The apple thief
„Sherlock Holmes, come down this instant!" a boy of about thirteen, whose cap had just been snatched by a nimble hand out of the blue, cried angrily.
"Come and get me, you lazy sod." a laughing voice answered from out of the canopy of a large apple tree, the young lad had been sitting under, reading.
"You bet I come up there, Sherlock." he threatened, torn between annoyance and amusement. When the head of the culprit appeared above him, blowing him a raspberry, he flung the book aside and reached for the nearest branch, pulling himself up deftly, while his naked feet pressed against the rough bark of the tree trunk. He was in the branches himself quickly, chasing after his younger and agiler brother.
"I'll get you eventually." Mycroft Holmes gasped, while the smaller boy had climbed even higher and out of reach. The little rascal knew all too well, Mycroft did not like to be too far above the ground. He was saved from his dilemma whether he should follow or leave the boy be for the time being, by the voice of his uncle.
"Mycroft, Sherlock! Come down, NOW!" the words were stern, but the voice did not sound quite as angry as they would suggest. There was a gleam in the eye of the young man, that told both boys, that their uncle was determined to get them out of the tree, but no punishment would follow.
Sherlock was down first, while Mycroft struggled slightly, not having realised how high up he had actually climbed.
"Sherlock! I told you not to climb up this particular tree, now, didn't I?"
"Yes, Uncle Aldwin, I am sorry." the six-year-old bend his head – but rather to hide the smirk that played on his handsome features, than out of shame.
His uncle, a man in his early thirties was wise enough not to trust this perfect picture of submission. Lifting the chin of his little ward, he was met with a rueful grin and a pair of grey sparkling eyes that betrayed the imp within.
"And why did you do it then?" he was asked, as his brother had finally managed to get safely to the ground as well.
"I wanted to play with Mycroft, but all he does since he has returned from school is read, read and read again." the child looked exasperated now. "Can a book be really this interesting as to prefer reading to climbing trees or catching frogs or…?"
"Ah, so that was you as well? I should have thought so." Aldwin Holmes interjected, chuckling.
"What was Sherlock up to again?"
"Putting frogs in Kitty's chamberpot. You should have heard her scream!" the youngest Holmes answered sheepishly with a blush on his cheeks, "But I did not do it on purpose! When I came in, I realised I still had the frogs in my trouser pockets and suddenly I heard Kitty come into the laundry and I know how much she hates frogs and I did not want to frighten her and then I saw the cleaned chamberpots (1) and quickly slipped them in there. Unfortunately, I forgot about them…."
His uncle desperately tried not to look at him, so he would not burst out laughing but to no avail.
Kitty was the not so popular maid that had been hired when the boys first came to live with their uncle. She was a nice enough person, but she had no patience for the tricks and hoaxes the two boys were constantly playing on one another and most of the time on her. A year ago, Mycroft had been sent to school, but it was the younger, who was more challenging and it did not help, that the uncle was not any better with his odd sense of humour.
When all three had stopped their giggles and laughter, Uncle Aldwin once more became stern.
"So, once again, you can climb any tree on the grounds, apart from this one. Is that understood!"
Both boys nodded, but it was clear, that Sherlock would not be satisfied by the mere order.
"Uncle Aldwin, why are we not allowed to go into this tree?" he asked, reluctantly. But with a curiosity that demanded an answer.
"Because this is my best tree – and may I remind you, that both of you are very fond of these particular apples? And they are almost ripe, perhaps another week and we can harvest them. But climbing around in the branches will make them fall off and then they will not be half as nice as when plucked straight from the tree. Anyway, it seems, that this is quite a rare sort of apple and I have agreed to sell a quarter of the harvest from it, to a botanist for his studies. So, that means, we have to make do with the remaining – how many?"
He looked at his perplexed older nephew.
"That would make three quarters. But wouldn't that still be a load of apples!"
"Yes, it would, technically. If I would not also need to hand over a third to Mrs Nichols, which leaves?"
