The Adventure of the Murdered Midwife

by Liese Sherwood-Fabre

  The girl nodded. “I was picking berries. For my family.”

  “I told her we’d fix a basket for them,” I said.

  “And give me somethin’ to eat now.”

  “Of course,” Mother said with a smile. “Let me prepare a plate for you. I’m afraid Cook has the afternoon off, so it will have to be cold, but there’s bread. And milk. Of course, you need to wash up before you eat. Let me show you to the facilities.”

  When they returned, the girl’s transformation caused my breath to catch. Her face, now scrubbed clean, displayed a pale complexion with just a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks. From my mother’s own efforts to avoid direct sunlight and the resulting darkening or freckling of the skin, I knew it was not fashionable, but in Constance’s case, I found them quite becoming. Mother had also managed to tame Constance’s hair, brushing it smooth and tying it with a ribbon in the back. She also provided her with a white servant’s apron to cover her dress.

  “You look…” I stopped when I saw scarlet creep into her cheeks. I fumbled for a moment for the proper words, and finally said, “Like you’re ready to eat.”

  She stared at the plate set on the table before her. “That’s all for me?”

  “Yes, dear,” Mother said and motioned to me. “Sherlock, please pull out the chair for Miss Constance.”

  I rushed over and drew it out, pushing it back in once she was seated.

  “Lords, I feels like a lady,” she said, glancing back at me.

  Mother moved to the other side of the table and said to me, “Let’s join her, shall we? Sherlock, would you mind bringing us two cups of tea?”

  While I prepared the teapot using the water always kept hot in the kettle over the kitchen fire, Constance attacked her food. She grasped the fork in her fist and shoveled the cold meats and vegetables into her mouth as if someone might pull the plate away at any minute. By the time I returned to the table, she’d consumed three-quarters of the meal. Mother and I sipped our tea while she finished off her plate, pausing only to take a bite of bread or drink some milk to help swallow what she had in her mouth.

  After she scraped the plate clean with her fork and used the bread to pick up any stray pieces, she leaned back and belched.

  “Lords, that was tasty. That meat, it was roast beef, wasn’t it? I don’t think I’ve ever had such tender meat. Of course, when my mother was alive, we’d eat good—like this.”

  “Your mother was a good cook?” Mother asked, leaning forward. “What dishes did she prepare?”

  “Chicken, for one,” she said, glancing away and adjusting herself on the seat.

  “You must miss her very much.”

  “I do.” Her eyes glistened. “She went to bed one night and never woke up again. I was the one who found her.”

  “How horrible for you.”

  Her head jerked up and down in quick succession, then she lowered her voice. “It was a shock, findin’ her de—that way. All cold and stiff.”

  She shuddered, and my mother placed a hand over hers. “I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories. Let’s speak of other things.”

  The girl gave a nod but lowered her head to stare at her hands. I imagined how I would feel if I lost my mother. She had been my teacher in so many things, and the hole she would leave in my life wouldn’t be filled. To assist the women and myself, I changed the topic.

  “Mother, Constance’s boots are all broken, and I have a pair I’ve outgrown. I told her she could have them.”

  “An excellent idea,” Mother said. “Why don’t you bring them here?”

  With great enthusiasm, I pushed back my chair and rushed to the garden door to retrieve the boots I had left earlier. I presented them to her with a flourish.

  “Try them on.”

  She kicked off her foot coverings with the missing toes, and I gasped before I could stop myself. Mother squinted at me, her mouth a hard line, before addressing Constance.

  “Those cuts must hurt.”

  “I’m used to it, ma’am,” she said, studying the various abrasions across her toes. Had they not been covered with dirt and crusted with some dried blood, I was certain they would appear even worse. “It’s the blisters that can make it hard to walk.”

  When she pointed to the tops of her feet, I recognized the raw places where the shoes had cut her skin.

