She clapped her hand on my shoulder. I spun about to tell her to let me be and ran into a solid, dark-blue wall. My gaze moved up to a round, flushed face. “What are you doing here, boy?”
Unable to come up with a response, my mouth moved up and down in the imitation of a fish on a hook. I glanced about me, but Constance had disappeared.
His grip tightened on my shoulder. “Let’s just see what you have to tell the constable. He’s in there now.”
Still unable to respond, I allowed him to direct me toward the street. My mind raced as I considered what to tell Constable Gibbons. Would he recognize me in my disguise? Other than some dirt and rough clothes, I hadn’t done much to change my appearance.
We had almost reached the street when Constance rushed from behind us. Before I could so much as take a breath, she stomped on the man’s foot. He howled and let go of my shoulder. At the same moment, she grabbed my hand and pulled me back toward the alley. We raced around the corner, the man limping behind us. She then pulled me around another corner to the left and soon we were zigzagging through back streets until I stopped to nurse a stitch in my side. Stepping into the doorway of an abandoned store, I gasped for air.
Also breathing heavily, Constance slid into the alcove next to me. We stilled and listened for a moment to see if, thanks to her maneuvers, the police officer had lost us.
After we heard no heavy footfalls coming in our direction, a smile broke across her face. “You should’ve seen your face when you realized that copper had you by the shoulder. Your eyes were as big as them bowls of soup.”
Her jubilance proved infectious, and we both celebrated our escape with a good laugh.“Thank you for stopping him,” I said after our mirth subsided.
“It’s an old trick my papa taught me. I knew I couldn’t let him take you to see the constable.”
In that small space, I could feel her breath on me, and I studied her face. Up so close, I noticed the small wrinkles forming about her eyes when she smiled. A thrill ran down my spine, not unlike the one I experienced when viewing the anatomy text. My gaze dropped to her lips, still pulled upward into a smile, and I wondered what it would be like to touch them with my own. I had never considered kissing anyone other than my mother or other older female relatives as required by social convention. This impulse was new to me, and more than a little frightening. My father’s etiquette lessons had not included how to address such attraction, and I wasn’t certain how to respond. Other than that one embrace I observed when my mother was released from gaol, I’d never seen my parents display any strong affections in public.
With whom could I possibly discuss such sensations?
“You need to tell your brother,” she said.
My heart thudded in my chest. She’d read my thoughts?
I swallowed. “Tell him?”
“About the book. That it’s not in the constable’s office anymore.”
“And there’s little time. The man said he would start on the code tomorrow. At least that’s what I think he said.”
“Then we best be crackin’,” she said. She stepped back into the side street. “You tell your brother we’ll need that new book tonight. I’ll tell you about my plan on the way home.”
After dropping Constance at her cottage to work on the mending Mrs. Gibbons had given her and leaving the horse with Uncle Ernest to return to the stable, I sought out Mycroft. I didn’t find him in the library as I expected. Instead, he was in his room. Behind a locked door.
He was wearing a dressing gown when he answered my knock. “Come in. Quickly.”
Before he shut the door, he glanced up and down the hallway. When he turned to me, he said, “Sorry. Don’t want anyone to see you here. I’ve been feigning illness all day to work on this ledger in peace. Can’t have them thinking I’m well enough for visitors. Even you.”
“Do you have much to go to finish?”
“Finish? I’ve barely started. One must be clever about these things in order to perpetrate a deception. It’s not enough to merely write something in the code. What’s coded must appear logical as well. I’ve been adapting some scientific data on plant growth I found in a treatise by a London botanist. Of course, I can’t use the exact data, or else it might be recognized as plagiarized from the other piece. Then there’s the issue of the writing. Changing ink, etc. to make it appear to have been written on different days and—”
Perhaps the basis for what happened next was my lack of sustenance for almost twenty-four hours. Or the sheer concern over our mother’s fate. Whatever the cause, I lost all patience with my brother. While he had been at home, enjoying his meals (albeit a lighter fare due to his feigned illness), I’d almost been arrested—or at least accused of spying on the constable—and chased for blocks by a police officer. I interrupted him with a question tinged with more than a little annoyance. “Just how many pages have you completed?”
My outburst took him by surprise. He drew his chin back. “How dare you take that tone with me, you little twit.”
Heat flushed my face, and for the first time, I didn’t restrain my anger. “I have spent the day working to unravel the problems in which this family has become embroiled. Thanks to me, I can tell you we have only a few hours to replace that book before some expert from London begins his translation. Then if you think you’ll be able to return to Oxford after Mother is tried for whatever crime Constable Gibbons has determined to attribute to her, you are delusional.”
The moment I finished, my mood shifted from angry to anxious. I held my breath, waiting for his response. Never had I spoken to my brother in such an impassioned manner. And never from a position of authority. He’d always been the one with more knowledge. For once I had the upper hand, and I wasn’t certain how he would react.
When he said nothing at first, I feared he would return my heated outburst in kind and decline any further involvement in the effort. He glared at me without making a sound. When he finally spoke, his response was more reflective than explosive.
