Loud clanging greeted me about halfway through the yard. Whatever he was fashioning involved metal.
The noise masked the arrival of a woman, who startled me as she stepped from the shadows and into my path. Only because her reflexes were quicker than mine did Uncle Ernest’s dinner basket not drop to the ground.
“Master Sherlock,” she said in a low whisper as she handed it back to me, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I wasn’t frightened. You merely took me by surprise.” Now that she was out of the shadows, I recognized her as one of the women who bought my mother’s herbs. “Rachel Winston, isn’t it?”
A shy smile spread across her face. “How kind of you to remember me.”
How could I not? The woman, a maid at Lord Devony’s estate, had been married for just over three years and had been coming to see my mother for almost as long. Always for the same thing.
“My mother’s not here. Sh-she’s—”
“I know. But don’t you worry. I don’t believe for a minute she had anything to do with Emma Brown’s death. Your mother is the kindest, most generous woman I’ve ever met. The whole village thinks so—at least, them’s who know her.”
“Did you want to see my father, then?”
“No, sir. Actually, I was hoping to see you. Do you know what your mother gives me? I’m almost out and…”
Her voice trailed off and both of us glanced toward the greenhouse—my mother’s refuge—at the other end of the house.
“I…uh...” How did I explain that while I helped my mother with her plants, the exact nature of their various preparations was not known to me? She had taught me the plants’ properties, but I was not privy to the exact proportions or extractions for the concoctions she prepared for “the ladies,” as she referred to the village women. “I’m sorry. I don’t—”
Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, please, sir. I need those seeds. I-I can’t have a baby yet.” She squeezed her eyes shut and gave a stifled sob behind her hand. “Now with Mrs. Brown gone, the only one left is Mr. Harvingsham, and he won’t—”
A sob cut off the rest of her thought. I glanced toward my uncle’s workshop and shifted my weight from one foot to the other. Once again, my father’s etiquette lessons were failing me. What did one say to a practically hysterical female?
“Please don’t cry, Mrs. Winston. I’m hoping to see my mother shortly, and I’ll ask her about them. Come back tomorrow night, and I’ll let you know if I could determine what she gives you.”
She grasped my free hand. “Thank you, sir. Thank you.” After turning away from me, she stepped back into the shadows with a whispered, “I’ll see you after I get off tomorrow night.”
Once she had disappeared, I continued on to my uncle’s workshop and knocked on the door. When he didn’t respond, I let myself in.
As I stepped inside, Uncle Ernest’s shout echoed through the cavernous old barn. “Duck, boy, duck!”
Chapter Two
Something flew over my head and embedded itself in the doorframe as I dropped to the floor.
My uncle hurried toward me, lifting a pair of goggles to his forehead as he did so. “Good lord, my boy, are you hurt?”
I shook my head, still slightly shaken by the close call I’d had with a…I studied the object that had nearly taken off my ear. It was star-shaped with the points honed razor-sharp. Ernest reached over with a work-gloved hand and tugged at the projectile to remove it from the frame. “You should’ve knocked first.”
“I did. You couldn’t hear me over the noise,” I said, finally finding my voice. “What is that exactly?”
“The Japanese call it a hira shuriken or ‘sword in hand.’ Of course I made some improvements upon it.”
The hira shuriken finally gave to my uncle’s wrenching, and he placed it flat on his palm so that I might examine it. My first observation was that it appeared even more dangerous when the whole item could be seen. “What sorts of improvements did you make?”
“Its propulsion.” Ernest beamed. “Samurai warriors consider them a minor weapon to be used in conjunction with the sword. They would be thrown by hand toward the eye or hand to further injure an opponent. But I have developed a device to throw these in swift succession and greater force, making them a possible weapon of first resort.”
I followed him to one of the workbenches dotting the place. Each displayed a project in some stage of assembly. His current project appeared to be a modified crossbow. Several of the star-shaped objects were lined up in a slot along the bow’s central arm. He swiveled the weapon to face it away from the door.
“I’m having some trouble, however, with the trigger,” he said. “The hira shuriken have to be propelled along the launching arm with enough force for them to travel a great enough distance. At the moment, the slightest touch on the trigger will send them off.”
“What was all the banging I heard? Were you working on the trigger?”
“I was straightening the hira shuriken. If they were flat enough for them to fit more perfectly into the launching groove, perhaps the spring mechanism wouldn’t have to be so strong and the trigger less prone to release unexpectedly. Of course, that’s not the only issue. Look at how this one bent. They can’t be reused at the moment without a great deal of readjustment. I have to work that out before I can share it with my military contacts.”
He dropped it onto his bench and pounded it with a mallet.
I held up the basket Mrs. Simpson had given me and shouted over the noise. “I brought you supper.”
Stopping in mid-swing over the star, he contemplated the bit of information I’d provided. Accustomed to his lapses into deep thought, I waited as my mother had taught me. A moment later he let the mallet fall onto the table and turned to me. “Why, yes. I’m famished, actually. Thank you for being so kind as to bring it. Shall we have a seat and a talk?”
After he dropped his tools onto the table, we moved to his sitting area at the back of the building. Separated by a folding screen, the space was furnished with some of my parents’ discarded chairs, a low table, and a cot. Ernest removed the food from the basket and arranged it on the table. After settling into one of the armchairs, he rubbed his work-blackened hands together and studied the items. “Care to join me, Sherlock?”
“No, thank you. I’ve already had my supper.”
“You can tell me about school while I eat.”
I shifted on the edge of the other armchair. I had no interest in sharing about my first few weeks at Eton, but I’d learned from our long association I had to find the right moment to broach the subject of my mother’s incarceration.
Resigned, I asked, “What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with the basics,” he said around a bite of roast beef. “What classes are you taking?”
“The usual, I guess. Latin, mathematics, science—”
“Science? What sort of science?”
“Biology at the moment. Plant life.”
He slapped his knee. “You’re probably ahead of all the others in that area. Thanks to Violette.” At the mention of my mother, he quit chewing and stared at me for a moment. “She’s in gaol, you know.”