Having completed it once, I repeated the entire composition again—this time with fewer mistakes. I found myself relaxing as my thoughts quieted in the process. By the end of the second repetition, I came to the conclusion that whatever plan my uncle and mother had developed would succeed.
Halfway through one execution, someone knocked on my door. I had been so engrossed in the music and my thoughts, I hadn’t heard anyone approach.
When I opened the door, Mrs. Simpson said, “Your father sent me to fetch you for supper, Master Sherlock. He and your brother are waiting.”
Supper? How long had I been practicing?
But I had a more pressing question.
“Will my uncle be joining us?”
“He asked that I bring his to the workshop. Do you want me to hold it for you to take to him later?” I nodded. “Get a move on, then. You don’t want the meat to get cold.”
She turned to leave but turned back to face me. “That was lovely playing, Master Sherlock. Your mother will be proud of your progress when she returns.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Simpson.”
A quick smile at me, and she headed back to the stairs.
The two men sat at the table, drumming their fingers on the linen covering.
“Another minute and we would have started without you,” my father said in Spanish.
“Sorry, sir,” I said, shifting to that language. “I was practicing and lost track of time.”
My father studied me for a moment. “I heard some of it. You are improving.”
“But you are having a problem with the C-sharp on the arpeggio,” Mycroft said.
Before I could respond about the difficult fingering for that section, Father glared at him, and he dropped his gaze. We all three fell silent, the only sound the scrape of our forks and knives on the china.
After finishing, I hustled to the kitchen to pick up my uncle’s supper. As I stepped outside, I remembered Mrs. Winston, but no one stopped me as I crossed the yard. Had she solved her problem on her own?
The clanging from within the workshop differed from the preceding evening—tinnier and not as loud. He actually heard my knock and opened the door to me.
His appearance almost made me drop the basket. Blood splattered an overcoat he wore over his clothes—not to mention more of it coating his face and hands.
“Sherlock, you came at quite a fortuitous time. I could use an extra hand. Come in.”
If my uncle’s condition hadn’t been enough to disturb me, the stench greeting me when I entered certainly completed the task. A pig’s carcass lay on its side on an oilskin cloth in the middle of the room. A number of puncture holes covered the exposed side. The iron scent of blood permeated the building, and I truly regretted having eaten my meal before visiting Ernest.
My uncle followed my gaze to the dead, pierced pig and cleared his throat. “I’ll explain that in a moment. Come here and help me.”
He strode to his workbench where a pitchfork lay. One of the tines was bent, and Ernest pointed to the fork’s handle. “Put down the basket and hold this steady for me while I straighten out this one point.”
Striking the tine with a hammer, he spoke between beats. “The fork…must have hit…a rib or…something.... Didn’t go in…like it should…. I’ll need…to make sure…my aim’s true.”
With the tine straightened, he picked up the pitchfork and balanced it in his hand as if estimating its center of gravity. Without any warning, he gave a loud roar, ran to the pig’s carcass, and jammed the fork into its side almost to the handle. I stared at him, my whole body quivering uncontrollably.
With the fork now imbedded deep in the animal’s body, my uncle turned to me. His wide smile faded when he focused on me. “Boy, you’re absolutely pale. Are you all right?”
I swallowed to keep my supper from rising higher in my stomach. “Are you all right?”
“Never better,” he said, his grin returning. “Downright ecstatic, actually. Your mother and I have worked out a plan, thanks to you. She should be home by Friday night.”
Had I heard him correctly?
“Friday? But—”
“The coroner has set the inquest for Friday morning. After we present this evidence, the man will have to release her immediately.”
I stuffed my fists into my pockets to keep them from shaking. This whole ordeal would be over in just a few days? Was this what Mycroft referred to during his argument with Father? I studied the scene, seeking to piece together what my uncle and mother’s plan could be.
“The pig is the evidence,” I said. “You’re going to show how a dead pig doesn’t bleed when stabbed with a fork, but a live one does. That’s why you have blood on your clothes.”
He glanced down at the blood-covered smock. “I truly didn’t expect such a burst from the live one. I’m glad I had on the smock. Not quite sure why I didn’t anticipate it. After all, in Afghanistan…”
His voice faded off, as did the light in his eyes as he stared at a point somewhere above my head.
“Uncle Ernest,” I said after a moment. He shook his head and refocused on me. “Are you going to bring pigs into the inquest?”
“I don’t see any other way, my boy, to prove my point. That should put on a good show, don’t you think? Might be a bit messy, though,” he said, glancing at his smock. “Perhaps the street…”
“Will it be that one?” I asked, jutting my chin in the direction of the now-impaled swine.
“No, Simpson is coming to pick up this one to smoke it tonight. I’ve already asked for some of the bacon from it, and the live one I stabbed earlier. Maybe some of the sausage from the one we use on Friday as well. Seems fitting, doesn’t it? To devour some of the animals serving to set your mother free? Like the African warriors eating the heart of their kill.” He placed a finger to his lips. “Not a word of this to anyone. Especially your father. Your mother’s orders, again.”
The rest of the days between my uncle’s pig practice and the inquest were unbearably long and fretful. My father paced about the house, Mycroft kept to the library, and I worked at finding tasks to do and keep my mind occupied. I moved my violin practice to the schoolroom on the top floor to avoid further critiques from my brother. Given the number of hours I was able to devote to my music, I progressed rapidly and anticipated showing my mother the perfected result.
When not practicing, I spent time in Mother’s greenhouse. Her plants required daily attention. The first afternoon when I tended her plants, as I went down the rows watering each pot, I noticed several in need of pruning. After retrieving some small shears from her workbench and donning a pair of work gloves, I removed dead or dying leaves as I worked through the aisle. About halfway down the second row, I came across a pot containing tall, thin stems topped with white flowers. I picked a leaf and crushed it between my gloved fingers, expecting the pleasant scent of mint from a pennyroyal plant.
Only a sharp odor similar to urine filled my nostrils instead. I studied the plant more closely, and my mouth dropped open.
Hemlock.
With a rush of urgency, I pulled off the gloves to confirm the sap had not penetrated the heavy fabric and then ran to the water barrel by the back door to scrub my fingers. The juice I’d extracted by crushing the leaves could be absorbed directly through the skin. Thank goodness I’d put on the gloves as Mother had always insisted when working in the greenhouse. I knew from helping my mother that hemlock and pennyroyal were very similar, but the subtle differences, such as the scent given off, could mean the difference between life and death.