The Adventure of the Murdered Midwife

by Liese Sherwood-Fabre

  I fingered a corner, ready to open it, but she shook her head. “Not here. Keep it safe.”

  “I’ll study it later,” I said and slipped it into my pocket.

  “Violette, dear.” Ernest cleared his throat. “We must discuss the inquest.”

  “Another time, please, Ernest. The matron will be back shortly, and I don’t want to think—”

  As if on cue, the door slammed against the stone wall with a boom and the matron stood in the doorway. “The superintendent will be coming in soon. You have to leave.”

  “Right away, madam. Right away,” my uncle said.

  He stood and gathered up the remains of the breakfast, motioning me to help, as the matron tapped her foot.

  As soon as all was put away, Mother shook Ernest’s hand and patted me on the head. “I’ll see you both soon.”

  I forced a smile as she had done earlier. My palms moistened when I contemplated again the responsibility she had just placed on me.

  She stepped to the doorway and faced us. Her eyes glistened, but her voice remained strong. “Thank you for coming.” With that, she followed the matron into the hallway.

  Once the door shut soundly, Ernest jerked on his waistcoat. “We must be going as well.”

  When we exited the room through the other door, the formerly empty hallway now buzzed with activity. Two rows of women marched past in opposite directions. Ernest and I pressed ourselves against the inner wall to let one group pass us. All were dressed in a similar style of rough-woven blue dresses and with a grey apron over them.

  “Convicted prisoners,” Ernest whispered to me. “Heading to breakfast I would guess.”

  They appeared to be assembled according to age, the oldest at the front of the line. As the last of the column passed us, I noted the last one—a young girl of about my age or a little older—glance in our direction.

  A moment later, she stumbled and fell to her knees. I rushed to her side.

  “Oh, thank you, sir,” she said in that rough accent associated with the lower classes.

  As I supported her elbow, she rose and studied me and my uncle. “You’re not criminals, are you?”

  I chuckled. “No. We’re here to see my m—my uncle’s client.”

  “He’s a solicitor, then?” A glance at her shoes, and I could see then why she stumbled. They appeared several sizes too big—as if she were wearing boxes. “I wish I had a solicitor. I might not be in this place if I had.”

  “What were you accused of? Perhaps my uncle might help?”

  “Liftin’ a pocket watch off an old man.” Her emerald gaze searched my face and filled with tears. “But I didn’t. Honest I didn’t. He’d given it to me just to let me have a look, but I think he was a little forgetful and didn’t remember. That’s why I had it.”

  My mouth dropped open. Never had I heard such a travesty of justice. How could anyone think such a young, innocent girl could commit such a crime? I sought my uncle’s gaze to see if he was as indignant as I. His head gave the barest of shakes. Whether it meant he couldn’t help or that it was too late, I was unable to decipher.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir. You’re a regular right gent, you are.” Her arms wrapped around me before I could even protest.

  “I—”

  “Constance,” the matron at the front of the breakfast procession shouted down the hallway to us. “No fraternizin’ with visitors. Get back in line.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Right away, ma’am.”

  She shambled back to her place in the column, and the group shuffled away. We followed them for a moment before turning right to the antechamber where we’d entered about an hour earlier.

  Once in the carriage, my stomach rumbled. Having seen my mother was relatively safe, and even given some ideas on what to consider in her defense, my appetite had reappeared. The cinnamon bun I’d eaten in the kitchen was long ago digested. Recalling the bread Cook had provided me, I reached into my pocket and found it…empty.

  Ernest caught my movement and shook his head. “I should have warned you, I suppose. Recall where your mother is. These are not members of the genteel class with whom you’re accustomed to socializing. They are deceivers. Criminals. Not to be trusted.”

  “So, Constance—”

  “Is a pickpocket, and truly did steal that man’s watch. Be glad you didn’t have anything more than a slice of bread in your coat pocket. She’s young and her mother died recently. Your father put her in there as a lesson. She’ll be out soon.”

  “You know her?’

  “Seen her in a previous visit. I inquired and got the details from your father.”

  We bounced along the road back to our estate, and I considered what I had learned that morning. How had that girl been able to take the slice without my knowing it? It seemed to be a skill that could prove useful in certain situations.

  With no other sustenance available, I returned to the more pressing issue of my mother’s innocence. I removed her notes from my pocket and studied them. Halfway through, I stopped to re-read her account of finding the body of Mrs. Brown. I glanced at my uncle. Still sleeping.

  He roused himself when I called to him. “What? Back at Underbyrne already?”

  “No. I have a question. My mother’s clothes. The ones she was wearing when she found Mrs. Brown. Do you know where they are?”

  “I would suppose Mrs. Simpson arranged to have them laundered.”

  “We need to examine them when we get back.”

  “Of course, dear boy, of course,” he said with a yawn.

  I turned to ask my uncle about the magnifying glasses, but found he’d fallen back to sleep.

  No matter, I already knew my next step.

  Chapter Three

  By the time we arrived back home, the sun was already warming the day. I helped carry the basket and valise into the kitchen. Ernest headed on to the breakfast room, but I paused to speak to Cook.

