I ran back along the trail as if someone were pursuing me after I’d run to the corner of the manor and peeked around to the front and saw the surgeon’s carriage. While I knew it seemed illogical, I was overwhelmed by a desperate desire to get as far away from the manor house as quickly as possible.
When I arrived back at Underbyrne, I made straight for Ernest’s workshop to change into my clothes before reporting to my mother.
To my surprise, Mother was visiting my uncle in the sitting room at the back. A tea tray sat on the table between them. He must have shown her the crossbow because she had the leather sleeve she used for archery on her arm.
They both turned toward me as I approached them, taking in gulps of air while I massaged a stitch in my side from the run.
“Sherry, darling, whatever happened? Are you all right?”
I nodded, but still found no breath to answer.
“You ran all the way from Hanover Manor?” Uncle Ernest asked.
Again, I nodded but found my breathing had slowed enough that I could gasp out a few words. “Mrs. Winston. Dead.”
The announcement pulled both of them to their feet. Mother raised her hand to her mouth.
“Dead?” she asked. “How? When?” She pointed to an empty seat. “Sit. Catch your breath. Have some tea.”
While she poured a cup, I forced out an answer to her questions. “Don’t. Know. But. Surgeon. There.”
Her eyebrows pulled together, and she handed me the cup. “Mr. Harvingsham was called in? How do you know?”
“I saw his carriage,” I said, managing a full sentence after several sips of tea.
“A third woman,” Ernest said, shaking his head and making little tsk-ing noises. His gaze landed on my mother. “You know, Violette, there’s a connection between you and all these women. I hope no suspicion will fall—”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ernest. We have shown conclusively I had not stabbed Emma Brown, and I haven’t been near Rachel Winston since the constable arrested me.” Her eyes glistened, and her tone dropped. “Poor Rachel. She was such a young and beautiful creature. And so much in love.”
I held my peace and finished my tea, even though I could now speak in full sentences. My stomach knotted at the reasoning behind my uncle’s statement. Mother did have a connection to all three women, and given Constable Gibbons’ determination to find her guilty of some criminal activity, he might weave enough ideas together to do just that.
“Quite right,” Ernest said with a sigh. “All the more likely she did not die of natural causes. I hate to say this, but you may have another murder to solve.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions, Ernest. The poor Winston woman might have fallen down the stairs or had a bad heart. Did they say anything about murder to you, Sherry?”
“They didn’t say much of anything.” I summarized in just a few seconds the extent of my conversation with the servant at the back door.
Mother tapped her finger on her lips. “Not much to go on there. If Mr. Harvingsham’s been called in, it’s possible something suspicious did happen to her. Mr. Holmes, as magistrate, might be involved. Still, if the death appeared accidental, we may never know. A professional call on the good surgeon, however, might supply some answers.”
I stared at her. Mother didn’t trust the man to treat us for most illnesses. “You want to visit him for a medical consultation?”
“Unfortunately, it appears to be the most direct approach.” She gave me a studied gaze. “You definitely appear a little peaked to me, Sherry, dear. A severe case of dyspepsia, I believe.”
I was being tasked to assist her again?
“Why me?”
“Because that will give me an opportunity to speak with Mrs. Harvingsham. There are two things I know about that woman. She has intimate knowledge of all his cases, and she is a severe gossip. I will have no trouble learning from her whatever occurred to poor Mrs. Winston.” She consulted a watch she wore pinned to her dress. “We have to give her time to collect the information. I suggest we go first thing in the morning. I’m afraid, dear, that means no supper or breakfast for you.”
“Don’t be cruel, Violette,” Uncle Ernest said, coming to my defense. “He may need to appear to be in digestive distress, but you don’t have to starve the poor boy.”
“All right. Some broth tonight, but no breakfast. The surgeon must hear something to suggest a reason for the visit. An empty stomach certainly creates gastric issues.”
While I considered adding a protest to that of my uncle’s, I recalled Rachel Winston the night of my return home. Mother’s description of the woman as pretty was accurate. For her, I could endure a brief starvation.
