My first conscious sensation involved my head. It hurt. A lot. And my limbs felt bruised. I wiggled my fingers. They appeared to be working. Voices floated around me, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I cracked my eyes open. Darkness enveloped me wherever I was, but a glow to my left suggested a lamp or candle nearby.
“Sherry, dear, can you hear me?”
I turned my head toward the voice. My mother’s face came into focus, and I could make out another figure behind her.
With great effort, I managed to ask, “Where…where am I?”
“Underbyrne. Your room,” my father said. “Ernest brought you home. After you fell from the tree.”
I had so many questions. Where was Constance? Had she found the book? Unfortunately, I could ask none of them in front of my father.
“Can you sit?” Mother asked.
When I pushed myself up onto my elbows, the room tilted slightly. I raised myself a bit more, but the room spun around me. I sank back onto the bed.
“I’m very dizzy.”
A line appeared between her eyebrows. “You’re suffering a commotion of the brain.”
“Should we call the surgeon?” Father asked. “Have him bled?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary at the moment. The latest scientific evidence from France suggests simple bed rest for a commotion.”
Never had I felt more grateful for my mother’s medical interest than at that moment. With all that had happened in the past few days, I had no problem with the sight of blood, but the idea of the surgeon using his knife on me made my head swim to the point I feared I would be sick.
I raised myself onto my elbows, but the room stayed still this time—which gave me some level of comfort above that provided by the presence of both my parents. Mother placed her hands on my shoulders and pushed me back into the pillows.
“I want you to rest now. We’ll talk about what you were up to in that tree later.”
Despite my pain and somewhat addled thinking, I caught her slight emphasis on the word tree. At that moment, I knew she was aware of the plot to replace the ledger and was letting me in on the fabrication to explain my fall.
But any additional information required us to talk alone. With no other recourse, I settled back and let her pull the covers to my chin and allowed sleep to draw me back under.
When I next awoke, sunlight shone around the edges of the room’s drawn curtains. My parents slept in a pair of stuffed chairs, one on each side of me. Mother was the first to realize I was awake.
“Sherry, dear, feeling better?”
I took a brief inventory of my aches and pains. “My head still hurts, but not as much, and my back, too.” I raised myself onto my elbows again. “But I don’t feel dizzy anymore.”
“Excellent news, son. Do you feel up to eating?” Father asked and stretched, sitting up straight in his chair. When I answered in the affirmative, he stood and arched his back. “I’ll arrange for a tray for the three of us.”
“Nothing too heavy for Sherlock. A bit of broth should sit well. And tea.”
While I would have liked to argue that I could manage something a little more substantial—for it seemed that all I had eaten for the past few days had been broth—I knew I was in no position to argue with Mother. I could tell from the set of her jaw she planned to have a private discussion with me as soon as my father vacated the room.
True to my intuition, as soon as he closed the door, Mother turned to me. “You committed a very foolish and dangerous act.” As much as I wanted to explain my actions, I waited to learn exactly what she knew. “Your uncle explained everything. He came thundering back in the cart. I would have never thought it could go that fast. He made up some sort of story about an experiment involving you climbing a tree. The branch broke, you fell, and he brought you here. I knew the moment I examined you and found no scratches your fall hadn’t included a tree. Ernest confessed all when I confronted him.”
“But the book? Did Constance replace it?”
“Don’t worry. It’s hidden in your uncle’s workshop.”
I lay my head back on the pillow, knowing we’d been able to save my mother from further scandal and possibly gaol. She placed her hand on my forehead and smiled. “You, Ernest, and Constance did a very brave thing, and I will be in your debt forever. Regardless, it wouldn’t have been worth your life.”
Unwilling to argue with her, I closed my eyes. I knew it was worth the injury—and more.
The door opened, and a chambermaid entered with a large tray. Father followed a moment later. After the items had been arranged on a table for them and a tray set up on my lap in the bed, Mother removed a cloth covering the plate to reveal a bowl with broth—chicken, if I was not mistaken by the scent—some toast, and a cup of tea. “Eat sparingly,” she said. “A commotion of the brain can cause nausea.”
