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 to a boil the long-simmering antipathy between the two.”

“Well, I hardly think Gladstone is slaughtering swans, Sherlock.”

“I agree.” He paused and sipped some coffee. “There was a boy I spoke with, though, who was able to enlighten me a bit. His name is Thomas Abnett. He’s sixteen or so. He said that they are quite short-handed since the Master and others swanherds have fallen ill.”

“And?”

“He mentioned one young man who was practically raised around the swans. His father had been a Deputy Swankeeper for some time but as he aged, he couldn’t do the work, so he was given some other menial task to make a living. When he died, the son stayed around for a while but then suddenly disappeared.”

“You think this young man might have something to do with all this?”

“Abnett said the boy was very distressed that his father was treated shabbily. But he also thought there was more to it. He’d heard rumours. Something to do with a member of Privy Council and the boy. But he really couldn’t tell me more than that.”

“You should have Mycroft sift around.”

“He is the one who has me sifting around. And I do have another matter to which I must attend.”

“A new case?”

“Quite so. I shouldn’t breathe a word of it, but it will likely be all over the newspapers shortly. It has to do with Wiggins.”

“Archie? What has he done?”

“Wiggins has been doing quite well for himself as an entrepreneur - I am told he robs the graves of the poor and sends the corpses to Oxford where dissection is conducted without permission at the medical school.”

My inclination was to let out with a wail. Then I remembered where we were and who I was with. But I had feared for some time that Wiggins would take a wrong turn. “Sherlock, did I not inquire about this a few months ago? You mentioned then that you thought Wiggins was traveling down this illegal path.”

“Did I?”

“You did. My God, assaults on the privacy of a quiet grave... it’s despicable.”

“Yes. And Wiggins has found himself in quite a quagmire. In the thick of something well beyond his anticipated endeavor. In the process of one of his nighttime ventures, he uncovered a body inside a coffin atop the first tenant. He soon realized that the grave was freshly unearthed and someone had dumped the corpse on top of the original occupant. It seems that someone has committed murder and tried to cover it up by placing body parts in an old grave.”

I swallowed hard. “Body parts?”

“Wiggins said it was a child’s grave, fairly fresh, into which the dismembered adult male was placed.”

“Surely Wiggins is not implicated in the murder, is he, Sherlock? He’s just a boy.”

“He was at first. But I believe I have convinced the authorities that young Wiggins rather did them a favor. Now we just need to find out who the deceased is - which won’t be easy, given he was, not unlike our swans, rather savagely mutilated. And then we need to find out who killed him and why.”

The waiter had just placed our plates before us. I pushed mine away. Suddenly, I had lost my appetite.