“An expert? From London?” He glanced at the papers on his desk, and I released my breath while his back was to me. “That does put a different spin on things. How soon do you need the book?”
“Constance and I have worked out a plan to replace the book tonight. I need it by eight o’clock so that we have time to get to the hotel by nine. Whatever you have by eight will have to be enough.”
“You give me only two hours to reproduce the book? And how do you plan to be at the town hotel by nine?” The arrogance I knew so well from him had returned.
“I already checked with Mrs. Simpson. Mother is…indisposed and has requested her evening meal in her room. Father had a tray to be sent up for him as well. Now with you ill as well, I’ll offer to take a basket for me and Uncle Ernest to the workshop. He’s already agreed to say I’ll be helping him in a special experiment to be done after dark, and we would need a cart to carry the apparatus.”
He remained silent for a moment before saying, “I’ll get you something by eight. I could wait in the workshop, if you wish. In case someone comes searching for either of you.”
“Would you? That would be quite helpful.”
“She’s my mother too, you know.” He met my gaze with a pointed one of his own.
The implication I hadn’t respected his own feelings for our parents was apparent, but with so much still to do, I decided to apologize later. “See you at the workshop.”
“Where are you going?”
“To get what we need for our plan.”
By eight o’clock, I had bathed and dressed in proper clothes and eaten a full meal for the first time in a day. As my uncle and I waited for Mycroft to appear, I found myself becoming drowsy after the heavy meal of boiled beef and potatoes. My hunger during the day had appeared to keep my mental faculties sharp, and I decided to experiment with such deprivations in the future.
When Mycroft arrived with the book, his first observation was on the remains of our meal. “Are y
ou going to eat that? I declare, the beef broth Cook sent up barely kept my hand steady enough to write.”
“How many pages did you complete?”
“The ledger had thirty-three pages with writing.” His mouth turned down. “Without enough time to finish all of them, I considered that the expert might work on the first few pages and then the later entries to determine first the type of code and then whether the pattern was similar in the latest observations. In between is mere gibberish, random symbols that emulate the others.”
I took the book and ran my hand over the cover. “Let’s hope it will do.”
Dropping the book on the floor, I stepped on it and ground it under my boot over the rising protests of my brother, then opened it and ruffled each page.
“See here. After all my work—”
“You know Mother’s ledger wasn’t new. It has to at least appear similar to the one we are replacing.”
“Quite right.” He went to the table holding our plates and dipped his finger in the remaining gravy on one. After removing the book from my grasp, he carefully dabbed the cover in three separate places. “The cover held a few stains as well.”
When he handed the volume back to me, I picked up a basket I had packed and turned to my uncle. “Let’s get to the Straton cottage.”
The moon was bright and full, allowing us to see clearly despite the hour. Uncle Ernest and I rode in silence until after we had left our property and turned toward the Stratons’ and town. I found myself yawning, and fearing that I wouldn’t remain alert, I decided to engage him in conversation and bring up the subject of the attraction I’d experienced toward Constance in a roundabout way.
“Uncle Ernest, have you ever…?” I paused to consider how to raise the topic and decided on a different track. “How is it that you’ve never married?”
He glanced from the road to meet my gaze. “I suppose…I’ve never…found the right woman.” He stared at the moonlit road ahead. I knew he was remembering something and waited as I had learned to do with him. Finally, he spoke in a soft tone, one that hung in the air along with the scents of damp autumn leaves. “That’s not correct. I did…meet one…once. She was…beautiful. Long, dark hair. Brown eyes that were almost black. Golden skin.”
“She was a Hindu?”
He shuddered slightly and cleared his throat. His speech quickened, as if he wanted to change the subject. “She was of a royal family in the region. We met at a banquet her father gave for the troops in the area. He was grateful for the protection we provided his province.”
“Was that allowed? You seeing a Hindu girl?”
“That was the problem. Neither her father nor my commanding officer would have approved. We met on the sly. Only three times. But we knew love from our first moment together.”
“Did you…? Did you kiss her?”
“Only once. Mostly we talked. On what was to be our fourth meeting, she didn’t come. I waited almost all night in case she had been detained. I learned the next day her father had sent her away. An arranged marriage in another province. Someone had told him of our meetings.” He blinked several times, and the moonlight glistened in his eyes. “I never saw her again.”
“I’m sorry, Uncle. If I brought up sad memories.”
“It’s all in the past, my boy,” he said and flicked the reins to encourage the horse along. “But when you have loved so deeply, anything else pales.”
Once again, lethargy settled over me, and I jerked awake when we pulled into Straton’s yard. I had been kissing a golden girl with long black hair and was glad for the darkness to cover the flush I felt in my face from the dream—as much from guilt for stealing my uncle’s story as from kissing a woman, even if it was in a dream. I shook my head to clear the vestiges of the vision from my mind. I was definitely going to experiment with restricting my diet for major events. Perhaps eliminating beef and potatoes as a starter.
Constance opened the door and whispered to me, “You gots the clothes? I’ll change and be right out.”
