by A S Croyle
She came up to us, a basket hooked over one arm. “Oscar, this is for you,” she said as she pinned a favour of white ribbon, flowers, lace and silver leaves on his shoulder. The house servants tossed blossoms of purple, white and lavender along the path to the front door of the church, making a carpet to assure the bride and groom a happy life. I felt dizzy, recalling the morning after Sherlock and I had finally expressed our feelings to one another. It was as if I were there, in the bedroom, waking to the sound of screeching seagulls in the distance, the marvelous sound of waves crashing to shore, the sunlight streaming through the windows. I could still see the incredible display of jewels on the fainting couch near the window, wild flowers of every kind strewn the length of it, blooms in gold and violet and blue and red, which Sherlock had gathered at dawn. Just thinking of it, I felt the same jolt of my heart as I had that morning.
When the servants had finished laying their carpet of blooms, Effie gathered them into a circle and handed out gifts she had made herself. She had known most of them since childhood because many moved with the family to Oxfordshire from The Broads when Effie’s father took the teaching position at Oxford. Each gentleman received a tie she had sewn, and each lady received a hat she had fashioned.
Her younger sister Marinthe, lavender sash untied and dragging on the ground, ran up to us and pulled at my skirt. “These are the rings,” she beamed. They were plain gold bands with Effie’s and Michael’s initials and the date of the wedding engraved inside of each. As I tied her sash in a bow, she said, “Mama says I have to let the ring drop during the ceremony so evil spirits are shaken out.”
Oscar leaned in close and whispered, “I wonder what our friend Sherlock would think of that superstition.”
I wished he would stop bringing Sherlock up. I simply shrugged.
Elabourate arrangements of flowers decorated the church: potted palms and festoons of evergreens and blossoms of every colour. Once all the guests were seated, the ceremony began. I listened as Michael and Effie exchanged vows, holding hands and smiling so wide, I thought they would burst. It was only when the minister asked them to keep their vows “for so long as ye both shall live” that Effie hesitated. Her face turned dark, frighteningly dark, and she mumbled, “So long as ye both shall live.” Then she stuttered in a small voice, “I will. Yes. I will. As long as we both shall live.”
The expression on her face scared me.
As the minister recited psalms, I just stared at my brother and my best friend through a haze of tears. But Oscar made me laugh when the minister instructed Effie to be in subjection to her husband “even as Sarah obeyed Abraham, calling him lord.” I glanced at Oscar, who rolled his eyes. We had talked about this portion of the ceremony the day before. Oscar had said, “Michael better not expect Effie to obey and be submissive in all things. It’s simply not within her ken.”
After the ceremony, we went to Effie’s parents’ home. It came as no surprise that the house was also filled with a profusion of white and lavender flowers. They were everywhere, adorning doorways, balustrades, windows and fireplaces. A corner of the library was reserved for Effie and Michael to receive guests. Her parents stood nearby, I was to Effie’s left, and Michael’s best man, another young doctor from St. Bart’s named Jonathan Younger, stood to the right. Jonathan and Michael had known each other most of their lives; they had both attended the Harrow School. He had a very pleasant countenance and, according to Michael, a brilliant future in medicine.
After breakfast came the cakes, three of them. One was very elabourate, a dark, rich fruitcake scrolled in white frosting and orange blossoms. There were two small ones, a dark chocolate for Michael and a white cake for Effie. Hidden inside the cakes were charms for good luck, and Effie laughed when I threw tradition out the door and removed my gloves to fish for my favour. This rhyme went with the charms.
The ring for marriage within a year;
The penny for wealth, my dear;
The thimble for an old maid or bachelor born;
The button for sweethearts all forlorn.
