The Adventure of the Murdered Midwife

by Liese Sherwood-Fabre

  I stilled, considering all the information he’d shared. As a justice of the peace, Father judged less serious crimes quite regularly, but ones involving capital punishment had to wait for a visiting judge during the quarter assizes. And the next one would be months from now. While I contemplated the upcoming inquest, my uncle focused on his food. He speared the last bit of potato, ran it around the plate to pick up any crumbs, and popped it in his mouth.

  “When are you going to see her next?” I asked as he chewed.

  “I do have a lot to do….” His gaze strayed to the crossbow on the table.

  I bit my tongue to squelch the angry retort rising within me. What could be more important than my mother’s arrest? I’d learned long ago, however, forcing my uncle into another direction never ended well. His concentration would still be on whatever endeavor he’d been pulled from, and his distracted nature became a hindrance rather than a help. The only way to prevent this was to return my mother’s case into his main focus by involving his ability to tinker with a problem.

  “You do have a sticky problem with the trigger,” I said finally. “Anyway, it’s too dark to see anything in the garden, but tomorrow I do want to see where they found Mrs. Brown. Do you have a magnifying glass by any chance?”

  A smile spread across his face. “Of course. What size? I have quite a collection, you know.”

  “Can you gather them for me?” Having nudged my uncle’s attention toward the true problem at hand, I allowed myself a smile as well. “They could prove handy.”

  Shortly after, I left my uncle at the task of collecting the magnifying glasses scattered about the workshop. He already carried at least five of various sizes in his hands and seemed to be on the hunt for more. I wasn’t sure what I’d find at the site or even that I’d need the glasses, but I felt compelled to visit it. Something inside me told me it would be important—just not how.

  A single candle burned on the kitchen table when I entered through the back door. Cook had obviously left it for me. I placed Ernest’s now-empty basket on the table and picked up the candle to light my way. In the hallway I saw a light shining under the door of the library. After a moment’s hesitation, I turned my steps to that room instead of the stairs.

  Pushing open the door, I found my father sitting in his favorite armchair, his feet upon an ottoman. The scent of old cigars and lingering smoke of a new one filled my nostrils, and a wave of nostalgia swept over me. How many times had I spent time here with Mother searching for a book stored among the shelves? I shuddered at the memory and turned my focus to my father.

  The light I’d seen through the doorway had been a dying fire in the grate. His head lolled to one side and rested on one of the chair’s wings. A book lay opened in his lap. I picked it up and recognized it as one of his favorite illustrated tomes on insects. I marked the place and put it on the table. He rustled slightly in the chair and opened his eyes a crack.

  He blinked at me as if he were trying to place me. “Sherlock, son. What are you doing up so late?”

  “I was visiting with Uncle Ernest. He was telling me about Mother’s case.”

  “Your mother….” He sighed and glanced away. In the firelight I caught the glistening in his eyes and the empty wine glass on the floor beside him. He asked the glowing embers, “Why doesn’t she want to see me?”

  “Maybe—” I paused. How much should I tell him of my visit with Ernest? “Maybe she doesn’t want you to see her in…th-that place?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps,” he said with a sigh.

  “I’m going upstairs. Come up with me.”

  His eyes slid under his half-opened lids in my direction, and he studied me for moment. “I’m fine right here,” he said finally.

  “Wouldn’t you prefer—?”

  “I-I…can’t. I’ll stay here.”

  He closed his eyes again, and I stared at him, considering his refusal to go upstairs to bed—the one he shared with….

  I understood at that moment he was avoiding sleeping alone there.

  I turned to leave.

  Before I could take a step, he called my name and gestured for me to come closer. As I did so, I was struck by how neat his clothes remained despite what I considered a state of inebriation. Of course, he had always impressed upon my brother and me the importance of remaining a proper gentleman regardless of the situation, which only made his statement even more disconcerting. Not so much the words as his tone and the emotion it displayed.