“There’s a cloak with them for you to cover yourself on the ride in.”
She nodded, took the bundle, and stepped back inside. I listened at the door for any indication of the presence of Mr. Straton. The only sound I could detect was the shallow breathing of sleeping children.
When Constance returned, and we were out of earshot of the cottage, she was the first to speak. “The clothes were a bit big, but I was able to tie them up. It made me rather thick about the middle but helps the disguise.”
“It’s one of my mother’s costumes for playacting and the only one I could take without someone noticing. If you put your hair up in the cap, I doubt anyone will recognize you.”
Without more to say, we rode in silence until Constance started a tune, humming softly to herself. I found myself intrigued by the melody.
“What’s that song?” I asked.
“Somethin’ my mother taught us,” she said.
Raising her voice, she added the words to the tune.
When she finished, my uncle shared what I had been thinking. “You have a lovely voice.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I try and practice my singing every chance I get. I saw a lady once, singing on a stage at a village fair. I sneaked under the canvas. She finished just as they caught me and threw me out. They threw flowers at her.” She paused and let out a deep sigh. “That’s what I wants. People to throw flowers at me instead of chasing me away with a broom or rocks. Someday, I’m going to find a way to be like that woman. So’s I can earn my own push and not worry that my papa’s drunk it all again.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. The gap between us had never seemed as wide as at that moment. Our economic differences had been obvious from the start, but the implications lay bare in front of me now. We both had futures set out for us—in very different directions. Constance was the first person with whom I had made a true connection outside of my family. She had demonstrated she was clever, skilled, and independent. Her fate, however, appeared dictated to be similar to her mother’s. Marriage, children, and a life of living near the abyss of poverty. I could understand my mother’s concerns for the women in the village and the limitations society placed on them.
Perhaps my uncle was thinking something similar, or of the fate of his Indian love, because he responded, “You deserve it, my dear, and I will see how we might help. You are doing a great service for us, and I promise to pay it back in full.”
Even in the semi-darkness, I could see the smile break upon her face.
The plan seemed simple enough. Constance would slip into the hotel through the alley, posing as a chambermaid, and wait on the second-floor landing for me. After inquiring at the front desk about the expert, I would report his room number to Constance. She would tell the expert he had a note and when he went to fetch it, she would replace the ledger. My duty was to keep an eye out for his return.
As soon as Uncle Ernest pulled the cart to a stop in an alley near the hotel, we each went in separate directions, leaving Ernest to wait for us.
Almost immediately I discovered two wrinkles in our plan. The first involved reaching the front desk. Given the hour, guests were arriving from the train station as well as for supper. The reception clerk didn’t attend to me for several minutes and by the time he did, I was quite agitated—the second issue.
The round man with the high collar and wide whiskers peered at me over a pair of spectacles. “What is it, boy?”
I held up an envelope. “I have a message for Mr. Beecher.”
“Beecher? There’s no Beecher registered here.”
My stomach squeezed, and I was certain the beef and potatoes were a mistake. I forced myself, however, to appear nonchalant. “Oh? Did I say Beecher? Maybe Constable Gibbons said Bleeker.”
“The constable?” The man studied me for a moment, and I blinked at him, hoping I gave off an innocent appearance. He held out his hand. “I’ll see that it’s delivered.”
I pulled
back the envelope when he reached in my direction.
“Sorry, I was to deliver it personally.” The man’s lips thinned to a straight line, but I played my final card. “Constable’s orders.”
The man gave a hurrumph but glanced at a large book on the desk behind him and pointed up the stairs. “Room Twenty-two.”
With a tip of my hat, I stepped as sedately as possible to the stairs to find Constance. The hallway stretched to the left and right at the top of the stairs, with several doors opening on to it. A ruby oriental rug ran its length, leading to a set of servant stairs on the left. The gaslights on the sconces located at intervals along the walls flickered slightly, but they illuminated the area with more than enough light to indicate Constance was not waiting as expected. I traversed the entire hallway but found no sign of her. Had she been found out? I considered completing the plan by myself until I remembered that Constance carried the false ledger. No way could I simply take the one in Bleeker’s room without casting suspicion on my mother.
Why hadn’t we worked on a better system to signal each other?
I had turned toward the stairs, planning to abandon the whole scheme and meet up with my uncle, when she descended from the third floor.
“Where have you been?” I whispered in a tone much harsher than etiquette demanded when speaking to the fairer sex.
“When I got inside, someone handed me a pitcher of water and told me to take it to the man in Room Thirty.” She dug in her pocket and held up a coin. “He gave me a penny ‘for my troubles.’ Do you think I cans get a position here? A penny for just bringing some water. Imagine?”
“We’re behind schedule,” I said, more than a little frustrated with her skipping subjects at the moment. “The man’s in Room Twenty-two. His name’s Bleeker.”
“You better hide until after he goes downstairs.” She took a deep breath and moved up the hallway. Just before the landing where the stairs led to the ground floor, she turned. “I don’t wants to go back to gaol. Please, don’t lets ‘em catch me.”
The Adventure of the Murdered Midwife Page 16