"In Bloomsbury, at the residence of her husband, Reginald Barker CONSTANCE JANE RILEY BARKER, aged 33 years, 7 months and 18 days, after a distressing and brief illness found eternal rest. Her death created a melancholy void to her husband, her children and many affectionate relationships [...]"
15 January 1879 edition of The Times
"Have you any plans for today?"
Molly looked up in surprise. She set down her pen and turned from the letter she was composing to her brother in order to face her husband who was bouncing on his toes in the doorway. Dr. Watson stood behind him; eyes closed and hand to his forehead as if he was struck with a sudden headache.
Molly had long since resigned to living separate and parallel lives with her husband, him going out of his way to speak to her, especially making small talk, was very uncommon. The back parlor was her domain just as the study and laboratory were his. He had never visited before. "Nothing pressing."
His face broke into a grin, completely transforming his normally stiff visage. "Excellent. We have a funeral to attend."
Molly's mouth dropped. His joyous expression was completely at odds with his statement. "A funeral? For whom?"
Sherlock flitted his hand, as if batting her question away. "The funeral is in three hours. I've already sent for the milliner for mourning attire, as you have none in your wardrobe. They should be here within the hour. Speed is of the essence; we need to be as unobtrusive as possible. Being late will just draw attention…"
He left the room muttering to himself about possible routes and hackneys to take them to Bloomsbury.
Molly followed him with his eyes before turning to Dr. Watson. "Who died?"
Dr. Watson collapsed in the light blue armchair nearest her, earning a raised eyebrow from his best friend's wife. "A client came to us claiming that her daughter was murdered by her husband. It's her funeral."
Molly half rose from her desk chair in alarm, causing Dr. Watson to reflexively leap to his feet. "Oh my goodness! She should contact the police. How on earth can an amateur puzzle solver help her?"
"She has no evidence besides instinct, the police won't open up an inquiry. She hired Sherlock to find evidence to convince the police to investigate." The former army doctor tipped his head to the side. "Officially, I should say. Chances are Sherlock will have the case wrapped up and will just hand it over to them for prosecution."
"Can, can Mr. Holmes do that? Find evidence for a police investigation?"
"If the mother is right, Sherlock will find the evidence," Dr. Watson assured.
Two hours later Molly was draped in ebony crepe, her face obscured by a similarly colored veil and sitting in a hired carriage with her twitchy husband. She bit her lip and tried to contain her own desire to fidget. Ladies did not squirm or show nervousness. Also, her husband had already snapped at her once for fidgeting. Apparently while his was helpful to his 'process' her own was annoying and distracting.
It wasn't her fault that crepe was a very loud fabric that amplified her most subtle movements.
She brushed the curtain aside to look out at the very slowly passing shops. The congestion in the streets was even worse than to what she was accustomed.
"You have questions, out with it."
Molly tore her eyes from two arguing men outside the butcher's shop and looked up. "Why am I coming with you instead of Dr. Watson?"
It wasn't the only question she had but it was certainly the most pressing one. From what she had gleaned from Mrs. Hudson and Mary, she knew that John Watson and Sherlock Holmes rarely went any place besides their homes and sometimes Dr. Watson's medical practice without the other. The reason that Dr. Watson was happily on his way home for a relaxing day and she was accompanying her husband to a funeral of a possible murder victim was beyond her.
Her husband cocked one of his bushy eyebrows at her. "Obvious I would think. I need to keep a low profile. My…interests are not exactly secret. If I should show up on my own or with John, it could raise suspicion. Here, I am not an investigator but a dutiful husband supporting his wife in her time of distress."
Mrs. Holmes' brow furrowed in confusion. "Am I supposed to perpetuate this charade by acting distressed at this funeral?"
"Oh, I am reasonably certain you will not need to act. Your softhearted nature-"
Only her husband could make empathy sound like a disease.
"-Coupled with the fact that you are familiar with Mrs. Barker will no doubt lead to a satisfactory display of grief."
Molly mouthed 'Mrs. Barker' to herself as she tried to think of any acquaintance by that name. "Constance Barker?"
