As he stepped toward the platform, several low murmurs and additional tsk, tsk’s indicated he had the sympathy of all present. Except for the three of us. Mycroft stiffened in his chair, and Father straightened his spine. We all knew our mother’s current situation came from this man’s efforts, and he found no quarter among us.
The man glanced about him, shuffled his feet, and coughed. “My lord—” A slight squeak in his voice forced him to cough again. “I will prove that Violette Holmes of this parish did willfully end the life of my wife, Emma Brown. The circumstances being that Mrs. Holmes stabbed her to death on her property following an argument in the village square where, in a voice loud enough for others to hear, said that she would ensure Emma stopped her practice.”
“Do you have any witnesses?”
“Yes, I would like to have Constable Gibbons answer questions first.”
Heat rushed from my chest throughout my body. I’d had little contact with the man other than when he visited my father as part of each other’s duties. From the moment he appeared in my line of sight, only the public setting and my father’s presence kept me in my seat and not with my hands about his neck. My father and brother must have had similar thoughts because I could feel them stiffen as well.
Gibbons moved into the witness box and took an oath to tell the truth. Mr. Brown asked him to tell about being called to our house. The constable described Mr. Simpson delivering the message, going to the garden, finding Mrs. Brown, and examining the pitchfork.
“Thank you, Constable Gibbons,” he said at the conclusion.
A man called out from behind us. “My lord, may I ask a few questions?”
I pressed my lips tight to bottle the laugh that bubbled up my throat when Uncle Ernest spoke up. Was this the big display he’d planned?
I dared a glance at my father and brother. While the older man’s face remained impassive, Mycroft worked his jaw as if he were fighting to keep some exclamation from leaping out of his mouth. I followed their examples and composed myself, but within, my stomach and heart raced each other toward my throat.
In contrast to our silence, the rest of the spectators voiced shock and surprise. The ones at the bar were especially vocal with shouts such as “Where does this toff get off?” “Sit down, you old fool.” “He’s a few tiles short of a roof, that one.”
Uncle Ernest ignored their derisions and strode to the platform for affirmation of Mr. Thompson’s consent.
The man pounded on his desk and spoke to the crowd. “Silence. Interested parties have the right to question the witnesses. And he does have an interest, having been part of the original group finding the…er…Mrs. Brown.”
“But he’s a Holmes,” Mr. Brown said. “He’s a witness himself.”
“I am not a Holmes. The name’s Parker. And I’m quite proud of it,” Ernest said. He turned to Father. “Sorry, Siger.”
Father raised his hand to show he took no insult from my uncle’s correction.
Mr. Brown’s face turned a deep vermillion, and the room echoed his sentiments with angry mutterings and shouts.
Mr. Thompson rose to his feet, two patches resembling Mr. Brown’s color forming on his cheeks. “I run this inquest, and as coroner, I will allow Mr. Parker to interrogate the witness. Any man who has questions should see me after these proceedings.”
The widower studied Thompson, now standing and pulled to his full height, rightful indignation in his stare. Anger drained from Mr. Brown’s face, and he stared down at the floor.
“You may proceed, Mr. Parker,” the coroner said.
“Thank you, sir,” he said and stepped to the witness box.
“Constable Gibbons, when you arrived at the home, where was the pitchfork?”
“Mrs. Holmes handed it to me.”
“It wasn’t in the body?”
“If it had been, Mrs. Holmes would have had to be a lot stronger to lift both.”
The courtroom chuckled along with the witness. My disgust for the man grew. Not only had he arrested my mother, now he made light of the fact he was trying to have her condemned to death.
After the other’s mirth subsided, my uncle continued. “How much had the body bled?”
“Excuse me?”
“How much blood was on the body?”
Crimson crept up the man’s neck and colored his face. “There were spots. Where the pitchfork had been.”
“What about the ground beneath her? Any blood there?”
“Again, some spots.”
“And just to be clear, you believe that Mrs. Brown died after being stabbed by a pitchfork?”
“She was skewered through and through. There were holes in front—by her bosom too.”
“And it is your contention that Mrs. Holmes killed her with the pitchfork?”
“Exactly.”
“Which is why you arrested the woman?”
The man sat up straight and met my uncle’s gaze, stare for stare. “Yes. I determined her to be the murderess of Emma Brown.”
My uncle turned to Mr. Thompson. “My lord, I ask that you find Mrs. Holmes not involved in the death of Emma Brown, charge the jury to find the cause of death unknown pending further investigation, and order the constable to release Mrs. Violette Holmes forthwith.”
That statement caused the whole room to gasp and then buzz to the point that any remarks from the platform were impossible to comprehend. The chatterboxes behind us reminded me of two squawking magpies as they expressed their shock.
Constable Gibbons pulled himself taller and pointed at my uncle. “Now wait just a God-damn minute—”
Another pounding by the coroner cut off the man’s curse and the droning in the courtroom. “Why should I do what you suggest?”
“Because, my lord, she could not have possibly done what the constable accuses her of. It’s a fact of science. Mrs. Brown was not killed by a pitchfork.”
