The Bird and The Buddha

by A S Croyle

  It always came back to that. His work. His destiny. Such a complicated man was he. Devoted to solving crimes, yet unwilling to formally join the Metropolitan Police. A scholar and an avid reader, but lacking in interest in so many subjects that others found fascinating. Skeptical about religion, yet could quote it as a clergyman quotes the Bible chapter and verse. Less and less interested in theatre, despite his flair for the dramatic, yet fond of Shakespeare.

  Once, when we had been conversing on the banks of the river near my home in Norfolk, I’d asked what play he liked best. He told me Twelfth Night, though he’d immediately passed that off as a deference because he was born on January sixth.

  “I like that play as well,” I’d told him. “It’s about love.”

  “I suppose,” he said, “But we must not forget that the play symbolizes how love can cause pain. Some characters see love as a curse, one that disrupts their lives. Some suffer pain from being in love. Orsino, I believe, depicts love woefully as an appetite, ‘which cannot be satisfied.’ Olivia sees it as a plague. All these love-struck victims... they suffer. And doesn’t Shakespeare also show that love is exclusionary? He demonstrates that some people find romantic happiness, but others do not.”

  “But no, the couples find happiness with each other.”

  “Some, not all,” he corrected. “Malvolio and Antonio are prevented from having the objects of their desire; Malvolio, because he is unworthy of his mistress Olivia, and Antonio whose love for Sebastian can never be realized. You see, Poppy?” he had asked, a shadow crossing his face, “love cannot conquer all obstacles, and those whose desires go unfulfilled remain in love, but feel the sting of their failures all the more severely.”

  So, could it be that Sherlock feared love because he was certain he would fail at it? Could I convince him otherwise?

  “We’re here, Miss,” the cabbie said.

  I quickly paid him and ran to Uncle’s front door. I felt a hand on my shoulder, started and twirled around. It was dark and the fog was dense, but I made out the figure of a little boy in the shadows. He was thin as a scarecrow and almost as frightening in the dark shadows. His hair was raven black and slicked across his forehead, and he wore overalls and a frayed cap. At first I thought he was one of the street sweepers and that I was in his way. But then I recognized him as the little boy that Sherlock had sent to summon me to Bart’s to do the autopsy.

  “What are you doing, skulking around?”

  Pacing restlessly as he spoke, the boy said, “Mr. ’olmes says I’m right good at sleuthing, I am.”

  Poor little waif, I thought. I contemplated momentarily how it came to pass that London streets were the home to thousands of displaced children like this one before me. What I would give to sweep them all into my arms and keep them safe.

  “Your name is Rattle, isn’t it?”

  He nodded.

  “And why do they call you that?”

  “Cos I chatter too much.”

  I laughed. “Well, Rattle, did Mr. Holmes send you here to spy on me then?”

  He nodded. “’e sent me to keep yer from goin’ inside, Miss.”

  “But I live there, so why should I stay out here in the dark and mist?”

  “’e says it’s dangerous. So jus’ come wif me.”

  “I cannot do that. I am sorry. I’m going in now.”

  I turned to go inside and he was instantly in front of me. He was lightning quick and agile and found a way to block each step I took, each turn I made. He was so thin and wiry, and filled with the inexorable pertinacity of all children, that I was unsure how to get around him without lifting him by his collar.

  “You are the artful dodger, aren’t you?”

  “I ’as me orders, Miss.”

  Annoyed, particularly in light of the fact that Sherlock thought I was in danger, yet he had no compunction about putting this child in harm’s way, I asked, “Rattle, tell me, are you being compensated commensurate with your duties?”

  “’scuse me, Miss?”

  “What is Mr. Holmes paying you to keep your eye on me?”

  “’e always pays a shillin’ per job and a guinea if we does somethin’ special. Plus expenses, Miss.”

  “Well, I shall give you thrice that sum if you will allow me to pass.”

  After a long silence, Rattle resumed his guarding tactics. His right hand clasped upon my cape, he glared at me. “I ’as me orders, Miss,” he repeated.