Sherlock hummed in agreement.
"Constance Barker has been murdered." Surely she had to be wrong. People she knew were not murdered, it was just unfathomable.
"Possibly," Sherlock conceded before cracking his neck absentmindedly.
Molly took a deep breath and sat back heavily against the seat. Murdered.
She hadn't spent much time with Constance after her marriage to Reginald Barker, a wealthy physician. When she was still Constance Riley, Molly counted her as a close acquaintance. They, along with Molly's cousin, attended the same ladies' literary clubs and shared similar societal views. Molly hadn't talked or thought of Constance in years. With Constance marrying below her station and becoming a mother and Molly slowly becoming a spinster, their social circles gradually became separate. Molly never dreamed when she awoke this morning she would be attending her funeral.
"Ah, we're here. Just in time too," Sherlock said, peering out the window. A collection of empty coaches was gathered outside the Barkers' Bloomsbury home, waiting for the coffin to be placed upon the hearse and the funeral procession to begin. Their row house was quite an ordinary dingy gray, nothing about it suggested it was the site of something as gruesome as a murder.
Molly shivered as she caught sight of the restless ostrich plumed black horses harnessed to the hearse. The foot attendants had already broke into the gin and were freely imbibing as they milled about waiting for the processional and their roles to begin. Looking back up at the Barkers' house, she suddenly felt like an outsider, a voyeur on this family's grief. Fingertips brushing her arm brought her attention away from the milieu and back to her husband.
Sherlock opened the door and quickly alighted, turning to help her from the carriage. In contrast to the excitable energy he displayed in the carriage he looked the picture of solemn mourner, from his stern expression to the jet crepe band on his top hat. Dread filled Molly as she grabbed his hand and stepped down onto the slushy pavement. This felt wrong. Surely it would be more decent to wait until after the funeral to investigate. She was fairly sure that there was no way to stop Constance from being interred today, even if they could find evidence. Surely it would be better to not intrude but wait.
The door opened before they could knock, causing the black beribboned yew wreath to swing precariously on its hook. The butler bowed slightly as Sherlock handed them their invitation before taking off his hat. "The procession shall begin as soon as the family has greeted everyone, sir," he said.
Sherlock nodded as he ushered Molly into the throng of people who had already arrived. He bent close to Molly to whisper in her ear, "We don't have much time. I am going to look around, wait in the queue for me."
His hot breath caused Molly to shiver, her veil the only thing separating his lips and her ears. "A-all right," she agreed. With that, he was gone leaving her to wait to make her condolences.
Molly tried to act casual as she stood in wait. She scanned the crowd, hoping to see a familiar face with whom she could talk. Their social circles weren't too dissimilar, surely there would be someone she knew, if only to make mundane conversation. All she saw were pale, drawn unfamiliar faces.
People with the same distinctive nose as Constance sat on divans and chairs, red eyed and stiff. A teenager with Constance's grey eyes stood stiffly by his mother. Molly's eyes began to burn upon seeing their genuine grief.
She was never very good at disassociating with the living.
Molly sniffed and turned her attention to the landscape on the wall, studying its pastel colors and composition in an attempt to distract herself and regain some control.
Her breath caught as she noticed the scribbled signature in the corner. C. Riley 1869. How did she not know that Constance painted? It wasn't an expert landscape by any means, Molly could easily see where certain aspects just weren't quite right, but it was still quite lovely if only for the use of colors.
A slight cough behind her caught her attention. Oh the line had moved without her. She whispered her apologies and quickly closed the gap between her and the mourner before her.
The closer she drew to the grieving family the more dread started to set in. She was sure that she would say something stupid or give away the reason she was truly here. Molly couldn't claim to be entirely comfortable in the most typical of social occasions, let alone in more uncommon ones.
Molly desperately tried to think of memories of Constance that she could share with her family as she gave her condolences. To let them know that she remembered their wife, daughter, and sister. For some reason, all she could remember was Constance's love of Jane Eyre: An Autobiography. She had begged it off a married friend and constantly chattered about it. She even loaned it to Molly with a sly smile so that she too could indulge in the gothic novel and admire Jane's audacity.
