“Vampires,” I said.
“Exactly. Nonsense,” he muttered.
“The last time I saw Oscar Wilde, he told me that his ex-fiancée’s new husband, Bram Stoker, is researching European folklore about that for some kind of novel. Oscar said that in Romanian myths, the strigoi are troubled souls who rise from the grave and have magical powers. Sounds like something from a Penny Dreadful.” I smiled to myself. “Oscar also said that Stokes’ actor friend - the one who set up Stokes as manager of his theater - would be a good model for the character. But I told him it’s already been done. That book by John Polidori introduced a very aristocratic man as a vampire.”
He stared at me as if I’d lost my mind, prattling on and on about vampire stories. “Yes, you’re right. I digress,” I said, knowing he was now the one who was impatient with a subject in which he had no interest, particularly as it related to Oscar Wilde, cousin to my brother’s late wife, for whom Sherlock had little use. “So tell me, Sherlock, what does this man’s murder have to do with phrenology?”
“Hopkins is in some group that meets to discuss the topic,” Sherlock said. “He said he has heard - and mind you, it is all conjecture - that there is a medical professor at Oxford who is trying to prove these theories. His name is Danford Hopgood. He could be the one paying Wiggins to rob the graves for specimens. Wiggins said he dug up quite a few criminals at the specific request of an anonymous benefactor, this one included. And Hopkins says that the professor has not been seen for days... but this dead man is not the professor. Hopkins described him as very slightly built, reed-thin, and balding. This disembodied individual does not fit that description.”
“And could a professor afford this sordid enterprise?” I recalled that Effie’s father, a professor at Oxford, could not even afford the wedding dress she so desired. “I don’t think so.”
“Mycroft has spoken to everyone in the anatomy department at Oxford and other people of influence there. It appears the supply of cadavers does come from nearby workhouses and the poor, but not from the cemetery where Wiggins was instructed to dig.”
“What if-” I paused a moment to think. “What if this man before us, who obviously is of some social standing, assuming, of course, the clothing was not stolen to lead authorities even more astray should the corpse be discovered... what if he were connected somehow to this grave robbing scheme at Oxford? If a professor wanted specimens to study in an area outside of the normal course of human anatomy, to prove some theory, he would need funding, would he not?”
“This could be the real benefactor of the whole scheme, you mean,” Sherlock said. “Funding the professor’s research.”
I nodded. “Someone who perhaps decided to withdraw his funds. Or it could be someone who wanted to stop the research.”
“That would be motive,” Sherlock exclaimed.
He threw out his arms and brought his hands together in a clap. “Ah, Poppy, the game’s afoot. I shall meet with Hopkins at once to see if he can track down a list of the professor’s benefactors.”
He put his hands on my shoulders. “You see? I told you that you are brilliant.”
Chapter 11
To my surprise, Jonathan was loitering outside the lab when I emerged. Donning my gloves, I said hello.
He smiled. “Poppy, I’m glad I caught you. I ran into Michael and I was hoping you’d still be here. I was just wondering...” He paused.
“Yes? You were wondering? What? Why I spend so much time in the company of Sherlock Holmes, I suppose?”
“Yes. Well, yes, that, but I didn’t mean that. I was wondering if there is someone from whom I should ask permission to take you to dinner.”
I took a step backward. “Dinner?”
“Yes, dinner,” he laughed. “Your parents are in Norfolk, but I know you live in the care of your aunt and uncle. Should I request permission from Dr. Sacker?”
I was literally too stunned to reply.
“I mean, I realize,” he continued, “that you are not a child and that you have your own mind on everything from medicine to politics. You don’t strike me as one who romanticizes love or feels some need to adhere to customs like being chaperoned or engaging silly masquerades like flirting with your fan.”
If I were inclined to indulge in such silly rituals, I thought, what message would my fan be sending right now? Leave me be? Or I’m independent? Or I’m flattered? I don’t think I knew.
“You are right, Jonathan, I do not.”
“Good, because I have never been able to make much sense of these flirtatious signals. For example, swinging a fan or leaving it half open or shutting it abruptly.” He waved his right hand through the air as if cooling himself with a fan. “What a woman means by all that is lost on me. You have always been very direct. So, pray, tell me, would you be so inclined to have dinner with me if I properly request permission from your Uncle?”
I thought for a moment. What would Mum and Papa or Uncle and Aunt Susan think of Dr. Jonathan Younger? My parents had always liked Jonathan; they would be ecstatic to learn of his interest in me. My mother, in particular, was anxious for me to find a husband and Jonathan was just the sort of man she had in mind.
We were certainly within the same so-called class, although in reality, he was rather above my status. His family had a grand estate, just miles from our own. His cousin was an Assistant Master in the Classics at Harrow. His grandfather had been a Knight Exalted of the Most Noble Order of the Garter and of the Most Distinguished Order of St. Michael and St. George, due to his service in the Napoleonic
