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Pacing now, Zhèng explained. “I sought employment at the British Museum. I showed them my artistic side, how well I could preserve and maintain their ancient Oriental artifacts.”
“And then you sought out doctors who concurred with your opinion on euthanasia,” Sherlock said. “Doctors you discovered through your association with Mr. Brown and his little Ornithology group.”
“Birds? But what do birds have to do with any of this?” I asked.
“Mr. Zhèng - well, he went by his English name on these occasions - has a passionate interest in the study of birds,” Sherlock explained. “You might have noticed in his little office several lovely paintings of birds that are indigenous to China, as well as the birdcages containing Chinese finches. He joined Mr. Brown’s little bird group, became friendly with him and, quite by accident, stumbled upon several like-minded fellows. Like-minded not only as to the study of birds but of euthanasia. Three such individuals were members not only of this little bird-watching group but of a secret society of euthanasia enthusiasts... the physicians who treated the victims. Well, almost all of the victims.”
Zhèng’s gaze adopted a new degree of interest, perhaps even pleasure and gratitude at hearing his story unfold. It was disarming, disquieting, particularly since his finger rested on the trigger of the pistol.
“How did you come to learn all the facts, Mr. Holmes? About my background? My father-”
“From James Dixon’s physician, sir. When I went to speak to him, after talking to Mr. Brown, I told him that he was an accessory to murder, and he became quite talkative. Told me your whole, sad story. Does it give you consolation to know that he has great empathy for you and was most reluctant to give you up? I managed to persuade him, however.”
I could only imagine Sherlock’s particular art of persuasion with the good doctor.
“But why did Uncle suspect Mr. Brown?” I asked.
“Because Brown is always at the British Museum and because he shared his stories about both societies with Ormond. Ormond discovered that Brown also had developed a very keen interest in Oriental things, thanks to Mr. Zhèng’s eloquent yarns and sophist deliveries about Asian artwork.
“When Mr. Zhèng told him that several of his birds had developed some strange disease beneath their feathers, Brown concocted an ointment to alleviate their painful condition, as well as one to, shall we say, relieve them of their suffering altogether if the ointment did not improve the condition. You remember our discussion, Poppy, do you not? Three basic components: benzaldehyde, glycoside amygdalin and hydrogen cyanide. The compound in the bitter almond oil affects nerves and alleviates pain. It induces numbness and anesthetic effects. And poor Mr. Brown, with his very limited intellectual capacity - I do so often wonder how he has not killed a patient himself, considering it his job as an apothecary to concoct medicines - had no idea why Zhèng asked him about the ingredients. And with Zhèng’s own medical background and his access to the lab-”
“Wait, Zhèng’s access to the lab at St. Bart’s?”
Zhèng laughed and shook his head.
“When I went to see Mr. Brown yesterday,” Sherlock continued, “because he certainly had not cleared out everything and tried to leave the city nor in any way changed his daily habits - and Mycroft’s and your uncle’s suspicions simply did not hold water - he was going on and on about how he could not find his keys again. He is always losing his keys. I asked when he had last misplaced them, and it was right around the time that the first murder occurred. Call it intuition, if you will.”
If grey clouds started to gather, intuition might deem an umbrella necessary. If a dog whined and then showed the dazzling whiteness of his teeth, one might check the doors and window. But Sherlock Holmes relying upon intuition or a feeling? Impossible.
“Wait. We had this discussion. I thought you said that you do not base any deductions upon intuition.”
“Logic then,” Sherlock corrected. “Mr. Brown has neither the proclivity nor the intellect to manage this enterprise. It simply is not within the parameters of his character. He is a dolt and also a very amiable and congenial man. Beyond that, there was proof. I compared the prints on one of the Buddhas to prints on one of Brown’s beakers. They did not match. Mr. Zhèng does not deliver statues to Mr. Brown. Only his own prints were affixed to the statue.
“Poppy, you remember what I told you about Henry Faulds, don’t you? How he first became interested in fingerprints and their use in forensics while on an archeological dig with his friend, an American archaeologist, Edward Morse? He realized that the delicate impressions left by craftsmen could be discerned in the ancient clay fragments. Faulds is, as we speak, working on an article about all his experiments for Nature that he believes will be published next year. It’s an important breakthrough, although Sir William Herschel, who lives in India has been using fingerprints to identify criminals for two decades, so there is some controversy over whose discovery this really is. But that is unimportant. What is important to the case at hand is that the method exists. And that it proves conclusively that Brown never touched the statues that were left at the murder scenes, but our friend here has.”
“But Mr. Zhèng made the replicas,” I said. “And Brown could have used gloves,” I added, thinking through the exculpatory evidence that Zhèng would offer.
“Brown? Wear gloves?” Sherlock scoffed. “He fails to use them in the lab when he should! And there is something else. I went to Zhèng’s little office at the museum. You remember I showed you the pipe with the bamboo stem? The one with the bowl made of yixing clay that comes only from China? I compared the bamboo on Brown’s pipe to Zhèng’s. Brown’s is of quite recent vintage. But the one in Zhèng’s office is very old. And
