The Adventure of the Murdered Midwife

by Liese Sherwood-Fabre

  “Yes, Mrs. Holmes.” A broad smile split my friend’s face. “He promised to teach me to read music, too.”

  “You have a good teacher. He is quite accomplished at the violin. Perhaps in the future, all three of us can work on some pieces together. I play the pianoforte, you know.”

  “I’d like that very much.”

  “We’ll be in the schoolroom,” I said, taking our leave of my mother. “Follow me, Constance.”

  When we left the parlor, we fairly ran into my father and Mr. Straton in the hallway.

  “You’ll find Simpson in the barn. Have him get the wagon ready to bring over the hives. I’ve been reading up on how to transport them, and I think if we’re careful, we can do it without mishap.”

  My eyes widened at the last word. “Are you bringing the bees here?”

  I knew my father had decided to take over Brown’s apiculture efforts. He’d noted a few days ago the village still needed someone to raise bees. Not only did they supply honey, they also served a major function in the spring in the fruit orchards. And he considered it an extension of his life-long study of insects. Until this moment, I hadn’t given this announcement much thought. The realization that he meant to keep the bees on our property, which was both the sensible and logical choice, sent a shiver down my spine. The bee stings I’d suffered in my escape from Mr. Brown were still visible. I might not be allergic like Mr. Harvingsham, but I still had no desire to spend any time among them.

  He chuckled and patted my back. “Don’t worry, son. They’ll be in the back field for the winter, and we’ll be loaning the hives to the neighbors in the spring. Besides, we do have protective gear to keep us safe.”

  While I nodded in agreement, I wasn’t completely convinced. At the same time, I relished the idea of working with my father, and so I thought perhaps a few bee stings were worth it.

  “I’m going to change into work clothes,” he told Straton. “I’ll meet you at the wagon. After the bees are settled, the vicar has asked you pass by for your children. I understand his wife will be returning with you to meet with Mrs. Holmes. Something about seeking her advice regarding…” He glanced at Constance and me and cleared his throat. “She wants to consult with my wife.”

  I smiled, knowing Vicar and Mrs. Evans had obviously determined a large family wasn’t necessarily the blessing he had always preached.

  Father turned toward the stairs, but when I went to follow him, Straton placed a hand on my arm.

  “I never truly thanked you for saving my life that night. I still don’t remember anything after leaving the tavern, but I do recall lying there in the cold and thinking I couldn’t die and leave my children with no parents. Thank you.” He thrust out his hand, and I took it. After shaking it, his grip tightened and his gaze met mine. “I know about the music lessons, and that you’ve been seeing a lot of my Constance. If your intentions turn out not to be honorable, no amount of skill on your mother’s part will be enough to save you.”

  I swallowed and nodded. “Understood, sir.”

  He turned on his heel and went toward the back of the house to arrange for the wagon.

  In the schoolroom, I pointed to the blackboard, which had lost the information Mother had entered on the victims and now contained five parallel lines. “I thought we’d start with the treble clef. Each line represents a note on the scale, E. G. B. D. F.”

  “What’s that? Eegeebee?”

  “Names of notes. Like the letters.”

  “I don’t know my letters.”

  “Didn’t you go to school?”

  She shook her head. “My mama needed me to help with the children.”

  I paused. How could I teach her to read music if she couldn’t read at all?

  After a moment, I walked to the bookcase and pulled out a book and handed it to her.

  “For me?” she asked.

  “We’ll work on your letters too. And writing.”

  She opened to the first page with a drawing on it and sighed. “Ooo, I can’t wait to find out what this house is all about.”

  In a move so quick and unexpected, I had no time to react, she pulled me forward into a strong embrace, the opened book forming a barrier between us. “Thank you, Sherlock,” she whispered into my ear, “for everything. For my father…for me.”

  She planted a kiss on my cheek.

  Her lips were as soft as I remembered, and a warm rush flooded my body. I stiffened in defense of this sensation, and she must have felt the change because she pulled away, her own cheeks deepening in color.

  “Tell me about the letters.”

  I took the book from her and turned to a drawing of an elephant. “This is the e.”

  As she studied the page and traced the letter with her finger, I raised my hand to the spot on my cheek where her lips had touched, re-experiencing the same rush of affection.

  Somehow, I knew she was more than just a friend.

  I also knew that despite the gruesome aspects of the three village women’s deaths, the whole ordeal had brought my family together in ways I couldn’t have imagined. As evil as it sounded, I truly hoped for another mystery to keep us close.

