He scoffed. “No, I do not. But you are mistaken if you think me an avenging angel. That, Dr. Stamford, is a moniker that you should wear. I do not make the laws nor do I enforce them. And if I am adept at capturing a very cruel person, it does not mean I am any kind of an angel, as you put it, and I leave dispensation of punishment to others. Working a case is simply a cathartic release, a way to defeat the mundane frustration of living.” Then he asked, “The hanging really bothered you, didn’t it?”
I heaved a sigh and turned away. Then he turned to stare out the window.
Cases were the nerve-centre of Sherlock’s existence, but I felt sad for the soul for whom crimes and misery brings a smile. His brain could readily shut out the noise in the wind tunnel at such an event, so how could I make him see that while everyday mishaps might generate a mere dust-up in my brain, witnessing a hanging invited a tornado?
3
When we arrived at Victoria Park, many children were gathered near the bank of the river to feed the swans. A crowd had also assembled nearby, on the big central lawn. It had become a tradition for political and social activists to gather there to preach their ideas and dispute everything from the value of slavery to atheism, euthanasia, Darwinism, socialism and the like. I’d heard that one man exalted his own ability to make prophecies, saying the Holy Ghost inspired him. He’d been locked up in an asylum. I was glad that my late, psychic friend Effie had never chosen to reveal her gift on this lawn.
Sherlock was not one to fritter time away and almost at once, he seemed anxious. He immediately wandered off to listen to someone who was speaking about the deterioration of religion because of medical advances. Often he eschewed any philosophical or political discussions. Sometimes he seemed ignorant of both subjects, but he was not. He could quote Hafez, a fourteenth-century poet, and he frequently recited lines from Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night and other plays and framed them into politically relevant discussions about English government.
I was uncertain of Sherlock’s stand on religion. Perhaps because the existence of God could be neither proved nor disproved, he leaned toward agnosticism. How often he had said, “If all the possible hypotheses are eliminated except for one, then that hypothesis, no matter how unlikely, is the correct hypothesis.” Though he often lamented that life was pathetic and futile, he also referenced Biblical passages, if not citing them and then paraphrasing them, as he had that morning at the execution.
A few minutes later, Sherlock crossed the lawn and stood in front of the soapbox of another gentleman, and I followed. We listened to him for a moment. He had a round face, a high forehead, and thinning hair. He looked to be about my uncle’s age, mid-forties. He was speaking about atheism. The climate was ripe for controversial subjects. Though Charles Darwin had published The Origin of Species twenty years ago, the debates about evolution raged on.
“Who is that, Sherlock?”
“Charles Bradlaugh,” Sherlock replied. “He is a courageous and stirring orator, Poppy. His skills will serve him well in Parliament.”
“Parliament?”
“He’s going to run for Parliament soon. I’m not sure he will get elected but if he does, it will be quite entertaining.”
“Why?”
“Because Bradlaugh is a passionate non-believer. He would be required to take a religious oath to take his seat. I don’t believe he will do it. He scoffs at those who claim to have particular knowledge of what a Creator wants us to think. He is a progressive who disagrees with the sentiments of those in government who insist that one must take a religious oath. He has no reverence for the little words they would force him to say and does not see why they are necessary. He’s been pressing the government to permit non-religious affirmations for years. If he can pull it off, he will be Britain’s first atheist MP.”
“Mother says that atheists are immoral. It was the one concern she had about my residing with Uncle and Aunt Susan.”
“Rubbish!” Sherlock yelled. “That is the battle cry of those who would preserve the myth that godless people are immoral. But those like Bradlaugh say that the answer to that canard is the promotion of science and logic. I must loan you my books by Auguste Comte, the French philosopher.”
“I have not read any of his works.”
“I am not convinced in the innate goodness of humanity, but Comte makes a good argument in his In Système de politique positive. He posits that the restoration of order and progress are the pillars of morality.”
He glanced in Bradlaugh’s direction again and said, “You should learn more about him, Poppy. Last year he published a pamphlet called “A Plea for Atheism,” and founded an influential magazine called The National Reformer. And he favours rights for women. Just last year, Bradlaugh was tried, with his friend Annie Besant, for publishing a pamphlet supporting birth control. He wants birth control methods to be available to the masses. He was sentenced to six months imprisonment and a large fine, but the verdict was overturned on appeal.”
I pondered this for a moment. It was another issue with which I wrestled. As a doctor sworn to save lives, did it contradict that duty if I supported the position that a woman could choose whether or not to conceive a child? Without artificial contraception, women frequently bore five or six or a dozen children. I’d seen the tragedy that lived in their haunted eyes. I’d seen how the children languished in miserable poverty and squalor, or were forever cursed with the imprint of violence when they were ‘rescued’ by degenerates like the