  I withdrew coins from my bag. Oh, God, I thought. I am tempting a child into doing my bidding, just as Sherlock does. Despite this, I held the coins in my open hand in front of him and cast a tempting little face at him. “Thrice what he promised you, Rattle. Think what you can buy with this. Think, Rattle. Mutton. Sweets. Pudding. And you won’t have to steal a lick of it.”

  He withdrew his hand and shuffled backwards. “I don’ like stealin’,” he said. “Fat’s ’ow yer get lagged ove’ t’ prison. I know some been quodded no end of times fer i’” He thought a moment. “But what’ll I tell Mr. ’olmes?”

  “Leave Mr. Holmes to me, won’t you?”

  “Right.” He swiped the coins from my palm and said, “Fen I’ll be on my way, Miss.”

  “Be careful, Rattle!” I called to him as he gave out a shrill cry of joy, ran up the street, and disappeared.

  I turned to face the house. I crept up to the window next to the door and peered in. It was completely dark and there was no movement. I opened the door, stepped inside and called out to my aunt. Then I called out Martha’s name and Genabee’s. A bit panicky now, I called out, “Mum? Are you here? Michael?”

  No one answered.

  47

  The house was too quiet, devoid of voices or activity from down below, and neither Sappho nor Little Elihu came to greet me. The trembling in my arms was like ripples on a pond, constant and swelling. My hands shook as I lit the oil lamp in the foyer, and I saw a note leaning against the silver bird perched on the rim of the ornate calling card holder on the marble table. It was where Aunt Susan always left notes for me and Uncle Ormond. She had written that I must join her and my mother at the Langham and that I was not to stay in the house or ask questions. After I read it, I put it back on the table and started to walk through the house. I thought I heard footsteps near the drawing room and headed in that direction. The door was open and I looked inside. There was nothing, no one. I started to amble through the rest of the house.

  I called down to the area that contained the kitchen, scullery, the servants’ sitting room and the pantry. Again, there was no response. I didn’t hear a sound; I didn’t see anything out of order. I looked in the sitting room, the drawing room, the dining room, and Uncle’s study. This house where I had spent most of my time for a decade suddenly felt unfamiliar, cold, desolate. I continued my journey in silence.

  When I got to Aunt Susan’s morning room, I opened the door and stared through the darkness at her piano, hearing in my head the last piece she played. I could hear the notes in my head - the 1st movement’s agitation and despair and heartache, the violent beginning of the scherzo and its second gentle, reflective section, the mysterious 4th movement with its endless running triplets and the finale... the one filled with horror, ending with the victim being killed by his entrapper on the final minor chord. It was that section that pounded in my head as I moved toward the library door.

  I stopped and pressed my ear to the door. Hearing nothing, I was about to make my way up to the bedrooms and the garret when a voice came from the shadows. “Eh, yup, Dr. Stamford, we meet again,” a man said as he put his hand on my shoulder. I jumped with a start.

  He rushed forward and grasped my arm. I nearly dropped the lamp as he jabbed something against my neck. I felt the slightest prick.

  “If you do not do as I say, you will be dead in four minutes.”

&nbs
p; 48

  “Open the door, Dr. Stamford.”

  Seeking to place the voice, blinking and trying to focus, I heard my own rasping breaths. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “Open the door.”

  I took deep breaths and complied. I let my eyes move hurriedly around the room. They found Sherlock slumped in a wing chair near the fireplace. His head drooped and blood dripped down his face. I was certain he was unconscious.

  The man gave me a slight push and I moved forward. I started to walk toward the fireplace, hoping I could grab a poker, but he nudged me toward the other chair and said, “Have a seat. You and Mr. Holmes have made a grave error and we are here to rectify it.”

  I stumbled toward the chair and sat down. That was when I realized that Sherlock’s head was bleeding profusely. I turned to look at our captor. When I finally had a chance to see the man’s face, I realized it was Zhèng, the Oriental man from the museum. He had a pistol in his hand - Sherlock’s. He was pointing it directly at Sherlock.

