The Adventure of the Murdered Midwife

by Liese Sherwood-Fabre

  “This was caught on a rock in the wall at the back of the garden.” I opened the handkerchief and passed it to him, the piece of cloth resting in the center of the white linen.

  He peered at it, then moved to the door to examine it in the sunlight. “It’s too fine for burlap. Too coarse for linen. Perhaps I’ll show it to Violette.”

  “Will you be seeing her again soon?”

  “I’ll probably take her breakfast again. Good time to have a private conversation, you know.”

  “May I come too?”

  He paused. “She only gave me instructions to bring you this morning. We took an awfully big risk, deceiving your father like that. I don’t like lying. I’ll pass on your request to her, though.”

  My shoulders dropped. I had so many things I wanted to ask her, but for the moment I would have to depend on Ernest.

  “I do have another observation about the garden. I found no blood.”

  “It must be there. I saw some on the pitchfork tines myself.”

  “But none on Mother’s boots, or on the plants.” My words picked up speed as I could see Ernest’s gaze drifting from me. “Last year when Mother hired that medical student to tutor me in biology, he had me dissect a frog. When I opened it, blood sprayed out all over my hands and the dissecting tray. He said it wasn’t dead and I’d hit a vein. Because the heart was still pumping, the blood spurted out. When they dissected the cadavers in medical school, very little blood leaked out because it wasn’t flowing. The person was dead.”

  My uncle frowned, as if he were weighing the information I’d just shared. “Why would someone put a pitchfork into a dead woman?”

  “I don’t know. But you see, if the constable claims Mother killed Mrs. Brown by stabbing her—”

  “She’s innocent of the crime.” Ernest’s mouth widened into a broad grin, and he slapped me on the back. “Good show, my boy. Good show. I must share this with your mother directly.”

  “Shouldn’t you tell Father?”

  He paused to stare at the wooden beams crisscrossing under the building’s roof. After a moment, he refocused on me. “I think it’s best for us to keep your father out of it at the moment. After all, as a local justice of the peace, he might be denounced for favoritism or some other bias given that the accused is his wife.”

  With a sigh, he glanced about the workshop. “I have so much to do, but Violette must come first. I don’t think I’ll wait until tomorrow. I should go now.”

  Having made the decision, he scurried about the workshop, preparing to return to town and the prison. In a matter of minutes, he was back in his suit, valise in hand. “Come and see me when I return, and I’ll share your mother’s thoughts.”

  When he waved me toward the door, I passed the workbench and spied my handkerchief still lying on it. “What about that bit of cloth?”

  “Cloth? Yes. Quite right.” Pausing at the bench, he carefully folded the handkerchief and dropped it into the bench’s top drawer.

  On the way back to the house, I put my hand in my pocket and remembered the ledger I found in the greenhouse. I needed to decipher the entries noted inside.

  Mycroft.

  My brother had the ability to sort out things just by studying them for a moment. The skill had served him well in chess. After only two or three moves, he would tell the other player what their moves would be and the inevitable outcome of them being checkmated. Most people refused to play with him after a single game.

  I found him in the library, gazing out the window on the far wall, tea cup and saucer in hand.

  From the doorway, I asked, “May I come in?”

  With a slow turn, he faced me. “What do you want?”

  “I…I need your help.”

  He drew back his chin. “Go on.”

  “I…I found this—” I pulled out the ledger. “I don’t understand it. I thought you might—”

  He held out his hand and drew me forward with his fingers. “Let’s see it.”

  I placed the leather-bound book in his hand and watched him study the pages. A frown wrinkled his brow, and I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. After a moment, he handed it back to me.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “From the greenhouse. You know that little stand Mother has by the back door?” When he didn’t respond, I asked, “Can you read it?”

  “It’s a simple code.” Following a moment when he stared at me as if seeing through me, he strode to the bookshelves, pulled out one volume, and passed it open to me. “They describe it in here.”

  Sure enough, markings similar to the one in the ledger were described there. “Why would she need to write in code?”

  “Because she’s prescribing medicinal herbs.”

  “Is it”—I glanced behind me before asking in a low voice—“legal?”

  “It all depends, I guess, what they are given for.”

  After considering that bit of information, I asked, “Do you find Mrs. Winston listed there?”

  After a quick check of the code description, he took back Mother’s ledger and ran his finger down one column of the last page of entries and stopped about two-thirds down. “Here’s a Rachel Winston. Isn’t she one of the Devony’s maids? Says here, ‘Queen Anne seeds. One ounce, crushed.’”

  “Queen Anne seeds,” I said, letting the name roll around on my tongue. In my mind, I could see the plant growing in various pots along one bench in the conservatory. Mother would harvest the seeds from the tiny white flowers.

  “What is the plant for?”

  “Daucus carota,” I said, reciting my mother’s instructions, “Also called the wild carrot because the root is edible and similar to the carrot. It can be used for digestive problems and to stimulate urine.”

  “That’s it?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “And caution must be taken not to confuse it with hemlock.”

  “Does any of that make sense for Mrs. Winston?”

  I thought for a moment. “She needed the seeds. Crushed. And said something about babies…. They somehow inhibit having babies. But why would—?”

