The Adventure of the Murdered Midwife

by Liese Sherwood-Fabre

  “This is an outrage. The inquest put to rest any question of my wife’s involvement in the death of Emma Brown. What makes you think you can come in here, and—”

  “This warrant,” Gibbons said, holding up a folded sheaf of paper. “Signed by Judge Montgomery.”

  “Let me see that.”

  Father fairly snatched the paper from the man’s hand and perused the document. “It says here you have the right to search the greenhouse. That can be reached from the outside. Go around the house to the back, and we will let you in there.”

  Behind me, my mother drew in her breath. Because everyone’s attention focused on the exchange between the two men, no one else seemed to have heard her. She had to be recalling Mrs. Gibbons’ sudden interest in my mother’s luncheons and the contents of her greenhouse.

  Did the constable have a similar interest?

  She didn’t make any verbal protest, which I was certain reflected an effort to keep from drawing more attention to her activities.

  In addition, Father’s acquiescence to the search suggested he was not completely aware of Mother’s plants or their purposes. He might not be concerned, thinking nothing would be found to connect her to Emma Brown’s murder, but would he be so detached if he knew about the information the little red volume held? I recalled how it lay in plain sight on the pianoforte. Mrs. Gibbons was bound to have seen it. Observed any notations Mother made. And its return to the greenhouse after the luncheon.

  Cold sweat beaded on my upper lip. I saw no way of avoiding its discovery if that was what he truly sought.

  The four officers of the law spun on their heels and marched back through the front door. As soon as the door shut behind them, the five of us rushed through the halls to the conservatory and waited for the men to reappear.

  After gazing about the room and the plants for a moment, Gibbons said, “We will now execute the warrant. You will not pass the threshold during the search.”

  On his superior’s orders, one of the officers accompanied us to the interior entrance to the greenhouse and remained there to prevent our entry.

  The remaining three poked about the various pots and studied the recesses under the tables.

  “What exactly are you searching for?” Father called to them.

  “Pennyroyal,” Gibbons said.

  Mycroft said, “A common enough plant.”

  Gibbons straightened up and faced us. “Perhaps. But there are rumors going about that Mrs. Straton was poisoned by pennyroyal. And it came from this greenhouse.”

  The process was exceedingly slow. The pulse in my neck thrummed as they moved toward the pennyroyal plants. Mother, however, remained straight-backed and still. When they reached the pots with the aforementioned plants, they passed them by, giving them no more attention than they had with any of the other plants.

  My pulse quickened as my worst fears seemed realized. The pennyroyal was merely an excuse for the search. I checked my mother and saw the color rise in her cheeks as the constable stepped back again toward the outer door, focusing on the books and papers scattered about the top of her workbench.

  I held my breath as Constable Gibbons flipped through the pages on one and then another of the notebooks on the table. I reminded myself to remain impassive as he opened the coded notebook, frowned, and tucked it under his arm. I allowed myself a glance at Mycroft. Had he recognized the ledger as the one I'd shown him? He wore the same bored, inscrutable expression he showed when playing chess.

  The constable completed his inspection of all the items on the table, spun around, and strode up the room’s central aisle to where we stood. He held out the ledger and displayed it to all there.

  “Would you care to tell me what this is?” he asked.

  “It’s a diary,” my mother said. Her chin was high, her gaze steady.

  “Of what?”

  My uncle cleared his throat. “Violette, dear, as your solicitor, I would suggest—"

  She held up her hand to silence him. “I appreciate your concern, Ernest, but I can answer that question.” She faced the constable. “Of my activities.”

  His brows drew together, but he said nothing. He thumbed through the pages again and placed it in his pocket. His gaze traveled about the room and my family gathered in front of him. “I guess we’re through here.”

  With that pronouncement, he marched back to the outside door, his men following behind. None of us moved from the area until the greenhouse’s back door closed soundly. Our simultaneous exhale resembled a chorus of bellows.

  Mycroft was the first to speak.”"You must get that diary back, Father.”

  “I don't see the importance of—”

  “It represents years of scientific research. I can’t lose all my notes,” Mother said.

  “I understand, Mrs. Holmes, but he had a warrant and as a magistrate, I must respect the law. Once he determines they are research notes, he’ll return it.”

  She opened her mouth, shut it, glanced at the door Constable Gibbons had exited, and then at us. After a moment, she straightened her back, as if she had decided something, and said, “Let’s retire to the schoolroom.”

  “But that’s on the third floor. Whatever do you want up there?” Father said.

  “The blackboard.”

  She spun on her heel and headed to the stairs. The four of us glanced at each other and then at my mother’s retreating back. After a moment, Father shrugged and followed my mother.

  “Since supper won’t be served until Mother and Father request it,” Mycroft said, his mouth turning downward, “I suppose we might as well appease them.”

  “Sort of singing for our supper, wouldn’t you say?” Ernest said. “Shall we, boys?”

  The three of us trooped up the stairs behind my parents. Ducklings heading to the pond. Only the pond was a miniature classroom complete with a large slate attached to the left wall. Generations of Holmeses had studied here, and the odor of chalk dust and old books permeated the walls and floor. The ceiling sloped down to a set of windows on the right. Because I had been using the room to practice for our duet, a music stand occupied a space at the center window to catch the light. My violin case rested on a chair next to the stand.

