“Where do you want me to start?” I asked.
“Let’s begin with where you were,” he said.
Easy enough.
“Uncle Ernest’s workshop. I’d gone out there with Trevor. To practice my Christmas pieces.”
Father nodded and asked, “And what called you to the stables?”
With the proper prompt, I was able to quickly summarize Trevor’s role in alerting me to the noise in the barn and our investigation of it.
“You saw no one, heard nothing on the way here?”
I shook my head in response.
He turned his attention to my mother. “Were you able to observe anything when you examined the man?”
“I saw nothing to suggest what caused his death. I don’t suspect poison. We’ve identified telltale signs from Ernest’s experiments with mice. I saw no spittle or signs of a seizure.”
Father turned, I assumed to conduct an additional reconnaissance of the area. He’d barely made it to the gate of the first stall when the door opened, letting in a blast of air that stirred the hay strewn about the floor. All three of us watched Mr. Harvingsham, the village surgeon, push the door closed and face us.
“Good evening,” he said with a slight bow. He slapped his gloved hands together before speaking again. “I met Simpson on the road. I was coming back from visiting the Bemchleys. The elder Bemchley has a bad cough. Could be pneumonia. In any case, the man said I was to go straight to your house. Mrs. Simpson sent me out here. Do you have a sick hor—?”
He stopped midsentence when Mother and I parted for him to see the man on the floor.
“Good lord, who’s that? Was he kicked by an animal?”
“From what we can tell, no,” Father said, his mouth pulling down. “Which is why we sent for you, to determine if the coroner must be called in.”
At the word “coroner,” Mr. Harvingsham’s mouth turned down, as if recognizing the gravity of the matter.
“In that case, I’ll get to it.” He stepped forward, then stopped before passing me and Mother. “I would think the procedure might be too harsh for… Wouldn’t this best be conducted in private?”
Mother’s mouth flattened to a straight line at the surgeon’s reference to our presence. As much as I’d wanted to remain and hear what he found, one glance at Father’s pointed gaze indicated Mother and I were no longer welcome.
Somehow, Mother managed to push her lips into a smile and held out the basket with the food and blankets she had brought with her. “I’m not sure how relevant these are with Mr. Harvingsham arriving so quickly, but I’ll leave them for you regardless. We’ll see you back at the house, Mr. Holmes. Good evening, Mr. Harvingsham.”
As we trudged back to the house, Mother muttered more to herself than to me, “Good thing I had a chance to examine the man earlier. At least I’ll know what he gets wrong.”
The ensuing hour involved sitting in a rather awkward silence, the time marked by the ticking clock on the mantel and the tea growing cold, as it remained untouched in most of the cups. Mother made no attempt to engage the others in conversation, her silence most likely reflecting her review of what she had observed in her brief examination of the dead man or stewing over her exile from the barn. Mycroft, never the greatest conversationalist, remained withdrawn, his attention on his shoes. Even Uncle Ernest, so boisterous at the dinner table when conversing with his friend, remained subdued.
About half an hour after the surgeon’s arrival, Constable Gibbons appeared and was sent straight to the barn. If I hadn’t been as curious as my mother about the observations of the three men out there, I might have begged off and gone to the third floor. Trevor’s incessant questions might have proved a relief from the parlor’s stifling atmosphere.
When a pair of footfalls finally echoed outside the parlor, the entire room seemed to straighten to attention. All heads turned in unison to the door when Father entered, followed by the constable.
“Gibbons, you know my family,” Father said in the same grave voice he used when he presided over his court.
After my father presented the others in the room, Gibbons glanced about and said, “Normally, I would speak to each of you individually, learn your whereabouts when the boy found the b—man. But Mr. Holmes has assured me you were all inside, except for the boy here and you.”
His gaze fell on Chanda. She raised her chin, as if daring him to question her. Instead, he turned to face me.
“I need to ask you some questions, since you found, er…him. I’m to use Mr. Holmes’s office.”
I took a step toward the door but stopped when Mother spoke up.
“I insist his father and I be present when you interrogate Sherlock.”
My stomach squeezed at the word “interrogate,” and I was grateful dinner had passed a few hours ago. Interview or even question didn’t carry the harshness of interrogate. Was he considering me a suspect? How could he? As a boy of thirteen, I could hardly murder a grown man. A wave of fear swept through me, and it was all I could do to keep my knees from knocking.
“She’s right,” Father said. “As an officer of the court, I’ve observed countless witness interviews. This isn’t any different.”
“But he’s your son.” Gibbons peered at me, then my mother and finally at my father where he stood off to the left. Throwing up his arms, he said, “Fine. Let’s all interview him, shall we? It’s rounding toward midnight, and I would like a few hours of sleep before morning.”
Father’s office reflected his position as country squire. Wood paneling gave it a dark, solemn air. The large desk was centered in front of a many-paned window at the far wall. The Holmes family crest adorned the middle pane. My father’s two additions to the room were the display cases holding his insect collection along the right wall and the stacks of papers in orderly columns on the desk. The left wall held a fireplace with several armchairs arranged around it. When Trevor called the men to the barn, they must have left their cigars in the ashtrays. The smoke and aroma still hung in the air, although none still burned.
