by A S Croyle
Title Page
The Bird and the Buddha
Book Two in the Before Watson series
A. S. Croyle
Further Reminiscences of P.S.T.
(Based upon my own recollections, notes, newspaper clippings and correspondence received from Sherlock Holmes)
Publisher Information
Published in 2016 by
MX Publishing
335 Princess Park Manor
Royal Drive,
London, N11 3GX
www.mxpublishing.co.uk
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
© Copyright 2016 A.S. Croyle
The right of A.S. Croyle to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious or used fictitiously. Except for certain historical personages, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The opinions expressed herein belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect those of MX Publishing or Andrews UK Limited.
Cover design by www.staunch.com
Dedication
For Ruth
Reviews
Thomas A. Turley, author of “Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Tainted Canister” - A.S. Croyle returns with her second “Before Watson” story, based on the memoirs of Poppy Stamford, Sherlock Holmes’ first love. Four years after their adventures in Ms. Croyle’s wonderful first novel (When the Song of the Angels is Stilled), Poppy and Sherlock reunite to investigate a series of ritualistic murders outside the British Museum. Like its predecessor, The Bird and the Buddha is set against the background of an actual Victorian disaster: the sinking of the Princess Alice in the Thames with seven hundred souls aboard. Populating the story are well-drawn secondary characters: some real (Oscar Wilde); some Canonical (Mycroft and Lestrade); and some original, like Poppy’s uncle, Dr. Ormond Sacker, who wrestles with an ethical dilemma central to the case. Croyle demonstrates her mastery of the period’s historical detail; and various intriguing elements, such as the Four Noble Truths of Buddhism, are woven skillfully into the plot. Meanwhile, Poppy and Sherlock struggle to redefine their own relationship, after his disavowal of her love for the sake of his vocation. A progressive new physician, seeking acceptance in Victorian Britain’s unwelcoming milieu, Poppy must also face the frustrations of loving a young man who wants to turn himself into a reasoning machine. Even cast adrift emotionally, she remains the most appealing heroine since Irene Adler. While their romantic future remains uncertain at the novel’s end, the good news is that Ms. Croyle has more cases for Poppy and Sherlock in the works.
Book One - When the Song of the Angels is Stilled:
Kirkus - This fast-paced tale will appeal to those who like to ponder what made Sherlock Holmes the great detective he was. An engaging addition to Sherlock Holmes legendry.
Foreword - Five-Star Review - For anyone in love with Sherlock Holmes, this story must be savored, not merely read.
Chris Redmond (Author of ‘Lives Beyond Baker Street)
One involves the “angels” referred to in the title - infants being done to death by baby-farmers, a real enough social evil in mid-Victorian times. Holmes, Poppy and other characters in the novel are drawn into a crusade against this form of murder at the behest of (naturally) Mycroft Holmes, who has no scruples about risking others’ lives to do what the government needs done. Holmes makes some deductions, Poppy takes the lead in a sting operation, and arrests are made, though the plague as a whole is not yet ended.
Second, Sherlock Holmes witnesses and investigates not one but two train crashes - again, a common enough phenomenon in that era. It is a trifle odd to see Holmes using his powers as a transportation safety investigator rather than a detective, but Croyle plausibly portrays the young man not yet sure what career will enable him to make use of his intellectual powers, so the experiment is interesting and satisfying.
And third, the novel retells the events of “The ‘Gloria Scott’,” which have always been considered a little odd anyway. Holmes on his way to chapel? Holmes with a friend, Victor Trevor? In Croyle’s version of things, Poppy is on a path toward marriage with Victor when her (not his) dog bites Holmes’s ankle and an acquaintance naturally begins. Then the arrival of Hudson and the terror and eventual death of “old” Trevor, the Justice of the Peace, unfold as Poppy watches and Holmes tries to understand. To a Sherlockian these are of course the most relevant pages of the book.
Croyle writes interestingly and articulately, and her picture of Victorian society is convincing with only a few exceptions. The title page indicates that When the Song of the Angels Is Stilled (the title, incidentally, is taken from a contemporary Epiphany hymn) is “A ‘Before Watson’ Novel, Book One.” So there will be more, and that is good news.
Acknowledgements
Once again, I must take off my hat to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for creating one of the most enduring characters in literature - Sherlock Holmes.
Deepest gratitude to Steve Emecz and everyone at MX Publishing for this opportunity. I appreciate the encouragement of fellow MX authors and would especially like to note David Marcum for giving me more insight into how many Sherlockians feel about chronologies, other pastiches, and The Great Holmes Tapestry. I think we can agree to disagree on some of the fine points but share love and admiration for the Great Detective.
Thanks also to Pam Turner for her publicity expertise, and to my first readers - Nancy Schmock, Tim James, Scott Britton, Susan Wenz, Cindie Green, Thomas Turley, and Phillip Turner, who kindly edited portions of and made invaluable suggestions for this novel (see his blog The Great Gray Bridge) . . . I am deeply grateful to Debbie Clark, a fellow Sherlockian, and Rae Griffin, my BFF, whose careful proofreading, suggestions and comments were immensely helpful in polishing the novel.