  “I have some ointment that might help with all those,” Mother said. “But we need to clean them up first. How about we wash your feet, and I’ll bandage them so that the new boots won’t irritate them? You can take some ointment home to put on them until they heal.”

  The girl tilted her head to the left and studied first my mother and then her feet as if pondering the offer. After a moment, she asked, “Is it going to hurt?”

  “It might sting some, but I promise it will help in the end.”

  Another moment, then she nodded. “All right.”

  Mother turned to me. “Sherlock, why don’t you get a pair of your socks? That will help hold the bandages in place after I’m through with Miss Constance.”

  By the time I had raced upstairs, located a pair of socks, and returned, they had moved to the greenhouse where Mother kept her ointments. Both of Constance’s feet soaked in a bowl of water, and her injuries appeared more pronounced once they had been removed of dirt. Never had I seen the effects of no resources and poor hygiene as up close as I did at that instance. While my pity for her grew, her stoicism as my mother bandaged the tender skin impressed me even more.

  “Now,” Mother said, rising to her feet. “See how it feels to walk.”

  Constance slid off the stool and took a few tentative steps. “I can walk all right.”

  We helped her put on my old boots, which were slightly large for her. Once we stuffed the toes with some clean rags, however, she managed quite well in them.

  We returned to the kitchen to fill a basket.

  “Sherlock,” Mother asked when we had completed the task, “will you escort Miss Constance home, please? And carry the basket for her?”

  Her back straightened. “I can take it myself.”

  “Nonsense. That basket is far too heavy for you.”

  My cheeks burned, but at the same time, my heart quickened at the thought of spending time with the girl. She intrigued me. I had never known a thief, and her ability to take the bread from my pocket without my knowledge was something I’d never encountered before. In addition, my mother trusted me with a task she might have passed to Mr. Simpson or another adult.

  For the second time that day, my maturity was recognized.

  I ran my arm through the basket’s handle and followed Constance to the door. Mother held it open for us, and I turned toward the road, planning to follow it in the direction of the village. When I realized Constance wasn’t following me, I turned to see her still by the kitchen door.

  “The other way is shorter,” she said, pointing in the direction we’d come with Father.

  I glanced toward the road and then to the fields beyond the wall. I’d eliminated the pig problem and could think of no reason not to learn about the path she’d referred to earlier. I certainly couldn’t appear less inclined than a girl. With a shrug, I said, “Lead the way.”

  After crossing the walls and the fields, we arrived at the woods. She walked along the edge for a while and then turned in when we came to an opening between two bushes. A short time later, we were walking in the cool shadows under the trees. As she promised, a clear path ran perpendicular to the trail we’d used to enter the woods and parallel to the woods’ edge. She pointed to the left.

  “That way leads to the Browns’ house and the village, and this way,” she said, pointing in the other direction, “is Hanover Manor. You know you’re gettin’ close when you find the stream that runs onto their land.”

  I glanced in both directions. The path was clearly well traveled with packed dirt visible under the current dried leaves. “I can see it’s much quicker than the road.”
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br />   “If you have to walk.”

  I shifted the basket in my hands. “To the left, then?”

  We continued side by side for a while in silence. With the pig menace now removed, I found myself open to other sights and sounds in the woods. The call of various birds, the rustle of leaves as different creatures hid from us, the rasping of the wind among the tree branches. I shifted the basket in my hands and checked the sky. The sun was dropping to the western side of the forest.

  “It’s getting late. Is your father going to be cross with you for being out?” I asked.

  She trudged on a few moments before answering. “He’s probably still working. He comes home very late, and sometimes not at all. We watch each other, mostly. I’m the oldest, but with my mum sick for a long time before she… before she passed, we’d been taking care of each other for a while. Mrs. Brown told her she’d had too many babies too close.”

  “I’ve heard that,” I said. When she turned to stare at me, I quickly explained my remark. “I’ve heard, in general, too many babies can weaken a woman.”

