The Adventure of the Murdered Midwife

by Liese Sherwood-Fabre

  “Enough!”

  Father’s shout echoed through the front hall. He waved his hands above his head as if he could clear away Mother’s words from the air. He pointed his finger at Mother’s face, but all three of us flinched in return.

  “It stops now, Mrs. Holmes. All of it, including the dispensing of herbs to the village women. Brown told Gibbons how you disrupt nature—a true abomination against God. Not to mention this obsession you have with Emma Brown’s death. And that…that criminal upstairs. I’ll be arranging for Gibbons to take him to gaol. You will damage the reputation of this family and jeopardize my position in the community no more. It all ends now. This minute.”

  He spun about and stalked into the parlor where he threw the fraudulent ledger into the fire. “I expect to receive the true one upon my return from my visit with Gibbons.”

  We all remained rooted as he strode to the front door, slamming it behind him with a sound like a cannon blast.

  Mother was the first to recover.

  “If you’ll excuse me, boys,” she said, lifting her chin. “I must go to your uncle’s workshop to get the true book.”

  Her movement was odd, almost trance-like, as she headed through the house. Concerned over her state of mind, I followed at some distance. I gestured to Mycroft to do the same, but he shook his head and slid back into the library. When she neared the kitchen, Constance emerged from the servants’ stairwell and grabbed my mother’s arm.

  “Please, madam. You can’t let them take my papa. He’ll die in gaol. I know he will. And they’ll send the babies to an orphanage and me to the workhouse. I don’t want—”

  The slap was as sharp as a gunshot. Constance’s hand flew to her cheek now marked with my mother’s handprint, and her eyes filled with tears. Either from shock or fear at my mother’s outburst, I found myself frozen in place as she spoke through lips so tight they barely moved.

  “Shut up. Can’t you see I’ve no power to help your father? Whatever influence I’d thought I possessed was just an illusion. You, your father—all of us—are at the mercy of Mr. Holmes and the constable.”

  Constance turned and fled up the stairs while Mother continued out the door and toward Ernest’s workshop. I entered a moment after her. My uncle spoke to us from the table still holding the pig carcasses.

  “You’re both just in time to see. I’ve tested a few more implements. Mycroft’s discovery of the chisel put a whole new light on the search. Come.”

  Mother and I approached the table together. She waved away his offer of a magnifying glass, stepped to the bench, and with one sweep of her arm, cleared the table, sending pigs and tools clattering to the wooden floor.

  “Violette, what in the—?”

  She turned to the table with the contents of the mending basket and did the same.

  Her back to us, she dropped to her knees and doubled over. The wail that followed sent a chill down my spine. After that one cry, she made no more noise, but her back shook with silent sobs. My stomach churned, and my knees weakened.

  In the past month, I’d seen my mother in the direst situations, including gaol, but never had I seen her display any emotion in such a violent fashion. Staring at the grieving woman, I understood the consequence of husbands and wives keeping secrets. The evidence lay broken at my feet. Their revelation could destroy not only the relationship, but the individuals as well.

  The sympathy I felt for my mother was balanced by an antipathy toward my father. The anger roiling in my stomach rushed through me and curled my hands into fists. Had he been standing before me, I would have attacked him, pummeling him with all my might. Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on one’s perspective—he was not. Besides, my mother was the one needing attention. I tiptoed to her side, unsure what I should say. I had no way to undo the pain my father caused, but I could at least make her more comfortable in her anguish.

  Placing an arm over her quivering shoulders, I whispered, “Mother, come lie down. Please.”

  Unable to carry her on my own, I glanced at my uncle to seek his help. He stood immobile near the work table, staring at the debris on the floor—in a shock of his own.

  He came out of it, however, when I spoke to him.

  “Uncle Ernest, let’s help Mother to your cot.”

  Together, we got her to her feet. Her limbs had no resistance and I doubted could have sustained her weight without our assistance as we led her to the back of the building.