Again he glanced expectantly at Mycroft, who answered promptly: "Well, that would make it seven twelfth that we would have to give away, which is more than half of the apples."
"Exactly."
"But why does Mrs Nichols need all these apples. She's got a big garden herself." The younger master Holmes piped up.
"Because we have rented the property from her and it was one of her terms, Sherlock."
"But the other trees are all right to climb?"
"If that is your only worry… - yes, they are." the man sighed and an expression of worry crossed his intelligent face.
While Mycroft returned to his book, much to his little brother's dismay, sitting down decidedly under the very same tree he was now banned from, Sherlock ventured towards the little brook, a little further down the orchard that belonged to The Meadows, the small farmhouse they lived in.
Jumping into the shallow water with a splash, he began rummaging through the stones to hunt down some crayfish. As he had forgotten, that a bucket might come in handy, he used his straw hat instead and soon the first crayfish was imprisoned in it. Of this straw hat, little Sherlock Holmes was mightily proud. It once had belonged to his uncle, but after it had become too shabby for him to wear with any dignity, he had given it to his nephew. It was slightly too big for the small boys head, and only his ears held it up to a degree that made him able to peek out from underneath its broad rim.
In a short while, his hat was filled with the unassuming creatures, and just as he wanted to climb up the bank of the small ditch, Kitty came into view.
"Sherlock Holmes!" she screeched, and he knew he was in trouble again. Ducking his head he all but disappeared, had it not been for the shock of brown hair that stood out against the green of the grass and told the livid lady, where she would find the little tyke.
When her shadow began looming over him, he looked up and into her face and before he could help it, he burst out laughing in delight. It had really worked!
"Look at my face!" she demanded, which he thought rather silly, considering that he was doing just that and with great entertainment. Her face had deep rusty brown patches all over, some more prominent than others and the same applied to her neck, her hands and her lower arms as she had rolled up her sleeves.
By now Mycroft had arrived at the scene and with the noise that woman made, Sherlock was sure his uncle would be back soon, as well. Perplexed he stared at the steaming maid.
"I've had it! Are you happy now, you little devil?" she all but yelled.
"I never thought it would work so well," he admitted, with a sheepish expression.
And really, he had not. Who would have thought after all, that the finely grated outer shell of such a common thing as a walnut, would give such a nice effect when added to soap? It had been a fairly tricky affair, to be honest, but the result indeed was worth one's while.
Behind Kitty's back, Mycroft bit his lip, but the way he trembled, told the young convict, that he too, found it immensely funny.
"I will leave this house today!" she at last spat and stomped back towards the house.
Handing his brother his hat with the crawling crayfish, at last, Sherlock climbed up the steep bank.
"How on earth did you manage to do that?" his bemused sibling wondered.
"Oh, nothing more simple than that," the boy replied, sitting down in the grass, his feet dangling over the water, "the other day I wanted to see, whether the walnuts were ripe already and I picked a few. They were not ripe." He made a little face.
Mycroft, who had sat down next to his brother, grinned. "You are too impatient, they won't be ripe until the beginning of October. And it is only the end of August."
"Yes, but I wanted to have a look all the same. Anyway, when I peeled off the husk, my fingers turned all brown and I could not wash it off, no matter how much I scrubbed and no matter how much soap I used."
"Let me guess, and then you got the brilliant idea of mixing the two things together?"
"Exactly! It was quite some work, I tell you, but I think it was worth it," he exclaimed while examining one of the crayfish more closely.
"So, you think so, William Sherlock Holmes!" the voice of his uncle sounded from behind them.
Oh-oh! It never boded well, when his uncle used his full name. Slowly both boys turned around to see the displeased man stand there with his arms crossed in front of him and his legs firmly on the ground. Looking like that, their uncle could be quite intimidating.
"I demand an apology! NOW!"
