The next day, Sunday, began sunny and breezy. Out the window, the light reflected off the crimson and gold leaves twisting in the wind. I could almost feel the crunch of the freshly fallen ones under my feet, the crisp tang of the autumn air in my lungs, and drew on all my willpower not to pull on my boots and jacket to wander among the woods. For on Sunday, as one of the county’s leading families, the Holmeses went to church.
As with the rest of my education, Mother took a special hand in assuring I had proper instruction in the basics of theology. I had several tutors who provided me with an in-depth understanding of world religions, the history of the church (both Catholic and Protestant), and catechism lessons. Not to mention the Latin and Greek a superior education required.
Despite all this preparation, what truly compelled me to attend services—beyond my father’s expectation his family would fulfill their duties to the community—were the rituals and the assurances behind them. The predictability in the prayers and litanies, the following of the same calendar each year, even the benches’ unyielding pressure on my thighs as the vicar drew a deep breath, signaling he was but halfway through his homily produced a sense of order and inner strength that comforted me.
True to his wife’s words, Reverend Adams did include an announcement about the Straton family and the plan to take up a collection. He asked for anyone wishing to contribute to see his wife following the service.
By the time church ended, the sun had risen high in the sky and sweat beaded on my forehead and upper lip almost as soon as we’d stepped outside and headed to the carriage.
About halfway to our carriage, someone called from behind us.
“Mrs. Holmes.” Mr. Brown waved at us from the top step, his black cloak flapping with the movement. He tripped quickly down the stairs and ran to meet with us. “Please excuse the intrusion, but I wanted to ask if you spoke with your brother, as we discussed yesterday?”
“You can ask him yourself. Ernest, I believe you were going to speak to Mr. Brown about accepting his request to investigate his wife’s murder?” she said, turning to my uncle.
“Yes, of course,” he said, settling his shoulders and clearing his throat. “With all humility, Mr. Brown, I will continue the investigation I had already begun on behalf of my sister. Thank you for your confidence in my abilities.”
Mr. Brown took my uncle’s arm and dropped his voice. “I wanted to make you aware of certain events that point to the perpetrator, if I may be so bold. Might we discuss this in privacy?”
“My dear sir,” Ernest said, straightening his back, “anything you have to share with me, you can have the utmost confidence will be kept within our family.”
The man’s eyes darted back and forth in their sockets as he studied each of us. After shifting on his feet and dropping his gaze, he raised his head to speak to my uncle. “I think you need to look carefully at Straton. The man has an evil temper. And blamed my Emma for his wife’s death. In public. At the Pig and Spider.”
“You frequented a pub?” Mother asked. When the two men faced her, the color rose in her cheeks, but her voice remained steady. “Excuse me for interrupting, but I was under the impression you were a teetotaler, Mr. Brown.”
He raised his head and glared at my mother. “I don’t believe in strong drink, that’s true, but I do have a business to run, and they have as much need of honey as any other establishment.” He turned his back to my mother and continued speaking with my uncle. “Although my wife was innocent of what he claims, I am certain his temperament is such that he could be capable of murder if properly provoked. Ask any at the pub. You’ll hear all of them testify to his threats against my wife.”
“Interesting insights, sir. I’ll take that under consideration. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we were about to return home for Sunday dinner.”
“Yes. Of course.” The man fairly scraped the ground with his bow. “You will follow up, won’t you? You’ll see. Straton is your man. I’m sure of it.”
We took our leave of the honey man and boarded our carriage. Once moving, the carriage’s methodical rocking put all of us into a dreamy stupor until Mother spoke up to no one in particular.
“An interesting discussion on the part of Mr. Brown, don’t you think?”
“Straton certainly has a temper,” Father said. “He’s been in my court more than once on charges. But murder? I guess if carried too far…”
“Pity we can’t simply visit the Pig and Spider to determine if others actually did hear him threaten the woman,” Mother said.
“Mrs. Holmes, I refuse to allow anyone in this family to lower themselves to fraternize with those who frequent the front room of such an establishment.”
