I knew where the gaol was. The old, square building sat on a corner near the edge of the village center. Did one simply knock on the door and ask to see a prisoner, as when calling upon a neighbor?
While I wanted to ask Mycroft about the process, he’d already rested his head back against his seat, his eyes closed. I tried to follow my brother’s example but found myself unable to rest. I kept imagining my mother locked in a dank cell and found the only way to keep the vision away was to watch the green countryside pass by my window until dusk fell and all that remained was my own reflection staring back.
Father stood on the station platform when we arrived. He said little in greeting other than, “Simpson’s waiting with the cart and the footman. Have them bring your trunks out.”
Before either of us could respond, he spun about on his heel and left us to follow him.
Once on the road to Underbyrne, I considered raising the issue of visiting Mother, but knew better than to bring up the discussion in front of a servant. Even one as trusted as our steward, Mr. Simpson. The tall, thin man had been with the Holmes family since before my parents married. Given the lack of safe, conventionally acceptable topics to discuss (somehow the weather and the train ride seemed too mundane in the present situation), we rode the hour to the manor house in silence.
When we pulled up to the front door, the familiarity and sameness of Underbyrne held me in my seat for a moment. I saw no change in the red-brick structure with its white-framed gabled dormers on the third floor. Nothing suggested anything out of the ordinary had occurred within. Even the sight of Mrs. Simpson in her usual coffee-brown dress standing stiff-backed under the entrance’s covered porch appeared normal.
Only when Father said, “Get a move on,” did I stir and retrieve my violin case from beside me on the seat and follow the others inside.
“Welcome home, boys,” Mrs. Simpson said. Her strained voice was the first indication of the pall over the house. “Your rooms are ready. Mr. Simpson will bring up your trunks directly. Are you hungry? I had Cook prepare plates of cold meat for you.”
I shifted my feet, somehow unable to move farther into the entryway. I glanced about at the all-too-familiar surroundings, seeking some solace in them. In the candlelight, everything had a sort of gilded edge to it, giving off a sense of normalness otherwise lacking in everyone’s mood. The entry hall, open to the second floor and lined with three generations of Vernet paintings and the stairway on the right leading to our bedrooms, hadn’t changed. Neither had the doors leading to Father’s library and office on the right or the parlor and sitting room to the left. The grandfather clock between the two rooms on the left marked the time as it always had.
I glanced at the time. That late was it?
Even the scents of wax and lemon oil said, “home,” but I found myself as ill-at-ease as in a stranger’s residence.
Ignoring—or perhaps unaware—of my discomfort, Father spoke to me over his shoulder as he passed on to the dining room. “Leave your case in the library before joining us.”
Once I was alone with Mrs. Simpson, she held out her hand. “Pass that to me, Master Sherlock. I’ll take it up to your room if you wish.”
“Is my uncle about?” I asked, handing over the violin.
Her mouth turned down. “He’s terribly upset about your mother, you know. He’s been keeping to himself for the most part, taking his meals in his workshop. If you like, after you eat, you can take a plate to him. I’m sure he would enjoy a visit from you. Go on now and have a bit of supper. Your moth—” She stopped herself and swallowed hard. “God bless her. She’d want you to keep up your strength, so you could put on the brave face needed at a time like this.”
I shifted the weight on my feet. Nothing in the many lessons my father had imparted provided me with the appropriate response for “a time like this.” I knew which piece of silver to use with which course, the polite greeting for the different classes of people, and proper dinner conversation; but how did one comport oneself when one’s parent faced the possibility of hanging?
Both men were already at the dining table deep in silent contemplation over their meal of cold roast beef and potatoes. I slid into my chair and stared at the thinly sliced meat and potatoes, both with a slight sheen of fat covering them. My earlier repulsion toward food returned, and a lump formed in my throat. Knowing nothing solid would make it past, I sipped the glass of milk beside it.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Mycroft asked.
Father lifted his head and studied me for a moment before saying, “You need to keep up your strength, son.”
I poked the meat with a fork. Bile threatened my throat again. “What do you suppose Mother is eating?”
He shook his head. “Outside of what we’ve provided, I suppose whatever they serve her.”
“And what’s that? Has she told you?”
“I haven’t seen her.” That statement drew stares from both me and Mycroft. He placed his fork and knife onto his plate before speaking. “It’s not that I don’t want to. She’s forbidden it. The only one she’s allowed to see her is Ernest.”
“Why our uncle?” Mycroft asked.
I, too, was surprised with her choice. While her younger brother was terribly devoted to her, for all the time I’d known him, he’d actually been more reliant on her than the other way around.
My father merely shrugged. “Her instructions were explicit. I was not to try and visit her, but to send Ernest instead.”
“Did she say anything about us?” I asked. “Might I visit her?”
Barely were the words out of my mouth before he responded with a sharp, “No. She said only Ernest.”
I wanted to argue, but the firm set of his jaw told me not to pursue the matter further. With a final glance at my uneaten food followed by a churning in my stomach informing me to not even consider sending any of it down, I finished the glass of milk and asked, “May I be excused?”
“You’re not going to eat that?” Mycroft asked.
When I shook my head, he pulled my food to his place.
I rose to head to the kitchen.
“Where are you off to?” my father asked.
“Mrs. Simpson asked me to take a plate to Uncle Ernest.”
Another shift in the seat. “Very well, but don’t stay too long and overtire the man.”
In the kitchen, I could see Cook was already preparing a basket for me to carry to my uncle. More of the cold roast beef and potatoes, some bread and butter, and a crock that I was certain contained more milk. Ernest didn’t believe in imbibing spirits.
“Finished already?” Cook asked. I nodded. “Good, then. Take this on over to your uncle. I’m sure he’d like to see you.”
Another bob of the head, and I headed out the back door to the converted barn behind the house. Uncle Ernest had come to live at Underbyrne before I was born. He’d served with the military in Afghanistan, and, as Mother put it, the experience changed him. Tending to keep to himself, he tinkered there on different inventions. For the most part, his devices involved gunpowder and other explosives and new ways of using them to project items toward walls and other objects. More than once, I’d been involved in testing a prototype. Despite several attempts to interest the military in his contraptions, they had never responded to any of his correspondence.