  “I’ve missed you, son. Are you…are you…good at Eton?”

  I glanced about me, selecting my words before I replied. “Things are…all right.”

  “It’s important, you know. To go there. The contacts. That’s what you are making at school. You’ll find them essential later.”

  As much as I longed to share with him that the contacts I’d made with the other boys up to this point had been primarily in the form of punches, I simply responded, “Yes, sir.”

  “I do hope we’ll be able to send you back shortly. As soon as this mess with your mother is over.” He fixed his gaze on me. “You do think Ernest will be able to help her?”

  “Mother has faith in him.”

  “I’ve never known her intuition to be wrong,” he said with a sigh. “I was the one to push for the special inquest on Friday. That Brown man. He insisted your mother’s a murderess and got the constable involved. Then he got me dismissed from my duties.” Another sigh. “I just want her home.”

  I tightened and loosened my fists.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You best get to bed, son,” he said and patted my arm.

  On the way up the stairs, I stopped as the full import of the conversation hit me. Once Mother was found innocent and released from gaol, no reason existed to keep me from returning to Eton. My heart raced at my next thought. If, however, she stayed imprisoned, I could continue at Underbyrne. I shook my head to dislodge even the contemplation of such an outcome. My mother’s future was more important than any torment I might experience at Eton. I would certainly undergo even worse for her freedom.

  My focus had to remain on absolving my mother.

  I finished my ascent but paused at the second-floor landing to glance in the direction of my parents’ room. Once again, an awkward pain filled me—similar to a toothache that may abate only to return with a vengeance. I swallowed hard and continued in the opposite direction to my room.

  Mrs. Simpson had seen to the unpacking of my school things and one of the maids had turned down my bed. I set the candle on the nightstand and changed into my bedclothes. No sooner had I crawled into bed than Mycroft appeared in my doorway. “Been with Uncle Ernest all this time? What did he have to say?”

  “I’m to be his assistant and help him in preparing for the hearing,” I said, having decided not to share my conversation with Father. “But mostly he talked about his new invention. A cross-bow that shoots hira shuriken.”

  “Ah, the Japanese ‘sword in hand.’” That Mycroft knew of the weapon didn’t surprise me. His knowledge was quite encompassing.

  “I plan to visit the garden in the morning. Why don’t you come with me?”

  The silhouette in the doorway shook its head. “Too many extraneous bits of information. Simply report back to me what you find that seems pertinent.”

  “All right.” I yawned, suddenly exhausted from all that had happened that day. “Good night, Mycroft.”

  “Good night.” He turned and shut the door again.

  I pulled the covers close and lay back in the bed, staring at the shadows on the ceiling and contemplating my brief conversation with Mycroft. For most of my life, he’d ignored me. When he did direct his attention to me, it was usually to criticize me—either for my lack of knowledge or naiveté.

  For the first time, I realized I now served a purpose—to bring him information, similar to what he would glean from the papers. An interesting turn in our relationship. I held the upper hand, and a desire to capitalize on it
tempted me to dress and head to the garden immediately. Only the reasonable half of my brain told me to wait until morning when the light would allow proper examination.

  My attention was directed to the other side of the room when moonlight broke through the clouds and spotlighted my violin case. My fingers itched to pull the instrument out and practice the last piece I’d been working on with my mother. Accomplished on the pianoforte, Mother had worked with me on a duet, and one of my last promises to her when I’d left for Eton was that I would have it perfected by the Christmas holidays. My roommates had not appreciated my efforts and so after the first week, I’d dropped my practicing. I now vowed I would rehearse at least an hour a day so that when my mother was released from gaol, I would be able to complete my promise.

  I fell asleep reviewing the musical score and my fingering.

  It seemed I had barely gone to sleep when someone shook me. I opened my eyes a crack to find Uncle Ernest leaning over me.

  “Time to dress and be on our way,” he said in a low whisper.