Hastily, Sherlock scrambled to his feet, his head hanging, this time in actual shame. He had only wanted to see if the combination of the walnut husk and the soap would still have the same effect than the peel alone. It had and he was happy with the result. That he would anger someone with it, he had not considered and he now felt quite wretched.
"Sorry, Uncle Aldwin," he mumbled. As his gaze was still cast at his feet, he did not see the light twitch at the man's corner of the mouth.
"I accept your apology, Sherlock. But you will also have to make amends with Kitty," he said, in a kind but firm voice.
For a moment the child contemplated to argue about the necessity of it, but despite the small smile that now graced his uncle's face, he knew he would not get out of it. Begrudgingly he trotted towards the house.
xxx
It was late in the evening, and both brothers had already slept, the smaller one had migrated to his elder brothers bed, where they had been chatting till at long last their eyes had drooped and they had fallen asleep when suddenly a loud scream pierced the dead of the night.
"What was that?" a scared Sherlock asked, clinging to his sibling, who was rubbing his eyes drowsily.
"I think that was Kitty," Mycroft mumbled.
"Again? I did not do anything."
Mycroft laughed softly, knowing that more often than not, that was not quite true. His little brother was quite a prankster when it came to it.
Hasty footsteps walked past their room and down the creaky stairs and some minutes later they returned and the door to their bedroom opened.
"What has happened?" Mycroft asked anxiously.
"Mycroft, where was it, that you put Sherlock's hat when we came in?" Aldwin asked, sounding neither angry nor amused but just tired.
"Why I put it in the kitchen, I cannot remember where exactly..."
"I tell you, it was on purpose!" the plump girl insisted, looking defiantly from one Holmes to the other. "He wanted me to be pinched by these horrible creatures, they are both equally devious."
"They are nothing of the kind!" the young man said with emphasis. "And in this case, I am as guilty as any of them. I knew Sherlock had collected the crayfish and I have asked Mycroft to bring the hat with him and just when we entered the kitchen, you told us dinner was ready and I told him to wash his hands and not to mind the hat for the moment."
"And how did they end up in my bed then?"
"I do not know." the youngster stammered.
"I think I do," Sherlock remarked thoughtfully. "Your sleeping bench (2) was open because you have put away the laundry and I think Mycroft might have put it on the bench not seeing it was not closed."
"See, I told you, they did not do it purposely. I suggest we all give you a hand with searching for the stray creatures and then we go to bed again."
When next morning the sun rose to another beautiful summer day, Sherlock Holmes slipped out of bed and after having dressed, out of the house, taking the milk churn from its hook next to the cellar door to pick up their share of fresh milk.
Peter, the farmer's boy – and incidentally Kitty's brother helped him milk the cow, an uncomplaining creature only too happy to be relieved from her surplus of milk.
"You are getting quite good, little Imp." the good-natured boy said jovially.
"One day I am going to be a farmer." the child beamed at him, caressing the flank of the tan coloured Jersey cow.
"I don't think your uncle will be too pleased with your choice, Imp." Peter laughed. "I don't think you'll get away with spending your days in a farmyard. You'll be sent to school just like your brother and after that, you'll be too spoiled to be a farmer, let me tell you."
"But I don't want to go to school. I mean, I am going to school already, why should I go somewhere else?"
"Your uncle is a good teacher," the boy admitted, "but a decent boarding school is just not the same. I wish I could go to one. There is so much more to learn, Imp, so much more to see."
"Don't you want to be a farmer then?"
"I would like to be an explorer and travel through all the world." was the answer, that would busy the younger boy throughout the day.
The breakfast and his lessons passed in a blur and it was lucky he was quick on the uptake or else he would have been in trouble. But so, as soon as school (3) was finished, Sherlock dashed outside only to find his brother once again sitting in the grass with his nose stuck in a book.
"Why are you always reading?" he asked in exasperation. "Can we not ramble around the copse? I want to explore a bit."