“Don’t worry, Sherry,” she said, rising from her seat, “I won’t allow him to give you anything. Whatever he suggests as a treatment, I will insist on administering myself. Will you accompany me back to the house?”
I shook my head. I still needed to talk to Constance. “I think I’ll stay and help Uncle Ernest.”
“Please enjoy the rest of the sandwiches with your tea. I’ll see you then at supper.” She smiled and covered her mouth with her hand. “Excuse me. Supper for us. Broth for you.”
The edges of her eyes crinkled, but I failed to find the same amusement in her statement. I was also distracted as I considered how to approach Constance for the tremendous favor I had promised Mycroft and Ernest I would ask of her.
Once she left, Ernest turned to me. “You going to see the Straton girl?” When I nodded, he studied me for a moment and said, “I wouldn’t change if I were you. Raise less suspicion for another of her station to visit their cottage than a squire’s son.”
I’d forgotten about my disguise for visiting Hanover Manor. “I believe you’re right. Care to go with me?”
“I need to work here. I think I’ve made something of a breakthrough with the crossbow,” he said. “Care to see? Only a moment to set up the target.”
Before I could answer, he stepped to the work area and pulled out a bale of hay. He’d painted a set of concentric circles to form a target on its side.
“The secret was the coil. I tried a heavier one and found that while it made the trigger harder to draw, it did keep it from being too sensitive. The lighter projectiles compensated for the stiffer pull.”
My uncle stepped to my side and handed me the loaded weapon. I took aim and found the trigger more resistant than that of my rifle, but with extra effort, the pointed star flew from the box and embedded itself into the hay bale. A second star slid into place ready for the bow to be drawn and fired again.
He squinted at the bale and said, “It appears it may still pull to the right. What about the trigger?”
“Definitely harder to pull, but not too difficult.”
I placed the crossbow back on the worktable, making sure to point the still-loaded device toward the back of the workshop.
“My whole purpose was to be able to shoot a number of these stars in quick succession. I think I told you that the hira shuriken were designed to disable, not kill, an enemy. A number of them shot one after the other, however, might prove more deadly—or at least capable of disabling a group.”
“I think the project is progressing.”
He scrubbed the side of his face with his hand and studied the crossbow. His eyes carried a far-off glaze to them, and I knew he was about to shift all his concentration onto the weapon. With his attention now elsewhere, I determined it was an appropriate time to take my leave.
For the second time that day, I found myself on the path through the woods Constance had shown me.
When I found no one in the Straton yard, I knocked on the door. Constance answered. She placed a finger to her lips before I could speak. After a moment’s study, her mouth dropped open, and she pushed me back into the yard, closing the door behind her.
“Lords, Master Sherlock,” she said in a harsh whisper. “I didn’t recognize you at first. Whatever are you doing dressed like a ‘prentice?”
“I…uh…” I felt exposed in the yard, as if the clandestine act I planned to ask her to accomplish should be shared privately. “Might we speak inside?”
She shook her head.
“Papa’s sleeping. Best not disturb him. When he’s got one of his headaches, it’s best to keep quiet.”
Somehow I suspected there was more to the story than just a headache, but I couldn’t pursue it at that moment.
“You didn’t bring more vittles, did you?” she asked, glancing at my empty hands. “The vicar’s wife came by and left a basket. We won’t need some for a while.”
“No. I came to ask a favor.” I checked the dust on the tops of my boots. “Have you… Did you ever…”
How did one ask someone about their criminal activity? My concern for my mother spurred me to continue with my proposal as I searched for the words.
“Well, what do you want? Don’t go hemming and hawing. I need to get back inside and keep the others quiet so’s Papa can sleep.”
“The constable. He took something. Something that belongs to Mother.”
When I paused, unable to think how to continue, she squinted at me, not waiting for me to proceed as much as weighing what I had already said.
“You wants it back. What the constable took.”
Not a question. A statement. I nodded.
“What was it?”
Her forthrightness spurred my own. “A book. If he determines what’s in it, it would ruin my mother. My whole family.”
Another studied squint. “You want to steal it back?”
“Yes…no…. Replace it actually. With another.”
“All right.” My heart thrummed at the thought of her acceptance, but she dampened my enthusiasm in the next minute. “But you have to come with me.”