I expected mine to contain the old maid’s thimble, but much to my surprise, I received a button instead. Sweethearts all forlorn... was this my fate? I’d never wanted a big wedding. I remembered telling Victor about the marriage of some friends of Uncle and Aunt Susan. They had a simple ceremony to commemorate the union of two people without all the pomp and circumstance. No rich white silk, no spray of flowers, no tulle, no bridesmaids parading in silly dresses with lace flounces, not even a bride’s cake. And no honeymoon, no wedding tour. They simply went to Richmond for dinner. Now, having taken part in the celebration of Effie’s and Michael’s love, the idea of having friends and family to share my commitment no longer seemed so foreign to me. Would I ever enjoy a day such as this? I doubted it.
The wedding cake was cut but not eaten. Traditionally, it was packed away for the 25th wedding anniversary, although I couldn’t fathom biting into it twenty-five years later. But according to the baker, the heavy fruitcake was doused with liquor to preserve it for that special day far in the future, a day that for Michael and Effie would never come.
Right after the cake-cutting, Effie and Michael changed into travel clothes for they were leaving immediately for a honeymoon in Paris. She wore a simple blue dress, but travel or not, she could not resist an ostentatious hat. It was made of blue silk, with ostrich and peacock feathers, antique lace, and a vintage cameo. I helped her change and she gave me a flower from her bouquet.
I tried hard not to cry when they left. As they drove off in their carriage, everyone threw satin slippers. According to legend, if a slipper landed in the carriage, it was considered good luck forever. If it was a left slipper, all the better. I swallowed hard when I realized that not a single slipper had landed in their carriage. I pushed down the thought that it might be a terrible omen.
I slammed the journal shut. I wanted to read more, but I could not. The memories rushed back at me like thunder rumbling through black clouds. I simply could not bear them.
I hurried to the British Museum to find Sherlock.
15
I found Sherlock sitting on the floor and staring into a display case in the Asian room of the museum. I quietly walked up behind him and looked over his shoulder. In the reflection of the glass case, I saw him blink and smile.
He didn’t say ‘hello.’ He greeted me by saying “I should have known.”
“Known what?”
Then he turned his head, looked closely at me, and said, “Poppy, you’ve been crying.”
“No, no. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, really. It’s nothing.”
Nothing you would understand, I thought. You weren’t even there.
“You were saying, Sherlock. You should have known what?”
“I should have known why Mycroft has stepped into this quagmire; why Mycroft really has his fingers in this pie. He wants to impress the Home Secretary. He doesn’t want the slightest hint of incompetence at the new C I D. I read about the new Director - Vincent. Every time he was promoted, from Lieutenant to Captain to Colonel, it was in The London Gazette. Mycroft subscribes to it. Of course, the Home Secretary would hire someone like him to helm the new Criminal Investigation Department after the internal corruption that surfaced last year.”
“Yes, I’m sure everyone is still thinking about the Great Turf Fraud mess. No wonder Lestrade and Mycroft are nervous.”
The trial had indeed rocked the city because no one expected such perfidy from law enforcement officers. It came about when a rich Parisian woman, Madame de Goncourt, was the victim of two English confidence tricksters, men who were very adept at defrauding people after gaining their trust. The men, Harry Benson and William Kurr, convinced her to part with over thirty thousand pounds. Scotland Yard was called upon to investigate the scam, and the
Superintendent of the former Detective Department, Adolphus Williamson, hired Chief Inspector Nathaniel Druscovich to bring Benson back from Amsterdam where he’d finally been arrested. Up until then, Benson and Kurr always seemed to be ahead of the game. It finally came to light that another detective, Inspector John Meiklejohn, was accepting bribes from Kurr to warn him when his arrest was imminent. Chief Inspector Nathaniel Druscovich and Chief Inspector Palmer were also implicated in the matter, and all three stood trial at the Old Bailey and were sentenced to two years in prison.
“But I shan’t let Mycroft’s political ambitions or Lestrade’s anxiety stand in the way of my investigation into these murders,” Sherlock said. Then he jumped up. “Now, Poppy, tell me about the autopsy.”
I summarized the necropsy; he paced and nodded throughout. “You believe it was poison then.”
“I do.”
“I shall run tests to confirm it.”
