by Mike Hogan
Colonel Cody smiled. “A rifle butt maybe. White killed Bobby’s mama. And maybe worse, he shot the boy’s horse. I’m surprised the boy didn’t take his scalp.”
An hour later, it was full dawn. Churchill was asleep with his head on the table. Billy was inside helping clear up after the departure of the Colonel Cody and his Show people. I shared a coffee pot with Holmes.
“What of White’s body?” I asked. “And those of his followers?”
“Wiggins and the steam launch engineer reached an agreement to drop the dead louts downriver in the marshes,” Holmes answered. “That is the proper place, according to custom. White’s corpse is in his hired steam launch awaiting the coroner; it is unscalped.”
“My God, Holmes, have we become inured to murder? Has slaughter become a commonplace? Can we sit idly by while men are scalped in the central city of the Empire? What example are we giving to boys of Churchill’s class? He and his fellows will have to take on the mantle of responsibility for more than 300 million subjects of the Crown across the World. We won the Empire by the sword, and by the bravery of men like Henry Hook, but India cannot be ruled by the bayonet. Even Ireland cannot be ruled so, with honour.”
“There is no such thing as a gentle bullet or a tender knife, Watson. Spare no sympathy for White and his thugs.”
“Did Bobby kill his father?”
Holmes shrugged. “I do not know. White may have hit his head on something and drowned before they could get to him.”
“Pass me your tobacco pouch, Holmes. I have run out.”
I filled my pipe and passed the pouch back.
“Look at the city, old friend,” said Holmes. “The cranes and ships’ masts, the church spires and rooftops stand out against the clear sky with a sharpness that is only seen in London before its million chimneys cover the town with their smoke. Almost four million Londoners cast off the season of all natures, sleep, and start a new day full of promise and peril. Ours is a stirring era, Watson.”
He gestured to the sleeping boy. “I almost envy young Churchill. What advances will the new century bring? What opportunities for a young man with brains, daring, and ambition?”
He grinned at me. “He might even make a passable consulting detective, given the right tutor.”
“It is easy to wax lyrical about the charm of London if you are not poor, Holmes,” I said, more sharply than I had intended.
Holmes gazed at me mildly over his coffee cup.
I sighed. “I’m sorry, my dear fellow, it’s just that I had supposed, and vehemently argued, that we are bringing enlightenment and civilization to savages in Africa, India and through our surrogates, America. Red Shirt said something to me this evening that has shaken me. He quotes a great medicine man of his people who claims that the Red Indians and even the animals know better how to live than the white man. He said that nobody can be in good health if he does not have fresh air, sunshine, and good water.”
I helped myself to another cup of coffee.
“What have we in London to make up for our fogs, our dark, festering courts, and our foul water supply?”
“Lump sugar?” said Holmes, offering me the bowl.
“I wonder,” I said stirring my coffee, “if Miss Caspar has replied to my note.”
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