“Constance,” she said, unable to hide her surprise at finding her in my room. She regained her composure in the next instance and said, “How good of you to visit. I’m afraid, however, I need to examine him. Mr. Holmes, if you would be so kind as to open the drapes before escorting Miss Straton downstairs?”
When Father did as instructed, light flooded my room, making us all squint. He then waved an arm toward the door, directing Constance to follow him downstairs.
“See you tomorrow,” she said, shutting the door behind her.
After the door shut, Mother placed her hands on the side of my face and moved me into a shaft of light from the window. When the light hit my face full force, I winced, but smiled. “Your pupils contract nicely. I do think the brain commotion wasn’t a serious one. Thank goodness. Any nausea?”
I shook my head but stopped as the room spun about me.
“But still dizzy I see. I think you need to remain in bed today.” I opened my mouth to protest, but she stopped me with her hand. “Rising too soon can be quite hazardous. We’ll reassess you this evening.”
Father returned from escorting Constance, and Mother updated him on my progress. He smiled at the news and said, “I see you’ve been playing with Ernest. Perhaps we could match wits as well.”
The prospect of an additional assessment of my mental faculties as well as some time alone with Father appealed to me.
“I’d like that very much.”
“Just no physical exertion for the moment,” Mother said, wagging a finger at me. “I’ll check on you later and bring a book along if you’d like me to read to you. Perhaps the German volume Mycroft loaned me?”
While the thought of grasping economic theories in German seemed tedious in my current state, I relished the idea of some time alone with my mother, just as I did with my father, and agreed to the prospect immediately.
The game with my father progressed nicely with each of us matching the other in moves and countermoves. He even complimented me on my strategic skills. My concerns about my brain dissipated, and I found myself screwing up my courage to ask him a question that’d been on my mind for a while.
“Father, how did you meet Mother?”
He jerked his head up to meet my gaze. After he considered my question for a moment, he said. “At a lecture by an entomologist. He was discussing the lifecycle of the common housefly. You know my fascination with insects. Given the topic, you can imagine the room wasn’t overly crowded. Regardless, your mother would have stood out. Here was this young woman, taking notes, no less. And asking very pointed questions. She was interested in their use in wound care.”
I could very clearly see how my mother’s looks and actions would have drawn attention. Having compared her with other women, I knew her features to be above average, and a younger version would only be more so. At the same time, her direct and inquisitive manner would have drawn attention to her as well.
“And did you speak to her then?”
A smile played on his lips. The memory had to be pleasant. “No. I was much too taken aback by her. Not only quite fetching but intelligent as well. I knew that the moment she asked a question about how much decayed flesh a single maggot could eat in a day. Not at all squeamish. So, I made a few inquiries as to her identity. I had a friend introduce us at a lecture the next week. This time it was on horticulture. Dreadfully boring as far as I was concerned, but again, there she was asking the most insightful questions.”
I could also imagine that. My father’s interest in plant biology was limited to any agricultural issues, and unless it was related to some crop cultivation, he would be either lost or totally disinterested. “When you finally met, what was Mother’s reaction?”
“Polite, but rather aloof. Even furtive.” Another smile. “I learned later she had tricked the aunt she was visiting and slipped away to the lectures without permission. She spent a lot of time in France, you know. Apparently, they had allowed her more freedom there to attend medical lectures.”
I nodded. We had travelled to Paris to visit that side of her family more than once, and my mother had attended a number of lectures on a variety of subjects during these trips. Whenever possible, she would bring me and Mycroft along, expressing her desire for us to develop our language skills as well as our scientific knowledge.
“I promptly invited her to an evening at that friend’s home.” He sighed. “She turned me down.”
I stared at my father. Social convention would have required acceptance of a supper invitation unless a previous engagement had already been secured. Surely Mother would have followed protocol, unless— “Because she already had plans that evening?”
“That’s what she told me at the time, but I learned through other sources, she simply didn’t accept any invitations from unmarried men. She had determined not to marry and didn’t want to be burdened by the attentions of possible suitors.”
“If she didn’t want to marry, how did she agree to do so in the end?”
He leaned toward me and touched the side of his nose. “I won her over. If she wouldn’t accept any invitations to attend my functions, I would attend hers.” He winked. “I was able to persuade her aunt, who was concerned for your mother’s spinster future, of my very honorable intentions, and she supplied me with information on her calendar. I didn’t attend as many lectures at Oxford as I did in pursuit of your mother.”
I moved a piece and announced, “Checkmate.”
“Well done,” he said and pulled out his pocket watch. “Look at the time. I’m afraid we’ll have to pursue our game later. I have to meet with Mr. Simpson to go over the books.”
When he stepped from the room, I lay back on my pillow to contemplate what he just shared with me. The image of my father as a young man, slightly older than Mycroft, accompanying my mother to lectures offered a new perspective of both. While I knew they had been young once, I found it difficult to consider that they had not always been together.
I won her over.
My father had shown interest in matters significant to her. Was that truly enough to convince her to drop her conviction of remaining unmarried?
I let sleep overtake me, and was only awakened when the door opened and Mother followed the maid carrying a tray into the room. After the tray had been arranged, and we were alone, Mother again checked my eyes and asked about my general health.
