Chapter 25

Sherlock extinguished the lanterns and we went back upstairs. Sherlock once again attempted to extract information from Hopgood’s sister but she refused to speak. Had I not been there, I believe he would have resorted to tactics a bit more brutal than mere interrogation. When she started screaming, Sherlock gagged her with a dish towel.

He found a box of matches and lit a lamp. He placed that in the middle of the table. He took his revolver from beneath his coat and laid it down on a corner of the table. Then he found a bottle of port and took two glasses from the cupboard.

“What are you doing, Sherlock? Shouldn’t we contact the local - ?”

“We wait. I am certain he will return.”

“How do you suppose he managed to dismember Sir Gray’s body and place it in the coffin? I mean, the cemetery is not hidden by woods or-”

“Kate said she heard voices, which gave Hopgood pause, just long enough for her to get away. I suspect they were passersby and once he was sure that no one was about, he proceeded with his grisly task. The fog covers everything, Poppy. I would guess that he intended to kill Sir Gray all along. He came prepared to do so. Gray had cut off funds. He knew too much. That’s why he followed him. Hopgood did not expect to encounter Kate and she is fortunate to have escaped him. But with Kate’s help, we have arrived at the truth of it.”

He tapped his fingers idly on the table and sipped his wine calmly. I was, on the other hand, extremely nervous and paced the kitchen constantly. Hopgood’s sister was tied up, there were a dozen severed heads beneath me, and we had no idea how dangerous the upcoming encounter would be.

An hour passed, then two. Sherlock finally asked, “What is it? What is bothering you?”

“Bass. Or Stockett. Whatever. I’m wondering why you did not try to bring him to the authorities. And Kate. I hate to see her forced to live like this.”

“As to Mr. Stockett, it was you who persuaded me to let him go. And I agree. Who would it serve? Who needs to know that he is the swan assassin?”

I wondered if he would be so generous had someone killed his bees.

“I care nothing for swans, you understand,” he emphasized. “Unfortunately, Mycroft has no suspect and if no more swans are killed-” His voice trailed off as he shrugged. “Then again, he has more important things to worry about.”

“But if you do not tell him you’ve found the culprit, are you not conceding that you could not solve the case?”

He shrugged again. “And what is bothering you about Kate?”

“I hate that she has to make a living for herself in such a way,” I said.

He thought for a moment. I always thought if I listened hard enough I might hear the grinding of the wheels inside his head. “Did you not tell me that your aunt’s new cook is quite abysmal?”

I nodded.

“And didn’t Kate’s acquaintance say that she is an excellent cook?”

He tapped on the table again and said, “Something to think about.”

I thought back to how kind he had been to Mrs. Hudson even though she had been something of an accomplice in the blackmail scheme crafted by her estranged husband. Sherlock could be quite compassionate at times - if his compassion seemed logical and practical.

At one point, Sherlock looked at me, a serious expression, a pained expression on his face, and his skin almost white and grave. “Poppy,” he said, “about Jonathan

Younger...”

“It’s all right, Sherlock. Don’t give it another thought.”

“But this story is not over yet, Poppy. I think worse dangers than me or Dr. Younger await you. You are so very trusting.”

“What?”

“You must take care to choose carefully. I am not the right man for you to marry. We both know that.”

“Sherlock, I-”

“But I want you to take my advice. Be on your guard. Do not let your head be turned by the likes of Jonathan Younger. Could I but journey through time, far ahead, and know what is in store for you, I might rest more easily. But as of now, I do not know how or where your story will find its end.”

Part of me was desolate. I so wanted to continue to encourage Sherlock, to share in his endeavors. Often I was like a woman hypnotized. But it grieved me to do so, to continue to fawn over him, to long for him, and I knew full well that he had forced himself to become incapable of returning my affection, if he indeed had ever been truly capable of doing so. I must control my feelings. I must move on.

I looked into his frank, misty grey eyes.

“I am convinced, Sherlock, that you care for me deeply, that you always have and that you had my best interests at heart. You were just so very abrupt about Jonathan.”

“What will you do about Jonathan?”

“Do? Nothing. He means nothing to me, Sherlock. Don’t you realize - ?” I stopped short of sharing my deepest fantasies and longing yet again. There was no point. “I shall advise Michael of his friend’s indelicate behavior. I am curious, though, as to why Jonathan pursued me at all. He should have been quite disappointed in his expectations.”

His gaze met my eyes. Something sprang forth but quickly disappeared again into the darkness, the vacuum that remained where emotions may have once stirred. “Disappointed in expectations of you? Quite impossible.”

“I mean simply that I would not be the kind of wife he seeks. One who is submissive, rather foggy minded. There to adore him and give him children and look the other way should his eyes and passions wander.”

“There are others like him out there. You must be cautious. It would do you good to burden your memory with what you saw transpire between Jonathan and that woman. People are not to be trusted.”

“Not even me. You have never really trusted me.”

With a dry chuckle, he said, “Not even you? No, Poppy, of all the people I’ve known, you are the most trustworthy. And, as I said, one of the most trusting. Do guard your emotions.”

A quarter of an hour later, we heard someone playing with the doorknob. Sherlock sprang to his feet, took up his gun and motioned for me to get out of sight. I grabbed a rolling pin that was within reach. Then he blew out the candle and we were left in darkness, waiting for the door to open. When it did, Sherlock sprang from behind the door and lifted his gun to throttle the man he thought was Hopgood.

But I struck a match and saw a shadow; it was then I knew that it could not be the skinny man that Inspector Hopkins had described. “Wait! Sherlock! It’s not-”

Sherlock realized at the last moment. He was staring not at Professor Hopgood but at his brother Mycroft.

“What are you doing here, Mycroft?” Sherlock shouted.

“I’m doing a dear friend a favor.” He turned to me. “Your uncle, Poppy. And,” he added, as he held out his hand for the rolling pin, “two weapons are better than one. As are two Holmes brothers.”

I looked over Mycroft’s shoulder and saw a man with a ruddy face and dark, passionless eyes. Sherlock pushed Mycroft aside and pointed his gun at the intruder’s chest.

He quietly said, “Professor Hopgood, I presume.”