I stared at my brother, almost unable to recognize him in his present state. Mother’s term engouement seemed to fit his current condition. What if Mother was correct in forecasting that such feelings were short-lived, burning themselves out? I recalled Uncle Ernest’s appearance and how drained he’d become. Was this Mycroft’s fate as well? If so, would he be able to recover? A desire to warn him, share my concerns with him, overwhelmed me. I had almost decided to say something when someone knocked on the door.
Emily entered, and the moment was lost. With her help, we woke Colonel Williams, and I accompanied him to his room after both the maid and Mycroft assured him he would be called the moment any change occurred.
As I ascended the stairs to the schoolroom and nursery, both my feet and mood were heavy. Each step seemed to bring a different concern to mind. Despite my discovery of Mr. Moto’s deceit, a man, whose instruction and skill I’d admired only a day ago, had been brutally killed. On top of that was the attack on Miss Meredith, and the arrest of the woman under her and her uncle’s protection. My own uncle’s and brother’s emotional states were in peril, their fates tied to that of the two women. Added to all this, the first murder had yet to be solved. Mother was correct in defining this yuletide: it wasn’t the cheerful celebration usually anticipated.
When I entered the nursery room, I discovered one more concern to add to my list.
Despite the darkness, I could make out Trevor sitting up in his bed, the bedclothes pulled up to his chin.
“What are you doing up?” I asked from the doorway. “If your mother or Miss Bowen knew, they’d be very cross with you.”
“I know,” he said. The bedclothes bunched under his fists. “I-I tried to sleep, honest. Every time I closed my eyes… Mummy wouldn’t tell me what she saw, but Miss Bowen said Mr. Moto had been hurt, and I know it scared her. Then I was afraid that maybe what happened to Mr. Moto would happen to her…or me. What if—?”
Unshed tears reflected the pale light from a crack in the window’s curtains. Right then, I saw him as something more than a nuisance. When my mother had been in gaol, accused of murder, I had been very afraid of losing her. Despite his rather clumsy explanation, I understood he feared the loss of his mother as well. Then again, we might all be at risk. I shivered in spite of the glowing embers in the fireplace. As much as I wanted to reassure him, I would have to first convince myself there was no danger.
After considering what assurance I might offer, an idea struck me.
“I think I know something that might help you. Wait here. I promise it will only be a few minutes.”
After checking the corridor, I slipped to the servants’ area and Mr. Moto’s room. With some relief, I found the door unlocked and his things more or less as we had found them—had it only been a few hours earlier? I felt as if my world had tilted slightly on its axis during that time. I moved to a chest where Mother had found some of our instructor’s equipment, retrieved an item, and rushed back to the nursery.
Reaching Trevor’s bedside, I held out a polished wooden stick with a handle on one side. “This is called a tonfa. It’s a weapon I’ve learned to use from Mr. Moto.” Holding the stick’s handle, I spun it about like a wheel in my hand. “This is only for an emergency. If you are being attacked. As long as you don’t use it except for self-defense, you can keep it next to you in your bed. When you feel safe, you can give it back.”
He ran his hand down the smooth, hard wood. “Oooh. This would give someone a good crack on the head.”
“Remember, it’s a weapon. Not a toy. You’re not to play with it. If Aunt Iris or Miss Bowen find it, we may both find out what kind of crack it would make. So keep it hidden.”
“I know I can sleep with this.” He settled down in his bed, clutching the tonfa against his chest with one hand. He opened his eyes and turned to me. “Thank you, Sherlock.”
“You’re welcome.”
After changing into my nightshirt, I crawled into bed. Trevor’s steady breathing told me he had achieved what I feared I would not: peace of mind enough to sleep. Despite Mother’s tea, I found myself staring at the patterns the three-quarter moon cast on the ceiling and walls through the clouds—all the while, in my mind, I could see my instructor’s still form on the greenhouse floor.
