6 October 1876
“I am puzzled - and frightened - by a dream I had last night. I was wading in the river... in Victoria Park, I believe. I was encircled by swans. So beautiful. White like those we would find in the shady woodlands and hedgerows near your parents’ home. They reminded me of enchanted nightshade - you know the ones with the little white flowers and the soft, downy feathers. Their wings were like that.
“Then, all at once, the swans surrounded me; their wings flapped violently and then they pounced upon me and one began biting me from the base of my neck to further down my spine. Savagely pushing me down further and further into the water though I tried desperately to get to the shore. Down, down. And suddenly my head went beneath the water. I would rise, gasp, make a mewing sound as the swan pushed me back down, beating me with its wings. But then another swan came, challenging my attacker. She was almost airborne as she attacked my assailant full from the rear, biting and beating him with her wings. Again and again with feet and wings and bill. I realized it was you, you who was saving me, circling around and around me to protect me like a warrior-maiden.
“But it was too late. I went limp and sunk down, deep, deep into the dark water. I saw faces. Hundreds of faces and dead eyes. No bodies, Poppy. Just heads, bodiless heads, bobbing about.
“I don’t know what it means.”
I shut the journal. Often Effie’s dreams manifested themselves in some kind of terrible and real event. Obviously, she had, in her own strange way, foreseen my involvement with the swan case that we were investigating. But there was more to it than that. These heads, these faces... I could not help but wonder if the swans were in some way connected to this dismembered body Wiggins had dug up.
It was close to midnight when Uncle came home. I heard him come in, latch the door, and call out to Aunt Susan. I shouted to him and he came to the library door. Though he was now in his early fifties, Uncle was still a very handsome man. He was athletic, fair-haired, but now sported a grizzled moustache and beard. Like Sherlock, Uncle had curious ways and eerie tricks of spotting details that others missed.
“Uncle Ormond, you’re very late. Aunt Susan is asleep.”
“He sighed. Very busy day. And night. A young woman came into the hospital just as I was leaving. She had tried to abort her child. She botched it and the uterus prolapsed. I was unable to save her.”
“I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”
“I am a surgeon. I suppose I should be used to it by now. But one never gets used to it. So, may I join you?”
“Of course.” I rose, poured some port into a glass and handed it to him. We sat down in the wing chairs that flanked the fireplace.
He swirled the wine so hard it almost splashed out of his glass. “I ran into two young men of your acquaintance today.”
“Who might they be?” I asked, knowing full well the answer.
“Sherlock, who at my friend Mycroft’s request is still investigating the swan case, and who is, to Mycroft’s consternation, in full pursuit of facts surrounding that poor fellow who young Wiggins disinterred.”
“Why does Mycroft wish him to stay out of the case, Uncle?”
“Because it could be quite dangerous. It’s for the Yard to sort out.”
“I also ran into Mycroft today. He said the man was a member of the Privy Council.”
“Yes, his identity is now known,” Uncle said. “I’m sure it will be in all the papers tomorrow. He has something to do with the Board of Trade at Whitehall Gardens. In the Railway Department, I believe. His name was Cecil Gray.”
“And what else is known about him?”
“Very little. He is - was - married. Had a daughter who died very recently. In fact, it was in her grave that Wiggins found the body.”
“His daughter’s grave? My God.”
“Yes, terrible circumstances.”
“Has he anything to do with Oxford? Was he interested in phrenology?”
Uncle cocked his head. “What makes you ask?”
“If you spoke to Sherlock, then you must know that we suspect that someone was funding an Oxford professor’s research in that regard. Wiggins was sending bodies by rail to Oxford. So I must wonder-”
“Stop wondering, Poppy,” Uncle said in a stern voice. “You - and Sherlock - must let the Yard handle this.”
“Sometimes they are out of their depth.”
“You parrot Sherlock.”
“Perhaps he is right. You should know that first hand.”
He knew I was referring to the British Museum murders Sherlock had solved the previous year, the false accusations against Uncle which were part of a ruse concocted by Mycroft to flush out the true criminal. It had nearly ended very badly.
“The second young man I spoke with today was Jonathan Younger,” he said to change the subject.
“Yes, I ran into him today also.”
“He wanted to know if he could take you to dinner tomorrow night.”
“Dinner? No, I told him perhaps lunch. Actually I have plans with Sherlock tomorrow evening.”
“You are not still pining for Sherlock, are you, Poppy?”
I felt my face flush and momentarily turned away. Then I faced him squarely. “Pining,” I sneered. “I do not pine.”
“Hanging on to a scrap of hope then?”
I looked down, into my glass, and swirled the crimson liquid myself this time. I looked back