“Of course. Now what have you been able to find out here?”
He pointed to the Buddha in the display case. The statue was approximately thirty centimeters high and made of bronze. I’d seen it before but never given it its due admiration.
“It’s very beautiful,” I whispered, mindful of my surroundings. “I have always admired the artefacts in this room and I remember it from my last visit here with Uncle. It really does look just like the statue that was left with the body.”
“This is a Buddha Vairocana. It’s a Tantric Buddhist image from eastern Java, tenth century.”
He turned around and sat cross-legged on the floor again next to the display case. I joined him there and faced him.
“How unladylike of you,” he laughed.
I shrugged.
“Now, according to the curator, this is quite similar to many of the Buddhist bronzes of eastern India.”
“Wait, Sherlock, Detective Inspector Lestrade was unable to see the curator. How did you-”
Smiling, he said, “I told him I was a reporter and that I was doing a featured article on the museum and promised a very favourable review of his tenure here. He was a bit reluctant at first, considering the last reporter tossed out his feature on the new exhibit in favour of writing an article about the murder. But he finally relented.”
“I see.”
“Now, as to the statue,” he said, pointing. “See how Vairocana sits high on his throne over a double lotus base? Behind him is the back of the throne with a halo of flames and a royal parasol. Vairocana Buddha is sometimes called the primordial Buddha or supreme Buddha. He represents the wisdom of shunyata.”
“Which is?” I asked, though I knew he would explain it anyway.
“It means emptiness. He is considered a personification of the dharmakaya, that which is free of characteristics and distinctions. When the Dhyani Buddhas are pictured together in a mandala, Vairocana is always at the centre. He is white, so he represents all colours. I’ve been speaking to Mr. Brown at St. Bart’s. He is quite knowledgeable on such things,” he explained. “In fact, he was here earlier. Apparently, he is quite the patron of the museum.
“The curator said that the Dharma wheel is one of the oldest symbols of Buddhism. It is used to represent Buddhism, just as a cross represents Christianity or a Star of David represents Judaism. It is also one of the Eight Auspicious Symbols of Buddhism. A traditional Dharma wheel is a chariot wheel with a varying number of spokes.
“The circle,” he continued, “the round shape of the wheel, represents the perfection of the Dharma, the Buddha’s teaching. The rim of the wheel represents meditative concentration. The hub represents moral discipline. The three swirls on the hub are sometimes said to represent the Three Treasures.”
“These three treasures... what are - ?”
“The spokes,” he interrupted. “They signify different things, depending on their number. But a wheel with four spokes is rare. They represent the Four Noble Truths.”
“And what are the Four Noble Truths?”
“Dukkha, the truth of suffering; samudaya, the truth of the cause of suffering, nirhodha, the truth of the end of suffering, and magga, the truth of the path that frees us from suffering. The curator said that when this particular statue was acquired, there were documents relating to it that mentioned a four-spoke wheel, though a wheel with eight spokes is more common, and these concern things like the life journey, the cycle of birth, death, rebirth and so on. But they are irrelevant, according to the curator.”
I was stunned to silence, amazed at the way his mind worked, like a sponge. I wanted to hear more about these truths, but again he continued, his words racing almost as fast as his brain.
Sherlock turned his head to focus again on the statute. “This Vairocana Buddha’s hands represent a form of meditation that vanquishes ignorance. His hands are those of a teacher. So, truth and the end of ignorance...”
Out of breath, he finally stopped speaking.
“Sherlock, this is all very interesting.” And confusing, I added, mentally. “There are so many messages here. What does it all mean? How does it relate to the murders?”
He closed his eyes, let out a long sigh, and said, “I have no idea.”