“The word is proletariat. At least that’s what the Germans, Marx and Engels, call them in their treatise.” Mycroft’s voice was clear without any hint of drowsiness. He’d been resting his head against the carriage’s panel but hadn’t been asleep despite appearances. “These men have described a rather bleak situation for them and predict a violent revolt should conditions not change.”
“Marx and Engels?” Mother asked. “Do you have a copy of this treatise? I would like to read it.”
“Revolutionary poppycock,” my father said, almost spitting the words. “I’ve heard they call for the confiscation of all lands. Everything to be owned by all. They call it communism.”
His mouth turned down, and he squished his face as if he’d tasted something bitter.
Mycroft leaned forward, his words almost tumbling out of his mouth with an enthusiasm he rarely displayed. “Whether you support their cause or not, this is one of the shifts I’ve noted in my studies. History has shown that when the masses are discontented, change will occur. Look at the colonies, and their revolt against the crown. The same passed in France. Calling it poppycock doesn’t mean it can’t occur. That’s why I need to return to Ox—”
“And you shall,” Mother said. “But I don’t care to discuss it at the moment.” Mycroft pressed his lips together, thwarted in his effort to bring up the topic of his return to his studies. He leaned back against the cushion and scowled at us the rest of the way home. For my parents and myself, we slipped back into silence.
Driving up to the house, however, the sight of the gamekeeper waiting in the yard caused us all to sit up and shake off our pensive attitudes.
“What’s the matter, Benson?” Father asked, alighting from the carriage as soon as it pulled to a stop.
The man frowned. “I’ve found another one, sir.” He spat onto the ground. “Ripped a lamb up good this time.”
“After dinner, we’ll go out after it.” Father turned to Mycroft and me. “Care to help us hunt a wild pig?”
My brother immediately shook his head, but the desire to spend the day outside I’d experienced in the morning returned and compelled me to respond. “I will.”
“Sherlock and I will see you then in an hour or so, Benson.”
The anticipation of spending some time with my father led me to rush through dinner. Once upstairs, I changed into my hunting clothes, including the deerstalker cap I received last Christmas. Once again, I found them a little tight, but could do nothing about that at the moment. I raced down the stairs and found my father already putting on his boots by the back door. I tried to do the same with my own but couldn’t seem to get the first one past my ankle.
“Good heavens, son,” my father said as he helped me extract my foot. “We’re going to have to order you some new hunting gear. I guess you’ll just have to wear your regular boots today.”
He handed me a rifle, and we headed off through a field to the woods surrounding our grounds. I’d been hunting and shooting guns for a number of years now and knew how to carry the rifle for proper safety.
Once outside, we headed to the left, passing the stables and moving through the field beyond, fenced to hold a small flock of grazing sheep. Benson waved at us from the far side, just inside the fence. Behind the fence, the woods began. When we approached him, I could see a circle of blood from the slaughtered lamb. Also visible were two broken rails where the pig had broken through. The grass and ground about the bloodied area and on the other side of the fence were churned and trampled with hoof marks.
“He went back into the woods the same way as he came,” Benson said, pointing to the pig’s trail. “It’s too old for tracking, but at least we know where to begin.”
Father pointed to the right. “Benson, you head in that direction. Sherlock and I will take the other. I suppose we’ll know if you find anything. We’ll hear it.”
“Yes, sir,” the gamekeeper said with a nod.
Once we split, Father and I loaded our weapons before tramping toward the first trees. The going was too narrow for us to go side-by-side, and I let him lead the way. He spoke over his shoulder. “Stay near. I don’t think the animal would attack a human, but if it gets cornered, it might.”
I shuddered. More than one governess had put me to bed with tales of the evil befalling children who disobeyed their parents—most of which involved an event in the woods. Even armed with a weapon, I wasn’t all that confident. Not that I hadn’t been in the woods or gone hunting before. But stalking and shooting a deer wasn’t the same thing as tracking a wild pig.
We took a path running parallel to the woods’ edge. Father checked broken branches in the underbrush or other signs the animal had passed. At one point, we found more stirred-up earth and a tuft of hair caught on tree bark.
