The Adventure of the Murdered Gypsy

by Liese Sherwood-Fabre

  “Mummy? Are you all right?”

  At her son’s voice, she pointed a trembling finger at him. With great effort, she croaked out a command: “Get. Him. Away.”

  Father spun about and glanced first at him and then me. “Sherlock, help Trevor bring a glass of water to his mother.”

  Despite his rather commanding tone, I recognized an undercurrent of concern. This sense of urgency spurred me to race to my cousin’s side and grab his hand. The boy’s eyes were the size of saucers, and I feared he was on the verge of an emotional display even more dramatic than his mother’s.

  As I reached Trevor, Iris found her voice and babbled to my father. “It’s horrible, Siger. I’ll never be able to sleep again. That man—how could someone—?”

  Trevor turned to catch a glimpse of her, but I pulled him forward toward the kitchen. “Let’s hurry and get her the water.”

  As we turned a corner, I checked behind me. The servants continued to fan her, but Father was not at her side. She had mentioned a man. And she had obviously seen something horrible. I then recalled seeing Ernest and Williams on the left side of the greenhouse. Was she referring to one of them? And where Father had gone?

  I reprimanded myself for not going to investigate whatever called their attention. Being so focused on Aunt Iris, I’d rushed right past them. I recalled Mr. Moto’s warning about being aware. No opponent was waiting for my inattention as he had during that lesson, but all the same, I knew now the true point of interest. My aunt was secondary.

  By the time we got back, my aunt’s face had shifted from pale to bright red and her cheeks glistened from perspiration and tears. Mrs. Simpson was now standing by the woman, having taken over the fanning from one of the maids. The greenhouse doors were closed, and my father had not reappeared. The moment Trevor stepped forward with the water, his mother grabbed for him with such force the glass tipped and doused her front.

  “Oh, my son, my son,” she murmured, running her hand over his head, oblivious to the bath she’d just given herself. “Such a comfort to me. Mummy’s had a terrible fright. A terrible fright.”

  “What is it?” he asked, his voice muffled from being pressed against her bodice. “What did you see?”

  “Just a mouse,” Mrs. Simpson said before anyone else could speak. “I’m afraid it ran over her foot. That’s all.”

  Trevor managed to pull himself free from his mother’s grasp enough to raise his head. “Is that why Uncle Siger left? Is he helping them catch it?”

  Mrs. Simpson forced a smile and smoothed her hand over the boy’s head. “Exactly. We’re going to take your mother upstairs to her room. Why don’t you come with us?”

  Aunt Iris took a deep breath. “Yes. Come with Mummy.”

  Mrs. Simpson and the servants helped my aunt to her feet and led her away. Trevor, his hand still in her clenched fist, tripped along beside her. “They need to get some of Uncle Ernest’s traps. He could catch that mouse, I wager. Ask Cousin Sherlock. He knows.”

  “An excellent idea,” Mrs. Simpson said over her shoulder to him. “I’ll mention it directly.”

  Having stepped to the side to allow the group to pass, I stared at my cousin’s back wondering if he truly did believe that a mouse had frightened his mother. If so, he was terribly gullible.

  Once they rounded the corner, I moved through the greenhouse door and toward where my father, Colonel Williams, and Uncle Ernest stood in a tight circle. Their conversation was low, but due to the acoustics in the room, quite clear. They were focused on something at their feet, but at this angle, I couldn’t discern it.

  “I’m surprised Mrs. Holmes isn’t here yet,” Father said. “Probably getting something together for Iris. Although I don’t see how she’ll be needed here. It’s the constable that’s required.”

  “You say Miss Meredith was attacked too?” Ernest asked.

  Father nodded. “In the workshop.”

  The door opened, and Mother rushed past me, her medical bag once again in hand. I then knew the “something horrible” that had caused Aunt Iris’s distress involved an injury or illness. I did a quick inventory of whom I’d seen lately, and my throat closed in on itself, making it almost impossible for air to fill my lungs.