"Sure." was the answer he had least expected, not knowing that his uncle had asked his brother, to spend a little more time with him, mainly because in his boredom the little tyke would get himself into constant trouble. "I've had enough of Latin for today."
"Why do you need to learn a language that no-one speaks anymore anyway? It's not as if it will ever help you ask for the way."
Mycroft only smiled at his brothers simple puerile logic. There was certainly something to it. But if only everything was that simple.
xxx
The week passed relatively peacefully, at least for the Holmes household and it was rather unlucky, that out of all people, it was Kitty, that was caught in yet another incident. During their rambles through the countryside, sometimes with other children, sometimes on their own, Mycroft had tried to acquaint his younger brother with the benefits of a good book and when they had retired that night, he had pulled out his chemistry book and while Sherlock listened in awe, Mycroft had explained a few of the experiments described there.
"And they really work?" he whispered keenly, eager to try them for himself.
"Yes, you can bet they do." Mycroft had answered sleepily, putting away the book and wrapping an arm around his brother, nuzzling the top of the boys head.
"You are the best brother in the world." the six-year-old mumbled, snuggling up to the tall teenager.
"And so are you, little one."
It was then, that they had come home, to find the maid baking a cake. And remembering the book from the night before, Sherlock had been rather keen on trying out if baking powder and vinegar really would make bubbles. In an unattended moment, he poured some of the powder into a cup and walked over to the larder to retrieve the necessary vinegar. Putting both down on the kitchen bench, which was more practical for him for its lower hight, he carefully poured a generous amount of vinegar into the cup. He had not needed to be so careful because as soon as the vinegar touched the sodium it hissed and a cascade of bubbles burst over the rim of the small vessel and seeped into the storage area below the seating.
"Oh-oh!" he muttered, pressing the palm of his hand over the opening. It worked for a short moment before the frothing substance quelled through between his fingers. And for sure, his uncle used exactly that moment to come into the kitchen.
He saw the sheepish face, the mess on the bench and the white bubbles protruding from the cup and in exasperation sank his face into his hands. Once more it did not do, he just could not help laughing. It was just impossible what the boy got into his head. - He vividly remembered the cloud of flour evaporating from the trumpet he signalled the end of the break with. They had then just moved in and in a bout of curiosity, the child had wanted to see what would happen if a powdery substance was blown from out of something. And coincidentally the something at hand had been said trumpet. Aldwin had found it necessary after that incident, to refrain from the afternoon lessons. When the children had returned, they had found a thoroughly perplexed though amused teacher and a white substance that covered half the schoolroom and all of the front of said teacher as the draught from the open door had blown the flour back at him.
xxx
At long last, the day of apple harvest had come and with it a days holiday. It was a sunny Friday and the sun rose once again to a glorious morning. Sherlock, as he did every morning had gone to get the milk from the farm across the field and as always had milked the cow himself. Excitedly he had told Peter about the upcoming apple harvest and Jack, the farm labourer had wished them good luck, as he was sure there would be a thunderstorm in the evening.
Sherlock, running home as quick as was possible with a milk churn brimming with cow warm milk, was greeted by his uncle, who, normally impeccably attired, wore a striped shirt with neither cuffs nor collar, but its sleeves rolled up, a pair of old and worn grey trousers held up by a pair of braces and neither shoes nor socks, and hence looking much like the little rascal facing him – just a lot taller and without a straw hat on his dark and unruly hair.
"Mycroft is already outside, bringing the baskets and crates out. Have you had anything to eat?"
"No, but I am not hungry. - And I can just as well eat an apple or two." his little face shone with excitement and anticipation.
"All right, then let's get going. Take some water, will you? It's getting hot again today. I'll take the ladder."
"Jack said there will be a thunderstorm tonight." the nephew remarked, lumbering into the laundry where he knew he would find a bucket. Pumping water into the zinc vessel, he watched Kitty get ready for wash day on Monday, soaking the dirty clothes the boys had left her with. Grumbling she acknowledged her nemesis, before returning to her thankless task. And the boy wondered how such a sour lass could have such a friendly brother. Perhaps the stork had erred and made the wrong delivery, he mused, giggling.
