One of the Princess Alice’s engineers was also saved, but the captain, William Grinstead, and the remainder of his crew, were lost. The company’s superintendent of the fleet, Mr. Towse, was on board with his wife and family, but he went on shore at Gravesend. His lifeless wife was brought to Woolwich; at that time, their children were still missing and feared lost in the dark river.
At midnight, officials at the Plumstead Workhouse were conscripted to do what they could to render help. Michael and I, and the other doctors at the scene, rendered treatment to the least injured survivors as they appeared, each rising from the slug like a phoenix from the ashes. They were taken to nearby infirmaries by an assortment of cabs and Black Marias, the patrol wagons used by the police.
As dawn approached, exhausted, covered with grime ourselves and bordering on shock, Michael and I stood on the dock, peering into the dark river, now eerily silent. “They will be pulling them out for weeks,” he said, “Months.”
I knew Michael was right. Staring out across the blackness, wondering what other horrors awaited us, I whispered, “I know.”
It was when I turned to the sound of footsteps that I saw Sherlock walking toward us. He said nothing, I said nothing. I fell into his arms.
21
He held me close. “Are you all right? Poppy, are you - ?”
I did not try to break the embrace. I looked up at him. “I am. I am fine. But Sherlock-”
He stroked my limp and sooty hair. “Thank God.” Then he said, slowly, solemnly, “She had but two lifeboats. Two.”
He pulled slightly away and looked down at me. He kissed my forehead. His expression, his manner, revealed his soul and, for a moment, he showed that he knew how this catastrophe would affect me, that he was concerned about me and that he did care for me, deeply. But I knew he would retreat from sentiment quickly. To save him from embarrassment, I squirmed from his arms. “I need not guess how you have employed your evening. You have been talking to people at the London Steamboat office.”
“Quite so. Off and on. I have been talking to the steward who survived and a few others. Tomorrow, I shall widen my field of inquiries. I have just heard that there is a growing number of people who have heard about this and they’ve come out on trains from London to rummage in the wreckage and carry off curiosities. Lestrade has dispatched officers to prevent further vandalism, and I understand there will be two policemen posted day and night until the remains of the SS Princess Alice can be moved to the dockyard for examination and analysis.”
“Dear God,” Michael sighed. “Curiosities.”
“Michael,” Sherlock said, “you look a fright. As do you, Poppy,” he added, clutching my hand. “They have tea and some food in the Town Hall. You should eat something.”
“What about you?” I asked. “I imagine you arrived as soon as you heard and it’s almost one o’clock.”
“I had some chipped beef and a cold beer at dinner time. But now there is no time to eat or sleep. There is work to be done.”
I knew there was no point in arguing with him.
On the way to my uncle’s house, we stopped at Sherlock’s place on Montague because he insisted that he could think better if he had his violin. By the time we arrived, Uncle had come and gone. Aunt Susan told us that their train in Scotland had been delayed, but as soon they arrived in London and heard the news, he set out for the wharf. Martha brought out a tray of tea, but Aunt Susan and Sherlock disappeared. Soon, Michael excused himself to go home to relieve Alexander’s caretaker, who had been with the baby for at least ten hours beyond her shift. I went upstairs to my bedroom.
For several minutes, I think I simply stared into space. Then I washed my face, braided my hair and changed into a decent day dress. Inexplicably, it seemed important to me at that moment to appear composed before I went back downstairs. I heard violin music coming from my aunt’s morning room.
I made my way down the hall and stood in the doorway of the morning room for a moment, listening. Sherlock rarely played an actual composition; usually he just plucked and scraped at the strings of the instrument across his knee while he was lost in thought. A few moments later, Sherlock stopped abruptly and looked at me.
“That was beautiful, Sherlock. What was it?”
“Vivaldi’s Concerto for Violin in B Flat, Opus 4, Number 1. I know only a few bars. But your Aunt Susan found it soothing.”
I glanced toward a corner of a room where I saw Aunt Susan leaning against the wall, listening.
“He is quite extraordinary, Poppy.”
Sometimes, I thought. I simply nodded.
“I am quite exhausted,” Aunt Susan said. She gave me a kiss on the cheek as she brushed past and went upstairs.
Sherlock returned his violin to its case and asked “Shall we go into the drawing room?”
I nodded again and followed him. He helped himself to a glass of port. “Your uncle won’t mind?” he asked, raising his glass.
“No, he won’t. And I’ll join you.”
I poured some port into a glass and took two long swallows, then settled down across from him in front of the fireplace. “Vivaldi died over a hundred years ago,” he announced. “In Vienna. I should like to visit that city one day.”
Then he stared off; he was momentarily unreachable.
“You seem pensive.”
“Truth is the fruit of pensive nights and labourious days, Poppy.”
Again, he retreated to that inaccessible part of himself. Finally, I asked, “What happens next, Sherlock?
