The Adventure of the Murdered Gypsy

by Liese Sherwood-Fabre

  His grasp tightened, making me squirm. The pressure increased until I fairly shouted out. “All right. I swear.”

  “And the girl too. Tell her she’s to keep that loud mouth of hers shut as well. I can make even more trouble for her.”

  The threat paralyzed me. Despite his anger, I knew his warnings to me carried little actual danger. What, after all, could he possibly do that would truly make my life “a living hell”? Constance, and in fact her whole family, were, however, at the mercy of my father’s benevolence. He could dismiss Mr. Straton from his position and send him and the children packing. How much influence my brother might hold to achieve such a turn of events was not clear, but I didn’t want to risk it.

  I quickly bobbed my head, eager to end this whole exchange with my brother.

  Never had I feared Mycroft’s mood as much as at the present moment. In the same measure, I feared for him. He seemed oblivious to Miss Meredith’s manipulations. For someone I considered quite astute, he was plunging head-on into a situation that would only end in disaster for him.

  I recalled Mother’s description of engouement. Had he truly lost his senses? Did that explain such reckless fury?

  He released me and stepped back two paces. Waving his hand toward the door, he said, “Now get out. I need to check the train tables.”

  Needing no additional instruction, I was moving toward the door before he’d even completed the thought. After checking through a crack to ensure no one would see me leave my father’s sanctum, I opened it wide enough to slip through. As I did so, I turned to check on Mycroft. He had turned to the fire again, and the light from the hallway fell on his back. That perspective gave me a different view of the display of emotion I’d just witnessed. Certainly, he was angry, but now I considered the rage as symptomatic of another emotion.

  Fear.

  What had my brother so alarmed?

  As much as I wanted to report my observations to my parents, I couldn’t jeopardize Constance and her family’s precarious situation. Only a few months ago, the children had been on the brink of starvation. I wouldn’t be the cause of sending them there again. The ache in both my arms buttressed my resolve to protect my friend.

  Mycroft had made it perfectly clear I wasn’t to interfere with his relationship with Meredith Cummings. If he wanted to destroy his future by eloping with a woman who would ruin his social standing, I decided not to try and stop him. A part of me hoped he would follow through with his plan. It would serve him right if it led to his downfall. He’d put me down one too many times.

  I shoved my hands in my pockets to emphasize my resolve. As I did so, my hand hit the necklace Constance and I had found in the barn. The events following its discovery had pushed the missing piece out of mind. I turned to head upstairs and show it to Mother.

  Mother stood from her chair by Trevor’s bedside and smiled at me when I entered the nursery. I opened my mouth, ready to share all I had learned in the stable, not to mention the necklace.

  As if she sensed my desire to report all, she put her finger to her lips to silence me before announcing, “Good news. Your cousin is awake.”

  She stepped aside to give me clear view. The boy lay on a mound of pillows. His complexion, while still pale to me, did have a tinge of pink I hadn’t seen earlier. He turned his head toward me, his lips curved upward.

  “Hello.”

  I swallowed in an effort to remove the lump in my throat, but it refused to disappear. I forced my words through a constricted windpipe. “H-how are you feeling?”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, perhaps conducting a short inventory of his ills. When he opened them, he said, “Dizzy.”

  For the first time since he’d come to visit, the boy limited himself to a one-word reply. The lack of a rambling response created a wave of guilt through me. An overwhelming urge to fill the uncomfortable silence pushed me to speak.

  “I was, too. Dizzy, that is. I had a brain commotion after I fell down some st—fell out of a tree. Don’t worry. It’ll get better. Mine did.”

  A slight smile pushed up one side of his mouth, providing me with the first bit of hope. My anxiety returned a moment later, however, when he said, “You found me. In a trunk.”

  While it was a statement, a question lay underneath. A request for confirmation of what had happened. Did he recall the event? Or had someone else shared that bit with him? I considered my answer, uncertain whether I would add to his trauma if I substantiated the story. I glanced at Mother for guidance. She nodded, which I took as a sign to share the circumstances of his recovery.