“But I—”
“You said you wanted me to learn you to be a dipper. It ain’t dipping, but we have to start somewheres. And the constable’s house is as good as any.” She checked over her shoulder toward the cottage. “I can’t do it now, though. Come back later. After dinner tomorrow. He should be up and out by then.”
I nodded and turned to leave. I’d only taken a few steps when she spoke once again.
“We gots enough food at the moment, but if you’ve got some of the bread you brought to the gaol, you can bring that along tomorrow.”
Although the very thought of Cook’s bread reminded me of my restricted diet until after the visit to the surgeon tomorrow, I responded over my shoulder, “I’ll see what I can do.”
Upon my arrival at Underbyrne, I stopped again at my uncle’s workshop to change into my proper clothes and to report to my uncle that I had been able to successfully recruit Constance into service for retrieving Mother’s ledger.
With no sounds emanating from the structure, I concluded he had already gone to the main house for supper but knocked anyway. Uncle Ernest opened the door as soon as I rapped once.
“Come in, boy,” he said.
He searched around the yard before stepping aside to let me in.
“Are you looking for someone?” I asked as he closed the door behind me.
“That honey man. He came by for a moment. Asked about progress. If I had any new information to share with the constable.”
“Did he speak to Mother too?”
“No. Just me. But then he thinks I’m the one doing the investigating.” He shook his head. “Poor Violette. She’s always been so much more clever than I.”
His gaze dropped, and I could see the slump in his shoulders. I understood his feelings of inferiority. Mycroft’s ability to foresee people’s actions and future events made it difficult to consider any intellectual achievements of my own. On impulse, I noted to him, “But you’re clever in your own way. You came up with that crossbow idea. By the way, have you worked out the problem of the pull to the right?”
He shook his head.
“No time with Brown visiting. Told him about the Winston woman’s death. He seemed quite upset about it and asked what we knew. I said not much until we had a chance to talk to Mr. Harvingsham.”
Given his earlier ethical concerns about replacing the book, I decided it best not to mention Constance’s condition that I accompany her on her mission. Instead, I asked, “Would you be able to arrange a horse for tomorrow afternoon? If I asked for it, Mother or Father might question why I need one. And Mycroft rarely goes riding. I need it…to help Mother.”
“A horse?” He paused as if again considering whether he was aiding and abetting a crime, but in the end, he nodded. “As far as I know, you simply don’t want your parents to know that you are visiting the Straton cottage again. Very well.”
I changed into my clothes, leaving the others for my visit tomorrow, and returned to the house for my supper of broth.
The sun was fully up and flooding into my bedroom when Mother came in the next morning. I rubbed my eyes and sat up in bed. “Why didn’t anyone wake me?”
“With your having to miss breakfast, I thought it best to let you sleep a little longer,” she said, and kissed me on the forehead. Her mouth turned down. “Quite a normal temperature. How unfortunate we have no way to make you appear feverish. We can however, have you wear yesterday’s clothing. At least then you’ll appear disheveled. Remember, you have a bad case of dyspepsia.”
I slid from my bed, and as if on cue, my stomach rumbled the moment my feet touched the floor.
“Very good,” she said with a smile. “I heard that one myself.” She placed an arm about my shoulders. “I truly do appreciate your willingness to participate in our little charade.”
“I don’t mind it so much,” I said. “I do want to catch whoever killed poor Mrs. Brown.”
She pulled me closer. “You’re growing up so quickly. I almost have to reach up to touch your shoulder. In a little bit, you’ll be taller than I. You get your height from the Parker side.” Facing me, she studied me more intently and touched my nose. “Also the nose. A fine aristocratic example, if ever there was one.”
Another squeeze on my shoulders, and she left me to dress.
When I met her downstairs in the kitchen for Mr. Simpson to drive us to the Harvingshams’, the scent of baking bread greeted me as well. My stomach gave another protest.
“Excellent. Perhaps we should have a loaf with us? You can sniff it just before the surgeon examines you.”
I opened my mouth to protest then remembered my promise to Constance to bring some and nodded my assent.
“I’ll meet you at the carriage.”
