“They have already started to inspect the wreck and the condition of the Princess Alice reveals it was utterly unseaworthy. It was literally broken into three parts. These so-called saloon steamers are little better than floating platforms, egg-shells, that go down on the smallest contact with anything like iron or timber. The Princess was pricked out by plankin,” he continued. “It is a mere platform, planked in. A description given to me by the Captain of the Bywell Castle of its condition is quite true. I don’t know why anyone steps foot on them. The London Steamboat Company ought to be prosecuted.
“Passenger steamers have no business on the Thames hereabouts after dark. The river is full of heavy shipping, masses of wood and iron, not easy to control at certain states of the tide. The captain of the Princess Alice was out of his course and completely ignored the recent changes in the laws of navigation on the river. Captain Grinstead was avoiding the rush of the tide by making a circuit. They continually do this; there is not a day that passes when they don’t risk the lives of their passengers.”
He turned to me. “These steamers are like the hansom cabmen who think the London streets belong to them. Their captains believe that the river is theirs and that everyone else must get out of their way. These excursion steamers experience the narrowest ‘shaves’ in the busiest reaches and bends of the river, crowded as it often is with shipping, and they are, therefore, charged with sudden emergencies of navigation. But the Bywell Castle was too heavy and too slow, and she could not get out of Grinstead’s way.
“As is usual in such cases, the accident is likely due to a misunderstanding, the one misinterpreting the intentions of the other. All the rules of sailing were cast to the winds in the moment of peril, each taking the wrong course to avoid each other’s blunder.” He turned to Mycroft, “So you see, dearest brother, the case can be concluded.”
With that consummation of his discourse on the Thames accident, Sherlock turned his attention back to the British Museum Murders. I did not know it at the time, but before the evening’s end, we would all be like the Princess Alice... cut in half, weeping from our gaping wounds, sinking to the lowest depths of a dark polluted river, drowning.
26
As soon as we finished eating dinner, the men retired to the library. Aunt Susan and I gathered dessert plates, fresh napkins and utensils to take to the dining room. The scent of Sherlock’s pipe, sweet and strong, wafted through the air.
“Sherlock, pipes and libraries,” I mumbled.
“What, Poppy?”
“Oh, nothing. I was just remembering a day that Sherlock and I met at the Bod at Oxford where he was doing research on laws against baby farming. He lit up a pipe despite the rules against it.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. His older brother is good at bending the rules as well.”
I knew what she meant. Though Mycroft was the quintessential patriot, loyal to the Crown to a fault, he was certainly not above circumventing laws and protocol. I suspected he had long ago subscribed to the adage: ‘the end justifies the means.’
Likewise, Sherlock was not above bending rules and breaking laws to solve a case. He did not rail against authority exactly, but he did not revere it either. When it came to crime investigation, he could be tart-tongued or lace his words with honey, whichever best served his purpose. He was always audacious, non-traditional, and mercilessly driven to uncover every shred of evidence without regard to convention.
We were placing biscuits on several platters on the sideboard when I heard Sherlock’s voice. He was yelling at the top of his lungs.
“Are you mad, Mycroft? Are you insane?”
Aunt Susan and I quickly made our way to the library. Uncle was standing in the middle of the room with Sherlock in front of him, as if he were a royal guard protecting Her Majesty. Mycroft stood several feet away, near the bookshelves to the right of the fireplace, his arms crossed over his ample chest.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft said with far more softness in his voice than I might have imagined, given the exasperated state Sherlock always elicited from him. “Even Lestrade wishes to speak to Dr. Sacker.”
“Lestrade,” Sherlock hissed. “That shallow, rat-faced-”
“Sherlock!” Mycroft yelled.
“If Lestrade is party to this, it is solely because you put him up to it. He has not an imaginative bone in his body. He’s a black-eyed bulldog that you have on your leash.”
“The best of a rather bad lot, I’ll grant you,” Mycroft replied, his voice drifting off. “Nevertheless-” He cleared his throat. “I simply need to ask Dr. Sacker some questions in a rather more formal setting, Sherlock. It is my duty to-”
No!” Sherlock roared. “You are not just asking questions! You have all but accused Dr. Sacker of committing multiple murders! I believe it’s finally time to send a page to the sanitarium to have them fetch you.”
My aunt finally injected herself into the conversation. “Ormond, what on earth is all this about?”
Uncle looked down at his feet, then stiffened and looked straight at Mycroft.
“My brother has lost his mind,” Sherlock said, disdain dripping from his tongue.
“Mycroft,” Uncle said quietly. “We have been acquainted for a long time. Since you were a boy. Good God, man, you just dined at my table with my family, and now you are accusing me of these atrocities?”
Aunt Susan ran across the room and slipped her arm through my uncle’s. “Ormond, tell me what is going on.”
Mycroft never took his eyes off Uncle’s face. His icy stare, the darkness behind his eyes, sent shivers through
