“Poppy, you shouldn’t have come. I keep telling your Aunt Susan to stay away as well. And you must stay out of this. You and Sherlock. Please listen to me, dearest girl. I’ve tried to reason with Sherlock. I thought he would be rational. He told me what the two of you have been up to but-”
“You’ve spoken to Sherlock?”
“He’s come every day to see me. Several times a day, in fact.”
“Well, then you see how focused he is on your release. Uncle, why is this happening? Please talk to me. Talk to Mycroft and make him see-”
He smiled. “You do sound like Sherlock. He ranted on and on about ‘What is the point of your incarceration? What object is served for you to place yourself in this miserable, violent environment?’ And then we were off on this long, protracted discussion about the misery of the world, the pointless suffering, and he wondering if the world is ruled by chance when he is certain that is quite impossible.” He chuckled. “He said that life is stranger than fiction, that in fiction you can almost always foresee the outcome, but in real life, human reason rarely surfaces.”
“Uncle, this Mr. Brown, the apothecary... you must know him. Is he capable of committing these murders?”
“All of us are capable of despicable acts.”
“No, not all. Not you.”
“You believe I am innocent.”
“Of course, I do.”
“That is not what Sherlock told me.”
I felt the blood rush to my head, which started pounding. For a moment, I was afraid I would be sick right there because I felt nauseous and frightened. “Sherlock told you... he told you that I...” I stammered and stumbled. I could not find the words.
“He said you confided your doubts to him.”
I would thrash him. I would beat Sherlock’s face bloody!
“He explained to me,” Uncle said, “that you had found my scribbles in various books. That you pondered my long absences. It was a comfort.”
“What?”
“I did not know why you refused to speak to me for days on end. At least now I know why. And I understand.”
“Uncle, I-”
“Poppy, I have been considering the dilemma of euthanasia for a very long time. The meaningless suffering some have to endure. The lack of dignity so many experience when they are terminally ill. I have had many conversations with like-minded people and one urged me to explore the teachings of the Buddha. I am not a religious person, as you know.”
He stopped and looked up at the pulpit. “An odd place for us to be meeting, isn’t it?” he asked solemnly. “An atheist and an agnostic. Unless you have changed your mind on the matter of God’s existence.”
I looked down. I truly was unsure of my beliefs.
“There is much to be learned from the Buddha, Poppy. From the Four Truths. Especially the Truth of Suffering. That life is suffering. Sherlock asked, ‘What is the meaning of that?’ as well. It is difficult to calculate, to measure humanity or its components. The great problem with...”
His voice drifted. “But Sherlock decided, in his infinite youthful wisdom, that even this must serve some purpose, must tend toward some end.”
He sighed. Then he said, “I asked you to read the article that was published in The Lancet a few years ago. The one by William Dale. You remember it?”
I nodded. I’d read it long ago, long before I entered nursing school or medical school. I didn’t want to reproach him. I loved Uncle more than ever. So I answered, “Yes, I remember it. He wrote about telling a patient of his fate and using medications like opium to relieve the pain, but that is not the same as euthanasia, Uncle.”
“No, but opium, and other drugs, certainly are a great boon to allowing a person to depart this world less filled with terror.” He picked up one of the books that he had placed on the pew. “I want you to read this, too. You remember our discussion about Samuel Williams?”
“Yes. It was a heated discussion.”
“Yes, it was, as they so often are with you,” he laughed. “Well, his essay was published in this book called Essays of the Birmingham Speculative Club. They are the collected works of members of a philosophical society. Williams’ essay was very favourably reviewed in The Saturday Review, as I recall.” He tapped on the book. “He proposed that in all cases of hopeless and painful illness, it is the duty of the physician, if it is desired by the patient, to use chloroform to deliberately hasten death. The remedy must be applied only at the express wish of the dying person, of course.”
“But this method leaves the sick open to terrible abuse,” I said. Then I thought, My God, he’s lured me into a medical-philosophical discussion! “Uncle, I did not come here to debate the moral implications of euthanasia. I want to get you out of this place!”
“But you must think about these things. You must! Poppy, I have long tied my self-esteem to my skills as a surgeon, but often they go unrewarded. It is a great burden at times, my inability to save every patient, my inability to cure every sick person who crosses my threshold, to alleviate the suffering of those who cannot be cured. It diminishes me.
“You must see the same pride and ego in your Sherlock. For him to be unable to solve a case? Unthinkable! But he must stop. Both of you must stop. In due course, this case shall be resolved.”
Hearing those words, I knew, I was one hundred percent certain that Uncle had nothing to do with the murders. But he knew something.
“You didn’t do these horrible things. But you do know who did, don’t you?’
Though I pleaded with him, he refused to answer me. Finally, he picked up a second book. “I want you to read this, too.”
“Uncle Ormond, I don’t want to