When I assured her I had no headache or dizziness, she smiled. “I think you can get out of bed tomorrow evening, if you wish.”
The tray this evening proved more substantial than my last meal. I had actual meat and vegetables. And butter. I smeared a good bit on one of Cook’s rolls and bit into it, enjoying the sensation as the butter melted on my tongue and coated my mouth. For the first time, I truly understood Constance’s desire for more of Cook’s baking.
Mother returned when the maid came to clear my supper away. As promised, she carried the German volume with her. She took the chair by the chessboard and settled back to read from Manifest der kommunistischen Partei. Between her calm voice, the heavy meal, and the complex concepts presented by the authors, my eyelids soon drooped, and I fell into a deep sleep for the night.
The next day passed much like the previous, except I felt stronger and experienced no dizzy spells. With this improvement, Mother approved my joining the family for supper and the discussion in the schoolroom that followed.
Never had I been so glad to wash and dress for a meal. My enforced confinement had grown very tedious, and I couldn’t wait to join in the discussion in the schoolroom. Of course, we couldn’t speak on the subject at the supper table. Murder was hardly a polite subject and such topics would not be shared in front of the servants. I found myself rushing through what I was served in hopes of moving to the schoolroom sooner.
Of course, the adults seemed in no hurry, and I found myself frustrated with the pace of the meal. After an eternity, Mother rose, and we all stood in response and filed out of the dining room and up the st
airs to the classroom. By the time I made it to the schoolroom, Mother had taken a place by the blackboard and reviewed what we’d considered the last time. Following her assessment, she wrote Rachel Winston below Mrs. Brown’s name, sighed, and turned to us.
“I’m afraid we are no closer to solving what happened to Emma Brown than when we began,” she said. “And now we have Rachel’s death as well.”
“Pity you weren’t able to find out anything from Mr. Harvingsham before his seizure,” Mycroft said, his mouth downturned. “Bad break with the bee attack.”
“A very bad break,” Father said, his mouth mimicking my brother’s.
“Not a problem,” Mother said. “I learned quite a bit from Mrs. Harvingsham prior to his fit.”
“You think Rachel Winston was poisoned too, don’t you?” I asked.
The conclusion had been quite apparent when we’d learned of the surgeon’s attention to the maid from his wife.
She nodded. “We have two, maybe three victims. But we’re missing the connection between them. The common denominator, if you will.”
Mycroft stared at the board for a moment and said, “Perhaps if we lay out their connections? For instance, we know Mrs. Straton was friends with Rachel Winston and had seen Mrs. Brown.”
Mother drew lines between Mrs. Straton and the other two names. “When we do this, it does appear that she is at the apex of this triangle. Of course, she’s dead, but her husband…”
“According to Brown,” Father said, “Straton did threaten Mrs. Brown. It seems to me that Gibbons ought to at least bring the man in for questioning. He’s been very effective in obtaining confessions in the past.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mother, her voice taking on a sharp tone. “I’ve seen the effects of his extraction methods in gaol. Bruises, contusions, and more than one broken bone. Before we resort to the constable, perhaps we should try and find some incontrovertible proof to ensure we have the correct culprit?”
I stared at my mother as the implication of her accusation registered. Mother had certainly been around others accused of crimes and would have first-hand knowledge of why and how others had been arrested, but was she truly accusing the constable of—? Before I could voice my own question, Mycroft asked it for me.
“Are you suggesting Constable Gibbons forces confessions from people?”
“I’m not suggesting it. I’m stating it as fact. I know there is more than one innocent person in gaol, sent there by their own words after a rather brutal session with Constable Gibbons or one of his men.”
Father shifted in his seat. “Mrs. Holmes, perhaps this is a conversation we should have in private. As a magistrate, I depend on the investigation Gibbons provides in court. If, as you sug—er, say…the confessions are suspect, how am I to make judgment on the accused?”
“Facts, Mr. Holmes. Scientific proof. Which is what we have been doing here since I was arrested. Until we have some true evidence beyond what Brown reported about Straton, we shouldn’t go to Gibbons. Once Straton falls into the law’s hands, the truth may never come out.”
He stilled and studied first her, then the board. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and thoughtful. “I suppose another day or two won’t make much difference. As long as we can keep Brown from pushing Gibbons to action as he did with you.”
“That debacle at the coroner’s inquest should have taught him to wait until he has more than just the obvious conclusion,” Uncle Ernest said, a smile breaking across his face. “We certainly showed him up that day.”
And made an enemy in the process. His seizure of Mother’s ledger was no accident.
“Then we are in agreement that until we have some additional information, we will not be going to Constable Gibbons?” Mother asked. With no one voicing another opinion, she continued, “What do we have, then, that would indicate Straton’s ability to poison these three women?”
As did the others in the room, I stared at the board with the three names and the lines drawn between them. Something had to be there. Something that we were missing, not seeing. An idea tickled the back of my brain, but I couldn’t quite grasp it—
A hard knocking at the door pushed the thought out of my mind. Before anyone could open it, Constable Gibbons burst into the room, followed by a gasping Mrs. Simpson.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Holmes,” the housekeeper said between pants. “He asked me where you were, and I said the schoolroom on the third floor, and he pushed past me before I could stop him.”