  “How was your mother?” she asked without glancing up from the dough she was kneading.

  “All right, I guess.” I traced my finger through the flour on the table. “She said to thank you for the food.”

  With a click of her tongue, she said, “It’s the least I can do. Poor woman.”

  I watched her continue punching the dough for a moment more before broaching my next subject.

  “What do you remember of that morning?”

  She stopped, her hands deep in the white dough. Her gaze shifted to the door leading to the garden. “Dawn was just breaking. You know your mother’s an early riser. Said she wanted to get some things from the garden before it got too hot. No sooner had she gone out than she came back in, callin’ for your father.”

  “Was she—” I stopped, unsure how to ask the question. “Did you see a lot of blood?”

  Her brows formed a line. “Now what kind of a question is that for a young boy to ask? Don’t you be thinkin’ on such gruesome ideas.”

  She went back to pounding the dough, and I knew she wouldn’t answer any more questions along this line. I decided on another topic. “What was she wearing that day?”

  A shrug followed her burying her fist into the bread. “One of her house dresses.”

  “Has it been washed?”

  “Has it—?” The violence with which she now worked the bread caused small clouds of flour to rise about the edges. “How should I know? I’m the cook, not the laundress. Ask Mrs. Simpson.”

  With a sigh, I dropped my gaze to the floor. I had hoped—

  My body tightened when I focused on my shoes. With a jerk, I raised my head. “What about her boots? Was she wearing her gardening boots?”

  “Her boots?” She blinked at me. “I don’t recall, but she must have been.”

  Without waiting for more information, I rushed through the door to the rest of house and down the hallway leading to the conservatory.

  Just inside the entrance, however, I pulled to a stop. The scents of damp earth and
of green, growing things enveloped me and carried with them memories of my times helping my mother. I could clearly see the sunlight dance on her face as we traversed the various aisles and she quizzed me on the names of the plants she cultivated. In later years, I came to understand how different her collection was than most. Hers was an assortment of very specific species of medicinal plants selected for their treatment of different illnesses. Even the usual trees found in greenhouses—such as lemon and orange—were there because of their healing properties.

  Following a deep breath, I passed between the rows of the pots in search of my mother’s gardening boots. This required me to push aside the leaves to check underneath them as well.

  My heart pounded against my ribs. What would I do once I found them? And what would they show? To calm myself, at each pot, I recited the Latin and common name for each as well as what my mother had taught me about their different properties.

  Mentha × piperita, or peppermint, good for nausea. I picked a leaf and chewed it, further calming myself.

  Rosmarinus officinalis. Rosemary. Good for memory. Mother always complained about Cook stealing stalks for her kitchen. Still, she never confronted the woman about it, and I knew she truly didn’t mind it.

  Eucalyptus oblique. Eucalyptus. Good for skin eruptions.

  I continued down the aisle in this manner. Nothing. At the end was a small stand, similar to a clerk’s table, holding her books, a series of journals inventorying the plants and their growth. She’d been experimenting with different soil enhancements. One lay open on the stand, waiting for her next entry. I picked it up to study her notes, and a pocket-sized volume fell to the floor.

  As I stooped down to pick up the smaller book, my gaze fell upon a set of dried, muddy footprints on the floor. They had to be my mother’s.

  I slipped the volume into my pocket and followed the prints up the next aisle. Halfway down the passage, I found her boots, lying on their side, as if kicked off in haste. I picked one up and studied the bottom. Mud, dried to a tan color, caked it and the sides. Along the top, more mud splatter.

  Getting on my hands and knees, I examined the prints still on the wood planks of the greenhouse. Luckily, Mother didn’t allow servants into the conservatory, or else the tracks, the same color as that on the boots, would have been cleaned away.

  But where was the blood?

  If Mother had stabbed the woman with a pitchfork, wouldn’t there have been blood on her? Or her boots?

  Certainly I would find it in the garden?

  After a moment’s hesitation, I grabbed the boots and slid them under the table holding the pots. Once safely concealed, I dashed from the greenhouse and up the servant’s staircase to descend again down the front stairs to the breakfast room. Both my father and brother still sat at the breakfast table, each perusing part of a newspaper.

  My father observed me over the top of his paper. “Bonjour.”

  “Bonjour,” I said in response.

  I’d almost forgotten my parents’ practice of speaking different languages at the table. As a result, we were all conversant in French, German, and Spanish.

  “Dressed already?” my father asked in the language of the day.

  “I’m going to the garden. I want to check the vegetables. For Mother.”

  He scrutinized me for a moment before picking up the paper and hiding himself from my view. After losing the bread to the pickpocket at the gaol, I found myself quite hungry. I filled my plate with the crisp bacon, toast, and eggs from platters on the sideboard and, as fast as decorum allowed, polished off my breakfast.

  “Not missing Eton’s porridge now, n’est ce pas?” Mycroft said with a smirk.

  Ignoring the remark, I asked Father, “May I be excused?”

  The top of his head moved behind the paper. I noticed he held it open to the same page as when I sat down. I took his gesture for agreement, and I left for my uncle’s workshop to pick up the magnifying glasses.