“Are you disputing the fact that she was stabbed by a pitchfork?”
“No, your lordship, only that Mrs. Brown was already dead when she was gored by it.”
I wiggled in my seat, barely able to contain myself, knowing I had initiated this conclusion.
“Well played,” Mycroft whispered, more to himself than to those about him. And a smile crept over his face.
At that point, I allowed myself to also let a small, satisfied smile emerge.
“Constable Gibbons contends that Mrs. Holmes stabbed Emma Brown with a pitchfork, killing her,” my uncle continued. “I can prove the evidence does not support this assertion—if this inquest will indulge us.”
Mr. Thompson’s mouth turned down and studied Uncle Ernest for a moment. He then considered the constable whose face still flamed scarlet, and Mr. Brown, who stood stiff, fists at his side. The crowd stilled, waiting for the man’s decision. After another brief interval while he contemplated the scene, he leaned back in his chair and said, “Very well. Provide your evidence.”
“Thank you, my lord,” my uncle said, and gestured to the tavern door. “If you will follow me outside.”
The rush to the street proved to be a chaotic jostling as those at the back of the room tried to make it through the doors first. I held my father and brother back, letting the others push around us.
“I want to see—” Mycroft’s cheeks puffed out with the words.
“You don’t want to be in front,” I said, cutting him off. “We’ll be able to see everything from the steps. And we should be safe from the blood.”
Both turned to me, but after a glance at the quickly emptying courtroom, they followed me as the last of the crowd exited the building.
Outside, I stepped to one side of the small porch at the tavern’s front. Over the heads of those around and beyond us, I could see a small pen set up in the street directly in front of the tavern. The crowd had gathered on all four sides, blocking the few carriages and carts passing each way. Those in the vehicles, however, appeared more curious than annoyed, with some standing up to get a
better view of the event.
Inside the pen, a mature hog squealed and grunted at all the attention focused on him. The constable’s men fought a losing battle to keep everyone back but were able to make room for the coroner and the jury near the enclosure.
When my uncle raised his arms, the assembled quieted, with only the hog’s continued grunts punctuating my uncle’s speech.
“My lord, as I noted inside, the evidence indicates Emma Brown did not die from stab wounds despite Constable Gibbons’ assertions. I will now conclusively demonstrate this fact.”
Mr. Simpson stepped to the pen and handed Ernest an oilcloth coat, which he donned over his suit. He then accepted a pitchfork from our steward, and before the coroner could open his mouth to question this preparation, my uncle gave the same terrifying yell I’d heard in the workshop and reached over the barricade to jam the instrument into the animal just below its shoulders. Simultaneous with the pig’s loudest scream yet, blood spewed from the wounds covering the front of my uncle’s overcoat and several of the bystanders who’d decided to get the best view they could. The animal’s wails weakened along with the liquid spurting about the fork still in its back.
It also evacuated its intestines, releasing a stench that caused many of the onlookers to cover their noses and mouths.
“That’s why he asked about…” my father muttered under his breath.
I pressed my lips together to hold back the laughter desiring to manifest itself. Ernest’s demonstration had gone off without a hitch, and I had been the impetus for the proof that my mother hadn’t stabbed the midwife.
Ernest turned to the coroner and the jury, his features grim. Even from my distance, however, I could catch the gleam in his eyes revealing his satisfaction with the display.
“As you can see, stabbing a living animal—be it pig or human—would result in a large quantity of blood. It would cover the aggressor as well as the surrounding area. None of which Constable Gibbons reported observing on Mrs. Holmes or the garden.”
Mr. Thompson turned to Gibbons, and his question traveled over the heads of those between them. “Did you find any evidence of such blood about the place where Mrs. Brown was found?”
The constable’s color had paled some, but his nostrils flared wide—despite the reeking brew of pig waste and blood. “No, sir.”
“Did Mrs. Holmes have any blood on her?”
“No, my lord, but she could have—”
“What about the pitchfork? Was its handle covered in blood?”
“No, my lord.”
The coroner turned to the jury men and said, “Given this demonstration, I now charge you to meet in private to deliberate the cause of the death of one Emma Brown.”
“No. Wait.” The honey man shouted at the coroner and held up his hand to stop the jury. “My wife was murdered. I know she was. How can you say—?”
“She may have been murdered,” the coroner said, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder, “but not by a pitchfork wielded by Mrs. Holmes or anyone else. Her death needs additional investigation.”
At that moment, my attitude toward the widower shifted. While I had considered him vindictive, holding some sort of grudge against my mother, watching the man’s back round into a slump, I realized he’d endured a great loss. The cause of his suffering still remained unsolved, and his pain all the greater for it.
Mr. Brown dropped his hand and let the jury push past him. My uncle, who now had passed the overcoat to Mr. Simpson, followed them to the front of the tavern and joined us there.
Before any of us could congratulate Ernest or even share our relief, the coroner spoke to the constable again. “I would suggest you release Mrs. Holmes immediately before you’re made an even bigger fool with the jury’s decision.” He then waved his hand at the scene on the street. “And clean up this mess.”
