“Quite right,” Father said with a nod.
“I would suggest we all get some sleep before it is time to rise. You in particular, Sherry, dear. You appear quite done in.”
With that dismissal, I left them to any further discussions, but knew as I dragged myself up the stairs to the third floor, I would not go directly to bed. Mother was quite right in describing me as “done in.” The lack of sleep and exposure to the cold had sapped my strength. But I had one more thing to do before retiring.
Chapter Five
Back on the third floor, I returned to the schoolroom, closing the door before moving to the teacher’s desk, where I lit the lamp. I shone it about the room, seeking some indication of what the man had been doing there before going outside. Recalling the thump, I focused on the books scattered about the desks, bookcase, and cabinets.
At first glance, an inspection of all the volumes housed there seemed an impossible task, but I found myself invigorated at the prospect, despite the hour and lack of sleep. My mind whirled with the anticipation of discovering what had caused the mysterious sound. But where to begin?
Once again, I drew on Mother’s admonition to examine a problem logically. Recalling the sound, I listed its characteristics. It had been substantial enough to carry through the door, but not so great as that made by a large volume. The object also had to have fallen from a height great enough to hit with some force.
Starting at the teacher’s desk at the front of the room, I moved toward the back, checking each site with a book. About halfway through the room, I caught sight of the edge of a book on the windowsill. A curtain drawn across the window half-concealed it. The placement called my attention because my parents had my brother and me well trained to treat books with a type of respect. Leaving it by the window might expose it to the elements and damage it in some way.
I picked up the volume, recognizing it as one of the primers I used with Constance. It must have fallen off a desk. I turned to resume my search when I noticed a spot of wax on its cover. I might not to recall details as minutely as Mycroft, but I knew the book hadn’t had the spot the last time I used it.
Pulling back the curtain, I discovered a small puddle of wax on the sill. The scenario seemed clear. The man I’d followed had signaled someone from the window and then gone out to meet them in the woods.
I considered those in the house and eliminated most of the servants and my family. That left only…
Colonel Williams.
I remembered then he was the first to arrive at the barn the night the man died. Then there was his interest in the secret message in the newspaper and now his nocturnal wanderings. All facts at this point indicated the colonel was not all he presented. I vowed, then, to keep him under observation until all was explained.
I yawned and realized I needed at least a few hours’ sleep before church. I couldn’t very well fall asleep during Constance’s public debut. With a final glance at the window, I blew out the lamp and went to bed.
Trevor woke me following what seemed only a moment of sleep.
“Did you see it?” he asked when I cracked my eyes open. “The ghost?”
“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” I said and rolled over, shutting my eyes. A moment later, I sat up in bed. “What do you mean ‘did I see the ghost’?”
“I heard you last night. First you got up, then the ghost went down the hallway. Then, I heard you go down the stairs. You were gone ever so long, and I was afraid the ghost got you. I-I followed you to the kitchen, but it was cold, and I was afraid the ghost might come back, so I tried to hide in the pantry. But I knocked over something and it made a big crash. I thought for sure someone heard me, so I ran back upstairs. I tried to stay awake until you came back, but I fell asleep. I was ever so happy to see you this morning.”
I wanted to ask him more about what he’d seen and heard last night, not to mention admonish him for following me and possibly putting himself in danger, but Miss Bowen interrupted the conversation.
“Trevor, your mother wants you to be fed and dressed within the hour. And, Master Sherlock, I’m sure your mother expects you to be ready for services as well.”
I would have leaped from my bed had Miss Bowen not been standing there. After all, it was unseemly for a woman to see me in nightclothes.
As soon as Trevor’s governess left the room, I threw back the covers and rushed about to join my family for our weekly duties.
Of all the celebrations in the liturgical calendar, my favorite was Advent. The whole period was more festive, less somber, and filled with a sense of joy and anticipation. On this particular day, however, I found myself shifting in my seat, unable to repress my impatience with one of Reverend Adams’s more elaborate homilies. I only stopped when I saw movement in the choir loft, and Constance stepped to the corner of the stalls to face the congregation. The organ groaned to life and wheezed out the first few chords of “Adeste Fideles.”
Her voice rose clear and sweet. My stomach quivered as I watched those around me raise their heads as well, smiles creeping across their faces. The organ swelled as Constance began the final stanza, and her voice grew with it. The last chord held its note for an extra beat and then silence. The whole church remained quiet while the click of Constance’s heels and the rustle of her skirts echoed throughout the chapel as she took her seat. The vicar broke the spell, raising his arms to call all to kneel for prayer.
In the churchyard following the service, well-wishers crowded about Constance and her father. Excusing myself from my family, I pushed through the crowd to reach her side. Along the way, I caught snippets of compliments about her and her voice. Not long ago, I had overheard some much-less-favorable assessments of the whole Straton family. After the death of his wife, Mr. Straton had taken to drink and neglected his children. Constance had held the family together, but only through some less-than-legal activities. While it thrilled me to hear this shift in public opinion toward her, I felt something slipping from me at the same time. Her talent had been a secret. True, she’d sung on street corners for pennies, but this appearance in church highlighted her talent before the whole village. The performance cut a secret bond with her I hadn’t even known existed until I lost it.