Mr. Harvingsham’s house was on the edge of town. I supposed he chose the spot to be near both those living in the village as well as in the countryside. His surgery had its own entrance as a separate wing on his first floor. I followed my mother into a small waiting room. A man sat in one of the chairs lining the room’s walls, his hand wrapped in what appeared to be a rag. Mother and I took two chairs more or less across from him. Groans emanated from a closed door at the far end of the room.
“That’s my mate in there,” the man said, nodding to the door. “We were shoein’ a horse when the beast bit me, then kicked poor Joshua in the chest. I think he broke all my fingers, but I’m more afeared for Joshua.”
Another groan from the other room made the waiting man wince, and I involuntarily copied him. Mother’s hands gripped her reticule until her knuckles grew white.
“I suppose we could’ve gone to the cottage hospital, but since the surgeon had already visited there for the day, we came here.”
“I’m sorry, Sherry. I hadn’t considered him having patients with such urgent needs. Perhaps—”
Before she could complete the thought—which I hoped involved returning home and dinner—Mrs. Harvingsham stepped into the room through a side door. “Violette,” she said. “I thought I recognized your trap outside. Whatever brings you here?”
“It’s Sherlock, Elizabeth. I’m afraid he’s suffering an extreme bout of dyspepsia.”
I forced an expression between woe and pain. In an effort to emphasize the malady, I imagined some of Mrs. Simpson’s boiled beef, and my stomach accommodated my wishes with a loud rumble.
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Harvingsham said after my sound had dissipated, “I’m afraid you’re right. But why didn’t you have Mr. Harvingsham come to your house?”
“I thought perhaps the fresh air might help him, but I’m afraid the ride didn’t have the effect I’d hoped.”
Mrs. Harvingsham’s gaze shifted from me to the man with the bandaged hand. “Why don’t we wait in the parlor? I’ll let his nurse know he should attend you there.”
The woman stepped to the far door and rapped on it. When the door opened a slit, Mrs. Harvingsham spoke in low tones to whoever answered. As the door closed, another moan escaped—only this time it was weaker and lower than the others.
His shoulders dropping lower, the man with the broken fingers clucked his tongue. I gathered he held little hope for his friend.
Following the surgeon’s wife to the parlor, we maneuvered around a number of small tables displaying various objets d’art to arrive at the sitting area on the far side of the room. I marveled at both women’s ability to avoid knocking any of the tables despite the width of their skirts.
Taking a seat, she said, “I spoke to his nurse. My husband still needs to attend the two men before he can see your son. Would you care for some tea in the meantime?”
“So kind of you,” my mother said. “Of course, I believe it best for Sherlock to abstain until after your husband’s examination.”
She rang a silver bell on the table next to her. “It shouldn’t be much longer. Mr. Harvingsham is quite efficient at setting bones. I’ve seen him do so in less than two minutes, including the binding.”
“But there is the matter of the other patient. I believe he was kicked by a horse.”
The other woman glanced away before responding in a low voice. “I was told there was nothing to be done for him. Internal injuries. He was administering morphine to him when I knocked—for the pain.”
My mother paled, and my stomach gave a bit of a lurch. The woman’s nonchalance at a man’s apparent impending death took me aback. But perhaps being a surgeon’s wife simply hardened her to the thought?
A maid opened the parlor door, and Mrs. Harvingsham’s voice had a lilt I found disconcerting given the slow death occurring in the next room. “Betsy, please bring in some tea. Only two cups.”
The maid curtsied and returned shortly with the requested pot as well as some finger sandwiches and a sliced fruit. My stomach recommenced its concert—a little more fortissimo this time.
“My goodness,” Mrs. Harvingsham said. “Perhaps I should suggest my husband consider prescribing some laudanum for him. You must be in a great deal of pain.”
I placed my arms over my stomach and inclined over them slightly as if in pain. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“But my dear—”
“Why don’t we wait and hear what Mr. Harvingsham suggests?” my mother said.
“I suppose….” the woman said, eyeing me over her teacup.
I forced a wan smile, hoping to appear to be suffering bravely, and gratefully relaxed when Mother called our hostess’s attention toward her.
