The Adventure of the Murdered Midwife

by Liese Sherwood-Fabre

  Once on the road to Underbyrne, I considered raising the issue of visiting Mother, but knew better than to bring up the discussion in front of a servant. Even one as trusted as our steward, Mr. Simpson. The tall, thin man had been with the Holmes family since before my parents married. Given the lack of safe, conventionally acceptable topics to discuss (somehow the weather and the train ride seemed too mundane in the present situation), we rode the hour to the manor house in silence.

  When we pulled up to the front door, the familiarity and sameness of Underbyrne held me in my seat for a moment. I saw no change in the red-brick structure with its white-framed gabled dormers on the third floor. Nothing suggested anything out of the ordinary had occurred within. Even the sight of Mrs. Simpson in her usual coffee-brown dress standing stiff-backed under the entrance’s covered porch appeared normal.

  Only when Father said, “Get a move on,” did I stir and retrieve my violin case from beside me on the seat and follow the others inside.

  “Welcome home, boys,” Mrs. Simpson said. Her strained voice was the first indication of the pall over the house. “Your rooms are ready. Mr. Simpson will bring up your trunks directly. Are you hungry? I had Cook prepare plates of cold meat for you.”

  I shifted my feet, somehow unable to move farther into the entryway. I glanced about at the all-too-familiar surroundings, seeking some solace in them. In the candlelight, everything had a sort of gilded edge to it, giving off a sense of normalness otherwise lacking in everyone’s mood. The entry hall, open to the second floor and lined with three generations of Vernet paintings and the stairway on the right leading to our bedrooms, hadn’t changed. Neither had the doors leading to Father’s library and office on the right or the parlor and sitting room to the left. The grandfather clock between the two rooms on the left marked the time as it always had.

  I glanced at the time. That late was it?

  Even the scents of wax and lemon oil said, “home,” but I found myself as ill-at-ease as in a stranger’s residence.

  Ignoring—or perhaps unaware—of my discomfort, Father spoke to me over his shoulder as he passed on to the dining room. “Leave your case in the library before joining us.”

  Once I was alone with Mrs. Simpson, she held out her hand. “Pass that to me, Master Sherlock. I’ll take it up to your room if you wish.”

  “Is my uncle about?” I asked, handing over the violin.

  Her mouth turned down. “He’s terribly upset about your mother, you know. He’s been keeping to himself for the most part, taking his meals in his workshop. If you like, after you eat, you can take a plate to him. I’m sure he would enjoy a visit from you. Go on now and have a bit of supper. Your moth—” She stopped herself and swallowed hard. “God bless her. She’d want you to keep up your strength, so you could put on the brave face needed at a time like this.”

  I shifted the weight on my feet. Nothing in the many lessons my father had imparted provided me with the appropriate response for “a time like this.” I knew which piece of silver to use with which course, the polite greeting for the different classes of people, and proper dinner conversation; but how did one comport oneself when one’s parent faced the possibility of hanging?

  Both men were already at the dining table deep in silent contemplation over their meal of cold roast beef and potatoes. I slid into my chair and stared at the thinly sliced meat and potatoes, both with a slight sheen of fat covering them. My earlier repulsion toward food returned, and a lump formed in my throat. Knowing nothing solid would make it past, I sipped the glass of milk beside it.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” Mycroft asked.

  Father lifted his head and studied me for a moment before saying, “You need to keep up your strength, son.”

  I poked the meat with a fork. Bile threatened my throat again. “What do you suppose Mother is eating?”

  He shook his head. “Outside of what we’ve provided, I suppose whatever they serve her.”

  “And what’s that? Has she told you?”

  “I haven’t seen her.” That statement drew stares from both me and Mycroft. He placed his fork and knife onto his plate before speaking. “It’s not that I don’t want to. She’s forbidden it. The only one she’s allowed to see her is Ernest.”

  “Why our uncle?” Mycroft asked.