The next morning, Mother left word with Mrs. Simpson for me to come to her sitting room after breakfast.
When I entered, her mouth pursed into a scowl. “Sherry, dear, there are circles under your eyes. Quite pronounced ones. Could you not sleep last night?” When I shook my head, she rose and put her hand first on my forehead and then on my cheek. “No fever—at least yet. I’ll see about a stronger tonic for tonight.”
“You don’t sleep but a few hours. You’ve said as much many times.”
“I am not a growing boy.” She straightened her spine and studied me for a moment. “Perhaps what I had planned to ask you isn’t prudent. If you aren’t sleeping well now—”
“It will help if I stay busy. What is it that you wanted?”
“I had hoped you would accompany me to Mr. Moto’s room.” My breath caught in my throat. Did she know I had been there last night to get the tonfa for Trevor? “I would like to personally pack the man’s things. I can see, however, this appears to have upset you. Perhaps it is better for the servants to do it, as your father suggested.”
“No,” I said almost before her last word was uttered. “I mean, I want to help you. We might find something we missed in our haste last time.”
“Thank you, my dear, for agreeing with me. Given the man’s brutal death, I consider it a last act of kindness. I know the man was a thief, but he was a good instructor. I can’t bear a stranger handling his things.”
With that pronouncement, we ascended to the third floor, and she turned the knob on Moto’s door. “Oh dear, I’ll have to go for my keys. It’s locked.”
“But it wasn’t when I—” My lack of sleep had made me careless. My cheeks burned as Mother turned toward me. I paused before deciding to confess. “Last night, I took a tonfa for Trevor. He was scared, and I thought—”
She waved her hand. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. After all, the man’s….” Her voice trailed off. After studying the door, she tapped her finger against her lips. “If it was open last night and you went to bed after midnight, someone had to lock it during the night or this morning. I suppose a servant might have done it, but they wouldn’t have had a key. Besides the one Mrs. Simpson has and mine, I can’t think of another…”
“Mr. Moto?” I asked.
She smiled. “Of course. I suppose the events have taken a toll on everyone’s faculties. If the man had a key in his pocket, there would have been opportunities for someone to take it while he lay in the greenhouse. I’ll go get mine.”
Once Mother unlocked the door, we both took stock before entering. The trunk with the neatly folded items she had so carefully examined was overturned on top of a mound formed by its contents, as if someone had dumped everything out to get to the bottom of the chest. The drawers in his bureau were pulled out and emptied in a similar manner, the smaller cases with the equipment also. The books seemed to have been given a comparable rough treatment.
“Oh my,” she said after sucking in her breath. “The person appears to have done a quite thorough, albeit not orderly, search.”
“The drawings? Do you suppose…?”
We both stepped into the room, picking up books as we went. We shook each one, hoping that the thin parchment we’d found earlier would appear. When she retrieved the last one and nothing floated out, my stomach dropped. We glanced at each other, both realizing whoever had rummaged through Mr. Moto’s things most likely had done so for the now-missing plans.
Mother put the book on the stack she had in her arms and placed them in a short tower on top of the desk in the corner. I did the same with mine.
“What do we do now?”
She considered the disarray about us and shrugged. “Pack it awa
y.”
“What about the drawings? Shouldn’t we tell Father?”
“We will, but at the moment, we have little to tell him. The room was ransacked, the drawings, gone. As we gather everything, there’s a possibility we will be able to find something that points to the thief. Now help me upright this trunk.”
With one of us on each side, we flipped it over, and Mother refilled it from the pile it had covered.
“What are we going to do with his things?” I asked. “Will you send it someplace?”
Mother frowned. “I’ll write to the British consul in Japan. They may be able to work through their connections to arrange for someone here to collect his things or send word on where to send them. Until then, we’ll store it in the attic.”
I took charge of the chest with the equipment. Once that task was completed, I returned to the two stacks of books on the desk. When I turned to ask her about which trunk to put them in, I found her sitting on the edge of his slim bed, stroking the belt used to tie his gi. Tears shimmered in her eyes when she raised her head toward me.
