I shuddered, again thinking of the tiny babe that Archibald cared for most of the time. He was just a child himself. All of them, all of these deserted, abandoned children belonged in warm, cozy homes, and in school, not living dirty and ragged on the streets of London.
“Detective Hopkins, is there somewhere we can speak privately?” I asked finally. “Please, sir, you always listen to Sherlock and-”
“I have already spoken to him about the man at the museum, Poppy,” Sherlock said. “And I have spoken with Mycroft. And Gregson and Lestrade as well.”
Ignoring him, I said, “Detective Hopkins, I think that you should question Mr. Brown. He knows how to mix medicines; he’s interested in birds and mercy killing and Buddhism. He’s a patron of the British Museum and a man at the museum makes little replicas of-”
Sherlock abruptly grabbed my wrist, dragged me out of the office and down the hallway. “Poppy, what are you doing here?”
I yanked away from his grip. “Sherlock Holmes, if you ever grab me by the wrist again, I shall make good on my prior threat to flog you with a riding crop!”
He winced but he did not apologize. “Why are you here?” he asked again in an impatient tone. “Did you not get the note?”
“What note?”
He sighed. “I told Archibald to go to your house and tell your Aunt Susan and your mother to spend the night in a hotel. They were to leave a note for you to join them if you came home.”
“To spend the night at... what did you say? My mother? What are you talking about?”
“I ran into Michael at St. Bart’s earlier and he told me that your aunt had sent a telegram to your mother about the situation, so your mum decided to be with her sister during this difficult time. Michael was on his way to pick her up at the train station. I sent Archibald to wait for them at the house to tell them to spend the night at a hotel and to leave a note for you if you returned.”
“Sherlock, I don’t understand.”
“Something is about to happen, and all of you may be in danger.”
“What? What is about to happen?”
“Poppy, just this once, listen to me. Don’t be stubborn and headstrong. Do as I say.”
“Sherlock, if something dangerous is about to happen, then come with me.”
“I cannot. I must see this through. Every instinct I possess cries out to do so.”
“Well, I am going to Uncle’s. If my mother has come, I must go to see her. And unless you tell me what is going on, I am not-”
He stopped me with a kiss.
It is utterly impossible to describe how it felt. It had been four years since our lips had touched. I pulled away to catch my breath but his lips met mine again. The torrents of tears I had shed over this man faded away. The hustle of the Yard, the officers, the investigation faded away, replaced in my mind by the aroma of wildflowers and the sounds of seagulls. My head rested on a soft white pillowcase embroidered with gold edges like a priest’s chasuble, and candlelight danced against pink and azure curtains. I could almost taste traces of sweet wine and smell the scent of it on Sherlock’s breath. We were tender and submissive to each other. We were without quarrel, without words for none mattered and none would suffice. In the years that followed, I would often lie in bed until morning thinking back to that time and that moment.
I pulled away and looked at him. “Sherlock, there’s not a bit of use to you-”
He kissed my parted lips yet again and said, “Stay the night with me. If you won’t stay at a hotel, stay with me.”
I had trouble breathing. My skin went hot at the words, which he uttered in a husky voice laced with a distinct tone of mystery. I melted immediately. No flash of lightning could have rendered me so completely helpless. It seemed that no matter how I endeavoured to stop this affliction, no matter how dreadfully he treated me at times, no matter how hard I tried to hide my feelings, he possessed an instinctive perception of exactly what I was about. He saw in my eyes my affection. He knew that he occupied my thoughts. He knew that I was easily persuaded to form my mind to his and that at the slightest provocation, I would yield to him.
“All right, Sherlock.”
He grabbed his cape from the coat tree and we left the building.
44
When we arrived at Sherlock’s residence on Montague Street, he kissed my forehead tenderly. Night crept over the city, so he lit the gaslight fixtures that flanked the fireplace. He told me to make myself comfortable while he put on the kettle.
I took off my cape and looked around. In the corner on a coat stand hung a clerical costume, one of Sherlock’s disguises, I presumed. I recalled that he said he’d recently masqueraded as a priest while investigating a burglary at the medieval St. Pancras Old Church. I smiled to myself, imagining how must have looked to passersby... over six feet tall, slimly built, with sallow face and fake dark moustache and beard, disguising his sallow complexion, a black felt hat drawn over his forehead.
I glanced at the breakfront bookcase to the right of the fireplace. It held many books I remembered from his room at Oxford where I’d tended to him while he recovered. Texts by Pasteur and Lister, works by Aristotle, Wilson’s The Arte of Rhetorique, Gilbert Austin’s Chironomia and Sheridan’s Lectures on Elocution. Books on anatomy and new treatises on the blossoming field of forensic science. New editions of Fitzherbert’s Great Abridgement of the Law and The Statutes of the Realm. London. Many others had been added to his reference collection since he left Oxford. I was leafing through Cicero’s De Oratore when
