The Adventure of the Murdered Gypsy

by Liese Sherwood-Fabre

  “How did you know?”

  “Quite easily, actually. Despite the traveling clothes, your bearing indicates military service. Your dark skin speaks of years in the sun under harsh conditions. Given your friendship with my uncle, the most obvious location would be India.”

  “Ingenious,” he said, and gave a crisp bow. “Colonel Herbert Williams at your service. And what can you tell me about my niece, Miss Meredith Cummings?”

  I bowed to the young woman seated next to him and observed her for a moment. Trevor had been correct: despite my limited experience with women outside our village, I had before me one of the most exquisite examples of feminine beauty I was ever to meet. A silver broach held the collar of her bright turquoise traveling dress closed at the bottom of a long, slender neck. A peacock feather crowned her hat, perched on dark hair, pulled back to expose a heart-shaped face. The ruddy color of her cheeks suggested exposure to elements not common to the English climate but served to complement the deep blue of her eyes. Her slightly hooked nose formed her only flaw, but it simply enhanced the overall effect.

  Father’s cough brought me out of my reverie.

  I smiled and said, “Also shortly arrived from India and recently engaged, but no longer. The area around the finger a slightly lighter shade—”

  “Oh,” she said and drew her hand to her breast, covering it with the other.

  Another cough—this time from my mother—told me I had overstepped convention again.

  I bowed, knowing my face now burned a bright crimson. “Sorry. You asked, and I—”

  “Quite all right,” she said. “You have keen powers of observation.”

  “Thank you.”

  I stepped away, taking a spot beside the door, knowing I’d be sent to change directly.

  “Colonel Williams, what brings you to the country this time of year?” Mother asked.

  Before the man could answer, my uncle broke in. “Whatever the reason, I insist you stay here with us.”

  Father glanced at Mother. He had to be considering how full the household was already, and his other sister, Rose, and her family still hadn’t arrived. Mother gave the slightest nod of her head. She must have already worked out the arrangements because her smile seemed genuine when Colonel Williams responded to her brother’s offer.

  “Thank you very much, Ernie. We could use a few days’ rest before continuing on our way.”

  “Excellent,” Ernest said and slapped the man on his arm. “Let’s see to your luggage.”

  The colonel shifted his feet. “We’re traveling rather…light at the moment. Most of the baggage was shipped on ahead. We have just two valises—”

  “Only two?” Aunt Iris asked. “I can imagine a man traveling with such limited baggage, but surely Miss Meredith requires more than the contents of one valise?”

  “I’ve found a large wardrobe a tedious burden, Mrs. Fitzhugh.” Meredith turned to my mother. “I do, however, have a maid traveling with me and would appreciate it if you would be able to accommodate her as well. I believe she’s currently with your housekeeper.”

  “A maid? Yes, of course.” She rose. “If you’ll excuse me, I must consult with Mrs. Simpson about her and preparing your rooms. Come with me, Sherlock. We both need to change before dinner.”

  “If you please,” Meredith said, stopping my mother’s forward movement. “Are those Turkish trousers? I’ve seen something similar while in India but have only read about their introduction here.”

  “They are indeed. While some consider it indecent for a woman to show her limbs”—her gaze drifted to her sister-in-law for a split second—“I daresay the fact that females have lower appendages should not be a shock to anyone.”

  “And you, Master Sherlock, are you wearing a gi?”

  Meredith’s keen knowledge of both my mother’s and my dress surprised me. “Mother and I have been studying baritsu. How did you know?”

  “In India, we are very familiar with Far Eastern culture. I have seen such costumes before.”

  “I have employed a master to teach us this form of Japanese physical culture. His drills require loose-fitting garments for movement.” Mother smiled and glanced at those assembled. “You will all have a chance to meet him at dinner. He’s gone to change, as both Sherlock and I must do if we are to dine on time. If you will excuse us, we’ll see you again shortly.”

