Trevor twitched as I started on the third attempt through the section. Only a few bars in, he said, “Is that all there is to it? It’s rather short and boring, if you ask me.”
“Please, I’m trying to concentrate.” I pointed my bow to the front part of the building. “Why don’t you watch the mice? Just don’t touch anything.”
“How am I to watch them if there’s no light?” he asked, putting his hands on his hips.
I glanced up to the ceiling rafters. “Light a candle. There’s one on the table here.”
“I’m not allowed to use matches.”
With a sigh, I put down my instrument, set a candle on the workbench next to the mice with a little more force than needed, and lit it. “Now. Leave. Me. Alone.”
The boy blinked rapidly a few times, but he bobbed his head without another word.
I stomped back and continued my practicing. Halfway through my first effort, Trevor was by my side.
“I told you not to interrupt me.”
“But—”
“If you don’t quit bothering me—”
“But the horses.”
I paused. “What about them?”
“They’re making quite a racket. There was a fire once in a carriage house not far from our home in London. A horse was caught inside. It made a terrible sound. Can’t you hear them?”
Another pause as I listened. With the workshop now quiet, I could hear stomping and loud whinnying. While I doubted the barn was on fire, the disturbance was unusual.
I picked up the lantern. “Come along.”
Stepping outside, I studied the structure. No flames were visible. In fact, the darkened outline in the moonlight showed nothing out of the ordinary. With the horses still making a commotion, I crossed the wide space to the barn door at a fast clip and pulled it open without much thought. I shone the light into the building. Trevor caught up to me just as I illuminated a form on the barn floor.
A man lay face down in the straw-strewn earth.
My cousin drew in his breath.
“Is he…is he…dead?” he asked barely above a whisper.
I turned to him. Despite the lantern’s amber hue, I could tell he’d paled at the scene before us.
“I’m sure he’s just unconscious,” I said. “But we need help. Run back to the house and tell my mother to please come to the barn with her medicine bag. There appears to be an injured man here.”
He continued to stare into the building, his breathing rapid and shallow.
I stepped in front of him, blocking his view and spoke sharply. “Trevor. Go. Get. My. Mother.”
This time, he focused on me and nodded, taking two steps backward before turning and running toward the house.
As soon as he was out of sight, I stepped into the barn, closing the door behind me. For whatever reason, the horses had calmed, and I could focus on the man. Taking slow, steady steps, I approached the prone figure with caution, as if I expected him to suddenly rise and speak to me. No movement came from the man, and my instincts told me he was no longer capable of any.
With a swallow, I placed my hand on the man’s shoulder and gave it a little shake. No response. I placed my hand below his nose. No breath passed across my palm.
He was most certainly dead.
Having decided he was beyond hope, I studied the area about him, searching for any sign of how he died.
No blood was visible on him or the ground. Any additional search would require my moving him.
My stomach roiled. Living in the country, one often had opportunities to come across dead animals. I’d been hunting enough to have even caused the demise of more than one. But I’d never touched a dead human. Of course, I’d touched the man briefly, but to check if he were still alive. It was altogether a different situation knowing the man was no more. The vicar, I was certain, would feel compelled to say or do something to show some sort of respect for the man. I could conjure no such words, and I had only a few more moments before everyone would arrive and my opportunity to find any hint as to what had happened would disappear.
I touched the man’s shoulder again and jerked it back as if burned. Even through the jacket, I could still feel the man’s warmth, as if he were only asleep.
Licking my lips, I put my hands on his shoulder and forearm, took a deep breath, and pulled hard to turn him onto his side, to expose his face. I confirmed I didn’t recognize the man. His odd pants were also quite visible. Much more colorful and loose than those worn by any of the laborers or others in the area.
Gypsy pants.
But a quick glance at his hands didn’t suggest the nomadic tradesmen. The backs were too smooth. His collar in front was pulled—or pushed—down and revealed white skin underneath. Like Colonel Williams, he had been out in a sun stronger than that found in England but wasn’t born with the olive-toned skin of the Romani. And while his face had a stubbly beard, it also lacked the length or fullness I associated with those who had passed through our village.
Whoever the man was, he wasn’t as he appeared.
My next thought was to go through the man’s pockets to see if their contents would provide some information. Blinking twice, I prepared to touch him again. I raised my hand but stopped as the sound of running feet—many more than just the pair of one person—approached the barn.
I spun about and stood next to the dead man to await the others.
To my surprise, Colonel Williams entered first. He stood just inside the entrance and stared around him, studying the darkened corners outside the circle of lantern light. Father, Mr. Moto, and Uncle Ernest followed him. The colonel’s wary stance must have put them all on alert. Instead of rushing to the body, they formed a line across the door and studied the area as well.
Mycroft’s absence was immediately apparent to me, but I decided he might have volunteered to stay with the women. With the exception of my mother, none of them came into the barn. Mother pushed through the men and knelt next to the body, placing her valise of medical supplies next to her.
After a very cursory inspection, she rocked back on her heels. “I had no need to bring my bag. He’s quite dead.”
