“A telegram?”
“From my brother Sherrinford. Read it.”
I opened it and was shocked at the content. Sherrinford had written that he would suspend all further stipends or subsidies unless Sherlock refrained from ‘involving himself further in our brother Mycroft’s ventures and concerns.’
I looked up at him. “Sherlock, why?”
“It’s Mycroft’s doing. For whatever reason, he does not want me involved in the British Museum Murders or in attempting to exonerate your uncle.”
“I don’t understand!”
“Nor do I. And this is a bit of an inconvenience. I am quite certain that, in time, I will eke out a living in my newfound profession, but I am only just beginning.”
“You do have the money from Musgrave.”
“Indeed, and that shall have to last for a bit. They won’t intimidate me. Neither Sherrinford nor Mycroft. I am going to solve this case.”
“I know you will.”
He drank some wine and said, “Sit. We have much to discuss.”
He settled in a wing chair and I sat in the other one. “Tell me.”
“Well, I’ve had the children watching the comings and goings at the British Museum.”
“And?”
He leaned back and closed his eyes, momentarily lost in his thoughts, his hands scraping the invisible strings of the invisible violin that he imagined was resting on his knee. I wished that, instead of a grand piano, I had a bevy of violins from which he could choose when he visited, infrequently as that might be.
His eyes popped open. “Young Archibald observed one gentleman of Asian descent who works there. Apparently, he keeps very odd hours and Archibald saw him meeting with a man very late at night behind the museum. There was some sort of exchange. Archibald is almost certain that the Asian man handed the other man a small statue. But it was too dark for Archibald to be certain, and, additionally, Archibald’s observations are less than reliable because he had with him an infant.”
“An infant?”
“Archibald is imperturbable, but of late, he is straddled with his youngest brother Billy, who is still in nappies.”
“And how old is Archibald?”
“Ten or eleven.”
“And he is living on the streets with this baby?”
Holmes shrugged as if it should come as no surprise.
“We should do something, Sherlock. Aren’t you concerned at all about the danger in which you may be putting these children?”
“They can be a problem, I admit. I do calculate the limits to which I am justified in putting them in harm’s way.”
“Well, then, this baby-”
“I shall see to its care.” Then there came a second shrug which made it clear that he was not interested in pursuing further discussion of the infant’s welfare.
“So, this man with whom the Oriental man from the museum met could be the killer,” I breathed out.
“Possibly. Or it could be some sort of preliminary conference to arrange for the true exchange of the poison. Where to obtain it and so on. I should think the mercy killer would prefer something a bit more private. He might not be present at the suicide.”
“Suicide. But this man - if we are correct - he is ending a person’s life! That is not suicide. And as for mercy-”
“Poppy,” he said quietly “I do not believe that this particular enterprise involves anything but merciful intentions.”
I thought a moment. Could a person be so tormented that he asked to be put out of his misery? Could anyone be in so much discomfort that he wished to relinqish the last moments, so steeped in emotional crisis or physical pain that he was no longer comfortable in his own presence? My life was far from perfect. My romantic entanglement was a disaster. My best friend was gone. Now my beloved uncle was in gaol. But underneath it all, my nerve endings still fired with the staggering sense of being alive.
“But that does not make it right, Sherlock.”
“No, it does not. More importantly, the perpetrator must be found to exculpate Dr. Sacker.” He sighed, rose, slammed his glass down so hard on the mantel that I thought it would shatter. “Damn Mycroft!”
I rose and put my hands on his shoulders. “I am grateful, Sherlock. Grateful for your persistence and your faith in Uncle. As I told you, my own has been a bit shaky of late.”
He brought his hands up and clasped mine. Our eyes met in that familiar way, and I knew both of us were remembering the touches, the caresses, and the warmth of that night in the cottage. But the depth and the authenticity of his feelings were almost imperceptible. He quickly discharged them, dropped his hands to his side and released mine, turned and looked into the mirror for a moment. I could not discern what reflection he perceived. He turned around and said, “I have a plan.”
“To catch him out?”
He smiled, nodded, and said, “Of course!”
We sat back down. I sipped my wine, drinking in every word as Sherlock, ever unable to resist an opportunity to display his dramatic talents, very slowly unfurled what he knew, what he needed to know and how he planned to apprehend the British Museum murderer.
33
“First of all,” Sherlock said, “I believe we have already established that all the victims had one thing in common. Each was dying or debilitated in some way by a mental disorder.”
“How do you know this?”
“You remember that Mr. Carttar ordered the exhumation of the first four bodies?”
“Yes.”
“I made a point of being present at the autopsies and I have read through their medical histories.”
My status as a novice detective had its advantages. I had not yet learned how to ignore the law, but Sherlock was a putative expert in such endeavours. Even if Sherlock never achieved fame and fortune, he would definitely make an indelible impression on anyone he met, fooled or engaged in his great game. Once again, I was struck by what an interesting brain his was to inhabit. “And just how did you obtain those?”
He grinned. “First, I talked to relatives of each of the deceased. At first blush, it appeared there might be a