“I’m rather silly, I imagine, to mourn the loss of the man. He was a deceiver. But—” She turned her head from me, and I knew she was trying to compose herself.
I stepped beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t think it’s silly.”
How could I? After the emotional display I’d shown in the greenhouse.
She put her hand on top of mine and squeezed.
We remained in that pose, perhaps needing a concrete connection between us. Despite the man’s treachery, I couldn’t believe all of his attention was insincere. We had formed a sort of friendship, and I was certain Mother viewed him the same way. And only the two of us could understand each other’s loss.
She sighed, and the bond was broken. “What’s left, then?”
“The books. Should I put them on top of the things in the trunk?”
After her agreement, I carried first one stack and then the other. At that point, I paused as well, staring at the volumes in my arms. “Do you think it would be all right for me to keep this one? It’s a baritsu manual. It’s in Japanese, but the illustrations are still useful.”
“I see no harm in you studying it—at least until we receive word from the authorities.”
I flipped through it, Mother watching over my shoulder.
“Hold on. May I see it for a moment?” She turned back the pages until she came to a particular drawing. She held it toward me. “Have you seen that hold before?”
In the illustration, one man stood behind another, his arm wrapped around the neck of the one in front. In the next diagram, the man in front had slumped forward, limp in the other’s arms.
I shuddered. “It looks…lethal.”
“Without a doubt.” Shutting the book with a snap, she held it out to me but didn’t remove her grasp when I attempted to take it from her. “Promise me you won’t practice that on anyone without supervision.”
The severe tone of her admonishment caused me to shake my head almost involuntarily.
She glanced about the room, now bare of all of Mr. Moto’s possessions except for the trunk and case. The exposed, scant furnishings gave the chamber an emptiness that sent another shudder through me.
Mother placed a hand on my shoulder, the warmth in her touch reassuring me.
“This wasn’t an easy task, but I felt we owed it to the teacher we knew. I truly appreciate your assistance. I’ll have the servants take these items to the attic.” Tears reappeared in her eyes. “None of our guests appear to be what they seem. A maid is truly a princess. Moto turned out to be a thief. The colonel and Miss Meredith most likely have their own secrets as well.”
I paused to consider sharing my suspicions regarding the colonel to Mother. After all, I had no idea where he’d been when Meredith and Moto were attacked. And he certainly had time to ransack Moto’s room after leaving his niece in Mycroft’s care. I opened my mouth to say all this when Mother spoke up.
“I have a good idea who might know some of it. We must see your father immediately.”
Chapter Seven
As soon as I stepped into the gaol the next day, my throat constricted, making it impossible to swallow. The same overpowering brew of sweat, dust, urine, and mold I had experienced on my first visit when Mother had been held there swept over me again. My head spun, and I worried I might be sick. What had possessed me to agree to accompany her and Uncle Ernest on their visit with Chanda?
Glancing at my mother, I confirmed the site had a similar effect on her. The color had drained from her face, and her mouth was pulled tight. She glanced at me, forced a quick smile, and pulled back her shoulders as if to steel herself. Mimicking her attitude, I followed her, my uncle, and one of the gaol’s matrons down the passageway to the visiting room.
Mother had convinced Father to allow Uncle Ernest to serve as Chanda’s solicitor, as he had done for Mother when she had been accused of murder, and he had arranged for a meeting with Chanda, bringing Mother as chaperone and me as his assistant. The room hadn’t changed since I had been there to visit my mother. Benches lined the walls of the medium-sized room, and three wobbly tables, each with four spindly stools, occupied its center. We picked one of the tables while the matron went to arrange for Chanda to brought to us.
After we took our seats at one of the tables, Mother glanced about and lifted one side of her mouth slightly.
“It’s rather odd to be on this side of the table. That poor woman. It’s hard enough for someone from this country to be here. Imagine how difficult for someone from such a far part of the world.”