I took a sip of the broth, grateful it wasn’t beef this time. After a few more spoonfuls and a nibble on a corner of toast, my mother’s attentive face relaxed a bit. She observed me a moment more, seemed satisfied I was following her orders, and joined my father for their own repast.
They were almost finished when someone knocked on the door. I had assumed it was the maid coming to remove the trays, but the form filling the doorway didn’t belong to a woman.
Uncle Ernest said, “Thought I’d come by and see how my favorite nephew was doing.”
“According to Mrs. Holmes, he should make a full recovery. No thanks to you,” Father said.
Mother rose from her chair. “Mr. Holmes, we agreed we wouldn’t—”
“Quite right. Quite right,” he said, raising his hand to still his wife. “I just… It seems to me he should have taken more care—”
My uncle’s features took on a strange expression. Hard, but at the same time vulnerable. The poor man accepted my father’s admonishment for something that hadn’t happened. The whole injustice of his situation compelled me to come to his defense.
“It wasn’t Uncle Ernest’s fault. I climbed the tree on my own. And he certainly didn’t cause the branch to break. Don’t be cross with him.”
Father glanced at the three of us, gave a hurrumph, but didn’t continue his reproach.
“Sherlock is, as you said, going to recuperate,” Mother said. “I would suggest that both of us could use a bath and some rest in a real bed.” She smiled at my uncle. “That is, if you are willing to sit with him for a bit?”
“My pleasure,” he said, stepping toward the bed and the chair Mother had used for her vigil last night.
“I’ll send the maid to clean up in here.”
She placed a hand on my cheek, turned to my father, and gestured to the door.
My uncle leaned over and snatched a bit of toast to nibble on as my parents left. Only after the door clicked shut did he speak.
“Glad to see you awake.”
“Thank you for getting me home. It would have been disastrous if I’d been taken to Harvingsham’s. Or worse, if they’d called the constable. How did you find out what happened?”
“Constance came racing up to me, that cap of hers halfway off and her red hair flying behind her, like the devil himself was after her. I thought for sure you’d been caught. I was about to send that poor horse tearing out when she called out you’d fallen down the stairs. I ran to the hotel, said I knew who you were and rushed out with you in my arms before anyone could stop me. How many recognized you, I have no idea, but the most that can happen is that your father finds out the fall was from the stairs and not a tree.”
“It’s not fair that my father scolded you.”
“He’s right to be upset. You took quite a tumble. Could’ve killed yourself. Promise me you won’t do anything so foolish again.”
I nodded, too filled with emotion to respond through the catch in my throat. Despite Ernest’s sometimes odd behavior, I didn’t doubt for a second his concern was sincere.
He slapped his knee.
“Tell you what. I’ll bring up the chessboard. We’ll play a few games.”
I barely assented before he dashed off and returned with the board, arranging it on a table by the bed.
“Let’s see if that fall has affected your mental abilities.”
Over the next hour, I was pleased to find my powers of concentration hadn’t been impaired. Of particular interest, I was able to fend off an attack on my queen and turned it around to a checkmate.
“Well done,” said Ernest with a chuckle.
His amusement concerned me. Had he let me win?
“Not a chance,” he said when I asked. “It’s beneath a Parker to allow someone a false victory. But then again, I’m afraid I don’t take it quite as seriously as your mother or brother.”
As if he knew he’d been mentioned, my brother entered after a rap on the door.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude,” he said when his gaze fell on the board.
“Not at all,” Ernest said. “Your brother just gave me a good trouncing.”
He made a quick study of the remaining pieces, lifted one, and moved it toward my side. “That move would have prevented your loss.”
“Quite possibly,” he said, scratching his chin. “But too late now. Besides, it’s just a game. A rematch is in order, but later. I have some work to do in my workshop. If you’ll excuse me.”
Mycroft’s observation forced my attention to the board, and I replayed the game over in my head. So intense was my concentration, my response to my uncle’s exit was simply a wave in his direction. I could feel the heat rising in my face as I convinced myself that Mycroft’s suggestion indicated the brain commotion had affected my mental abilities. Fear and anger surged through me and pushed out a question to my brother with more force than required.
“What do you want?”
He recoiled slightly at my demand.
