Now I sat in Uncle’s favourite wing chair near the fireplace and returned my attention to the little book I had found in his desk. The book explained, in simple terms, the basic tenets of the Four Noble Truths. I learned that the Buddha had set forth these truths during his first sermon after his ‘Enlightenment.’ Though the subject was complicated and confusing, the explanations were eloquent in their simplicity. Even I can understand these, I thought, as I read through them.
The Truth of Suffering: The First Noble Truth often is translated as “Life is suffering.”
The Truth of the Cause of Suffering, teaches that we continually search for something outside ourselves to make us happy, but no matter how successful we are, we never remain satisfied.
The Truth of the End of Suffering: The first truth tells us what the illness is, and the second truth tells us what causes the illness. The Third Noble Truth holds out hope for a cure.
The Truth of the Path That Frees Us from Suffering. In the fourth truth, the Buddha prescribed the treatment for our illness, which is walking the Eight-Fold Path to become aware of oneself, one’s feelings and thoughts, and gain a clearer picture of reality.
I leaned back and closed my eyes. Uncle Ormond was an avowed atheist. Though he had expressed an interest in various religions and seemed intrigued by Eastern philosophy and the ancient Oriental cultures, an interest that had obviously deepened in recent times, we had never discussed any of this in depth. I also knew that these books were recently purchased because I had lived in this house with Uncle and Aunt Susan since my early adolescence while I attended a private school for girls in London, and later while I went to nursing and medical school, and I was totally familiar with his library. I had never noticed these books and Uncle had never alerted me to them... uncharacteristic of him, because he loved to share with me the books he acquired on his frequent trips to the bookselling district on Newgate Street.
I opened my eyes and was about to close the book and return it to the shelf in the library when a slip of paper slid from between the pages to the floor. I picked it up and read a note that was written in Uncle’s handwriting.
Only Buddhism locates suffering at the heart of the world. Why do pain and suffering exist? Siddhartha Guatama, c. 566 BC - c.480 BC. Compassion toward all sentient beings.
Then, he had written and underlined: Abolish suffering altogether.
What had stirred my uncle’s new interest in the very things that Sherlock was investigating as possible clues to the British Museum Murders - a name I had affixed to them in my mind and which undoubtedly the newspapers would coin?
I returned to the Four Noble Truths. Suffering was the common denominator. Suffering and how to alleviate it.
How to alleviate it, I thought. How to end suffering. Euthanasia.
Hadn’t Uncle mentioned this recently as well? Hadn’t he and Aunt Susan discussed that very topic just the other night when he reminded her that even as far back as ancient Greece and Rome, before the coming of Christianity, attitudes toward active euthanasia and suicide were tolerant?
“Many ancient Greeks and Romans had no defined belief in the inherent value of individual human life,” he’d said, “and pagan physicians performed both voluntary and involuntary mercy killings.”
I had reminded him, as I thrust myself into the conversation, of the Hippocratic Oath which prohibits doctors from giving a deadly drug to anybody, not even if asked for. I had also reminded him of the edict of Thomas Inman, an eminent surgeon who had just died two years ago. “Primum non nocere,” I said. “First Do No Harm.”
And Uncle had promptly reminded me that, “Sometimes life is not worthy of life,” and then expounded on the essays of Samuel Williams, who advocated the use of drugs not only to alleviate terminal pain, but to intentionally end a patient’s life. “Williams’ drive to legalize euthanasia has received serious consideration, Poppy,” Uncle said.
I had turned on my heels but not before shouting, “No! Medication should be administered only to alleviate pain, not to hasten death.”
Now, I slammed the book shut and marched back to Uncle’s study to return the little book to the desk cupboard. It was unthinkable, what I was thinking. Which was that perhaps the victims were terminally ill. Which was that perhaps one had sought Uncle out to end his life and now Uncle was sending a message to others that they, too, could seek his help to end their suffering, their lives.
My mind raced. My thoughts grew darker. I’d often found Uncle deep in conversation with Mr. Brown at St. Bart’s. Uncle said they talked about new medicines and engaged in discussions about Buddhism. What if my uncle had relieved the victims of their suffering and left, as Sherlock put it, a calling card, hoping to send a message that people need not end their lives in misery and pain?
I paced the floor. Had Uncle Ormond been to the British Museum lately? Yes, less than two months ago, we’d spent the day there when my mother came into London to visit with Michael and my little nephew Aleister Alexander, born just prior to Effie’s death. He was just a little over a year old, and I had carried him from room to room, holding him close, hoping that somehow he would feel his late mother’s warmth through my embrace.
Had we visited the room that housed the Buddha? We had. Had Uncle shown any particular interest in it? Lingered there to gaze at it? He had!
He had pointed it out to me specifically and said, “There is much to learn from these Statues... these symbols of how to vanquish ignorance and suffering.”
I nearly passed out as the blackness of my thoughts and rekindled memories ravaged me.
Impossible. My Uncle? A
