Planning and executing one of my mother’s luncheons took as much coordination as the campaigns in Afghanistan my uncle had described to me. First were the preparations of the dining room and parlor, for not only did the invited village women eat, mother also provided them with entertainment and a lecture. The women assembled in the parlor for the entertainment (such as the duet my mother and I had practiced), moved to the dining room where they were treated to tea, finger sandwiches, cold meats, and an assortment of desserts, and then returned to the parlor for a health-related lecture.
This required the servants to arrange the parlor furniture into rows and the dining room for twenty-five or so guests. All the servants were enlisted in one way or another to clean, move furniture, or assist Cook in food preparation. Given my mother’s absence and the uncertainty of her fate until the day before, some of the anticipated work had not occurred and now arrangements were being hurried along. My father and brother had disappeared shortly after breakfast, and had I not been slated for the duet, I would have followed their example.
When the hour for the guests’ arrivals chimed, I descended the stairs, dressed in the same suit I had worn the day before to the inquest. Mother had donned one of the ensembles she usually reserved for church services, and her activity during the preparations had brought a flush to her cheeks, enhancing her appearance.
With none of the guests yet received, Mother suggested we practice our piece until they came. The pianoforte had been pulled out of the corner to a more central spot in front of the audience. We went through the duet twice before the first carriage wheels crunched up the drive to the front of our home.
Mother fairly jumped from her seat at the sound, a hand to her chest. A nervous gesture I had never seen her express previously.
“I was so afraid the women might stay away,” she said more to herself than to me and pulled the red ledger I had found in the greenhouse from her pocket and placed it on the far corner of the pianoforte.
I heard Mrs. Simpson greet the guest, and their footsteps clicked on the floor as they entered the parlor. A woman I didn’t recognize extended her hand and smiled. “Mrs. Holmes, I hope you will excuse me for not accepting your previous invitations to your luncheons. Unfortunately, other duties had always called me away.” Her expression faltered a bit when my mother released her hand, but she continued. “All the same, I’m here now.”
“I’m so glad you could join us today, Mrs. Gibbons. I’m sure you’ll find the afternoon a most pleasant diversion.”
Gibbons?
The name fairly pierced my brain. The constable’s wife had chosen to visit our home only one day after my mother was released from gaol—where her husband had put her?
“Would you care for a cup of tea while we wait for the others to arrive?” Mother asked with a smile. And not an I-plan-to-gossip-and-insult-you-behind-your-back smirk, but a genuine beam as if they were long-time friends.
After our first guest had been served, the ensuing silence allowed us to hear clearly the grandfather clock ticking in the hallway and the faint clink of Mrs. Gibbons’ cup on her saucer as she sipped her tea. Sighs escaped both Mother and Mrs. Gibbons when another set of carriage wheels rolled up the drive.
Several carriages arrived in quick succession after that, and although their number reached the usual proportion, the group seemed much more subdued. Father always referred to them as “clucking hens,” but today they chirped more than clucked. In addition to most of Mother’s usual guests, Mrs. Adams, the vicar’s wife, also made her first appearance. She and Mrs. Gibbons drifted to the edge of the crowd as the others served themselves tea or lemonade. Once the assembled settled into seats, Mother and I presented the day’s entertainment.
The duet went off flawlessly, if I do say so myself, and after the appropriate applause, Mother invited all to the dining room for the light meal. Because I’d been part of the group, she suggested I also stay in case some wished to comment on my performance. I took a chair at the far end of the table near Mmes. Gibbons and Adams. Neither seemed completely at ease among the spouses of the community’s prominent landowners. They kept glancing about and only nibbled at the food on their plates.
As I had previously observed, the adults talked over my head as if I were invisible. This attitude suited me fine. I found the effort to maintain the sort of social chitchat required for such functions both tedious and unproductive. Until they touched on the subject of the Straton family. Having recently made the acquaintance of the oldest daughter, I listened more intently to this topic.
I pretended to concentrate on the tomato aspic on my plate while I listened to their discussion.
“Yes, I agree, the situation with the children must be addressed,” Mrs. Adams was saying to the constable’s wife. “We should take up a collection.”
Mrs. Gibbons pulled back her chin. “The only collection they need is one where they are all gathered up and sent off to a workhouse. My poor husband just despairs about the havoc they having been causing the whole village. Not to mention the fights he’s had to break up with the father at the center. While their mother was alive, she kept them in check, but with their father now turned to drink, they’ve gone completely wild.”
“Caught the oldest, that redheaded devil, with two tins of milk in her pocket,” said Mrs. Gillis, the wife of the village’s general shop, joining in on the conversation. “How she got behind the counter, I have no idea. I should’ve called your husband, but when she began to cry and promised not to do it again, I let her go.”
“You’re too soft-hearted, my dear. Mr. Gibbons always says the best way to avoid additional criminal behavior is to put them in a place where they have time to contemplate their transgressions.”