“I merely came to see how you were doing. What you did was quite”—I glared at him, anticipating being called foolish, stupid, or worse—“valiant.”
All anger drained from me as I realized he’d paid me a compliment. Rarely did he direct anything positive in my direction. I swallowed, unable to think beyond the word coming from his lips. My father’s rigorous training in proper behavior, however, took over and provided the appropriate response despite my mental immobility.
“Thank you.”
“Mind you, I think it was also quite foolish, but it took courage to do that.”
With that pronouncement, he glanced about and shifted on his feet in obvious discomfort at having to admit admiration for his younger brother. A smile twitched on my lips in response to my self-satisfaction. At that moment, the retrieval of Mother’s ledger, as important as it was, paled in comparison to the approval he’d expressed. Regardless of his future behavior, I had this exchange to remind me that he didn’t always view me as a nuisance.
He was saved from further embarrassment by a knock at the door.
“You have a visitor,” Mrs. Simpson said. “Do you feel up to receiving her?”
Mrs. Simpson pushed back the door when I assented, and Constance entered. Her steps, usually so sure and determined, were muted and slow. She dropped her chin and glanced up at me through her lashes.
“It’s good to see you, Master Sherlock.”
Mycroft coughed and excused himself, leaving the two of us alone.
After the door shut, Constance stared around her, mouth agape. “I thinks this room is bigger than my whole house.”
Having seen her house, I couldn’t disagree.
“I came to see how you were. Your uncle didn’t think it was wise for me to be seen with you, so’s he let me out on the road before we’s got here.”
“I understand. And I think he was right. You shouldn’t be connected with me—in case someone recognized me or Uncle Ernest.”
“I was just so scared, seeing you lying there on the floor—all still like. All I could think of was getting to your uncle. You turned out to be a right good crow. No one’s ever almost got kilt like that…for me.”
She turned her head away and raised her hand to her face. When she turned back to me, her features were composed, but a smudge across her cheek showed where she’d wiped the tear.
“You took the greatest risk. Going into the expert’s room like that. I…admire you.”
A smile stretched across her mouth with those full, red lips, and I realized admire fell short in describing what I felt. Her innate cleverness offered a companionship I’d never experienced before. Her cheeks reddened, highlighting her freckles, and she dropped her gaze. That odd feeling returned to me.
“Tweren’t that much. But thank you. I…admire you too.”
Before we could exchange more, Mother and Father entered.
“Constance,” she said, unable to hide her surprise at finding her in my room. She regained her composure in the next instance and said, “How good of you to visit. I’m afraid, however, I need to examine him. Mr. Holmes, if you would be so kind as to open the drapes before escorting Miss Straton downstairs?”
When Father did as instructed, light flooded my room, making us all squint. He then waved an arm toward the door, directing Constance to follow him downstairs.
“See you tomorrow,” she said, shutting the door behind her.
After the door shut, Mother placed her hands on the side of my face and moved me into a shaft of light from the window. When the light hit my face full force, I winced, but smiled. “Your pupils contract nicely. I do think the brain commotion wasn’t a serious one. Thank goodness. Any nausea?”
I shook my head but stopped as the room spun about me.
“But still dizzy I see. I think you need to remain in bed today.” I opened my mouth to protest, but she stopped me with her hand. “Rising too soon can be quite hazardous. We’ll reassess you this evening.”
Father returned from escorting Constance, and Mother updated him on my progress. He smiled at the news and said, “I see you’ve been playing with Ernest. Perhaps we could match wits as well.”
The prospect of an additional assessment of my mental faculties as well as some time alone with Father appealed to me.
“I’d like that very much.”
“Just no physical exertion for the moment,” Mother said, wagging a finger at me. “I’ll check on you later and bring a book along if you’d like me to read to you. Perhaps the German volume Mycroft loaned me?”
While the thought of grasping economic theories in German seemed tedious in my current state, I relished the idea of some time alone with my mother, just as I did with my father, and agreed to the prospect immediately.
The game with my father progressed nicely with each of us matching the other in moves and countermoves. He even complimented me on my strategic skills. My concerns about my brain dissipated, and I found myself screwing up my courage to ask him a question that’d been on my mind for a while.