  “Because children can be a burden, you fool. Think about the Stratons, for pity’s sake.”

  The Stratons were tenants on the estate next to ours. Everyone could recite the woes of the recently widowed John Straton. His wife had died after the birth of her fifth child, and the village congregation had taken up a collection for the family to cover her burial.

  As I contemplated this bit of information, Mycroft’s frown deepened, and he put his hands on his hips. “Do you know where children come from?”

  We had farm animals, so I’d heard Father and others discussing— “You mean mating? Like animals?”

  “We are animals, you know. Some a lot closer to them than others, I suppose.” He turned to the bookshelves again and removed another book. “Here, study this and leave me alone.”

  Without examining the book, I gathered it, the one on codes, and the ledger and carried them to my room. The bed had already been straightened, but I clambered upon the covers and propped myself against the pillows after kicking off my shoes to avoid Mrs. Simpson’s scolding about mussing the coverlet.

  The tome Mycroft had given me was a sort of medical text written in French. I flipped through the pages and immediately recognized my mother’s notes in the margins of some of the pages. Notes covering different ailments and treatments—all in some way related to the plants growing in the conservatory.

  When I turned to the section entitled Anatomie, I slowed my study. While I had seen drawings of the various organs in my previous biology studies, I had not seen these types of graphics before. Here were detailed illustrations of both the male and female bodies. I ran my finger over the page-sized reproduction of a mature woman’s breast, stomach, and the dark triangle where her legs met. A strange warming raced through me and settled in my groin.

  I turned the page to a detailed drawing of a penis, standing stiff away from the body. Va
rious arrows indicated the technical terms for the parts. On the adjoining page was that dark triangle exposed. Just a few quick strokes indicated the thighs, but what lay between them appeared in great detail with the names of all the parts duly noted. I touched the oval in the middle marked le vagin, and another rush pulsed through me, setting my groin throbbing.

  My entire body grew hot.

  A moment later, I snapped the book shut, unable to continue. My heart drummed against my chest, and I checked the door, certain someone was going to enter and see me with this book. I must have broken some moral code or rule of etiquette by even viewing these pages, despite the scientific nature of the book.

  After several deep breaths, my heart rate slowed and my agitation lessened. Then, the hall clock chimed one, and my throat tightened. I had only a few minutes before I would be called for dinner. I leapt off my bed, and quickly searched the room for a place to hide the book. I had just slipped it and the other volumes between my old lesson books when Mrs. Simpson rapped on the door.

  “Dinner is ready,” she said through the wood.

  “Be right there.”

  After splashing some water on my face, I rushed downstairs to the dining room.

  When I entered, Mycroft lifted one side of his mouth and asked in French, “What took you so long?”

  Once again, heat flooded my face. He knew what I would find in the book, and my reaction. What’s more, I was certain that it’d been his intention all along. Now, he was taking a great deal of amusement out of the whole act.

  “I was checking that book of codes,” I said, hoping to divert the subject. “Most interesting.”

  “I’m sure,” he said and chuckled at his plate while he cut his meat.

  My knuckles whitened as I gripped my own knife and fork. I felt as if the whole world could sense my secret.

  How would I ever face my mother?

  Ducking my head, I poked at my food, too afraid to meet my brother’s or father’s gaze.

  I’d only managed to choke down a few bites of meat when the thumping of heavy boots announced Uncle Ernest’s arrival. Anticipation of my mother’s reaction to my discovery regarding the blood pushed out all other thoughts.

  “What’s for dinner?” he asked, rubbing his hands together.

  Father raised his gaze from his plate and studied him. “Where have you been?”

  “Out.”

  Ernest leaned back in his chair slightly to allow Mrs. Simpson to place his meal in front of him.

  My gaze jumped to his, but he gave a hint of a shake with his head. Whatever had passed between my mother and uncle was not to be shared at the dining table—or not with my father.

  “But you went into town,” Mycroft said. “I heard the carriage leave this morning.”

  “Yes. I have to prepare for the inquest. We have discovered—”

  My father held up his hand. “Please, Ernest, not at the table. As a justice of the peace, I should not be discussing such things outside the court.”

  “Of course. Of course,” Ernest said and turned his attention to his plate. A moment later, he asked him, “Do you plan to butcher a pig this week?”

  “A pig?” His forehead creased. “I would have to check with the foreman. If you are in need of additional bacon—”

  “No. No. It’s not about bacon. I have need of a butchered pig.” He chewed a potato slowly and after swallowing, said, “I guess I will have to discuss it with Mr. Simpson after dinner.”

  “Do you need it to test another weapon?” Mycroft asked.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Ernest said. “I’m not allowed to discuss the matter here, but it’s of vital importance for the hearing.”

  My father scrubbed his mouth with his napkin and threw it on top of his plate. “Fine. I’ll ask Mr. Simpson to ask the tenants who has a pig they are planning to take to market.”

  “Thank you.”

  Father pushed his chair back from the table with great force and strode into the library.

  Once we were alone, Mycroft asked, “Do you have a defense planned?”