  Acknowledgments

  I began this project more than seven years ago, and had a great deal of help along the way. Many eyes viewed earlier versions of this manuscript, and I am grateful to all their comments, remarks, and corrections. I would like to especially thank the following: Nancy Alvey, Vicki Batman, Karilyn Bentley, Diane Kelly, Chris Keniston, Liz Lipperman, Steve Mason, Sandy Rice, Richard Schmidt, and Lori Weber. A special shout-out goes to Brenda Hutchinson’s eagle eye for details. In addition, I received comments from numerous anonymous reviewers in contests where I entered the manuscript as well as from agents and editors who shared their views on earlier drafts. Finally, a special thanks to Alicia at iProofread and More for her final polish. Any errors that remain are my own.

  About the Author

  Photo by Kim Ortiz

  Liese Sherwood-Fabre knew she was destined to write when she got an A+ in the second grade for her story about Dick, Jane, and Sally’s ruined picnic. After obtaining her PhD from Indiana University, she joined the federal government and had the opportunity to work and live internationally for more than fifteen years. After returning to the states, she seriously pursued her writing career. She is currently a member of The Crew of the Barque Lone Star and the Studious Scarlets Society scions and contributes regularly to Sherlockian newsletters across the world. You can follow her upcoming releases and other events by joining her newsletter at www.liesesherwoodfabre.com

  Also by Liese Sherwood-Fabre

  The Adventure of the Murdered Gypsy

  Before Sherlock Holmes became the world’s greatest consulting detective...

  Murder followed the arrival of unexpected guests to the Holmes family estate.

  Shortly after one of Uncle Ernest’s old acquaintances joins the extended Holmes family for the holidays, a body is found in the barn. But that is only the beginning of the disruptions to their usually bucolic life. Sherlock’s young cousin reports hearing footsteps outside the nursery, the family learns that their guests are not who they appear, and Mycroft suddenly falls head-over-heels in love. Can Sherlock determine how the dead man materialized in the barn before more murders occur?

  The Adventure of the Deceased Scholar

  Before Sherlock Holmes became the world’s greatest consulting detective...

  The discovery of two bodies disrupted the 1868 Oxford-Cambridge boat race.

  * * *

  When Mycroft Holmes identifies the body of a drowning victim, the Holmes family is drawn into a scandal that could destroy not only the deceased’s name, but their reputation as well. Sherlock and his family have only a few days before the coroner’s inquest to explain Vernon Phillips' demise. If it is ruled a suicide, the Phillips family assets will be returned to the Crown, leaving them destitute. Should that happen, Miss Phillips, the victim’s sister, has threatened to drag
Mycroft’s good name through the mire as well. Will Sherlock be able determine what happened before more than one family is destroyed?

  The Life and Times of Sherlock Holmes, Volume Three

  “[P]repare to delve into a charming set of illustrated guidebooks to Holmes and his 1895 London.”

  - Carole Nelson Douglas, Bestselling Author

  * * *

  This third collection of essays provides additional insights into English life of the late 1800s. During this era, gas and electric lights appeared, the telephone made its debut (although Holmes seemed to prefer the telegram), and the gramophone recorded Sherlock playing his own Stradivarius violin. Holmes enjoyed attending the opera at Covent Garden, reviewing the agony columns, and keeping his own scrapbooks. Medical issues included yellow fever and diabetes. And murderers included jellyfish, snakes, and the Italian-American import of the Carbonari. In all, twenty-four articles address aspects of everyday Victorian life from the mundane (cardboard) to the singular (the Crown Jewels)—a little something for everyone.

  * * *

  As an added bonus, Volume Three includes a reprint of Dr. Sherwood-Fabre’s Baker Street Journal article on “Evil Women: The Villainesses of the Canon.”

  Excerpt From “The Adventure of the Murdered Gypsy”

  Mother pivoted, swung her foot, and hit her opponent squarely on the jaw. The man landed on his back against the wooden floorboards with enough force to send tremors through the soles of my feet.

  Mr. Moto raised himself onto one elbow and rubbed the side of his face with his other hand. “Very good.”

  Mother extended her hand to our baritsu instructor, but he waved it away. “I’m quite amazed,” she said, “at the freedom of movement these Turkish trousers allow.”

  I couldn’t argue with her statement. The blousy coverings permitted full use of her legs—something her skirts had never done. At the same time, I found them rather unsettling. Until she had introduced the garment for our lessons, I had not seen her lower extremities, and certainly not in motion. I also couldn’t help but wonder what our instructor thought of her visible, albeit covered, limbs.

  On the other hand, both he and I bared most of our legs. The traditional baritsu costume, or gi, consisted of a loose, long-sleeved white tunic that all but covered a pair of very short pants.

  When he rose to his feet, I was struck again by our instructor’s diminutive size. He matched my mother closely in height and weight, but I had learned at our first lesson his stature did not indicate his strength when it came to defending himself.

