I laughed and asked, “Are you sure you were not in the company of these votaries of Bacchus yourself to so indulge in such a marathon?”
“No, I was not. I was coaxed from writing poetry.”
“Poetry?”
“Yes,” he said, his chest puffing. “I published my first book of poems just last year.”
“How on earth do you find the time?”
“We find the time to pursue those endeavours which interest us most.”
“And that is not medicine?”
He smiled again. “I believe the muse and St. Luke are a bit at odds with each other where I am concerned.”
I was about to ask him if I could read some of his poetry when Sherlock came dashing across the courtyard.
I glanced at the little silver watch pinned to my lapel.
“Yes, I know,” Sherlock said through heavy breaths. “I am a bit tardy. But Poppy, I’ve just discovered that Dr. Haviland keeps bees here! They obtain nectar from the sunflowers growing on the banks of the river. I must make a list of the equipment I need to start studying hives in earnest.”
“And why the sudden fascination with bees?” I asked.
“Not sudden. Bees have always intrigued me because they are logical and orderly,” Sherlock said.
“Pardon me?”
He sat down on the bench next to me. “Bees are highly evolved insects that engage in a variety of complex tasks not practiced by the multitude of solitary insects.”
“Ah,” I said, smiling. “So they are social creatures. They see the value of living in an organized family group.”
He all but rolled his eyes. “Even highly developed creatures generally have a flaw or two,” he quipped. “But, yes, their behaviours indicate they communicate, they have a complex manner of nest construction, monitor environmental controls and defences, and have an established division of the labour within their colonies. They might be the most fascinating creatures on earth. According to Dr. Haviland - you know Dr. Haviland, don’t you, Poppy?”
I shook my head and the young poet/physician piped up and said, “He is a house physician. We are all indebted for his work regarding a tedious case of empyema and evacuation of the pleural sac.”
“Why, yes!” Sherlock said. “It was written up in The Lancet. In January of 1873, I believe.”
“Quite,” said the young man.
“Now, a honey bee colony consists of three kinds of adult bees,” Sherlock continued. “Workers, drones, and a queen. Several thousand worker bees cooperate in nest building, food collection, and so on. Each bee has a definite task to perform, related to its adult age, although survival and reproduction take the combined efforts of the entire colony.”
“Generally, reproduction does take a combined effort, Sherlock,” I said with a smile.
He ignored my inference.
“In addition to thousands of worker adults, a colony normally has a single queen and several hundred drones during late spring and summer. The social structure of the colony is maintained by the presence of the queen.”
“Oh, I quite like that. A queen in charge.”
Ignoring my comment yet again, he said, “According to Dr. Haviland, the presence of bees is very important to the future of humanity.”
“How so?”
“They pollinate, Poppy. Harvests depend upon them. Almond orchards, for example. Oh!” he exclaimed, jumping up as he uttered the word almond. “Poppy, we must get going.”
Finally, the poet stood and extended his hand to Sherlock. “Sir, my name is Dr. Robert Bridges. You are-”
“Sherlock Holmes. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. What are you writing there?” he added, nodding toward Bridges’ journal.
“Oh, just a hospital report.”
“But he also writes poetry,” I interjected.
Sherlock gave his head a little shake.
When Dr. Bridges took his leave of us and wished us a good day, Sherlock stared after him and said, “Another poet,” he mumbled, referring obviously to Oscar Wilde. “You do attract them like-”
“Bees to honey?” I asked.
“Exactly.”
“A doctor who writes poetry. A waste of a scientific mind,” he added. “Nothing shall come of it.”
We did not know then, of course, that the young physician we had just met would be England’s Poet Laureate from 1913-1930.
“Come, Poppy,” Sherlock urged. “I have much to show you.”
A few minutes later, I was once again standing in the pathology lab of St. Bart’s, staring at the thin, lanky, mopey, impossible man who was well on his way to becoming the world’s most famous detective.
9
As I entered the lab, I stared at him, assessing him. He never changes, I thought. But then I realized that though he looked the same, he had matured tremendously in the four years since we met. No longer the odd Oxford fellow, his expression revealed a new confidence. He had set out to become the world’s first and only consulting detective... or if not the only one, then the best. If at the tender age of twenty-four he was not there yet, he was certainly getting close. His dark hair tousled and unkempt, Sherlock quickly tossed his morning frock over the counter, took his place behind the microscope, and focused on whatever was on the slide beneath it.
An English gentleman, rarely did he abandon his cat-like tidiness, but in the privacy of his room back at Oxford, while he was playing melancholy tunes on his violin, he often donned one of his many dressing gowns. These days, in the lab, he gave precious little thought to his appearance or anything but that upon which he was working... solving the problem, the case, was all that mattered at those times, and he forgot about the current standards of fashion, as well as about eating or sleeping.
“You look thin, Sherlock. Are you eating? Are you - ?”
His head shot up and he said, “Oh, Poppy, come in!” It was as if he had forgotten completely that I had just followed him into the lab.
“Do come in! I need your assistance.”
“My assistance?” I was incredulous. “What is it?”
“In a moment. But