Very special thanks to my friend, mentor, advisor and editor, Ruth E. Friend, who spent so many hours proofreading, editing and making suggestions for improvements, and without whom not a single word would have made it to the page.
Last but not least, hugs to Michael, also a First Reader and the love of my life, who is patient and understanding, who puts up with my need to escape to my writing cave, and who has promised to spend the rest of his life bringing me coffee when I do.
Author’s Note
This novel takes place in 1878, four years after the events of the first book in the series, When the Song of the Angels is Stilled. Once again, the narrator is Poppy Stamford, a new fictional character and the sister of Dr. Michael Stamford, the man who would introduce Sherlock Holmes to Dr. John Watson. I was very pleased to read a review by Thomas Turley of the first book, in which he said that Poppy is “the most appealing heroine since Irene Adler.” [Tom, I am glad you still liked like her in Book Two!]
Though I, like many other authors of Holmes pastiches rely heavily upon Baring-Gould’s ‘biography,’ it is nonetheless a fictional chronology and account of Sherlock’s life. There are many gaps in Doyle’s stories, and little is actually known about Sherlock’
s family or his background. Doyle never revealed whether he attended Cambridge or Oxford or both (as Baring-Gould asserts). Doyle gives few dates certain in his tales and only a handful of events and landmarks to which we can point as real.
This novel is in part a re-imagining of The Musgrave Ritual, one of Sherlock’s early cases. Some may take umbrage with them being alumni of Oxford and in placing the Musgrave case in 1878 rather than 1879, the year noted by William S. Baring-Gould, the noted Sherlock Holmes scholar, best known as the author of the influential fictional biography, Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street: A life of the world’s first consulting detective. According to Baring-Gould (see Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street, published in 1962, at page 41), Reginald Musgrave walked into Holmes’ rooms on Montague Street on October 2, 1879 to ask his former college acquaintance for assistance with a case. It had been several years since they had been undergraduates at Caius College, Cambridge. Baring-Gould quotes Sherlock (at page 28) as stating to Watson, “You never heard me talk of Victor Trevor? . . . He was one of the only friends I made during the two years I was at Christ Church.” But then Baring-Gould admits in a footnote “In his published account of the first case in which Holmes was ever engaged, Watson saw fit to tender this line: ‘He was the only friend I made during the two years I was at college.’” Thus, Baring-Gould speculates where Sherlock Holmes went to college and met Trevor. Doyle never says. I set Sherlock Holmes’ death in the early 1940’s. But Baring-Gould estimates Sherlock’s death occurred on his 103rd birthday. (January 6, 1957). Many other dates have been suggested by other authors.
I do not take Baring-Gould or any other author as gospel (though Baring-Gould is certainly a great jumping-off point), nor do I consider any ‘facts’ in the vast array of pastiches to be ‘cumulative evidence.’ If it is not in a Sherlock Holmes tale scripted by Doyle or in his notes or scribbles or insights into what inspired him in writing the Holmes stories (i.e. Dangerous Work: Diary of an Arctic Adventure-a truly wonderful account of Doyle’s time as a ship’s surgeon), then I do not consider it sacred, untouchable, or carved in granite. Hence, for purposes of this novel, I place the events, including Sherlock’s case with Musgrave, a year earlier than Baring-Gould, and I proffer that Poppy Stamford, who narrates the story, was his only love.
St. Bart’s is, of course, a landmark hospital in London, and I have attempted to depict it as it was in the late nineteenth century. Many of the characters in this book were real people. Oscar Wilde, poet, author and dramatist, lived. Dr. Robert Bridges was a physician at St. Bart’s before he became the poet laureate of England. Charles Bradlaugh served in Parliament. The executioner, some of the employees at the British Museum, Richard Assheton Cross, the Home Secretary, and Sir Charles Edward Howard Vincent, the Director of the new Criminal Investigation Department, all lived. Rabindranath Tagore, poet, activist, musician and author, lived. Tagore enrolled at a public school in Brighton, East Sussex, England, in 1878, and briefly read law at the University College, London, but left school, opting instead for independent study. In 1880, he returned to Bengal degree-less, resolving to reconcile European novelty with Brahmo traditions.
I like to pepper real people, places and events (such as railway disasters in Book One and the Thames collision in this novel) with fiction. I hope readers will enjoy the mix.
Once again, the action in this novel takes place before Sherlock Holmes meets Watson, while he is still a novice consulting detective. Sherlock is still finding his way, and he is more committed than ever to shunning romantic entanglements. As Thomas A. Turley, author of “Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Tainted Canister, stated in his review of my first novel in this series, Holmes might have been a less lonely man had he allowed himself to love.
Hopefully, you will enjoy the journey and begin to understand why Sherlock Holmes became the man he was.
Quote
If only I could stir him once again to joy, light a flame, make him quiver as he once did, and split his stone heart, I would trade castles for dungeons and mansions for huts.
Prologue
27 December 1941
Pearl Harbour is no more.
As my daughter and I sit in her parlour, listening to BBC on the radio and watching the snow silently lace the trees outside the window, more updates dribble in about the bombing of the ships and the air strip and the horrible loss of life. The clouds that gather overhead make it easy to imagine the smoke hovering like black crows with wings spread wide over the Pacific Ocean and the beautiful island.