I turned to my father, elated at this announcement, but his grim features squelched the rush of joy that a moment ago had surged through me. Mycroft had a similar stony posture.
A smile, however, creased my uncle’s face. “A bloody good show, what?”
“Yes. Although it might have been done with a little less spectacle.” My uncle’s smile wavered, then disappeared. Father took a step toward the street and spoke over his shoulder. “Come along. We’d best go and collect your mother.”
“I’ll stay here,” Ernest said. “I want to observe the final decision.”
My feet fairly floated me to our carriage, and even the glare the constable gave us as we passed didn’t diminish my giddy mood.
My mother was in my father’s arms the moment she stepped through the door. She fell into his embrace in the same antechamber I had entered when I accompanied my uncle to visit her. Such different circumstances. Such different emotions. Trepidation and anxiety had been replaced with a renewed sense of order and peace. As much as I wanted to place my arms about her as well, Mycroft’s hand on my shoulder reminded me this moment was for them.
After the first public display of affection I’d ever seen between my parents, my father went further by taking a step back and holding her face in his hands. I thought he would kiss her, but instead he only studied her countenance. She responded with an examination of her own. Her eyes glistened above a wide smile that parted her lips.
“I take it Ernest’s demonstration was successful,” she said.
“Violette, my dear, don’t tease at a time like this,” he said, his usually steady voice shaking. “I was so afraid I was going to lose you.”
“Never, Mr. Holmes. Never.”
He pulled her to him again. Over his shoulder, her gaze fell first to Mycroft and then to me. She pushed back against my father and said, “Come, boys, give us a hug as well.”
I was in both my parents’ arms in the next moment and enveloped in the familiar scent of my father’s cigars and the heavy gaol odors.
Behind my back, I heard the door to the street open and close, and my mother stiffened at my side. When I turned to see what had caused the change, I found the constable, still fuming, standing, a step behind my father. A hot flame coursed through me. I checked the others in my family, and they all had the same hard squint as I.
“What a touching scene,” he said. “Your whole blasted family has made a fool of me.”
“It wouldn’t have happened, if you had listened to me,” Mother said, raising her chin.
The constable took a step forward. “Now see here, no woman—”
My father blocked the man’s way.
“How dare you speak to my wife in such a manner,” he said.
His voice held an almost animal-like growl. Never had I seen him in such a state. His eyes had cleared and were as hard as his tone. Crimson colored his cheeks, and I actually feared for the constable’s safety.
Gibbons must have had similar concerns because he took two steps back.
“You leave my family alone,” Father continued. “I stayed out of your investigation and the coroner’s because I didn’t want to be accused of favoritism or meddling with justice. As a result, I still hold a respected place in this community. You, however, are simply a town servant. I can arrange your replacement, should I have a mind to do so.”
The constable’s glare darted from my father to Mycroft and me (still in our mother’s arms), and finally rested on her.
“This isn’t over. You may not have stabbed Emma Brown, but you’re mixed up in this in some way. I’ll not rest until I find out how and bring you to justice.”
My father took a step forward, but Mother placed a hand on his arm. “Let’s not make a scene, my dear. The man is beneath you. I want to go home. I have need of a bath.”
After a moment, he turned his back to the constable and spoke to us in a clipped voice.
“Simpson is waiting.”
He turned, took a step toward Constable Gibbons and met the man eye-to-eye. After a moment where I feared one might actually take a swing at the other, Gibbons stepped to the side and let us pass
to the street.
Perhaps we shouldn’t have left our carriage in front of the gaol, because outside we discovered our presence had been noticed by many in the village. The crowd, while not anywhere near the size of that at the inquest only an hour ago, surged forward as we exited the gaol. Father and Mycroft quickly flanked my mother, and I was left to take up the rear.
Given the constable’s response to the inquest’s findings and the threat he’d just delivered, I had assumed a similar reception by those outside. To my surprise, the assembled, mostly women, cheered at the sight of my mother, and many reached out to her as we passed to the carriage.
“I prayed for you, my dear.”
“I knew you couldn’t do what they said.”
“So glad to see you free.”
“I’ll be by later. For…you know.”
My brother and father pushed at those bearing down on us, but their numbers were too great. My mother must have sensed their frustration because she raised her hand and the throng stilled.
“I appreciate your good wishes.” She sought out the village women as she spoke. “I am a simple woman who desires nothing more than to return to her home and family. I feel deeply for Mrs. Brown’s family and hope the true murderer will be apprehended. Now please let us pass so that we can return to our lives.”
The group responded to her request and opened a path for us. Mr. Simpson jumped down from the driver’s seat to open the carriage door.
At that point, I noticed several men with paper and pencils scribbling furiously, some shouting questions over the heads of others.
“Were you aware of the stunt with the pigs?”
“Why do you suppose the body was left on your property?”
One particularly aggressive reporter stepped in front of the carriage, blocking our progress.
“Can you tell us what you fought about with Mrs. Brown?”
My mother paused, but before she could respond, Mycroft bolted forward, pushed the man to the ground, and grabbed the paper and writing instrument from his hands.
The Adventure of the Murdered Midwife Page 7