I pushed down my regret to give her a smile when I reached her. She wrapped her arms about my neck and squeezed tightly.
“Isn’t this grand?” she asked in my ear.
Overwhelmed with elation, and at the same time a sense of loss, I could only nod.
Behind her, a man cleared his throat, and I glanced up to see her father’s scowling face. I gently pushed myself free of her embrace and held her at arm’s length.
“It was perfect,” I said.
Her father placed his hands on her shoulders. “That it was. We are most grateful for all the help you and your mother have given her.”
His focus shifted to someone over my shoulder, and I saw Mother and Father making their way to my side.
Mother must have caught his remark because when she stepped nearer, she said, “Hers is the talent. We only assisted in refining it.”
“Mrs. Holmes has assured me she will continue to work with her after Sherlock returns to school,” Father said.
“Yes,” Mother said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “I hope to increase her repertoire. Perhaps some Verdi. She has a lovely soprano.”
“Oh, thank you, ma’am,” Constance said. She shifted on her feet and turned to her father. “We need to be goin.’ The little ones will be wantin’ their Sunday supper.”
“Yes, love. I’ll take you home.” He turned to my father. “With your permission. I’ll take the cart and horse back to the stables in a bit.”
We watched while they moved to the waiting cart, accepting a few more comments along the way.
When the crowd dissipated, Father turned to me. “Your efforts with the girl produced excellent results. Good job.”
He slapped my shoulder, and warmth spread throughout my body from where he�
��d touched me despite the winter breeze. My father’s praise was sparse and not given lightly. This recognition, however, didn’t dispel my anxiety about the shift in my relationship with Constance.
The conversation among the family on the way home only reinforced my concerns.
“It’s a pity,” Aunt Iris said, “the girl doesn’t have more breeding. She has the air of a peasant about her.”
“Manners can be taught,” Mother said. “She might not be able to make up for her humble beginnings, but they can be corrected. She is a quick learner and quite clever. I’ve considered making her my personal maid to provide her additional instruction on proper etiquette.”
My aunt sniffed, signaling to all she wasn’t convinced such instruction was possible. For myself, Mother’s announcement left me speechless. I had no idea she had considered making such an offer to my friend. While it did afford Constance some opportunities currently not available to her, including a better wardrobe and more training on proper conduct, it also clearly distinguished her social level from mine—hers, servant; mine, gentry. I recalled my conversation with Mother in the greenhouse and wondered if the plan was to elevate Constance or to reinforce the differences between us.
Mycroft and I had been instructed to discreetly join Mother in her sitting room after luncheon, which seemed to drag on forever. The effort to converse on items of little import but appropriate for polite company made the whole meal tedious for me. Mother frowned at me more than once when a sigh escaped before I caught myself. Of course, Mycroft displayed the same disinterest in everything except making discreet glances in Miss Meredith’s direction whenever possible.
When everyone finally rose from the table, Trevor approached me about the game of chess we had yet to play.
“I can’t,” I said. “I have something to do.”
“Can I help you?” He fairly bounced from one foot to the other with eagerness.
“Not this time. Ask Miss Bowen if she can play with you.”
In the next moment, he turned serious, dropping his head. “I don’t like playing with her. She always lets me win.” He raised his gaze to mine. “I know you wouldn’t do that.”
He was certainly right about that. As far as I could remember, not once had anyone in the household ever given any quarter during a match, and I wasn’t even sure I’d know how to do so.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught my mother drifting up the stairs to her bedroom. Finally, after a discreet interval, I was expected to do the same. With Trevor following me, however, a prudent retreat wasn’t going to be possible.
“I-I have to go to the workshop. To help Uncle Ernest with something. When I get through, we’ll see about the chess game.”
The boy’s chest rose and fell with a deep sigh, and I rushed off toward the back of the house before he could ask if he could accompany me there as well. Once out of his sight, I took the servant stairs up to the second floor and knocked on Mother’s door. She opened it enough to let me slip through and secured it behind me with the key.
Mother’s sitting room was off the bedroom she shared with Father but, as I learned later, not fitted out as most women’s sitting rooms. In addition to the obligatory fireplace and overstuffed chairs, her bookshelf housed scientific treatises and the table by the window held a microscope for her biological studies. No embroidery or other typical “feminine” pursuits on display.
Father and Mycroft were already seated around a small table near the fireplace. Weak afternoon light shone through the window. The group seemed incomplete without Uncle Ernest, but I understood Mother’s decision to exclude him at the moment. Given Ernest’s sometimes-volatile nature, his reaction to news that his plans had been stolen might cause a stir when discretion was warranted.
“I do miss the schoolroom,” Mother said as she settled into the overstuffed chair she used primarily for reading. “I found writing our observations on the blackboard quite helpful when we considered the death of Mrs. Brown.”
Mycroft raised his head. “I could fetch some paper. To take notes.”