  “To where?” I checked out the window. The sky might be brightening slightly, but it was still very early—even in comparison to morning rising in Eton. “It’s still too dark to examine the garden.”

  “The gar— Didn’t I tell you we are going to visit your mother this morning? I promised her I would bring you as soon as I could after your arrival.”

  “Why so early?”

  “The best time to see her alone. Besides, that way I can bring her and the staff breakfast. Bringing food to all of them allows us a little time alone. Your mother's idea. Get dressed and come down to the kitchen. Cook should have it all prepared.”

  With that instruction, he left me to complete my toilette, and I joined him in the kitchen where Cook was putting the finishing touches on another basket when I entered. The aroma of spice and tea caused my stomach to growl. Ernest treated the prison staff well if he was providing them with Cook’s cinnamon buns. I must have appeared hungry, because the moment she saw me, she pointed to a plate on the table. “Don't you worry, Master Sherlock. I saved one for you.”

  Before the sentence was even completed, I was at the table and lifting the still-warm bun to my lips.

  I was licking my fingers by the time she pounded a cork into a crock.

  “The tea should still be warm by the time you get to the gaol,” she told Uncle Ernest and then turned to me. She passed me a slice of bread. “Save this for later.”

  Ernest barely gave me time to stuff the slice into my coat pocket before he ran his arms through the basket's handles and lifted it from the table. Cocking his head to an item on the floor, he said, “Time to be my assistant. Carry my valise to the carriage.”

  I grabbed the case's handles and followed him out the door to Mr. Simpson and a waiting carriage.

  Once inside, Ernest leaned his head back onto the seat and pulled his hat over his eyes. “Let me know when we get to town.”

  His snoring commenced shortly after we turned onto the main road. I tried to follow his example but was too tightly wound to sleep, despite the early hour. My mind kept shifting from elation to dread. I was on my way to see my mother. In gaol.

  The carriage jerked to a halt an hour later, and Ernest roused himself in mid-snore. Eyeing me, he asked, “There already? Come along then.”

  When we stepped up the stairs into the square brick building housing the county’s criminals, a guard opened the main door and waved us in.

  “Quite a brisk morning, eh, Mr. Parker? Who’s this with you?”

  “My assistant.”

  The guard eyed me for a moment before turning his attention back to my uncle. I had learned a long time ago because of my age, no one paid much attention to me, and it was the same in this situation. A moment, later, however, I understood his true interest in my uncle.

  “The weather’s turning. I can feel it in my bones. Mornings like this, a man could use a bit of a nip to keep off the chill.”

  “Quite right, quite right,” Ernest replied and slipped a small bottle out of his coat pocket and into that of the guard’s. “For medicinal purposes.”

  The man placed a finger on the side of his nose with a nod. “Let’s step inside so’s I can inspect what you’re carrying.”

  With a deep breath, I hefted my uncle’s valise a little higher and entered a gaol for the first time. In later years, I had many an occasion to visit any number of prisons to interview criminals and the accused, but as with most major events, the first one is generally the most memorable. To this day, the right brew of odors—sweat, dust, urine, and mold—will draw me back to that tiny antechamber where Ernest set his basket on a rickety rectangle of a table and motioned me to do the same. With the first whiff, I can still see the green mold in the intersection between the room’s brick walls and stone floor and hear the distant plink of dripping water and far-off moans of the prison’s inhabitants. Immediately, my palms dampen and the same despair and melancholy settles about me as on that day.

  Ernest, for whatever reason, appeared not to be affected at all by the surroundings, perhaps because he had already experienced them and grown used to them. He and the guard joked and chuckled while they pulled some sliced ham, thick bread, and butter from the basket as his share of the breakfast offering. The man even produced a tin cup from somewhere for his portion of the still-warm tea in the carefully wrapped crock and added a dollop of something from a flask he pulled from his pocket.

  Once provisioned, the guard opened a door at the other side of the room and shouted down the hallway. “Mr. Parker’s here to see his client.”