16
The next morning I woke to the warmth of a bright yellow globe which hovered over a pale, wavy, grey ribbon of clouds at the horizon. I pulled on a dressing gown and went downstairs to put on the kettle for tea. With Uncle and Aunt Susan in Scotland, I had their house in the city to myself, and it was soundless except for the tapping of my dog’s toenails on the wooden floors and the whining of my complaining cat, Sappho. I hooked Little Elihu’s leash to his collar and tied him outside behind the house, lest he decide to bite a passerby as he did on the day I met Sherlock. I left him to relieve himself, gave Sappho food and water, and finally her persistent meows changed to a soft purr.
A few minutes later, tea in hand, I let Little Elihu back inside, retrieved Effie’s journal, and went into Uncle’s study. It was a peaceful, albeit sparsely furnished room, for he abhorred clutter. His desk was a sturdy and substantial JAS Shoolbred, with heavy turned legs on brass castors, lined drawers and a well-worn leather top. The desk was, in my opinion, the loveliest and most useful piece of furniture in the house. Uncle told me that when he and Aunt Susan were gone, I would inherit it and everything they owned, for they had no children, and I was like their own daughter. I did not like to think about that day. I wanted them - and my parents and my brother Michael - to live forever. I had so recently lost Effie, who had died shortly after childbirth, and I could not bear the thought of losing anyone else I loved dearly. I cared little for furnishings or knick-knacks, but I knew that when the day did come, I would cherish this desk and every mark, crack, scratch and imperfection, for each would remind me of Uncle.
I sat down and opened Effie’s journal. I skimmed her recollections of her wedding day again, which were not dissimilar to my own, and read on.
“You may wonder, Poppy, why I address these random thoughts to you instead of Michael. I know you will miss me, but I fear Michael would be unable to read my words at all after I am gone. There are things I must relate to you; things about which you must be warned. And there are memories I must share.”
Once again, Effie warned me about Sherlock. She had said many times that he was dangerous and that I must walk away from him. Then her warnings became much more specific.
“You remember I told you about a boat... warned you not to board it. I have to say it again.”
I did recall her vision. She had said that she’d had another dream. “Do not get on the boat, Poppy,” she had said.
“What boat?” I had asked.
“The princess’s boat.”
And I had laughed at her. Why would I ever be on the boat of a princess?
“Many will die,” the journal entry continued. “You and Michael will try t
o help as you did at the train collision. But your medical expertise will be of little value this time.”
I flipped to the next page.
“The baby will come in February. He will come early. I thought I would have a daughter. I was going to name her Hope. But I see now that I was wrong. He is a strong healthy boy, Poppy. You must help Michael. He will grieve and he will not realize that he is jeopardizing our son. Do help him be strong, sweet friend.”
August. This entry was dated in early August of 1876. The baby was not due until mid-April. She could not have even known yet that she was with child when she wrote this.
There was another entry in early September.
“It will be this time of year when the boat sinks. And you will be hunting someone. You and Sherlock. I see a bird, a dark bird. And something from the Far East. I know you will not listen, but please do not get involved.”
I gasped. The Bird. The Buddha. She knew.
I could read no more just now and needed to persuade my mind to think about something else.
I closed the journal, rose and looked behind the curtain. Near the hem, in a pocket, Uncle kept the key to the right hand desk top cupboard. It did not fit any other drawer locks. I knew this because as a curious adolescent, I had tried each one.
Uncle kept things in this cupboard that he did not want to lose or that, when I was younger, he did not want me to see, like graphic diagrams of surgical procedures or ghastly photographs of wounded soldiers or homicide victims. Once, when I was only about ten years of age, I had opened it and found photographs of soldiers who had served in America’s Civil War. Some were missing legs or arms; some were skeletal, having starved while they were imprisoned; some had a vacant, ghostly stare. Uncle did not scold me for opening the cupboard; he simply explained that these men were not likely to return to normal, for their emotions had been shattered, and once shattered, emotions did not mend. It was something that always came back to me now because Sherlock shunned emotions, entanglements, passion, or any sentimentality. I suddenly remembered that Uncle, staring at the photographs, had also said, “What a shame, a waste. How terrible to see someone suffer so and to force them to continue living like this. Better to end their misery.”
