by A S Croyle
“Mr. ’olmes keeps us busy, Miss,” he admonished. “We likes wha’ we does.”
“But Billy is just a baby, Archie. A little toddler, like my nephew.”
He thought a moment. “Well, yah, Billy’s anothe’ matta all tageva. ‘e’s a good boy.”
“Yes, yes, that’s my point. If he were educated, perhaps he could grow up to have a far easier life than yours. Become a page or even much more. I wanted to speak to you first, of course. Before I consult with Uncle and Aunt Susan.”
“Lemme thin’ on i’. Can I go back t’ eatin’ now?”
“Of course,” I laughed.
“And Miss, call me Bill. Everybody calls me Bill. Or Wiggins. I’s th’ li’l one ’ho’s Billy now.”
“Yes, Master Wiggins. As you wish,” I said. “Now, run along.”
He ran from the room and before I could rise to leave, Uncle came in and closed the door behind him. His expression spoke volumes and I knew he had much to say. He opened up a folded piece of paper and read from it.
We shall be notes in that great Symphony
Whose cadence circles through the rhythmic spheres,
And all the live World’s throbbing heart shall be
One with our heart, the stealthy creeping years
Have lost their terrors now, we shall not die,
The Universe itself shall be our Immortality!
“What is that, Uncle?”
“A few more lines of Oscar’s poem. I asked him if I could borrow them for a moment. It’s quite good, actually. I rather hope there is some form of immortality. For the sake of those young men we’ve recently buried. Oscar can be quite profound.”
“He can be that... sometimes. “
A shadow crossed his face.
“What is it, Uncle?”
“I think we should talk, Poppy. Don’t you?”
52
Uncle sat down and folded up the piece of paper. “I just wanted to say I am so very sorry, Poppy.”
“I’m the one who should be sorry, Uncle. How I ever could have doubted you... entertained such horrible thoughts-”
“No, no,” he said cupping my hands with his. “I’m sure when you saw all my little notes in margins and when I wouldn’t speak to anyone, you became suspicious.”
“And why, Uncle? Why wouldn’t you tell us what was going on?”
“As Sherlock told you, it was an elabourate ruse to catch the killer out. We all thought that if I were tossed in gaol and refused to speak, then everyone would think me guilty. And then Sherlock had the article placed in the newspaper... well, we thought Mr. Brown would make preparations to flee. It never occurred to me to see if anyone at the museum... that this Oriental fellow-”
At that moment, I suppose I was like a frantic writer, filled with a jumble of confused thoughts about Sherlock and Uncle, the mercy killings, the dead men, most especially the young reporter. I did not know how to express myself.
So I simply said, “It’s over. That’s what counts, Uncle. And I love you.”
“But all the time I was in prison, I did think a great deal about euthanasia, about everything that’s been written on the subject and how the debate goes on and on.”
“And so it shall. But, Uncle, you cannot goad me into a philosophical discussion right now. I am just ever so glad you are home. But I do have a proposition for you.”
“A proposition?”
I told him my thoughts about Archie and his little brother Billy. Then I waited.
He sat back, looking a bit stunned. “Children? Here? As if they were our own kith and kindred?”
“I don’t know about arrangements, Uncle. Archie does not seem inclined to give up his little brother completely. But perhaps clothing, food, some education. Something to give little Billy a chance-”
“I should like a reliable page one day,” Sherlock said as he burst into the room, champagne bottle in hand. “I think it’s worthy of consideration, Dr. Sacker.”
“Do you now?” Uncle asked, smiling. Then he slapped his palms on his knees, rose and said, “I imagine the two of you should like a bit of privacy.”
Sherlock poured some champagne into a glass and gave it to Uncle. They lifted the glasses to one another.
“In all likelihood, you have some totally unlawful and dangerous plotting of another adventure together. Good fun!” Uncle said. Then he left the room, closing the door behind him.
Sherlock sat down and stared at me. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“I suspect you wish to discuss some things with me. Please, no heart-shaped notes of gratitude.”
“Gratitude!” I scoffed. “As if you ever evoke feelings of gratitude!”
I turned to look out the window. I could still hear the thunder rumbling ever closer and the rain dripping from the trees, polishing the leaves that would not stay for much longer. In a short time, it would be autumn and then winter, that ever-so-quiet and still season of diamonds sparkling on the snow.
I had a sweet memory, a clear image of Effie and me, the two of us skating in Norfolk. I could hear in my mind the blades cutting across the icy ponds. Me, dressed in the warm pantaloons she’d made for me and my heavy, blue wool coat; she still wearing her long, cumbersome skirt, made in gold to match her hair. And a white fur hat and muff, and her O’Flahertie tartan scarf trailing behind her in the wind. She was like a healing bouquet of stamens, delicate as the gossamer filaments, like anther, sweet and ready to burst forth, weaving into hearts with her infectious laughter. She skated with such zeal, as she did with every endeavour. As she had lived.
“Poppy, you must know, you must, how difficult this is for me,” Sherlock said.