“Not wool,” Father said, holding the strands in his palm. “Too straight. Probably from that beast.”
He dropped the hair to the ground, and we continued trudging through the area, seeing nothing more ferocious than a rabbit when it crashed through the underbrush and appeared almost directly in front of us. Father and I both started, then chuckled at our unfounded fright.
No sooner had we exchanged our silent joke than a high-pitched wail echoed from deeper in the woods, directly ahead. My father put a finger to his lips and pointed in the direction of the noise. He motioned me to step behind him, and we marched single file through the brush. I gripped my rifle tighter, my palms now damp and slippery on the wooden stock. Another wail, now on our left, followed by a rustling in the brush, made us both freeze. We shifted our direction, moving with even greater caution and now almost side-by-side.
Tiny rivulets of sweat ran down the rifle’s barrel, and my tongue traced my lips. I barely dared to breathe. We crept forward, placing one foot as silently as possible in front of the other. Father pushed back a limb and exposed a huge black and white pig, shrieking at something in a tree. Huge teeth rose like yellowed claws from its pink, foamy mouth. My heart pounding, I watched the animal lower its head and ram its brow against the tree’s trunk. The wail that had originally alerted us to the pig’s presence emanated from the trees’ branches. A blue-clad figure—about my size—showed through the crimson and mustard-colored leaves. The person must have seen us because a girl’s voice called out.
“Shoot it. The branch is breaking. If I fall, he’ll rip my throat out.”
As if on cue, the lower branches shuddered, sending a shower of dead and dying leaves upon the pig, which, in turn, crashed into the trunk again to add to the deluge of foliage.
Father motioned me to follow him into the clearing, and I mimicked his stance—rifle raised, finger near the trigger, ready to fire—as I drew abreast of him. Once I was beside him, he shouted at the pig. The sound caused the animal to turn and lunge toward us. We fired almost simultaneously, the cracks of our weapons echoing off the trees and sending all the fowl in the area into the air. The weapon’s stock recoiled into my shoulder, and my nose filled with the acrid stench of gunpowder.
Over the ringing in my ears, the pig’s screech sent a jolt down my spine, freezing me in place. Unable to move, I saw the animal slide to a halt a few feet in front of us, its breath puffing out of its mouth. Its rear muscles twitched, and I braced myself for it to continue its charge straight at us. Instead, it gave a second squeal—only slightly less intense than the first—and spun about to race off into the underbrush.
“Come on, Sherlock,” Father said, cocking his gun and reloading. “We have to find it and kill it. It’s even more dangerous now it’s wounded.”
“What about the girl? Up in the tree?”
He squinted at the figure hidden among the branches. “Constance? Is that you up there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You come on down, and don’t you run off. I don’t want to have to go looking for you too. If Benson comes along, you send him after us.”
“Yes, sir.”
A rustle in the branches suggested she would soon be on the ground, but Father was already on his way to the area where the pig had pushed through the underbrush. I followed, my rifle reloaded and ready.
The blood trail allowed for easy tracking, but still Father paused every so often to listen before proceeding. I understood why a few minutes later when he again stopped and turned his body slightly, his jaw tense. Heavy, slow snorting blew dead leaves and other debris from underneath a growth of saplings. He motioned me to keep in step with him.
The pig lay on its side, its labored exhalations indicating both pain and anger. When we were almost upon the animal, Father stepped on a branch. The pig jerked its head up at the crack and pulled itself to its feet, facing him.
The beast tightened its haunches, prepared to charge. Without hesitating, or even thinking, I raised my weapon and fired at its side. Already having lost blood, the shot was enough to down him. He collapsed at my father’s feet.
In the shot’s aftermath, my body responded by rebelling against every part’s natural state. My earlier, heavy Sunday dinner formed a weight in my stomach and threatened to return. The bones in my legs lost all rigidity and were poised to melt onto the leaves and twigs under my boots. With great effort, I raised my gaze to my father. He, too, appeared quite affected by our ordeal. His eyes rounded, he shifted his focus between the pig, its snuffling becoming a death rattle, and me.