  I, too, was surprised with her choice. While her younger brother was terribly devoted to her, for all the time I’d known him, he’d actually been more reliant on her than the other way around.

  My father merely shrugged. “Her instructions were explicit. I was not to try and visit her, but to send Ernest instead.”

  “Did she say anything about us?” I asked. “Might I visit her?”

  Barely were the words out of my mouth before he responded with a sharp, “No. She said only Ernest.”

  I wanted to argue, but the firm set of his jaw told me not to pursue the matter further. With a final glance at my uneaten food followed by a churning in my stomach informing me to not even consider sending any of it down, I finished the glass of milk and asked, “May I be excused?”

  “You’re not going to eat that?” Mycroft asked.

  When I shook my head, he pulled my food to his place.

  I rose to head to the kitchen.

  “Where are you off to?” my father asked.

  “Mrs. Simpson asked me to take a plate to Uncle Ernest.”

  Another shift in the seat. “Very well, but don’t stay too long and overtire the man.”

  In the kitchen, I could see Cook was already preparing a basket for me to carry to my uncle. More of the cold roast beef and potatoes, some bread and butter, and a crock that I was certain contained more milk. Ernest didn’t believe in imbibing spirits.

  “Finished already?” Cook asked. I nodded. “Good, then. Take this on over to your uncle. I’m sure he’d like to see you.”

  Another bob of the head, and I headed out the back door to the converted barn behind the house. Uncle Ernest had come to live at Underbyrne before I was born. He’d served with the military in Afghanistan, and, as Mother put it, the experience changed him. Tending to keep to himself, he tinkered there on different inventions. For the most part, his devices involved gunpowder and other explosives and new ways of using them to project items toward walls and other objects. More than once, I’d been involved in testing a prototype. Despite several attempts to interest the military in his contraptions, they had never responded to any of his correspondence.

  Loud clanging greeted me about halfway through the yard. Whatever he was fashioning involved metal.

  The noise masked the arrival of a woman, who startled me as she stepped from the shadows and into my path. Only because her reflexes were quicker than mine did Uncle Ernest’s dinner basket not drop to the ground.

  “Master Sherlock,” she said in a low whisper as she handed it back to me, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “I wasn’t frightened. You merely took me by surprise.” Now that she was out of the shadows, I recognized her as one of the women who bought my mother’s herbs. “Rachel Winston, isn’t it?”

  A shy smile spread across her face. “How kind of you to remember me.”

  How could I not? The woman, a maid at Lord Devony’s estate, had been married for just over three years and had been coming to see my mother for almost as long. Always for the same thing.

  “My mother’s not here. Sh-she’s—”

  “I know. But don’t you worry. I don’t believe for a minute she had anything to do with Emma Brown’s death. Your mother is the kindest, most generous woman I’ve ever met. The whole village thinks so—at least, them’s who know her.”

  “Did you want to see my father, then?”

  “No, sir. Actually, I was hoping to see you. Do you know what your mother gives me? I’m almost out and…”

  Her voice trailed off and both of us glanced toward the greenhouse—my mother’s refuge—at the other end of the house.

  “I…uh...” How did I expla
in that while I helped my mother with her plants, the exact nature of their various preparations was not known to me? She had taught me the plants’ properties, but I was not privy to the exact proportions or extractions for the concoctions she prepared for “the ladies,” as she referred to the village women. “I’m sorry. I don’t—”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, please, sir. I need those seeds. I-I can’t have a baby yet.” She squeezed her eyes shut and gave a stifled sob behind her hand. “Now with Mrs. Brown gone, the only one left is Mr. Harvingsham, and he won’t—”

  A sob cut off the rest of her thought. I glanced toward my uncle’s workshop and shifted my weight from one foot to the other. Once again, my father’s etiquette lessons were failing me. What did one say to a practically hysterical female?

