I slid from my bed, and as if on cue, my stomach rumbled the moment my feet touched the floor.
“Very good,” she said with a smile. “I heard that one myself.” She placed an arm about my shoulders. “I truly do appreciate your willingness to participate in our little charade.”
“I don’t mind it so much,” I said. “I do want to catch whoever killed poor Mrs. Brown.”
She pulled me closer. “You’re growing up so quickly. I almost have to reach up to touch your shoulder. In a little bit, you’ll be taller than I. You get your height from the Parker side.” Facing me, she studied me more intently and touched my nose. “Also the nose. A fine aristocratic example, if ever there was one.”
Another squeeze on my shoulders, and she left me to dress.
When I met her downstairs in the kitchen for Mr. Simpson to drive us to the Harvingshams’, the scent of baking bread greeted me as well. My stomach gave another protest.
“Excellent. Perhaps we should have a loaf with us? You can sniff it just before the surgeon examines you.”
I opened my mouth to protest then remembered my promise to Constance to bring some and nodded my assent.
“I’ll meet you at the carriage.”
Mr. Harvingsham’s house was on the edge of town. I supposed he chose the spot to be near both those living in the village as well as in the countryside. His surgery had its own entrance as a separate wing on his first floor. I followed my mother into a small waiting room. A man sat in one of the chairs lining the room’s walls, his hand wrapped in what appeared to be a rag. Mother and I took two chairs more or less across from him. Groans emanated from a closed door at the far end of the room.
“That’s my mate in there,” the man said, nodding to the door. “We were shoein’ a horse when the beast bit me, then kicked poor Joshua in the chest. I think he broke all my fingers, but I’m more afeared for Joshua.”
Another groan from the other room made the waiting man wince, and I involuntarily copied him. Mother’s hands gripped her reticule until her knuckles grew white.
“I suppose we could’ve gone to the cottage hospital, but since the surgeon had already visited there for the day, we came here.”
“I’m sorry, Sherry. I hadn’t considered him having patients with such urgent needs. Perhaps—”
Before she could complete the thought—which I hoped involved returning home and dinner—Mrs. Harvingsham stepped into the room through a side door. “Violette,” she said. “I thought I recognized your trap outside. Whatever brings you here?”
“It’s Sherlock, Elizabeth. I’m afraid he’s suffering an extreme bout of dyspepsia.”
I forced an expression between woe and pain. In an effort to emphasize the malady, I imagined some of Mrs. Simpson’s boiled beef, and my stomach accommodated my wishes with a loud rumble.
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Harvingsham said after my sound had dissipated, “I’m afraid you’re right. But why didn’t you have Mr. Harvingsham come to your house?”
“I thought perhaps the fresh air might help him, but I’m afraid the ride didn’t have the effect I’d hoped.”
Mrs. Harvingsham’s gaze shifted from me to the man with the bandaged hand. “Why don’t we wait in the parlor? I’ll let his nurse know he should attend you there.”
The woman stepped to the far door and rapped on it. When the door opened a slit, Mrs. Harvingsham spoke in low tones to whoever answered. As the door closed, another moan escaped—only this time it was weaker and lower than the others.
His shoulders dropping lower, the man with the broken fingers clucked his tongue. I gathered he held little hope for his friend.
Following the surgeon’s wife to the parlor, we maneuvered around a number of small tables displaying various objets d’art to arrive at the sitting area on the far side of the room. I marveled at both women’s ability to avoid knocking any of the tables despite the width of their skirts.
Taking a seat, she said, “I spoke to his nurse. My husband still needs to attend the two men before he can see your son. Would you care for some tea in the meantime?”
“So kind of you,” my mother said. “Of course, I believe it best for Sherlock to abstain until after your husband’s examination.”
She rang a silver bell on the table next to her. “It shouldn’t be much longer. Mr. Harvingsham is quite efficient at setting bones. I’ve seen him do so in less than two minutes, including the binding.”
“But there is the matter of the other patient. I believe he was kicked by a horse.”
The other woman glanced away before responding in a low voice. “I was told there was nothing to be done for him. Internal injuries. He was administering morphine to him when I knocked—for the pain.”
My mother paled, and my stomach gave a bit of a lurch. The woman’s nonchalance at a man’s apparent impending death took me aback. But perhaps being a surgeon’s wife simply hardened her to the thought?
A maid opened the parlor door, and Mrs. Harvingsham’s voice had a lilt I found disconcerting given the slow death occurring in the next room. “Betsy, please bring in some tea. Only two cups.”
The maid curtsied and returned shortly with the requested pot as well as some finger sandwiches and a sliced fruit. My stomach recommenced its concert—a little more fortissimo this time.
“My goodness,” Mrs. Harvingsham said. “Perhaps I should suggest my husband consider prescribing some laudanum for him. You must be in a great deal of pain.”
I placed my arms over my stomach and inclined over them slightly as if in pain. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“But my dear—”
“Why don’t we wait and hear what Mr. Harvingsham suggests?” my mother said.
“I suppose….” the woman said, eyeing me over her teacup.
I forced a wan smile, hoping to appear to be suffering bravely, and gratefully relaxed when Mother called our hostess’s attention toward her.