  On the way there, I glanced to the bushes from which Mrs. Winston had appeared. I froze as I recalled our conversation. I had entirely forgotten to ask my mother about the seeds she’d requested.

  How could I explain this to the maid when she returned?

  My head dropped forward. I promised her and had failed to keep it. My only hope would be to ask Mother on the next visit, which I hoped was soon. I’d planned to ask my uncle that very question as soon as I got to his workshop, but as I approached the building, I could hear his snoring through the door.

  I felt it safe to enter without waking him, despite my surprise greeting the night before, and let myself in. True to his word, Ernest had located his magnifying glasses, and he did have a number of different ones—all displayed on a small work table to the left. The collection included several of the normal ones—round lenses with a metal handle—in various sizes. A few others were probably his own design. I picked up what appeared to be a pair of spectacles with a series of lenses attached to it. These could be rotated down over the spectacles’ lenses to create a form of binocular.

  I put them on and flipped different lenses into place, studying their various magnifications of the table’s wood surface. I found it impossible to focus well using both sides at once, but if I used it as Mother had taught me to use a microscope—with only the lenses for the right eye—the magnified image appeared in a much crisper focus and my brain concentrated on it. In the end, I selected one of the hand-held glasses as well as the spectacles and went to the garden.

  With no idea what I would find, I was surprised at how easily I could identify the area where the body had lain. Being autumn, most of the garden now lay fallow, with withering stalks poking up through the raised rows. The remaining vegetables, onions, potatoes, and other root varieties as well as the fall squashes, occupied the back portion of the garden, nearest to a stone fence separating the plot from a pasture beyond.

  Just inside the wall, vegetables had been smashed into the earth and the ground about it churned up and flattened by many footsteps. As I had seen hunting dogs trained to search for foxes, I paced the perimeter of the flattened area first, studying for anything out of place in the area not disturbed by the constable or others.

  Nothing.

  I then continued my survey making smaller and smaller concentric circles around the area. Mostly I found only more footprints in the rows until I came upon a flattened, dying onion stalk about two feet from the center. On the leaf was a brown stain.

  Blood?

  I knew it could turn brown after time. If only I had a way to know for sure.

  I first tried the spectacles, and then the regular hand glass to examine the mark. Despite making the stain larger, neither provided more insight.

  A few more stains appeared when I reached the center, but never in great quantity. Even when I studied the area with a magnifying glass.

  I sat back on my heels and glanced about me. My interest fell upon the stone wall at the end of the garden.

  The stone structure came up to my waist, and I leaned over it, hoping to find virgin territory for my investigation. Instead, I found the same trampling as on the other side, but with more footprints and less churning.

  I clambered over the wall at one edge of the churning and conducted the same type of review of the grounds, starting with the perimeter and moving inward. Even less to be found on this side because I found no brown stains as I had on the other. Upon reaching the wall, I slid down the stones to sit in the earth, not caring that I might be staining my pants’ seat or that Mrs. Simpson would probably scold me for it later.

  Melancholy slipped over me. I so wanted to have discovered something the others had missed, but had come up with nothing. I pounded the back of my head against the wall. Pain shot through me, and I cursed myself for being so ridiculous as to give into my emotions. Mother had always taught me a detached mind produced better results. Dipping my chin, I rubbed the back of my neck. In that position, a fluttering between the stone wall and the grass cau
ght my attention.

  Flipping onto my hands and knees, I focused on the object. A piece of coarse material was snagged on the jagged edge of a rock. With my thumb and forefinger, I removed the small square—no bigger than an inch—from the wall and studied it. The material was too rough to be from a person’s clothing, but from what other object, I wasn’t certain. With one of Ernest’s magnifying glasses, I took an even more detailed examination. The fibers along the edges were frayed, but their color wasn’t faded. Whatever it had come from, it hadn’t been there long.

  I wrapped the piece in my handkerchief and stuffed it in my coat pocket. There, my hand hit the book I’d found earlier in the conservatory. I removed the slim volume and examined it. It appeared to be some sort of ledger with columns lining each page. While I recognized my mother’s script, I couldn’t make heads or tails of the entries. The writing appeared to be in some sort of cipher.

  What was the purpose of the record, and why would she feel the need to use a code?

  Perhaps my uncle would have an idea?

  I scrambled back over the wall and returned to the workshop. The snoring had been replaced with a loud banging similar to the one I’d heard last night. I reached for the latch, but stayed my hand halfway to the door. I had no interest in a repeat of last night’s near miss. I pounded on the door until Ernest opened it.

  “Sherlock,” he said, “why didn’t you just come in?”

  “Could you remove the hira shuriken from the bow?”

  “Good idea. I’ll move it to another bench as well,” he said, stepping back into the workshop and toward the workbench with the crossbow.

  I followed him into the workshop. “I’m returning your magnifying glasses.”

  “Already been out there? Did they prove useful?”

  His rounded gaze told me how much he wanted to hear the affirmative.

  “Very,” I said and waited until after he removed the stars from the crossbow to approach him. “I did find something odd.”

  “And what was that?” he asked, turning to me.