Cross Type
by Copper Beech
Sherlock Holmes set about inspecting his beehives, as was his wont since moving to the Sussex Downs. The puff of smoke he sent into hive #1 sent the bees deep into its interior, so he could open the wooden box and see how they were progressing. Well, he thought, replacing frames and lid. Moving to hive #2, he followed the same procedure. He was concerned about these bees. They had suffered some disease. But lately, he noticed, they were making slow steady progress. Moving to hive #3, he saw something unusual. Now why were the bees so agitated? Looking more closely, he observed little change from the usual. Perhaps it was his own mood that was setting the bees off. He was in the midst of an experiment that was not going well and he thought taking a respite from his work might help. It had not. Rather, he was bringing his frustration to another endeavor and it, too was not going well. He decided to leave the bees to bring their own calm and he returned to his cottage.
He greeted Mrs. Hudson who was in the kitchen baking. Then he made his way to the study where his wife was reading, not the text of an ancient piece of parchment or the scholarly work of an eminent theologian, but what looked like a novel. In all the time they had known each other, he had never seen her read a novel, save for the time he asked her to read The Hound of the Baskervilles. But, then she had said she read it before. Before he could comment she looked up and said, "So, what is troubling you and your bees?"
Holmes felt behind his left ear to see if he had again carried in one of what Russell called, "your lady friends." He had not. Then he looked to the smoker he still held in his hand and made his reply. "Nothing," he said irritably. Russell gave him a hard look. "What are you reading?" he asked, trying to change the subject.
"The collection of stories Uncle John wrote about your adventures. He gave them to me for my birthday," she replied. Undistracted, she added, "You have not fully answered my question."
Holmes thought for a moment and said, "I do not know what is troubling the bees. I expect it is just my mood."
"Then what is troubling you?"
"It is the experiment I am working on. If you have been reading Watson's stories," he replied, saying the word stories like he was trying to get a foul taste out of his mouth, "then you know I perfected a method of identifying blood whether old or new." "Well," he continued, "I am working to find a method that will not only discover the presence of blood, but place it in its proper group. That would give me one more indication of a criminal's presence or absence at a crime scene."
"But it would not tell you conclusively if the criminal were there, only if he were not," said Russell.
"True," said Holmes. "But proving a man innocent is as important as finding him guilty."
"I agree," replied Russell. "But what is the problem with your test?"
Holmes walked over to her and taking her free hand, guided her to his laboratory table. There sat Bunsen burner, pipettes, flasks of all types, chemicals, and several glass slides. Taking a clean lancet, Holmes pricked her finger and deposited a drop of blood on one slide, then another. After washing her finger and applying a bit of pressure to stop the bleeding of the small wound, he followed the procedure to type her blood. It was a simple test and when it was completed, Holmes said, "Your blood belongs to the AB Group. Quite rare." Then he placed the untested drop into a beaker of water. Adding a few white crystals and a drops of clear liquid, he performed the test he had so many years ago for Dr. John Watson. The result was much the same. The solution in the beaker became mahogany in color and formed a dusty precipitate that indicated the presence of blood.
"My problem, dear Russell is not typing the blood or the ability to indicate its presence, but to find a method that will do both." Holmes went on to explain his efforts, and their results.
Russell started to offer a suggestion, but stopped before she began. She had a good grasp of chemistry, but had not studied medicine. Her husband's methods were sound, but he didn't have enough information. And the one person who could supply that information was John H. Watson, MD.
"Why don't we talk with Uncle John," she suggested. "He keeps up on medical discoveries. Perhaps he'll have the answers you need."
"Of course," smiled Holmes. "Watson. You ring him up and I'll prepare for travel to London."
Russell, after several tries, connected with Uncle John. He expressed delight at the thought of their visit and would be waiting their arrival with eager anticipation.
It was late evening when the train pulled in the station and they made their way to Watson's home. The maid met them at the door and showed them to he drawing room, where sat the good doctor, himself.
Watson rose to greet his friends. "Holmes," he said extending his hand, "how good it is to see you. And Mary, how well you look."
"Watson," came Holmes reply.
"Uncle John," responded Russell as she leaned forward to accept a hug.
"Sit, please," instructed Watson, "And tell me why you have come."
Holmes explained the problem while Watson listened thoughtfully. "I believe I have something that might assist you. I'll fetch it."
Holmes and Russell waited in the quiet of the well-lit room. Before either of them could speak, Watson returned with the promised material.
"There is an article in here on Dr. Karl Landsteiner," he said handing the journal to Holmes. "He is the Austrian who first classified blood by type. He also discovered that these types are hereditary."
Holmes thanked him and returned to his chair.
"Still working on Veronica's Veil?" asked Watson.
"Veronica's Veil?" asked Russell before Holmes could answer.
"Yes," replied Holmes to Watson's query. And in response to Russell's question, added, "Veronica's Veil. A piece of cloth believed to have been used to wipe the face of Jesus on his way to crucifixion. It is said to have..."
"I know that," interrupted Russell. "I want to know what it has to do with you."
"Ah," said Holmes. That explanation is better left to Watson.
"And it is a story that can be told after dinner," added Watson. "Shall we?" he asked, escorting his guests to the dining room.
Dinner was a simple affair. Soup, lamb, new potatoes, glazed carrots, peas, and the proper wine to go with it all. After all were well satisfied, they retired to the drawing room and Watson began his story.
"It was a case from the early days. It involved a young man, one Matthew Peters who claimed to have found the veil with which Veronica wiped the face of Jesus. He said that its story had been handed down generation to generation, but somewhere along the line, the actual cloth had been lost. It remained so until excavation took place Peters' ancestral home. A tomb was disturbed and the cloth was found among the bones of an ancient ancestor. Peters was in dire need of money at the time and was willing to part with the cloth for a price."