“I’ll send Simpson for the constable and the surgeon.” Father turned to go in search of our steward.
“I don’t see the need for the surgeon,” Williams said. “If he’s dead—”
Father spun back around to face our guest. “A death has occurred. As justice of the peace, I need to assure protocol is followed. I suppose I should also stay here to make sure nothing’s disturbed.”
He glanced about, I assumed to identify someplace to sit. Nothing immediately stood out to me other than the floor. The image of my proper father, dressed for dinner, sitting on the stable’s dirt floor would’ve made me laugh had the situation not been so gruesome.
Rising, Mother said, “I’ll bring some refreshment and join you, perhaps a blanket as well.”
We all moved to the door, preparing to return to the house, when a scream compelled us outside and toward two struggling figures. Father had had the forethought of grabbing the lantern as he exited and now held it high to illuminate the area.
I wasn’t the only one to gasp when we saw Miss Meredith’s maid squirming in Mr. Simpson’s arms.
“Caught her whilst she was running away,” he said.
In the light, the saffron skirt of Miss Meredith’s maid appeared less bright but still quite recognizable under a traveling cloak. While she continued to struggle in her captor’s grasp, the cloak’s hood fell back to reveal her head and face.
Uncle Ernest stared at her.
“Susheela?” he asked, barely above a whisper.
The woman froze, as did the rest of us.
The colonel was the first to move. He stepped to my uncle’s side and placed a hand on his shoulder. “No, old friend,” the soldier said. “Not Susheela. Her daughter.”
Father’s gaze shifted between my uncle and the woman before turning to Simpson. “Let go of the woman a
nd take a horse from the barn to fetch the constable and Mr. Harvingsham. Do not go near the body you’ll find there.”
Simpson released his grip on the maid, but only after giving her a scowl. With a nod of his head to excuse himself, he trotted off to the barn as if the notion of a body there was an everyday occurrence.
“I suggest we all retire to the parlor. I’m sure the constable will want to speak to us,” Mother said. “I’ll ask Cook to prepare some tea for everyone.”
Father nodded to us and turned back to the stables. The rest of us followed Mother toward the house—except for Uncle Ernest, who still seemed immobilized by the identity of Miss Meredith’s maid.
The colonel turned and spoke to him. “Ernie, old boy, come along. I’ll explain it inside.”
At that order, my uncle shook himself as if waking from a dream. The colonel waved a hand to send the two ladies and Mr. Moto ahead. He, my uncle, and I followed behind them.
At the back door, I glanced over my shoulder to the structure that now sheltered the second dead person to be found on our property in so short a time and sighed. After the problems my family had had resolving the last murder, I wondered if Constable Gibbons and Mr. Harvingsham, the surgeon, would be up to the task of solving this current death.
Chapter Two
When I entered, Mother stopped me as I passed. “I need your help for a moment. Come with me to the kitchen.”
Outside of everyone’s view, she stopped in the passageway leading to the kitchen and sent a maid to fetch Cook.
Turning to me, she said, “After the others are in the parlor, I’m going to ask you to help me carry things out to the barn. We know from experience that Gibbons and Harvingsham miss things. I want us to have some time to search before they arrive. Did you notice anything about the man before we reached you?”
“He’s no gypsy.”
She nodded, biting her lip. “And quite recently deceased. His body was still warm.”
I forced aside a shudder as I recalled a similar observation when I touched him.
She cocked her head and shook it. “What I’m not sure of is the cause. I need a chance to study the man more closely—”
“Ma’am,” Cook said, stepping toward us, “you sent for me?”
“I’m afraid there’s been an…incident. In the barn. The constable’s been called. He’ll want to speak to our guests. Please have some tea brought to the parlor while we wait. But first prepare a basket with some tea and sandwiches and a blanket for me to take to Mr. Holmes while he waits in the barn.”
Once Cook had left, Mother waved her hand toward the front of the house. “Let’s learn more about the young woman Simpson caught outside. It’s quite possible one of our guests knows more than we think.”
My lips pulled tight into a line as the gravity of her remark came home. The hairs along my spine prickled from my neck to my tailbone. Three new guests arrived and now a dead man. Was one of them—or someone else under our roof—a murderer?
As I had deduced, Mycroft had remained in the parlor with my aunt and Miss Meredith. He now shifted about in a chair, studying the toes of his polished boots and sneaking a peek at our young guest every once in a while. The three must have been informed of the discovery in the barn because Miss Meredith kept blinking as if keeping some sort of shock at bay, while Aunt Iris fanned herself.
“I’m so grateful I sent Trevor upstairs,” she said. “Imagine finding that…that…that in the barn. Why the governess allowed him to leave at this hour and in this cold, I don’t understand. The poor boy is truly shaken. I’m sure he’ll have nightmares. I’m so glad Sherlock is sharing a room with him. The governess is to sit with him until Sherlock goes upstairs, which I suggest he should do immediately. He must be experiencing a similar shock.”
I’d opened my mouth to point out I’d seen—and been through—worse. Not to mention being Trevor’s nursemaid wasn’t exactly my responsibility, but Mother broke in before I could.