“But don’t you see?” Mrs. Adams said. “That’s exactly why we must take up a collection. Think about it. She didn’t steal candy or a toy. She tried to get milk. Probably for the new baby. My husband and I have discussed this at great length, given we plan to start our family now. Children are a blessing and must be cared for by all of us. He’s to make an announcement from the pulpit on Sunday. He’s also planned a series of homilies related to the love and care of our neighbors.”
Before either woman could respond, my mother rose and announced dessert and additional tea would be served in the parlor during her lecture. The women all returned to the other room, and I joined them long enough to snatch one of the desserts (a compote of some of our own preserved fruits in a tall glass) and accept a few more compliments on my musical skills before taking my leave.
As the parlor door closed, I heard my mother raise her voice from her position in front of the pianoforte. “My dear ladies, as you know, I have focused my talks of late on hygiene and its importance to overall prevention of disease. Today, however, I would like to deviate slightly and to share my opinion on the corset and its effects on women’s bodies…”
A murmur passed through the audience, and I shut the door with a firm hand. I knew one did not discuss undergarments—whether for men or women—in mixed company, and my presence would certainly be considered an intrusion. The topic, however, did give me pause as I considered what exactly these items looked like and their purpose. These thoughts then gave rise to what lay below all the clothing and to the images I’d seen in the medical text. A slow heat crawled up my neck and into my face.
A sound at the end of the hallway—probably one of the servants clearing away the luncheon items—brought me out of my reverie. Fearing I might be caught red-faced outside of the parlor, I strode toward the back of the house. With no determined aim in mind other than getting away from the parlor, I found myself headed outside and in the direction of my uncle’s workshop.
I could hear the banging from halfway across the yard and waited until it stopped to knock on the door. After he opened the door, he turned and rushed back to his workbench, throwing a “hello” over his shoulder. Only when I reached the other side of the table, did I see the high crimson color in his f
ace and the beads of sweat trickling down each cheek. He had certainly worked himself into a lather working on….
I checked out the item before him. A misshapen hira shuriken lay on the table. He raised a mallet and smacked the star-shaped metal with it. Between each strike, he explained what he was doing. “I determined…” Smack! “That the pieces...” Whack! “Were too heavy…” Thump. “Which is why…” Clang! “The trigger became …” Clunk. “So sensitive.”
He paused to peer at the piece before him. While definitely flatter, all the blades were squashed into odd shapes, their points now rounded. He lifted it by one blade, raising it to his eye-level.
“I guess I have some filing to do.” As if he had only just seen me, he pulled his chin back. “Sherlock, my boy, I’m very busy today. Do you need me for something?”
“Not really,” I said and sighed. “I just wanted to get out of the house. Mother’s luncheon, you know. I was hoping you wanted to go hiking.”
“Can’t today, boy. I want to see if I can solve the trigger problem. Violette said she wanted to speak with me later. Something about the Brown issue. I want to get this done before she’s free.”
I considered asking if he needed help, but he was already pulling out a foot-operated grindstone—truly a one-man activity. I excused myself and left him to his business.
I knew my father and brother were probably both in the library and contemplated joining them—even possibly suggesting a game of chess with Father. Mycroft deemed only Mother a worthy opponent for him in chess, explaining she was unpredictable.
If Father had already found another pursuit, however, I would still have to seek out some other diversion. My gaze landed on the door to the greenhouse, and I chose to devote some attention to Mother’s plants.
I’d made it about halfway down the second aisle of plants when I heard the sounds of horses and carriages. The chiming of the clock in the hallway followed. Were the ladies already leaving? With a shrug, I returned to my efforts and snipped off a dried leaf from a basil plant. The item fell from my grasp, and I bent down to pick it up.
That was when I heard two voices approaching. I recognized my mother’s and, then, that of Mrs. Gibbons coming toward the greenhouse. When they entered, I was still on my hands and knees, hidden from view. At first, I’d planned to stand and greet them, but when I realized their conversation was rather heated, I hesitated. Would they consider my behavior as eavesdropping—even though it had been unintentional? In the end, I decided to remain concealed, and I hoped, undetected.
“Won’t you change your mind, Violette?” the other woman asked as they traversed the next aisle.
I held my breath but was certain they could hear my heart drumming in my chest. They passed me without even pausing.
“I’m sorry, but this really is a matter for Mr. Harvingsham.”
“But I’ve heard from a very reliable source that you do supply some with pennyroyal. And with Mrs. Brown—”
I could almost hear my mother straighten her spine. “Mrs. Brown was a quite capable midwife, but she had a limited knowledge of botanicals. And you are mistaken. While I have the plant in my collection, I do not dispense it because of its toxicity. Even a non-fatal dose can seriously damage the liver.”
“So what is it that you do dispense?”
“The usual. Rosemary. Eucalyptus. Mint.”
“But you said you do have pennyroyal. Can’t you give me just a small bit? That’s all I ask. You know…” Mrs. Gibbons dropped her voice almost to a whisper. “For ladies’ problems.”
A pause followed. Finally, my mother said, “I think it best for you to see Mr. Harvingsham about the subject. I’m sure he will be able to advise you better than I.”
“Then you won’t—”
“No. I’m sorry. It’s too risky.”
