I glanced over at the hat on my dresser bureau. Effie had made it for me, and I had worn it to her funeral. It was made of bright blue fabric with a black lace ruffle around the narrow brim. It had a black feather plume and a short train of black tulle. Effie’s early prediction seemed so eerily prescient.
“Poppy,” she had told me, with a shade of deep concern on her face, “please stay away from Sherlock Holmes. He is dangerous to your heart.”
“Dangerous? No, Sherlock Holmes, you are infuriating!” I yelled to no one, and hoped my voice did not carry too far because I’d seen the hansom cab pull up and Mycroft Holmes was by now knocking at the door.
I finished dressing, pinched my cheeks for colour, swept a brush through my fringe, and slowly walked down the steps to the dining room.
25
I did not say a word during dinner. I pushed my food around my plate and, anxious to retire to my room, I was about to ask to be excused when Sherlock changed the entire course of the conversation about the Thames accident - during which he had been his usually compulsive, aphoristic self - to the recent murders. As usual, he disarmed me with this unexpected swerve, though for the life of me, I didn’t know why. The Thames accident was behind him; the murder case was not.
“A bird symbolizes the Lord Buddha - and freedom,” Sherlock piped up halfway through dinner. “Did you know that many cultures believe the raven to be a symbol of impending death because the raven bird is believed to be able to smell death before it occurs? And in China, specifically, it is believed that the soul of the sun takes the form of a crow or a raven.
He turned to Mycroft. “So, it’s even more telling that the birds left beside the dead men were ravens. Nothing particularly exotic but extremely representational, wouldn’t you agree?”
Mycroft peered over his glass of wine and smirked. “Next my brother will be quoting Poe. ‘Quoth the raven, Nevermore’.”
“I hate that poem,” Aunt Susan interjected. “And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,” she said. She recited another verse.
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted -- nevermore!
“That’s the last stanza, Susan,” Uncle said. “Those last lines depict the final step of the journey, the lifting of the man’s suffering as he dies.”
I swallowed hard and the lump in my throat would not budge. I did not want Uncle discussing this subject.
“I disagree, Dr. Sacker,” Sherlock said. “That is not the meaning of the last stanza.”
I stared at him. What? Sherlock Holmes analyzing poetry? Now that was truly impossible. I would have to speak to our friend Oscar Wilde to find out what he’d been filling Sherlock’s head with.
“The raven’s shadow most likely symbolizes sadness,” Sherlock continued. “I do understand how some might interpret that last stanza as relating to the narrator’s death, but they’re wrong. Poe is discussing the narrator’s soul; the words mean that the narrator will never be happy again. The shadow remains on the floor, and it is the narrator’s soul that will never climb out from under that shadow of sadness. If someone has convinced you that he died, he’s wrong, Dr. Sacker.”
“Sherlock?” Uncle asked, his lips turning into a smile for the first time all evening.
“It’s simple logic, Dr. Sacker. Whoever tells you that the narrator has died, ask him how a dead man can narrate a poem.”
Now, for the first time all evening, I smiled as well, and Mycroft and Aunt Susan laughed.
“About the bird. I assume, Dr. Sacker, my brother has told you about the murders which have occurred near the British Museum.”
I patted my lips with my napkin and started to rise. Aunt Susan tapped my wrist, and her eyes told me she wanted me to stay. I settled back into my chair.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “That is Her Majesty’s business. You are not to pursue that further.”
“Oh, dearest brother, how you do try to be that raven casting a shadow over me. When was the last time I allowed you to manipulate my life? Oh, yes, now I remember. I think I was three and you were ten.”
“Sherlock-”
“As I was saying,” Sherlock continued, “Now that it seems very clear how the Thames incident occurred-”
“The inquest has just begun, Sherlock. It is not clear at all,” Mycroft interrupted.
“In fact it is, Mycroft. Quite clear. The vessel which ran into the Princess Alice, the Bywell Castle, was a screw collier going to the north, light in ballast and heading downstream from Millwall dry dock on her way back to Newcastle. She was built of iron and powered by a single four-bladed screw. At over 1300 tons, she was over five times as heavy as the Princess Alice, and she sat much higher in the water.
“Now, at about 7:30 p.m., the Princess Alice came round Tripcock Point and into Galleons Reach, heading into the sinking sun, on her way to Woolwich. The force of the ebb tide had pushed her to the north side of the river, so, to regain her bearing, she was in the process of turning and moving southwards to the centre of the river. Her new course took her across the bow of the Bywell Castle, which bore down upon her. It cut her almost completely in half.
“Captain Grinstead was not seen after the accident, of course, but he was observed at his post shortly before the collision. Beyond the fact that the tide was about two hours ebb, which would enable the Princess Alice to ease
