When I opened the door, Mrs. Simpson said, “Your father sent me to fetch you for supper, Master Sherlock. He and your brother are waiting.”
Supper? How long had I been practicing?
But I had a more pressing question.
“Will my uncle be joining us?”
“He asked that I bring his to the workshop. Do you want me to hold it for you to take to him later?” I nodded. “Get a move on, then. You don’t want the meat to get cold.”
She turned to leave but turned back to face me. “That was lovely playing, Master Sherlock. Your mother will be proud of your progress when she returns.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Simpson.”
A quick smile at me, and she headed back to the stairs.
The two men sat at the table, drumming their fingers on the linen covering.
“Another minute and we would have started without you,” my father said in Spanish.
“Sorry, sir,” I said, shifting to that language. “I was practicing and lost track of time.”
My father studied me for a moment. “I heard some of it. You are improving.”
“But you are having a problem with the C-sharp on the arpeggio,” Mycroft said.
Before I could respond about the difficult fingering for that section, Father glared at him, and he dropped his gaze. We all three fell silent, the only sound the scrape of our forks and knives on the china.
After finishing, I hustled to the kitchen to pick up my uncle’s supper. As I stepped outside, I remembered Mrs. Winston, but no one stopped me as I crossed the yard. Had she solved her problem on her own?
The clanging from within the workshop differed from the preceding evening—tinnier and not as loud. He actually heard my knock and opened the door to me.
His appearance almost made me drop the basket. Blood splattered an overcoat he wore over his clothes—not to mention more of it coating his face and hands.
“Sherlock, you came at quite a fortuitous time. I could use an extra hand. Come in.”
If my uncle’s condition hadn’t been enough to disturb me, the stench greeting me when I entered certainly completed the task. A pig’s carcass lay on its side on an oilskin cloth in the middle of the room. A number of puncture holes covered the exposed side. The iron scent of blood permeated the building, and I truly regretted having eaten my meal before visiting Ernest.
My uncle followed my gaze to the dead, pierced pig and cleared his throat. “I’ll explain that in a moment. Come here and help me.”
He strode to his workbench where a pitchfork lay. One of the tines was bent, and Ernest pointed to the fork’s handle. “Put down the basket and hold this steady for me while I straighten out this one point.”
Striking the tine with a hammer, he spoke between beats. “The fork…must have hit…a rib or…something.... Didn’t go in…like it should…. I’ll need…to make sure…my aim’s true.”
With the tine straightened, he picked up the pitchfork and balanced it in his hand as if estimating its center of gravity. Without any warning, he gave a loud roar, ran to the pig’s carcass, and jammed the fork into its side almost to the handle. I stared at him, my whole body quivering uncontrollably.
With the fork now imbedded deep in the animal’s body, my uncle turned to me. His wide smile faded when he focused on me. “Boy, you’re absolutely pale. Are you all right?”
I swallowed to keep my supper from rising higher in my stomach. “Are you all right?”
“Never better,” he said, his grin returning. “Downright ecstatic, actually. Your mother and I have worked out a plan, thanks to you. She should be home by Friday night.”
Had I heard him correctly?
“Friday? But—”
“The coroner has set the inquest for Friday morning. After we present this evidence, the man will have to release her immediately.”
I stuffed my fists into my pockets to keep them from shaking. This whole ordeal would be over in just a few days? Was this what Mycroft referred to during his argument with Father? I studied the scene, seeking to piece together what my uncle and mother’s plan could be.
“The pig is the evidence,” I said. “You’re going to show how a dead pig doesn’t bleed when stabbed with a fork, but a live one does. That’s why you have blood on your clothes.”
He glanced down at the blood-covered smock. “I truly didn’t expect such a burst from the live one. I’m glad I had on the smock. Not quite sure why I didn’t anticipate it. After all, in Afghanistan…”
His voice faded off, as did the light in his eyes as he stared at a point somewhere above my head.
