“He called it circumstantial evidence,” she added. “So if there is enough, Ormond could be hanged for these murders. He said people have been convicted on less.”
I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out.
She drank down the rest of the port and ran from the room.
36
As part of the plan we had discussed, the next day I went to St. Bart’s to meet Sherlock and Archibald. It had rained the night before, so I trudged through the black mud. The soot that vitiated the air filled my lungs as I made my way to the hospital. Blazing fires and cheery hearths gave way to dust and smoke and fog. Nothing squelched it, and I had taken to washing my face at least three times a day. A dustman called out “Dust-ho!” as he approached in his high-sided horse-drawn cart, his youthful carrier beside him with his large wicker basket. The old man still wore an old-fashioned ‘uniform’ - a fan-tailed hat, loose flannel jacket, velveteen red breeches, worsted stockings and short gaiters to protect his legs and feet. And the street sweepers were out and about, their clothes sullied with cascades of blacks, covered from head to foot with dirt and grime. They reminded me of the children on the balcony after the Thames disaster. Even though the sewer system removed much of the filth from central London, it shifted upstream to Beckton and Crossness, and when the sewer was discharged, as it had just been on the night of the crash, the river, as described in The Times, hissed “like soda-water with baneful gases, so black that the water is stained for miles, discharging a corrupt charnel-house odour.”
And I knew that Sherlock’s little friend Archibald came from some back-street, some pig-sty littered with decayed vegetables and fish guts, bones and bottles and oyster shells and rags. The idea of children living in such turmoil turned my stomach. I hoped Sherlock remembered to find appropriate attire for Archibald. I doubted the boy owned anything except the clothes on his back.
I said hello to several people in the hospital corridors, but they ignored me. It unnerved me - what game was afoot about which I was unaware?
I had almost reached the lab when I saw Michael running toward me. He pulled me into a supply room and shoved a newspaper at me. “Have you seen this?”
I looked down at the page. The headline read: Ostrich Farming in South Africa.
Michael’s eyes followed mine as they left the ostrich article and swept down to the headline that read: Terrible Accident on The Thames. Below it was an illustration. Its caption was, “Recovering bodies from the Thames after the Princess Alice Disaster.” The article that followed read:
At high water, twice in 24 hours, the flood gates of the outfalls are opened when there is projected into the river two continuous columns of decomposed fermenting sewage, hissing like soda water with baneful gases, so black that the water is stained for miles and discharging a corrupt charnel house odour.
Of course, I already knew that swallowing water from this part of the Thames at that time was fatal. Few victims died in the actual collision. Most suffocated and drowned in the toxic combination of raw sewage and industrial pollutants. I felt the bile rise up in my own throat and looked up at Michael.
“I’m sorry, Poppy. It’s another article I wished to have you read. Turn to the next page.”
Now I saw what had so excited and agitated him. The headline at the top of the second page read:
SUSPECT IN FIVE MURDERS IS PHYSICIAN AT ST. BART’S HOSPITAL
“Oh, sweet Jesus, Michael!”
“You didn’t talk to anyone who might have leaked this to the press, did you?”
“No” I whispered. “I’ve spoken only to you and Aunt Susan and Sherlock.”
“Well, surely neither of them would speak to a reporter.”
I fixed my eyes on the article again.
A prominent physician, Dr. Ormond Sacker, is being questioned in connection with six murders. Dr. Sacker has worked at St. Bart’s Hospital as a surgeon for over a decade and currently engages in pathology work as well. He resides with his wife and niece in the Regent Park area.
According to sources at the highest level, though Dr. Sacker is patently implicated in these crimes, thus far, he has refused to confess or even to speak on the matter.
In recent weeks, the bodies of six men have been found near the British Museum. The sixth man was found in the same condition as the others, likely poisoned, with a blackbird, also poisoned, positioned near his head and a small replica of a Buddha statue that is on display in the museum. An employee of the museum, Mr. Morris Engelwood, discovered the body. Employees who had exited the museum just minutes before Mr. Engelwood had not seen anything unusual near the premises. Even if it was too dark to see the body of this man, it is impossible to suppose that the employees who preceded Mr. Engelwood would not have tripped over it had it been there when they left.
The inference is therefore this: if the man was murdered where he was found, the deed was done in the short period of twenty minutes. This is the approximate amount of time the police say a medical expert or someone with knowledge of chemistry would take to do it.
The five previous victims have been identified as follows:
George Blake, Jonathan Hartwig, Arthur Flincher,
Andrew Baker and James Dixon.
The identity of the most recent victim is being withheld until family members have consented to its release.
Neither afternoon patrons nor employees heard or saw anything that led them to suspect that foul play was going on around
