any more. Matty is my friend. There isn’t anything I don’t want him to know about me.’
Sherrinford looked unconvinced. ‘Even so, Sherlock, this is a family matter. Is it appropriate that others find out? Perhaps your brother should be consulted before we speak in front of others.’
‘Others have already found out.’ Sherlock’s gaze moved from his uncle to his aunt and back again. ‘Look, I once heard Mycroft say that sunlight is the best cleaning agent. I thought he meant it literally at the time, that rooms with the curtains drawn get dusty and cobwebby, but I’ve come to realize that he was speaking figuratively. What he was trying to say was that hiding things away just makes the situation worse. Knowing the truth, letting everyone know the truth, is usually the best course of action.’
Sherrinford sighed. ‘Very well,’ he said slowly, pouring the Madeira into the glasses. ‘This involves your father. It goes back to when we were children together. Siger – your father – was a strange child, even then. Some days he would be bright and full of energy, able to climb any tree and jump any fence, bolting his food and speaking faster than people could understand. Other days he would just lie in bed or mope around the house, listless and uninterested. Our father said that he would grow out of it. Our mother was less sure. She called in various doctors to give a diagnosis. The ones who came when he was running around and not stopping for breath said that he was naturally boisterous. The ones who saw him when he took no interest in anything around him said that he was sensitive and maudlin in nature – melancholic. When the melancholia or the mania became too much for our father and mother to manage, he was taken into an asylum and looked after there.’
‘My father was . . . is . . . insane?’ Sherlock whispered.
‘I would never have used that word to describe him,’ Sherrinford said sternly. ‘He was . . . is . . . my brother, and there were days when you could not tell there was anything wrong with him.’ He paused. ‘But on other days he would become so excited that he could be dangerous, or so maudlin that he talked of ending his own life. I say he was “looked after” at the asylum rather than “cared for”, because I visited him once, and I will never forget the abject horror of his surroundings. They left their mark on him, I am sure.’ He paused, staring at the table, but Sherlock suspected that, in his mind, he was seeing things from long ago. ‘One physician in particular who saw him when he was living at home, in between visits to the asylum, was particularly well read. He had heard of a Frenchman who had described a disease which he called folie à double forme , or ‘ “dual-form insanity”. Well, this particular physician tried various remedies – a tincture of black hellebore to induce vomiting, a decoction of foxglove, and hemlock juice. They had some effect, but not enough. The only thing that truly helped was morphine.’
Morphine! The word struck Sherlock like an icy dagger through the heart. He’d had his own experiences with morphine. Baron Maupertuis’s men had drugged him with laudanum, which was morphine in alcohol, and the Paradol Chamber had later used a similar drug on Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft. Was the whole family’s history tied up with the horrible stuff?
‘What exactly is morphine?’ Matty asked.
‘It is a substance which can be derived from opium, which is itself the dried sap of the poppy plant. It is an evil chemical, of which I will say no more, except that it did stabilize Siger’s extreme mood swings.’ Sherrinford laughed humourlessly. ‘It is named for the Greek god of dreams – Morpheus.’
Sherlock shook his head. ‘I’m not sure I understand. My father was ill, and this drug made him better. What’s the problem?’
‘The problem,’ Sherrinford answered, ‘is that our society is not tolerant of those who have . . .
Sherrinford looked unconvinced. ‘Even so, Sherlock, this is a family matter. Is it appropriate that others find out? Perhaps your brother should be consulted before we speak in front of others.’
‘Others have already found out.’ Sherlock’s gaze moved from his uncle to his aunt and back again. ‘Look, I once heard Mycroft say that sunlight is the best cleaning agent. I thought he meant it literally at the time, that rooms with the curtains drawn get dusty and cobwebby, but I’ve come to realize that he was speaking figuratively. What he was trying to say was that hiding things away just makes the situation worse. Knowing the truth, letting everyone know the truth, is usually the best course of action.’
Sherrinford sighed. ‘Very well,’ he said slowly, pouring the Madeira into the glasses. ‘This involves your father. It goes back to when we were children together. Siger – your father – was a strange child, even then. Some days he would be bright and full of energy, able to climb any tree and jump any fence, bolting his food and speaking faster than people could understand. Other days he would just lie in bed or mope around the house, listless and uninterested. Our father said that he would grow out of it. Our mother was less sure. She called in various doctors to give a diagnosis. The ones who came when he was running around and not stopping for breath said that he was naturally boisterous. The ones who saw him when he took no interest in anything around him said that he was sensitive and maudlin in nature – melancholic. When the melancholia or the mania became too much for our father and mother to manage, he was taken into an asylum and looked after there.’
‘My father was . . . is . . . insane?’ Sherlock whispered.
‘I would never have used that word to describe him,’ Sherrinford said sternly. ‘He was . . . is . . . my brother, and there were days when you could not tell there was anything wrong with him.’ He paused. ‘But on other days he would become so excited that he could be dangerous, or so maudlin that he talked of ending his own life. I say he was “looked after” at the asylum rather than “cared for”, because I visited him once, and I will never forget the abject horror of his surroundings. They left their mark on him, I am sure.’ He paused, staring at the table, but Sherlock suspected that, in his mind, he was seeing things from long ago. ‘One physician in particular who saw him when he was living at home, in between visits to the asylum, was particularly well read. He had heard of a Frenchman who had described a disease which he called folie à double forme , or ‘ “dual-form insanity”. Well, this particular physician tried various remedies – a tincture of black hellebore to induce vomiting, a decoction of foxglove, and hemlock juice. They had some effect, but not enough. The only thing that truly helped was morphine.’
Morphine! The word struck Sherlock like an icy dagger through the heart. He’d had his own experiences with morphine. Baron Maupertuis’s men had drugged him with laudanum, which was morphine in alcohol, and the Paradol Chamber had later used a similar drug on Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft. Was the whole family’s history tied up with the horrible stuff?
‘What exactly is morphine?’ Matty asked.
‘It is a substance which can be derived from opium, which is itself the dried sap of the poppy plant. It is an evil chemical, of which I will say no more, except that it did stabilize Siger’s extreme mood swings.’ Sherrinford laughed humourlessly. ‘It is named for the Greek god of dreams – Morpheus.’
Sherlock shook his head. ‘I’m not sure I understand. My father was ill, and this drug made him better. What’s the problem?’
‘The problem,’ Sherrinford answered, ‘is that our society is not tolerant of those who have . . .
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