Most churches, not only the Roman Catholic Church, opposed artificial contraception. But I wondered... would it be better that these children were not born at all? Or should we just increase our efforts to feed and clothe and house them and put to death those who harmed them, as Sherlock advocated?
Sherlock waved his hand to the west. “That man over there is countering with all sorts of religious reasons why Bradlaugh should be arrested. He thinks Bradlaugh is a stealer of souls because he proffers that religious beliefs undermine modern medicine and because he renounces God, and, in particular, some religious rituals. He openly scoffs at priests who insist on telling their flocks that wine can turn into Christ’s blood.”
“Some people do believe that happens, Sherlock.”
He laughed and said, “Ah, yes, because nothing says rational thinker like transubstantiation.”
I did my best to hide a smile. I was used to Sherlock’s veiled swipes at the Holy Trinity. He thought of preachers as talking heads behind which there was always a ravishing candlelight, as if to emphasize their imagined halos. The perfect chiaroscuro to separate them from the less worthy.
I walked down to the bank of the river and gazed at the herd of swans, the silvery edges of their delicate feathers shimmering in the sunlight as they glided across the water, which shone like polished glass. One shook and trembled and undulated, and its long neck stretched high out of the water. Its feathers spread wide, casting a shadow that muted the rays of sunlight bouncing off the surface of the river, but as it slid away, the golden beams that sparkled on the water returned and glowed like an aurora or a rainbow. The water was glazed in violet-blue and gold and red, like the luster of an exotic bird’s glossy, iridescent plumage.
I watched wistfully as two swans came clearly into focus and met in the middle of the river, wings lifted like angels. They had drifted away from the others and gently rubbed each other’s beaks, then bobbed and dunked their heads below the surface, blowing bubbles in the water and wrapping their necks around each other in foreplay. Fascinated, I saw them dance their way toward bliss, like two exquisite performers in a ballet. They were so graceful, so beautiful.
First, they swam side by side, their wings lowered close to their bodies. They dipped their heads below the water surface and then pulled them back out and preened themselves. Again and again they did this, faster and faster, occasionally stopping to raise their necks, angle their heads down and look at each other. Then they moved almost as one, synchronizing their actions, united in the dance. They pressed their breasts to one another and raised and lowered their necks, staring into one another’s eyes. Their necks intertwined, one bird draped his neck over his partner’s and then the other did the same. Up and down, up and down, they lifted and lowered their heads and gently caressed each other’s long necks.
The male climbed on top of his mate in a swift move and the sounds of pleasure exploded in whistles and snorts. The episode was brief but magnificent. Afterward, in a synchronous movement, they circled one another, touching cheek to cheek, like newlyweds, in a charming exhibition of after-glow.
I found myself drowning in the serenity of it and in the warmth of the slanting sunlight. My sadness disappearing into a chimerical daydream, I rose from that dark vault and breathed in the soft tapestry surrounding me. The children laughing, a woman’s momentary smile, the flaxen flowers on the bank, the canopy of trees across the river hanging low, the swans’ wings striking the water, causing it to spout like a sputtering geyser in their wake. I felt transformed. The dismal gloom of the execution and Sherlock’s science and deduction and logic were the furthest things from my mind, and I felt compelled to keep them at bay.
I found Sherlock and tugged at his sleeve.
“I’m going to Covent Gardens Market.”
“But what about St. Bart’s?”
“Later. Come. Walk with me.”
It was about five miles from Victoria Park to the market, but at Sherlock’s brisk pace, we were there in less than an hour.
The market was teeming with chatter. I wandered from the flower women selling bouquets to women shelling walnuts. A cyclist riding a penny farthing beeped as he flew by, an Italian harpist entertained on one corner, and a shellfish stall holder sold oysters and whelks on another. Across the road stood a locksmith mending locks at his stall on the spot. Mush-Fakers - vendors who repaired umbrellas and collected discarded ones beyond repair in order to combine the good bits of two or more for sale - and ginger beer makers hurried back and forth with their carts. Sherlock bought some nuts and I also bought a bag for Uncle. Then I purchased some daisies for Aunt Susan and a ginger beer for myself, and hailed a cab to go home.
“Poppy, what are you doing?”
“I can’t go to Bart’s just now. I simply cannot. It’s... I’m done with death for today.”
He gave me an odd look. He had, after all, been with me when I attended to dozens of the dead and dying at the horrible train wreck in Norfolk a few years before. I’m sure he thought that I handled death quite well.
He was wrong.
I gave his arm a squeeze and said, “I’m going home.”
I looked around the market one more time. This was life, and not even Sherlock Holmes could convince me to abandon my belief in the infrangible human right to live.
4
A few weeks later, in early September, Sherlock sent a would-be page, one of his homeless helpers, to my medical office. The young boy was dressed in ragged clothes and tattered shoes. He looked sweaty and parched. Out of breath, he said, “Me name’s Rattle, Miss. Mr. ’olmes sent me t’ fetch yer.” Then he asked, “Kin
