The Adventure of the Murdered Midwife

by Liese Sherwood-Fabre

  “We’re going to your uncle’s workshop, and you’re going to give me that piece of cloth.”

  When he pushed me forward, I tripped and fell face-first onto the ground. I moaned into the dirt.

  He flipped me over onto my back and growled at me again. “Get up, you oaf.”

  “It’s my hands,” I said, wiggling slightly on my back. My fists closed about the soft dirt, and I grasped two handfuls. “I can’t walk with them like this. I have no balance.”

  Another moment passed as he made some sort of decision. With a sigh, he turned me over and undid the ropes binding my arms. “Now get up, and remember, I still have my rifle.”

  I rose to my knees but swayed slightly. “I hit my head two days ago. I think I aggravated my brain commotion.”

  He grabbed my coat at the shoulder and pulled me to my feet. “Get up.”

  As he set me upright, facing him, the rifle dropped to his side. I threw the two fistfuls of dirt into his face, spun about and ran past him. The most direct course away, however, was straight toward the beehives. I had no idea how good a shot he was, so I dodged behind the first hive and checked his progress. He staggered forward, obviously still having some problems with his eyes. Either he forgot about the rifle or couldn’t see well enough because he still had it at his side. With the small advantage I had of unhampered sight, I decided to risk making for the woods, and slow his pursuit in the process.

  I hit the hive protecting me with all my might. A swarm of disturbed bees emerged from the fallen hive and while some chased me as I headed toward the next hive along my way to the woods, more attacked the object following me. Mr. Brown roared as the bees flew about him. I continued to knock over hives, and the buzzing drowned out almost all sounds except Brown’s howling.

  I was, however, not immune to the insects’ fury. Minute points of extreme pain hit my cheeks and neck, but I didn’t slow. Reaching the woods’ edge, I glanced back to determine how close my pursuer was. While he persisted, he did so at a slower pace as he fought through a large cloud of angry bees.

  Once in the woods, my vision diminished considerably. At first I thought it was the loss of the moonlight, but when I swiped at my eyes, I found them swollen. My hands, too, were puffing. Ahead, I heard rushing water. I plunged toward it, stumbling on roots and rocks I could no longer discern, and practically fell into the stream leading to the Devony estate. How had I gotten so turned around?

  The almost frigid waters made me gasp, but at the same time brought relief to my burning face and hands. Over the noise of the speeding water, I made out a crashing in the woods, warning me Brown had not given up his hunt.

  Forcing myself to my feet, I lurched over the rocks in the creek and pulled myself up the bank onto the other side. I stopped for a moment to orient myself. Following the water would surely lead me to Hanover Manor. I was no longer certain where or how far Underbyrne or the road lay. Even with my limited sight, the surest path involved following the stream to the Devony estate.

  I pressed on through bushes and branches that caught my wet, heavy, clothing and scratched my face and hands. My shoes, also soaked, squished with each step, and the wool socks rubbed against my heels. I couldn’t hear anything beyond my own efforts and the rush of water and had no idea if the honey man still trailed me. I longed to lie down and rest, but knew death would certainly come either by gunshot or exposure.

  After what seemed an eternity, I broke free and staggered into a field on the far side of the Devony estate. I drove through the fallow rows, the moist earth giving off a pungent, fresh scent. Making it to the back of the estate, I pounded on the kitchen door—the same one where I’d learned of Rachel Winston’s death. When it opened, I fell at the feet of a man in a robe and nightcap.

  “Please,” I said through bloated lips, “I-I’m Sh-sherlock H-holmes. G-get me t-to Uh-underbyrne.”

  My recollection of the events that followed was shadowy. I recalled being lifted and carried, but to where I couldn’t tell. Voices reached my brain, but I was unable to decipher any meaning or any identity—even whether male or female. A bitter liquid was forced into my mouth, and I gagged some down.

  After that came the dreams.