  Mother instructed me in a low voice as we ascended the stairs to our bedrooms on the second floor. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to sleep on the third floor with your cousin for a few days, so Miss Meredith might have your room.”

  I nodded, not at all surprised with this announcement. The moment Mother nodded her head at Father, I deduced her solution to the room arrangements. One had only to do the calculations to know we had too few bedrooms for the number of houseguests. And I, being the youngest, was the most natural choice to be sent to the nursery where Trevor was staying. While I had no philosophical objections to returning to my previous quarters, I did balk at sharing the room with Trevor. Only my inability to identify another option kept me silent. Perhaps after Mr. Moto left, I might be able to at least move to his room in the servants’ quarters for some privacy? Until then, I would have to bide my time.

  At the top of the stairs, Mother said, “Miss Meredith will probably want to freshen up as well. Take some clothes for now, and I’ll have one of the maids transfer more to the third floor during dinner.”

  I sighed and crossed to my room to follow out her orders.

  Once I’d changed and carried some items to the children’s bedroom on the third floor, I almost ran into a woman when I exited the nursery. Tall and dark-skinned with long, black hair, she wore yards of saffron-colored fabric wrapped around her waist and twisted upward under a gray wool shawl in deference to our cold climate. But her eyes drew one in. They were rimmed in black with deep brown irises that darted back and forth as she gazed first at me, then about the hallway.

  “I am so sorry,” she said in a voice with tones that traveled up and down the scale in the most fascinating way. “I was looking for my mistress’s room.”

  I pointed to the stairs. “It’s down one floor. I can show you.”

  With a dip of her head, she followed me to the second floor and to my bedroom. An open valise and Meredith’s bright traveling cloak both lay on the bed. Mother had guessed correctly she would want to change. But without her maid?

  “Yes, this is the room,” the woman said. “Thank you very much, Master…?”

  “Sherlock,” I said with a quick bow. “Sherlock Holmes.”

  Another dip of her head. “I will see to my mistress’s unpacking then.”

  When she entered the room, I caught a hint of a spicy scent, reminiscent of Cook’s cinnamon buns. My stomach growled, and I moved to the stairs to join everyone for dinner. After descending a few steps, my—Meredith’s—bedroom door opened. I peeked up the stairs to see the maid step into the corridor and toward the servant stairs.

  I wondered if she would need help finding her way to her quarters and was contemplating following her when Mrs. Simpson called to me from the first floor.

  “Master Sherlock, dinner is served. They are waiting for you.”

  After a final glance in the maid’s direction, I decided she would find it one way or another and made my way to the dining room.

  Our family meals tended to be quiet affairs with polite conversation in the language of the day. In an effort for both Mycroft and me to become fluent in several languages, my parents insisted that table discussions occur in different tongues, depending on the day of the week. Usually, we would have spoken French for the evening, but in deference to our guests, English prevailed.

  Uncle Ernest, often distracted and quiet, regardless of the topic, was more boisterous than I’d ever seen him. He and the colonel had a number of tales about life in India, to everyone’s amusement.

  My brother’s behavior, on the other hand, was the exact opposite of o
ur uncle’s. Never had I seen him so taciturn. He barely greeted me, even though we hadn’t seen each other since his arrival. In addition, he kept his head down, staring at his plate. Also out of character, he wasn’t eating so much as pushing the roast beef about in the sauce. My brother never turned down second helpings, but today he hadn’t even finished his first. Was he sick?

  Halfway through the meal, I glanced at my mother to see if she had spotted his peculiar behavior. Her head was turned in the other direction, but I did catch Mycroft’s gaze lift for a moment and land on Miss Meredith. When he caught my notice of his action, he returned to drawing patterns in the gravy with his fork, but I observed a dark crimson creep above his collar and form a bright spot on each cheek.

  Was our guest’s presence at the root of my brother’s odd conduct?

  A minute later, my suspicions were confirmed when she turned to me and said, “Your brother mentioned you will be going to Eton after the holidays.”

  Mycroft jerked in his chair as if someone had poked him, and had the question not made my own stomach contract, I might have laughed out loud at his response.