“What?”
“It is difficult for me to-”
“To love. To trust. You feel you cannot have your work and have me as well.”
“Yes.”
“You would trample on such treasures rather than extract them.”
“Poppy, I-”
He rose and stood near the fireplace. For a moment, he reminded me of a painting in St. Paul’s, a depiction of Jesus preparing to knock on an overgrown and long-unopened door. It illustrated a passage from Revelations: “Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if any man hear My voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with Me.”
The artist said that he painted the picture by what he thought to be Divine command, unworthy though he was. And I sat there now, as if by Divine Command, still hoping that one day Sherlock might knock on my long-unopened door again.
“It’s all right, Sherlock. Truly.”
“I won’t change my mind, Poppy. I cannot. It is too dangerous for you.”
And too dangerous for your heart, I thought.
“But you would still like me to be your assistant?”
He grinned broadly. “Well, yes, of course!”
Sherlock’s heart was bound by crude blocks of ashlar, and nothing I could do right now would coax the blossoms through such a finely dressed stone wall.
So, for now, I would linger in the vicinity of Sherlock’s heart, waiting for him to knock again.
Epilogue
“I don’ see no elephants,” Archie said as I shifted the balance of little Billy’s weight against my chest. “You said fere’d be firteen. And clowns. You said fere’d be clowns.”
“Ten or more of them,” I laughed. “They’ll come along, Archie.”
“Wiggins,” he reminded me and I nodded.
“Yes, Master Wiggins. The elephants and the clowns will come, I promise.”
I glanced over at Michael who was similarly trying to distribute Alexander’s weight as we waited for the Lord Mayor of London’s Show to come around the bend.
It was a dar
k, dull November morning and a heavy fog hung over the city. I wondered how the gilt coaches, the steel armour and the gay, coloured flags would even be discernible.
“Will we see the Prince, Miss?” Ollie asked, tugging at my skirt. “It’s ’is birthday.”
“Birthday!” Rattle screamed. “Will there be cake?”
Laughing, Oscar said, “I don’t think so, little one. But you never know. Our prince is full of surprises,” adding a wink.
“So it’s official now, Oscar, is it not?” Michael asked. “You’ve completed your studies at Oxford?”
“Yes, Michael. Well, almost. My official degree will be registered on the 28th.”
“And then?”
“I shall settle here for a while. But I am thinking about going to America.”
“America!”
“Poppy,” Oscar whispered in my ear. “Come with me.”
“Why would I go there?”
“Why would you stay here?”
I studied his face a moment. Then he said, “I am almost finished with my poem. You should read it. You should heed it.”
“What should I heed?”
“‘I am too young to live without desire, too young art thou to waste this summer night.’ Do not waste your summer nights on Sherlock, Poppy.”
I shook my head and kissed Billy’s head, wondering if he and my nephew were the only babies I would ever hold in my arms.
The parade was grand, as it had been since the twelfth century. Young boys sold little books with brightly coloured pictures representing the procession. Little girls dressed in pink stockings and boys in canary breeches watched the parade and begged for sweets, for all the shop windows were filled with them. The yellow coach of the Master of the Company and the carriage of the Worshipful Master of Broderer’s passed by. Then came men in uniforms of red and blue and the Worshipful Company of Bakers. Some of them held their banner high, the one that said, “Praise God for All;” others carried large bouquets of flowers. And after them came the Vintners’ Company, its commissioners bearing shields, and the Bargemaster in full uniform, followed by the Swan Uppers, those who look after the swans of London and mark the young swans in the spring. They were dressed in dark cloth jackets spliced with white and blue and white striped jersey shirts and white trousers.
The crowed roared with delight when the elephants approached, dressed in their Oriental trappings and howdahs, ridden by boys not much older than Archie. Gorgeous, magnificent, triumphant, I thought, as I glanced at my nephew and saw them through a child’s eyes. Several knights in steel armour, bearing lances and pennons and mounted on magnificent chargers, followed and then came the Epping Forest rangers in their green velvet coats and hats with long feathers.
Hats Effie would have loved the hats, I thought, and I saw in Michael’s eyes that he had just had the same pinching memory.
Trumpeters, aldermen, a gorgeous coach with hammer-cloth of red and gold and then four fine horses bringing in the Lord Mayor and his household cavalry in their crimson coats atop white horses.
When the parade was almost over, I gave Billy over to his brother and told him I was heading to the museum. There was no point waiting any longer for Sherlock. Clearly, he was not coming.
“Kin I come, too, Miss?”
“No, not this time. I’ll see you later back at my uncle’s house for lunch.”
I walked to the museum and just before I went inside, I heard Sherlock call out my name.
I turned.
Out of breath, he bent over and let out a few puffs into the cold, still air. The sun had finally peeked through and seemed to settle behind him like a halo.
“Well, Mr. Holmes. Nice of you to join us at the parade.”
“You know those are not things I wish to attend, Poppy. But I did go. I sought you out; how do you think I knew where to find you? Master Wiggins told me you were on your way here.”
