“Of course.”
I had attended a rowing race with Victor at Oxford during Eights Week; my bull terrier bit Sherlock and he fell and sprained his ankle. That was how we met. Ackland was the physician who had treated Sherlock that day.
“There’s a lovely old fable that a swan’s life fades away in music,” I said.
“Oh, Poppy. Like the legend of Apollo’s bird singing his own requiem, I suppose. Such legends are as old as Homer’s epics.”
“And alluded to by Aristophanes and other ancient poets.”
“You know that I have no use for poetry. Or poets,” he added, and I knew instantly he was referring to my friend Oscar Wilde.
“In Shakespeare,” I pressed on, “when King Henry is told that his father sang in the frenzy of death, he says, ‘I am the cygnet to this pale, faint swan who chants a doleful hymn to his own death. And from the organ-pipe of frailty sings his soul and body to a lasting rest.’ So Shakespeare may have believed-”
“Shakespeare! Cease!” he cried, laughing. “Perhaps poets and playwrights are unwilling to surrender to the fallacy of this belief, but nature, truth and science must prevail.”
Realizing that poetry and legends meant nothing to Sherlock, I asked, “Where is the swan?”
“Over there on the table beneath the sheet.”
With a sigh, I went over to examine the swan’s mandible. Lifting the sheet, I saw the royal marks. “There are marks. Were there marks on all of the swans’ mandibles?”
He nodded. “I did notice marks, yes,” he said.
“The marks are important, Sherlock. They display ownership.”
“It hadn’t occurred to me that this was how Mycroft knew it was a royal swan. They are all the same to me. Although now that I come to think of it, Mycroft did point out the marks. He mentioned the swan-mark of Eton. He said that it has an armed point and the feathered end of an arrow. He said this is represented by the nail-heads on the door of one of the inner rooms of the college.”
“And you did not make note of that?”
“You know that I attended Harrow - rather because my father insisted on Eton and my brothers went there. So at the mention of Eton, my mind retreats. So then,” he continued, “the royal swans are marked as well?”
“That’s the purpose of the swan-upping. Swan-upping is an old, old tradition, Sherlock. It dates back to the twelfth century, I think. And the mute swan was given royal status centuries ago. I think the royal office of Keeper of the Swans dates back to the fourteenth century. Owning swans has long been a status symbol, Sherlock. Anyone stealing eggs or driving swans away at breeding time or slaughtering them is subject to a severe fine. And anyone who is not a swanherd who carries a swan hook by which swans could be taken from the river is liable to a fine... something like thirteen shillings and sixty-some pence.”
“You do know something about these creatures then.”
“Certainly I do.”
“How do you know all of this?” he asked.
“Because I am brilliant,” I quipped. “Sherlock, seriously, we have a whole game of swans bearing our manorial mark at Burleigh Manor, and there are still many owners of swans in Norfolk and Suffolk. These marks - annulets, chevrons, crosses and crescents and such-like - are cut upon the bill with a knife. During the swan-upping, the cygnets, the babies, are given the same marks as their parents. The swans are driven into the bank where a cob and pen have their beaks examined for ownership and the babies are marked with the nicks. It’s a very big festival.”
“Wait, a cob and pen?”
“Cobs are the male swans. Pens are the females. The royal swan-mark remained unchanged from the commencement of the reign of King George III... three horizontal marks and two vertical on either side.” I took up a pen and the notebook next to his microscope and drew the mark. “But the royal swan mark of Queen Victoria consists of five open pointed ovals, two cut lengthways and three cut transversely. Like this,” I said, sketching out her mark. “Two nicks is the mark of the Vintners Company.”
“Well, whatever is damaged on the creatures,” he said, “the mandible remains intact. Even this recent one, which was horribly marred and disfigured... its mandible was not defaced.”
“I believe this is significant, Sherlock. The act of mutilation is not intended as an act of rage against the swans. By choosing specifically royal swans, it is a message of what the killer would like to do to Her Majesty. Just like the last murder case we solved, the killer is sending a message.”
Chapter 3
“Let’s get something to eat, Poppy,” Sherlock said, standing and donning his waistcoat.
“You’re going to eat while you are working?”
“This case is a puzzlement, I’ll admit, but it certainly does not require intense intellectual activity.”
“I really should go, Sherlock. You’ve seen what it’s like out there. People are very ill.”
As he shoved his right arm into the sleeve of his coat, he nodded. “Yes, I’ve been studying that aspect of this damn fog as well. I went to the Botanic Gardens in Regent’s Park this morning and measured the barometer. It was unusually high, 30.54 at nine o’clock. A London fog is a complex phenomenon, isn’t it? So different from its country counterparts. I remember from when we stayed at Holme-Next-the-Sea that a country fog can be somewhat pleasant.”
I flinched momentarily, recalling the fog that swirled through the little village, but mostly remembering our night together there.
“Just a puff of white without smell and not all that disagreeable,” Sherlock added. “It does not thicken after sunrise. It is pure, condensed vapour. But this with which we are faced here in the city is more than wind, temperature and vapour. It increases after the sun rises. A white handkerchief like the one