Molly groaned, surely sharing the deceased's love of improper books was not the correct memory to share. Especially considering its infamous and ridiculous reputation as a book that espoused anti-Christian views.
She was seriously considering faking a faint once she realized she was next when she felt a presence behind her. "Oh thank the Lord," she muttered when she turned around to see her husband standing next to her.
Sherlock shot her a surprised look before turning to offer their condolences to the gathered family.
He was a rather brilliant actor. Truly. He should have taken up acting as a hobby instead of mysteries. Though honestly both were equally inappropriate.
When he told her that he was going to play the dutiful husband she did not expect him to do so to such a degree that he did. She expected that he would offer his condolences on their behalf, claiming she was too distraught to convey them properly herself. She even accepted his less than complimentary insinuations of the weakness of her sex.
However she did not anticipate him finding her a spot to sit and fetching her a plate from the buffet, fussing over her like a mother hen. When she hesitated in taking part in the light lunch provided, he knelt down and entreated her to eat, to the approving looks of those around them.
Molly was so flabbergasted that she ate without any more encouragement.
If she was being honest, Molly wished that he would cease his shamming. She would rather prefer his genuine neglect to his false interest. At least then she would know what his thoughts were towards her. Honestly, if she were an outside observer, Molly thought that she would have been pulled in by his act.
The moment they were back in the carriage and the door was shut, Sherlock shut his eyes, his act done and disregarded. Molly sighed as she closed the covering of the windows as they waited to join the funeral procession. It was entirely probable that he would disappear into his mind for hours. She only hoped he would emerge in time for the funeral. She had no idea how to rouse him, or if he could be roused, from his so called 'mind palace.'
Her husband's quiet mutterings combined with the barely perceptible swaying of the coach began to lull her to sleep. The darkened interior was certainly doing her no favors. Her fingers itched to pull up the blinds and watch London pass them by for want of a distraction. Whoever thought that closed blinds during funeral processions were de rigeur had obviously never been to a funeral in the city. Even with people making way for them, eager to avoid any brush with death no matter how minor, they would still be cloistered for at least an hour.
After exhausting her favored mental exercises, Molly finally gave in to her urge. She leaned against the side of the carriage and closed her eyes. She was still on the edge of wakefulness, her thoughts slippery when she heard Sherlock mutter, "Finally."
She opened her eyes to see her husband peeking through the blinds. Molly only caught a fleeting glance but it was enough to see that they had finally pulled into Kensal Green, resting place of many of London's notables.
Sherlock leapt from the carriage the moment it came to a stop some fifteen minutes later. He held out his hand to help her down from the carriage. "It'll be a silver crown for you if you wait," he called to the driver.
"'Course, guv," the driver replied with a grin and tip of his hat.
Sherlock nodded at the driver before placing Molly's hand on his arm. They walked sedately down the gravel path joining the growing crowd of mourners who were murmuring and bobbing about like a murder of crows. Molly snorted lightly at the unfortunate wording given the circumstances. Sherlock patted her hand, giving her a curious look. Molly shook her head, glad for her veil, and turned her attention to her surroundings.
In the warmer months, the greenery and shade obscured the collection of white marble and lent the cemetery an almost fae atmosphere. In the dead of winter, the trees void of life and snow clinging to the ground it wasn't hard to remember the macabre nature of the area.
The white Doric chapel loomed ahead, the stained glass twinkling through the doors above the altar the only splash of color to be seen. As soon as they entered, Sherlock steered her towards the back of the crowd, obscuring her view of the service.
Molly was stuck between her husband and a rather over large man to her right who kept repeatedly sniffing. Molly was still debating whether or not it would be appropriate to offer up her handkerchief to the irritating sniffler so that he may blow his nose when the service began.
It was a relatively short funeral, devoid of a communion service, for which Molly was grateful. Her position at the back of the chapel meant that she could not see what little was going on, her view taken up by a sea of black, no matter how she shifted. The vicar doled out platitudes that Molly was sure she had heard before at other funerals. The eulogies were long but devoid of any meaningful sentiment. Molly hoped that when the Lord saw fit that she should enter His kingdom that her surviving relatives didn't fall into cliché. Short and personal was her preference, not long flowery language which painted the deceased as an almost deity, devoid of any fault.
