The Adventure of the Murdered Midwife

by Liese Sherwood-Fabre

  “Yes, of course,” he said, settling his shoulders and clearing his throat. “With all humility, Mr. Brown, I will continue the investigation I had already begun on behalf of my sister. Thank you for your confidence in my abilities.”

  Mr. Brown took my uncle’s arm and dropped his voice. “I wanted to make you aware of certain events that point to the perpetrator, if I may be so bold. Might we discuss this in privacy?”

  “My dear sir,” Ernest said, straightening his back, “anything you have to share with me, you can have the utmost confidence will be kept within our family.”

  The man’s eyes darted back and forth in their sockets as he studied each of us. After shifting on his feet and dropping his gaze, he raised his head to speak to my uncle. “I think you need to look carefully at Straton. The man has an evil temper. And blamed my Emma for his wife’s death. In public. At the Pig and Spider.”

  “You frequented a pub?” Mother asked. When the two men faced her, the color rose in her cheeks, but her voice remained steady. “Excuse me for interrupting, but I was under the impression you were a teetotaler, Mr. Brown.”

  He raised his head and glared at my mother. “I don’t believe in strong drink, that’s true, but I do have a business to run, and they have as much need of honey as any other establishment.” He turned his back to my mother and continued speaking with my uncle. “Although my wife was innocent of what he claims, I am certain his temperament is such that he could be capable of murder if properly provoked. Ask any at the pub. You’ll hear all of them testify to his threats against my wife.”

  “Interesting insights, sir. I’ll take that under consideration. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we were about to return home for Sunday dinner.”

  “Yes. Of course.” The man fairly scraped the ground with his bow. “You will follow up, won’t you? You’ll see. Straton is your man. I’m sure of it.”

  We took our leave of the honey man and boarded our carriage. Once moving, the carriage’s methodical rocking put all of us into a dreamy stupor until Mother spoke up to no one in particular.

  “An interesting discussion on the part of Mr. Brown, don’t you think?”

  “Straton certainly has a temper,” Father said. “He’s been in my court more than once on charges. But murder? I guess if carried too far…”

  “Pity we can’t simply visit the Pig and Spider to determine if others actually did hear him threaten the woman,” Mother said.

  “Mrs. Holmes, I refuse to allow anyone in this family to lower themselves to fraternize with those who frequent the front room of such an establishment.”

  “The word is proletariat. At least that’s what the Germans, Marx and Engels, call them in their treatise.” Mycroft’s voice was clear without any hint of drowsiness. He’d been resting his head against the carriage’s panel but hadn’t been asleep despite appearances. “These men have described a rather bleak situation for them and predict a violent revolt should conditions not change.”

  “Marx and Engels?” Mother asked. “Do you have a copy of this treatise? I would like to read it.”

  “Revolutionary poppycock,” my father said, almost spitting the words. “I’ve heard they call for the confiscation of all lands. Everything to be owned by all. They call it communism.”

  His mouth turned down, and he squished his face as if he’d tasted something bitter.

  Mycroft leaned forward, his words almost tumbling out of his mouth with an enthusiasm he rarely displayed. “Whether you support their cause or not, this is one of the shifts I’ve noted in my studies. History has shown that when the masses are discontented, change will occur. Look at the colonies, and their revolt against the crown. The same passed in France. Calling it poppycock doesn’t mean it can’t occur. That’s why I need to return to Ox—”

  “And you shall,” Mother said. “But I don’t care to discuss it at the moment.”Mycroft pressed his lips together, thwarted in his effort to bring up the topic of his return to his studies. He leaned back against the cushion and scowled at us the rest of the way home. For my parents and myself, we slipped back into silence.

  Driving up to the house, however, the sight of the gamekeeper waiting in the yard caused us all to sit up and shake off our pensive attitudes.

  “What’s the matter, Benson?” Father asked, alighting from the carriage as soon as it pulled to a stop.

  The man frowned. “I’ve found another one, sir.” He spat onto the ground. “Ripped a lamb up good this time.”

