by A S Croyle
I felt overwhelmed with it all. Finally I said, “But this body, Sherlock. This body was found in a London church cemetery”. I thought for a moment. “Sherlock, is there anyone connected to Oxford who is missing? Someone who may have found out that Wiggins was sending bodies there and wanted it ceased? Was Wiggins confronted with anyone or - ?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Poppy.”
“Does Wiggins know the name of his benefactor? The person paying him for the bodies?”
“No. He went to the Fortune of War public house in Smithfield on Pie Corner every Friday night to wait for instructions.”
“I don’t understand, Sherlock.”
“Once upon a time,” he said, “there was a room in the back of the public house with benches with the grave robbers’ names. They waited there with specimens, and surgeons at St. Bart’s came there to appraise the cadavers. Despite the change in the law regarding grave-robbing, it is a practice that continues. But here’s the thing. I don’t believe that a true anatomist would engage in this particular type of supply. Mycroft did say that Oxford and Cambridge coordinate activities. Usually, they buy from the poorest areas of the city and apparently they also walk the streets to establish body-buying networks. From what I understand, body parts are thrown into the river or a clinical waste bin. But this enterprise seems different. Wiggins has robbed criminal graves and hospital graves, but never from a place such as St. Marylebone. He did mention that the note sent to him to dig up this particular grave and await further instructions was written in a different hand. He was not sure it came from his usual benefactor. I must speak to him again about that.”
My uncle had, for many years, kept a running diary of events and staff at the hospital - a venerable history of the place. I wondered if he had noted these enterprises anywhere in his writings.
“I am in the process of getting more information,” Sherlock said. “Inspector Hopkins is the one who asked me to look into this. You remember Hopkins?”
“Of course.” Stanley Hopkins, Sr. was with the Yard, a dedicated man who had assisted us in obtaining the evidence to send the British Museum murderer to the gallows.
“You recall his keen interest in Phrenology?”
“Yes.”
It was Hopkins’ one peculiar trait. Those who promulgated phrenology believed that by examining the shape and unevenness of a head or skull, one could discover the development of the particular cerebral “organs” responsible for different intellectual aptitudes and character traits. For example, a prominent protuberance in the forehead at the position attributed to the organ of Benevolence indicates the individual has a “well developed” organ of Benevolence and would therefore be expected to exhibit benevolent behaviour.
“According to Hopkins,” Sherlock continued, “there are still people trying to prove that theory. Hopkins thinks there could be some relationship to such a person. Have you heard of Lombroso? He says criminals are evolutionary throwbacks that we can recognize by the shape of their jaws or cheekbones or the length of their arms. He argues that these individual’s physical traits come with some intrinsic craving for evil, and a desire to kill and mutilate. Even to drink blood from a corpse.”
“Vampires,” I said.
“Exactly. Nonsense,” he muttered.
“The last time I saw Oscar Wilde, he told me that his ex-fiancée’s new husband, Bram Stoker, is researching European folklore about that for some kind of novel. Oscar said that in Romanian myths, the strigoi are troubled souls who rise from the grave and have magical powers. Sounds like something from a Penny Dreadful.” I smiled to myself. “Oscar also said that Stokes’ actor friend - the one who set up Stokes as manager of his theater - would be a good model for the character. But I told him it’s already been done. That book by John Polidori introduced a very aristocratic man as a vampire.”
He stared at me as if I’d lost my mind, prattling on and on about vampire stories. “Yes, you’re right. I digress,” I said, knowing he was now the one who was impatient with a subject in which he had no interest, particularly as it related to Oscar Wilde, cousin to my brother’s late wife, for whom Sherlock had little use. “So tell me, Sherlock, what does this man’s murder have to do with phrenology?”
“Hopkins is in some group that meets to discuss the topic,” Sherlock said. “He said he has heard - and mind you, it is all conjecture - that there is a medical professor at Oxford who is trying to prove these theories. His name is Danford Hopgood. He could be the one paying Wiggins to rob the graves for specimens. Wiggins said he dug up quite a few criminals at the specific request of an anonymous benefactor, this one included. And Hopkins says that the professor has not been seen for days... but this dead man is not the professor. Hopkins described him as very slightly built, reed-thin, and balding. This disembodied individual does not fit that description.”
“And could a professor afford this sordid enterprise?” I recalled that Effie’s father, a professor at Oxford, could not even afford the wedding dress she so desired. “I don’t think so.”
“Mycroft has spoken to everyone in the anatomy department at Oxford and other people of influence there. It appears the supply of cadavers does come from nearby workhouses and the poor, but not from the cemetery where Wiggins was instructed to dig.”
“What if-” I paused a moment to think. “What if this man before us, who obviously is of some social standing, assuming, of course, the clothing was not stolen to lead authorities even more astray should the corpse be discovered... what if he were connected somehow to this grave robbing scheme at Oxford? If a professor wanted specimens to study in an area outside of the normal course of human anatomy, to prove some theory, he would need funding, would he not?”
“This could be the real benefactor of the whole scheme, you mean,” Sherlock said. “Funding the professor’s research.”
