The Adventure of the Murdered Midwife

by Liese Sherwood-Fabre

  “Leave my mother alone,” he said, ripping the paper into shreds. “You…you… scavenger.”

  The man scrambled to his feet and dropped back into the crowd. Mycroft’s display had sobered the others, and everyone took a few more steps back. I held my breath as if somehow it would make me smaller and allow me to slip unseen into the vehicle after the rest of my family.

  Only after taking a seat did I exhale.

  As the carriage lurched forward, Mycroft, still flushed and panting from his exertion, reached about and pulled down all the shades to block out the view of the crowd. When he settled back onto the bench, I glanced at him with a new sense of admiration. I’d never seen him display quite as much strength or emotion as he had in that one event. For the first time I saw his sense of superiority and contempt for others—usually directed at me—had served a useful purpose.

  Following a huff, he said, “Damned press.”

  “Was that display necessary?” my father asked.

  “Yes.”

  My father opened his mouth, but Mother restrained him with a shake of her head. “No arguments. Not now. Thank you, son, for your efforts to protect my privacy.”

  The two men settled back in their seats, and we rode in silence, each in his own thoughts. A moment later, however, a chuckle bubbled from Father’s lips. It grew into a full laugh which lasted long enough I feared he’d lost his senses. When it subsided, he took Mother’s hand and managed to say through hiccups, “You should have seen it, Mrs. Holmes. I thought the coroner and the jury were all going to have seizures right there in the street when Ernest stabbed that pig.”

  “I’m surprised more of them didn’t get blasted when the blood spurted out,” Mycroft said.

  “Please share the particulars.”

  “Don’t you want Ernest to tell you, my dear?” asked Father.

  “I’ll get his review later. I’d like to hear your impressions as well.”

  “I do have to say it was a most effective way of showing the poor woman hadn’t been stabbed to death,” Father said and proceeded to describe Ernest’s questioning of Constable Gibbons and the spectacle in the street. By the end, he was laughing again with the rest of us joining in. The tension that had gripped us for the past week dissolved into the tears we swiped from our cheeks as we recalled the observers’ shocked countenances.

  When our mirth had died, Father shifted in his seat to face her and lifted her hand to his lips. “I’m so glad you are free. Underbyrne hasn’t been the same without you. I realized how much your presence completes the home.”

  Mother blinked, glanced at the shuttered window, and pulled the shade open before turning back to him. “It is I who am the fortunate one.”

  Mycroft coughed and the two of them flinched and turned to face us. Their fingers, however, remained entwined.

  “With this inquest now behind us,” Mycroft said, “I assume we’ll be returning to our duties?”

  I gulped. All the joy I’d experienced with my mother’s release evaporated at the thought of entering Eton again. Despite the heavy atmosphere at home with my mother’s imprisonment, I’d had the freedom to roam about and a sense of importance in the work I was doing. Returning to school for me was the equivalent to Mother’s time in gaol.

  “Why don’t we discuss that later?” Mother said. “I want to revel in this moment. With no thought of the future.” She took a deep breath. “I never knew freedom had a scent until now.”

  Without any thought, I took a deep breath as well, drawing in the tang of the carriage’s leather, the dust of the road, and the green fields beyond. As with her, I now knew the aroma of freedom—its source lay in Underbyrne. At that moment, the two were the same.

  She rested her head on my father’s shoulder. The two continued their grip on each other’s hands. That small gesture and the tenderness with which he now stroked her thumb with his own gave me a new view of my parents’ bond with each other. I had always considered their relationship as something akin to a business arrangement—with my father providing the income and my mother maintaining home and family. For the first time, I understood marriage might also involve an emotional connection.

  The carriage turned onto Underbyrne’s private drive, and we passed over a rut. The carriage swayed, and Mother cracked open her eyes. She straightened herself in the seat and drew in her breath. “Oh my. What day is tomorrow?”

  “Saturday, dear,” Father said, opening his eyes as well. “I suppose it’s difficult to keep track of time while in—”

  “It’s not that. My ladies’ luncheon is tomorrow.”