“Uncle Ernest,” I said after a moment. He shook his head and refocused on me. “Are you going to bring pigs into the inquest?”
“I don’t see any other way, my boy, to prove my point. That should put on a good show, don’t you think? Might be a bit messy, though,” he said, glancing at his smock. “Perhaps the street…”
“Will it be that one?” I asked, jutting my chin in the direction of the now-impaled swine.
“No, Simpson is coming to pick up this one to smoke it tonight. I’ve already asked for some of the bacon from it, and the live one I stabbed earlier. Maybe some of the sausage from the one we use on Friday as well. Seems fitting, doesn’t it? To devour some of the animals serving to set your mother free? Like the African warriors eating the heart of their kill.” He placed a finger to his lips. “Not a word of this to anyone. Especially your father. Your mother’s orders, again.”
The rest of the days between my uncle’s pig practice and the inquest were unbearably long and fretful. My father paced about the house, Mycroft kept to the library, and I worked at finding tasks to do and keep my mind occupied. I moved my violin practice to the schoolroom on the top floor to avoid further critiques from my brother. Given the number of hours I was able to devote to my music, I progressed rapidly and anticipated showing my mother the perfected result.
When not practicing, I spent time in Mother’s greenhouse. Her plants required daily attention. The first afternoon when I tended her plants, as I went down the rows watering each pot, I noticed several in need of pruning. After retrieving some small shears from her workbench and donning a pair of work gloves, I removed dead or dying leaves as I worked through the aisle. About halfway down the second row, I came across a pot containing tall, thin stems topped with white flowers. I picked a leaf and crushed it between my gloved fingers, expecting the pleasant scent of mint from a pennyroyal plant.
Only a sharp odor similar to urine filled my nostrils instead. I studied the plant more closely, and my mouth dropped open.
Hemlock.
With a rush of urgency, I pulled off the gloves to confirm the sap had not penetrated the heavy fabric and then ran to the water barrel by the back door to scrub my fingers. The juice I’d extracted by crushing the leaves could be absorbed directly through the skin. Thank goodness I’d put on the gloves as Mother had always insisted when working in the greenhouse. I knew from helping my mother that hemlock and pennyroyal were very similar, but the subtle differences, such as the scent given off, could mean the difference between life and death.
Once I felt I had removed any traces of the plant, I pulled on another pair of gloves, placing the contaminated ones in a special basket Mother kept for such accidents. Poisonous plants were kept on a separate table to prevent the type of error I’d almost committed. This plant had obviously been misplaced. I returned it to its proper table where a space marked its absence. As I positioned it on the table, I also noticed a smudge of dirt just below the rim and turned the pot so it wouldn’t show.
Who could have been in here and moved the plant?
Just as no one disturbed my father’s insect collection, the whole household knew not to enter the greenhouse or move any of the plants. After checking about the area, I found no indication of any other plants having been moved and returned to my former duties of watering and pruning. In the back of my mind, however, I hoped my actions for
keeping things up for her return weren’t in vain.
The day of the inquest into Mrs. Brown’s death dawned appropriately dreary. A fine rain pelted my bedroom window, and judging by the clouds, wouldn’t be ending any time soon. I’d spent a restless night. Of greatest concern was my uncle’s demonstration. Only knowing how much my mother trusted him kept me from despairing completely.
As a result of my inability to go or remain asleep, I was already washed and dressed in my best black suit when Mrs. Simpson knocked on my door to call me to breakfast.
Judging from the lined faces and dark circles under the eyes of both my brother and father, I wasn’t the only one who had passed an uneasy night. Everyone’s brooding silenced our morning meal even more than usual. Unlike most mornings, neither of the older men hid behind their newspapers. Instead, they stared down at their plates, keeping any thoughts to themselves.
Mrs. Simpson passed through with a pot of hot tea and offered to freshen our cups. I took the opportunity to enquire about my uncle.