When we stepped in, Gibbons glanced about and pointed to one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. I took the seat and my parents arranged themselves one on each side of me. The constable stood between me and the fireplace and pulled out a pad and pencil.
“Let’s start at the beginning. Where were you before you went to the barn?”
“My uncle’s workshop.”
From there he asked me about what had compelled me to go to the stables, how I had found the man, if I had touched him, and what I had done while waiting for the others. After a good thirty minutes of this back and forth, he finally waved a hand, shooing me from the room.
When I stood to leave, he turned to my mother. “I would like to have a word with Squire Holmes alone, if you please.”
I could almost hear my mother’s spine stiffen. For the second time this evening, she’d been dismissed from any discussion about the dead man.
Father must have noticed her resentment because he said, “I’ll speak with you right after this.”
I followed her out, my distaste for the constable and pity for my mother both growing greater. While my mother had no standing when it came to the investigation of this crime, or any other, she was well-read in human anatomy and had heard my father discuss the cases appearing before him for more than twenty years. To be sent out like her son, the schoolboy, was certainly a slap in the face.
As we exited the office, Ernest stuck his head out of the parlor door. “Violette, everyone is asking how much longer. They are all getting quite tired.”
“I’m afraid I have no indications from the constable about his plans. Perhaps he will—”
Before she could complete the thought, Gibbons and Father joined us in the hallway. Gibbons crossed into the parlor and spoke to all assembled. “I believe I have all the information I need for now. I’ll be coming back in the morning when everyone is fresh.”
“Surely you can share some informatio
n with us?” Mycroft asked. “For example, who is he?”
“All we can say for certain is he’s not from around here. Neither Squire Holmes nor Mr. Harvingsham recognize him. He was dressed like a gypsy—maybe part of the group that arrived a few days ago and are camping near the village. But he’s not one of them. All the wrong color for that. It could be a disguise he’s using to hide among them. I’ll check that out.” He cleared his throat and glanced at my father. “On the off chance one of you might know him after you get a good look at him, Squire Holmes has agreed to allow you all, guests and servants, to view the face. Now if you consider your stomach too delicate for such a task, stay inside. Some of my men will be bringing him ’round to a wagon. We’ll be checking with the gypsies on the way to the village to see if they claim him.”
I considered crying off, using the excuse that I’d already had a chance to do more than glance at the man and knew I didn’t recognize him. When none offered to leave, not even Miss Meredith, I paused before speaking up. Why would a young lady be willing to view the man? At that point, I decided to stay and focus on the reaction of the others.
After a moment, Gibbons waved his arm toward the parlor door. “Follow me.”
We regathered in an awkward semicircle on the house’s front drive, around the cart, waiting for the corpse’s arrival. To get a view of all the guests’ reactions to the man’s face, I chose a place at the end farthest from the wagon. One of the constable’s officers sat on its front seat, holding the horses’ reins tightly as they stamped their feet on the drive’s stony surface and snorted foggy clouds from their nostrils. After a moment, we all turned toward the sound of shuffling footsteps as four officers came around the barn side of the house carrying a canvas litter with a blanket-covered form weighing it down.
As the men reached our group, Gibbons ordered them to stop and bobbed his head to one side. His man lifted the blanket, and the constable held a lantern close to illuminate the face. I quickly studied the expressions of each of the assembled as he did so. To my disappointment, none of them gasped or drew back in horror. The only movement any of them made was a shake of their head, indicating no knowledge of his identity.
I checked to see if Mother had observed what I had. To my surprise, I found her still on the steps leading to the front door, her attention focused elsewhere. Following her gaze, I saw a figure in a window of the schoolroom on the third floor. Before I could make out the form, the curtain dropped. Other than the silhouette being too tall for Trevor, I wasn’t even certain whether it was a man or woman.
The constable’s loud sigh called me back to the dead man, and he signaled his men to load the stretcher onto the wagon.
Once the task was finished, he turned to address us. “I’ll be back to speak to each of you. For the time being, I will request you remain here until we determine none of you is involved.”
“But I have obligations,” Mr. Moto said, alarm in his voice.
His protest took me by surprise. As inscrutable as the Asians are reputed to be, this man’s darting gaze—to the constable, to the wagon now lumbering toward the road, and back—and stiff back suggested concern beyond staying an extra day or two at Underbyrne.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to adjust your obligations,” Gibbons said, his voice tinged with a bit of contempt.
The rest of our guests all seemed to display an unease similar to my baritsu instructor’s. The colonel, however, stepped forward, pulling himself to full attention and peering at the constable as if he were a new recruit.
“For what purpose? None of us was in the barn. You aren’t suggesting we will be held here against our will?”
The constable straightened his back as well, and I feared the two might come to blows. I released my breath when Father spoke in a calm, formal manner.
“It shouldn’t be for long. This has been a trying evening for all of us. I suggest we all retire. Things will appear different tomorrow, in the light of day.” Father waved his hand toward the entrance and directed all to pass inside.