  Two long tables and six chairs faced the slate, their backs to the windows. A desk and chair—used by the tutors—occupied the back wall to the left of the slate. Mother positioned herself at the blackboard, a piece of chalk in her hand. The rest of us seated ourselves in the chairs. Because Mycroft and I had used the room for our early studies, the desks and chairs were smaller than such regular furniture. After taking my chair, I glanced about and couldn’t help but smile at how the adult men had to accommodate their longer legs to the furnishings. To a man, they all pushed back their chairs and stretched out their legs to fit under the desks.

  “All right, Mrs. Holmes,” Father said, his voice still tinged with the same exasperation he’d expressed to the constable. “We’re here. What’s this all about?”

  “This is about Mrs. Brown’s murder.” She sighed. “The invasion we just suffered exemplifies how much under a cloud we remain. The constable would have never been so bold as to take my personal property before my incarceration. I had Ernest agree to help Mr. Brown primarily to keep the man at bay. Now I see the decline in the Holmes’ reputation is more pervasive than I had thought. We must restore it.”

  Father stilled as he considered her words, then said, “I’ve always upheld the law to the best of my ability. While I’ve never been this personally involved in investigating a crime, I can see how we might need to be in this case. The cheek of that man.”

  Like Father, I could see the logic in her argument. If we identified the true murderer, the constable would have no choice but to return the ledger.

  Father straightened in his chair. “Where should we begin?”

  She paused, staring first at the blank slate and then at us. Tapping her finger against her lip, she faced us and said, “With a review, I suppose. What do
we know at this point?”

  The four of us exchanged glances, but it was Father who spoke first. “The victim.”

  “That seems an appropriate place to start,” Mother said.

  She wrote Mrs. Emma Brown on the board. Underneath, she wrote Midwife.

  “We also know she wasn’t stabbed,” Ernest said, raising his chin. “I proved that.”

  Under Mrs. Brown’s name, she wrote, Cause of death: Unknown.

  “But was she murdered?” Mother asked.

  Father sat upright in his chair, “Are you suggesting—?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m stating that without knowing the cause of death, making a judgment as to whether it was an accident, murder, or an illness is based only on speculation. We must determine how she died.”

  “Pity no autopsy was done,” Ernest said, his mouth turning down. “Constable Gibbons was so convinced—thanks in part to Mr. Brown—that Violette had stabbed her, he didn’t call Mr. Harvingsham in.”

  Mycroft shifted in his seat and coughed. “For the sake of argument, shall we assume Mrs. Brown was murdered? If so, it leads to the question ‘by whom?’”

  “Mr. Brown says it was Mr. Straton,” I said.

  “Very good, Sherry dear. Because that leads to a possible second murder. Mrs. Straton.”

  Again, she wrote the name on the board.

  The letters, white on black, stared back at me. My palms grew damp as I realized the impact my pronouncement would have on Constance and her brothers and sister. If Constance’s father was arrested, the children would be sent not to the workhouse Mrs. Gibbons had mentioned, but to an orphanage.

  “Other than her husband’s accusation at the pub, do we know how she died?” Mycroft asked, breaking into my thoughts.

  “Another time Harvingsham wasn’t called in. Everyone knew she’d been in ill health since the boy was born. Gibbons told me the surgeon signed the death certificate without even examining her,” Father said.

  “But she’d seen Mrs. Brown, and I’m almost certain the midwife gave her pennyroyal.” She stared at the slate but seemed not to be seeing it. She continued, more to herself than to us. “But something happened. She needed more.”

  “Mrs. Holmes, what makes you think she was given pennyroyal and needed more?”

  Mother shivered as if awakening and turned to face us. I noticed the same color in her cheeks as when the constable had taken her ledger.

  She hadn’t told him.

  Father had no idea about the seeds she was giving to the women. She’d lied to him—if nothing else, by omission. What if Father discovered her sin? I had no desire to see any rift between them. Without any more thought, I spoke up.

  “Constance.”

  The others all turned to me. Warmth spread up my neck to my face, but I said in a calmer voice, “Constance Straton. She told us about her mother seeing Mrs. Brown and then finding her mother dead. Remember, Mother?”

  “Yes,” she said, the color fading in her cheeks. “I had a long talk with the girl while she ate. She shared that her mother had consulted Mrs. Brown before she died.”

  Father tilted his head and stared first at Mother and then at me. I mimicked Mycroft’s passive expression during the search of the greenhouse. After another moment of silence, he spoke slowly, as if choosing his words, “It appears we need to know more about what happened to Mrs. Straton. Perhaps another talk with Constance may be in order.”

  Father’s stomach rumbled, and he stood. “For now, however, I suggest we have our supper. This day has been most upsetting, and I could use some nourishment.”

  “An excellent suggestion,” Mycroft said, also rising.

  As the others filed out of the room and headed down the stairs, Mother touched my arm and whispered, “Wait a minute.”

  The footfalls of the three men faded as they descended the stairs, and she faced me to still speak in a low voice. “Sherlock, you need to speak to Rachel Winston.”

