The Adventure of the Murdered Midwife

by Liese Sherwood-Fabre

  Her plea hit me in the stomach as hard as a fist, and I forced down the rising bile. My concern had focused on keeping my mother out of gaol, but the reality of what we were doing impacted me at that moment. The consequences of getting caught were not evenly distributed. My father might be able to keep me out of gaol, but Constance’s fate would most likely be more severe. I owed her more than the bread I’d promised her.

  Having stepped into one of the doors’ recesses further down the hall, out of sight but not hearing of Room 22, I waited my opportunity to prove a better crow than earlier that day. Constance’s knock broke the silence permeating the hallway.

  I forced myself to take shallow breaths to follow the ensuing events.

  A creak of hinges signaled the door’s opening.

  “Excuse me, sir,” she said, “but you have a message from Constable Gibbons at the front desk.”

  “At this hour?”

  “Yes, sir. I was told it was urgent-like.”

  A sigh followed. “Can’t you just bring it up?”

  I gulped. Our plan had assumed he would leave immediately so that Constance could relieve him of his key and use it to enter his room for the search.

  “Oh no, sir,” she said without any pause. “He wanted it delivered straight to your hands.”

  Another sigh. “Very well. I’ll be down after I dress.”

  “If you’ll be beggin’ my pardon, you looks dressed to me.”

  “Of course, I’m dressed. I mean…” This sigh came out as more of a bluster. “Just tell him I’ll be there shortly.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Her voice held none of the panic rising within me.

  When her footsteps grew louder, I stepped from the shadows to stop her. “What are we going to do now?” I whispered.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, the skin about her eyes crinkling in amusement. “Wait for him to leave, and you’ll see.”

  While her attitude offered some reassurance, my heart still drummed at twice its normal speed. She gave my hand a pat and returned to the other side of the hallway and outside of my range of vision.

  After what appeared to be an eternity, I heard more footsteps. Only there were too many to be the expert’s alone. I peeked around the doorframe just as a couple headed in my direction. When they saw me, they stopped.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I thought you were my parents. They went to get the key.”

  They exchanged glances, but before they could ask questions, I added, “I don’t know what’s taking them so long. I guess I’d better check.”

  Ducking my head, I stepped into the corridor and moved toward the stairs. The expert, of course, chose that moment to exit his room. He was dressed as he’d been when he arrived, down to the silk handkerchief in his pocket. Keeping my head down, I pushed past him and Constance, who must have been waiting for him on the other side. Once again, I turned to a door, pretending to open another of the rooms.

  “Excuse me, sir,” she said to the man. “Another man asked for a fresh pitcher of water. I wondered if you’d like one too?”

  He paused as if considering the offer. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “I’ll be right up, sir,” she said and offered a wide smile. She moved past him and bumped him as she did so. “So sorry.”

  “Quite all right,” he said and tugged on his lapels. He took a few steps toward the stairwell and stopped. “Oh, miss?”

  My stomach squeezed again, but once again, Constance’s response was calm and matter-of-fact. “Yes, sir?”

  “On second thought, I haven’t any idea how long I’ll be downstairs. I’ll request a pitcher at the front desk when I’m finished.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  When a set of muffled footfalls descended the stairs, I released my breath, only to draw it in again when I heard a door open and another voice call out, “Miss?” The couple in the hallway must have observed the exchange. “May we have fresh water too?”

  “Certainly. I’ll bring it up directly.”

  The door closed, and I heard a quick shuffle of feet in my direction.

  “Keep a sharp eye, Sherlock,” she whispered as she let herself into the room with only the slightest of creaks.

  Stepping to the stairs’ balustrades, I watched the expert enter the lobby. In what appeared to be only two breaths, he reached the front desk. The clerk there shook his head at the expert and then pointed up the stairs. He obviously indicated I had taken the note upstairs. I stepped back to be out of Bleeker’s vision. That move also put him out of my sight, and only when I heard someone ascending did I realize he had given up and was returning to his room.

  My breath quickened. Constance hadn’t left the room. What was she doing in there? The man was almost a third of the way from the top. Blood rushed in my ears, making it difficult to hear. My only thought involved keeping my promise not to let her be caught in his room. After a brief consideration of the options, I took a deep breath, rushed around the balustrade, hoped I gave a convincing trip, and dove headfirst down the stairs.

  I caught a brief glimpse of the expert’s widened eyes and snatches of the stairs’ red carpeting and the gaslights flickering near the ceiling as I tumbled down. When I came to a halt on the lobby floor, I heard snatches of several shouts and gasps before everything faded to black.

  Chapter Ten

  My first conscious sensation involved my head. It hurt. A lot. And my limbs felt bruised. I wiggled my fingers. They appeared to be working. Voices floated around me, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I cracked my eyes open. Darkness enveloped me wherever I was, but a glow to my left suggested a lamp or candle nearby.

  “Sherry, dear, can you hear me?”

  I turned my head toward the voice. My mother’s face came into focus, and I could make out another figure behind her.

  With great effort, I managed to ask, “Where…where am I?”

  “Underbyrne. Your room,” my father said. “Ernest brought you home. After you fell from the tree.”

