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 to 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.”
Always curious about what interesting new and gory thing Uncle was hiding from Aunt Susan and me, I put the key in the lock and opened the cupboard. At the very top of a pile of papers, I found three