"What are you up to now?" a distrustful maid asked her hands deep in the water in the pewter kettle.
"Nothing." came the absent-minded reply, which did not help in settling the girl's uneasiness.
Aldwin Holmes had already leaned the long wooden ladder against their favourite apple tree and was about to climb up it, with one of the baskets and a hook to hang it up in the branches, while Mycroft still carried crate after crate out of the shed and onto the flower-strewn lawn, a daisy in his mouth.
"Ah, there you are." the young uncle smiled, amused at his red-faced nephew struggling with the heavy bucket.
They worked meticulously, trying to harvest even the last of the valuable apples and while Sherlock had climbed up with a small pannier strapped to his back, reaching for the fruits that otherwise would have been out of reach, his uncle kept to the ladder and the steadier branches, while Mycroft stayed comfortably on the ground, taking the filled baskets from the other two and dividing them equally into the crates. He had done as his uncle had suggested, laying out twelve of them of which three would go to said botanist, four to Mrs Nichols and five would be for them. When by ten in the morning the first tree was cleared of apples, Uncle Aldwin decided it was time for a break. It had gotten almost unbearably hot and the man shooed his nephews ahead of himself in the direction of the little running water.
"In with you!" he yelled, before jumping in himself with a big splash, splattering the boys with the cool liquid. Screeching they followed and soon were duly refreshed.
"Let's have a drink then. Did you bring a mug?"
Sherlock nodded his head, the water dripping off his hair.
"Good."
Dipping in the enamel cup the man took a big gulp, made a disgusted face, before spitting out the liquid in an impressive fountain.
"What's the matter?" Mycroft asked, perplexed.
"Your brother has managed to take the bucket in which Kitty cleans the chamber pots…" he trailed off, wiping his tongue on his shirt sleeve, but with a twinkle in his eye.
"Oh, Sherlock!" Mycroft laughed shaking his head, while his brother looked somewhat embarrassed.
Defiantly he lifted his chin, before stating, that it could have happened to anyone.
As morning turned into noon and noon into afternoon, the farm labourer was proven right, in his prediction. From afar the low rumble of thunder could be heard and as fast as they could, the three Master's Holmes carried back the crates into the shed, where they would be safe during the storm. They were just in time when the first drops of heavy rain pattered down on them.
xxx
The next morning, the air was clear and the sky as blue as could be. With a handcart and a wheelbarrow, Aldwin and the boys set off to deliver their due to their landlady, a stern woman of foreboding character. She had been fortunate enough, to inherit her father's estate, but unfortunate enough to marry a man without a title. The manor house was slightly run down now and from the ten servants, she had once employed only three were left as she liked the company of people less and less. Nonetheless, she did like to prove herself a benefactress and at the suggestion of the parson, Mr Whitwater, a man of kind and understanding disposition, had founded a small school (4). And young and promising Aldwin Holmes, stuck with the guardianship of his orphaned nephews, had applied for the position and had been immediately hired. That was little more than two years ago. It had also been her, who had recommended Kitty as their maid of all trades, making both Sherlock and Mycroft believe, that nothing good could ever come from this noble lady – patroness or not.
While the children had to wait outside, their uncle was forced to lay open the accounts. She came out herself to count the crates and indeed had the audacity to send back her footman to count the remaining crates. Well, really! Little Sherlock was steaming.
But if he thought that had been the worst, he was to be surprised. When they arrived home, the door to the shed, of which he knew had been closed when they had left, now stood ajar and one of the stacks of crates was missing two of them.
Irritated Uncle Aldwin creased his brows, while the footman left, assured the payment had been delivered in full to his mistress.
"This is most vexing!" Mr Holmes steamed.
"I am sure I have closed the door..." Mycroft stammered.