  The idea of having a discussion with an adult woman seemed beyond my comprehension. I was used to speaking to servants, but only to make requests. I couldn’t fathom interrogating her. The very idea made my palms sweat.

  “Wouldn’t she be more comfortable with you?”

  “Perhaps, but I would be recognized at Hanover Manor.”

  “Hanov—? You want me to go there? But I’d be recognized too.”

  “Not if you were disguised as a tinker’s apprentice.”

  My jaw fell as my mother’s request became more and more bizarre. “You wish me to disguise myself as a tinker’s apprentice and ask for Mrs. Winston? Won’t they suspect me if I ask for the woman by name?”

  “Not if you ask about any tin ware needing repair. Rachel is in charge of the kitchen utensils. She’ll be called to talk to the tinker’s man. As for the disguise, you recall we have quite a number of used clothes for when we have played tableaux vivant with your father’s family.”

  I nodded. My father’s sisters came to visit at different times, and while Mother found them rather tedious, they did fill the house with more noise and activity than usual. Among their interests was dressing up and depicting various famous events or paintings. Their greatest joy was to demand Mycroft dress as a woman. I might have considered it more amusing if they hadn’t also dressed me as a young girl.

  “It’s very important for you to speak with her. We need more information about what Mrs. Straton got from Mrs. Brown. Perhaps Mr. Straton is right. Mrs. Brown may have poisoned the woman.”

  I nodded as the gravity of my mission became clear.

  When I turned to leave, Mother spoke one more time. “Thank you, Sherlock, for deflecting your father’s question today. I truly appreciate it.” She draped an arm over my shoulder. “Let’s not keep the others waiting. Supper should be ready.”

  As we descended, I allowed myself a smile. A special mission, her gratitude, and the full use of my name. Then I sobered. I had to do well at Hanover Manor. Anything less than gathering the information she desired could destroy the trust she now placed in me.

  After all that happened that day, I was glad to return to my room after supper. But after what seemed like only a minute after I closed my eyes, someone roughly shook me awake. Through cracked eyelids, I made out Mycroft holding a candle. He was still dressed as he had been for supper.

  “Get dressed and meet me at Ernest’s workshop.”

  I sat up and rubbed my eyes. “What for?”

  “We have to get Mother’s ledger back.”

  When I arrived at Ernest’s workshop, I found my brother and uncle in the workshop’s sitting area. As with my brother, Ernest remained in the same clothes he had worn all day. I’d glanced at the grandfather clock in the downstairs hallway. One o’clock in the morning. Was I the only one needing sleep?

  As soon as I sat down, Mycroft turned to our uncle. “We must retrieve Mother’s diary before the constable has an opportunity to translate the cipher.”

  “How could botanical experiments be—?” He paused and squinted at him. “Violette lied to the constable?”

  Mycroft paused as if recalling the exchange between our mother and the constable. “I suppose, technically, she didn’t. She said it was a record of her activities. She never specified what sort. It’s in code, but the risk is that the constable will find someone who can decipher it.”

  “You did straight away,” I said. “Without the book you loaned me.”

  Mycroft pulled on his waistcoat. “Of course, I did. An average person like the constable won’t be able to do it on his own, but someone familiar with ciphers would recognize it and be able to determine its true meaning. It contains names of Mother’s clients.”

  “I conclusively showed she did not stab Emma Brown, so I don’t understand the concern over the names of a few village women.”

  “Some of those names are of local prominent women.”

  He drew back his chin. “Prominent? Really? I've never seen them skulking about our back door.
”

  “Do you truly believe Mother enjoys all those visiting days? Listening to all their gossip and prattle?”

  I considered Mycroft’s observation. The women arriving in their carriages, drinking tea in the parlor, taking a tour of the…greenhouse. I saw these seemingly mindless female pursuits in a whole new light. But another question surfaced and flew out my mouth before I could stop it.

  “How long have you known this?” I asked my brother.

  “I’d always considered some hidden agenda for their calls, given their almost precise frequencies and patterns. But it wasn’t until you showed me the ledger that the final piece fell into place.” He turned to Ernest. “Gibbons is now bent on seeking a way to smear our mother. That stunt with the pigs—while brilliant—discredited him. He wants revenge. Do you see how important it is to recover the book? We need to find a way of doing so. Are there any legal arguments that could be used to regain its possession?”

  “He had a warrant. I’m not sure…”

  “I’m never going to get back to Oxford at this rate,” Mycroft sighed. “We must find a way—legal or not—to rescue that notebook.”

  A thought occurred to me, and I drew in my breath. “What if we don’t try to retrieve the book? What if we were to replace it instead? We could create another ledger in code that did have data from botanical experiments in it.”

  “We can't very well just walk into the constable's office and say ‘Sorry, old chap, you picked up the wrong book. Here's the right one,’” my uncle said and chuckled at his own joke.

  Mycroft tipped his head upward and stared at the beams crossing the workshop’s ceiling as if considering my suggestion and spoke more to himself than to the two of us. “It would have to be done clandestinely.”

  “You’re assuming he has it in his office. He could keep it at his home,” I said.