I nodded. “Someone who perhaps decided to withdraw his funds. Or it could be someone who wanted to stop the research.”
“That would be motive,” Sherlock exclaimed.
He threw out his arms and brought his hands together in a clap. “Ah, Poppy, the game’s afoot. I shall meet with Hopkins at once to see if he can track down a list of the professor’s benefactors.”
He put his hands on my shoulders. “You see? I told you that you are brilliant.”
Chapter 11
To my surprise, Jonathan was loitering outside the lab when I emerged. Donning my gloves, I said hello.
He smiled. “Poppy, I’m glad I caught you. I ran into Michael and I was hoping you’d still be here. I was just wondering...” He paused.
“Yes? You were wondering? What? Why I spend so much time in the company of Sherlock Holmes, I suppose?”
“Yes. Well, yes, that, but I didn’t mean that. I was wondering if there is someone from whom I should ask permission to take you to dinner.”
I took a step backward. “Dinner?”
“Yes, dinner,” he laughed. “Your parents are in Norfolk, but I know you live in the care of your aunt and uncle. Should I request permission from Dr. Sacker?”
I was literally too stunned to reply.
“I mean, I realize,” he continued, “that you are not a child and that you have your own mind on everything from medicine to politics. You don’t strike me as one who romanticizes love or feels some need to adhere to customs like being chaperoned or engaging silly masquerades like flirting with your fan.”
If I were inclined to indulge in such silly rituals, I thought, what message would my fan be sending right now? Leave me be? Or I’m independent? Or I’m flattered? I don’t think I knew.
“You are right, Jonathan, I do not.”
“Good, because I have never been able to make much sense of these flirtatious signals. For example, swinging a fan or leaving it half open or shutting it abruptly.” He waved his right h
and through the air as if cooling himself with a fan. “What a woman means by all that is lost on me. You have always been very direct. So, pray, tell me, would you be so inclined to have dinner with me if I properly request permission from your Uncle?”
I thought for a moment. What would Mum and Papa or Uncle and Aunt Susan think of Dr. Jonathan Younger? My parents had always liked Jonathan; they would be ecstatic to learn of his interest in me. My mother, in particular, was anxious for me to find a husband and Jonathan was just the sort of man she had in mind.
We were certainly within the same so-called class, although in reality, he was rather above my status. His family had a grand estate, just miles from our own. His cousin was an Assistant Master in the Classics at Harrow. His grandfather had been a Knight Exalted of the Most Noble Order of the Garter and of the Most Distinguished Order of St. Michael and St. George, due to his service in the Napoleonic Wars. His uncle was a Marquis.
“Well, Poppy?”
“I am a bit... a bit confused by your sudden display of interest, Jonathan. We have known each other a long time... and you and I spent a lot of time together during the pre-nuptial activities and at Michael and Effie’s wedding... the better part of a week. But I detected no particular attentiveness on your part toward me. In fact, I believe you were practically engaged to a young woman named Flora Codrington. The daughter of one of her Majesty’s ladies in waiting.”
“Her mother attends Princess Beatrice, actually. But Flora is... how shall I say it? A bit dull. Slightly dim-witted.”
If that were the case, and given the fact that gentlemen like Jonathan rarely cared for women whose intelligence had been encouraged, it surprised me that he and Flora were not already wed with three children.
“You have a keen mind, Poppy. You are progressive. It rather... it rather excites me.”
I considered his proposal and blurted out, “I would consider sharing a meal with you, Jonathan. Perhaps lunch. And there is no need to request permission of my uncle for that.”
“I’d hoped for dinner. Perhaps before going to the theater. Or after a day at Rosherville Gardens.”
Again, difficult memories made their way to the fore. A favorite steamboat, the Princess Alice, running a pleasure cruise from London to the Rosherville Gardens at Gravesend, had sunk not long ago, and I still lamented the seven hundred lost lives, many from the pollution in the Thames rather than drowning. I’d treated the survivors. I had not saved many.
“It is only March, Jonathan, so the gardens are not open to the public yet.” I took a deep breath and said, “However, I will agree to have lunch with you. Perhaps tomorrow? You may decide the when and where and send a page this evening to Uncle’s with the particulars. Good day.”
I turned to leave and he touched my shoulder. “It really was a lovely surprise, running into you today.” Then he stepped aside to let me pass.
I smiled and started down the hallway. He called out, “Have a wonderful day, Poppy!”
Puzzled and perplexed, a little shaken and even a little intrigued, I hurried back to my office.
As the sun had come out from behind the grizzled clouds and the fog had thinned, I took my time going back to my office, so that I could think. I had surprised myself, accepting Jonathan’s invitation to dine with him.
I stopped at Lowther Arcade opposite Charing Cross Station, a bazaar where mosaic jewelry, toys and such were sold, and picked up a few things for little Billy, Wiggins brother. Then I found myself on Pall Mall near the Diogenes Club, where Sherlock’s brother Mycroft spent most of his waking hours and where I’d met with him in secret when he enlisted me to help ferret out some of Britain’s most heinous criminals - baby farmers.