"Yes, I know you did, my boy. And even if you had not, it would not excuse the person taking the apples without asking!"
"Look, there is a footprint." Sherlock pointed at a faint imprint on the dusty ground.
"Could be mine." the uncle suggested, placing another print next to the suspicious one. It did not fit, however.
"It is not yours." the little boy stated matter of factly. So much so, that a grin crept across his proud uncle's handsome features. "And it cannot be Kitty's either because her feet are much smaller and she wears slippers and not boots."
"And you would see that how?" a stunned Mycroft enquired.
"Look, it had a rough sole, no slippers have soles like that. It is smaller than Uncle Aldwin's shoe print, but not by much," he explained, tracing his fingers around the imprints.
"I dare say, our little detective here is right."
"And what are we going to do now?" said detective asked, needing some guidance.
"We bring the other load over to the station and then have a nice cup of tea."
Grumbling the children obliged and six crates of apples were disposed at the station, five miles off. It was almost dinner time when the returned. Tired, dirty and hungry. But neither Sherlock nor his brother could resist the temptation of looking into the shed once again where the heinous crime of apple stealing had been committed.
Gazing into the semi-darkness, Mycroft caught his breath as he realised another crate had been taken.
"We need to do something!" he cried out.
"Yes, decidedly! But what?"
"I don't know. Let us sleep over it and in then morning we'll see."
"But what if there are no apples left in the morning?" Was the perhaps justified reply.
Both boys were unusually quiet during dinner, but Aldwin tired himself, thought nothing of it. They went to bed without complaining and after being tucked in began to set their plan into motion.
Sherlock, more familiar with the household than his brother, had managed to set aside some coal ash from the kitchen range and while he had hidden it in the laundry room, his gaze had fallen onto a small bottle. He knew Kitty used it for her hair, but when he had asked his uncle about it, he had answered with a smirk, that it could come in handy if he ever swallowed a penny and needed to retrieve it quickly. Slipping it into his pocket, he had returned to the kitchen just in time to avoid Kitty noticing him as he stepped out of the laundry.
Now he showed his prize to his snickering brother.
"You are a genius, Sherlock! Even if we don't catch the thief, he will still get his punishment. And Kitty never uses the apples without washing them, so we should be safe."
Slowly, and carefully they sneaked downstairs, taking the front door, as Kitty was still sitting up in the kitchen.
"Do you hear that?" Sherlock whispered.
"Is that Uncle Aldwin with her?" Mycroft looked shocked.
"No, I could hear his snoring."
"But who is it then?"
"How would I know? We can walk around the house and peek through the window if you really want to know. It might be Peter."
"He likes his sister as much as we like her." Mycroft truthfully declared, at which his brother shrugged his shoulders.
It was not Peter, it was Jack, the farmhand, that was with their maid.
"We need to tell Uncle." the elder stated with a trembling voice, while he held his hand in front of his brother's eyes.
"Because they are kissing?"
"Is there anything that escapes you?"
"Yes, a lot," Sherlock answered contritely, turning his head away from the window. "Mrs Brown had her baby and again I did not see any stork around here. And I thought I should have because it must be a rather big bird and..."
He had no idea why his brother had burst laughing. Mycroft was almost rolling on the floor, tears streaming down his face as he gasped for air.
"I fail to see, what is so funny!" the young child exclaimed in exasperation.
"You'll know eventually."
Carefully they opened the creaky door to the shed and with a little brush from Sherlock's watercolours, they dripped a bit of the castor oil into the small depression at the top of the apple where the stem sat and watched it seep into the core.
"Are we not going to do all the apples?" the sneaky rascal asked when his brother put the stopper back into the bottle.
"No, I think this one crate should be enough. After all, we want to eat from them as well..." his older brother answered.
"But did you not say, Kitty, washes the apples?"
"Yes, but I did not think that the oil would actually seep through the stem and into the apple itself. We now need to be very careful, not to mix them up. I think we better tell Uncle as well."