  The very thought of returning to classes eliminated any remaining appetite. I’d only been in school a few weeks when my father had called me home because my mother had been accused of murder. During my time at Eton, I’d found the public-school experience most undesirable. I hadn’t got along well with either the other students or our instructors.

  I realized my contemplation of my future had gone on too long when she blinked at me, waiting for a response. I sought out the most positive aspect I could.

  “I’m looking forward to joining the boxing team again.”

  “Boxing?” she asked.

  “He’s quite good, you know.” Uncle Ernest spoke up from the other end of the table. “Taught him myself.”

  “But given his slim build, I thought it best to consider another method that would rely less on brute strength. And I wanted to learn as well. Hence, the baritsu lessons.” Mother glanced at our quiet Japanese master. “I had read of the self-defense method and placed an advertisement in the London papers. Mr. Moto responded with quite excellent references. I’ll be sorry to see the lessons end, but he already has another engagement.”

  “Not that she has need of such practices,” my father said, practically interrupting her. “It’s more for the physical drills. Good for the health, you know.”

  “Quite a bit different from our times back in India, eh, Herbert? Needed to be in tip-top shape for a reason. Always some skirmish or another we had to put down back then.”

  Our guest shifted in his chair but gave an indulgent smile to my uncle. “You were lucky to leave when you did, Ernie. The rebellion was—” He glanced about the table and wiped his mouth. “It changed everything, you know.”

  “How do you see the shift?” Mycroft asked, speaking up for the first time. “Surely the government has a better grasp of the politics in that country than the East India Company?”

  Colonel Williams glanced about before responding. “You might think so, but you have to understand, the Company had worked there for centuries. The government, on the other hand, has a different focus. Not always the most harmonious of relationships.”

  “If I understand things correctly,” I said, “it was exactly a lack of understanding of certain customs that created the problems in the first place.”

  “Quite right, but now other instabilities exist,” Meredith said. “The Russians are moving to the west and north, the Chinese to the east—”

  “Imperialists, the two,” Mr. Moto said, speaking up for the first time. All heads turned in his direction, and he raised his chin slightly to meet our gazes. “The Russians, the Chinese, they desire my country too.”

  Mycroft pointed his knife toward Father, obviously warming to the subject and overcoming whatever restraint he’d displayed to this point in the meal. “I’ve told you. The world is changing. While our focus has been on Europe, forces in other parts of the world are encroaching on various British holdings. We must be vigilant, spread our attentions wider.”

  “Well said.” Colonel Williams rapped his knuckles on the table. “I’m quite impressed with your sense of world affairs. So good to see a young person with vision beyond what’s happening in Oxford.”

  “He’s always had an interest in world affairs.” Mother straightened her back and glanced at Mycroft and me, bestowing a smile on each. “As you can see, both my sons are well-read.”

  Aunt Iris cleared her throat at this point, giving a warning signal similar to her brother’s. “How would you compare the weather here to that in India. I trust you don’t find it too cold?”

  With my aunt’s effort to keep conversations away from matters that might upset the feminine constitution, the topic drifted to the prospect of snow in the next few weeks.

  Following dessert, the men moved to the library on the left, and the women, to the parlor on the right. I stood in the foyer and transferred my weight from one foot to the other, considering my options. While I enjoyed my mother’s company, with my aunt’s presence, I knew the conversation there would most likely focus on some sort of female gossip, which my mother would tolerate for etiquette’s sake. And according to my father’s standards, I was too young to join those in the library. Mycroft had only been afforded the privilege in the past year. Under normal circumstances, I would have gone to my room to pursue my own interests. But at the moment, I had no room of my own. At this hour, Trevor might still be awake, and I had no desire to answer his endless supply of questions. I needed an excuse to keep him from talking.

  My music.

  As part of Mother’s plans for entertaining everyone when Father’s other sister and her family arrived, I had been practicing with Constance, the daughter of our steward’s assistant, on a number of songs for the season. If I could sneak my instrument from the schoolroom without my cousin seeing me, I might be able to slip away to my uncle’s workshop to practice.