Allowing the adults to pass first, I took up the rear. Father had remained just inside the foyer, and as I passed him, he put a hand on my arm to pull me aside, next to my brother and mother.
Both he and Mother were watching our guests ascend the stairs to the bedrooms, and I took a cue from them. In the stronger light of the foyer and with my uncle and the colonel for comparison, I realized Miss Meredith stood as tall as the men—something not apparent when she’d been seated. In contrast, Chanda created a much more diminutive figure. About halfway up the stairs, the smaller woman paused and glanced at the front door. As if in a trance, she clutched at her chest before shuddering and resuming her ascent.
Mother made a small sound in the back of her throat, and my stomach tightened. What had the woman’s action told my mother? After each bedroom door opened and shut upstairs, Mother tipped her head toward the office, and we followed her there, my father quietly locking us in.
Mycroft was the first to take a seat, settling into one of the chairs by the fire.
I studied him for a moment as he stared into the flames dancing about the logs. He seemed more relaxed now that it was just the four of us, but still, he remained distant, preoccupied in a manner I’d never observed before.
“I wanted to speak with you to warn you all not to interject yourself in this investigation,” Father said.
“I don’t see how we can avoid it,” Mother said, running her hands down the front of her skirt. “Once again, a murder has been discovered on our property, and once again, someone in the household will be accused of the crime. The scandal—”
“Need not concern us this time. Gibbons has assured me he’ll not be arresting anyone in the family. His theory at the moment is the man had some sort of falling out with those in the gypsy camp. The man couldn’t have been part of their tribe and most likely had been paying them to hide out in their company. Gibbons figures he was some fugitive and will send his description to other parishes. He thinks the man was deposited in the barn to throw suspicion away from the camp.”
“No,” Mother said, shaking her head. “He was murdered nearby and only a little bit before Sherlock found him. He was still warm. In the middle of winter.”
“Gibbons figures he was wrapped in a blanket or two to hide him. He found no sign of a struggle.”
“Did Harvingsham note he was strangled? I examined his eyes when I checked for signs of life. There were small hemorrhages, indicating strangulation. After the man expired, the killer could have swept the floor around the body. Easy enough to remove any footprints or scuff marks.”
“I asked Harvingsham about strangulation, but he said there were no marks about the neck. He was most likely poisoned.”
Another sniff. “Check with Ernest. We have yet to find a poison capable of causing the petechiae I observed.”
“Let it go, Mrs. Holmes,” Father said with a sigh. “The constable and surgeon are satisfied the man was attacked elsewhere and brought here. We are able to account for the whereabouts of all in the household. They could not be involved. I see no reason for us to be further concerned with the matter.”
While Mother had made quite compelling arguments regarding Gibbons’s and Harvingsham’s conclusions, Father had made it clear the Holmes family had “no horse in the race,” as Mr. Simpson would say. All the same, she’d aroused my curiosity, and I wouldn’t be able to let it go any more than I was certain my mother could.
I needed some place to think.
The schoolroom.
Because I had been banished to the third floor anyway, I had to make no excuse for continuing up the stairs when we all filed out of the office. Bypassing the nursery, I continued to the next room.
Taking a seat at the teacher’s desk, I opened a drawer to remove some paper before recalling Trevor and Miss Bowen used the room as well. No need to have them find a record of my thoughts. I took out a slate instead. Easier to erase.
I rolled the pie
ce of chalk in my hand, its dusty fragrance coating my palm while the board’s clean surface mocked me. What to write?
I remembered Mother’s thoughts when our family had sought to identify who was behind the village midwife’s death, to consider the problem logically. Like a mathematics equation where one identified the known and unknown elements.
One set of knowns were all those present at the time of the gypsy’s death. After listing my family, I moved on to the servants and, lastly, our guests. My writing gathered speed as I felt I was accomplishing something.
Next, common denominators.
Location seemed relevant, so I rearranged the list as to where they were when the gypsy had been attacked.
Trevor and I had been in my uncle’s workshop, the women in the parlor, the men in the library, and the servants going about their business, which I identified as best I could.
Before I could consider another classification, someone spoke from the classroom doorway.
“Why are you practicing your letters at this hour?” Trevor asked.
He rubbed his eye with his fist and moved to the desk to glance over my shoulder.
I shifted the slate to the other side and asked, “Why are you still up? Aunt Iris and Miss Bowen are going to be very cross with you.”
“I tried to sleep, but when I close my eyes…”
The scolding I prepared to give him stuck in my throat when I observed he was unable to finish his sentence. As much as I had tried to keep him from viewing the man in the barn, I knew I hadn’t succeeded. The nightmares I had experienced after being held at rifle-point only a few months ago had haunted me for weeks. Thank goodness for the laudanum that kept them at bay when they became too severe.
He took a deep breath and set his gaze on me. “I think I might be able to sleep if there were someone with me. But Miss Bowen left when she thought I was asleep.”
“I can’t go to bed until I finish what I’m doing.”
The list would be on my mind until I did.
“Why’s my name there?” he asked, pointing over my shoulder.
The Adventure of the Murdered Gypsy Page 4