  I had so many questions. Where was Constance? Had she found the book? Unfortunately, I could ask none of them in front of my father.

  “Can you sit?” Mother asked.

  When I pushed myself up onto my elbows, the room tilted slightly. I raised myself a bit more, but the room spun around me. I sank back onto the bed.

  “I’m very dizzy.”

  A line appeared between her eyebrows. “You’re suffering a commotion of the brain.”

  “Should we call the surgeon?” Father asked. “Have him bled?”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary at the moment. The latest scientific evidence from France suggests simple bed rest for a commotion.”

  Never had I felt more grateful for my mother’s medical interest than at that moment. With all that had happened in the past few days, I had no problem with the sight of blood, but the idea of the surgeon using his knife on me made my head swim to the point I feared I would be sick.

  I raised myself onto my elbows, but the room stayed still this time—which gave me some level of comfort above that provided by the presence of both my parents. Mother placed her hands on my shoulders and pushed me back into the pillows.

  “I want you to rest now. We’ll talk about what you were up to in that tree later.”

  Despite my pain and somewhat addled thinking, I caught her slight emphasis on the word tree. At that moment, I knew she was aware of the plot to replace the ledger and was letting me in on the fabrication to explain my fall.

  But any additional information required us to talk alone. With no other recourse, I settled back and let her pull the covers to my chin and allowed sleep to draw me back under.

  When I next awoke, sunlight shone around the edges of the room’s drawn curtains. My parents slept in a pair of stuffed chairs, one on each side of me. Mother was the first to realize I was awake.

  “Sherry, dear, feeling better?”

  I took a brief inventory of my aches and pains. “My head st
ill hurts, but not as much, and my back, too.” I raised myself onto my elbows again. “But I don’t feel dizzy anymore.”

  “Excellent news, son. Do you feel up to eating?” Father asked and stretched, sitting up straight in his chair. When I answered in the affirmative, he stood and arched his back. “I’ll arrange for a tray for the three of us.”

  “Nothing too heavy for Sherlock. A bit of broth should sit well. And tea.”

  While I would have liked to argue that I could manage something a little more substantial—for it seemed that all I had eaten for the past few days had been broth—I knew I was in no position to argue with Mother. I could tell from the set of her jaw she planned to have a private discussion with me as soon as my father vacated the room.

  True to my intuition, as soon as he closed the door, Mother turned to me. “You committed a very foolish and dangerous act.” As much as I wanted to explain my actions, I waited to learn exactly what she knew. “Your uncle explained everything. He came thundering back in the cart. I would have never thought it could go that fast. He made up some sort of story about an experiment involving you climbing a tree. The branch broke, you fell, and he brought you here. I knew the moment I examined you and found no scratches your fall hadn’t included a tree. Ernest confessed all when I confronted him.”

  “But the book? Did Constance replace it?”

  “Don’t worry. It’s hidden in your uncle’s workshop.”

  I lay my head back on the pillow, knowing we’d been able to save my mother from further scandal and possibly gaol. She placed her hand on my forehead and smiled. “You, Ernest, and Constance did a very brave thing, and I will be in your debt forever. Regardless, it wouldn’t have been worth your life.”

  Unwilling to argue with her, I closed my eyes. I knew it was worth the injury—and more.

  The door opened, and a chambermaid entered with a large tray. Father followed a moment later. After the items had been arranged on a table for them and a tray set up on my lap in the bed, Mother removed a cloth covering the plate to reveal a bowl with broth—chicken, if I was not mistaken by the scent—some toast, and a cup of tea. “Eat sparingly,” she said. “A commotion of the brain can cause nausea.”

  I took a sip of the broth, grateful it wasn’t beef this time. After a few more spoonfuls and a nibble on a corner of toast, my mother’s attentive face relaxed a bit. She observed me a moment more, seemed satisfied I was following her orders, and joined my father for their own repast.

  They were almost finished when someone knocked on the door. I had assumed it was the maid coming to remove the trays, but the form filling the doorway didn’t belong to a woman.

  Uncle Ernest said, “Thought I’d come by and see how my favorite nephew was doing.”

  “According to Mrs. Holmes, he should make a full recovery. No thanks to you,” Father said.

  Mother rose from her chair. “Mr. Holmes, we agreed we wouldn’t—”

  “Quite right. Quite right,” he said, raising his hand to still his wife. “I just… It seems to me he should have taken more care—”

  My uncle’s features took on a strange expression. Hard, but at the same time vulnerable. The poor man accepted my father’s admonishment for something that hadn’t happened. The whole injustice of his situation compelled me to come to his defense.

  “It wasn’t Uncle Ernest’s fault. I climbed the tree on my own. And he certainly didn’t cause the branch to break. Don’t be cross with him.”

  Father glanced at the three of us, gave a hurrumph, but didn’t continue his reproach.

  “Sherlock is, as you said, going to recuperate,” Mother said. “I would suggest that both of us could use a bath and some rest in a real bed.” She smiled at my uncle. “That is, if you are willing to sit with him for a bit?”

  “My pleasure,” he said, stepping toward the bed and the chair Mother had used for her vigil last night.

  “I’ll send the maid to clean up in here.”