"And Kitty?"
A naughty grin crossed both brothers faces as they decided against that option. After emptying the ash bin in the shed, to reveal more footprints with its aid, they left for bed.
They, however, had not needed to worry, as the next morning another two crates were gone.
"We have now lost five crates of apples," Aldwin Holmes told his nephews. He was not so much angry as sad at the betrayal of trust towards his fellow creatures.
At the revelation of his nephews, however, an almost evil smirk appeared on his face.
"Remind me, never to meddle with you two." he laughed, back to his old cheerful self. "I dare say, you have made for a very juicy punishment. - Literally."
He hurried the boys on to get into decent clothing as service would begin in half an hour. They had just sat down, Kitty in the pew of her family, when Peter came in, looking frightened.
"I am sorry, to just barge in, but I think we might have a case of cholera on our farm. I cannot stay, but I must ask everybody who gets their milk from us, to throw it out." he gasped.
A murmur went through the small village church, and just Aldwin Holmes was smiling slyly.
"And who has taken ill?" he asked.
"Jack Tull."
Kitty gasped, before excusing herself as she felt quite queasy, too.
"He had not coincidentally eaten any apples this morning?"
"I think he did..." Peter stammered, appearing confused. "I saw him cross the yard with an apple in his mouth. And I wondered where he had got it from since we have not yet harvested ours."
"I thought as much. There is no need for anybody to throw out their milk. And why is that, Sherlock?"
The boy beamed up to him: "Because he is a thief!"
xxx
The holidays came to a close, and in two days, Mycroft Holmes would return to school. Both boys and their uncle sat around a smouldering fire, each a stick in their hands which held a potato.
"You know what?" Sherlock Holmes asked, at which the other two shook their heads. "I think I would like to be a detective when I am all grown up," he announced.
A. N.: This story was inspired by my son, who already is a great Sherlock Holmes -Fan and the only reason he does not want to become a detective when grown up, is that he thinks in order to be one, he would need to live in London. Bless him!
Anyway, this year for carnival he insisted on going dressed up as his idol and I have put a lot of work into his costume. When he tried it on the other day, my mother in law asked, who would be Watson and I answered her, that the two only met in their twenties at which my husband remarked, that at seven Sherlock would in all likeliness not have been a detective…
At which I thought: Hm, what if he was?
This is the result and I hope you have enjoyed it.
It would be great if you could leave me a comment.
(1) As in the 1860ies, flushing toilets were rare and especially out of town, using the outhouse during the night would have been rather unpleasant. Chamberpots were in common use, they would be emptied out in the morning and then cleaned – that is, why Sherlock finds them in the laundry room, as that room usually had a water pump. In this case, the chamber pot would have been one with a lid, explaining, why the maid had not seen the frogs when putting away the pot.
(2) Servants often slept in the kitchen. As the house Aldwin Holmes and his nephews live in is quite tiny, this will apply to their maid. A sleeping bench is a bench which converts to a bed at night and otherwise is used as a bench during the day. Usually, it has a compartment underneath the seating, where the bedding and nightclothes are stored away.
(3) It might seem odd, that Mycroft is home for his holidays, while Sherlock still has his lessons, but holidays were not regulated as they are today, neither from their length nor from when they took place and so the time off could vary from school to school. As Aldwin Holmes obviously teaches in a village school, the holidays there would normally fall into the harvest and planting season, whereas boarding schools would have their main holiday during the summer months and a week or two over Christmas.
(4) In the 1860ies, education was deemed a privilege of the noble and wealthy. Some of these people though thought that the ability to read and write would also be beneficial for the not so fortunate classes and so some of them set up small schools, paying for them out of their own funds. The pay Aldwin Holmes would have received would have been barely enough to sustain himself – but it would have included the living. But as the Holmes family has a noble background and obviously some financial means, he can afford this meagre job for the sake of the children.