“And recall, my dear,” Ernest said, his face muscles drawn tight, “the poor woman is a princess. The rough conditions here were harsh enough on you. For her, intolerable.”
“Which is why I had Cook prepare a curry and rice. I’m afraid it lacks something, although I’m not completely sure what. I do hope, however, it will bring her some comfort.”
“The greatest comfort, of course, will be to get her out.”
“If you can show I am innocent,” a lilting voice said from a doorway.
Chanda stepped into the room, the matron escorting her a wall of blue uniform and brass buttons.
She continued toward us, raised her hands, her palms pressed together, and bowed. In the entrance, the prison guard stared at the four of us.
Mother rose and turned to the guard. “How are you doing, Mrs. Raymond?”
“Mrs. Holmes? My goodness, I almost didn’t recognize you,” the matron said. “But I do remember Mr. Parker.”
“And I remember your preference for Cook’s buns and tea,” he said with a smile and lifted a basket. “Something to tide you over until supper?”
She took the basket and gave it an approving sniff. “I’ll bring back the basket in a bit. You have a nice visit now.”
The moment she shut the door, Uncle Ernest and Mother leaned forward over the table and spoke in low tones. “We’ve brought you something to eat. You’ll have to excuse us if we hurry. We only have as long as they eat their own meal. Please enjoy yours as we talk.”
Tears shimmered in Chanda’s eyes as she glanced first at my mother and uncle and then at the plate they set before her. “You are most kind. I will try and answer your questions, but I do not fully understand how I came to be here.”
“Let’s start at the beginning. In India,” Mother said. “How did you come to know Colonel Williams and his niece?”
“Through my mother,” she said and took a bite of the meal we had brought. She spoke as she chewed. “As you know, I carried proof of my father’s betrayal. Before her death, my mother had arranged an escort to get me to Colonel Williams. When my father learned of my escape, he sent others to bring me back—or kill me. I do not know which. That was when the colonel decided to help me leave the country.”
“Do you know of any reason why Miss Meredith would accuse you of attacking her?” Mother asked.
She
set down her fork, as if the food had lost its appeal. “It is beyond comprehension to me.”
“You said she left you a note? Do you know what happened to it?”
“I’m afraid not. It read ‘Please come to the workshop. Hurry. M.’ It had to be from Meredith.”
“Mr. Moto,” I said. “His name also starts with M. Could it have been from him?”
“I suppose…” She paused. “The note was printed. I’m familiar with her handwriting, but printing…”
I opened my mouth to ask about the colonel’s writing, but Ernest spoke before I could.
“Regardless,” my uncle said, leaning forward and placing his forearms on the table. “You received the note…”
“Not so much received it as found it. Outside my door. When I entered the building, I found her on the floor, just as Master Sherlock and Mr. Mycroft saw her.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“No, sir,” she said, a slight tremor in her voice. “But it was quite dark there.”
“Mycroft and I were too fixed on getting help to Miss Meredith,” I said. “I didn’t think of searching the workshop.”
“An appropriate choice in priorities,” Mother said, patting my hand. “But time may be short. Let’s get to the man in the barn. We know he wasn’t a gypsy, regardless of what Constable Gibbons says. He was…special. Your husband, perhaps?”
My mouth fell open, but the corners of Mother’s lifted slightly. How long had she known?
“When the constable had all of you…view him, your eyes held great pain,” Mother said. “It was fleeting but recognizable. Later, you clutched your chest. At first, I thought you were reaching for your heart, but I saw a chain around your neck and realized you wore a pendant of some kind. From him?”
“It is called a mangala sutra and is tied around the wife’s neck by the husband during the wedding ceremony. He told me to wear it always. Never to take it off. But when I learned of his death, I removed it. I was no longer married, you see. It would be wrong to do so after becoming a widow.”
The Adventure of the Murdered Gypsy Page 12