  She didn’t reply, but simply continued putting one foot in front of the other. A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t try to wipe it away, but let it slide down her chin and drop onto her chest, making a tiny dark spot there.

  I wanted to say something to her, but had no idea what would be an appropriate sympathetic remark and so remained silent. Although Mother’s incarceration had been rather short, the specter of her permanent absence lurked in the back of my mind. The very thought of her never returning caused a melancholy to descend upon me. If only the possibility of such a loss created that sensation in me, what would the reality produce? I shuddered at the very prospect and forced my mind to shift to another subject and decided to do the same for Constance.

  “I saw you at the inquest on Friday.”

  “It was quite a show,” she said, her face breaking into a smile. “I’d’ve paid to see your uncle stab a pig like that.”

  I nodded, a smile also crossing my lips as I remembered the scene on the street. “He did put on an impressive performance.”

  “Better than the circus.”

  I opened my mouth and snapped it shut, not sure if I should broach the question that popped into my mind.

  “What is it?” she asked and poked my arm. “You were going to say something.”

  “I was going to ask something, actually.”

  But still I hesitated. While never addressed specifically by my father’s etiquette admonishments, I doubted it was appropriate to ask about certain behaviors from someone who was almost a stranger.

  She turned to me and jammed her hands to her hips, a stance that reminded me of one of the lead soldiers I’d used as a commander in all my make-believe battles. “Spit it out.”

  “I saw you…. There was an elderly gentleman near the bar…and the bread at the gaol….”

  Her eyes rounded, and I feared she was angry with me. Instead, when she opened her mouth, she laughed, and continued on the trail. “That was you? It was the most delicious thing I’d eaten. Ever.”

  “Would you…? Could you…?” I cleared my throat and dropped my voice even though we were alone in the darkening woods. “Teach me how you did it?”

  She stopped and tilted her head to study me. “What for? You don’t need to.”

  “Maybe not, but it seems a skill worth developing,” I said, jamming the toe of my boot into the ground.

  Another momentary pause while she scrutinized me.

  “You goin’ to tell your father on me?”

  “Never. He’d not approve. I’m sure.”

  “I can’t do it in a day. It takes time. You gots to practice.”

  “I’m willing.”

  “Let me think on it.” She picked up her speed and mumbled to herself. “A judge’s son wantin’ to learn dippin’. What’s the world’s comin’ to?”

  I did my best to keep up with her in spite of the increasingly heavy basket. Despite the ill-fitting boots and the wounds on her feet, she had quickened her pace. Shortly after this exchange, she turned onto the faintest of trails, pushed through some brush, then stopped, apparently waiting for me. When I reached her, she pointed to a cottage about twenty yards ahead.

  “That’s my home,” she said.

  My first impulse was to disagree with her. A person could not possibly live there, let alone a family as large as hers. The cottage couldn’t have been more than one room. The thatched roof showed thin spots, which probably leaked when it rained. The area around the house was packed earth.

  She took a few steps and called to those in the cottage. When the door opened, three children of various ages ran out to meet her. The oldest among them carried a bundle in his arms, and I realized it had to be the youngest baby. They stopped, however, when I stepped beside her. They squinted at me, and a boy who walked on unsteady legs hid behind the skirt of a girl I guessed to be five or six. A boy of about ten glared at me.

  “This is Sherlock,” she said, heading toward her brothers and sister. “He’s Squire Holmes’ son. He’s brought us something to eat.”

  At the mention of food, the children’s mouths spread into smiles, and the girl ran her tongue over her lips. Somehow, I didn’t think the berries Constance had found earlier would have been sufficient for her siblings. The vicar had better hurry in collecting for the family.

  When we reached the others, the girl made a grab for the basket. “What’s in there?”

  Constance slapped her hand.

  “Mildred, where’s your manners? You, Victor, and Harold go to the pump and clean your hands. Mrs. Holmes, she told me we could get sick if we didn’t clean up. I’ll take Daniel inside.”