  I was at Underbyrne in the yard. A giant bee with Mr. Brown's head chased me through our back garden. Seeking refuge, I ran into the greenhouse. There, I turned about and grabbed pots from the tables and heaved them at my attacker. The bee simply dodged them and decreased the distance between us. Becoming desperate, I selected a larger one and prepared to take better aim. When the pot was at eye-level, I stopped. A fingerprint glowed red on its side. Only then did I realize I held a hemlock plant in my hands. A loud buzzing pulled my attention from the plant, and I flung the container toward the monster insect. The projectile hit Mr. Brown square in the face, and he exploded with a massive shower of blood.

  I must have thrashed about then, because I remember hands holding me down. More bitter liquid followed, and I drifted back into oblivion.

  In the next one, Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Straton danced together at the foot of my bed. They pulled their hair and wailed in unison.

  “Avenge us!”

  This time, my own screams awoke me.

  A pair of cool hands grasped my face, and I focused on my mother's studied squint.

  “Deep breaths,” she said. “It was only a dream.”

  Once I had calmed, she sat back into an armchair set by my bedside. Judging from her rumpled appearance, she had maintained a vigil next to me for some time.

  My tongue ran over my dry, cracked lips. “You’re…you’re all right?”

  “Better,” she said, lifting one side of her mouth. “Your father has had…something…of a change of heart since we brought you home. But things are still…strained between us. I also apologized to Constance. I may not have been forgiven, but she did hear me out. Perhaps time will heal the rift.”

  She turned her face from mine, and I knew she was trying to compose herself. I reached across the space between us and placed a hand on her arm. I noticed a number of red welts covering the back of my hand. At least I now knew the answer to Mr. Brown’s experiment. I was not allergic, and it took more than the stings I suffered to cause a fit.

  She placed a hand over mine and turned back to me. “I know what you were trying to do. Mycroft alerted us when you went missing.”

  With a start, I sat up. “Mr. Brown. He—”

  “Has disappeared.” In response to my frown, she continued. “You were able to tell the Devonys’ butler that he was chasing you. They sent for the constable, but by the time he arrived with his men, they were unable to locate him. His horse is gone. They suspect he has fled the county.”

  “How did I get back here?”

  “When they sent for the constable, they also sent someone to Underbyrne and for the surgeon. He got there first and gave you laudanum. You were unconscious. We transported you back to Underbyrne, and you have been here ever since. Are you hungry? You haven’t eaten since they brought you back.”

  After a quick inventory of my condition, I nodded. “Some soup would be quite nice. I had the most profound dreams.”

  “Laudanum has been known to do that. You became quite agitated a few times, calling out and reaching for things.”

  “Yes. There was one with Mrs. Straton and Mrs. Brown. And another—” I shuddered, thinking about the giant bee.

  But there was something else besides the bee…

  Chapter Thirteen

  I drew in my breath and stared at my mother. “We need to go to the greenhouse.”

  I made to rise, but she restrained me, placing her hands on my shoulders. “It’s the middle of the night. And wholly unhealthy for you.”

  “I have to check something. It’s terribly important. It’s about the hemlock we found in Mrs. Straton’s basket.”

  The creases in her forehead turned to arches, but she shook her head. “I promised your father—”

  “But that was before Mr. Brown
tried to kill me. If I’m wrong, no one will know. If I’m right, I’ll say Mr. Brown told me. If you don’t let me go, I’ll slip out when you’re asleep. You know I will.”

  “We certainly haven’t done a good job of keeping you home,” she said and sighed. “Fine. To the greenhouse and back. Only. And you must wear your robe and slippers.”

  Mother’s slow, deliberate movements as she selected a robe and retrieved my slippers had me fairly bouncing on the bed. At the same time, I was grateful for her insistence because my sudden exertion after the laudanum brought on a cold sweat. Without the robe, I would have caught a chill on the way there.

  Once in the conservatory, I said, “I’d forgotten about this until the dream tonight. I kept thinking there was something, but it would slip away when I thought about it too hard.”

  She followed me down the far aisle, and I stopped at the pot holding the hemlock. Lifting it, I turned it to the side with the smudge. “I think this is from Mr. Brown. I noticed the other day when he brought you honey his gloves are covered in it. At first I thought it was yours but it’s too big.”