  Of course, my mother was rather tall compared to many women in our village. Slim and dark-haired, I was told repeatedly how much I resembled her.

  “Your turn, Master Sherlock.”

  By this time, I’d gotten used to his accent and enjoyed how he pronounced my name, roughening the l almost into an r.

  I took the traditional opening stance, but before I could bow, Trevor entered, leaving my uncle’s workshop open to the winter air. My seven-year-old cousin stood just inside, almost as if he were afraid to enter. The cold air rushed in, causing goose bumps to break out on my legs.

  “I was told to come and get you. Cousin Mycroft is here.”

  “How wonderful,” my mother said. “I know he’ll want to freshen up from his trip, so we’ll be there shortly. Sherlock was about to have a go at this new move. If you wish to stay and watch, you may. But please shut the door.”

  Once we were no longer exposed to the elements, I bowed to our trainer and prepared to imitate the kick my mother had just executed.

  Trevor spoke up behind my back. “But Mother said you were to come directly and bring Uncle Ernest with you because a friend of his has come too.”

  I turned my back to Mr. Moto to ask my cousin to repeat the statement. In all my years, I couldn’t recall a single time my quite, private uncle had received a visitor. Before I could voice this observation, my instructor swept his leg behind mine, flipping my feet out from under me and the rest of me toward the floor. The air rushed out of my lungs with a whoosh. I wasn’t sure which hurt more, my back or my pride, when I heard Trevor giggle.

  My instructor’s face hovered over mine. “Are you all right, Master Sherlock?”

  I nodded and accepted his hand to pull myself up.

  Once righted, he pointed a finger at me. “Never turn your back on an opponent.”

  My cheeks burned from his reproach. While he might have overplayed his point, he was correct in demonstrating I had given him the advantage. I had no time to note this because Mother spoke again.

  “A friend of Ernest’s? That does put a different wrinkle on things.” She tilted her head to one side, as if weighing this new information, and turned to Moto. “I’m afraid, then, we’ll have to cut our lesson short today. Let’s continue tomorrow, shall we?” She glanced at me. “Sherry, dear, please collect your uncle from the barn and join us in the parlor. We’ll see you at dinner, Mr. Moto.”

  The man bowed low. “Until then.”

  Retrieving my pants from a nearby workbench, I pulled them on over my gi.

  When I turned to go, Trevor asked, “Might I go with you?”

  I hesitated in my response, seeking a socially acceptable excuse to avoid including him. To be honest, I found the boy annoying. I was, after all, six—about to be seven—years his senior, yet he insisted on following me everywhere. Since he’d arrived two days ago, whenever I turned around, I found him staring at me with wide eyes and a slight smile on his face.

  Mother solved my quandary, although not in the fashion I’d hoped. “An excellent idea. Trevor’s been asking to see the horses. This will give him an opportunity to do so.”

  With a sigh, I bowed once again to Moto and moved to the door, where I jammed my feet into my boots and wrapped a scarf about my neck. “Come on, then I need to change before dinner.”

  The boy’s delight was obvious. He bounced next to me and kept up a running commentary as we made our way to the stables. He noted how cold it was, how we could see our breath, and didn’t he resemble a dragon when he blew out through his nostrils, and how quiet it was here in the country. I considered pointing out the last was difficult to note with his persistent jabbering, but instead, let my mind wander, providing various grunts and other noncommittal noises while he nattered on. My ill humor was only partly related to his constant tagging along. Another portion reflected the humiliation I’d just experienced at the hands, or rather the feet, of Mr. Moto.

  The majority, however, involved Mycroft’s arrival. While he’d been away at university, I’d been able to relax in a way I found difficult when he was at home. His criticisms of my violin practicing; constant corrections to my French, German, and Latin pronunciations; and complaints about any noise I made that disturbed his thinking always kept me on guard. With his return, I would have to, once again, increase my caution. Not that I didn’t like my brother. We had certainly developed a greater appreciation for each other when our family had solved a murder and freed my mother from gaol a bare three months ago. He simply wasn’t the easiest person to get along with.

  As we neared the barn, I stopped and turned to Trevor. “Can you repeat what you just said?”

  “I said the woman visitor was very pretty.”

  Thankfully, I was no longer in the middle of a baritsu lesson because Moto would have kicked me onto my back for a second time as I stared dumbfounded at my cousin. Uncle Ernest’s friend a woman? And pretty? I didn’t recall Ernest ever mentioning a woman, other than once, and she had been the daughter of an Indian royal.

  “Is she an Englishwoman?”

  When he nodded, I quickened my pace. I had to get my uncle back to the house to see his female friend for myself.

 

 

 
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