“I say, Elizabeth. This is most excellent tea. Wherever did you get it?”
“It was a gift. From Lady Devony. Mr. Harvingsham had been treating one of the servants there. A very grave case. I’m afraid she passed despite his efforts to bleed out the illness.”
“Rachel Winston, wasn’t it? One of Cook’s friends mentioned it to her this morning. She didn’t say what happened. Some sort of illness then?”
“A very severe case of—” She glanced in my direction and lowered her voice. I still made out the next word despite her attempts to keep it from me. “Dyspepsia.”
“Truly?” my mother asked and was answered with a nod from our hostess.
“As I said, a very severe case.” She turned to me. “I’m certain you have no reason to worry, dear boy. Hers was accompanied by a great deal of—” She stopped herself again before whispering, “She was quite sick for several days.”
Mother’s eyebrows came together. Perhaps it was the years she’d spent in France, but while Father had impressed upon us the need to refer to certain delicate conditions with less specific terms—such as “sick” for “vomiting”—Mother had always preferred the more precise and medical terms. Out of deference to her husband, however, she often would revert to French in such cases.
“Did he ever determine any cause?”
The woman shook her head. “He determined it was something she must have eaten, given the symptoms and the lack of fever. That’s why the Devonys had called him in. To ensure that she was not contagious. When none of the other servants became…sick, he did what he could to treat her, but as I noted, she succumbed all the same.”
Mother took another sip of tea and glanced at the clock on the wall. Her ability to collect this information on poor Mrs. Winston’s death without the woman even knowing she was sharing information was not lost on me. Such a skill could prove useful in a variety of settings, and I promised myself to consider just how she did it.
Before she could ask for any additional information, a set of rapid footsteps cut off the conversation.
A woman wearing a nurse’s cap and apron opened the parlor door with such force all the items on display in the room rattled and threatened to topple off their tables.
“Come quick, something’s happened to Mr. Harvingsham,” was all she said before spinning on her heel and rushing away.
Mother and Mrs. Harvingsham glanced at each other for a moment, both with mouths opened as if seeking an explanation from the other. While they froze in this position for a moment, I leapt from my seat and headed out the door. From behind, I could hear the swish of fabric and knew they were now making their way through the maze of tables. With my head start on the women, I reached the surgery first. Finding the waiting room vacant, I rushed through the open door into the examination room beyond.
The man with the broken fingers and the nurse knelt on the floor next to the writhing surgeon. His nurse held down his shoulders, and the man from the waiting room lay across his feet, holding his injured hand aloft as if to keep from re-injuring it as Mr. Harvingsham thrashed about the floor.
Behind them on a table lay a covered figure, which I assumed was the man’s now deceased friend. Two cabinets, one with glass doors and another with small drawers covered the wall at the dead man’s feet, and across the back wall, a tall workbench holding a number of instruments the surgeon used in his practice.
Mrs. Harvingsham reached the examination room door before my mother, and stopped at the threshold, her hand to her mouth. I could hear my mother’s voice from behind the woman blocking the doorway.
“What is it?” she asked. “What’s going on?”
“He’s having a fit,” the man with the broken fingers said over his shoulder. “I heard a crash and come in to find him floppin’ about like a fish out of water.”
“Let me through, Elizabeth,” my mother said. “I need to see what’s going on.”
Mrs. Harvingsham remained where she was.
I stared at the poor surgeon. He continued to convulse. Now, however, a bit of spittle formed at the sides of his mouth.
“Sherry, are you in there?”
“Yes,” I said, unable to take my gaze off the man on the floor.
“I need your help, dear.” Mother’s voice, while low and without emotion still carried a hint of urgency. “I need you to get Mrs. Harvingsham out of the way. I must get into that room.”
With great effort to pull my attention from the scene in front of me, I forced myself to turn my head in the direction of the blocked door and step to Mrs. Harvingsham. Her chest moved rapidly up and down, and the air whistled between the fingers over her mouth. She definitely wasn’t breathing correctly. I pulled her hand from her mouth, and she dropped her gaze to me—although I could tell she didn’t recognize me.