  “After dinner, we’ll go out after it.” Father turned to Mycroft and me. “Care to help us hunt a wild pig?”

  My brother immediately shook his head, but the desire to spend the day outside I’d experienced in the morning returned and compelled me to respond. “I will.”

  “Sherlock and I will see you then in an hour or so, Benson.”

  The anticipation of spending some time with my father led me to rush through dinner. Once upstairs, I changed into my hunting clothes, including the deerstalker cap I received last Christmas. Once again, I found them a little tight, but could do nothing about that at the moment. I raced down the stairs and found my father already putting on his boots by the back door. I tried to do the same with my own but couldn’t seem to get the first one past my ankle.

  “Good heavens, son,” my father said as he helped me extract my foot. “We’re going to have to order you some new hunting gear. I guess you’ll just have to wear your regular boots today.”

  He handed me a rifle, and we headed off through a field to the woods surrounding our grounds. I’d been hunting and shooting guns for a number of years now and knew how to carry the rifle for proper safety.

  Once outside, we headed to the left, passing the stables and moving through the field beyond, fenced to hold a small flock of grazing sheep. Benson waved at us from the far side, just inside the fence. Behind the fence, the woods began. When we approached him, I could see a circle of blood from the slaughtered lamb. Also visible were two broken rails where the pig had broken through. The grass and ground about the bloodied area and on the other side of the fence were churned and trampled with hoof marks.

  “He went back into the woods the same way as he came,” Benson said, pointing to the pig’s trail. “It’s too old for tracking, but at least we know where to begin.”

  Father pointed to the right. “Benson, you head in that direction. Sherlock and I will take the other. I suppose we’ll know if you find anything. We’ll hear it.”

  “Yes, sir,” the gamekeeper said with a nod.

  Once we split, Father and I loaded our weapons before tramping toward the first trees. The going was too narrow for us to go side-by-side, and I let him lead the way. He spoke over his shoulder. “Stay near. I don’t think the animal would attack a human, but if it gets cornered, it might.”

  I shuddered. More than one governess had put me to bed with tales of the evil befalling children who disobeyed their parents—most of which involved an event in the woods. Even armed with a weapon, I wasn’t all that confident. Not that I hadn’t been in the woods or gone hunting before. But stalking and shooting a deer wasn’t the same thing as tracking a wild pig.

  We took a path running parallel to the woods’ edge. Father checked broken branches in the underbrush or other signs the animal had passed. At one point, we found more stirred-up earth and a tuft of hair caught on tree bark.

  “Not wool,” Father said, holding the strands in his palm. “Too straight. Probably from that beast.”

  He dropped the hair to the ground, and we continued trudging through the area, seeing nothing more ferocious than a rabbit when it crashed through the underbrush and appeared almost directly in front of us. Father and I both started, then chuckled at our unfounded fright.

  No sooner had we exchanged our silent joke than a high-pitched wail echoed from deeper in the woods, directly ahead. My father put a finger to his lips and pointed in the direction of the noise. He motioned me to step behind him, and we marched single fil
e through the brush. I gripped my rifle tighter, my palms now damp and slippery on the wooden stock. Another wail, now on our left, followed by a rustling in the brush, made us both freeze. We shifted our direction, moving with even greater caution and now almost side-by-side.

  Tiny rivulets of sweat ran down the rifle’s barrel, and my tongue traced my lips. I barely dared to breathe. We crept forward, placing one foot as silently as possible in front of the other. Father pushed back a limb and exposed a huge black and white pig, shrieking at something in a tree. Huge teeth rose like yellowed claws from its pink, foamy mouth. My heart pounding, I watched the animal lower its head and ram its brow against the tree’s trunk. The wail that had originally alerted us to the pig’s presence emanated from the trees’ branches. A blue-clad figure—about my size—showed through the crimson and mustard-colored leaves. The person must have seen us because a girl’s voice called out.

  “Shoot it. The branch is breaking. If I fall, he’ll rip my throat out.”