  I plunged down the center aisle toward the back door, then turned down a row running perpendicular to the one I was on. I pulled to a stop when the three men turned toward me. The colonel stepped sideways, as if to continue to obstruct my view of the dark form faceup on the floor where my mother now knelt.

  “Sherlock.”

  Father’s voice had a sharp tone to it, but I ignored the warning and dropped to my knees next to my mother at Mr. Moto’s side. The man’s mouth gaped open, and his eyes stared emptily ahead. No blood. Just like the gypsy in the stables. Bile rose in my throat, but the sensation was immediately replaced with a rush of anger so intense I dropped to my hands and knees and pounded my fists onto the boards.

  “No,” I said. “No. No.”

  Mother’s skirts rustled next to me, and I felt the weight of her hands on my shoulders. “Sherry, dear—”

  I spun about and buried my head in her lap. My litany shifted from “No” to “Why?”

  She took my chin in her hand and pushed it upward until our gazes met. “Despite his deception and thievery, I know you had viewed him as your teacher. I, too, think he didn’t deserve this death. You need to gather your emotions. The constable will be here again soon.”

  When she stood, I saw damp stains on her skirt. To my surprise, my cheeks were wet when I touched them. My focus shifted to the legs of the men behind her and trailed up to their faces. All were detached, stone-like, except for my father’s. His disapproval of my emotional display was evident even from the distance.

  I pushed myself up from the floor and turned my back on the scene, swiping at my face to clean any traces of my less-than-stoic response. Taking great gulps of air, I forced down the anger and sadness threatening a repeat of the panic I’d exhibited.

  Placing a light hand on my shoulder, Mother said in a voice just barely above a whisper, “Let’s go to the kitchen, and I’ll make you a special tea. We don’t want Trevor to see you in such a state.”

  The next hour passed in a sort of blur. Mother guided me to the kitchen, where I cleaned my face, and she prepared a strong infusion of chamomile and lemon balm for my nerves, ordering me to drink a cup and sending more upstairs for Aunt Iris and Miss Meredith. When I remained calm through these efforts, she suggested I wait in the parlor with the others for the constable and his men’s arrival, Sunday dinner now all but forgotten.

  Between the methodical clicking of the grandfather clock in the foyer and the mild sedative effect of Mother’s brew, I found myself drifting between sleep and consciousness. Mrs. Simpson did enter at some point with tea and plates of sandwiches, but few touched the food. At another point, Gibbons arrived, and a low-voiced discussion followed concerning an examination of the greenhouse and Uncle Ernest’s workshop.

  My brain jerked back to reality and full consciousness when Gibbons strode into the parlor once again to interview the family and guests. Only Aunt Iris and Miss Meredith were absent, due to prostration, and as an officer of the court, Father shared what each had told him.

  The constable pulled the pencil from his notepad. “I think I will start with your sons, Squire Holmes, as they found the two women. Shall we use your office again?”

  Once Father, Mycroft, and I were seated, Gibbons turned his attention to my brother. He repeated his report of hearing the screams, running to the workshop, and finding Chanda leaning over Miss Meredith’s prone body. When my brother finished, the constable eyed Mycroft and asked, “And just where were you when you heard the shouts?”

  “The stables. I’d gone looking for Mer—Miss Meredith.”

  The statement rolled off his tongue without hesitation. All the same, I noticed, despite his usual ability to remain inscrutable in most situations, color darkened his cheeks. Had Gibbons
noticed the flush indicating he knew more than just shared?

  “Yes.” Gibbons drawled out the word and scribbled on a pad before returning his gaze to my brother. “I understand both you and the lady were late for dinner. Disappeared.”

  “I wouldn’t say we ‘disappeared.’ Late, perhaps. Miss Meredith and I had an…appointment. To play chess. When she didn’t arrive, I went in search of her.”

  I dared not glance at my brother and focused on the fire in an effort to avoid revealing my skepticism around his story. Mycroft was very particular about his chess opponents and routinely berated females as poor competition. Either the “appointment” did not involve a game of chess or else he was willing to lower his standards to spend time with the young lady. Either way, Miss Meredith’s effect on my brother was transforming.

  “So, you went and brought the others,” he said and turned to me. “What happened then?’