As soon as the final prayers and blessings were uttered, Sherlock was gone from her side. Molly didn't notice his leaving until she turned to take his arm.
Molly tried to find him in the crowd but her petite stature prevented her. She shuffled out of the chapel with the rest of the mourners, intent on waiting outside for her husband to emerge. The women were already breaking off into small groups to make the journey back to the coaches to wait. Only the men were to witness the internment.
Personally, Molly thought it was bizarre that women were not allowed to attend. It wasn't as if the body would be on display for all to see or that they didn't know what exactly was going to happen at an interment. She was pondering the possible reasons why women were not allowed to observe when she heard someone softly call her name. Molly forgot all about waiting for her husband as she looked for the person calling her name.
Sarah Sawyer emerged from the crowd and gave her a weak smile as she made her way over to her.
"I was unaware that you knew Constance," Molly greeted
"We're cousins. Our mothers are sisters," Sarah supplied as she took Molly's arm. Molly followed her lead and joined the rest of the women on their way back to the carriages.
"Oh my, I had no idea. I'm so sorry for your loss. My cousin was good friends with Constance before she passed. I knew her from the literary gatherings she would beg me to attend before she became too ill. I felt it was only right to pay my respects since Joanna could not."
"We weren't very close," Sarah admitted. "We were as children but we grew apart after her marriage. Her husband forbade our interaction. Thought I would be a bad influence. We still exchanged letters when we had the chance but you know horrible I am at remembering to return correspondence."
Molly gave her a sympathetic smile. Molly did not have a large family, Joanna had been her only cousin before she succumbed to tuberculosis, but she would be loath to lose the family she did have.
"Congratulations. On your marriage. Quite the coup to land yourself the son of a peer," Sarah said as they walked arm and arm down the white gravel pathway riddled with black pieces of crepe that had come off due to the slush.
"Indeed, I am quite fortunate," Molly said, parroting the phrase she used so often during her engagement when she was besieged by incredulous well-wishers.
There wasn't really anything else to say. She was not about to admit the dissatisfaction she had with her marriage or her jealousy that she did not possess the forward thinking parents that Sarah did.
"We were grieved to see you leave. And lost. We have no one to beg answers off of and certainly no one with enough patience to explain things. My marks have gone down substantially!"
Molly let out a strained laugh. "Oh honestly, Sarah! You make it sound as if you were a dunce when I know for certain that you had better marks than I in almost half of our classes!"
"I wonder how your father even found out?" Sarah contemplated aloud. "You'd think if he didn't notice during the first two years, he certainly wouldn't in the third!"
"Lord Brackley, my brother in law," Molly clarified after noticing Sarah's baffled look, "told him during marriage negotiations. Father was furious. And embarrassed, I think, because he never noticed. He recalled my brother from Bristol to dress him down in person. He even sold my books."
Sarah gasped softly. "Molly, I'm so sorry. I wish there was something I could have done."
Molly shrugged. "There was nothing to do. Father threatened to cut Theodore off if he helped me and I had no way to support myself. My life isn't so horrible, boring but not horrible. Theodore replaced all my books as a wedding present. My husband is not a cruel man. I am more fortunate than not."
Sarah nodded in understand. "More lucky than Constance. She loved Reggie but I don't think he felt the same for her."
"Really?" They slowed down, creating even more distance between themselves and the other women for privacy.
Sarah shot her a guilty look. "I won't go into details, it's not my place, but he was indiscreet in dishonoring his marriage vows. Rumor is the governess had to resign because she was with his child. He also had a propensity for gambling if family gossip is to be believed. He wasn't all bad," Sarah hastened to add. "He apparently was quite vigilant about his family's health. Always alert to any maladies that plagued them. I overheard Constance telling my mother about how he favored dosing the family and himself with tartar emetic at the slightest indication of irregularity."
"He is a credit to his profession to be so vigilant," Molly murmured.