  Along the way, Ernest cooed to her. “It’s all right, Violette. Don’t worry about the mess. I’ll clean it up.”

  A fist knotted in my stomach, and only with great effort did I avoid a display of anger similar to my mother’s. I understood her reaction as coming from the realization that the life she had constructed for herself had been a delusion.

  Once she lay down, she drew her knees to her chest and remained, curled in a ball, her back to the world.

  Ernest stepped behind me and placed a hand on my shoulder.

  I turned to him, barely keeping my own anger and sorrow in check. “My father…they had a fight.”

  “Go on back to the house. I’ll take care of her.” He sighed as if some memory brought pain to him as well as Mother. “She needs some time to herself. I haven’t seen her like this since… I’ll let you know if there’s any change.”

  Recognizing my own limitations in comforting her, I considered her brother better equipped for this than I. He had certainly known her longer.

  With a pull on my arm, he directed me away from my mother and toward the door. Once outside, I realized evening had fallen. In the distance, I could hear the chirp of insects and the call of night birds. The whole ordinariness of the everyday sounds struck a discord within me. How could the world continue its normal course when my world was imploding? I stepped toward the house and stopped, not relishing the idea of facing the tension I knew awaited me there.

  If only Mother had been able to convince Father that Mr. Brown had been the culprit in the attack on Mr. Straton. If only we’d been able to show how the tool Brown used to open the honeycombs fit the incision in the man’s side….

  With a determination I’d lacked a few moments earlier, I headed toward the house in search of my brother.

  He was in his room, already in his nightclothes, just sitting in a chair by his window. When I opened his door and called his name, he spoke to the night beyond the glass.

  “Whatever you want, I’m not interested. Leave me alone. I want only to get back to Oxford and my life.”

  “Please, hear me out. I have a plan. Mother and I know who stabbed—”

  He jerked his head in my direction and glared at me. “Are you dense? I want nothing to do with anything remotely related to Mrs. Brown.”

  The set of his jaw and his stare offered no chance of my persuading him to reconsider. I backed out of the room and considered alternatives.

  I could think of no one else at the moment who would be willing to help Mother.

  Other than I.

  And when I proved my mother was right, perhaps this rift between my parents could be mended.

  Whether because I’d used the path a number of times recently or was distracted by my mother’s condition, I found myself at Brown’s property much faster than I imagined. From the property’s treed edge, I studied the buildings for any signs of activity under the full moon. The light proved useful in identifying how I might slip into the extraction building without notice.

  As long as no one was about the grounds.

  I checked the house. Lights did shine inside, but the noise from any movement was drowned out by the bees. Perhaps the buzzing would cover any sound I might make as well.

  Keeping to the woods, I passed the house and moved to the area behind it where the beehives were set out in the clearing. A few bees approached and buzzed about me, but they weren’t particularly interested in me. I continued circling the clearing until I came to the other side and the outbuilding.

  Finding t
he door unlocked, I slid inside and shut the door behind me. I immediately regretted not having brought a lamp or lantern with me. The room was almost pitch black without even moonlight to illuminate the interior.

  Afraid I might break something and alert Mr. Brown to my presence, I tried to remember the placement of the various items on my previous visit. The extracting machine stood to my left. On my right, various tools hung on nails on the wall. In front of me was a workbench holding various pots, trays, and…beeswax candles. With my arms stretched out in front of me, I took tentative steps toward the bench. The progress dragged on for what seemed like hours as I traversed the room. Once at the bench, I groped for the candles. I found one and wrapped my hand around it. As I did so, I heard another object roll across the tabletop. I fumbled in the dark, trying to catch whatever I’d knocked over. My fingers grazed a honey pot just as it reached the edge of the table. It fell to the floor with a muffled crack. It must have been full, given the muted noise, but all the same, it sounded like a gunshot to me in the still room. My ears buzzed in the silence that followed, and I froze, waiting for some indication I’d been heard. When no footsteps approached the building, I exhaled and continued my search for the small jar I’d seen holding some matches. My fingers trembled as I struck one and touched it to the candle’s wick. The other honey jars on the table and the machine in the center of the room reflected its soft glow.

