Before the sentence was even completed, I was at the table and lifting the still-warm bun to my lips.
I was licking my fingers by the time she pounded a cork into a crock.
“The tea should still be warm by the time you get to the gaol,” she told Uncle Ernest and then turned to me. She passed me a slice of bread. “Save this for later.”
Ernest barely gave me time to stuff the slice into my coat pocket before he ran his arms through the basket's handles and lifted it from the table. Cocking his head to an item on the floor, he said, “Time to be my assistant. Carry my valise to the carriage.”
I grabbed the case's handles and followed him out the door to Mr. Simpson and a waiting carriage.
Once inside, Ernest leaned his head back onto the seat and pulled his hat over his eyes. “Let me know when we get to town.”
His snoring commenced shortly after we turned onto the main road. I tried to follow his example but was too tightly wound to sleep, despite the early hour. My mind kept shifting from elation to dread. I was on my way to see my mother. In gaol.
The carriage jerked to a halt an hour later, and Ernest roused himself in mid-snore. Eyeing me, he asked, “There already? Come along then.”
When we stepped up the stairs into the square brick building housing the county’s criminals, a guard opened the main door and waved us in.
“Quite a brisk morning, eh, Mr. Parker? Who’s this with you?”
“My assistant.”
The guard eyed me for a moment before turning his attention back to my uncle. I had learned a long time ago because of my age, no one paid much attention to me, and it was the same in this situation. A moment, later, however, I understood his true interest in my uncle.
“The weather’s turning. I can feel it in my bones. Mornings like this, a man could use a bit of a nip to keep off the chill.”
“Quite right, quite right,” Ernest replied and slipped a small bottle out of his coat pocket and into that of the guard’s. “For medicinal purposes.”
The man placed a finger on the side of his nose with a nod. “Let’s step inside so’s I can inspect what you’re carrying.”
With a deep breath, I hefted my uncle’s valise a little higher and entered a gaol for the first time. In later years, I had many an occasion to visit any number of prisons to interview criminals and the accused, but as with most major events, the first one is generally the most memorable. To this day, the right brew of odors—sweat, dust, urine, and mold—will draw me back to that tiny antechamber where Ernest set his basket on a rickety rectangle of a table and motioned me to do the same. With the first whiff, I can still see the green mold in the intersection between the room’s brick walls and stone floor and hear the distant plink of dripping water and far-off moans of the prison’s inhabitants. Immediately, my palms dampen and the same despair and melancholy settles about me as on that day.
Ernest, for whatever reason, appeared not to be affected at all by the surroundings, perhaps because he had already experienced them and grown used to them. He and the guard joked and chuckled while they pulled some sliced ham, thick bread, and butter from the basket as his share of the breakfast offering. The man even produced a tin cup from somewhere for his portion of the still-warm tea in the carefully wrapped crock and added a dollop of something from a flask he pulled from his pocket.
Once provisioned, the guard opened a door at the other side of the room and shouted down the hallway. “Mr. Parker’s here to see his client.”
“Have him wait in the visitor’s room,” a woman responded with a similar shout.
We followed the man down the hall to a wooden door he unlocked. Benches lined the walls, and three wobbly tables, each with four spindly stools, occupied the center of the room. While designed to accommodate a much larger crowd, at the moment Uncle Ernest and I were its only occupants.
The approach of more than one set of footsteps knotted my stomach. A second door opened, and Mother stepped into the room, followed closely by a heavy woman in a blue uniform. When my gaze met my mother’s, I drew in my breath and quickly averted my eyes. My first impulse was to run to her and bury my head in the rough, grey cloth of what obviously was some sort of prison apron over her dress. I was held in place, however, by my uncle’s hand on my shoulder. Whether he placed it there to restrain me or warn me, I wasn’t sure, but the effort immobilized me.
“Mrs. Raymond,” my uncle said with a smile. “How are we this morning?”
“Not so bad, not so bad. It’s been a quiet night,” she said. “But I am famished.”
“Of course, you are, and I have brought some breakfast for you and the other matrons.”
She accepted the basket from my uncle and stepped backward toward the door. “I’ll just take this down to our station to share with the others. I’ll be back in a shake.”
“If you don’t mind, we’ll just visit until you return.”
Once alone, the two moved quickly to the table farthest from both entries, and I followed, placing the valise on its top. Unburdened, I now turned to my mother, and she quickly enfolded me. After a moment, she placed a hand under my chin and studied my face. “My dear Sherlock,” she said with a sigh. “I do believe you’ve grown at least an inch since we left you at school.”
Her lips turned up in a smile, but the skin about her eyes continued to droop as they had when she’d entered the room. I also noted a greyness I hadn’t seen before. But perhaps her wan color also related to her wearing no powder or rouge. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun. Other than these changes, I caught no difference. She was still the tall, elegant woman I had always known. While Mycroft resembled my father, I resembled my mother in height and leanness, not to mention the pronounced sharp nose of our French ancestors.
“We only have a little time before the matron returns,” Ernest said. “Let’s get to it.”
When I turned back around, the table had been set for breakfast, including a cloth to cover the table.
“How kind of Mrs. Simpson to think of this touch,” Mother said, fingering the linen. “Please thank her for me.”
Before sitting, she cleaned her hands on a wet cloth set on the chair next to her place. “One must continue to practice good hygiene, regardless of the situation,” she said with another of those forced smiles.
“That reminds me,” Ernest said and dug about in his coat pocket. He held out his hand, palm down and dropped something into hers, which she quickly slipped into a skirt pocket. “I hope that keeps you for a while.”
She turned to me and finally gave me a genuine smile in response to my obviously quizzical study. “Soap. More important than gold here. I’ve had mine stolen twice already.”
I watched as she cut the ham and chewed it slowly. Despite what I was sure was a ravenous appetite, she had not lost her sense of decorum.
“Uncle Ernest told me you wanted to see me. Why?”
“Because, my dear Sherry, I need you to get me out.”
I stared at her. Had I heard her correctly? Surely she was speaking to her brother, but she returned my gaze over her cup as she sipped her tea.
“Unfortunately, my arrest and detention has appeased Mr. Brown for the moment. The constable sees no reason to seek Emma’s true assailant. You are my best hope.”