  I stared at Feng Zhèng with a mixture of incredulity and terror. With all that had happened that day, I’d completely forgotten that he was supposed to deliver the Buddha statue. But he was not here to deliver a trinket. The terrible certainty hit me. Mr. Brown was not the British Museum murderer. It was this man and he had come to tie up loose ends.

  My hands, my mind were shaking, my blood froze. One fact consumed me with fear. It seemed impossible, but this man had outwitted Sherlock Holmes.

  Aware that he was watching my every move, I rose cautiously and took a step toward Sherlock. “Sherlock,” I called out. “Sherlock, can you hear me?”

  He roused and gave me a vacant stare. Then he mumbled, “I’m afraid that Mr. Henry Chickering refused to surrender.”

  “Mr. Chickering? Who is-”

  Giving me a shove, Zhèng said, “That would be me, Dr. Stamford. Now please sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”

  I slid into the chair across from Sherlock and asked, “May I please help him? He is bleeding profusely. Please let me apply pressure to the wound.”

  When he nodded, I slowly and carefully retrieved a hankie from my cuff.

  “Hand him the handkerchief, Dr. Stamford. Slowly.”

  I reached out to Sherlock. He took the fabric and pressed it against the laceration.

  “Thank you,” he breathed, turning his lips up.

  How could he smile at such a time? But his eyes betrayed him. My Sherlock who was always hopeful, who had told me once that the goodness of Providence and hope rested in flowers, was now a bloom caught in a downpour, drooping upon its tired, sagging stem.

  “You were caught off guard,” I said.

  “That shan’t happen again,” he snarled under his breath. Then he added, “We’ve come full circle, Poppy.”

  “What?”

  “Isn’t this how we met? Me bleeding and you offering medical assistance?”

  I nodded.

  Zhèng walked over to the fireplace. His back to it, he stood between us.

  “You don’t sound like-”

  “Like the wiry little Chinese man at the museum?” Zhèng laughed. “No, I suppose I do not.”

  His accent was flavoured with traces of a distinct northern Scottish dialect with its particular mouth postures and sounds, a voice bathed in stone walls, limestone, crags, moors, and waterfalls.

  “Mr. Zhèng used his mother’s name to gain employment at the museum,” Sherlock said, dabbing at the blood that ran down his temple. He turned to Zhèng. “The police will be here shortly. It really is quite pointless to add to the body count. It will only take one noose, you realize.”

  “They have no idea that I’m here, Mr. Holmes. And I’ll be gone - why, we’ll all be gone, as it were, by the time they figure it out. They’re arresting Mr. Brown, I believe.”

  I shot a glance at Sherlock. “They think it’s Mr. Brown?”

  “As did your uncle, Poppy.”

  Sherlock turned his gaze to Mr. Zhèng. I noticed his expression was quite amiable, his smile constrained but evident. It was as though he were quite enjoying this. But his composure did nothing to soothe the anguish I was feeling.

  “May I explain?” Sherlock asked. “It will pass the time until the officers arrive.”

  “Oh, please do, Mr. Holmes. I’m quite curious myself.”

  Sherlock continued to put pressure on his wound but returned his eyes to my face. “I visited Mr. Brown on several occasions. You see, your uncle suspected him and advised Mycroft of that. By taking Dr. Sacker to the Yard and then to the prison, Mycroft attempted to kill two birds with one stone. Have Dr. Sacker in protective custody and at the same time, flush out the killer. Mycroft was quite certain the killer would run, as was I at first, which is why I posted my street urchins at every egress out of London. But Mr. Brown did not run because he is quite innocent.”

  “I don’t understand, Sherlock.”

  “Do go on,” Zhèng said.

  Still dabbing at his wound, Sherlock looked at Zhèng. “Do give her a bit of background, Mr. Chickering.”

