by A S Croyle
“But this method leaves the sick open to terrible abuse,” I said. Then I thought, My God, he’s lured me into a medical-philosophical discussion! “Uncle, I did not come here to debate the moral implications of euthanasia. I want to get you out of this place!”
“But you must think about these things. You must! Poppy, I have long tied my self-esteem to my skills as a surgeon, but often they go unrewarded. It is a great burden at times, my inability to save every patient, my inability to cure every sick person who crosses my threshold, to alleviate the suffering of those who cannot be cured. It diminishes me.
“You must see the same pride and ego in your Sherlock. For him to be unable to solve a case? Unthinkable! But he must stop. Both of you must stop. In due course, this case shall be resolved.”
Hearing those words, I knew, I was one hundred percent certain that Uncle had nothing to do with the murders. But he knew something.
“You didn’t do these horrible things. But you do know who did, don’t you?’
Though I pleaded with him, he refused to answer me. Finally, he picked up a second book. “I want you to read this, too.”
“Uncle Ormond, I don’t want to read. I don’t have time to read or discuss human frailty or morals or mortality! I have to help Sherlock get you out of here.”
He shoved the books at me. “In this book are David Hume’s Essays on Suicide and the Immortality of the Soul. He wrote them over a hundred years ago.”
“How did you-”
“I asked Sherlock to bring them to me.”
He closed his eyes and recited words he had obviously memorized from Hume’s book. “What is the meaning then of that principle, that a man who tired of life, and hunted by pain and misery, bravely overcomes all the natural terrors of death, and makes his escape from this cruel scene. That such a man I say, has incurred the indignation of his Creator by encroaching on the office of divine providence and disturbing the order of the Universe? Shall we assert that the Almighty has reserved to himself in any peculiar manner the disposal of the lives of men, and has not submitted that event, in common with others to the general laws by which the universe is governed?”
He opened his eyes and patted the book. “Promise you will read these.”
How often he had said these words to me and how I wished to be a child again. I tried to invoke those times in the past, when I was a little girl and he and Aunt Susan visited my home in Norfolk, and then, far more recently, when I came to live with him so I could attend school in London. I tried to see through the shadows to those lovely moments when Uncle read to me or discussed with me some pressing social issue, even if I were too young and inexperienced to fully appreciate it. I had never turned a deaf ear to him.
I took the books and held them to my breast. “Yes. I promise.”
He leaned back and looked at me. “You have done something quite remarkable, Poppy. You have allowed Sherlock to break through that wall of his, the one he created to protect himself from being hurt and to protect others from him. You allow him to see himself, to see his reflection and temporarily cast it off, to break through and make a connection, much as your aunt did with me. But I still want you to be careful. I do not believe he can ever free himself entirely from his own constraints or patterns. He has a need to manage himself, restrict himself to focus on his work and only his work. He may never be able to entirely shed that. You must protect yourself from being hurt, Poppy.”
He rose then. He gave me a look that was so very familiar. The one that said, ‘This conversation is over.’
He gave me a hug and a peck on the cheek and murmured, “Now go home.”
Then he walked over to Lestrade and they disappeared.
When Lestrade returned to escort me back to the Yard, we repassed the quadrangles. The walls were curiously exactly the same height as the lovely houses on Newgate Street. They were daunting, clearly a huge barrier to any escape route.
“One sweep did escape, Dr. Stamford,” Lestrade told me. “He placed his back in the angle of the wall, and by pressing his hands and feet against the masonry, he worked himself up the wall. When he reached the top, he let himself fall on his back, turned around and crept along. He jumped on a roof and entered a balcony. Nearly frightened the woman who lived there to death. Since the prisoners wear regular attire, he passed completely unnoticed and was at large for a time. But they captured him eventually. Now the walls are smooth and the top is spiked. There will be no more escapes in that way.”