  “Thanks to Sherlock and Violette, I do,” he said, a smile broadening on his face.

  My brother pulled back his chin. “How?”

  “You’ll see. You’ll see,” Ernest said with a chuckle.

  I stared down at my plate, unable to share in my uncle’s enthusiasm. A sense of dread overwhelmed me. What if I was wrong, and my observation failed to free my mother?

  Even if she were freed, until the true killer was identified, the scandal wouldn’t completely die. I knew I couldn’t rest until the Holmes name was fully cleared.

  Chapter Four

  After dinner, I returned to my room. My gaze immediately went to the case with my old textbooks and, hidden among them, the anatomy book Mycroft had given me earlier. The slow burn I’d experienced at dinner rekindled itself, and I cursed him for his now obvious maneuvering. It was like playing chess with him, only on a more personal scale.

  No longer able to even bear knowing the book was in my room, I picked up the volume to return it to the library.

  This time, however, the door was closed. I paused before knocking to check for voices. My father and brother’s loud conversation passed through without distortion.

  “It’s your duty to the family, son,” Father said, a sharp edge in his tone.

  “The world’s changing. You may not be able to see the trends, but I do. Clearly. The village may have been the center of your world, but mine is much grander. I have absolutely no interest in—”

  “Interest? Interest? I don’t give a bloody damn about your interests. As the first born—”

  “Don’t lay your concept of responsibility on me. I see a much larger one for me. If you can’t accept it, disown me and pass this ‘duty’ on to Sherlock. See if I care.”

  “You’d care well enough if I let your grander duty support your lifestyle. All your fancy foods, that group of yours—”

  “The Diogenes Society is in its infancy. Once established, it will be self-sustaining.”

  “The only sustaining at the moment appears to be on the backs of my tenants.”

  One of them approached the library door, and my hand tightened its grip on the book. I took a step backwards, ready to turn and run before I was caught eavesdropping. Just before reaching the door, the steps stopped and retreated. Given the strides’ quickness and light tread, I decided they were those of a young man. Mycroft had to be pacing, but it must have calmed him because when he finally spoke, his voice was low and sedate.

  “I need to get back to university. My responsibilities lie there. My studies, the contacts I’ve been making, I’ve even been working on a treatise that will lay out some of my current observations and conclusions regarding the changes I see on the horizon. Take the war that just concluded in America. The resulting defeat of the seceding states will reshape that country.”

  “I don’t see why you wouldn’t be able to make your observations here at Underbyrne in the meantime. As long as this scandal hangs over our family—”

  “I need more immediate access to information.” He sighed. “It arrives too late by post. And I need—no I require—intellectual stimulation to form my conclusions. The sedate life of a country squire may be all right for you, but not for me.”

  “Why are you putting this on me now?” My father’s voice was worn, troubled. “With your mother in gaol?”

  “Because I feel the clock ticking. Every day I’m away from Oxford and my studies delays my whole future and the contributions I can bring.”

  “What about your mother? Aren’t you concerned about her at all?”

  “Once she’s free, my presence won’t be necessary.”

  “What makes you sure she’ll be freed?”

  “Because—”

  I ruined my chances to hear Mycroft’s analysis with a sneeze. Not a polite exhalation of air through the nose, but an explosive snort worthy of Uncle Ernest. I spun about, prepared to step
around a corner to avoid being caught. Before I could take two steps, a hand clamped down on my shoulder and turned me back around.

  “How long have you been listening, you little sneak?” Mycroft asked.

  “I-I-I just got here,” I said and held up the book. “I was going to return this.”

  He snatched it from me. “I’ll take care of it. Go. Find some other door to listen at.”

  I glanced behind him toward my father. His mouth was a hard line, but I couldn’t tell if he was angry at me or the conversation he’d been having with Mycroft—or both. In any case, I knew not to argue with either.

  With a quick bob of my head, I returned to my room but found I was unable to sit, as thoughts swirled in my brain. That Mycroft had no interest in returning to Underbyrne after his studies made no sense to me. How could one not want to stay here? Of course, Mycroft had always been much more cerebral than I. He was not one for hunting with Father. And what about his remarks about the future and how things were changing? Did he truly believe that Underbyrne would not remain as it was? More existed to the argument between the two than I’d heard, but Mycroft’s predictions were enough to make me pace the floor.

  After several circuits between the window and door of my room, I noticed my violin case on the desk. I recalled my promise to my mother and crossed the room to open it. After running my fingers across the instrument’s neck, I fitted it under my chin and tuned it. Tentatively at first, but with growing confidence, I worked on the piece I had practiced with my mother. For some reason, I found myself able to pour my emotions into the music, providing it with a depth I had never experienced before. When I hit a sour note, I didn’t rebuke myself, I simply continued until I finished the entire score.

  Having completed it once, I repeated the entire composition again—this time with fewer mistakes. I found myself relaxing as my thoughts quieted in the process. By the end of the second repetition, I came to the conclusion that whatever plan my uncle and mother had developed would succeed.

  Halfway through one execution, someone knocked on my door. I had been so engrossed in the music and my thoughts, I hadn’t heard anyone approach.