  They all stood for a moment, and Mildred stared at her before asking, “Is that why your face is all white? ’Cause you washed it?”

  “And she brushed my hair,” Constance said, running her hand down her back. She turned so that Mildred could touch it. “Feel it. It’s all silky.”

  “Ooo,” the younger girl said. “Can you do mine? After we eat?”

  She nodded, and the others ran to the side of the house. Now burdened with the baby, she stepped to the house and motioned me to follow her inside. The moment I entered, I was assaulted by an odor not unlike that of a barn. The interior was dark, with only a light in the fireplace at the wall opposite the door providing any illumination. A kettle hung over the fire, but no other scents of cooking could be detected. Three platforms covered by some old blankets appeared to serve as beds. Constance stepped to a box on the floor and placed the baby in it. It made some very weak mewing sounds, and I thought I would suggest to Mother the child might need additional attention.

  She took the basket from me and said, “Thank you, Master Sherlock. I’ll feed the others. You best be getting back before dark.”

  I checked over my shoulder at the sun, sitting just above the treetops. With a nod, I turned and had taken two steps outside when the three younger children ran past me, their hands and faces still wet, but definitely cleaner than when I’d arrived.

  Despite the encroaching twilight, I was able to find and follow the trail back to Underbyrne with little difficulty. Without the burden of the basket, the trip was also quicker.

  Once home, I sought out my mother to inform her I had completed my task. She was in her sitting room next to the bedroom she shared with Father. Only after visiting other homes when I was older did I learn how Mother’s sitting room was not typical. Other ladies of her time might embroider, paint, read, or observe other “feminine” pursuits. Mother did read in the room, primarily scientific treatises, but she also had a microscope.

  When I arrived, I found her deep in thought, a volume open on her lap. She lifted her gaze. “Back so soon?” She pointed to the book. “Just reading the book Mycroft loaned me. Quite interesting view of economics, particularly the role of women and the family.”

  Which seemed an appropriate way to transition to the Straton family. I mad
e my report of the cottage and the baby, and she promised to see about arranging for appropriate milk for the infant.

  “May I ask you something?” I asked at the end of that discussion and continued with her assent. “It’s Mr. Straton. Or rather, Constance’s description of him. I didn’t see him at the house, and it appears the children care for themselves. But she talked as if he provided and cared for them.”

  “I’ve seen this before,” she said, shaking her head. “With her mother. Like her, Constance wants to believe what she says about him. She needs to.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Love. Or what she takes for love. I’ve seen women deny when men hit them because they believe their husbands love them.”

  After I recovered from the idea that a man would hit a woman (something my father had taught was never done), I considered her observation about such relationships in light of my own parents. I could never imagine her accepting violence from my father, but would she vouch for or repeat my father’s lies? Certainly my father had defended his wife when accused of murder, but it had been obvious she was innocent. What if she had been guilty? What would he have done then? And what if it had been the other way around? Would my mother have lied for him?

  Was loyalty to the point of blindness a part of love? I had a hard time imagining my having such love for any person beyond, perhaps, my parents. And maybe Mycroft.

  Before I could ask her more, a rapid footfall on the stairs caused us both to turn toward the door of the sitting room. One of the parlor maids stood in the open doorway, panting to regain her breath.

  “Madam…the door…constable.”

  “Constable Gibbons?” Mother asked, and the maid nodded in response. “Please inform Mr. Holmes. I’m sure it involves some infraction—”

  The maid shook her head violently. “No. He says he’s got a warrant to search the house.”

  Chapter Seven

  By the time Mother and I made it down the stairs, Father, Uncle Ernest, and Mycroft were already in the front hallway, blocking Constable Gibbons from passing any farther into the house. Behind the constable stood three deputies, all as sour-faced and grim as their superior. Several veins bulged on Father’s crimson neck and face, and he was shouting at the officer.