I hurried with Lestrade to the police carriage, and once we were on our way, my mind tumbled with the image of that prisoner who was able to escape from Newgate. I’d dreamt of Uncle in a prison cell since he’d been taken away. I had tossed and turned, thinking about him being in a place like this and trying to figure out what I could do about it. I had considered the most absurd options. Planning his escape with Sherlock, approaching Her Majesty. And now, having seen the prison for myself, those thoughts and images pierced me like a hot poker.
43
Determined to convince someone to listen to me, I waited until Lestrade went into the Yard, then went around to the side of the building and entered through a different door. Lestrade nowhere in sight, I asked to see Detective Hopkins. I was directed to a large office where the detectives sorted out cases. I tapped on the door but no one noticed me at first.
I spotted Hopkins right away. I think he was dressed in the same inexpensive, tweed suit he’d been wearing the day we met four years ago. Though he had aged a bit and looked wearier, he still sported the eager smile and the intensely alert eyes. Hopkins was tremendously interested in new scientific breakthroughs; hence, his interest in phrenology, which seemed to be taking England by storm. He studied Sherlock’s methods with intensity and often tried to apply Sherlock’s forensic science methods to his own cases. Sherlock thought well of him, and he had mentioned several times that despite the fact that Hopkins had supplied some crucial evidence that assisted Sherlock in tracking down the Angel Maker, Hopkins had had limited success in climbing up the ladder at the Yard. Hopkins was a few years older than Sherlock, and he lamented the fact that he had not progressed more quickly.
Hopkins also had high aspirations for his son, Stanley Hopkins, Jr., who was at that time about seven or eight years of age. He came from a long line of law enforcement officials, and he hoped that when his son grew up, he, too, would join the police force or engage in private detective work. According to Sherlock, Hopkins secretly hoped that his son would become Sherlock’s disciple. I knew - and disapproved - of Sherlock’s interactions with the boy. Sherlock had told me that Stanley, Jr. was a bright child who showed great promise; he thought nothing of showing the boy gruesome artist’s renditions of crime scenes and delighted in the boy’s enthusiasm when he asked about them. I recalled that one evening when we were at dinner after Sherlock had spent some time with the child, Sherlock said, “Young Stanley Junior might be my protégé one day - except I’ll be over forty years old and retired by the time he’s of any use to me.”
I’d countered with, “Oh, come now, you’ll never retire, Sherlock. What do you think you’re going to do? Buy a house in the country and keep bees or something?”
He’d said, “I might just fancy that.”
Now that he was playing apprentice to Dr. Haviland with his bee colonies at St. Bart’s, I half-expected him to do precisely that.
I must admit I rather hoped that Stanley, Jr. would benefit from Sherlock’s tutelage, if detective work were indeed his bent, but I also wanted him to emulate his father, for Stanley Senior had a pleasing personality and people skills, a characteristic Sherlock sorely lacked.
As I entered the office, to my surprise, I also saw Sherlock when he turned around. He’d been facing a great board with drawings - crime scenes, I believe - but now he was pacing back and forth as if he were a panther on the prowl.
I closed my eyes, and my mind flashed back to our first few encounters. Back then, when we first met, he had been strong and driven, yet awkward and fragile, eccentric and often disagreeable, a bundle of contradictions. He was still eccentric and anti-social, but he was more focused now, always intent upon unlocking an enigma. When he solved a puzzle, his face took on the patriotic glow of a proud soldier.
I opened my eyes and watched him speaking to Hopkins. I could tell that this case was like a maw, the gullet of a voracious, insatiable beast into which Sherlock had fallen prey. I could tell that it was incomprehensible to him that his own brother was blocking him at every turn. It was like Sherlock was an army forced to fight on two fronts, or a firefighter called to put out a blazing house. He sees the flames engulfing the structure. He feels the heat on his skin. He gets into position to fight the fire, equipped only with pails of water, but each time he puts out a section of the fire, a gust of wind ignites the dying embers again and they shoot to the roof.
I tapped on the door again. This time, all eyes turned. Hopkins and Sherlock hurried over to me.
“Poppy,” Sherlock said, “tell him to listen to me.”
Hopkins cast his eyes downward. Then he looked at me. “Unlike Mr. Holmes, I am an official member of the police force. I am subject to rules and regulations and the law in instances where he is not.”