  After shifting on my feet for a moment, seeking the most appropriate words, I said, “Yes. We found you in my uncle’s workshop.” When he remained silent, I decided to press a little and see what he did recall. “Do you…do you remember how you got there? Or what you were doing before?”

  Another shutting of the eyes and a long hush. I feared he’d gone back to sleep, but he finally opened them again. “I-I can’t remember.”

  His chin quivered, and I feared he might cry. Before tears could flow, however, Mother spoke up.

  “It’s not uncommon after a blow to the head. Your memories will come back. Maybe just in flashes, but the pieces will come together. Like a puzzle.”

  “Maybe you can begin with what you remember doing last?” I said, hoping to jog his memory. “Miss Bowen said she sent you to the schoolroom.”

  “I was angry. I didn’t want to go.” His mouth turned down, and his forehead puckered. He pushed himself up on his elbows. “Are we still leaving? I-I want to stay.”

  Mother stepped to the far side of his bed and placed a hand on his chest. “Don’t worry. You won’t be going anywhere for now. Your mother plans to spend the holidays here.”

  “Truly?” he asked, relaxing back onto the pillows. “I wouldn’t mind living here forever.”

  “And we wouldn’t mind having you,” Mother said, cradling his cheek in her hand.

  I wasn’t personally in favor of that prospect, and Aunt Iris had probably agreed to remain at Underbyrne because Mother and Father had somehow convinced her returning to London was not in her son’s best interests. All the same, I recognized the need to keep such opinions to myself and changed the subject by returning to my original questioning.

  “Did you draw a picture while you were in the schoolroom?”

  He screwed up his face, making evident his effort to remember what he had been doing after leaving Miss Bowen. “I drew…drew….” He shook his head. “I don’t remember.”

  “That’s all right. As Mother said, it will come.” I glanced at my mother and took a breath, weighing my thoughts and words. I decided to plunge ahead. “I found this in the stables. Do you know anything about it?”

  I retrieved the mangala sutra we’d found in the mousetrap from my pocket. My hope was that it might trigger more memories, but my expectations collapsed when he squinted at the necklace in my hand for a moment and then shook his head.

  “I-I… No. I don’t think so. It looks very pretty.”

  With a glance at my mother, whose rounded eyes told me she understood its significance, I placed it back in my pocket. She then gave me a slight shake of her head, and I knew she wanted me to avoid pressing him more.

  I reached out and patted his shoulder. “You rest. You’ll remember.”

  “I am rather tired,” he said with a sigh and closed his eyes again.

  “I’m going to see about some broth for you,” Mother said. “I’ll ask Miss Bowen to stay with you while I do. Sherlock will visit you again later.”

  She accompanied me to the schoolroom. While I knew she wanted to know about the mangala sutra, another concern pressed more heavily on my thoughts and conscience.

  “How is he, really?” I asked when I turned to face her after shutting the door.

  “He’ll be fine,” she said, placing a hand on my cheek. “He did lose blood, and he is weak, but he will recover.”

  “And his memory?�
��

  She shook her head. “I didn’t want to worry the boy, but his recollection of the full event may never be retrieved.”

  “I wish he could remember how he came across this,” I said, withdrawing the necklace from my pocket again. “From her description, I would guess it is Chanda’s mangala sutra.”

  “Based on drawings I’ve seen, I would agree. Where did you find it?”

  “The stables. In one of Uncle Ernest’s mouse traps. We think Trevor hid it there and then tried to hide from someone. Probably the same person who put him in the trunk.”

  “We?” Mother said, lifting one eyebrow. “Why didn’t Constance come with you to share this development?”

  I dropped my gaze to my shoes, resisting the urge to share what we overheard while in the barn. Mycroft had warned me not to tell anyone and to stay out of his affairs. At the moment, I had no desire to disregard his demand.

  “We had an argument,” I said with a sigh and raised my head to meet her gaze.