“I appreciate your concern, Iris. But Sherlock was the one who found the b…man. Constable Gibbons will have questions for him, I’m sure. I don’t see, though, why you would need to remain. You seem quite upset. I’ll have Cook send you up something to calm you.”
My aunt straightened her back, probably preparing for additional protest, but, after a pause, seemed to accept my mother’s dismissal and excused herself.
After she left, my uncle turned to Colonel Williams and Miss Meredith’s maid.
“First things, first. What is Susheela’s daughter doing here? And why is she disguised as your niece’s maid?”
“Please, sir, if I may. I am Chanda.” The woman brought her two hands together. “My mother had been in touch with Colonel Williams, and after she met with an unfortunate accident—”
Ernest cut her off. “She’s dead.” A statement, not a question.
“I am sorry to share the news this way,” she said, her eyes shimmering. “Let me assure you, she held you in her heart until her last breath. She was also loyal to your countrymen, and that is where our troubles began—”
“Who’s this Susheela?” Mycroft asked.
“I-I knew her in India. A daughter of a maharaja. We were…” My uncle swallowed. “We were…” His voice trailed off, unable to complete the sentence.
Mother stepped to his side and placed a hand on his arm. “Dearest brother. Two shocks at once—the loss of a love and the arrival of her daughter.”
My chest tightened, cutting off my breath. I knew of Susheela—not her name until now, just of her existence—and could tell how deep his loss ran even after all these years.
The colonel broke in, clearing his throat before taking over his friend’s story. “Susheela had been married off to a prince near the western border some years ago. Recently, the Russians have been active in that region, trying to convince the maharajas to sign treaties with them. Chanda’s father was one leaning toward supporting them. Susheela, at great risk to herself, sent word of the Russians’ activities. The prince learned of the betrayal and had her—” The colonel paused, glanced first at Chanda and then my uncle, and coughed before continuing. “She passed away.”
“Loyal to the queen until the end,” Chanda said. “Before she gave up her earthly vessel, she passed me a letter as proof of my father’s betrayal. I managed to escape my home with it and share it with your countrymen. My life was at risk as well, and I feared remaining in the country. The colonel offered to help me leave India.”
“Despite being a rajkumari, a princess, she humbled herself and posed as my maid to hide her identity,” Meredith said, bidding the woman to sit next to her on a settee. When the two were side by side, she took her “maid’s” hand and patted it. “When we arrived in England, we learned her departure had been discovered.”
“We needed a safe place to hide until we could determine what to do next. I thought of you, Ernie,” the colonel said. “I do hope you won’t share this with the authorities. No need for those outside this room to know our true purpose here.”
Mother studied her brother and our guests for a moment and frowned. “I’m afraid I must tell Mr. Holmes, but I think I can convince him that, for everyone’s safety, it is best to keep Miss Chanda’s identity private for the moment.” With a final glance at our guests, she continued. “I’m going to carry some things to Mr. Holmes. Sherlock, Mycroft, if you will please assist me with—”
“Might I stay?” Mycroft asked. His rather abrupt response was followed by a scarlet hue creeping up his neck. “I can see to some refreshments—”
“I’ve already made those arrangements, but I suppose if you wish…” Her voice trailed off as Mycroft glanced across the room in Miss Meredith’s direction and then quickly away. Mother’s mouth turned up just a little—something I doubted anyone outside of the family would have detected. “If you’ll excuse us, then, we’ll see to Mr. Holmes’s comfort.”
As soon as we entered the barn, Father strode forward, blocking us from entering f
arther. Without thought, I took a step back, putting my mother between him and me.
“Mrs. Holmes, I must insist Sherlock be sent back to the house. This is hardly the place for him.”
“It is exactly the place,” Mother said, crossing her arms across her chest. “We need to know what he saw and heard to direct our investigation before the constable arrives. This man is not as he appears, and neither are Ernest’s guests.”
Father’s mouth dropped open as Mother shared what the colonel had told us.
After Mother finished, however, he straightened his spine and said, “For everyone’s safety, I suppose we can keep Chanda’s identity from Gibbons—at least temporarily. I don’t see how something that happened in India would be relevant here. Similarly, we aren’t going to get involved in Gibbons’s business. As a justice of the peace, I can’t allow it. We don’t need the constable to accuse anyone in the family of obstructing justice or, worse, murder.”
My stomach lurched. Would Gibbons accuse me? After all, I did find the gypsy. Similar circumstances were the basis of my mother’s arrest for the murder of the midwife.
“All the more reason for us to determine what he knew and saw before the constable arrives,” she said, meeting her husband’s gaze with a steady one of her own.
Holding my breath, I observed my parents. Rarely did they confront each other in such an open conflict of wills. Father, however, was the first to sigh and shake his head.
“I suppose we could at least establish what we know to ensure Gibbons doesn’t make a mess of things.”
“Sherlock,” she said, turning to me, “tell us what happened.”
The Adventure of the Murdered Gypsy Page 3
