The Adventure of the Murdered Midwife

by Liese Sherwood-Fabre

  “He would also insist on bleeding him. I think the man has bled enough already, don’t you? The stitching will be rather straightforward. I’m more concerned about infection. The honey should help prevent that.”

  Mr. Straton moaned and twisted on the bed. “Honey.”

  I turned to check and see if he had awakened, but he had muttered the word without opening his eyes. Mother and Father appeared not to have heard the man, as they continued to speak in low voices as she prepared needle and thread and bandages to minister to the man.

  When I returned, Mother had removed the bandage and was cleaning the wound again. “Sherlock, good, put the pan of boiling water on the table and drop the needle and thread in it.”

  “Won’t it make it more difficult to sew if it’s wet?”

  “Perhaps, but a Hungarian doctor by the name of Semmelweis has found that by washing hands and wounds, the incidence of death decreases.” Her hands moved in sure and precise motions as she spoke. “While he didn’t specifically note instruments, it seems to me that if washing hands reduces death, wouldn’t cleaning all implements touching the body do the same?”

  Once the needle was threaded, she paused to examine the cut between the man’s ribs one more time. “Rather an odd-shaped incision,” she muttered as much to herself as to any of us.

  Ernest and Mycroft appeared in the doorway.

  “Good, I’ll need all four of you to hold the man down. Can’t have him twisting about when I try to stitch the injury shut.” She turned to her brother. “But before I do, I want you to consider the wound.”

  Ernest stepped to the bedside and peered at the man’s side. “What about it?”

  “Consider its shape. It’s not the same thickness as a blade would be.”

  “Yes, I see what you mean. The ends are much thinner than the middle.”

  “After we finish here, I would like you to work on another pig—”

  “Really, Mrs. Holmes,” Father said with a sigh. “Another pig? Many more of these little experiments of yours will deplete the swine population to dangerous levels.”

  “Better swine than people, wouldn’t you agree? A killer is stalking our woods. Sherlock and Constance were quite lucky not to have come upon whoever stabbed this man.”

  Father turned to stare at me for a moment, and I dropped my head. Only at this remark had I realized how close one or both of us might have come to meeting our end. I recalled the rustling in the woods. At the time, I’d only been afraid of animals. Whoever had tried to murder Mr. Straton was definitely the most dangerous creature we could have encountered. I also realized what I had just glimpsed in my Father’s eyes. Fear, certainly, but also love. While I’d never doubted my father cared for me, at that moment, I came to understand the depth of his love. The very thought of losing me, when I stood safe and sound in front of him, filled him with dread.

  “As I was saying, Ernest,” Mother continued, “procure a dead pig and collect all the implements you can to see if you can replicate the wound. Perhaps knowing what stabbed the man will tell us who stabbed him.”

  “I’ll check the library also,” Mycroft said. “I might find the implement among the various books on horticulture and farming.”

  “An excellent idea,” Mother said. “If you do find any, provide them to Ernest so that he can check them.”

  “But won’t Mr. Straton be able to tell us this?” I asked.

  She took a quick study of the man from head to toe. “I hope. The next twenty-four hours are very important for him. Now, everyone, I need you to hold him still while I close the wound.”

  The clock struck two while the four of us struggled to keep the man still. He didn’t thrash as much as twist his body when the needle entered his skin. Mother, however, proved to be quite efficient and had the wound closed almost before the chimes’ echo died away.

  Once the bandage was wrapped over the wound, Mother touched the man’s forehead. “Perhaps a little feverish. But then again, he’d been lying on the forest floor. As much as I’d like to give him something for the pain and the fever, he’s not conscious, and I fear him choking on a liquid. We’ll simply have to wait until something changes. I’ll have one of the servants monitor him with orders to come and get me if something changes.”

  “I’ll watch him, madam,” Constance said in the doorway.