“I say, Elizabeth. This is most excellent tea. Wherever did you get it?”
“It was a gift. From Lady Devony. Mr. Harvingsham had been treating one of the servants there. A very grave case. I’m afraid she passed despite his efforts to bleed out the illness.”
“Rachel Winston, wasn’t it? One of Cook’s friends mentioned it to her this morning. She didn’t say what happened. Some sort of illness then?”
“A very severe case of—” She glanced in my direction and lowered her voice. I still made out the next word despite her attempts to keep it from me. “Dyspepsia.”
“Truly?” my mother asked and was answered with a nod from our hostess.
“As I said, a very severe case.” She turned to me. “I’m certain you have no reason to worry, dear boy. Hers was accompanied by a great deal of—” She stopped herself again before whispering, “She was quite sick for several days.”
Mother’s eyebrows came together. Perhaps it was the years she’d spent in France, but while Father had impressed upon us the need to refer to certain delicate conditions with less specific terms—such as “sick” for “vomiting”—Mother had always preferred the more precise and medical terms. Out of deference to her husband, however, she often would revert to French in such cases.
“Did he ever determine any cause?”
The woman shook her head. “He determined it was something she must have eaten, given the symptoms and the lack of fever. That’s why the Devonys had called him in. To ensure that she was not contagious. When none of the other servants became…sick, he did what he could to treat her, but as I noted, she succumbed all the same.”
Mother took another sip of tea and glanced at the clock on the wall. Her ability to collect this information on poor Mrs. Winston’s death without the woman even knowing she was sharing information was not lost on me. Such a skill could prove useful in a variety of settings, and I promised myself to consider just how she did it.
Before she could ask for any additional information, a set of rapid footsteps cut off the
conversation.
A woman wearing a nurse’s cap and apron opened the parlor door with such force all the items on display in the room rattled and threatened to topple off their tables.
“Come quick, something’s happened to Mr. Harvingsham,” was all she said before spinning on her heel and rushing away.
Mother and Mrs. Harvingsham glanced at each other for a moment, both with mouths opened as if seeking an explanation from the other. While they froze in this position for a moment, I leapt from my seat and headed out the door. From behind, I could hear the swish of fabric and knew they were now making their way through the maze of tables. With my head start on the women, I reached the surgery first. Finding the waiting room vacant, I rushed through the open door into the examination room beyond.
The man with the broken fingers and the nurse knelt on the floor next to the writhing surgeon. His nurse held down his shoulders, and the man from the waiting room lay across his feet, holding his injured hand aloft as if to keep from re-injuring it as Mr. Harvingsham thrashed about the floor.
Behind them on a table lay a covered figure, which I assumed was the man’s now deceased friend. Two cabinets, one with glass doors and another with small drawers covered the wall at the dead man’s feet, and across the back wall, a tall workbench holding a number of instruments the surgeon used in his practice.
Mrs. Harvingsham reached the examination room door before my mother, and stopped at the threshold, her hand to her mouth. I could hear my mother’s voice from behind the woman blocking the doorway.
“What is it?” she asked. “What’s going on?”
“He’s having a fit,” the man with the broken fingers said over his shoulder. “I heard a crash and come in to find him floppin’ about like a fish out of water.”
“Let me through, Elizabeth,” my mother said. “I need to see what’s going on.”
Mrs. Harvingsham remained where she was.
I stared at the poor surgeon. He continued to convulse. Now, however, a bit of spittle formed at the sides of his mouth.
“Sherry, are you in there?”
“Yes,” I said, unable to take my gaze off the man on the floor.
“I need your help, dear.” Mother’s voice, while low and without emotion still carried a hint of urgency. “I need you to get Mrs. Harvingsham out of the way. I must get into that room.”
With great effort to pull my attention from the scene in front of me, I forced myself to turn my head in the direction of the blocked door and step to Mrs. Harvingsham. Her chest moved rapidly up and down, and the air whistled between the fingers over her mouth. She definitely wasn’t breathing correctly. I pulled her hand from her mouth, and she dropped her gaze to me—although I could tell she didn’t recognize me.
“Mrs. Harvingsham, you’re turning white. Why don’t you sit down in the waiting room? Let me help you to a chair.”
She remained still a moment longer, as if her brain was trying to make sense of what I was saying, but finally she nodded and allowed me to lead her from the room and onto a chair. Once she was seated, I turned back to the examination room.
As soon as the entrance had opened, my mother had dashed through. She now knelt at the man’s side, her fingers on the inside of his wrist. After that, she placed a hand on the man’s forehead.
Without glancing at me, she said, “Sherry, I want you to check the surgeon’s medicines. See if you can find a box of asthma cigarettes and matches.”
Swallowing hard, I pushed myself to rush around the dead man on the table, avoiding a direct study of the form, to search the various boxes and bottles in the cabinet for the cigarettes.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the nurse asked in an octave higher than when she’d come to the parlor. “The man can’t smoke now.”
“I don’t expect him too,” Mother said, her voice strained. “He’s having an allergic reaction. The cigarettes—”
A thump made me check on the scene behind me. The man was arching upward as Mother was untying his tie and opening his collar.