  While the plan seemed simple in principle, its execution wasn’t.

  The moment I stepped onto the third-floor landing, Trevor ran into the hallway, followed by his governess.

  “I’ve been waiting for you. I saved some of my cake, in case you want it.”

  “I just came up for my violin. I was going to practice—”

  “Can I listen? I promise to be quiet.”

  “I was actually going to go to the workshop—”

  “Mother said as long as I was with you or Miss Bowen, I could go outside.”

  I glanced at his governess, hoping she would assert her authority and require him to stay inside. Instead, she raised and dropped her shoulders. He probably tired her out as much as he did me.

  “But you’re in your nightclothes,” I said, seeking some way out of this predicament. “And it’s cold outside.”

  “I’ll put on my boots and coat over them. My boots are still by the back door. I’ll go get my coat.”

  He was off before I could protest again, Miss Bowen running after him with the admonishment to put on socks and button the coat. It seemed impossible to say no to the boy. Even the governess appeared to indulge him. For a moment, I wondered if it made more sense to remain upstairs and practice there, but at least the walk to the workshop might convince him to return to the house.

  I stepped into the schoolroom to retrieve my violin case and glanced about, recalling the maid’s presence in the area earlier. I observed no changes, but then, it was rather dark, the only light coming from the moon through the window. I picked up my case and returned to find Trevor now bundled in a coat, wool pants, and a scarf wrapped about his head.

  “I still have on my nightshirt,” he said, his voice muffled by the knitted wool. “I just put on my pants over them like you did with your baritsu costume.”

  His remark surprised me. Given his incessant talking, I’d not been aware of any attention on his part. This observation of my attire indicated he was more aware of his surroun
dings than I’d given him credit.

  The wind had picked up a bit and passed through the coat I’d donned at the back door. I prayed my cousin’s wrap was warmer than mine. Aunt Iris would have my head if her “precious boy” caught a chill.

  When we entered the workshop, I went straight to a table for a lantern. The moment light filled the space, Trevor gasped.

  The workshop was a peculiar and, on the surface, quite disorganized space. Originally a barn, the high ceiling created a sense of openness, until one took in all the projects—in various stages of assembly, disassembly, or total abandonment—scattered about on numerous workbenches and storage crates. In the back, separated from the rest of the room by a folding screen, was a sitting area complete with some of my parents’ discarded chairs, a low table, and a cot.

  My cousin’s interest, however, focused on the table at the edge of the lantern’s ochre glow.

  “Are those the mice? I didn’t notice them when I was here earlier.”

  He rushed to the workbench, and I followed with the lantern. Several of the rodents scurried about in one wire cage. Other smaller cages housed single occupants, all on their sides and quite dead. A tag on each pen identified the plant my uncle had tested for poisoning. A notebook lay open, with detailed notes on the poison, dosage, and any symptoms.

  “I told you we were doing experiments with them.”

  “But I didn’t know they would die.” He crouched a little to be able to study the dead ones at eye level. “I’ve never seen a dead thing before. At least not this close.” He wrinkled his nose. “They’re so still. Are they frozen?”

  “It’s called rigor mortis,” I said and poked one with a pencil I found next to the notebook. “This one hasn’t been dead too long. Maybe three hours or so.”

  After a moment more staring at the dead ones, he asked, “Shouldn’t we throw them out?”

  “Uncle Ernest wouldn’t like it if we disturbed his things. Come this way. I’ll practice in his sitting room.”

  Taking the lantern, I headed to the living area in the back. When he was deep in his experiments or other projects (he had a knack for developing weapons and explosives), my uncle might go days without returning to the house, preferring to catch sleep when he could on the cot. Trevor settled onto the settee while I arranged the lantern, fed some wood into the round stove near the wall, and tuned my violin. I decided to focus on one particularly difficult phrase in the Handel piece where the fingering was a bit tricky.