“Mrs. Harvingsham, you’re turning white. Why don’t you sit down in the waiting room? Let me help you to a chair.”
She remained still a moment longer, as if her brain was trying to make sense of what I was saying, but finally she nodded and allowed me to lead her from the room and onto a chair. Once she was seated, I turned back to the examination room.
As soon as the entrance had opened, my mother had dashed through. She now knelt at the man’s side, her fingers on the inside of his wrist. After that, she placed a hand on the man’s forehead.
Without glancing at me, she said, “Sherry, I want you to check the surgeon’s medicines. See if you can find a box of asthma cigarettes and matches.”
Swallowing hard, I pushed myself to rush around the dead man on the table, avoiding a direct study of the form, to search the various boxes and bottles in the cabinet for the cigarettes.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the nurse asked in an octave higher than when she’d come to the parlor. “The man can’t smoke now.”
“I don’t expect him too,” Mother said, her voice strained. “He’s having an allergic reaction. The cigarettes—”
A thump made me check on the scene behind me. The man was arching upward as Mother was untying his tie and opening his collar.
“The cigarettes contain belladonna. Sherry, we’ll need a funnel, too, to send the smoke into his lungs. We need to open his airways or he’ll choke to death.”
A wail came from the adjoining room. “Good lord.”
“Mrs. Harvingsham, are you aware of any allergies for your husband?”
“I-I-I—” His wife’s response ended in a sob.
“Bees,” the nurse said.
“That explains the welts on his hand,” Mother said. “I saw them when I checked his pulse.”
Mother must have pointed out the injury because the nurse now barked at me as she struggled with her employer. “The cigarettes are on the top shelf. The matches…by the lamp. The funnel…in the drawer…on the same table.”
“Found it,” I said, reaching for an orange box, and continued to the table to collect the other items.
As soon as I rounded the table, I knelt down opposite my mother. She reached across the man and grabbed the cigarette box and matches. Before I could say anything, she’d stuck one in her mouth and struck a match to light it.
After she moved the cigarette to the corner of her mouth, she spoke to the nurse. “Put the funnel in his mouth.”
Only then did I notice the surgeon’s face had shifted from a deep vermillion to a blue-tinged white. His body had also stilled, and his breathing was thin and reedy as he tried to suck in air through an obviously closed airway. I watched with rapt attention as my mother blew smoke into the funnel and continued to puff and blow to force the smoke into the man’s lungs. Her ease—not a single cough although she had to ingest some of the fumes—suggested previous experience with tobacco. Where had my mother learned a custom so against social conventions for women?
I had no time to consider this new revelation in depth because as I observed Mr. Harvingsham’s face, it relaxed, his color and breathing returning to normal. A few seconds later, his eyes fluttered open. After he glanced first at my mother and then the nurse, he must have become conscious of what had occurred because his eyebrows lifted, and he tried to sit up. The nurse pulled the funnel from his mouth and helped him raise his shoulders from the floor.
“Mrs. Harvingsham, you can come in now,” Mother called.
The woman rushed in, pushed my mother to one side and knelt next to her husband. “Oh, Richard,” she said and broke into another sob.
The surgeon patted his wife’s head and glanced at the four of us still surrounding him. “Wha—what happened?”
“You had an allergic reaction,” Mother said. “From a bee sting, it appears.”
“You need to thank your lucky stars this woman was here,” the nurse said, jutting her chin at my mother. “She saved your life. I’d never have known about the cigarettes.”
“Asthma cigarettes,” Mother said. “So glad you had them. A bit cruder than my herbs, but they did the job this time.”
The surgeon checked out the hand patting his wife’s head.
“Bees,” he said, more to himself than to us. He glanced over his shoulder at the table where I’d found the matches and funnel and at the open window next to it. He spoke louder when he continued. “They flew in the window. Stung me.”
“I would suggest you spend the rest of the day in bed,” Mother said. She turned to the nurse. “And you should keep a vigil on him. Keep the cigarettes by his bedside.”
The woman nodded, and Mrs. Harvingsham raised her head from her husband’s chest to address my mother. The woman’s eyes were red-rimmed, and her cheeks wet from her tears.
