Chapter 19

The cab bumped along and my mind sputtered and spun, but as I, too, tended toward the science of deduction, the logical course of things, I summarily dismissed Jonathan as a non-entity. I quickly decided that he did not matter. His sordid night life did not matter. I would at the proper time relate this evening’s revelations to my dear brother who thought of Jonathan as a friend - he needed to know the sort of man he was befriending. But right now, Jonathan’s lifestyle, his existence was insignificant.

In my mind, just as in Sherlock’s, what mattered at this instance was the case. I did not have all the facts and that is what I needed. I knew that Kate had had a loving father but after he died, her life went to hell. I knew that she’d ended up a prostitute to support the child her married lover had fathered. I sensed her affinity to swans and from her comments, I sensed that she detested the fact that she was a woman in a man’s world, that she respected me for having forged my way through the barriers. I knew that she had seen something that resulted in a terrible beating. A warning to keep her silent. If all this was connected to the boy who had disappeared from the Queen’s employ and the rumours about the member of the Privy Council, if it was related to the dead Cecil Gray, I certainly could not prove that yet.

But as we trotted along, as London’s filth spewed around us, as loquacious beggars ran beside the cab and pawnbrokers and dealers hawked their wares, as the rambling residents of London’s underworld and the shrill sounds of her desperate characters propelled like shooting stars through the night, I realized that this was exactly where I needed to be and Sherlock was exactly who I needed to speak to.

To him and to Kate Dew. Wiggins would know exactly where to find her. Rattle had given me the addresses after he followed her and Wiggins knew the area.

I shouted to the cabbie to turn around. He made a turn so sharp that I thought I would cascade from the cab as we headed back from whence we came. Along the way, more ladies of the evening appeared, some lady-like in appearance who had obviously used taste in selecting their clothing. A few were dressed in bright colors, their dresses meretricious and tawdry. A stout woman on the corner of Thomas with a round face and thick, muscular arms was talking to a man of equal girth, quite obviously negotiating a price. I signaled the cabbie to stop and tossed him several coins as I emerged from the cab. I ran to where I’d left Sherlock and Wiggins and nearly collided with them as they rounded the corner.

“Poppy!” Sherlock cried. “You... what on earth are you... ?”

“Be quiet,” I said. “We need to talk.”

“Poppy, I am sorry, truly but-”

“Still your tongue, will you? I have need of a glass of wine and you must listen to me.”

We went to the Four Swans and Sherlock ordered beverages, some cold meats and cheese. I proceeded to tell Sherlock about Kate Dew. I related what she had said about her father and his demotion to cleaning urinals at St. James, about being unable to follow his footsteps in his unnamed profession, about her relationship with a married man which resulted in the illicit birth of her daughter, and her preoccupation with swans and her disdain for the queen. He sat, wide-eyed, taking it all in, his mind like a Babbage calculating machine tying all the loose ends together. Then he leaned forward. “Dew? You said her surname was Dew?”

I nodded.

“Poppy, you remember I told you that I could not speak to the Keeper of the Swans as he was ill? He finally recovered from his bronchial infection and he was able to speak to me.”

“And?”

“And he told me more about swans than I have an interest in but also gave me some useful information. A man named Charles Dew was a Deputy Keeper of the Swans for many, many years. He had a son who would be in his twenties now. At least it was thought it was a son.”

I felt my eyebrows rise. “Thought?”

“The assistant keeper was injured and could not complete his daily duties. He was demoted to maintaining urinals at St. James. Just as your patient described about her father. The Keeper went into great detail about those as well. How glazed stoneware basins and marble divisions replaced the iron and slate and that now metal perforated with geometric patterns-”

“Sherlock,” I interrupted, impatient to hear the real story.

“The son stayed on for awhile, helping with the swans, but apparently rumours started to fly about some unusual relationship with a member of the Privy Council. At first, so the Keeper thought, the gentleman of high birth had simply taken an interest in the boy who apparently was quite bright. But then people started to talk about it being something more. And the Keeper has come to believe that those rumours were wrong, too.

“He went to great length to explain how many young women in America’s Civil War dressed as men to join the war effort. He said that he and Mr. Dew had discussed this on many occasions.”

“The Civil War ended over a decade ago.”

“Indeed, round about the time the man started to work with the swans and started bringing his son with him. The Keeper has come to the conclusion that the man’s son was not a boy at all but a female and that the Privy Council member eventually became involved with the girl. That is why she left.”

“And the Privy Council member... who was it?”

“Our dismembered corpse, Dr. Stamford. Cecil Gray.”

“So now,” I said, leaning toward him, “if we pull all of this together... Kate’s account of her life, what she told me about her father, her illegitimate child, the fact that Cecil Gray was involved with Mr. Dew’s alleged son...”I sat back, took a sip of wine, left that string of facts hanging for a moment and then looked straight at Wiggins.

“Wha’?” he asked.

“Do you think prior your commission came from Mr. Gray?”

He shook his head. “I don’ know. No idea.”

I told him the address to Kate’s lodgings and asked, “Can you show us the way?”

He nodded.

“Take us there, Wiggins.”

He shrugged and stood. “Awright, Miss.”