My hands grasped the still-raised rifle even tighter until a broad grin split his face. “Well done, son. Good show.”
My grip relaxed, and the gun sank to my side.
Pounding footfalls and a general breaking through the brush caused us both to spin toward the noise. Benson appeared, his rifle at the ready. When he stepped up to us, he lowered his weapon. A girl, clad in blue, peeked at us from behind the gamekeeper.
“You killed ‘im, then?” she asked.
“Sherlock did it,” my father said, his voice now strong. “I couldn’t get a good shot with it charging right at me.”
Benson stepped up to the pig, his rifle again at the ready. He gave the beast a kick in the side. “A good, clean kill. Well done.”
My shoulders dropped, and my chest rose at the second “well done.” Rarely had I had the opportunity for someone outside my family to recognize an accomplishment.
“Take care of it, will you, Benson?” my father asked. “I think we should all enjoy some sausages and bacon from the beast.” He glanced at the girl still standing at the spot where she and the gamekeeper had first stopped. “You want to tell me why you were in my woods, Constance?”
“I weren’t doing no harm,” the pickpocket from the gaol said, raising her chin. “Just pickin’ some wild berries here’s abouts.”
As if to prove her point, she put her hand into a dress pocket and pulled out a handful of bilberries. Their juice had stained her palm and tongue.
“She has been eating them, Father.”
His mouth pulled down. “These are private lands. Another owner might have you arrested for poaching.”
“For taking a few wild berries? For my brothers and sisters?” The girl had more cheek than I’d ever witnessed. Even Mycroft wouldn’t have confronted my father as directly. “Besides, I wasn’t looking I just saw and thoughts to myself, ‘such berries would make a tastier treat for the young ones than they would for the birds.’ So I took a few.”
My father’s mouth twitched, and at first I feared he planned to actually have her put in gaol. Instead, the corners went up, and he chuckled. “I suppose you have as much right to them as the birds.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you were in the woods in the first place.”
“The path, sir. Everyone knows abouts it. Leads straight through the woods to the village. We all use it. I’m always meetin’ people on the way to town or to Hanover Manor.”
Father glanced at Benson, who nodded. Even the gamekeeper seemed to know about the apparent shortcut. My father shifted on his feet and gazed about him. He was planning to dismiss the girl and leave the pig to Benson’s attention. Perhaps inspired in part by Constance’s boldness, I spoke, expressing a thought without weighing its full consequences.
“She’s obviously hungry, Father. I know the church is taking up a collection, but perhaps we can send something back with her until the other is ready?” Before he could answer, I turned to her. “Come back to the house with us. We’ll get you something to eat and a basket to take back to your family.”
“Truly? You would do that for me?” I nodded, and then she paused before asking, “What do you want in return?”
“Nothing. Consider it…Christian charity,” I said, recalling the conversation at the luncheon the day before.
Father cleared his throat, and I faced him, fearing he had decided to countermand my offer. Perhaps he had, but when he glanced first at me and then Constance, who blinked her eyes, making a face as heartfelt as a dog begging scraps at the table. He shifted on his feet and cleared his throat once again. “Christian charity. Of course. Come back to the house with us.”
The return trip to the house seemed much longer than when we went into the woods. We finally emerged near the field where the sheep grazed. While I’d been prepared to offer Constance assistance in passing over the rails, I never had the chance. Without hesitating, she hopped nimbly over the barricade. As she did so, I noticed her shoes for the first time. The toes had been cut out of them as if to make room for her growing feet.
Once we were all on the same side, I asked her. “Aren’t your feet cold?”
“I’m used to it,” she said, studying her shoes. “I usually wrap the ends in rags, but they fell off when the pig chased me.”
“Father,” I asked, turning to him. “May she have my old boots? They don’t fit me and she needs them.”
“She was the one who found the pig, in a way.” He rubbed his chin. “At least she alerted us to its whereabouts. I suppose she saved the life of more than one lamb. You can share them, if you wish.”
