“Isn’t mercy the very essence of euthanasia, Poppy? A merciful and serene end to a life that is no longer worth living?”
Once again, everything I had found in my uncle’s desk and library, and his own words, rushed back to me.
19
Uncle Ormond and Aunt Susan were due home late Sunday afternoon or early evening. I spent most of the day contemplating if I should voice my suspicions to Uncle. The logical side of my mind reverberated a resounding ‘No!’ and my emotions kept step. How would I even broach the subject?
Uncle, I noticed you have several recent additions to your library, many of which relate to Tantric Buddhism, the Four Truths and the human condition, to-wit: suffering? Would you care to elabourate on these recent acquisitions and your intense interest in Eastern religion?
Or...
Uncle, why the sudden attentiveness to Buddha and the concept of eliminating suffering? Is there some personal reason for this concentration on the subject?
Or...
Uncle, five men have recently been murdered. Poisoned. In fact, I just assisted the Coroner with an autopsy of one of the victims. Have you heard anything about these events and would you care to share your thoughts?
Or...
Uncle, what are your feelings about euthanasia? Did you kill five men to relieve them of their suffering?
None of those questions could ever cross my lips. I knew that.
I tried to eat something. I couldn’t. I tried to nap, but sleep eluded me, as it had the night before. I spent most of the day reading the books Uncle had purchased on the subject of Buddha and its doctrines. In the late afternoon, I decided to go for a walk.
When I arrived at the steps of the British Museum, I took a deep breath, and went directly to the display case that housed the Buddha. It was a truly beautiful artefact, worthy of its place in the museum.
My mind kept roiling back to the Four Noble Truths and what I had read in Uncle’s books. The Truths were the essence of the religion and the philosophy entwined within it, and from my meager understanding, I gleaned that those who follow the doctrine believe that suffering simply exists; it has a cause; it has an end; and there is a way to bring about its end. Those who followed the religion did not think of suffering as negative but sensibly regarded it as a part of the world, the world as it is, and something that can be rectified. Pleasure is fleeting and leads only to an ultimately unquenchable thirst. In the end, all that is certain and unavoidable are aging, sickness, and death.
Buddha set forth a way, through the Truths, to deal with the suffering we face, be it physical or mental or emotional, and said that desire and ignorance lie at the root of suffering. He taught that without the capacity for mental concentration and insight, one’s mind does not evolve and cannot grasp the true nature of things. Vices like greed and lust, hate and anger are derived from this ignorance.
It was a very reasonable and utilitarian way to approach the human condition and, though Sherlock subscribed to no religion that I knew of, it was not unlike his own tenets. Ignorance, to Sherlock Holmes, was the weed in the garden that invaded and blighted everything within it. He himself was ignorant of many things, but it was out of choice, for he focused on his own narrow interests and that which was necessary to his work. Nevertheless, he hoarded little packages in his brain attic, like my mother, who liked to purchase odd little gifts throughout the year and put them away for some occasion in the future when she might need them. And like Endelyn Stamford, Sherlock might forget for a time what he stowed away, but he always, always had a vague perception of what was tidied away in storage.
For a short time, I walked along Great Russell Street, and then turned left on Montague, the street where Sherlock lived. I toyed with the idea of dropping in, but he would likely be in the lab at St. Bart’s anyway, fixated on his analysis of the results of the autopsy of James Dixon. I found my way to Russell Square, to Queen Square and Ormond Street, wondering as I always did if this was from whence came Uncle’s name. After a very long meander, I somehow found myself at the Langham Hotel, where I had dined with Sherlock when he briefly visited London after the dog-bite incident that had initially brought us together.
At that time, the deep wound left behind by my dog and the sprained ankle that had not yet healed required that Sherlock remain on crutches but he had still made his way by train to London for a short visit. Over dinner, we discussed the baby farming investigation. Then a page and I helped Sherlock to his room. It was there he admitted he had feelings for me.
He showed me some books he had ordered to read during his visit. He talked about the room he was in - supposedly haunted. Just before I left, he encircled my wrist with those long fingers of his and said, “I just wanted a moment alone with you. You are a woman of soul and you touch mine - if indeed I have one - in a most unusual way.”
And then he pulled me close. My lips were an inch from his and I could feel the heat of his breath on my cheek.
I could have cried out, but I did not. Instead, I brushed my lips tenderly against his cheek. Then I ran from the room because I realized at that moment how much he meant to me... and how dangerous those feelings were.
Now, standing at the entrance to the hotel, all those recollections flooded back. I quickly turned to make my way home. As soon as I arrived, I took Little Elihu for a short walk,