“Then what about—”
“Again, I suggest you consult Mr. Harvingsham.”
“Yes. Well. Thank you. I can see myself out.”
“I believe you’ll find Mrs. Simpson farther down the hallway to lead you out.”
A swish of skirts signaled Mrs. Gibbons’ departure. After the door closed, Mother said, “You can come out now, Sherry.”
I swallowed hard, hesitating for a moment before rising and asking, “How did you know I was here?”
“Your footprints on the floor. How many times have I asked you to clean your boots before entering the house?”
She headed down a row, the ledger in her hand, toward her work desk. Her mouth turned down, and I feared she was angry with me.
With some trepidation, I followed and asked, “Is everything all right?”
“We had a spy in our midst today.”
“I’m sorry. I should have said something when you came in.”
“Not you, my dear. Although it wasn’t proper etiquette to listen in to someone else’s conversation. I was referring to Mrs. Gibbons. She came here to spy for her husband.” The creases in her forehead deepened. “I believe you’re aware of what I do for the women of our village. Mrs. Winston came early this morning to see me to let me know how glad she was I was let out of gaol. She mentioned how she asked about the Queen Anne’s Lace seeds the other day.”
“I meant to ask you about it when I visited you in gaol. I just…forgot, and she never returned.”
“Don’t worry. She told me she’d taken care of it another way and didn’t need any more seeds at the moment.” She placed a hand on my head. “You have to understand, son, I do what I do for the health of the women. Having so many children—”
“Makes them die young. Like Mrs. Straton. Mycroft told me.”
“Exactly. Unfortunately, not everyone believes in preventing so many births. Queen Anne’s Lace seeds do exactly that. When crushed and taken properly, women will avoid pregnancy.”
“Then why did Mrs. Gibbons ask about pennyroyal?”
“Because it causes a woman’s monthly bleeding to occur. I believe Constable Gibbons sent his wife here for precisely that reason. To determine if I share such plants with women.”
She studied me for a moment and must have seen something in my face because she noted, “I think we should discuss the topic of what occurs between men and women more, but at a later moment.”
The images from the medical text flashed across my consciousness, and my face warmed as I remembered the reaction they sparked. More scrutiny from my mother. I dropped my gaze and mumbled to my shoes. “Mycroft shared something with me…a book.”
“I think I know which one. Mycroft found it quite…educational when he was about your age.” A cool hand on my cheek turned my face upward. A small smile flitted across her mouth, but her tone was serious. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a natural part of being human.”
While I appreciated Mother’s forthrightness on the subject, I found such a discussion with her quite uncomfortable and made a concerted effort to change the subject. “Does Mr. Harvingsham provide women with pennyroyal like Mrs. Brown did?”
“Not that I know of. I only want Mrs. Gibbons to report back to her husband that I wouldn’t give her anything and sent her to consult with the surgeon and perhaps divert his attention away from me.”
“Do you think you succeeded?”
Mother glanced at the door separating the greenhouse to the main house. “I hope so. Only time will tell.” She sighed and said in a lighter tone, “I need to speak to Ernest about Mr. Brown’s request. He’s in his workshop?”
I nodded. “He said he’s waiting for you.”
“I need to prepare him for tomorrow. Mr. Brown is sure to want an answer then.”
Chapter Six
The next day, Sunday, began sunny and breezy. Out the window, the light reflected off the crimson and gold leaves twisting in the wind. I could almost feel the crunch of the freshly fallen ones under my feet, the crisp tang of the autumn air in my lungs, and drew on all my willpower not to pull on my boots and jacket to wander among the woods. For on Sunday, as one of t
he county’s leading families, the Holmeses went to church.
As with the rest of my education, Mother took a special hand in assuring I had proper instruction in the basics of theology. I had several tutors who provided me with an in-depth understanding of world religions, the history of the church (both Catholic and Protestant), and catechism lessons. Not to mention the Latin and Greek a superior education required.
Despite all this preparation, what truly compelled me to attend services—beyond my father’s expectation his family would fulfill their duties to the community—were the rituals and the assurances behind them. The predictability in the prayers and litanies, the following of the same calendar each year, even the benches’ unyielding pressure on my thighs as the vicar drew a deep breath, signaling he was but halfway through his homily produced a sense of order and inner strength that comforted me.
True to his wife’s words, Reverend Adams did include an announcement about the Straton family and the plan to take up a collection. He asked for anyone wishing to contribute to see his wife following the service.
By the time church ended, the sun had risen high in the sky and sweat beaded on my forehead and upper lip almost as soon as we’d stepped outside and headed to the carriage.
About halfway to our carriage, someone called from behind us.
“Mrs. Holmes.” Mr. Brown waved at us from the top step, his black cloak flapping with the movement. He tripped quickly down the stairs and ran to meet with us. “Please excuse the intrusion, but I wanted to ask if you spoke with your brother, as we discussed yesterday?”
“You can ask him yourself. Ernest, I believe you were going to speak to Mr. Brown about accepting his request to investigate his wife’s murder?” she said, turning to my uncle.
The Adventure of the Murdered Midwife Page 9