When we reached the barn, both Mr. Simpson and my uncle stepped out, deep in conversation. Father hailed them both, and we stopped not far from the kitchen door. Constance’s stomach rumbled, and I knew she was anticipating our “charity.”
“The pig won’t be bothering us anymore.” He slapped me on the back, and a warmth spread through me from that spot. “Sherlock here got him when it charged me.”
My uncle placed a hand on the other shoulder. “Good show, boy.”
“He’s a right good shot,” Constance said and sent a smile in my direction.
My uncle stared at her and frowned. “Who are you? No, wait. I’ve seen you before…”
“She’s one of the Straton children. Constance. The pig had her treed.”
“What’s she doin’ here?” asked Mr. Simpson.
“Sherlock invited her,” Father said. He faced me. “Go on and take her to the house.”
With a nod, I passed my rifle to him and motioned the girl toward the house. With each step, her shoes slapped up and down between her feet and the ground.
Mother must have been in the greenhouse and seen us approaching from its windows. She arrived in the kitchen the same time as we did. She still wore the apron she would put over her dress when working there. She smiled at us when we entered.
“Constance, how good to see you again,” she gave her a smile. “Did the men find you in the woods?”
The glow I’d experienced when my father had reported on my shot of the pig re-ignited with my mother’s inclusion of me among the “men.” If she realized the effect of her remark, she appeared not to notice and focused on the girl.
The girl nodded. “I was picking berries. For my family.”
“I told her we’d fix a basket for them,” I said.
“And give me somethin’ to eat now.”
“Of course,” Mother said with a smile. “Let me prepare a plate for you. I’m afraid Cook has the afternoon off, so it will have to be cold, but there’s bread. And milk. Of course, you need to wash up before you eat. Let me show you to the facilities.”
When they returned, the girl’s transformation caused my breath to catch. Her face, now scrubbed clean, displayed a pale complexion with just a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks. From my mother’s own efforts to avoid direct sunlight and the resulting darkening or freckling of the skin, I knew it was not fashionable, but in Constance’s case, I found them quite becoming. Mother had also managed to tame Constance’s hair, brushing it smooth and tying it with a ribbon in the back. She also provided her with a white servant’s apron to cover her dress.
“You look…” I stopped when I saw scarlet creep into her cheeks. I fumbled for a moment for the proper words, and finally said, “Like you’re ready to eat.”
She stared at the plate set on the table before her. “That’s all for me?”
“Yes, dear,” Mother said and motioned to me. “Sherlock, please pull out the chair for Miss Constance.”
I rushed over and drew it out, pushing it back in once she was seated.
“Lords, I feels like a lady,” she said, glancing back at me.
Mother moved to the other side of the table and said to me, “Let’s join her, shall we? Sherlock, would you mind bringing us two cups of tea?”
While I prepared the teapot using the water always kept hot in the kettle over the kitchen fire, Constance attacked her food. She grasped the fork in her fist and shoveled the cold meats and vegetables into her mouth as if someone might pull the plate away at any minute. By the time I returned to the table, she’d consumed three-quarters of the meal. Mother and I sipped our tea while she finished off her plate, pausing only to take a bite of bread or drink some milk to help swallow what she had in her mouth.
After she scraped the plate clean with her fork and used the bread to pick up any stray pieces, she leaned back and belched.
“Lords, that was tasty. That meat, it was roast beef, wasn’t it? I don’t think I’ve ever had such tender meat. Of course, when my mother was alive, we’d eat good—like this.”
“Your mother was a good cook?” Mother asked, leaning forward. “What dishes did she prepare?”
“Chicken, for one,” she said, glancing away and adjusting herself on the seat.
“You must miss her very much.”
“I do.” Her eyes glistened. “She went to bed one night and never woke up again. I was the one who found her.”
“How horrible for you.”
Her head jerked up and down in quick succession, then she lowered her voice. “It was a shock, findin’ her de—that way. All cold and stiff.”
She shuddered, and my mother placed a hand over hers. “I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories. Let’s speak of other things.”