  “About…?”

  Pausing, I considered how to explain our difference of opinions about Mycroft and Meredith’s discussion without giving away their plans. Finally, I chose a half-truth.

  “Miss Meredith. She thinks the woman is amusing. I find her…dangerous.”

  “I’m not sure I would go so far as to say that.” She paused, her forehead creasing. “But I do believe Mycroft’s relationship with her is not…healthy.”

  “Engouement.” Her lips thinned to a flat line, and I knew we shared the same opinion of our guest. “That’s what I mean by ‘dangerous.’ Constance thinks Meredith’s control over him a sort of joke.”

  “I have to agree that I find no humor in that. But one must consider your perspective. He’s your brother, and you know him quite intimately. From what you told me the other day, his encounters with Constance are few and haven’t always been courteous.”

  I pondered her observation—particularly with respect to his treatment of Constance—and my own encounter with him just now in the library. That meeting called into question any understanding I had of my brother. He’d always been rather cerebral and dismissive of me (and just about everyone else). But he’d never threatened me with bodily harm. Had I truly never had any comprehension of my brother?

  She studied me as I considered these thoughts. “You’re worried about Mycroft.”

  Again, I weighed my words, finding it difficult not to share all with her. Finally, I said, “He’s…changed.”

  “Under different circumstances, I would have your father speak to him about his behavior…” Her voice trailed off.

  I knew she was reviewing all the events that had taken place in the past twenty-four hours and the stress it had taken on both her and my father. I assumed she didn’t feel it possible to add to my father’s concerns at the moment.

  As if my mind could carry no more unpleasantness, the one positive consequence of the attack on Trevor occurred to me. “Will Constable Gibbons be releasing Chanda now? After all, she couldn’t have attacked Trevor. If the same person attacked the others, she could not be the one to have done so.”

  “Quite right, but I have yet to discuss this with your father—or Ernest. Earlier your father suggested the colonel had encouraged her confinement for her own safety—the gaol being more secure than our house.”

  As much as I detested the idea of an innocent person being imprisoned or even agreeing with the colonel given all his deceits, I had to allow that, at present, being a guest in our house carried some risk.

  “I will discuss these matters with your father when it seems appropriate. Including the mangala sutra. For the time being, why don’t I keep it?” She held out her hand, and I dropped the necklace into it. “I have a special place I keep my jewelry, and I’ll put it there. It will be safe until then.”

  “Should we let her know? That we found it?” I asked. “I could tell Uncle Ernest, and he could pass on—”

  “I think it best for the three of us alone to know it has been found. If whoever had it was the one who attacked Trevor, the fewer who know it’s been found, the less risk we run of anyone else being hurt.” She dropped it into a pocket of her dress. “Speaking of Trevor, I must see to the broth I promised him.”

  She left me in the schoolroom, where I continued to ponder the strange turn this holiday had taken. So many problems and so few solutions. The urge to review all the events pushed all other thoughts out of my mind as I stepped to the teacher’s desk at the front of the schoolroom and pulled out some paper and a pencil to examine the events to date and consider them all logically.

  At the top of each paper, I put the names of the victims: Captain Vincent Rogers, Mr. Moto, Miss Meredith, and Trevor. Underneath each, I placed the names of those I knew to be associated with each, what Mother had once referred to as “common denominators.” For Captain Rogers, there was Chanda, Colonel Williams, and Miss Meredith. For Mr. Moto, Mother and me. After a moment’s reflection, I added Aunt Iris because she had found him. For Miss Meredith, Colonel Williams, Chanda, and Mycroft. For Trevor, I again placed my own name, Miss Bowen, and Aunt Iris.

  Staring at the lists, I sighed. No more than two shared a common denominator. With more force than necessary, I tossed the pencil onto the desktop in frustration. I felt certain all the attacks were related, and I simply wasn’t seeing the connections. The pencil rolled across the desk and came to rest against the spine of a book.