  “Please don’t cry, Mrs. Winston. I’m hoping to see my mother shortly, and I’ll ask her about them. Come back tomorrow night, and I’ll let you know if I could determine what she gives you.”

  She grasped my free hand. “Thank you, sir. Thank you.” After turning away from me, she stepped back into the shadows with a whispered, “I’ll see you after I get off tomorrow night.”

  Once she had disappeared, I continued on to my uncle’s workshop and knocked on the door. When he didn’t respond, I let myself in.

  As I stepped inside, Uncle Ernest’s shout echoed through the cavernous old barn. “Duck, boy, duck!”

  Chapter Two

  Something flew over my head and embedded itself in the doorframe as I dropped to the floor.

  My uncle hurried toward me, lifting a pair of goggles to his forehead as he did so. “Good lord, my boy, are you hurt?”

  I shook my head, still slightly shaken by the close call I’d had with a…I studied the object that had nearly taken off my ear. It was star-shaped with the points honed razor-sharp. Ernest reached over with a work-gloved hand and tugged at the projectile to remove it from the frame. “You should’ve knocked first.”

  “I did. You couldn’t hear me over the noise,” I said, finally finding my voice. “What is that exactly?”

  “The Japanese call it a hira shuriken or ‘sword in hand.’ Of course I made some improvements upon it.”

  The hira shuriken finally gave to my uncle’s wrenching, and he placed it flat on his palm so that I might examine it. My first observation was that it appeared even more dangerous when the whole item could be seen. “What sorts of improvements did you make?”

  “Its propulsion.” Ernest beamed. “Samurai warriors consider them a minor weapon to be used in conjunction with the sword. They would be thrown by hand toward the eye or hand to further injure an opponent. But I have developed a device to throw these in swift succession and greater force, making them a possible weapon of first resort.”

  I followed him to one of the workbenches dotting the place. Each displayed a project in some stage of assembly. His current project appeared to be a modified crossbow. Several of the star-shaped objects were lined up in a slot along the bow’s central arm. He swiveled the weapon to face it away from the door.

  “I’m having some trouble, however, with the trigger,” he said. “The hira shuriken have to be propelled along the launching arm with enough force for them to travel a great enough distance. At the moment, the slightest touch on the trigger will send them off.”

  “What was all the banging I heard? Were you working on the trigger?”

  “I was straightening the hira shuriken. If they were flat enough for them to fit more perfectly into the launching groove, perhaps the spring mechanism wouldn’t have to be so strong and the trigger less prone to release unexpectedly. Of course, that’s not the only issue. Look at how this one bent. They can’t be reused at the moment without a great deal of readjustment. I have to work that out before I can share it with my military contacts.”

  He dropped it onto his bench and pounded it with a mallet.

  I held up the basket Mrs. Simpson had given me and shouted over the noise. “I brought you supper.”

  Stopping in mid-swing over the star, he contemplated the bit of information I’d provided. Accustomed to his lapses into deep thought, I waited as my mother had taught me. A moment later he let the mallet fall onto the table and turned to me. “Why, yes. I’m famished, actually. Thank you for being so kind as to bring it. Shall we have a seat and a talk?”

  After he dropped his tools onto the table, we moved to his sitting area at the back of the building. Separated by a folding screen, the space was furnished with some of my parents’ discarded chairs, a low table, and a cot. Ernest removed the food from the basket and arranged it on the table. After settling into one of the armchairs, he rubbed his work-blackened hands together and studied the items. “Care to join me, Sherlock?”

  “No, thank you. I’ve already had my supper.”

  “You can tell me about school while I eat.”

  I shifted on the edge of the other armchair. I had no interest in sharing about my first few weeks at Eton, but I’d learned from our long association I had to find the right moment to broach the subject of my mother’s incarceration.

  Resigned, I asked, “What do you want to know?”

  “Let’s start with the basics,” he said around a bite of roast beef. “What classes are you taking?”

  “The usual, I guess. Latin, mathematics, science—”

  “Science? What sort of science?”