She shook her head and clucked her tongue. “The poor man came home after midnight. I know because he woke me to ask about his suit for today. I told him it was already laid out on his bed in his workshop. He thanked me and said he’d be leaving for town early to make arrangements for the pigs—whatever that means.”
“He plans a demonstration with them,” I said. The other two at the table turned to me, and I shifted in my seat. If my uncle’s appearance and performance the other night in the workshop were any indication of what he planned for the courtroom, I decided it would be best for Mycroft and my father to see it firsthand and at the proper time. “But I’m not sure exactly what.”
My father’s eyebrows drew together. “I do hope Ernest won’t make a scene. I have my reputation as a magistrate to uphold.”
I poked at my eggs, unable to think of actually chewing and swallowing. I did, however, manage a bit of toast and the tea. The day promised to be a long one, and I knew I needed enough sustenance to endure the hours. A glance at the others’ plates suggested their appetites were similar to mine. Even Mycroft finished only about half of what was on his plate.
My father wiped his mouth with his napkin and said, “Let’s get on into town. I can’t abide this waiting.”
Mrs. Simpson followed us out to the carriage and reached in and grabbed my hand when I took my seat. “Give your mother my love. Let her know I’ve been praying for her.”
I nodded, and she shut the door.
Like my uncle during our visit to the gaol, Mycroft immediately rested his head against the seat’s back, shut his eyes, and within a few minutes commenced snoring. My father, on the other hand, kept up a steady rhythm with his foot on the carriage floor. Every few minutes, he would interrupt the tapping to lean forward and glance out the window. At one point, he studied the sky before settling back into his seat.
“The weather’s just bad enough to perhaps deter some of the crowds.” He scrubbed his face with his hand and said, “She’s such a private person. All this attention. She’ll…she’ll just have to soldier on.”
Following that remark, silence pressed down upon us again.
After what appeared just short of an eternity, the carriage pulled to a stop in front of the tavern where the inquest would occur. A huge crowd—those unlucky enough not to catch a space inside—had already gathered around the steps leading up to it. So much for the weather deterring attendance. The constable’s men kept an eye on the assembled, ensuring none blocked the street. The spectators parted when we stepped forward. As we pushed through, the stares from those assembled created a physical sensation against my skin. I could feel their scrutiny—a heaviness on my arms, back, and shoulders. I dropped my gaze to avoid meeting their gawking ones.
As part of my duties as a squire’s son I’d also attended the preliminaries for the assizes when a circulating judge arrived with great ceremony to oversee hearings in the shire hall. And given my father’s position as justice of the peace, I knew about court hearings, quarterly assizes, and coroner’s inquests from my father’s discussions of various cases. But never had I actually attended one. I still found it odd these were held in the village’s largest public house, but knew it was the traditional venue.
I paused after stepping inside to take in the transformation of the large, open room. A sort of courtroom had been created, complete with twelve chairs for the jury lined in two rows on the right side of the room. A platform bearing a tall desk and chair was situated against the back wall, and a witness box stood just to the judge’s left. Chairs and tables for spectators had been placed in rows to form an L to the left and in front of the court-like area. These were already occupied, and all heads turned in our direction at our entrance. Along the left wall stood the bar, already conducting a brisk business for those waiting for the spectacle to begin.
Had my mother’s freedom—and possibly her life—not been in jeopardy, I might have been caught up in the crowd’s festive mood, some of which resulted from heavy imbibing of the tavern’s wares. Among those at the bar, I recognized the recently widowed Mr. Straton supporting himself by his forearms at the end farthest from me. An empty glass stood nearby. A young girl approached him and pulled on his arm. He jerked from her grasp and raised a hand as if to hit her. She ducked her head into her shawl and stepped away from him, moving to the edge of the throng. Now facing me, I recognized her as Constance, the bread-thief from the gaol and, given her coloring, one of Straton’s offspring.