“Not a good idea,” Father said with a shake of his head. “Who knows who might find them?”
“Unfortunately, we have to assume someone in this house is not as they present themselves. We cannot trust anyone beyond us four,” Mother said with a sigh.
I couldn’t agree more with Mother’s observation and fairly bounced in my seat to share my own discoveries about the colonel. Before I could speak up, however, she continued.
“Where shall we begin?”
“With what started this all. The man in the barn,” Father said.
Eager to redirect the conversation again, I spoke up. “Didn’t it start earlier? With Colonel Williams and Miss Meredith?”
Mycroft bristled. “I don’t see how we can include the colonel. He’s Uncle Ernest’s friend. And a military man. Certainly beyond reproach. As his niece, Miss Meredith is also above suspicion.”
“Mycroft dear,” Mother said, “I’m afraid you may not be wholly unbiased with respect to our guests. Your uncle hasn’t seen the man for years, and we have only the colonel’s word as to Miss Meredith’s identity.”
Two crimson spots formed on my brother’s cheeks, and I thought at first he was embarrassed that Mother chastised him. But he clenched his jaw before his spoke, barely keeping an even tone when he rebutted her observation.
“Now see here. We’ve no reason to question either one’s identity or integrity at the moment. And you haven’t even mentioned one other person who isn’t known to us. That maid, Chanda.”
“Quite right,” Father said. “At the moment, we truly can’t eliminate any one of the three, despite Ernest’s assurances. Easy enough to confirm Colonel Williams’s claims of recent retirement. The niece and the maid, of course, will be more difficult, but if we are able to establish the colonel’s veracity, the two women can be given more credence.”
“There is one other,” I said, and shifted in my seat when the three adults turned to me. I coughed before saying, “Miss Bowen, Trevor’s governess. He told me Aunt Iris just hired her.”
Mother smiled and said in a tone that reminded me of her corrections of my schoolwork when she wanted to avoid hurting my feelings, “I don’t believe the woman would be capable of—”
“If we can’t put Meredith above suspicion, we can’t do that for Miss Bowen,” said Mycroft, straightening in his chair. “Both are as capable.”
My parents stared at my brother for a long moment in response to his lack of etiquette. Mycroft had referenced the colonel’s niece by her first name. Such familiarity was so far out of the bounds of social convention, they had been shocked into silence—not to mention his interrupting my mother.
Finally, Father pulled on his collar and said, “I think, Son, you have a point. I will contact your Uncle Thomas about Miss Bowen’s references. It may well be she is not as she appears either.”
“Having established that all the guests who are not family may possibly be involved in some type of subterfuge,” Mother said, “we must go on to the next question. What exactly? And why?”
I shifted in my seat before directing the conversation back to my suspicions about the colonel. “I discovered something else that points to the colonel, and Mycroft knows about it.”
Having garnered my parents’ attention, I shared the information about Colonel Williams and the message discovered in The London Gazette. When I ended, both remained immobile to the point that I checked they were breathing. Mycroft, who’d been staring at the leafless branches moving in the breeze outside the room’s window during my story, was the first to speak. “I grant that such actions appear dubious, but I contend other explanations, not all disreputable, are possible.”
I stared at my brother, but he ignored my obvious reproof. While I didn’t understand his attraction to Miss Meredith, I could comprehend his defense of her integrity. But the colonel? What influence did the man hold over him? My logical, taciturn brother was becomi
ng someone unknown to me.
Father stood and pulled on his jacket to straighten it. “Corrupt or not, we certainly cannot withhold this information from Constable Gibbons. I’ll send word for him to see me tomorrow.”
My stomach sank. I had hoped to rekindle the cohesion within my family we had experienced when we solved the murder my mother had been accused of committing. Once the constable was brought in, we’d—I’d—be shut out. There remained, however, that invitation to the gypsy camp.
Before I could share that bit of news, Mother spoke up.
“Mr. Holmes, I recognize your concern about involving ourselves in what appears to be a matter for the police, but let us consider what we have to tell Gibbons at the moment. That our son observed someone making a drawing of a weapon developed by Ernest. In addition, someone appears to be passing messages through advertisements. We have no proof of the drawing, only Sherlock’s word. While we all believe him, I’m afraid the constable doesn’t have as high an opinion of our son. And as for the advertisements, they are neither illegal nor necessarily sinister. I’m afraid the man would only dismiss the information.”
Father pulled on his beard. The three of us waited for his response in such silence I could detect the rasping of his hand over the whiskers.
With a sigh, he finally asked, “What do you propose?”
“That we gather additional information, something of substance that will cause the constable to act upon what we learn. And actually, I have a plan.”
Mother and I stood outside Mr. Moto’s room on the servants’ side of the third floor. After rapping on the door to ensure he was out, she turned the knob and frowned. “It’s locked.”
Mycroft waited on the stairs between the first and second floor to run and warn us if our baritsu master returned early from his afternoon constitutional. Father was stationed on the first floor, prepared to distract him if needed.
The Adventure of the Murdered Gypsy Page 9