  I could clearly see the small pot at my feet. After considering for a moment if I should clean it up, I decided that it didn’t matter. If all went well, Brown would be in gaol shortly. I was also able to find the scraper on the table where he must have left it after our visit only a few hours earlier—next to the bolt of cheesecloth he’d used to strain the honey he’d extracted earlier in the day.

  Now grasping the scraper’s handle, I turned to blow out the candle for a quick escape. Before my lips could pucker, the door banged back against the wall, and Mr. Brown stood in the doorway, a rifle pointed in my direction.

  “Don’t move, thief.”

  My hands flew up, the candle in one and the scraper in the other. My heart pounded in my chest, and I feared my knees might not hold me upright.

  “Please, don’t shoot, Mr. Brown,” I said, forcing calm into my voice.

  “Master Sherlock? Whatever are you doing in here?” The man squinted at me. “Are you stealing my honey?”

  My mind raced as I sought a fabrication that seemed plausible under the circumstances.

  “No, sir. I wouldn’t do that. Mother…she needed more…for Mr. Straton. I didn’t want to…disturb you at this time of night. I planned to…to leave a coin for the pot I took.”

  The man continued pointing his weapon at me, his back rigid. He jerked the rifle upwards to point at the tool in my hand. “What are you doing with that?”

  I’d forgotten I held the scraper. Once again my thoughts spun as I tried to invent an explanation for its presence in my hand.

  “When you opened the door, I-I didn’t know who you were. It was on the table…by the honey pots, so I-I grabbed it.”

  Opening my fingers, I let it fall from my still-upraised hand. It landed with a dull thunk onto the floorboards.

  He studied me a moment more, his weapon still pointing directly at my chest. The urge to urinate became almost overpowering, and I feared I might not be able to resist it. Finally, he jerked his eyes to the right and said, “Go get that rope.”

  Somehow, my knees and bladder cooperated enough not to give way and let me reach the wall and the loop of stout rope hanging there.

  “Bring it here.”

  Hooking the rifle in the crook of his right arm to free his left, he took the candle from me, set it on the table, and then grasped the rope. In a series of quick movements, he spun me about and tied my hands behind my back. He then forced me into a chair.

  “We’re going to have a little talk, you and I,” he said. “I need to hear what you know and who you told before you have a little accident.”

  I swallowed before forcing out one word from my dry throat. “Accident?”

  “Odd thing about bees. Some people can have any number of stings and nothing happens. I’ve been stung enough that one doesn’t even raise a welt anymore. For other people, like Harvingsham, only one will send them into a deadly fit. One or many, though, everyone will fall into a fit at some point. We’re going to determine how many stings are required for you.”

  Twisting my hands, I tested the rope. The bindings, however, held fast and cut into my wrists. I reminded myself I’d have to keep my wits about me if I was to make it out alive. “What exactly do you want to know? Because if you are worried about Mr. Straton, he still hasn’t awakened.”

  “But you know, don’t you? You know I was the one who fought with Straton. What was it?”

  “The yew needles on the floor over there,” I pointed to the area with my chin. “Mr. Straton was lying on yew needles when I found him. That and the tool you use for scraping the wax from the hives.”

  He picked the device up from the floor and waved it near my face, turning it under my nose. “You mean this? How did you know that?”

  “The shape of the wound in Mr. Straton’s side. It had a similar point on each end. You needn’t worry, no one believed us anyway.” I dropped my head. “Not even my father. He’s arranging now for the constable to take Mr. Straton to gaol.”

  “Us? Someone else knows?” He paused before hanging the tool back onto his belt. “Your mother? That is a problem.”