She occasionally wondered how she would feel if Sherlock employed a mistress. Though for all of her money, her family's values were firmly middle class and one did not take on a mistress. Her mother warned her that the peerage was different and to turn a blind eye to any of her husband's indiscretions. Though if Sherlock had any indiscretions he was certainly very good at being discrete. Molly couldn't imagine Sherlock being unfaithful. Not for any love of their marriage vows, though despite his misbehavior by and large he was quite the gentleman, but he seemed even more disinterested in the physical aspect of their marriage than he was in the emotional one. Surely, it would be more convenient to have a wife than a mistress and one thing Molly knew well about her husband was just how slothful he could be. Why, if they happened to be in the same room and a servant was needed, she was the one to ring for them, as he would refuse to move!
Molly glanced over her shoulder at the sound of quick heavy footsteps approaching. Her eyes widened when she saw her husband walking swiftly towards them, an excited gleam in his eye. She had assumed that he was staying for the internment with the rest of the gentlemen.
"Molly?" Sarah questioned, turning to see what caught her companion's attention. "Oh."
Sherlock's eyes flitted over Sarah, as they did every time he encountered someone, before turning to her. Clearly Sarah was not worth his time.
"Oh, um, Miss Sawyer, allow me to introduce my husband, Mr. Holmes; Mr. Holmes, Miss Sawyer. We studied together for a time."
Sherlock gave a curt bow in response to Sarah's bobbed curtsey. "A pleasure. Pardon the interruption, ladies, but I need to see my wife home."
"Of course," Sarah agreed. "Perhaps when you have time Molly, I might be able to pay you a call?"
"When I have time? Oh my dear, I think your time constraints are presently more pressing than mine."
Sarah squeezed Molly's hand fondly before taking her leave.
Sherlock wordlessly offered his wife his arm. They returned to their waiting couch in silence. The journey to Baker Street was much quicker then the journey to Kensal Green, the driver rushing as quickly as possible through the crowded London streets at Sherlock's urging.
Sherlock jumped out of the carriage the moment it stopped, just barely managing to stay still long enough to assist her. As soon as he paid the driver he called out to one of the few street urchins that lingered around their doorstep. Molly had never seen such a gathering of unfortunate children until she moved to Baker Street. Her family home on Cavendish Square had no such characters milling about.
"Take this to the Yard as quick as you can," her husband said, handing the boy a note and a coin. "Give this to Lestrade and only Lestrade, understood?"
The boy grinned wildly, showing off his two emerging front teeth.
Sherlock watched the boy disappear into the crowd for a second before turning to escort her indoors.
Bentley opened the door as soon as they came to the stoop, whisking away their outerwear in as quick and efficient a fashion that only butlers could employ.
Molly was halfway up the stairs intent on changing out of her ghastly uncomfortable dress when her husband's voice stopped her.
"Molly," he said in a questioning tone, as if studying how his mouth formed the syllables of her name.
"Yes?" she replied, turning to look at him.
Sherlock's head was cocked to the side. Her husband was studying her the way he only did once before, on their first meeting almost four months ago in her family's drawing room. He didn't say anything for the first few minutes, choosing to look fixedly on her as if trying to learn all her secrets.
"You look more like a Molly than a Mary. It suits you. Childhood moniker?"
Molly's mind went blank for a moment in surprise. She was unsure of what she was expecting, but it certainly was not that. "Yes, my nanny used to call me that. She said I reminded her of her sister."
"It's more common among the lower classes. Your parents did not like the connotation."
"Yes. Well, no. I mean, when I made my bow my parents insisted on calling me Mary but beforehand it was always Molly."
Sherlock broke eye contact, his eyes darting to the side as if filing the information away. He walked away without a word towards his study, nodding to himself.
Molly sighed and continued climbing the stairs.
Nothing. Nothing! That damnable idiot found nothing!
Sherlock threw the autopsy report against the door. When that did not make a suitable enough noise, he hurled an ugly statue of a bulldog he received as a wedding present against it as well.
There. Much more satisfying.