“So what was so pressing that you were detained?”
“Mycroft. What else? He is insane because some of the Queen’s swans have been slaughtered.”
My mind reeled back to my quiet moments in Victoria Park, watching the swans swim. Watching them love.
“But that’s criminal.”
“Indeed, it is. But not something in which I wish to be involved. Nevertheless, I am on my way to inspect one of the creatures to see if something interesting is afoot. I’ve had it taken to the morgue at St. Bart’s. Will you join me?”
“Yes, I will. But not just yet. Run along. I’ll catch up to you.”
He kissed me flagrantly, right out there in the open, and I thought for a moment he might clap his hands.
He is elated, I thought. On to yet another case.
As he turned and walked swiftly down the street, I went into the museum and visited the room with the Buddha Vairocana, his hands still those of a teacher, telling us that truth ends ignorance. I was staring at him, studying him when I heard a voice.
I twirled in the direction of the sound and saw Rabi, the lovely young man from India.
“Rabi, how wonderful to see you. You are still here.”
“Yes. For a bit longer.”
“How are you?”
“Longing for home.”
Longing. I understood longing.
“And you, Miss Poppy. You are still unhappy. You also long for something. Do you wish to be somewhere else?”
I sighed and paced. “Sometimes, Rabi. Sometimes I do.”
“But you are hesitant.”
I nodded.
“You cannot cross the sea merely by standing and staring at the water.”
I stopped and smiled at him. “No, I suppose not.”
“You do look very sad, Miss.”
I started to pace again. “I am sad. And frustrated. You see,” I added, wringing my hands, “it’s just that I have this... this friend who is infuriating. He values work and logic above all else and he is going to miss so many things in life.”
Rabi’s eyes narrowed. “Then I am sad for him as well, for a mind all logic is like a knife all blade. It makes the hand bleed that uses it. One must embrace all of life. One should see each morning for the first time as a newborn that has no name sees it.”
I stared at him, wide-eyed. “Yes, yes!” I cried in a tone a bit louder than my ‘museum voice.’ “You’re exactly right. I agree completely.”
“We should appreciate the boundless fields, the songs of birds, the shade of the trees and the shadows.”
I nodded and felt tears stinging.
“But weeping is wasted, Miss, on one who does not understand why you cry.”
“Yes, Rabi. I’ve thought of that. Often.”
“Maybe you should go away. Find a peaceful village with ancient palms and dark green foliage and paths that go on out of sight.”
I gulped. He was so right. It did me no good to fantasize if I was not prepared to act. It did no good to long for a man who would not give love, who would not give light, who liked living in danger and darkness. And then I thought of Victor, of India. Who knows how I might feel in a new place?
“But this friend... you love him?” Rabi asked.
I nodded again. “God knows why.”
He laughed a laugh that was a like a whisper through the trees. “Perhaps only God knows why, Miss. After all, love is an endless mystery, for it has nothing else to explain it.”
“A mystery. Yes, Rabi, but I know that if only he would open his heart to me...” I stopped and stared at him. Why, I wondered, was I so open with my feelings to this stranger? Yet this stranger seemed to know me so well. Six months earlier, I had thought I was over Sherlock. I thought I had put a stop to my ridiculous fantasies. But when I saw him again, he had stolen in once more like a thief, stealthily watching, descending i
nto my heart and numbing my blood-thirsty ambition. Even after we had parted, I realized now, he lingered like a drowsy rumble in my ear, then settled in by my side, immovable despite his cold arms and icy heart.
“If you love him, Miss, do not try to possess him. Love should not claim possession, but must give freedom.”
How did he know? I wondered. How did he know that I was not prepared to give up on Sherlock just yet?
“Rabi, you are so wise for one so young.”
He shrugged. “It is simply that I believe we should not dwell on the past or worry about the future as much as we do. It is better to be like the butterfly. The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.”
I felt the blood drain from my face and swallowed a gasp as I recalled my conversation with Oscar about Effie reincarnating as a Swallowtail. “Oh,” was the only word I could croak out as I gazed at him in awe.
After a moment, I looked at his hands, in which he held his notebook. “I see you have your notebook at the ready. Are you writing something new?”
“Yes. Another poem.”
“Unfinished?”
“Yes, unfinished.”
“May I hear some of it?”
“Let love melt into memory and pain into songs. Let the flight through the sky end in the folding of the wings over the nest.”
I felt myself choke back a sob. “That’s so beautiful, Rabi. I can’t wait to hear the rest.”
“Someday, Miss. Someday.”
We said adieu - he specifically said, “Til we meet again,” and he disappeared down the hallway.
I walked out into the sunlight, brilliant now, shining all over my dark, dangerous city.
“Effie, can I do that someday?” I asked aloud. “Can I let love melt into memory and pain into songs?” I said aloud.
Wondering what new adventure I was getting myself into this time, I turned to start walking to St. Bart’s as the new ring of twelve pealed out from St. Paul’s.
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