By this time, we were all on our feet, and Father glared at the intruder. The man pulled on his uniform coat and raised his chin to meet his gaze. He held out a parchment and stepped toward him.
“Excuse the interruption, sir, but I needed your signature on this arrest warrant.”
“It couldn’t wait until morning?” Father said, taking the paper from him.
While Father skimmed the document, the constable spoke to him in a voice loud enough for all to hear. “I felt it was of the utmost urgency to proceed with the arrest. Before the culprit goes into hiding.”
“When did you decide to arrest Joseph Straton?”
My gasp was audible to all those in the room. They turned to me, and my face burned under their scrutiny. What did Gibbons know that we didn’t?
The constable ignored my outburst and responded without a glance in my direction. “Today. That beekeeper Brown came by this evening and said you were in agreement that the man was guilty.” He glanced at the blackboard and said, “Looks as if you agree that Straton was behind both the midwife’s and Rachel Winston’s death.”
Mother stepped forward. “Actually, we were considering the connections between Mrs. Straton and the other two women.”
“But you do agree the man killed Emma Brown.”
I glanced at the rest of my family, seeking to determine their agreement with that statement. Given the previous discussion of the constable’s tactics and the evidence against Mr. Straton, I wasn’t sure of the response. Again, that little nagging thought scratched at the back of my brain, but I couldn’t get it to surface.
Father, however, spoke and broke my concentration. “The evidence does suggest that direction.”
He stepped to the teacher’s desk, picked up a pen and signed the parchment.
With the order now authorized, the man bowed and left, Mrs. Simpson following after him.
“That takes care of that,” Father said as soon as the footsteps diminished to silence.
Mother shook her head. “I just hope you haven’t sealed the man’s death warrant.”
“I’ll make it clear to the man he’s not to force a confession,” he said and turned toward the door. “I’ll catch him before he leaves.”
My father’s departure ended our little meeting. Mother ordered me back to bed. I considered arguing, but knew she’d win in the end. Once in my bedroom I took off my jacket and stepped to the wardrobe to hang it up.
Upon opening its door, I yelped and flew backwards about three strides. My pulse quickened and only slowed when Constance leapt from the cabinet and slapped her hand across my mouth.
“Quiet. I don’t want no one’s to know I’m here.”
I pulled her hand from my face and dropped my voice to just above a whisper. “What are you doing here? How did you get in? Why don’t you want to be seen?”
She put her hands on her hips and stared at me a moment. “Did that fall affect your brain after all? Can’t you answer these questions yourself? I came to see you. Through that indoor garden of yours. No one ever seems to lock that door. I used to go in with my mother when she’d bring the mending here. She’d pick a bit of parsley or sage when no one was lookin’. And I don’t want no ones, especially the constable, to see me and try and use me to find Papa. He says Papa kilt Mrs. Brown, but I knows it wasn’t so.”
“But he just had my father sign the arrest warrant. How could you already know—?”
“Do you have anything besides questions? He was asking at all
the taverns for Papa. One of Papa’s friends warned him. So, Papa’s runned away to hide.” She raised her hand to me, and I froze with my mouth half-open, another question resting on my tongue. “I don’t know where, so don’t ask.”
“I hope you realize all the evidence points in his direction. Mr. Brown even said he threatened him at the tavern. Said Mrs. Brown had given her something that killed her.”
“I don’t know about him threatening Mr. Brown, but he did carry on about how Mrs. Brown almost kilt her. Whatever Mrs. Brown gave her, Papa burnt it.”
My stare froze on her face as all the information and conjectures we had assembled in the schoolroom rearranged themselves in my brain. One piece in particular rose to the surface. Rachel Winston’s request for pennyroyal for a “friend.” Mother had been correct. Mrs. Straton had needed more.
“How did your father find out about the medicine in the first place?”
“It was in her mending basket. He was searching for a sock she said she’d mended. It spilt out of the paper she had it in. She said it was somethin’ Mrs. Brown had given her ‘cause she couldn’t be havin’ another baby right away. He cursed at her, callin’ it Satan’s weed. And burnt it in the fireplace.”
Perhaps because of the brain commotion, my thoughts raced. I considered the names on the blackboard in the schoolroom, the contents of Mrs. Straton’s mending basket, Rachel Winston’s efforts to help a friend. I must have stared at Constance for a while because she asked, “Are you all right? You ain’t havin’ a fit, are you?”
That question let loose a deluge of words that tumbled out of my mouth faster than my thoughts.
“Your father had no reason to kill Mrs. Brown. But still, your mother died from something. If she kept what Mrs. Brown gave her in the mending basket, perhaps she also kept whatever—”
Constance’s rounded eyes stopped me before I completed the sentence. I’d been so intent on reconstructing the information, I’d forgotten I’d been referring to her mother—a woman who had only been dead three weeks. My father’s voice reprimanded me for such a terrible breach of etiquette.
The Adventure of the Murdered Midwife Page 18