  As if on cue, the lower branches shuddered, sending a shower of dead and dying leaves upon the pig, which, in turn, crashed into the trunk again to add to the deluge of foliage.

  Father motioned me to follow him into the clearing, and I mimicked his stance—rifle raised, finger near the trigger, ready to fire—as I drew abreast of him. Once I was beside him, he shouted at the pig. The sound caused the animal to turn and lunge toward us. We fired almost simultaneously, the cracks of our weapons echoing off the trees and sending all the fowl in the area into the air. The weapon’s stock recoiled into my shoulder, and my nose filled with the acrid stench of gunpowder.

  Over the ringing in my ears, the pig’s screech sent a jolt down my spine, freezing me in place. Unable to move, I saw the animal slide to a halt a few feet in front of us, its breath puffing out of its mouth. Its rear muscles twitched, and I braced myself for it to continue its charge straight at us. Instead, it gave a second squeal—only slightly less intense than the first—and spun about to race off into the underbrush.

  “Come on, Sherlock,” Father said, cocking his gun and reloading. “We have to find it and kill it. It’s even more dangerous now it’s wounded.”

  “What about the girl? Up in the tree?”

  He squinted at the figure hidden among the branches. “Constance? Is that you up there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You come on down, and don’t you run off. I don’t want to have to go looking for you too. If Benson comes along, you send him after us.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A rustle in the branches suggested she would soon be on the ground, but Father was already on his way to the area where the pig had pushed through the underbrush. I followed, my rifle reloaded and ready.

  The blood trail allowed for easy tracking, but still Father paused every so often to listen before proceeding. I understood why a few minutes later when he again stopped and turned his body slightly, his jaw tense. Heavy, slow snorting blew dead leaves and other debris from underneath a growth of saplings. He motioned me to keep in step with him.

  The pig lay on its side, its labored exhalations indicating both pain and anger. When we were almost upon the animal, Father stepped on a branch. The pig jerked its head up at the crack and pulled itself to its feet, facing him.

  The beast tightened its haunches, prepared to charge. Without hesitating, or even thinking, I raised my weapon and fired at its side. Already having lost blood, the shot was enough to down him. He collapsed at my father’s feet.

  In the shot’s aftermath, my body responded by rebelling against every part’s natural state. My earlier, heavy Sunday dinner formed a weight in my stomach and threatened to return. The bones in my legs lost all rigidity and were poised to melt onto the leaves and twigs under my boots. With great effort, I raised my gaze to my father. He, too, appeared quite affected by our ordeal. His eyes rounded, he shifted his focus between the pig, its snuffling becoming a death rattle, and me.

  My hands grasped the still-raised rifle even tighter until a broad grin split his face. “Well done, son. Good show.”

  My grip relaxed, and the gun sank to my side.

  Pounding footfalls and a general breaking through the brush caused us both to spin toward the noise. Benson appeared, his rifle at the ready. When he stepped up to us, he lowered his weapon. A girl, clad in blue, peeked at us from behind the gamekeeper.

  “You killed ‘im, then?” she asked.

  “Sherlock did it,” my father said, his voice now strong. “I couldn’t get a good shot with it charging right at me.”

  Benson stepped up to the pig, his rifle again at the ready. He gave the beast a kick in the side. “A good, clean kill. Well done.”

  My shoulders dropped, and my chest rose at the second “well done.” Rarely had I had the opportunity for someone outside my family to recognize an accomplishment.

  “Take care of it, will you, Benson?” my father asked. “I think we should all enjoy some sausages and bacon from the beast.” He glanced at the girl still standing at the spot where she and the gamekeeper had first stopped. “You want to tell me why you were in my woods, Constance?”

  “I weren’t doing no harm,” the pickpocket from the gaol said, raising her chin. “Just pickin’ some wild berries here’s abouts.”

  As if to prove her point, she put her hand into a dress pocket and pulled out a handful of bilberries. Their juice had stained her palm and tongue.

  “She has been eating them, Father.”

  His mouth pulled down. “These are private lands. Another owner might have you arrested for poaching.”