The girl gave a nod but lowered her head to stare at her hands. I imagined how I would feel if I lost my mother. She had been my teacher in so many things, and the hole she would leave in my life wouldn’t be filled. To assist the women and myself, I changed the topic.
“Mother, Constance’s boots are all broken, and I have a pair I’ve outgrown. I told her she could have them.”
“An excellent idea,” Mother said. “Why don’t you bring them here?”
With great enthusiasm, I pushed back my chair and rushed to the garden door to retrieve the boots I had left earlier. I presented them to her with a flourish.
“Try them on.”
She kicked off her foot coverings with the missing toes, and I gasped before I could stop myself. Mother squinted at me, her mouth a hard line, before addressing Constance.
“Those cuts must hurt.”
“I’m used to it, ma’am,” she said, studying the various abrasions across her toes. Had they not been covered with dirt and crusted with some dried blood, I was certain they would appear even worse. “It’s the blisters that can make it hard to walk.”
When she pointed to the tops of her feet, I recognized the raw places where the shoes had cut her skin.
“I have some ointment that might help with all those,” Mother said. “But we need to clean them up first. How about we wash your feet, and I’ll bandage them so that the new boots won’t irritate them? You can take some ointment home to put on them until they heal.”
The girl tilted her head to the left and studied first my mother and then her feet as if pondering the offer. After a moment, she asked, “Is it going to hurt?”
“It might sting some, but I promise it will help in the end.”
Another moment, then she nodded. “All right.”
Mother turned to me. “Sherlock, why don’t you get a pair of your socks? That will help hold the bandages in place after I’m through with Miss Constance.”
By the time I had raced upstairs, located a pair of socks, and returned, they had moved to the greenhouse where Mother kept her ointments. Both of Constance’s feet soaked in a bowl of water, and her injuries appeared more pronounced once they had been removed of dirt. Never had I seen the effects of no resources and poor hygiene as up close as I did at that instance. While my pity for her grew, her stoicism as my mother bandaged the tender skin impressed me even more.
“Now,” Mother said, rising to her feet. “See how it feels to walk.”
Constance slid off the stool and took a few tentative steps. “I can walk all right.”
We helped her put on my old boots, which were slightly large for her. Once we stuffed the toes with some clean rags, however, she managed quite well in them.
We returned to the kitchen to fill a basket.
“Sherlock,” Mother asked when we had completed the task, “will you escort Miss Constance home, please? And carry the basket for her?”
Her back straightened. “I can take it myself.”
“Nonsense. That basket is far too heavy for you.”
My cheeks burned, but at the same time, my heart quickened at the thought of spending time with the girl. She intrigued me. I had never known a thief, and her ability to take the bread from my pocket without my knowledge was something I’d never encountered before. In addition, my mother trusted me with a task she might have passed to Mr. Simpson or another adult.
For the second time that day, my maturity was recognized.
I ran my arm through the basket’s handle and followed Constance to the door. Mother held it open for us, and I turned toward the road, planning to follow it in the direction of the village. When I realized Constance wasn’t following me, I turned to see her still by the kitchen door.
“The other way is shorter,” she said, pointing in the direction we’d come with Father.
I glanced toward the road and then to the fields beyond the wall. I’d eliminated the pig problem and could think of no reason not to learn about the path she’d referred to earlier. I certainly couldn’t appear less inclined than a girl. With a shrug, I said, “Lead the way.”
After crossing the walls and the fields, we arrived at the woods. She walked along the edge for a while and then turned in when we came to an opening between two bushes. A short time later, we were walking in the cool shadows under the trees. As she promised, a clear path ran perpendicular to the trail we’d used to enter the woods and parallel to the woods’ edge. She pointed to the left.
“That way leads to the Browns’ house and the village, and this way,” she said, pointing in the other direction, “is Hanover Manor. You know you’re gettin’ close when you find the stream that runs onto their land.”
I glanced in both directions. The path was clearly well traveled with packed dirt visible under the current dried leaves. “I can see it’s much quicker than the road.”
“If you have to walk.”
I shifted the basket in my hands. “To the left, then?”