  “Surely, Mrs. Holmes, you don’t mean—”

  “Mr. Holmes,” she said with a tone that, while soft, carried a hidden warning within it that she would not be swayed. “If we are to return to normalcy in our home and our place in the community, we must maintain our social obligations. That includes my monthly ladies’ luncheon. I’ll make certain that Mrs. Simpson has the staff prepare as I planned prior to my…to my absence. And you, Sherry dear…” She shifted her gaze to me. “I think it’s time for us to consider that duet we selected before you left for Eton.”

  I nodded, elated I had practiced the piece while she’d been incarcerated. My heart swelled with pride, knowing she’d be pleased with my progress.

  The next moment, however, my mouth fell open when Mycroft glanced out the window and asked, “What the devil is that man doing here?”

  “Truly, Mycroft,” Mother said with a sigh, “is cursing necessary? I have told you, one doesn’t need foul language to express—Bloody hell, how dare that man show his face at our home.”

  Chapter Five

  Mrs. Simpson must have heard the carriage pull into the yard, because she rushed out of the house and down the steps. When she turned her head to her right at the bottom, she halted, frozen on the driveway, yards from the carriage. From the window, I saw her pull herself to full height and march in the direction of a man and horse waiting beyond our coach. Mr. Brown stood by his steed, a package in hand. My surprise at his presence shifted to the same indignation Mother expressed when she saw him.

  The carriage swayed as all the occupants descended, one after another. The honey man took several steps back when Father, Mycroft, and the Simpsons approached him like the Roman army advancing on the Huns. Only the horse prevented the man’s further retreat.

  Mother and I caught up with the others in time to hear Mrs. Simpson say, “God’s teeth, you have some nerve to show yourself at this home.”

  The five grown-ups formed a semi-circle around Mother’s accuser. I hung back, knowing my father wouldn’t have approved of my presence in a matter involving adults.

  The beekeeper must have forgotten about his horse because he tried to step back again. He was trapped, only able to stare wide-eyed at the five fuming before him. Finally, he dipped his head and shoved the package toward them, almost as if making an offering to some heathen deity.

  “I brought honey for Mrs. Holmes’ luncheon tomorrow. Same as always.”

  I stood still, expecting one of them to slap the bundle from his hands before sending him off draped over his horse’s back. At least, that was my own inclination in response to his appearance at our home. I could only stare as my mother stepped forward. When she reached out, his flinch was visible even from my vantage point.

  “How kind of you to remember my upcoming event,” she said. “It wouldn’t be the same without your contribution. How much do I owe you?”

  After glancing at her outstretched hand, he placed the parcel in it. “I-I can’t accept anything from you. Not after what I put you through.”

  Had I heard her correctly? She was accepting his apology? I checked the others’ backs to see if I was mistaken. All four still stood rigid as if prepared for battle. One, however, didn’t remain immobile.

  “Put her through.” My father stormed forward and grabbed the man’s shirt and vest in his hand. Father’s color passed red and bordered on purple. “You ha
d her arrested. Put in gaol. Ready to be hanged. Without one lick of evidence.”

  The man sputtered, and his face darkened, progressing beyond my father’s color. “I-I didn’t… P-please… S-sorry.”

  “Mr. Holmes,” Mother said, tugging lightly on his outstretched arm. “Mr. Holmes, let him go. You don’t want to be accused of murder as well.”

  “It’d be justifiable homicide. No jury would convict me,” he said, fairly lifting the man off his feet.

  The honey man gave a strangled gasp.

  “Regardless, your reputation would be tainted. You don’t want to hand that on to your sons.”

  Father glanced at his wife, then at the man, and dropped him to the ground. Mr. Brown fell onto all fours and took several deep breaths between coughs. Mother knelt next to him to observe him while his color faded to something more normal. When his breathing slowed, she gestured to my father to help him up.

  Once he was on his feet again, Mother pointed toward the house. “Why don’t we all go inside? A cup of tea might help restore you.”