“Oh, Hopkins!” Sherlock squawked. “You are subject to incompetent leaders, failed institutions, and feckless city officials. Do you not apply my methods at every turn? Do you not study the science of deduction and see the evidence more clearly?”
“I’m in a different position, Mr. Holmes. And that impacts how I may go about solving cases.”
“Use your ingenuity, man! Think for yourself. Have I not told you a hundred times that the others see but they do not observe?”
This was classic Sherlock. Willing to take risks that the case required of him. Willing to bend rules, toss them out, if necessary, to bring down the perpetrator of a crime.
“My dear Detective Hopkins, how many times have you come to me and asked for my assistance? Granted, sometimes I say, I am busy, I hope you have no designs on me tonight, but then, when you made it known that you were not clear about your case, that you could not make heads or tails of it, that it was too tangled a business for anyone - except me - to resolve, did I not always invite you in, offer you a cigar and a cup of tea with lemon, and help you sort it all out? Have I not always said, ‘Do sit down and let me hear about it?’”
Hopkins’ face turned red.
Sherlock turned on his heels to face me. “Why have you come, Poppy? Shouldn’t you be bandaging a scraped knee or something?”
I bit my tongue. I stared at him a moment, still wanting to flog him for revealing my doubts to Uncle. And now, his insolence and rudeness made my blood boil even hotter. “Must you always be so insensitive?”
Then I turned to Hopkins and forced a calm voice. “Sir, I have some information I would like to share with you. Information that can exonerate my uncle.”
Before Hopkins could get a word out, Sherlock said, “Wiggins told me what transpired at the museum, Poppy.”
“Wiggins? Who is Wiggins?”
“Archibald!” he yelled, clearly losing his patience. “The boy who accompanied you to the museum - his name is William Archibald Wiggins. On the streets, his friends call him Bill. His mother was so knockered, she named her second son William as well, so I’ve taken to calling him by his second name. “
Detective Hopkins shook his head and looked at me. “Do you see what I mean?” he asked me. “He is outside the law. He employs children... street urchins and beggars like this Wiggins character.” He turned to Sherlock. “And Mr. Holmes, this is one method I can neither condone nor endorse... using destitute children who live by stealing, scampering around our streets like vermin-”
“They needs must fend for themselves,” Sherlock retorted, “but I do not encourage them to steal, sir. I simply employ them to go places I cannot and hear things I cannot. I compensate them for the information they acquire on my behalf and they are good little spies.”
I shuddered, again thinking of the tiny babe that Archibald cared for most of the time. He was just a child himself. All of them, all of these deserted, abandoned children belonged in warm, cozy homes, and in school, not living dirty and ragged on the streets of London.
“Detective Hopkins, is there somewhere we can speak privately?” I asked finally. “Please, sir, you always listen to Sherlock and-”
“I have already spoken to him about the man at the museum, Poppy,” Sherlock said. “And I have spoken with Mycroft. And Gregson and Lestrade as well.”
Ignoring him, I said, “Detective Hopkins, I think that you should question Mr. Brown. He knows how to mix medicines; he’s interested in birds and mercy killing and Buddhism. He’s a patron of the British Museum and a man at the museum makes little replicas of-”
Sherlock abruptly grabbed my wrist, dragged me out of the office and down the hallway. “Poppy, what are you doing here?”
I yanked away from his grip. “Sherlock Holmes, if you ever grab me by the wrist again, I shall make good on my prior threat to flog you with a riding crop!”
He winced but he did not apologize. “Why are you here?” he asked again in an impatient tone. “Did you not get the note?”
“What note?”
He sighed. “I told Archibald to go to your house and tell your Aunt Susan and your mother to spend the night in a hotel. They were to leave a note for you to join them if you came home.”
“To spend the night at... what did you say? My mother? What are you talking about?”
