“You amaze me, Sherlock. You really do.”
“Why?”
“Because just when I am certain of what you decide to keep and what you decide to purge from that brain of yours, suddenly some trivial fact you have stored comes to the fore.”
“Well, all the hours we spent learning about the Buddha and his teachings helped us to solve the British Museum Murders, did they not? This is just another interesting belief system which may come in handy in a case one day.”
“Sherlock, why can’t you just admit you find the spiritual aspects of Freemasonry and even biblical studies interesting? Why is it that you must always attempt to convince me that you believe in nothing?”
“Not in nothing, Poppy. I believe that it is my duty, like all good citizens, to uphold the law. Sometimes that requires the acquisition of trivial facts. It does clutter the brain. But in any event, my interest in Freemasonry is nothing more than something to store for future cases.”
“You must say that lest you be indicted for heresy, because you really do have a moral compass,” I laughed. “And have you forgotten that you told me that flowers are our highest assurance of the goodness of Providence? That our powers, desires, food, water and air - these are necessary to exist, but the flower, the rose, is an embellishment, something extra from which we have much hope to gain? Is that not why you brought me the flowers at Holme-Next-the Sea?”
“That again,” he scoffed. “A thousand times we could speak of that night in the cottage and still you will not put it into perspective. We were young; we were caught up in our first adventure together; we were inebriated. Yet you persist in it.”
I did not feel that way about our night together at the seaside cottage. It was a very special night to me and always would be. “It irritates you, doesn’t it? Your lapse in judgement. Or that’s how you see it. I suppose I am the thorn, not the rose?”
I was touched by his next gesture. He reached across the table and lightly pressed his fingertips to my wrist. “Never a thorn, Dr. Stamford. But you are, on occasion, as prickly as the thornapple, with its sharp teeth.”
I smiled. “And its rank, heavy, somewhat nauseating odour, I suppose, as well?”
Now he smiled. “You? Nauseating? Never. Narcotic perhaps,” he said, grinning. “And as I recall, a foetid odour arises from the flower only when it is bruised,” he added. “But generally, the flowers are sweet-scented, remember? They produce a stupor if their exhalations are breathed for any length of time.”
I grasped his hand in mine, the fact that we were in public be damned. “And this is why you have always run away from me. Because I do produce some kind of stupor in you. It’s why you fight to escape me, isn’t it?”
He withdrew his hand and lifted his menu. “I was thinking about religion today, that is all. About religion and about all sets of strong beliefs. Actually, deduction is quite necessary in religion. And the important thing is not to stop questioning. Somewhere out there in this vast world, maybe even within this Metropolis, some like-minded person has been born who, through the science of deduction, who, through being unafraid to ask the right questions, will unleash the great powers of the universe. A great mind, a physicist or the like. I do not believe I shall have that kind of impact on the world, but the science of deduction shall.”
I got an eerie feeling. He spoke, just momentarily, as Effie, my dear departed psychic friend, had so many times. She had predicted disasters as well as trivial events. I had never known anyone so prescient. Was Sherlock Holmes being prophetic? Hopeful? Or simply logical?
“Now, we are here to discuss swans,” he said, abruptly. “Not Freemasons or flowers or intoxicating scents. I have continued my investigation, of course.”
He proceeded to bring me up to date. When I said that Sherlock spoke with half of Her Majesty’s Royal Household, I did not exaggerate. He spoke first with the Keeper of the Swans, but he was not helpful. He had fallen ill and was rarely at work or competent to discuss his duties or the case at hand. But Sherlock persevered. By the end of March, he had spoken to over a hundred individuals, including members of the Privy Council; everyone in the Lord Steward’s Department; the Duke of Westminster, who was Master of the Horse; Mr. March, the Paymaster; the Earl of Cork, Master of the Buckhounds; the Duke of St. Albans, the Hereditary Grand Falconer; the pages of Honour at the Royal Mews; everyone in the Department of the Mistress of the Robes and those serving with the Groom of the Robes... even John Brown, Prince Albert’s former ghillie, now the Queen’s servant and trusted friend.
But no one seemed to know who was slaughtering the swans or how or why they did it. Not even Sherlock Holmes.
Chapter 8
I glanced out the window. At times, it was still difficult to see the hansom cabs as they drove by and people moved like ghosts draped in black silk along the pavement. I looked back at Sherlock. “Swans, then. What have your inquiries revealed?”
“Precious little,” he sighed. “There are those in dispute with the Queen, of course. Probably thousands throughout England. There are always those who are bitter about the economy or wars or government decisions. But insofar as Her Majesty’s Royal Household is concerned, I found no one who had any particular disagreement with the Queen or the Keeper of the Swans. Except perhaps for Gladstone. He and Her Majesty do not get on well. I hear she calls him a Jesuit. His return to government has rather brought