Pall Mall was the heart and lungs of British aristocracy and social advantage, where English gentlemen found their pleasure in quiet discourse. It was like a street of palaces, the clubs being frequented by political celebrities and government officials. It stood out for another reason. Most of London’s most stately building were Gothic in style, but the clubs of Pall Mall were classical to one degree or another. The Reform was Italian, the Carlton next door more florid. Though it was but a stone’s throw away, Marlborough House could not be seen from the street and this was the residence of the Prince of Wales, which stood within the walls of St. James Palace. When meeting with Mycroft during the course of the baby farming investigation, I had often wondered if afterward he had scurried straight over to Marlborough to enlighten the prince as to the progress of our investigation. Next to Marlborough came Beaconsfield, the Guards, the Oxford, the Cambridge, the Carlton, the Reform, the Travellers, the Athaeneum, the Wanderers, and the Kennel. And, of course, Mycroft’s Diogenes, which stood just before Charing Cross, a short walk from Whitehall, the pulse of British government.
I was about to head toward the Strand to make my way back to the office when a cyclist sped past me, skittered by a few other pedestrians, wobbled and very nearly collided with an enormous man whose girth almost filled the entire walkway. I realized it was Mycroft Holmes.
He shouted at the boy and spun around, a feat which must have taken great effort, and shouted again. As I came almost face to face with him, he grumbled, “Damn bicyclists. They totally disregard the safety of others. The prejudice against them shall only be fostered and increased by these feverish riders who needlessly put members of the public in harm’s way. Infernal machines.”
I grinned. “Good day, Mr. Holmes.”
Finally, he tipped his hat to me and said, “Dr. Stamford.” The he added, “Damn cyclists.”
Remembering how Effie and I would ride quite recklessly through the grounds at Oxford, often barely avoiding passersby, I could not resist needling him. “Uncle told me that there is a Bicycle Union now, organised to protect the rights of bicyclists and to watch the legislation of Parliament that might affect the interests of the bicycling public.”
“Yes,” he scoffed. “But do the cyclists that the Council of the Union seek to protect heed any of the regulations and principles recommended to thwart altercations on the roadway? I tell you, they do not. These maniacs best be mindful of them. There was a case just last year, heard by Justices Lush and Mellor... Taylor v. Goodwin, I believe it was... that case imposed great penalties for furious and irresponsible driving. I do not see why we have allowed these strange beasts to invade the streets.”
I lifted my scarf to cover the wide smile on my lips. Anything akin to exercise was most foreign to Mycroft Holmes, as was most evident by his ever-widening waistline. Much like Oscar Wilde, who would rather hail a hansom to cross the street, Mycroft held physical exertion in disdain.
“I take it you are on your way to the Diogenes? Or Whitehall? Busy with work as usual?”
“In Her Majesty’s service, as always, Dr. Stamford. But I am glad I have bumped into you.”
“Me, rather than the cyclist?” I quipped.
He scoffed. “Yes, yes, well... I sent a page to find Sherlock but he is not at home nor is he anywhere to be found at St. Bart’s.”
“I just left him; he did not mention that he had any appointments.”
“Well, it’s most important I find him. He has once again interjected himself into police business.”
“It is my understanding that Hopkins asked him to help.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Well, we have no need of his help,” he scoffed. “We have identified the mutilated corpse.”
I canted my head to look at him more closely. Though in many ways they were alike, there was an inexplicable and sometimes bitter enmity that burned between them. Often harsh words were exchanged,
“Have you? Who is it then?”
“A member of the Privy Council.”
“Really? Sherlock said that no one was reported missing.”
“His wife... widow, now... just appeared at the Yard a few hours ago. She said
that he went to some kind of formal affair two nights ago and did not come home.”
“Two nights? And she did not worry about his whereabouts?”
He tilted his head side to side. “I did not inquire about the state of their marriage, but she volunteered that it was not unusual for him to disappear from time to time. However, this time she felt uneasy. They recently lost a child - some kind of bronchial infection due to this unrelenting fog - and he has been more attentive to her needs and emotive outbursts than previously.”
“Mycroft, Sherlock thinks there is some connection between the man found in the child’s grave and a grave robbing scheme. Young Wiggins was specifically instructed to dig up that grave.”
“So I am told. Dr. Stamford, have you any idea where Sherlock may have gone? This is a sordid business. Could be quite dangerous.”
I felt my breath hitch. I should have told him what we’d heard about Hopgood, especially if Sherlock could be in harm’s way. Much as I wanted to move past my affections for Sherlock Holmes, his grasp on me was still quite firm. “He could be in danger?”
“Perhaps. Just let me know if he gets in touch with you, won’t you?”
“Of course. Mycroft, I-”
“Yes?”
“Nothing.”
He tipped his hat again. “I must be going. I must be about-”
“Her Majesty’s business,” I said, completing his thought. “Of course.”
He stepped around me and waddled toward the Diogenes. Unable to resist, I called out, “Do not over-exert yourself! The fog and physical activity do not well mix!”