“The cigarettes contain belladonna. Sherry, we’ll need a funnel, too, to send the smoke into his lungs. We need to open his airways or he’ll choke to death.”
A wail came from the adjoining room. “Good lord.”
“Mrs. Harvingsham, are you aware of any allergies for your husband?”
“I-I-I—” His wife’s response ended in a sob.
“Bees,” the nurse said.
“That explains the welts on his hand,” Mother said. “I saw them when I checked his pulse.”
Mother must have pointed out the injury because the nurse now barked at me as she struggled with her employer. “The cigarettes are on the top shelf. The matches…by the lamp. The funnel…in the drawer…on the same table.”
“Found it,” I said, reaching for an orange box, and continued to the table to collect the other items.
As soon as I rounded the table, I knelt down opposite my mother. She reached across the man and grabbed the cigarette box and matches. Before I could say anything, she’d stuck one in her mouth and struck a match to light it.
After she moved the cigarette to the corner of her mouth, she spoke to the nurse. “Put the funnel in his mouth.”
Only then did I notice the surgeon’s face had shifted from a deep vermillion to a blue-tinged white. His body had also stilled, and his breathing was thin and reedy as he tried to suck in air through an obviously closed airway. I watched with rapt attention as my mother blew smoke into the funnel and continued to puff and blow to force the smoke into the man’s lungs. Her ease—not a single cough although she had to ingest some of the fumes—suggested previous experience with tobacco. Where had my mother learned a custom so against social conventions for women?
I had no time to consider this new revelation in depth because as I observed Mr. Harvingsham’s face, it relaxed, his color and breathing returning to normal. A few seconds later, his eyes fluttered open. After he glanced first at my mother and then the nurse, he must have become conscious of what had occurred because his eyebrows lifted, and he tried to sit up. The nurse pulled the funnel from his mouth and helped him raise his shoulders from the floor.
“Mrs. Harvingsham, you can come in now,” Mother called.
The woman rushed in, pushed my mother to one side and knelt next to her husband. “Oh, Richard,” she said and broke into another sob.
The surgeon patted his wife’s head and glanced at the four of us still surrounding him. “Wha—what happened?”
“You had an allergic reaction,” Mother said. “From a bee sting, it appears.”
“You need to thank your lucky stars this woman was here,” the nurse said, jutting her chin at my mother. “She saved your life. I’d never have known about the cigarettes.”
“Asthma cigarettes,” Mother said. “So glad you had them. A bit cruder than my herbs, but they did the job this time.”
The surgeon checked out the hand patting his wife’s head.
“Bees,” he said, more to himself than to us. He glanced over his shoulder at the table where I’d found the matches and funnel and at the open window next to it. He spoke louder when he continued. “They flew in the window. Stung me.”
“I would suggest you spend the rest of the day in bed,” Mother said. She turned to the nurse. “And you should keep a vigil on him. Keep the cigarettes by his bedside.”
The woman nodded, and Mrs. Harvingsham raised her head from her husband’s chest to address my mother. The woman’s eyes were red-rimmed, and her cheeks wet from her tears.
“Thank you, Mrs. Holmes. You saved my husband’s life. I don’t care what anyone says about you. I know you have only the best intentions now.”
Best intentions? What were others saying?
My gaze shot to my mother to determine her reaction. Whether the woman’s remarks affected her in some way, I was unable to discern. A glance from her in response told me I was to imitate her and not disclose either concern for her repu
tation or demand for further information.
Following that brief direction to me, she shifted back on her heels and made ready to rise. “Shall we help you to your bed, Mr. Harvingsham?”
The man glanced about himself again, obviously still slightly confused. “Bed? But…but my patients.”
“I’m certain your nurse can direct them to Dr. Farnsworth or the apothecary for the day.”
Another round of glances to those around him before he nodded and allowed us to help him to his feet. Mrs. Harvingsham called to several of the servants, and they assisted him to navigate the stairs to his room.
When they had gone, the man with the broken hand asked, “What about poor Charlie? Should I take him home in my wagon?”
“I’ll get word to the undertaker. He’ll come for th—him,” the nurse said. “I’ll set your fingers. I’ve helped Mr. Harvingsham enough to do it myself.”
She seemed familiar with the process of death, and I wondered how often they had made just such arrangements. The man studied her for a moment and nodded.
Now alone, the nurse studied both of us for a moment and asked, “Which one of you was here for the surgeon?”
“Sherlock,” Mother said without hesitation. “But I believe the excitement has resolved the issue.”
“Yes,” I said, seeking to sound quite chipper. “I’m feeling ever so much better.”
The woman glanced back at the table. Charlie, the deceased workman, still lay covered on the table. While I had attended funerals and seen corpses in coffin in their final repose, never had I been in the room when someone died or seen one so recently expired. The motionlessness of the man struck me. No movement of the sheet to indicate breathing. As my curiosity gave way to the realization of the finality of this man’s life, my stomach churned enough that I feared it might betray my earlier assertion that I had recovered.
The Adventure of the Murdered Midwife Page 14