Reginald Barker showed all the evidence of murdering his wife. His over the top display of grief, his guilt around his children, the avoidance of his mother in law, the sudden dismissal of a pregnant governess, the way he put on his gloves! All of it pointed to the fact that Constance Barker's end was not natural.
She was exhumed from her grave almost immediately the dirt not even given time to settle. Lestrade made it clear that he did not like the idea of exhuming Mrs. Barker, especially because her husband quite vehemently objected. Only once Sherlock hunted down the currently unemployed governess and gained her confession to her adulterous affair did Lestrade relent.
There were at least ten theories racing through his head but he needed more data before he could settle on one. Data he did not have because Nigel Anderson was an idiot. He was unworthy to work in the field of police work, let alone that of deduction! The magistrate refused to issue a search warrant until Constance Barker's manner of death could be ascertained and Anderson determined there was no foul play, baring him from gaining further access to the Barker residence.
Sherlock let out a cry of frustration as he hurdled his glass against a wall. All of this work for nothing!
"Mr. Holmes! What on earth is going on?"
Sherlock whirled around to see his wife standing in the doorway. Her alert eyes contrasted with the sage green dressing gown that was hastily thrown over her nightclothes. Her hair was bound in a thick braid that peeked out from the thick lace of her robe.
His eyes flicked to the clock. Three in the morning. Later than he had thought.
"Anderson is an idiot."
"I beg your pardon?"
"An idiot! A moron! A buffoon! A doddy!" He ran his hands through his hair in frustration.
"Mr. Anderson would be…"
"A man who calls himself a coroner but I wouldn't be surprised if the closest he came to working with the human body would be-" Sherlock cut himself off. It was quite obvious that Anderson enjoyed the employ of women of disrepute but he was not going to say so in front of his wife. "Whoever trained that man, if anyone, should have any sort of licensure removed as he was clearly not up to the task."
He threw himself down on the couch. Wasted. All of the time wasted and he will not know how Barker did it. Damn Anderson! And damn the magistrate too! He knew Barker did it, he just didn't know how.
"Oh leave it," he said when he heard the rustling of paper. A servant will pick it up in the morning, no need for her to do it. Last thing he needed was for her to read the report and become distraught. He had no patience for feminine histrionics. Medicine had no room for whatever delightfully asinine euphemism society created this week for body parts in its spare time.
Oh his mind was becoming slippery! It always did in the dark of the night when he had deprived himself of sleep. It had only been three days; there was no reason for him to be so exhausted as he was now. He should close his eyes and think. That will get his mind back on track. Sherlock just needed to focus on the work. To just think…
"Is there no chemical report?"
"What?" Sherlock asked. He was surprised when he opened his eyes to see the hazy gray light of dawn.
"I said, is there no chemical report?"
He twisted away from the back of the sofa to see Molly sitting by the fire, the pages of the report placed in neat little piles around her and his notebook on her lap. There was soot on her dressing gown from where she had poked the dying fire inexpertly with the fire iron. Her hair, which had been falling out earlier, was pulled in a tight and messy bun low on her head. Sherlock blinked at her. What on earth was she doing? How long had he been asleep? He sat up, a blanket pooling at his lap. Sherlock touched it for a moment, where had this come from?
"I am merely inquiring because her symptoms and the physical evidence suggest the possibility of aconite or antimonial poisoning. It doesn't look like arsenic, if the tongue is truly flesh colored. However without a chemical report I can't say for certain. The damage to the liver and gastrointestinal lining," Molly paused to shift through the papers, "do seem to point to antimony. Aconite doesn't seem likely for surely someone would have noticed signs of paralysis, don't you think? In the interest of honesty, Miss Sawyer mentioned earlier about how Dr. Barker was fond of antimonial cures. That gave me a nudge in that direction. I say, Mr. Holmes are you all right?"
For the first time since he could remember his mind was completely empty without any help whatsoever from the poppy plant. He was aware that his mouth was hanging open like a dead fish but he could not seem to be able to shut it. For a moment he thought that there was a possibility that he might still be dreaming. "What?"
Thanks to the-keeper-of-the-key for beta-ing!
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