“Father, how did you meet Mother?”
He jerked his head up to meet my gaze. After he considered my question for a moment, he said. “At a lecture by an entomologist. He was discussing the lifecycle of the common housefly. You know my fascination with insects. Given the topic, you can imagine the room wasn’t overly crowded. Regardless, your mother would have stood out. Here was this young woman, taking notes, no less. And asking very pointed questions. She was interested in their use in wound care.”
I could very clearly see how my mother’s looks and actions would have drawn attention. Having compared her with other women, I knew her features to be above average, and a younger version would only be more so. At the same time, her direct and inquisitive manner would have drawn attention to her as well.
“And did you speak to her then?”
A smile played on his lips. The memory had to be pleasant. “No. I was much too taken aback by her. Not only quite fetching but intelligent as well. I knew that the moment she asked a question about how much decayed flesh a single maggot could eat in a day. Not at all squeamish. So, I made a few inquiries as to her identity. I had a friend introduce us at a lecture the next week. This time it was on horticulture. Dreadfully boring as far as I was concerned, but again, there she was asking the most insightful questions.”
I could also imagine that. My father’s interest in plant biology was limited to any agricultural issues, and unless it was related to some crop cultivation, he would be either lost or totally disinterested. “When you finally met, what was Mother’s reaction?”
“Polite, but rather aloof. Even furtive.” Another smile. “I learned later she had tricked the aunt she was visiting and slipped away to the lectures without permission. She spent a lot of time in France, you know. Apparently, they had allowed her more freedom there to attend medical lectures.”
I nodded. We had travelled to Paris to visit that side of her family more than once, and my mother had attended a number of lectures on a variety of subjects during these trips. Whenever possible, she would bring me and Mycroft along, expressing her desire for us to develop our language skills as well as our scientific knowledge.
“I promptly invited her to an evening at that friend’s home.” He sighed. “She turned me down.”
I stared at my father. Social convention would have required acceptance of a supper invitation unless a previous engagement had already been secured. Surely Mother would have followed protocol, unless— “Because she already had plans that evening?”
“That’s what she told me at the time, but I learned through other sources, she simply didn’t accept any invitations from unmarried men. She had determined not to marry and didn’t want to be burdened by the attentions of possible suitors.”
“If she didn’t want to marry, how did she agree to do so in the end?”
He leaned toward me and touched the side of his nose. “I won her over. If she wouldn’t accept any invitations to attend my functions, I would attend hers.” He winked. “I was able to persuade her aunt, who was concerned for your mother’s spinster future, of my very honorable intentions, and she supplied me with information on her calendar. I didn’t attend as many lectures at Oxford as I did in pursuit of your mother.”
I moved a piece and announced, “Checkmate.”
“Well done,” he said and pulled out his pocket watch. “Look at the time. I’m afraid we’ll have to pursue our game later. I have to meet with Mr. Simpson to go over the books.”
When he stepped from the room, I lay back on my pillow to contemplate what he just shared with me. The image of my father as a young man, slightly older than Mycroft, accompanying my mother to lectures offered a new perspective of both. While I knew they had been young once, I found it difficult to consider that they had not always been together.
I won her over.
My father had shown interest in matters significant to her. Was that truly enough to convince her to drop her conviction of remaining unmarried?
I let sleep overtake me, and was only awakened when the door opened and Mother followed the maid carrying a tray into the room. After the tray had been arranged, and we were alone, Mother again checked my eyes and asked about my general health.
When I assured her I had no headache or dizziness, she smiled. “I think you can get out of bed tomorrow evening, if you wish.”
The tray this evening proved more substantial than my last meal. I had actual meat and vegetables. And butter. I smeared a good bit on one of Cook’s rolls and bit into it, enjoying the sensation as the butter melted on my tongue and coated my mouth. For the first time, I truly understood Constance’s desire for more of Cook’s baking.
Mother returned when the maid came to clear my supper away. As promised, she carried the German volume with her. She took the chair by the chessboard and settled back to read from Manifest der kommunistischen Partei. Between her calm voice, the heavy meal, and the complex concepts presented by the authors, my eyelids soon drooped, and I fell into a deep sleep for the night.