  We all turned in her direction as she entered the room. Her timid step revealed her fear of what she’d find in the bed. Her reach was slow and reluctant as she touched her father’s hand resting on the blanket covering his chest.

  “Have the children all been put to bed?” Mother asked. Constance nodded. “I would prefer you do so as well, but somehow I think you’d simply return once we left. And you have offered to help. Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us, I’ll give some instruction to Constance, and head downstairs shortly.”

  The moment she referenced sleep, I became aware of how acutely weary I was. All the agitation of finding Mr. Straton, bringing him back to Underbyrne, and treating his wound drained from me, and my extremities became heavy and leaden. With great effort I followed the other men from the room and down the stairs.

  Father pulled me aside when we reached the second floor.

  “Sherlock, your conduct of late concerns me. This sneaking off when you could have… Your mother convinced me not to confine you to the house this time, but if your behavior doesn’t improve, we will have to revisit the freedom you have been afforded.” He glanced at his bedroom and sighed. “I’m too tired now to discuss this further, but be forewarned and consider it before future actions.”

  I nodded and suppressed the grin threatening to appear unbidden despite my fatigue. My logic had paid off in the end. My parents could hardly punish me too severely when my misdeed had saved a man’s life.

  Once in my chamber, I fought the desire to lie down without taking off my clothes. Only my concern about soiling my linens with the mud from my pants and jacket convinced me to undress. After changing into my nightclothes, I crawled into bed and fell asleep almost immediately.

  When I awoke the next morning, the sun was already streaming through the window. I quickly dressed and made my way to Mr. Straton’s room. Constance sat by his side, her head resting on the cover near his chest. I hadn’t planned to speak to her, but she raised her head when I took a step back to exit.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “Ten o’clock. In the morning. Have you had anything to eat?”

  “Mrs. Simpson had someone brings us all somethin’ to eat. I couldn’t hardly swallow, but the others finished off what I didn’t.”

  “Any change? In your father, I mean.”

  She glanced at him and shook her head. “Your mother came in and checked on him. Said he needs to sleep to make more blood, but that he’s not been too feverish, and that’s good. She’ll be in later to change the bandage.”

  “You know to ask if you need anything. I’m going to get breakfast and find Mother. Do you want to join me?”

  She reached out and ran a hand over her father’s arm, then shook her head. “I want to be here. In case he wakes up.”

  In the kitchen, I found Cook already working on dinner, but she offered to fix me a plate to hold me until then.

  “If you want, you can also take something to your uncle in his workshop. Your mother’s with him. He came in early this morning, asking about my tools that aren’t knives. When I showed him some, he took them all and disappeared.” She paused as she cut some carrots into round coins. “At least he left the knives.”

  When I arrived at the workshop with a basket of food enough for three, I found Mother and Ernest standing at a canvas-draped work table. On it lay three sides of pork, their pale-pink skin marked by a number of slits and holes. A jumble of tools, some of which I assumed belonged to Cook, rested near the battered carcasses.

  She raised her head when I entered. “Sherry, you’re just the person we needed. You also saw Mr. Straton’s wound before I stitc
hed it closed. Do any of these resemble it?”

  She handed me a magnifying glass.

  I studied the first pig’s side. “I don’t know for certain, but these cuts appear to be too clean compared to what I saw.”

  “I agree. You have a keen eye. The blades on these tools appear too sharp and thin.” She directed me to the next side. “What about here?”

  “These are cruder cuts. That one”—I pointed to one example—“might be similar, but it’s not wide enough. The wound was longer.”

  “Interesting,” Ernest said. “That was made by a crowbar.”

  He picked up a long, iron bar and showed me its flattened, chisel-like end. “But you say it was longer?”

  Mother thought for a moment and said, “Perhaps the perpetrator wrenched it about, making the hole bigger?”

  “We can see,” said Ernest.

  He slammed the crowbar’s end into the pig’s side, then wiggled it back and forth for a moment. When he extracted it, we all peered at the incision created.