"But who would be willing to pay such a price?" asked Russell.
"Rome," responded Watson. "You see, there is already a Veil of Veronica in St. Peter's Basilica. It has been there since the Middle Ages and is considered the most likely candidate for the 'real' article, if there is one. There cannot be two true veils, so Rome was willing to buy the veil if it proved authentic. And if not, it was ready to denounce it and Peters. But first, inquiries had to be made.
"Holmes was called in to investigate. He set out to prove either Peters or the cloth or both were fake, but was not able to do so. He proved stains on the cloth were blood and suspected they came from Peters, but he did not have a test to prove it."
"I have been working on the case over the past several years," interjected Holmes, "Just to satisfy my curiosity. I am very close to the answer."
"What happened to Peters?" Russell asked.
"Peters was arrested for forgery. Another case," Holmes hastened to add.
"And the veil?"
"Oh, I still have it."
"You have it?"
"It is of no use to Peters without authentication and he certainly can't keep it in prison. So, he has entrusted it to me until such time as I can prove or disprove his story."
"I'd like to read more about the case," said Russell. "Uncle John, do you still have your notes?"
"I think I do, Mary. I will look for them in the morning."
"Thank you."
"And now," announced Watson, "I will show you to your room. I expect you'd like to rest from your journey."
"Thank you. Yes," replied Russell getting up from her chair a bit stiffly.
"I would like to stay and read this journal for a time, if you don't mind, Russell. I'll follow you shortly."
While Holmes pondered the world of genetics, Russell prepared for sleep. But sleep didn't come easy. She wondered where she fit into this old case. Uncle John could supply his medical knowledge and Holmes his chemical. But what could she contribute? Her knowledge of things theological? Sure, but there was no evidence this Veronica ever existed or that the incident did for that matter. And what would be the point? Besides, Holmes had not invited her into the case. Or had he?
Tired of these musings, Russell closed her eyes and waited for sleep. The door opened and Holmes made his appearance. He slipped quietly into bed and all thoughts left her mind.
Russell awoke early the next morning to find for once she had risen before her husband. In all those stories of Uncle John, Holmes had been a late riser. Well, maybe he was in those days.
Russell made her way down to breakfast and was greeted by a cheerful Watson. It seems his Bohemian ways had changed, too. "I found the notes you wanted, Mary, " he said, handing them to her. After a breakfast of eggs, sausage, toast, and beans, Russell settled down with a cup of tea to read the notes. As she finished, she heard Holmes walk in.
"Quite a problem," he said as he sat down to his own breakfast.
"Yes, but I think I can supply one or two answers," responded Mary from behind the sheaf of papers. "It will take some time at the British Museum and possibly the Bodleian Library, but I might be able to find you information on this woman Veronica."
"Splendid," said Holmes. "While you take on that work, Watson and I will see if we can't perfect that blood test."
Russell spent the next few days examining dusty antiquities and reading endless pages of text in every language she spoke. Meanwhile, Holmes and Watson ran out of willing fingers to prick and were still no closer to the answer.
After a long day of research, Holmes, Russell, and Watson sat down by the fire and over coffee, discussed their efforts.
"I've found no evidence of the existence of Veronica," Russell stated flatly. Of course her name would not be Veronica. The name is a combination of the Latin 'vera,' meaning true and the Greek, 'eikon,' meaning image. It lends the notion of authenticity to the tale, but no proof. There are no words written by or about her. Only oral tradition."
"And that is precisely what our Mr. Peters has to stake his claim," replied Holmes. "Generations of people passing on a story does not make it true. It might start with the truth, but the telling and retelling can take one far away from the truth. Although finding a common thread among the tellings might lead one back to it."
"Holmes, you've hit upon it. If I can examine the stories that were told years later, I might find a common thread that will lead to the truth. She thought for a moment, wondering how this truth might affect this case and asked, "What truth have you and Uncle John found?"
Holmes again stated the problem and what part of his experiment did work.
"Holmes," Russell began after he had finished, "could you show me your experiment again? It might help to have someone else take a look.
Holmes and Watson brought her over to the makeshift laboratory table. Holmes went through the experiment, explaining each step as he went. Russell asked questions from time to time until finally she hit upon one he could not answer. Why do you add that chemical then, she wanted to know.
"Because it is the way I have always done it," he replied.
"But if you added it earlier, wouldn't you get a different reaction?"
"Well, yes, but what would be the point?"
"I don't know, but isn't it worth a try?"
Holmes sighed and began the experiment one more time. This time, with Russell's instruction, added a key element before he would have liked. And when the final test was made, the results astonished him. He did not, however shout out, "I found it! I found it!" He just smiled and said, "Watson," go find Inspector Lestrade and convince him to let you take some of Matthew Peters' blood."
Without question, Watson left for Scotland Yard. In the meantime, Holmes and Russell tested the cloth he had so carefully preserved all these years and found the blood on it to be of the O Group. "The Universal Donor," he said to Russell. Now we will wait Watson's return.
It took Watson longer than expected, owing to the lateness of day and the irregularity of his request, but return he did. "Here it is," he said handing a phial to Holmes. Together, they performed the long practiced test and at last came the results.
"The blood is from the A Group," Holmes said, though by now everyone knew type from type.
"So," said Watson. "The blood does not come from Peters."
"No," replied Holmes, "If it had, I would have pushed Peters to make a confession. As it is, we still cannot say from where the blood came or the cloth for that matter. But given time, we may."
"What will you do now, Holmes?" asked Russell.
"Give it time," he replied. "Give it time."