest of London’s slums. He lived in an area of Whitechapel, the East End’s crime-infested hub. Years later, I would recall this conversation. I’d realize I knew someone who actually lived in Jack the Ripper’s hunting grounds.

  “Your father is dead?”

  “Naw,” he said. “Me fatha’s in Spitafields.”

  Spitafields was one of London’s poorest areas with broken down houses, most rotting from attic to cellar. Uncle volunteered on occasion at Providence Row, where the Sisters of Mercy had created a night refuge for destitute women and children. He had described it and Brick Lane and the other streets in the area as a dark, uneasy place brimming with haggard, skinny women, and children with sunken eyes and pale faces and empty stares.

  “So he’s alive, then. Your father.”

  “’e is. But I wan’ nothin’ t’do with ’im. ’e spends mos’ of ’is time in molly ’ouses.”

  “In what?”

  “Chummin’ with ova men ’ho fancy ’im. ’e finks ’e’s th’ wrong sex.”

  “Oh,” I mumbled. “Oh,” I repeated with a gasp.

  He continued to munch on the last of the bread, and I finally asked about his mother.

  “She’s a barmaid. Never meant to ’ave me. Billy t’either. But along we come.”

  “Billy’s father?”

  “Someone else. I come alon’ afore me dad figured ’e wanted t’ be a woman ’sted of a man. Don’ know ’ho Billy belongs t’. Mum used t’ be a laundress. Lived in a ’ouse in Thrawl Street and then with a bloke in George Street, but they gots kicked out for drinkin’. She moved down in Miller’s Court on the north side a’ Dorset Street, ya see. Finks Billy’s dad was th’ owner of a chandler shop on Dorset. Billy looks like him. Stout with blue eyes and pale. Looks a bi’ like the Chandler bloke. But maybe a guy ‘ho works at the gas works on Stepney. ‘e gives ‘er nice dresses. Like yours.”

  I knew the area. A place where women paraded along Commercial between Flower and Dean and Aldgate or on Whitechapel Road, soliciting clients. I c
ould not even begin to speculate what kind of life these children had.

  “Your mother doesn’t take care of you or Billy?”

  “She’s awright. She tends t’ Billy when she can.”

  “And what about you? You have to take care of him a lot.”

  “Aw, e’s no bova.” He shrugged and ripped off another chunk of bread.

  He’s no bother? I thought. He is just a child himself. Aunt Susan had always wanted children and could never have any, and here was a woman who had produced two and cared little for either.

  As if he had read my mind, Archibald said, “We does awright, Miss. We get fed and ‘ave a bed now and fen a’ the Union. Kin’t smoke fere. Bu’ i’s fem old ones I worries ’bou’.”

  “The old ones? The elderly people, you mean.”

  He nodded. “They kin’t ’ave even a cuppa fru th’ day. Only one in th’ mornin’ and one in th’ evenin’. At nigh’ fey ge’ a hunch a bread and a tad of bu-ah. Maybe a bi’-a-gruel and a dip in th’ copper now and fen.”

  I couldn’t stand it. Poor people, hungry people, maimed or sickly, and all they received each day were two cups of tea, some oats boiled in milk or a slice of bread, and a cup of hot cocoa. These misfortunates had little choice... go to the Whitechapel Union or live on the streets, and likely to die too soon in one or the other.

  Archibald dabbed the last of the bread in the skim of gravy from the beef roast. “Say, Miss, fem fings I saw in th’ lab. Fey was parts a people?”

  “Yes, Archibald. Organs taken from bodies after death.”