  “For taking a few wild berries? For my brothers and sisters?” The girl had more cheek than I’d ever witnessed. Even Mycroft wouldn’t have confronted my father as directly. “Besides, I wasn’t looking I just saw and thoughts to myself, ‘such berries would make a tastier treat for the young ones than they would for the birds.’ So I took a few.”

  My father’s mouth twitched, and at first I feared he planned to actually have her put in gaol. Instead, the corners went up, and he chuckled. “I suppose you have as much right to them as the birds.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why you were in the woods in the first place.”

  “The path, sir. Everyone knows abouts it. Leads straight through the woods to the village. We all use it. I’m always meetin’ people on the way to town or to Hanover Manor.”

  Father glanced at Benson, who nodded. Even the gamekeeper seemed to know about the apparent shortcut. My father shifted on his feet and gazed about him. He was planning to dismiss the girl and leave the pig to Benson’s attention. Perhaps inspired in part by Constance’s boldness, I spoke, expressing a thought without weighing its full consequences.

  “She’s obviously hungry, Father. I know the church is taking up a collection, but perhaps we can send something back with her until the other is ready?” Before he could answer, I turned to her. “Come back to the house with us. We’ll get you something to eat and a basket to take back to your family.”

  “Truly? You would do that for me?” I nodded, and then she paused before asking, “What do you want in return?”

  “Nothing. Consider it…Christian charity,” I said, recalling the conversation at the luncheon the day before.

  Father cleared his throat, and I faced him, fearing he had decided to countermand my offer. Perhaps he had, but when he glanced first at me and then Constance, who blinked her eyes, making a face as heartfelt as a dog begging scraps at the table. He shifted on his feet and cleared his throat once again. “Christian charity. Of course. Come back to the house with us.”

  The return trip to the house seemed much longer than when we went into the woods. We finally emerged near the field where the sheep grazed. While I’d been prepared to offer Constance assistance in passing over the rails, I never had the chance. Without hesitating, she hopped nimbly over the barricade. As she did so, I noticed her shoes for the first time. The toes h
ad been cut out of them as if to make room for her growing feet.

  Once we were all on the same side, I asked her. “Aren’t your feet cold?”

  “I’m used to it,” she said, studying her shoes. “I usually wrap the ends in rags, but they fell off when the pig chased me.”

  “Father,” I asked, turning to him. “May she have my old boots? They don’t fit me and she needs them.”

  “She was the one who found the pig, in a way.” He rubbed his chin. “At least she alerted us to its whereabouts. I suppose she saved the life of more than one lamb. You can share them, if you wish.”

  When we reached the barn, both Mr. Simpson and my uncle stepped out, deep in conversation. Father hailed them both, and we stopped not far from the kitchen door. Constance’s stomach rumbled, and I knew she was anticipating our “charity.”

  “The pig won’t be bothering us anymore.” He slapped me on the back, and a warmth spread through me from that spot. “Sherlock here got him when it charged me.”

  My uncle placed a hand on the other shoulder. “Good show, boy.”

  “He’s a right good shot,” Constance said and sent a smile in my direction.

  My uncle stared at her and frowned. “Who are you? No, wait. I’ve seen you before…”

  “She’s one of the Straton children. Constance. The pig had her treed.”

  “What’s she doin’ here?” asked Mr. Simpson.

  “Sherlock invited her,” Father said. He faced me. “Go on and take her to the house.”

  With a nod, I passed my rifle to him and motioned the girl toward the house. With each step, her shoes slapped up and down between her feet and the ground.

  Mother must have been in the greenhouse and seen us approaching from its windows. She arrived in the kitchen the same time as we did. She still wore the apron she would put over her dress when working there. She smiled at us when we entered.

  “Constance, how good to see you again,” she gave her a smile. “Did the men find you in the woods?”

  The glow I’d experienced when my father had reported on my shot of the pig re-ignited with my mother’s inclusion of me among the “men.” If she realized the effect of her remark, she appeared not to notice and focused on the girl.