“Thank you, Mrs. Holmes. You saved my husband’s life. I don’t care what anyone says about you. I know you have only the best intentions now.”
Best intentions? What were others saying?
My gaze shot to my mother to determine her reaction. Whether the woman’s remarks affected her in some way, I was unable to discern. A glance from her in response told me I was to imitate her and not disclose either concern for her reputation or demand for further information.
Following that brief direction to me, she shifted back on her heels and made ready to rise. “Shall we help you to your bed, Mr. Harvingsham?”
The man glanced about himself again, obviously still slightly confused. “Bed? But…but my patients.”
“I’m certain your nurse can direct them to Dr. Farnsworth or the apothecary for the day.”
Another round of glances to those around him before he nodded and allowed us to help him to his feet. Mrs. Harvingsham called to several of the servants, and they assisted him to navigate the stairs to his room.
When they had gone, the man with the broken hand asked, “What about poor Charlie? Should I take him home in my wagon?”
“I’ll get word to the undertaker. He’ll come for th—him,” the nurse said. “I’ll set your fingers. I’ve helped Mr. Harvingsham enough to do it myself.”
She seemed familiar with the process of death, and I wondered how often they had made just such arrangements. The man studied her for a moment and nodded.
Now alone, the nurse studied both of us for a moment and asked, “Which one of you was here for the surgeon?”
“Sherlock,” Mother said without hesitation. “But I believe the excitement has resolved the issue.”
“Yes,” I said, seeking to sound quite chipper. “I’m feeling ever so much better.”
The woman glanced back at the table. Charlie, the deceased workman, still lay covered on the table. While I had attended funerals and seen corpses in coffin in their final repose, never had I been in the room when someone died or seen one so recently expired. The motionlessness of the man struck me. No movement of the sheet to indicate breathing. As my curiosity gave way to the realization of the finality of this man’s life, my stomach churned enough that I feared it might betray my earlier assertion that I had recovered.
Mother must have sensed the shift in my attitude because she told the nurse, “Please thank Mrs. Harvingsham for her kind attentions earlier and pass on our well-wishes. I believe we should leave you to your tasks.”
With that statement, we returned to the carriage and headed home. Mother produced the loaf of bread she’d promised me earlier. After the first bite, I found my appetite had disappeared. The image of the dead man lying on the table and Mr. Harvingsham writhing on the floor made the piece cloy in my mouth, and I found it almost impossible to swallow. The rest of the loaf, I put away.
Mother, however, seemed less affected by all that had passed. A smile remained on her lips, and she giggled at apparently random thoughts of her own. After one such outburst, she said, “I’m sorry, Sherry. I do believe I inhaled more than my share of the smoke. I’m feeling quite giddy. Haven’t felt this way in a long time.”
I studied her now more closely and saw her pupils were quite large. “Will you be all right?”
“In a bit. Once the effect has dissipated,” she said, allowing another giggle to bubble out before sobering slightly. “Thank you for your help, Sherry. You kept your head and were able to find the items I needed. Not always easy to do in a crisis.”
Given her elated mood, I decided the time was right to learn more about her background. “Where did you learn to smoke?”
“How did you know—?” Another chuckle. “I should have guessed you would notice my practiced movements. I was introduced to the cigarito in France. It, and cigars, are a filthy practice and quite hard to break.” She widened her eyes and met my gaze. “Please, don’t tell your father. I’d broken the habit by the time we met. I’d prefer he never knew.”
After that, she rested her head on the back of the carriage, and we rode in silence for a bit, until another question occurred to me.
“How did you meet Father?”
Cracking her eyes open, she replied with a rather languid voice. “At a lecture.”
She yawned. “I think I should take a nap when we arrive home. Please ask Cook to bring a tray to my room. I’m ravenous. You’d think I was the one faking dyspepsia.”
With a final giggle, she leaned back again and a quiet snoring ensued.
Don’t tell your father.
Another secret to keep. The relationship between my parents grew more complex by the day. Did my father have similar confidences he withheld from my mother?
Just how much did they truly know about each other? Relationships, especially those between husband and wife, appeared much more difficult than I ever realized.