We continued side by side for a while in silence. With the pig menace now removed, I found myself open to other sights and sounds in the woods. The call of various birds, the rustle of leaves as different creatures hid from us, the rasping of the wind among the tree branches. I shifted the basket in my hands and checked the sky. The sun was dropping to the western side of the forest.
“It’s getting late. Is your father going to be cross with you for being out?” I asked.
She trudged on a few moments before answering. “He’s probably still working. He comes home very late, and sometimes not at all. We watch each other, mostly. I’m the oldest, but with my mum sick for a long time before she… before she passed, we’d been taking care of each other for a while. Mrs. Brown told her she’d had too many babies too close.”
“I’ve heard that,” I said. When she turned to stare at me, I quickly explained my remark. “I’ve heard, in general, too many babies can weaken a woman.”
She didn’t reply, but simply continued putting one foot in front of the other. A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t try to wipe it away, but let it slide down her chin and drop onto her chest, making a tiny dark spot there.
I wanted to say something to her, but had no idea what would be an appropriate sympathetic remark and so remained silent. Although Mother’s incarceration had been rather short, the specter of her permanent absence lurked in the back of my mind. The very thought of her never returning caused a melancholy to descend upon me. If only the possibility of such a loss created that sensation in me, what would the reality produce? I shuddered at the very prospect and forced my mind to shift to another subject and decided to do the same for Constance.
“I saw you at the inquest on Friday.”
“It was quite a show,” she said, her face breaking into a smile. “I’d’ve paid to see your uncle stab a pig like that.”
I nodded, a smile also crossing my lips as I remembered the scene on the street. “He did put on an impressive performance.”
“Better than the circus.”
I opened my mouth and snapped it shut, not sure if I should broach the question that popped into my mind.
“What is it?” she asked and poked my arm. “You were going to say something.”
“I was going to ask something, actually.”
But still I hesitated. While never addressed specifically by my father’s etiquette admonishments, I doubted it was appropriate to ask about certain behaviors from someone who was almost a stranger.
She turned to me and jammed her hands to her hips, a stance that reminded me of one of the lead soldiers I’d used as a commander in all my make-believe battles. “Spit it out.”
“I saw you…. There was an elderly gentleman near the bar…and the bread at the gaol….”
Her eyes rounded, and I feared she was angry with me. Instead, when she opened her mouth, she laughed, and continued on the trail. “That was you? It was the most delicious thing I’d eaten. Ever.”
“Would you…? Could you…?” I cleared my throat and dropped my voice even though we were alone in the darkening woods. “Teach me how you did it?”
She stopped and tilted her head to study me. “What for? You don’t need to.”
“Maybe not, but it seems a skill worth developing,” I said, jamming the toe of my boot into the ground.
Another momentary pause while she scrutinized me.
“You goin’ to tell your father on me?”
“Never. He’d not approve. I’m sure.”
“I can’t do it in a day. It takes time. You gots to practice.”
“I’m willing.”
“Let me think on it.” She picked up her speed and mumbled to herself. “A judge’s son wantin’ to learn dippin’. What’s the world’s comin’ to?”
I did my best to keep up with her in spite of the increasingly heavy basket. Despite the ill-fitting boots and the wounds on her feet, she had quickened her pace. Shortly after this exchange, she turned onto the faintest of trails, pushed through some brush, then stopped, apparently waiting for me. When I reached her, she pointed to a cottage about twenty yards ahead.
“That’s my home,” she said.
My first impulse was to disagree with her. A person could not possibly live there, let alone a family as large as hers. The cottage couldn’t have been more than one room. The thatched roof showed thin spots, which probably leaked when it rained. The area around the house was packed earth.
She took a few steps and called to those in the cottage. When the door opened, three children of various ages ran out to meet her. The oldest among them carried a bundle in his arms, and I realized it had to be the youngest baby. They stopped, however, when I stepped beside her. They squinted at me, and a boy who walked on unsteady legs hid behind the skirt of a girl I guessed to be five or six. A boy of about ten glared at me.