The next day passed much like the previous, except I felt stronger and experienced no dizzy spells. With this improvement, Mother approved my joining the family for supper and the discussion in the schoolroom that followed.
Never had I been so glad to wash and dress for a meal. My enforced confinement had grown very tedious, and I couldn’t wait to join in the discussion in the schoolroom. Of course, we couldn’t speak on the subject at the supper table. Murder was hardly a polite subject and such topics would not be shared in front of the servants. I found myself rushing through what I was served in hopes of moving to the schoolroom sooner.
Of course, the adults seemed in no hurry, and I found myself frustrated with the pace of the meal. After an eternity, Mother rose, and we all stood in response and filed out of the dining room and up the stairs to the classroom. By the time I made it to the schoolroom, Mother had taken a place by the blackboard and reviewed what we’d considered the last time. Following her assessment, she wrote Rachel Winston below Mrs. Brown’s name, sighed, and turned to us.
“I’m afraid we are no closer to solving what happened to Emma Brown than when we began,” she said. “And now we have Rachel’s death as well.”
“Pity you weren’t able to find out anything from Mr. Harvingsham before his seizure,” Mycroft said, his mouth downturned. “Bad break with the bee attack.”
“A very bad break,” Father said, his mouth mimicking my brother’s.
“Not a problem,” Mother said. “I learned quite a bit from Mrs. Harvingsham prior to his fit.”
“You think Rachel Winston was poisoned too, don’t you?” I asked.
The conclusion had been quite apparent when we’d learned of the surgeon’s attention to the maid from his wife.
She nodded. “We have two, maybe three victims. But we’re missing the connection between them. The common denominator, if you will.”
Mycroft stared at the board for a moment and said, “Perhaps if we lay out their connections? For instance, we know Mrs. Straton was friends with Rachel Winston and had seen Mrs. Brown.”
Mother drew lines between Mrs. Straton and the other two names. “When we do this, it does appear that she is at the apex of this triangle. Of course, she’s dead, but her husband…”
“According to Brown,” Father said, “Straton did threaten Mrs. Brown. It seems to me that Gibbons ought to at least bring the man in for questioning. He’s been very effective in obtaining confessions in the past.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mother, her voice taking on a sharp tone. “I’ve seen the effects of his extraction methods in gaol. Bruises, contusions, and more than one broken bone. Before we resort to the constable, perhaps we should try and find some incontrovertible proof to ensure we have the correct culprit?”
I stared at my mother as the implication of her accusation registered. Mother had certainly been around others accused of crimes and would have first-hand knowledge of why and how others had been arrested, but was she truly accusing the constable of—? Before I could voice my own question, Mycroft asked it for me.
“Are you suggesting Constable Gibbons forces confessions from people?”
“I’m not suggesting it. I’m stating it as fact. I know there is more than one innocent person in gaol, sent there by their own words after a rather brutal session with Constable Gibbons or one of his men.”
Father shifted in his seat. “Mrs. Holmes, perhaps this is a conversation we should have in private. As a magistrate, I depend on the investigation Gibbons provides in court. If, as you sug—er, say…the confessions are suspect, how am I to make judgment on the accused?”
“Facts, Mr. Holmes. Scientific proof. Which is what we have been doing here since I was arrested. Until we have some true evidence beyond what Brown reported about Straton, we shouldn’t go to Gibbons. Once Straton falls into the law’s hands, the truth may never come out.”
He stilled and studied first her, then the board. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and thoughtful. “I suppose another day or two won’t make much difference. As long as we can keep Brown from pushing Gibbons to action as he did with you.”
“That debacle at the coroner’s inquest should have taught him to wait until he has more than just the obvious conclusion,” Uncle Ernest said, a smile breaking across his face. “We certainly showed him up that day.”
And made an enemy in the process. His seizure of Mother’s ledger was no accident.
“Then we are in agreement that until we have some additional information, we will not be going to Constable Gibbons?” Mother asked. With no one voicing another opinion, she continued, “What do we have, then, that would indicate Straton’s ability to poison these three women?”