Having moved away from her father, she now paused next to an older gentleman and let those gathered about push her against him. At this distance and through the assembled, I wasn’t able to observe her as I wished, but I was certain she was helping herself to something in his pockets as she’d done to me. Between two breaths, she retreated back into the crowd and toward her father where she slipped something to him.
I knew I’d witnessed a crime and had a duty to call her out for it. At the same time, however, I found myself admiring her stealth and audacity.
Mycroft resolved my dilemma when he glanced in the direction of the bar and snorted. “Vultures.”
My back straightened as I agreed with his assessment of the others in attendance. They were vultures, here to gawk at my mother and her predicament. I owed them no sympathy or assistance should some misfortune befall them in the process.
Father glanced over his shoulder at us. The slight gathering of his eyebrows warned us of the need to maintain the Holmes dignity and position. Mycroft transformed his sneer into an impassive expression similar to Father’s, and I followed suit, but with the satisfaction of knowing at least one had received some retribution.
Unlike outside, we had to push our way through the throng to the first row of seats in front of the witness box. Uncle Ernest guarded three empty seats. He rose when we stepped to him. “Glad you got here. I’ve had to fight off quite a number to keep them for you.”
“Thank you,” Father said. “Have you seen Mrs. Holmes today? How—” He coughed. “How is she doing?”
“A trooper. Stiff back, upper lip. All that.” He glanced about. “I’ve got a bit to confirm before the inquest begins. I’ll be back.”
He gave me a quick wink and pushed himself through the crowd toward the tavern’s entrance.
Not long after we’d taken our seats, a murmur passed through the crowd, followed by cheers from those at the bar. Twelve men moved to the jury box and jostled about a bit until they all had found a seat. They remained standing, and a tall man in a wig and black robe stepped into the cleared area in front of the jury. I recognized Mr. Thompson, the village coroner from his visits to our home. Until that moment, I’d never questioned his position or ability. The man was a solicitor and had no medical background that I knew of. What made him capable of determining my mother’s—or for that matter any other person’s—fate with respect to a charge of murder?
The others in the room rose to their feet, mimicking the jury. I wasn’t sure
if they stood out of respect for the coroner or if they wanted to get a good view of him. Either way, no one sat until he instructed them to do so.
“We are here today to consider the circumstance surrounding the death of one Emma Brown…” Mr. Thompson said.
The next part of what he said I couldn’t make out despite our proximity to the platform because of the two women sitting behind us.
“I still can’t believe dear Emma is gone. She brought both my babies into this world,” one said.
“She was the only one I trusted. How can you expect a man to know what a woman goes through?” the other said.
The two continued, commenting on the reputations of Dr. Farnsworth, Mr. Harvingsham, and the late midwife. Both agreed Mrs. Brown was, by far, the one most knowledgeable of women and their needs. And that her husband, God bless him, was putting up a good front and continued to deliver the honey he harvested from his bees despite his deep mourning. They also discussed the coroner’s appearance and current marital status (still single, but a good catch), the rowdiness of those by the bar, the presence of acquaintances also in the tavern and those who failed to make it in.
Both my father and brother, regardless of social conventions requiring decorum at all times, shifted in their seats. Father leaned forward in an apparent attempt to catch more of the coroner’s opening remarks. Mycroft’s foot tapped a tattoo that failed to drown out the ladies but did a rather exceptional job at making Mr. Thompson’s opening remarks unintelligible. He stopped only when Father’s glare froze him in mid-tap.
The next words I caught from the coroner were, “You may begin, Mr. Brown.”
The command elicited a series of tsk, tsk from the commentators behind us, and I was grateful when one of the women reprimanded the other when she remarked on the widower’s appearance. “Quiet now, I want to hear.”
The assembled turned their heads in the direction of movement near the jury area, and Mr. Brown stepped forward. While the whole town knew he was in mourning, it would’ve been difficult to tell simply from his dress. The man made a habit of wearing black throughout the year. His ensemble resembled a vicar’s—with a high, white collar and black coat and trousers.
The Adventure of the Murdered Midwife Page 6