“This is Sherlock,” she said, heading toward her brothers and sister. “He’s Squire Holmes’ son. He’s brought us something to eat.”
At the mention of food, the children’s mouths spread into smiles, and the girl ran her tongue over her lips. Somehow, I didn’t think the berries Constance had found earlier would have been sufficient for her siblings. The vicar had better hurry in collecting for the family.
When we reached the others, the girl made a grab for the basket. “What’s in there?”
Constance slapped her hand.
“Mildred, where’s your manners? You, Victor, and Harold go to the pump and clean your hands. Mrs. Holmes, she told me we could get sick if we didn’t clean up. I’ll take Daniel inside.”
They all stood for a moment, and Mildred stared at her before asking, “Is that why your face is all white? ’Cause you washed it?”
“And she brushed my hair,” Constance said, running her hand down her back. She turned so that Mildred could touch it. “Feel it. It’s all silky.”
“Ooo,” the younger girl said. “Can you do mine? After we eat?”
She nodded, and the others ran to the side of the house. Now burdened with the baby, she stepped to the house and motioned me to follow her inside. The moment I entered, I was assaulted by an odor not unlike that of a barn. The interior was dark, with only a light in the fireplace at the wall opposite the door providing any illumination. A kettle hung over the fire, but no other scents of cooking could be detected. Three platforms covered by some old blankets appeared to serve as beds. Constance stepped to a box on the floor and placed the baby in it. It made some very weak mewing sounds, and I thought I would suggest to Mother the child might need additional attention.
She took the basket from me and said, “Thank you, Master Sherlock. I’ll feed the others. You best be getting back before dark.”
I checked over my shoulder at the sun, sitting just above the treetops. With a nod, I turned and had taken two steps outside when the three younger children ran past me, their hands and faces still wet, but definitely cleaner than when I’d arrived.
Despite the encroaching twilight, I was able to find and follow the trail back to Underbyrne with little difficulty. Without the burden of the basket, the trip was also quicker.
Once home, I sought out my mother to inform her I had completed my task. She was in her sitting room next to the bedroom she shared with Father. Only after visiting other homes when I was older did I learn how Mother’s sitting room was not typical. Other ladies of her time might embroider, paint, read, or observe other “feminine” pursuits. Mother did read in the room, primarily scientific treatises, but she also had a microscope.
When I arrived, I found her deep in thought, a volume open on her lap. She lifted her gaze. “Back so soon?” She pointed to the book. “Just reading the book Mycroft loaned me. Quite interesting view of economics, particularly the role of women and the family.”
Which seemed an appropriate way to transition to the Straton family. I made my report of the cottage and the baby, and she promised to see about arranging for appropriate milk for the infant.
“May I ask you something?” I asked at the end of that discussion and continued with her assent. “It’s Mr. Straton. Or rather, Constance’s description of him. I didn’t see him at the house, and it appears the children care for themselves. But she talked as if he provided and cared for them.”
“I’ve seen this before,” she said, shaking her head. “With her mother. Like her, Constance wants to believe what she says about him. She needs to.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Love. Or what she takes for love. I’ve seen women deny when men hit them because they believe their husbands love them.”
After I recovered from the idea that a man would hit a woman (something my father had taught was never done), I considered her observation about such relationships in light of my own parents. I could never imagine her accepting violence from my father, but would she vouch for or repeat my father’s lies? Certainly my father had defended his wife when accused of murder, but it had been obvious she was innocent. What if she had been guilty? What would he have done then? And what if it had been the other way around? Would my mother have lied for him?
Was loyalty to the point of blindness a part of love? I had a hard time imagining my having such love for any person beyond, perhaps, my parents. And maybe Mycroft.
Before I could ask her more, a rapid footfall on the stairs caused us both to turn toward the door of the sitting room. One of the parlor maids stood in the open doorway, panting to regain her breath.
“Madam…the door…constable.”
“Constable Gibbons?” Mother asked, and the maid nodded in response. “Please inform Mr. Holmes. I’m sure it involves some infraction—”
The maid shook her head violently. “No. He says he’s got a warrant to search the house.”