As did the others in the room, I stared at the board with the three names and the lines drawn between them. Something had to be there. Something that we were missing, not seeing. An idea tickled the back of my brain, but I couldn’t quite grasp it—
A hard knocking at the door pushed the thought out of my mind. Before anyone could open it, Constable Gibbons burst into the room, followed by a gasping Mrs. Simpson.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Holmes,” the housekeeper said between pants. “He asked me where you were, and I said the schoolroom on the third floor, and he pushed past me before I could stop him.”
By this time, we were all on our feet, and Father glared at the intruder. The man pulled on his uniform coat and raised his chin to meet his gaze. He held out a parchment and stepped toward him.
“Excuse the interruption, sir, but I needed your signature on this arrest warrant.”
“It couldn’t wait until morning?” Father said, taking the paper from him.
While Father skimmed the document, the constable spoke to him in a voice loud enough for all to hear. “I felt it was of the utmost urgency to proceed with the arrest. Before the culprit goes into hiding.”
“When did you decide to arrest Joseph Straton?”
My gasp was audible to all those in the room. They turned to me, and my face burned under their scrutiny. What did Gibbons know that we didn’t?
The constable ignored my outburst and responded without a glance in my direction. “Today. That beekeeper Brown came by this evening and said you were in agreement that the man was guilty.” He glanced at the blackboard and said, “Looks as if you agree that Straton was behind both the midwife’s and Rachel Winston’s death.”
Mother stepped forward. “Actually, we were considering the connections between Mrs. Straton and the other two women.”
“But you do agree the man killed Emma Brown.”
I glanced at the rest of my family, seeking to determine their agreement with that statement. Given the previous discussion of the constable’s tactics and the evidence against Mr. Straton, I wasn’t sure of the response. Again, that little nagging thought scratched at the back of my brain, but I couldn’t get it to surface.
Father, however, spoke and broke my concentration. “The evidence does suggest that direction.”
He stepped to the teacher’s desk, picked up a pen and signed the parchment.
With the order now authorized, the man bowed and left, Mrs. Simpson following after him.
“That takes care of that,” Father said as soon as the footsteps diminished to silence.
Mother shook her head. “I just hope you haven’t sealed the man’s death warrant.”
“I’ll make it clear to the man he’s not to force a confession,” he said and turned toward the door. “I’ll catch him before he leaves.”
My father’s departure ended our little meeting. Mother ordered me back to bed. I considered arguing, but knew she’d win in the end. Once in my bedroom I took off my jacket and stepped to the wardrobe to hang it up.
Upon opening its door, I yelped and flew backwards about three strides. My pulse quickened and only slowed when Constance leapt from the cabinet and slapped her hand across my mouth.
“Quiet. I don’t want no one’s to know I’m here.”
I pulled her hand from my face and dropped my voice to just above a whisper. “What are you doing here? How did you get in? Why don’t you want to be seen?”
She put her hands on her hips and stared at me a moment. “Did that fall affect your brain after all? Can’t you answer these questions yourself? I came to see you. Through that indoor garden of yours. No one ever seems to lock that door. I used to go in with my mother when she’d bring the mending here. She’d pick a bit of parsley or sage when no one was lookin’. And I don’t want no ones, especially the constable, to see me and try and use me to find Papa. He says Papa kilt Mrs. Brown, but I knows it wasn’t so.”
“But he just had my father sign the arrest warrant. How could you already know—?”
“Do you have anything besides questions? He was asking at all the taverns for Papa. One of Papa’s friends warned him. So, Papa’s runned away to hide.” She raised her hand to me, and I froze with my mouth half-open, another question resting on my tongue. “I don’t know where, so don’t ask.”
“I hope you realize all the evidence points in his direction. Mr. Brown even said he threatened him at the tavern. Said Mrs. Brown had given her something that killed her.”
“I don’t know about him threatening Mr. Brown, but he did carry on about how Mrs. Brown almost kilt her. Whatever Mrs. Brown gave her, Papa burnt it.”
My stare froze on her face as all the information and conjectures we had assembled in the schoolroom rearranged themselves in my brain. One piece in particular rose to the surface. Rachel Winston’s request for pennyroyal for a “friend.” Mother had been correct. Mrs. Straton had needed more.