  She placed a hand on my cheek, turned to my father, and gestured to the door.

  My uncle leaned over and snatched a bit of toast to nibble on as my parents left. Only after the door clicked shut did he speak.

  “Glad to see you awake.”

  “Thank you for getting me home. It would have been disastrous if I’d been taken to Harvingsham’s. Or worse, if they’d called the constable. How did you find out what happened?”

  “Constance came racing up to me, that cap of hers halfway off and her red hair flying behind her, like the devil himself was after her. I thought for sure you’d been caught. I was about to send that poor horse tearing out when she called out you’d fallen down the stairs. I ran to the hotel, said I knew who you were and rushed out with you in my arms before anyone could stop me. How many recognized you, I have no idea, but the most that can happen is that your father finds out the fall was from the stairs and not a tree.”

  “It’s not fair that my father scolded you.”

  “He’s right to be upset. You took quite a tumble. Could’ve killed yourself. Promise me you won’t do anything so foolish again.”

  I nodded, too filled with emotion to respond through the catch in my throat. Despite Ernest’s sometimes odd behavior, I didn’t doubt for a second his concern was sincere.

  He slapped his knee.

  “Tell you what. I’ll bring up the chessboard. We’ll play a few games.”

  I barely assented before he dashed off and returned with the board, arranging it on a table by the bed.

  “Let’s see if that fall has affected your mental abilities.”

  Over the next hour, I was pleased to find my powers of concentration hadn’t been impaired. Of particular interest, I was able to fend off an attack on my queen and turned it around to a checkmate.

  “Well done,” said Ernest with a chuckle.

  His amusement concerned me. Had he let me win?

  “Not a chance,” he said when I asked. “It’s beneath a Parker to allow someone a false victory. But then again, I’m afraid I don’t take it quite as seriously as your mother or brother.”

  As if he knew he’d been mentioned, my brother entered after a rap on the door.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude,” he said when his gaze fell on the board.

  “Not at all,” Ernest said. “Your brother just gave me a good trouncing.”

  He made a quick study of the remaining pieces, lifted one, and moved it toward my side. “That move would have prevented your loss.”

  “Quite possibly,” he said, scratching his chin. “But too late now. Besides, it’s just a game. A rematch is in order, but later. I have some work to do in my workshop. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Mycroft’s observation forced my attention to the board, and I replayed the game over in my head. So intense was my concentration, my response to my uncle’s exit was simply a wave in his direction. I could feel the heat rising in my face as I convinced myself that Mycroft’s suggestion indicated the brain commotion had affected my mental abilities. Fear and anger surged through me and pushed out a question to my brother with more force than required.

  “What do you want?”

  He recoiled slightly at my demand.

  “I merely came to see how you were doing. What you did was quite”—I glared at him, anticipating being called foolish, stupid, or worse—“valiant.”

  All anger drained from me as I realized he’d paid me a compliment. Rarely did he direct anything positive in my direction. I swallowed, unable to think beyond the word coming from his lips. My father’s rigorous training in proper behavior, however, took over and provided the appropriate response despite my mental immobility.

  “Thank you.”

  “Mind you, I think it was also quite foolish, but it took courage to do that.”

  With that pronouncement, he glanced about and shifted on his feet in obvious discomfort at having to admit admiration for his younger brother. A smile twitched on my lips in response to my self-satisfaction. At that
moment, the retrieval of Mother’s ledger, as important as it was, paled in comparison to the approval he’d expressed. Regardless of his future behavior, I had this exchange to remind me that he didn’t always view me as a nuisance.

  He was saved from further embarrassment by a knock at the door.

  “You have a visitor,” Mrs. Simpson said. “Do you feel up to receiving her?”

  Mrs. Simpson pushed back the door when I assented, and Constance entered. Her steps, usually so sure and determined, were muted and slow. She dropped her chin and glanced up at me through her lashes.

  “It’s good to see you, Master Sherlock.”

  Mycroft coughed and excused himself, leaving the two of us alone.

  After the door shut, Constance stared around her, mouth agape. “I thinks this room is bigger than my whole house.”

  Having seen her house, I couldn’t disagree.

  “I came to see how you were. Your uncle didn’t think it was wise for me to be seen with you, so’s he let me out on the road before we’s got here.”

  “I understand. And I think he was right. You shouldn’t be connected with me—in case someone recognized me or Uncle Ernest.”

  “I was just so scared, seeing you lying there on the floor—all still like. All I could think of was getting to your uncle. You turned out to be a right good crow. No one’s ever almost got kilt like that…for me.”

  She turned her head away and raised her hand to her face. When she turned back to me, her features were composed, but a smudge across her cheek showed where she’d wiped the tear.

  “You took the greatest risk. Going into the expert’s room like that. I…admire you.”

  A smile stretched across her mouth with those full, red lips, and I realized admire fell short in describing what I felt. Her innate cleverness offered a companionship I’d never experienced before. Her cheeks reddened, highlighting her freckles, and she dropped her gaze. That odd feeling returned to me.

  “Tweren’t that much. But thank you. I…admire you too.”

  Before we could exchange more, Mother and Father entered.