  “No, no, I would not dream of interrupting. You clearly love the sound of your own voice, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Very well, then,” said Sherlock. “Mr. Chickering’s father was from Scotland originally. He was a convict sent to the Australian penal colonies, like our dear friend Victor’s father. Van Dieman’s Land, I’d wager, since most convicts in the late 1840’s were sent there as exiles. They were free to work for pay while under sentence. Mr. Chickering’s father escaped, worked the gold rush and then sought passage on a ship to San Francisco, where he disappeared for a time.” Sherlock turned back to our captor. “And where he met your mother.”

  “That’s quite correct. Not to detain your intriguing story, Mr. Holmes, but how did you ascertain this information?”

  “I shall get to that momentarily,” Sherlock replied. “Now, after your parents married, they participated in California’s Gold Rush. 1849, was it?”

  Zhèng nodded.

  “By the following year, your father had accumulated a goodly sum of money and you had come along.”

  I stared at Zhèng. These dates would make him about twenty-eight years of age. He looked much older.

  “The family then returned to Scotland but eventually settled in England. All was well. Until another brother came along who was quite sickly. What was his name?”

  Zhèng’s face darkened. “Stanley. But his Chinese name was Chongan.”

  “Appropriate,” Sherlock said turning to me again. “It means second brother of peace. But poor Stanley had no peace. He had a neurological disorder. A crippling, debilitating disease. There was no hope. No doctors could cure him.” Looking again at Zhèng, he said, “And your father couldn’t bear it, could he? He became a drunk, a gambler. He was squandering away your wealth swiftly until he was shot during one such gambling dispute, leaving your mother with a ten-year-old - you - and a toddler who was destined to die.

  “But your brother hung on for a bit, his muscles slowly withering, his mind becoming mush. And you watched this, day after day, month after month. Then your mother died. You would call it dying of a broken heart, Poppy.

  “However, you had money,” Sherlock continued. “You took Stanley to more doctors. You went to medical school yourself for a time shortly before he finally passed away. After he died, you came to London to begin your true mission.”

  “What mission is that, Mr. Holmes?” Zhèng asked dryly.

  “To ease suffering. You were brought up in the tenets of Buddhism by your mother. You believe in the Four Truths, especially in The Truth of the Path That Frees Us from Suffering. And it became your mission to alleviate it.”

  “Well done, Mr. Holmes,” Zhèng said, nodding in approval. “Well done.”
r />   49

  Pacing now, Zhèng explained. “I sought employment at the British Museum. I showed them my artistic side, how well I could preserve and maintain their ancient Oriental artifacts.”

  “And then you sought out doctors who concurred with your opinion on euthanasia,” Sherlock said. “Doctors you discovered through your association with Mr. Brown and his little Ornithology group.”

  “Birds? But what do birds have to do with any of this?” I asked.

  “Mr. Zhèng - well, he went by his English name on these occasions - has a passionate interest in the study of birds,” Sherlock explained. “You might have noticed in his little office several lovely paintings of birds that are indigenous to China, as well as the birdcages containing Chinese finches. He joined Mr. Brown’s little bird group, became friendly with him and, quite by accident, stumbled upon several like-minded fellows. Like-minded not only as to the study of birds but of euthanasia. Three such individuals were members not only of this little bird-watching group but of a secret society of euthanasia enthusiasts... the physicians who treated the victims. Well, almost all of the victims.”

  Zhèng’s gaze adopted a new degree of interest, perhaps even pleasure and gratitude at hearing his story unfold. It was disarming, disquieting, particularly since his finger rested on the trigger of the pistol.

  “How did you come to learn all the facts, Mr. Holmes? About my background? My father-”

  “From James Dixon’s physician, sir. When I went to speak to him, after talking to Mr. Brown, I told him that he was an accessory to murder, and he became quite talkative. Told me your whole, sad story. Does it give you consolation to know that he has great empathy for you and was most reluctant to give you up? I managed to persuade him, however.”

  I could only imagine Sherlock’s particular art of persuasion with the good doctor.