“No, there are none left who need a physician.”
I thought of the way we cleaned each face and put a number on its chest and placed whatever possessions had clung to the deceased in a tin box at its feet. I had meandered up and down the rows with relatives who were fearful they would identify a missing loved one. Many fainted dead away when they did. I could tell some barely hung on to their sanity. It was a grisly, awful thing, especially now that bodies were decomposing. I had heard that because of the number of unidentified bodies, the Coroner had ordered a mass burial, and I planned to go back to the wharf tomorrow to help with removing clothing, washing more bodies, and shrouding them for the make-shift ceremony.
Lost in my thoughts, my aunt’s voice startled me when she spoke again.
“He wants you to move on.”
“What?”
“Sherlock wants you to move on, Poppy.”
Move on, I thought. He wants my help on the British Museum Murders, that’s what he wants!
“Poppy, you must admit there is nothing more you can do at the wharf. Questions about the collision are now up to the civic authorities and people like Mycroft. Next week, the inquest will commence.”
“I know, I know. Sherlock told me some of these things, and I have heard many discussions at the steamboat office. The Board of Trade is involved as well. Most believe that the captain of the Princess Alice broke some kind of rule and cut right in front of the cargo ship.”
“My point is we must leave this investigation in the good hands of the authorities and people like Mycroft and Sherlock. It was a terrible disaster, but you need not continue to expose yourself to these horrors.”
Speechless, I rose, poured myself some wine and drank almost the entire glass in one gulp. Then I turned to her and said, “I do not wish to dine with you, Aunt Susan, not with Sherlock and Mycroft and Uncle. I would rather-”
She cut me off. “Now, that’s the other thing I want to speak to you about. You have barely spoken to your uncle since we returned from Scotland. He’s very perplexed. What has gotten into you?”
“Nothing.”
“Priscilla Stamford, do not tell me that there is nothing wrong. Your behaviour speaks volumes. Why are you angry with your uncle?”
“I’m not angry, Aunt Susan. I’m... I’m...”
I’m afraid he is helping people die, I screamed in my head. I am confused and upset and terrified.
“Poppy, please tell me what is bothering you.”
I couldn’t. I lost my voice again.
“Dearest girl, I know you. You are never at a loss for words, and you have never ignored your uncle or me. Please, talk to me.”
I said nothing.
She stood up, finished her wine, and walked to the door. “I shall not have you barricade yourself in your room whilst we have dinner guests, particularly someone as prestigious as Mycroft Holmes. I insist you join us. It is up to you whether you choose to engage in conversation.”
I stood as well. “Aunt Susan, if you insist, then I shall see you at dinner.”
Then I turned and ran to my room.
24
I sat at the foot of my bed, staring into space for a long time. Then I called to Martha and asked her to draw me a bath. Once finished, I tossed on a dressing gown, and she twirled and looped my hair up in an intricate style. When she left, I wore out the rug, pacing back and forth, to and fro, wringing my hands. Move on, I thought again. As if I could simply dismiss the appalling loss of life, a death toll even greater than that of the two Norfolk train wrecks combined.
I knew Sherlock’s passionate nature first-hand, and I knew that Sherlock’s emotions were not as shrunken as he let on. But he suppressed them these days, almost to the point of atrophy, and it could be chilling. I admired and respected his ability to be analytical and rational; I’d always prided it in myself. But his quest to completely repress his feelings until they were nothing more than a vestigial flicker was shocking. So why did I still find him so beguiling?
He was the confident centre of his own universe, unwilling to conform to social norms, independent, protective of his self-sufficiency, always in control, and driven in an almost primal fashion. He happily solved cases to relieve boredom, but often seemed to lack compassion for the victim. After Effie died, I remembered telling Sherlock that it was so hard to lose someone you loved. His answer? Don’t get attached. My reply? That hasn’t worked for me.
I treasured logic and deduction as well. I had always prided myself on being extremely observant and perceptive to details, on possessing a keen ability to focus and concentrate despite distractions, to predict human behaviour. With Victor Trevor, I had generally been calm, composed, restrained, and usually able to keep my emotions in check. Oh, occasionally I was wound a bit too tight. There were times I sprang from my coil like a cobra emerging from his basket, poised to strike. But generally, I was unruffled, self-possessed, collected. With Sherlock, when I was around him, I was intimidated, almost submissive at times, and far too emotional. I hated it... but relished it at the same time.
“Ohhh!”I yelled and took off my dressing gown.
I looked through my wardrobe and finally settled on wearing something that was out-of-date, out-of-style - Mum would have been mortified. But it was the same outfit I had been wearing on the day I met Sherlock, a pale blue skirt with ruffles, pleats and draped layers at the back, and a white blouse with wide lace. As I dressed, I found myself seeing Sherlock through the prism of that day, seeing him as the elusive man he