“I ran into Michael at St. Bart’s earlier and he told me that your aunt had sent a telegram to your mother about the situation, so your mum decided to be with her sister during this difficult time. Michael was on his way to pick her up at the train station. I sent Archibald to wait for them at the house to tell them to spend the night at a hotel and to leave a note for you if you returned.”
“Sherlock, I don’t understand.”
“Something is about to happen, and all of you may be in danger.”
“What? What is about to happen?”
“Poppy, just this once, listen to me. Don’t be stubborn and headstrong. Do as I say.”
“Sherlock, if something dangerous is about to happen, then come with me.”
“I cannot. I must see this through. Every instinct I possess cries out to do so.”
“Well, I am going to Uncle’s. If my mother has come, I must go to see her. And unless you tell me what is going on, I am not-”
He stopped me with a kiss.
It is utterly impossible to describe how it felt. It had been four years since our lips had touched. I pulled away to catch my breath but his lips met mine again. The torrents of tears I had shed over this man faded away. The hustle of the Yard, the officers, the investigation faded away, replaced in my mind by the aroma of wildflowers and the sounds of seagulls. My head rested on a soft white pillowcase embroidered with gold edges like a priest’s chasuble, and candlelight danced against pink and azure curtains. I could almost taste traces of sweet wine and smell the scent of it on Sherlock’s breath. We were tender and submissive to each other. We were without quarrel, without words for none mattered and none would suffice. In the years that followed, I would often lie in bed until morning thinking back to that time and that moment.
I pulled away and looked at him. “Sherlock, there’s not a bit of use to you-”
He kissed my parted lips yet again and said, “Stay the night with me. If you won’t stay at a hotel, stay with me.”
I had trouble breathing. My skin went hot at the words, which he uttered in a husky voice laced with a distinct tone of mystery. I melted immediately. No flash of lightning could have
rendered me so completely helpless. It seemed that no matter how I endeavoured to stop this affliction, no matter how dreadfully he treated me at times, no matter how hard I tried to hide my feelings, he possessed an instinctive perception of exactly what I was about. He saw in my eyes my affection. He knew that he occupied my thoughts. He knew that I was easily persuaded to form my mind to his and that at the slightest provocation, I would yield to him.
“All right, Sherlock.”
He grabbed his cape from the coat tree and we left the building.
44
When we arrived at Sherlock’s residence on Montague Street, he kissed my forehead tenderly. Night crept over the city, so he lit the gaslight fixtures that flanked the fireplace. He told me to make myself comfortable while he put on the kettle.
I took off my cape and looked around. In the corner on a coat stand hung a clerical costume, one of Sherlock’s disguises, I presumed. I recalled that he said he’d recently masqueraded as a priest while investigating a burglary at the medieval St. Pancras Old Church. I smiled to myself, imagining how must have looked to passersby... over six feet tall, slimly built, with sallow face and fake dark moustache and beard, disguising his sallow complexion, a black felt hat drawn over his forehead.
I glanced at the breakfront bookcase to the right of the fireplace. It held many books I remembered from his room at Oxford where I’d tended to him while he recovered. Texts by Pasteur and Lister, works by Aristotle, Wilson’s The Arte of Rhetorique, Gilbert Austin’s Chironomia and Sheridan’s Lectures on Elocution. Books on anatomy and new treatises on the blossoming field of forensic science. New editions of Fitzherbert’s Great Abridgement of the Law and The Statutes of the Realm. London. Many others had been added to his reference collection since he left Oxford. I was leafing through Cicero’s De Oratore when I felt his breath on my neck.
He put down the teacups and I turned to face him. How eagerly I welcomed the warmth that sneaked along my skin as he seized my hand and led me swiftly past the kitchen and into a dark room. I pondered what had made his heart of coldness suddenly swell with such eager ardour, but that thought quickly dissolved as he pressed his chest to mine. I was vaguely conscious of the bed and a small dresser. I bumped into the open door of a wardrobe, but, like a cat on the prowl, he seemed to have a remarkable ability to see in the dark. Still holding my hand, he felt his way among the furniture, closed the wardrobe door, and sat down on the bed. Then he pulled me down with him and kissed me again.