“How did your father find out about the medicine in the first place?”
“It was in her mending basket. He was searching for a sock she said she’d mended. It spilt out of the paper she had it in. She said it was somethin’ Mrs. Brown had given her ‘cause she couldn’t be havin’ another baby right away. He cursed at her, callin’ it Satan’s weed. And burnt it in the fireplace.”
Perhaps because of the brain commotion, my thoughts raced. I considered the names on the blackboard in the schoolroom, the contents of Mrs. Straton’s mending basket, Rachel Winston’s efforts to help a friend. I must have stared at Constance for a while because she asked, “Are you all right? You ain’t havin’ a fit, are you?”
That question let loose a deluge of words that tumbled out of my mouth faster than my thoughts.
“Your father had no reason to kill Mrs. Brown. But still, your mother died from something. If she kept what Mrs. Brown gave her in the mending basket, perhaps she also kept whatever—”
Constance’s rounded eyes stopped me before I completed the sentence. I’d been so intent on reconstructing the information, I’d forgotten I’d been referring to her mother—a woman who had only been dead three weeks. My father’s voice reprimanded me for such a terrible breach of etiquette.
“I-I’m sorry. I forgot myself for a moment,” I said, and stared down at the rug on my bedroom floor. When I raised my head, she was still staring at me, her mouth open.
“My-my mother was…?”
Her turn to stop herself. She sucked in a breath and spun about. Her ragged breathing made her shoulders jerk up and down in time with her inhalations. I reached out and touched her arm. After a moment, she faced me, her cheeks wet and her eyes red-rimmed.
“I thought she just… Everyone knew she was poorly… How...? Who?”
Unsure of my words and fear of causing her additional pain, I raised my hands in surrender. When her eyes widened again, I feared her emotions had overcome her again and braced myself for an even stronger display. Instead, she grabbed my arm and spoke in a harsh whisper. “Do you think we might find something in her mending basket to show how she … passed? We could check it.”
“Now?” I glanced out the window. Only a partial moon shone through the glass. “Shouldn’t we wait until morning? Also, I think I should tell Father. As magistrate—”
“Not yet. I want to see what’s in that basket. The constable already thinks Papa kilt Mrs. Brown. I don’t want him thinkin’ he poisoned Mama too. I’s gots to see what’s in it first. You know more about that kind of thing. You might be able to tell. Come with me.”
I paused, knowing my mother had sent me to bed because of my injury. We’d managed to keep the truth from Father about our adventure in town, but if I were caught leaving the house, I was sure to incur the wrath of both parents. Three elements, however, weighed in favor of going with Constance. The first was the girl herself. The soft plea in her eyes pushed me to acquiesce. Also, social convention dictated I accompany her and not let her return to her home alone at this hour. Finally, I considered the worst consequences with respect to my parents. Most likely, it would involve returning to Eton. My father might consider it a reward and refuse my going back. All in all, I was likely safe from any severe consequences.
After a moment more during which Constance chewed her lip, a small gesture that raised my pulse to the point I wondered if it might be bad for my head, I nodded. “Wait for me in the greenhouse. It’s best we aren’t seen together.”
Her shoulders dropped and her lips rose in a smile. She gripped my shoulders and rose to her tiptoes to kiss me on the cheek. “Thank you. I know we’ll be able to show Papa’s innocent.”
After I checked to see if anyone was in the hall, I let her out of my room, and she was gone.
Almost.
I raised a hand to my cheek and fingered the spot where she’d kissed me. Although it had been brief and light, my skin retained the memory of that touch from her lips. Soft, tender, and slightly moist.
I might have continued in that frozen moment had I not remembered the kiss’s donor was waiting for me. Pushed into action, I changed into my heavy hunting jacket and boots in a flash. After wrapping a scarf about my neck and pulling my deerstalker hat onto my head, I made to join Constance. My dressing activities must have muffled the noise in the hallway because when I opened the door, I almost ran straight into Mycroft. Only his surprisingly agile jump backwards kept us from crashing into each other.
“Good lord, Sherlock, where do you think you’re going? And in such an all-blasted hurry?”