  “Why would he take hemlock?”

  “To replace Mrs. Brown’s pennyroyal. Before I was able to get free from him, he told me he’d learned that Mrs. Brown was dispensing pennyroyal and using it herself—when Mr. Straton told him at the tavern his wife had gotten it from her. He said he put Mrs. Brown’s body in the garden to have you arrested for her murder. He called you both vipers.”

  “I’ve been called worse,” she said, one side of her mouth lifting, then dropping.

  “He also knew about Harvingsham’s allergy to bees.”

  “But Harvingsham doesn’t dispense pennyroyal.” She drew in her breath. “But he did see Rachel Winston. Brown must have given Rachel some of the hemlock as well. Good lord. I was the one who told him we were going to consult Harvingsham about her death. He was probably afraid the man knew she’d been poisoned.”

  “He must have slipped a few in the window and—”

  “Aren’t you the clever boy?” a man asked at the far end of the greenhouse.

  We both pivoted to see Mr. Brown standing in the doorway to the outside and pointing his rifle at us. The beekeeper had certainly passed a rough time since my escape. His face was still marked with bright red spots I assumed were bee stings. His clothes were torn and dirty, and his hair wild and tangled about his face.

  “I came back just to finish off you two meddlers. You ruined my plans to cleanse this village of godless women like my wife, but I can finish at least with you, Mrs. Holmes, before I vanish forever.”

  “Do you truly believe you won’t be apprehended? After all, you poisoned all three women. It will come back to you in the end.”

  “I have the constable on my side. And once I get rid of all to the contrary, I’ll keep it that way.” He pointed the rifle at me and then at the pot in my hand. “Throw it on the ground.”

  I swiveled my head toward my mother as if I needed her permission. She nodded. “Go ahead, dear.”

  The crash echoed among the rows of plants. I hoped the sound roused someone and caused them to investigate. His next words, however, dashed that wish.

  “Now for that piece of cloth you told me about, Sherlock. Take me to it. Once I have that, there’ll be nothing left to prove I did it.”

  It occurred to me he hadn’t realized our deaths would certainly be linked to him, but I decided it wasn’t prudent to argue with him when he held the rifle. Not to mention that my previous encounter with him suggested he wasn’t logical in all his actions.

  When I hesitated, he shouted at me. “Where is it?”

  “M-m-my uncle’s workshop,” I managed to answer.

  He pointed his weapon at us and waved the end slightly to indicate we should move toward him. “Move along outside.”

  Mother and I exchanged glances. While I thought I might be able to get away from the man as I had before, I was certain Mother’s skirt would hinder her ability to run. The risk was too great. I was going to have to catch him off guard in another manner.

  He took a step to the side of the doorway and indicated with his weapon we were to continue outside. The night air was crisp and quite chilly. I shivered as it penetrated my robe. My slippers, too, failed to keep out the ground’s dampness. Overhead, the stars sparkled like so many jewels tossed onto a bit of black velvet. Perhaps it was the lingering effect of the laudanum, but I believed I had never seen them with such clarity or brilliance. Would this be the last time I would ever savor such a sight? The thought made me shiver all the more.

  I forced my thoughts back to the matter at hand, and attempted to convey the bit of a plan I had to my mother.

  “What are you going to do with the scrap when you find it?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder for a second. The man still carried the rifle pointed at our backs.

  “Burn it, just as Straton did the packet my Emma gave his wife. Pity about the man. I should be grateful to him. He’s the one who let me in on Emma’s secret. She’d always said she was barren. Now I know she was treating herself same as she did the other women. It was simple enough to change the pennyroyal to hemlock. You don’t live with a midwife without learning something about plants and poisons.”

  “But why Rachel Winston?” Mother asked. “What did she ever do?”

  “Came to me after my Emma died. Said she needed pennyroyal, like the Straton woman. Another sinner.” I could almost hear his shrug behind me. “If you hadn’t gotten away, I’d be able to stay here and slowly rid the village of all such hypocrites. I’ve got righteousness on my side. The day Straton told me in the tavern about finding the pennyroyal, I knew my life’s work was to purify the village from abominators.”