  “She woke up, and she…” I paused, knowing what I was about to share would profoundly impact Chanda’s life. Recollections of visiting my mother in gaol and of the other prisoners shuffling along the corridors in complete silence sent a shiver down my spine.

  A glance at Gibbons told me he wouldn’t wait long for an answer.

  Before I could continue, Father spoke up.

  “Go on, Son. I’ve already shared what Miss Meredith told me.”

  The accusation was already out. My report would at least not be the one to send the woman to gaol. Taking a deep breath, I finished my thought on the exhale. “She said not to let Chanda near her. That she had done it.”

  The man turned to Father. “I think I should see the Indian woman now.”

  Deep creases pushed Father’s eyebrows low over his eyes. With a sigh, he waved toward the office door. “She’s waiting in the parlor.”

  “Then we are excused?” Mycroft asked, popping up from his seat.

  He hurried off as soon as Father nodded. He was already halfway up the stairs by the time I exited Father’s office behind the two men. Were either of them aware of his concern, or more accurately, his obsession, with Miss Meredith?

  Chanda perched in an overstuffed chair near the fire with Uncle Ernest and Colonel Williams on either side of her, whether to comfort or guard was unclear. Tears shimmered in her eyes, and her gaze shifted constantly, as if unable to focus on one person or object. The constable strode in, hands clasped behind his back. My uncle and his friend stood, partially blocking the woman from Gibbons’s approach and making it clear where they sided.

  Gibbons stepped to the colonel’s side to get a view of the woman. “I have some questions for you about what happened before Masters Mycroft and Sherlock found you and the victim in the workshop. I understand you claim you found her on the floor?”

  She swallowed and nodded mutely.

  I observed the corners of his mouth twitching and knew he was savoring the thought of accusing the foreigner of the attack on Miss Meredith. “So you contend you didn’t see anyone?”

  “I didn’t, sir,” she said, a slight tremor in her voice. “But it was quite dark in there.”

  After another twitch of his lips, he set his mouth into a firm line and turned to focus on me. “Did you see or hear anything to give evidence of anyone other than the women in the workshop?”

  “We were too fixed on caring for Miss Meredith,” I said, then let my head drop. “I didn’t think of searching the workshop.”

  “I’d expected as much. We have a building with only one entrance and no one seen leaving it. And a woman attacked from behind. And a man dead in the greenhouse. I believe the conclusion is obvious.”

  He stared down at Chanda. “Please stand, miss. I’m arresting you in the queen’s name for the death of one Hiro Moto and the attack on Miss Meredith Williams. I’m certain that the evidence will also show you murdered the gypsy in the barn. That charge will be added later.”

  “B-but I-I—” The woman turned to each of the adults in the room, as if seeking someone to defend her.

  The colonel dropped his gaze to the floor. My father shifted on his feet.

  Only Uncle Ernest spoke up. “This is an outrage. She comes from a well-respected family. Is currently under the protection of—”

  “I don’t give a f—” Gibbons gave a sideways glance at my father and coughed before continuing in a more even tone. “—fig whose protection she’s under. She’s a murderess and must go to gaol.”

  My uncle stared at my father from around the constable’s side. “Siger, please. You have to know she’s innocent. She can’t go to gaol. At least let her stay here. At Underbyrne. Under house arrest. As Straton did when they thought he’d killed his wife.”

  Gibbons shook his head. “A completely different situation. The man had been stabbed. Unconscious most of the time. And he was known here. If he’d left, someone would have recognized him and sent word that he was out and about. None of that applies here.”

  “I have to agree with Gibbons on this,” Father said, his voice grim. He turned to Chanda. “I assure you, miss, if you are innocent, it will come out.”

  The constable took a firm grip on her arm and pulled her toward the door. She appeared dazed, allowing the man to lead her from the house without another word of protest.

  When the front door clicked shut, the four of us remained where we had been in a sort of stunned paralysis. Uncle Ernest made the only movement, a sort of tightening and relaxing of his jaw as if he wanted to dispute the events once again but his body wouldn’t cooperate. For myself, I too wanted to challenge what appeared to be Gibbons’s illogical conclusion of Chanda’s guilt but had nothing concrete with which to dispute it.