  “What do you think?” Mother asked.

  Both she and my uncle focused on me, and I realized these two adults were actually seeking my advice. I shifted the weight on my feet and studied the gash again.

  “It’s still not long enough, is it?” I said after a moment. “And now the middle is all mucked up. The cut was cleaner than that, I think.”

  Ernest studied the end of the crowbar again. “So the most likely candidate would be something with a wedge-like end, but wider.”

  “Do you have any instruments that might fit the description?” Mother asked, glancing about the workshop.

  “Not that I can think of.” He sighed. “I’ll go out to the barn and see what I might find out there.”

  “And check with Mycroft on his research. But let’s eat first. While you’re collecting the items, I’ll see what might be in the mending basket.”

  I raised my head. I’d forgotten about Mrs. Straton’s mending basket. Mother smiled at me when I glanced about to locate the item. While dangling the prospect of the basket might have been to test my patience, the pace at which Mother finished the sandwiches Cook had prepared suggested she was losing that battle herself. In no time, Ernest was off in search of more items to test in the pig carcasses, and Mother and I were gathered at another work table.

  As a first step after donning a pair of work gloves, she spread out the contents on the table. The items at the very top were two socks of different colors and an apron with a rip in it. Compared to the assortment of cloth scraps, yarn, and threads in the rest of the basket, I assumed the three pieces were the mending Constance had gathered from Mrs. Gibbons.

  Next in the basket was a linen napkin with a rip as well. Mother studied it for a moment. “This appears to be one of ours.” She opened it completely. “It is. See the embroidered H in the corner? I’ll have to ask Mrs. Simpson when she gave it to Mrs. Straton for mending. I don’t recall seeing her.”

  She shook her head and surveyed the items laid out before us.

  “Constance said her father destroyed the packet. What do you expect to find?” I asked.

  “I’m not certain, but I’ve observed that when items co-mingle, they often exchange bits of themselves. Like finding horsehairs on your clothes after visiting the stables even when you hadn’t touched the animal. Constance said the packet had spilled, so some of it might still be on something in the basket.”

  “Do you wish me to start on one end while you examine the other?”

  “A brilliant idea. What one may miss, the other might see when we cross in the middle.”

  After retrieving two of my uncle’s magnifying glasses and donning my own pair of work gloves, I bent over the first item and examined it from one end to the other and from side to side before going on to the next. I found the glass’s display of the weave and various fibers in the cloth or yarn intriguing. When I came across the first bit of foreign matter on a cloth scrap, I called Mother over for her opinion.

  She did her own review of the cloth. “It appears to be a bit of fuzz. Perhaps from the yarn or another of the scraps.” She straightened and glanced about the place. “Let’s make a list of what we find. Perhaps that will help us determine what may be out of the ordinary.”

  By the time I'd made it almost to the halfway mark, I had an extensive list of bits of fuzz, threads, and...

  “Mother”" I asked as I considered my list. “What’s the basket made of?”

  She turned to it and picked it up. “Willow, I believe.”

  “Not straw? I’ve found a few bits of a dried grass or plant.”

  Her forehead creased. “Something like this?” She pointed to a particular square on her end of the items, but near the center as well. I studied it with my glass. This specimen had a bit of flower still attached to it. I raised my gaze to hers.

  “This isn’t pennyroyal.”

  “Very good, dear,” she said. Despite my keen observation, her voice carried no joy. “What do you think it is?”

  The dried stem had a mottled purple hue along the bottom part. With great care, I crushed a bit using the end of the magnifying glass and sniffed. While not potent, I could still catch the rank odor of…

  “It can’t be, can it?” I asked aloud, with a similar tone to that of my mother’s. “Surely she wouldn't have taken hemlock on her own?”

  “How do we know what’s in another's heart? I have known others....”

  Her face took on the same faraway look Uncle Ernest often showed. When she focused on me again, her eyes shimmered with tears. Who had she known willing to take their own life?