  “Mrs. Holmes, really—” Father said, unable to even complete the sentence.

  Mother raised her hand and gestured to all assembled toward the house. “Mrs. Simpson, will you lead the way?”

  The men fell in line behind the two women, Mr. Brown holding back a moment to give some distance between him and the others. I followed even later. While we entered the house, Mr. Simpson tied the beekeeper’s horse to the carriage and took both toward the stables. I overheard him talking to the two animals as he did so.

  “Finest example of Christian charity I’ve ever seen. The man accused her of killing his wife and now she’s having him to tea. Not an angry or bitter word toward him. Aye, true Christian charity.”

  My lips turned up at the edges. I was quite certain he’d have a different opinion of my mother if he’d heard her oath earlier in the carriage. I had no doubt her resentment and anger ran quite a bit deeper and stronger than what my father had displayed. Something else had motivated her to invite the man inside.

  That realization spurred me to hasten inside just in time to find my family and Mr. Brown already seated in the parlor. I slipped into the room and took my usual place toward the back, following my father’s admonition that boys my age in the presence of company should be “seen and not heard—and in most cases, not even the first.”

  I observed Mr. Brown had taken off his gloves, which now rested on his knee. Even from my vantage point, the sticky sheen of honey on the fingertips was visible. Surely one of the hazards of his trade—beyond the obvious bee stings—would be the impossibility of ever being fully free of their product.

  Mrs. Simpson apparently took it upon herself to bring out the tea and a substantial arrangement of food. She must have brought out some of the food already prepared for celebrating my mother’s return. As Mother accepted a plate from our housekeeper, she turned to the beekeeper. “Surely, Mr. Brown, you didn’t come here to risk the Holmes’ anger simply to deliver some honey—although I do appreciate your wares. What is it that you truly want?”

  Mrs. Simpson served our guest and stepped back to the tea tray to make another plate. I leaned forward to catch the man’s explanation.

  He shifted on his chair, making the teacup rattle in its saucer. As he did so, he grimaced and glanced in my father’s direction. He took a sip of tea, glanced at the plate and set it on a small table next to him.

  “I-I came to apologize. I should have”—he pulled at his collar—“uh…known you weren’t capable of such a crime. It’s just that…poor Emma, she deserves her peace.”

  My father coughed, but I knew it was to mask a sound of contempt that bubbled up unbidden.

  “I was just so certain—although quite mistaken, mind you—my Emma had been stabbed to death. With the display your brother so graphically completed today, it’s quite obvious her death occurred by other means. Mr. Parker did such a fine piece of investigation and demonstration, I was hoping he’d consider continuing to search for her true killer and bring the person to justice.”

  I entwined my fingers, the knuckles turning white, as my uncle was given credit for my discovery.

  “I’m afraid my brother isn’t here at the moment,” she said. “He stayed in town to observe the rest of the inquest. But I will pass on your request to him. I think he’ll be glad to help you identify the perpetrator. I would suggest you share your request with Constable Gibbons as well. He might have his own notions of who might be suspect.”

  “Oh, no. He was quite grateful for the information I gave him concerning your argument with Emma.” He stopped and crimson crept up his neck and into his face. “I mean…er…he reported to me having no evidence beyond finding…her in the garden.”

  At this point, his voice cracked, and he swallowed hard.

  Despite my earlier resentment and anger at the man, I found myself sympathizing with the widower. Perhaps he grasped at the first straw that seemed to explain what happened?

  My father and brother must have had a reaction similar to mine because they both cleared their throats and shifted in their chairs. Mother, however, reached out and touched the man’s hand.

  “I’m sure I can convince my brother to help you determine who did this to your wife.” Mrs. Simpson huffed from the far corner of the room. Her employer turned to her and said, “That will be all, Mrs. Simpson. I’ll ring if we desire anything else.”

  The woman shuffled off, but her muttering commenced as soon as she stepped into the hallway. Her retreat sparked something in Mr. Brown as well. He searched about for a moment, then set his cup and plate on a small table next to his seat. Relieved of his burden, he stood and faced my mother.

