And what had he told me as we treated the wounded at the scene of the horrible train crash near Oxfordshire on that blustery, rainy night in September of 1874? What had he said to me as he stopped me from trying to treat the two hopeless women who, pinned together by some part of the wreckage, were minutes from death?
I remembered now. Uncle had touched the hand of a man who was near death, and then another who was gasping his last. I watched as he moved on right past them. Without a word, he bent over the next man, who was sobbing like an infant.
As he opened his medical bag, I touched his shoulder and asked, “Uncle, what of the other two?” He stared at me, obviously puzzled by such a question. “They are close to death. Tonight I am a physician. Not a coroner.” And on the way home, he’d said, “We should be thankful for those who died quickly. They did not suffer.”
My thoughts, the absurdity of them, the uncertainty and brutality of them, choked my mind.
Uncle had moved on. He helped the living and left the dying. Was he also capable of moving the dying along a little faster? He certainly had the means and the acumen, and possibly the mindset, to do so.
Impossible. Or was it?
18
That afternoon, Sherlock and I met for tea at the same restaurant where I’d had lunch with Oscar. It was busy, even for a Saturday afternoon, but with autumn upon us and winter not far behind, many people wished to enjoy the balmy weather. We settled in on the sweeping, colonnaded Nash terrace and ordered finger sandwiches. When they served a pot of Indian tea, I immediately thought of Victor. I had written to him a hundred times, but all letters had gone unanswered. I wondered how he was doing at the tea plantation in India.
As if Sherlock had read my thoughts, he asked, “I often think of Victor when I have a flavourful cup of Indian tea. Have you heard from him?”
Shaking my head, “I doubt I shall.”
“You have not heard a word?” Sherlock asked.
“Nothing, Sherlock. Pour me some tea, will you?”
We left it at that.
I knew that Sherlock still felt guilty about what had happened. He felt he had betrayed his only friend. I could never forget his words after we had spent the night, that one night, together. I have betrayed my only friend in the world, and I have betrayed you as well because we both know a relationship is out of the question. I would not be a good husband and to be effective in my work, I must never marry. I must not succumb to love again. I never shall.
It was true that I had not heard from Victor directly, but my brother received the occasional letter from him. Michael told me it was Victor’s way of keeping in touch with me.
Several times he shared Victor’s correspondence with me. Victor wrote of the long, humid days, the starchy, fibrous, green jackfruits that tasted like a combination of apple, pineapple, mango and banana. He described his house and his verandah with its moss-speckled walls. “Rat snakes forage beneath it when they are not glistening in the sun as they rest.” In a recent letter, Victor had written about bees that settled in the hollows of trees; many of the locals left indentations in their walls so that the bees could build honeycombs in their homes. I had wanted to tell Sherlock about the bees in which he seemed so keenly interested.
Michael also had related Victor’s descriptions of glossy black jungle crows with their harsh, guttural, grating squawk, and of the bluebottles that swelled around his home like an eager throng at a public hanging, waiting for the remains. I’d asked Michael what those were.
“Come now,” Michael had said. “You know your Shakespeare. They are blow flies that like the smell of rotting meat and fruit. Victor says they curl and cluster around flowers with strong, disagreeable odors.”
Unsurprisingly, Sherlock pushed his food around. He was never one to eat or sleep very much when he was focused on a problem. “I have confirmed the poison in the bird and the victim,” he said. “It is, as I predicted, hydrocyanic acid.”
Chemistry not being my forté, I asked about its attributes.
“It is colourless and lethal. It has a faint, bitter, almond-like odor, as you now know.”
Now I understood why the word ‘almond’ had triggered his impatience at the fountain when he’d mentioned the word almond in connection with his diatribe on bee cultures.
“It seems to be quite effective as a rodenticide and is used in killing whales as well,” he said. “A lethal dose can kill a human being in one minute.”
“One?”
He nodded. “So now I know who, where, when and how.”
“But not the elusive ‘why.’ And not the ‘who’ either.”
“No. I know the victim’s name.”
“I meant the killer. The ‘who did it?’”
“Ah, yes. Who committed the crimes? No, not yet,” he admitted with a sigh. “But James Dixon is the identity of the man you examined yesterday. His young wife had reported him missing to the Metropolitan Police and his employer said he did not come to work for two days.”
“Could it be a suicide, Sherlock?”
“Interesting you should say that. James was recently diagnosed with a brain tumor. I suppose he may have wished to end his life sooner rather than later. Before he suffered further.”
I winced, trying desperately to discard the horrible thoughts that clouded my mind.
“His wife said that he had crippling headaches. There were gross personality changes as well. His employer noted the same. James possessed a high degree of mathematical prowess, but, of late, he could barely make correct change or tally up at the end of a day. Just last week he was given a rather abhorrent evaluation. The wife agreed that he could no longer balance their personal account. She urged him to see a physician.”
“And did he?”
“His regular