  “Do we know for certain that she took it willingly?” I asked. “It’s a common enough plant. One can find it everywhere. What if someone else confused it with pennyroyal?”

  “All good questions, but I am not certain we can ask anyone in her family. If she did take her life, then they would most likely not admit it. At least now we know what killed the woman. The question is who gave it to her?”

  The scent of the hemlock lingered in my nostrils and the itching in the back of my mind returned. Before I could dig down and uncover it, Mrs. Simpson threw back the workshop door, making it slam against the wall with a loud bang.

  “Mrs. Holmes, I came quick to let you know. The constable’s here and is demanding to interrogate Mr. Straton.”

  In one quick motion, Mother pulled off her gloves and tossed them on the floor at the end of the table by the basket. I followed her example and rushed with the two women back to the main house.

  When we stepped into the house through the kitchen, Cook pointed us in the direction of the servant staircase. Constable Gibbons and Father were at the foot. They both turned in our direction when the two women and I rounded the corner into the hallway. From Father’s glare at me, I could tell he considered my presence a violation of social conventions regarding conversations among adults. Without a word, I retreated from the hallway, but remained close enough to hear the exchange.

  “Ah, Mrs. Holmes, so glad you are here. The constable came to return your ledger.”

  “How kind of you,” Mother said in a voice that betrayed none of the contempt I knew she harbored for the man.

  The constable cleared his throat. “It was what you said it was. Notes regarding plant experiments. At least that’s what the expert reported.”

  “You hired an expert? For what purpose?” Father asked. “Who on the village police committee approved such an expense?”

  “Because the entries were written in code, I felt the need to confirm its contents. I do have some discretion in my budget. I used that.”

  “Had you simply believed me in the first place, the expense wouldn’t have been necessary, but I am grateful for having my notes back. It represents years of work.”

  The man gave a hurrumph in response and continued. “I thought I might as well bring it with me since I was coming out to interrogate Straton.”

  “I think you might find that rather d
ifficult, given that the man is unconscious. Or at least he was an hour ago when I checked on him last. His daughter is keeping vigil and has orders to call for me should he awaken.”

  “How do you know he’s not pretending?”

  “I suppose he could feign sleep now, but not when I stitched his wound. He also couldn’t invent the loss of blood from the stabbing, or the fever that had already attacked him by the time he was found. If you’re concerned about him disappearing, I can assure you that even if awake, he would be too weak and ill to flee.”

  Another hurrumph. “I want to see the man. Let me point out you are harboring a criminal. A warrant is out for his arrest.”

  “Harboring would involve us willfully hiding him. We informed you of his presence the moment he arrived at Underbyrne. As for the warrant, we have it on good authority, sir,” Father said, lifting his chest, “that the man was drunk and unable to murder anyone on the night Mrs. Brown died.”

  “Who says so?”

  “The daughter Constance reported it to us—”

  “Do you truly think I’d take that girl’s word? She’s a convicted thief. On the other hand, Mr. Brown will testify the man threatened his wife in a public place. Everyone knows Brown is as close to a saint as they come.”

  A pause ensued, and while I couldn’t see her, I imagined Mother struggling to keep her face and voice civil to the man. When she finally spoke, her words were clipped. “Even a saint can make a mistake about what he heard.”

  “Perhaps, but I see no reason to think that in this case. The man has been tireless in his pursuit of his wife’s murderer. Mr. Holmes was about to take me up to see for myself.”

  “We’ll be down in a moment. Please, follow me, Constable,” Father said. After a pause, he added, “I think it best if just the two of us visit the man.”

  At that remark, I felt for her. Never had I been aware of him shutting my mother out of a matter, especially when it involved someone under her care. The command, mild as its presentation was, clearly set her in her place. Regardless, when she spoke, her tone carried none of the sting I’m sure she felt inside.