  Colonel Williams finally broke the silence.

  “I’d best get upstairs and check on my niece. Let her know what happened. She’ll be—” He glanced at my uncle and shuffled his feet. “She’ll want to know about Chanda.”

  The colonel’s departure seemed to break the spell holding us all in place. Ernest slumped into the chair he’d occupied earlier. He appeared flattened, as if all the air had been sucked out of him and his legs could no longer hold his weight.

  I understood the feeling. The distress of finding Miss Meredith attacked and Mr. Moto murdered had heightened both my senses and vigor. With the initial impact of the events now concluded, all vitality had drained from me. I feared I might not have the strength to make it up to the third floor.

  Father must have recognized my sudden fatigue because he settled his gaze on me and said, “You should be getting to bed as well.”

  Despite my weariness and Father’s command, I considered staying to comfort my uncle. I feared for his emotional condition if he remained in his current state for long. At the same time, I felt compelled to find Mother and let her know the outcome of the constable’s visit. That she would most likely be aware of how to draw her brother out of his melancholy decided my course.

  Taking my leave from my father and uncle, I ascended to the second floor. Mother must have heard my footfalls because she slipped from my—Miss Meredith’s—bedroom. Placing a finger to her lips before I could ask how the woman was doing, she motioned to follow her toward her room.

  Once we’d gone a good distance from Meredith’s bedroom door, she said in a low voice, “I want you to have Mrs. Simpson send one of the maids up to sit with Miss Meredith…and Mycroft. His behavior breaches all etiquette, and I’m afraid I haven’t been able to dissuade him from leaving. Her uncle came up a bit ago and is in there now, but I’m not sure how long he will stay.”

  “How is she?”

  “Physically, she appears to have no lasting effects. But I’m a little surprised at her loss of consciousness. A blow to the head such as hers doesn’t usually cause that result. Also, her emotional state is…unusual. A woman such as your Aunt Iris is prone to hysteria. Until now, Meredith hasn’t seemed particularly high-strung. All the same, it took a good bit of the infusion I made to get her to sleep.” She glanced over her shoulder toward Meredith
’s bedroom. “The colonel told me the constable took Chanda. How is Ernest?”

  “He argued with Father before she left, but now…”

  I wasn’t sure of my words, but Mother read into them what I couldn’t say. Her brows drew together, and she said, “I’d better check on him. Go find Mrs. Simpson and then go to bed yourself.” She shook her head. “Such a sad yuletide for us.”

  After speaking to Mrs. Simpson about the maid, I rapped on Miss Meredith’s bedroom door and entered after a barely audible “come in.” If I hadn’t been concerned for the woman’s health, I might have found the scene before me quite amusing. Mycroft sat in an armchair by the bed. A candle cast an ocher glow across his face and that of the slumbering woman. Her hair spilled across her pillow, and her hands were crossed on top of the bed’s quilt, almost as if posed by an artist. In the shadows on the other side, I made out Colonel Williams in a winged chair. His regular breathing indicated he had fallen asleep at his vigil.

  Mycroft turned his face toward me. His appearance sent a tremor down my spine. Only a few hours had passed since we’d found our guest in Uncle Ernest’s workshop, but the slight growth of beard, creases in his forehead, and downward pull of his mouth made him appear as if he’d been at her side for days.

  I stepped to him and whispered, “Miss Simpson is sending Emily to watch her.”

  “I’m not leaving,” he said, shaking his head.

  “But it’s not seemly for you to be here. When Father finds out—”

  “To the devil with Father.” His harsh whisper pushed my chin back against my throat. The colonel snorted and shifted in the chair from the other side of the bed. Mycroft evened out his tone. “I-I can’t…I have to be here. With her.”

  “Think of her. Her reputation.”

  “It won’t matter. Once we marry.”

  That pulled my gaze to his face. The skin about his bloodshot eyes softened, and he glanced in the girl’s direction. “I plan to ask her as soon as she is recovered.”