Aware that he was watching my every move, I rose cautiously and took a step toward Sherlock. “Sherlock,” I called out. “Sherlock, can you hear me?”
He roused and gave me a vacant stare. Then he mumbled, “I’m afraid that Mr. Henry Chickering refused to surrender.”
“Mr. Chickering? Who is-”
Giving me a shove, Zhèng said, “That would be me, Dr. Stamford. Now please sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”
I slid into the chair across from Sherlock and asked, “May I please help him? He is bleeding profusely. Please let me apply pressure to the wound.”
When he nodded, I slowly and carefully retrieved a hankie from my cuff.
“Hand him the handkerchief, Dr. Stamford. Slowly.”
I reached out to Sherlock. He took the fabric and pressed it against the laceration.
“Thank you,” he breathed, turning his lips up.
How could he smile at such a time? But his eyes betrayed him. My Sherlock who was always hopeful, who had told me once that the goodness of Providence and hope rested in flowers, was now a bloom caught in a downpour, drooping upon its tired, sagging stem.
“You were caught off guard,” I said.
“That shan’t happen again,” he snarled under his breath. Then he added, “We’ve come full circle, Poppy.”
“What?”
“Isn’t this how we met? Me bleeding and you offering medical assistance?”
I nodded.
Zhèng walked over to the fireplace. His back to it, he stood between us.
“You don’t sound like-”
“Like the wiry little Chinese man at the museum?” Zhèng laughed. “No, I suppose I do not.”
His accent was flavoured with traces of a distinct northern Scottish dialect with its particular mouth postures and sounds, a voice bathed in stone walls, limestone, crags, moors, and waterfalls.
“Mr. Zhèng used his mother’s name to gain employment at the museum,” Sherlock said, dabbing at the blood that ran down his temple. He turned to Zhèng. “The police will be here shortly. It really is quite pointless to add to the body count. It will only take one noose, you realize.”
“They have no idea that I’m here, Mr. Holmes. And I’ll be gone - why, we’ll all be gone, as it were, by the time they figure it out. They’re arresting Mr. Brown, I believe.”
I shot a glance at Sherlock. “They think it’s Mr. Brown?”
“As did your uncle, Poppy.”
Sherlock turned his gaze to Mr. Zhèng. I noticed his expression was quite amiable, his smile constrained but evident. It was as though he were quite enjoying this. But his composure did nothing to soothe the anguish I was feeling.
“May I explain?” Sherlock asked. “It will pass the time until the officers arrive.”
“Oh, please do, Mr. Holmes. I’m quite curious myself.”
Sherlock continued to put pressure on his wound but returned his eyes to my face. “I visited Mr. Brown on several occasions. You see, your uncle suspected him and advised Mycroft of that. By taking Dr. Sacker to the Yard and then to the prison, Mycroft attempted to kill two birds with one stone. Have Dr. Sacker in protective custody and at the same time, flush out the killer. Mycroft was quite certain the killer would run, as was I at first, which is why I posted my street urchins at every egress out of London. But Mr. Brown did not run because he is quite innocent.”
“I don’t understand, Sherlock.”
“Do go on,” Zhèng said.
Still dabbing at his wound, Sherlock looked at Zhèng. “Do give her a bit of background, Mr. Chickering.”
“No, no, I would not dream of interrupting. You clearly love the sound of your own voice, Mr. Holmes.”
“Very well, then,” said Sherlock. “Mr. Chickering’s father was from Scotland originally. He was a convict sent to the Australian penal colonies, like our dear friend Victor’s father. Van Dieman’s Land, I’d wager, since most convicts in the late 1840’s were sent there as exiles. They were free to work for pay while under sentence. Mr. Chickering’s father escaped, worked the gold rush and then sought passage on a ship to San Francisco, where he disappeared for a time.” Sherlock turned back to our captor. “And where he met your mother.”
“That’s quite correct. Not to detain your intriguing story, Mr. Holmes, but how did you ascertain this information?”
“I shall get to that momentarily,” Sherlock replied. “Now, after your parents married, they participated in California’s Gold Rush. 1849, was it?”
Zhèng nodded.
“By the following year, your father had accumulated a goodly sum of money and you had come along.”
I stared at Zhèng. These dates would make him about twenty-eight years of age. He looked much older.
“The family then returned to Scotland but eventually settled in England. All was well. Until another brother came along who was quite sickly. What was his name?”
Zhèng’s face darkened. “Stanley. But his Chinese name was Chongan.”
“Appropriate,” Sherlock said turning to me again. “It means second brother of peace. But poor Stanley had no peace. He had a neurological disorder. A crippling, debilitating disease. There was no hope. No doctors could cure him.” Looking again at Zhèng, he said, “And your father couldn’t bear it, could he? He became a drunk, a gambler. He was squandering away your wealth swiftly until he was shot during one such gambling dispute, leaving your mother with a ten-year-old - you - and a toddler who was destined to die.
“But your brother hung on for a bit, his muscles slowly withering, his mind becoming mush. And you watched this, day after day, month after month. Then your mother died. You would call it dying of a broken heart, Poppy.
“However, you had money,” Sherlock continued. “You took Stanley to more doctors. You went to medical school yourself for a time shortly before he finally passed away. After he died, you came to London to begin your true mission.”
“What mission is that, Mr. Holmes?” Zhèng asked dryly.
“To ease suffering. You were brought up in the tenets of Buddhism by your mother. You believe in the Four Truths, especially in The Truth of the Path That Frees Us from Suffering. And it became your mission to alleviate it.”
“Well done, Mr. Holmes,” Zhèng