  At the workshop, Mother knocked on the door.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Brown asked in a sharp whisper.

  He shoved the weapon into my mother’s back. She gave a little gasp but replied in a calm voice.

  “My brother sometimes works late at night. He is not one to surprise. Besides, I assume you wish to ensure he is not in the building at the moment.” After a pause, she said, “Given he has not provided a response, we can assume we are alone.”

  “Where’s this cloth?” he asked, his voice a deep grumble, after we entered.

  “I need to see,” I said. “Let me light a lantern.”

  During the pause where he considered my request, I held my breath. After a moment, he asked, “Can you feel this, Mrs. Holmes?”

  Another slight gasp, followed by, “Yes, I do, Mr. Brown.”

  He continued in the same harsh tone. “Any tricks, and she dies.”

  I swallowed. “Understood.”

  In movements so deliberate I felt as if I had slowed time, I located and lit the lantern. When I turned and saw my mother and our captor, I had to force down a scream. The man held the rifle under my mother’s chin. Her neck was stretched and bent backwards, but her rounded eyes sent tremors down my spine. The intensity of her gaze telegraphed a silent caution to keep the man placated.

  At the edge of the lantern’s light, I saw my uncle’s crossbow lying on a workbench to my right. Even from this distance, I could see it held a hira shuriken. But only the one. The others were nowhere in sight. My hands ached to grab the weapon and point it at the beekeeper, but as long as my mother was in his grasp, I couldn’t risk his harming her.

  He pushed the rifle under my mother’s chin farther up until the full length of her white neck was exposed. I could barely see her eyes, her face was so turned upwards. “Stop your dawdling. Get me that cloth.”

  My head bobbed once. “Yes, sir.”

  The last time I had seen the cloth, Ernest had put it in a workbench drawer. I stepped to the bench, praying the handkerchief was still there. My heart pounded in my chest and my hands shook so violently, I fumbled trying to open the drawer.

  “Hurry up, boy,” the man said with a growl.

  A gasp followed, and I knew the man had
used the rifle to threaten my mother more. Afraid of what I might see, I didn’t turn around, but focused on the task at hand. When the drawer gave to my pulling, my knees went weak. The handkerchief wasn’t there.

  My head spun, and I feared I might faint. What would happen to mother, if I did?

  Think.

  My gaze fell on another object in the drawer.

  Mother’s red ledger.

  Drawing in a breath to steady myself, I grasped the volume and turned about.

  “It’s in here. Between pages twenty and twenty-one.”

  “Bring it here,” he said.

  I approached him with movements that seemed at half-pace. When I was within arm’s length, I extended my hand with the book. He had to release my mother’s arm to reach around her for the book. The moment his fingers touched its spine, I let go, and the book fell to the ground.

  With a howl, he lurched forward to catch it. At the same moment, I kicked the rifle away from my mother and shouted to her, “Run!”

  The rifle went off with a boom! that made my ears ring, and smoke from the exploded gunpowder burned my nostrils. When the man scrambled for the book, I spun about and dashed for the workbench and the crossbow.

  By the time I had reached it and whirled around to shoot at him, Mother was crawling on her hands and knees toward the door, her boots peeking out from among her white under-garments. Mr. Brown scrambled after her, grasping at her feet. The rifle lay abandoned between me and him.

  The hira shuriken flew from the bow’s end and hit him between the shoulder blades.

  He screamed and grabbed for the object imbedded in his back, twisting this way and that, trying to reach it.

  With her assailant distracted, Mother clambered faster toward the door. He must have realized she was getting away because he quit squirming and reached for her again. Catching a bit of her hem, he pulled her toward him. I ran forward, the bow still in my hand, and using it as a club, struck at the man’s head.

  The sound his head made when the wood hit his skull reminded me of a gourd hitting the floor. With a growl, he whirled around to face me. I raised the bow over my head, but the heavy instrument threw me off balance, and before I could bring it down again, he yanked my leg. I fell backwards, landing on my back with a thud. The bow flew out of my hands, and I heard it hit somewhere behind my head.