  “Have him wait in the visitor’s room,” a woman responded with a similar shout.

  We followed the man down the hall to a wooden door he unlocked. Benches lined the walls, and three wobbly tables, each with four spindly stools, occupied the center of the room. While designed to accommodate a much larger crowd, at the moment Uncle Ernest and I were its only occupants.

  The approach of more than one set of footsteps knotted my stomach. A second door opened, and Mother stepped into the room, followed closely by a heavy woman in a blue uniform. When my gaze met my mother’s, I drew in my breath and quickly averted my eyes. My first impulse was to run to her and bury my head in the rough, grey cloth of what obviously was some sort of prison apron over her dress. I was held in place, however, by my uncle’s hand on my shoulder. Whether he placed it there to restrain me or warn me, I wasn’t sure, but the effort immobilized me.

  “Mrs. Raymond,” my uncle said with a smile. “How are we this morning?”

  “Not so bad, not so bad. It’s been a quiet night,” she said. “But I am famished.”

  “Of course, you are, and I have brought some breakfast for you and the other matrons.”

  She accepted the basket from my uncle and stepped backward toward the door. “I’ll just take this down to our station to share with the others. I’ll be back in a shake.”

  “If you don’t mind, we’ll just visit until you return.”

  Once alone, the two moved quickly to the table farthest from both entries, and I followed, placing the valise on its top. Unburdened, I now turned to my mother, and she quickly enfolded me. After a moment, she placed a hand under my chin and studied my face. “My dear Sherlock,” she said with a sigh. “I do believe you’ve grown at least an inch since we left you at school.”

  Her lips turned up in a smile, but the skin about her eyes continued to droop as they had when she’d entered the room. I also noted a greyness I hadn’t seen before. But perhaps her wan color also related to her wearing no powder or rouge. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun. Other than these changes, I caught no difference. She was still the tall, elegant woman I had always known. While Mycroft resembled my father, I resembled my mother in height and leanness, not to mention the pronounced sharp nose of our French ancestors.

  “We only have a little time before the matron returns,” Ernest said. “Let’s get to it.”


  When I turned back around, the table had been set for breakfast, including a cloth to cover the table.

  “How kind of Mrs. Simpson to think of this touch,” Mother said, fingering the linen. “Please thank her for me.”

  Before sitting, she cleaned her hands on a wet cloth set on the chair next to her place. “One must continue to practice good hygiene, regardless of the situation,” she said with another of those forced smiles.

  “That reminds me,” Ernest said and dug about in his coat pocket. He held out his hand, palm down and dropped something into hers, which she quickly slipped into a skirt pocket. “I hope that keeps you for a while.”

  She turned to me and finally gave me a genuine smile in response to my obviously quizzical study. “Soap. More important than gold here. I’ve had mine stolen twice already.”

  I watched as she cut the ham and chewed it slowly. Despite what I was sure was a ravenous appetite, she had not lost her sense of decorum.

  “Uncle Ernest told me you wanted to see me. Why?”

  “Because, my dear Sherry, I need you to get me out.”

  I stared at her. Had I heard her correctly? Surely she was speaking to her brother, but she returned my gaze over her cup as she sipped her tea.

  “Unfortunately, my arrest and detention has appeased Mr. Brown for the moment. The constable sees no reason to seek Emma’s true assailant. You are my best hope.”

  My mouth dropped open. “But-but Mycroft—”

  “Don’t underestimate yourself. Mycroft has a brilliant mind but would not be willing to go about to collect information. You have both the logical skills and the ability to gather new information as needed without raising suspicions.”

  I tilted my head to the side, considering her observations. Mycroft had made it clear he was not interested in visiting the garden with me. For the first time I realized I did offer a unique skill in this situation.

  She took a piece of paper from her pocket and held it out to me. “I have written down everything I can remember about the morning when I found the body. I’m afraid I’m having some trouble concentrating here. Use your own skills to see what I haven’t been able to. I know you can do it.”