The war is not new to those of us who live in England, of course. Hitler has been bombing England for many months. Last fall and again in May, the blitz destroyed or damaged over a million homes in London and left more than forty thousand people dead. Stately buildings and cathedrals that I admired have collapsed to rubble. The church at my beloved St. Bart’s Hospital was damaged as well. Now Germany has declared war on America and Mr. Churchill, who just addressed the Joint Session of Congress to win support for the war, has suffered a heart attack. As a physician I am worried about Mr. Churchill. As a grandmother, I am concerned about my grandson, who is in the RAF, I fear that he may not return unscathed.
Panicked, our community has drawn together, trying to find a voice of reason in the madness. We all try to believe, as my old friend, the poet Rabindranath Tagore, counseled, that when clouds float in our lives, they will not carry rain nor usher in a storm, but add colour to the sunset sky. It is hard to believe this when the clouds of war gather like a pack of grey wolves.
If Sherlock Holmes were still here, surely he would be racing like a wild hare to Germany to ferret out the evil and wickedness that has caused such devastation, though this time there would be little he could do.
Sherlock Holmes... I don’t think I ever stopped loving him. I had never met anyone like him.
We met on the grounds of Oxford University. Seeking to protect me from the strange young man with the fencing foil who approached, my bull terrier sunk its teeth into Sherlock’s calf. Sherlock sustained a deep wound and twisted his ankle. From that day forward, I was drawn to him.
I came to respect the many talents and qualities he shared with my Uncle Ormond. Because my family home was in the Broads in Norfolk, I had resided with my uncle and aunt in London for many years while attending a private girls’ school and nursing school and, later, medical school. I adored my uncle, so perhaps I saw in Sherlock what I so admired in Uncle... his focus, his brilliant mind, his wry sense of humour, his tenacity, the uncanny ability to observe and deduce, the appreciation of logic, the fierce dedication to his work above all else. Before I met him, my life was like a deep, deliberate breath, measured, purposeful. My uncle said that from childhood I seemed to have an innate and obdurate insistence on carefully calculating each step of my life’s journey, anticipating every solution without an aquifer of emotion and barely a tincture of eros. Even as an adolescent girl blossoming into adulthood, I refused to let my dreams be blighted by societal limitations and expected no moments of ecstasy. I was content to soldier on and to numb my emotions if necessary.
My personality, up until then at least, was a million kilometers away from one of Chekhov’s romantic heroines. But like Madame Ranevskaya in The Cherry Orchard, when I met Sherlock I suddenly felt the same foolish yearnings. At times I seemed to suffer from some mysterious infestation, luminescent though it might be, which could have spread, which could have robbed me of my own ambitions, so entwined did I become with his. Without judgment, without blinking, and completely unaware of the spectre of loss or humiliation, I plunged into a kiln of emotional tar from which I could not break free. I was propelled toward that sparkling beauty that seemed to glide over Sherlock’s disturbing darkness, savagery and loneliness. I was thrown off balance by my response to him. It seemed so undignified and immature.
We were very different, Sherlock and I. I held to a Dickensian view of the lives of the p
oor. I often felt a moral urgency when presented with poverty, tragedy or cruelty; sometimes he saw these as merely didactic hypotheticals for someone else to deal with, and often the poor and homeless children who ran errands for him seemed to be mere secondhand casualties. I gave in to my emotions, more often than I like to admit. He could be warm but rarely intimate. He let few people get close.
As I fell in love with him, my feelings for him collided in a kind of slurry that lay somewhere between bewitching and bewildering. But he seemed astonished that someone could love him and alarmed by the idea that he could be capable of having his heart broken.
When it fell apart, I was crushed. His withdrawal from me was sudden and laced with logic, but that made it no less brutal. It was as unexpected as the sting of a hornet - swift and sharp - but such pain can linger the longest. It was the most terrible hurt of my life, and when we parted, I tried to shed Sherlock Holmes like a snake sheds its skin - because he had outraged and frustrated me. But he had also stimulated, inspired, even humbled and moved me. I had been lost in it all, in quests for justice, in him, and felt shaken and overwhelmed. So, for several years, while Sherlock completed his education at Oxford and I finished medical school, I managed to put distance between us. Snippets of information about what he was doing and how he was faring were ferried to me now and then by my brother Michael Stamford, a physician at St. Bart’s where Sherlock conducted many chemistry experiments. I tried not to pay attention.
But when I ran into him again at an Oxford event, I was like a bride unveiled as she enters her new world. After all the years of practiced isolation from Sherlock Holmes and great efforts to keep my distance from him and his hold on me, I met him again at Oscar Wilde’s poetry recital in June of 1878. Determined as I was to eschew the pursuit of the elusive vulnerability Sherlock kept beneath his exterior reserve, and though I believed I’d finally slipped from the surly bonds of Sherlock Holmes, my self-imposed exile was an imperfect refuge. I realized that I could no more deny my feelings for the quiet, sheathed watcher who would, with one glimpse, absorb everything beneath my skin, than I could will myself to stop breathing.