  “Biology at the moment. Plant life.”

  He slapped his knee. “You’re probably ahead of all the others in that area. Thanks to Violette.” At the mention of my mother, he quit chewing and stared at me for a moment. “She’s in gaol, you know.”

  “Father says she’s forbidden him to visit.”

  “It’s a bit more complicated than that, I suppose. As you know, he’s a justice of the peace. They’ve dismissed him from his duties for the moment. She’s trying to avoid him having his reputation as an impartial court official being questioned. If he doesn’t see her, there can be no talk of him interfering in the case. Besides, she truly worries about him seeing her in that place.” Ernest nibbled on a potato he’d speared on a fork. He swallowed. “I’m her solicitor, you know.”

  “Have you ever practiced?”

  “Not really, but Violette specifically requested me. They only allow visitors once a month, but legal counsel can come and go as often as required.” He leveled his gaze at me. “And they often bring young assistants along to carry their papers. Your mother suggested I have you do just that.”

  My heart skipped a beat.

  “I could visit Mother with you?” Another thought immediately occurred, and I frowned. “Father’s said I can’t see her.”

  He dropped the fork onto the plate and reached over to take both my hands. “My dear, dear, boy. Your mother gave me specific instructions to bring you along. She wants to see you straight away.”

  “What about Father?”

  He screwed his mouth to one side, as if trying to remember something. “I’m afraid she didn’t anticipate your father being opposed to your visiting her. But there are ways around that. In the meantime, you should just let him know you are assisting me. We simply won’t mention with what.”

  The plan made perfect sense to me. I often assisted my uncle in his workshop. We both enjoyed tinkering, and I had learned as much about engineering and practical science from him as anything my tutors had presented.

  “Besides carrying your valise, how else will I help you?”

  “I guess we’ll have to ask your mother. She has something in mind, I’m sure.”

  Something in mind.

  My uncle’s statement pointed out that my mother already had some design developed. To have her brother be her legal representative and me assist him meant she wanted the two of us to work together, but on what?

  “If I’m going to be your aide, perhaps I should know more about the case. Father didn’t provide much information. I do know Mother found Mrs. Brown in our garden.”

 
He nodded and shifted in his seat. “She’d gone out in the morning to pull some onions for some concoction, and there was the Brown woman, lying face-down in the dirt, the pitchfork in her back. Violette ran back to the house and called for your father. By the time he arrived, she’d removed the pitchfork and was leaning over the woman to see if she could minister to her in any way.”

  “Was she”—I took a deep breath before I finished my question—“dead?”

  “Your mother said she was both stiff and cold,” he said with a nod. “That she’d been there for a while. Your father sent Mr. Simpson into town for the coroner. He came, studied the garden, and had them take away Mrs. Brown and the pitchfork.”

  “She wasn’t arrested right away?”

  Another glance away from me. “The constable came later and asked her about an argument she and Mrs. Brown had had the day before. Her husband had reported it and insisted Violette be arrested for the murder.”

  “Mr. Brown is behind it all?”

  He nodded. With a father who served as a justice of the peace, I had observed the workings of the parish legal system from a young age. While a constable arrested criminals, the decision to do so often depended upon the victim’s or victim’s family’s investigation and persistence to ensure the arrest and prosecution of the accused. I’d heard of victims hiring an itinerate lawyer in some cases, but for the most part, the aggrieved party had to pursue the charges, even to the examination of witnesses in court.

  “That’s why your father has pushed for a special coroner’s inquest.”

  “There’s to be an inquest now? Shouldn’t that have been held at the beginning?”

  He shrugged. “Brown insisted the constable arrest Violette. Said it was obvious who killed his wife and wanted her put in gaol—coroner or no coroner.”

  “When’s this special inquest?”

  “Shortly. Your father saw this as the most expedient way to get her released. This quarter’s assizes have already passed, and he didn’t want her waiting until the next time a judge can pass through.”