  My attention shifted to the volume, recognizing it as the one from Mr. Moto’s collection I’d borrowed when Mother and I had packed his things. Finding myself unable to make any sense of the lists, I picked up the book and flipped through the pages.

  I stopped to study the page I’d found the last time I looked through it, the one mother and I considered lethal. I glanced up from the text when Mother rapped on the door. A servant stood behind her with a tray.

  “I happened to speak to Cook when I went for the broth and learned you haven’t eaten since breakfast. I’ve brought you a sandwich.”

  Mother directed the girl to place the tray on one of the student desks and shut the door after her.

  “It is unwise not to eat, Sherry, dear,” she said, stepping up behind me and glancing over my shoulder. “What have you been working on?”

  “I tried to sort out what I know about the attacks, but I’m afraid I haven’t gotten very far. Then I came across this book. Do you remember this hold?”

  The next moment, she pulled my chair back and tapped my shoulder, indicating I should rise. “Let’s try it.”

  I stepped away from the desk, and Mother moved behind me. In one swift action, my chin was nestled in the crook of her arm. The pressure on my neck seemed to build pressure in my head. When I tried to tell her to stop, my mouth moved, but no words escaped. In a few heartbeats, black spots drifted across my field of vision. Instinctively, I grabbed her arm to pull it from my neck. An instant later, the pressure was gone, and my vision cleared.

  “Oh dear,” Mother said, turning me around again and studying first my face and then my throat. “I had no idea… Did I hurt you?”

  “I could feel myself losing consciousness.”

  Mother pulled open my collar and studied the neck intensely. “No markings here…” She gasped and stared at me. “The man in the barn. This has to be how he died—no marks on the throat.”

  “And Mr. Moto the same way?” Returning to the desk, I pulled the book toward me. “Maybe a countermove is provided as well.”

  After turning to the diagram we found earlier, I flipped to the next page but found nothing indicating a defense against the hold. Mother watched over my shoulder and turned back to the original hold and one additional page.

  “The Japanese read right to left. So, the front of a book would be the back to us. I believe this may be what we were seeking.”

  The following pages included more diagrams of a person caught in the same hold. In one, the victim knelt in the choker’s grasp and pushed against the at
tacker’s forearm. In another, the victim was turned, and one leg was behind his attacker. The third drawing showed the victim pushing his aggressor over his leg.

  “Shall we try these two moves? I promise not to squeeze this time.”

  After a few practices, first with me as the victim and then Mother as the victim, we found both countermoves effective.

  When we’d finished, she closed the book and caressed the cover. “I know he turned out to be deceitful, but he was a good teacher. Even in death, we learned from him.” She raised her chin and frowned at me. “I hope I haven’t hurt your throat and that the sandwich isn’t a mistake. Let me see you swallow a few bites before I check on Trevor.”

  After she had confirmed no permanent harm had been done, she left to check on my cousin. At the schoolroom door, she paused. “You should destroy those papers before someone else sees them. I will give them some thought as well. There is a connection. We simply haven’t seen it yet. In the meantime, I would suggest you consider making your peace with Constance. This is, after all, Christmastime, and a good time to put any…disagreements aside.”

  Closing the door behind her, she left me to consider how best to apologize to Constance for my hurtful behavior.

  An hour later, I made my way through the waning afternoon light toward the Straton cottage. Passing the stables on the way to the path in the woods, I shook my head to clear away the memories of all that had occurred inside earlier. Was I making a mistake not telling my parents about Mycroft and Meredith’s plans? Somehow, I just couldn’t see my brother following through with such a life-altering decision. The man I knew calculated every move, including the order in which he ate his food—hardly the type who would up and run off with a woman, especially one he’d known for less than two weeks.

  Even if my brother hadn’t threatened me, I probably wouldn’t have reported what I’d overheard to my parents. They had too much on their shoulders already. Regardless, my resolve to stop the possible elopement hadn’t wavered. I simply needed a plan that thwarted their leaving without causing a scandal.