  “I want to thank you for your kind forgiveness and hospitality. I recognize this has been a trying time for you. And for me. I should let you enjoy reuniting with your family.”

  We all escorted the man to the door, and he took his leave, heading to the stable to pick up his horse.

  As soon as the front door closed, Father spun about and said with a voice that failed to exhibit the reserve he always lectured us to maintain, “Has your time in gaol addled your brain, Mrs. Holmes? I find it incredulous that Ernest would consider helping him find the true culprit when the man was willing to have you hanged.”

  His shallow, rapid breathing suggested he might pass out from his efforts to control his emotions. My mother must have feared the same because she stepped to him and ran a light caress up his arm. When he turned to her, she met his gaze with the same calm I had seen her show one of our injured animals as she placed a poultice on its wound.

  “I recognize it appears to go against reason. But when he came here today and put in his request, several things became clear to me. Our family’s reputation is far from redeemed—despite the inquest today. A shadow still hangs over our name, and Constable Gibbons is going to exploit that unless we are able to show beyond all doubt we were not involved in poor Emma Brown’s death. The most efficient way to do so is to find the true culprit. While Mr. Brown says he’s convinced we were not involved, I am not certain he truly believes it. Let us not forget the teaching of Sun-Tzu, ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’ I can’t abide any cloud darkening your standing in our community.”

  Father’s breathing had slowed as she spoke, and he now studied her in deep contemplation. After a moment, he glanced at Mycroft and then me. “You mother is right. I’m afraid it also means you boys can’t return to your studies until we resolve this matter. The scandal would haunt you there as well.”

  Both Mycroft and I sighed at this pronouncement, although I was certain for different reasons—Mycroft out of frustration and me, relief. He opened his mouth to speak, but Father spoke first.

  “This is not open for argument. As long as I’m paying for your studies, I will decide when, and if, you return.”

  “I think, Mycroft,” Mother added, “you might find this an appropriate incentive to put your intellec
tual skills to the task confronting us.” She smiled, letting her gaze rest for a moment on each of us. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I am overdue for a bath.”

  Mrs. Simpson stepped from the shadows, and I realized she had an ability for stealth I hadn’t observed previously. “I already had the chambermaid prepare one for you. The water, however, might not be warm enough. I’ll have her bring some more.”

  “Thank you. Will you also send a plate up? I’m afraid I wasn’t able to partake of much during Mr. Brown’s visit. Perhaps two,” she said after taking a few steps toward the stairs and turning back to us. “That is, Mr. Holmes, if you care to join me?”

  A kind of secret communication passed between them, and the corners of his mouth lifted slightly. He stepped to the stairs, took her hand and raised it to his lips.

  “It sounds…delicious.”

  Mrs. Simpson’s cheeks reddened. “I’ll have the girl bring up a tray to your sitting room.”“Thank you, Mrs. Simpson,” my mother said.

  Her hand still in my father’s, the two headed to the second floor. Mrs. Simpson, my brother, and I watched them ascend. While I had no desire to remain downstairs, I felt following them to go to my room almost bordered on an intrusion of their privacy.

  When they had passed out of earshot, Mrs. Simpson sighed. “Now the home is complete again. I thought your father would die when they took her away. Come along, boys, I’m sure whatever you had in the parlor wasn’t sufficient. There’s more in the dining room.”

  “Breakfast was rather light,” Mycroft said.

  We followed her to the dining room, and as I took my seat, I glanced at the two empty places set for my parents. I had to agree with Mrs. Simpson. Even though they were not at the table, I found myself at peace—as if a missing puzzle piece had found its proper place and the image completed. Simply knowing they were in the house was enough to create a familiar contentment.

  With a plate of food in front of me, I attacked all I had been served with great relish. I glanced across the table at Mycroft and found him slumped over his plate. While he consumed his repast, he didn’t do so with the same enthusiasm he normally showed. But for me, even the impending monthly invasion of mother’s luncheon invitees tomorrow couldn’t dampen my spirits for the moment.