  “I told you. No one believes us. Mr. Straton will be tried for the murder of your wife.”

  “As he should be. I’ve got the constable convinced of it.”

  “But we know he had no reason to murder her. He burned the pennyroyal she gave his wife.”

  His head jerked toward me, and his features grew hard. “What do you know about the pennyroyal?”

  My heart skipped a beat. I’d hit upon something. Some bit of information I had misinterpreted or overlooked until this moment. I had to discover more. Something that would prolong the time before he went to get the bees. This was one experiment in which I had absolutely no desire in learning the results.

  “I know your wife gave pennyroyal to women. Mrs. Straton for certain.”

  “The Straton molly was one. But not the only one. Emma even took it herself. The devil’s work. An abomination against nature. She deserved her fate.”

  In the time I drew in a gasp, I saw everything clearly. The woman deserving her fate was his wife. He killed Emma Brown because of her use of pennyroyal.

  “Pennyroyal, if used wrong, can be fatal,” I said, studying him. “But hemlock is poisonous for sure. We found hemlock among Mrs. Straton’s things.”

  “Easy enough to switch one for the other. Emma never knew I’d done it.”

  “And Rachel Winston? You gave it to her?”

  “Another of Satan’s disciples,” he said, his mouth turning down. He spat as if the thought put a bad taste in his mouth. “Came to me weeping and carrying on. Begging me to check and see if Emma had left some pennyroyal. So, I obliged her. Wicked women all—including your mother. That’s why I laid Emma’s body in the garden. Would’ve cleansed the town of two vipers at once. But thanks to that meddling uncle of yours and the spectacle at the inquest, I had to find another to blame the murder on.”

  “You’ve done well. Even the constable thinks Mr. Straton killed her.”

  “And I’m going to keep it that way.”

  In two strides, he was at my side, the rifle under my chin. I feared he might not wait for the bees, but instead, he pulled me from the chair and forced me forward, out of the building, the rifle barrel in my back. The moonlight still illuminated the open field, making the white beehives glow against the dark earth and casting shadows along the ground. With my arms bound and the uneven ground, I found myself stumbling.

  When not concentrating on the terrain, I thought about the fate awaiting me. Would one sting be sufficient, as it
almost had been for Mr. Harvingsham? The image of the poor man twitching about sent a frisson of panic along my spine. I had to get him to redirect his interest from eliminating me toward taking me someplace else. But for what purpose? To retrieve something—something that would point to him as his wife’s murderer.

  “I know I told you how no one believes us about Mr. Straton not killing your wife, but they will when my uncle shows them the cheesecloth you left when you took her body to our garden,” I said, keeping my gaze straight ahead.

  His footfalls ceased, but the rifle barrel poked my back.

  “What do you say? Face me, boy.”

  As I turned slowly about, the rifle glinted dully in the moonlight, keeping me aware of its close proximity.

  “I didn’t realize it until tonight. Something about the way the candlelight played on the bolt. I found a small square of it in our garden. You wrapped her body in it to carry to Underbyrne, didn’t you?”

  Brown’s voice was almost a growl. “Liar. You’re inventing this.”

  “I gave the piece to my uncle for safekeeping. It’s in his workshop. No one but you would have need for it. It points directly to you as the one who put your wife in our garden.”

  The man pulled the trigger back, and I froze, certain these were my last minutes on this earth. At least Brown wouldn’t be able to blame my death by gunshot on another, and I would have the satisfaction of knowing justice would be served—even though I wouldn’t be there to observe it. After a moment, he appeared to have reached a decision and released the trigger. My knees wobbled as the tension subsided.

  “You know where the cloth is?”

  I nodded, hoping that Ernest and my mother would still be in the workshop. Between the three of us, he could be overpowered. He straightened his back as if a plan had been hatched. I held my breath, hoping my words had the effect I desired. He placed a heavy hand on my shoulder and shoved me in front of him, back toward his house.