Chapter Six

The faint but unmistakable sound of a child in distress broke through Sherlock's dream and he was instantly awake. Molly had heard it too and was lifting the duvet to roll out of bed but he put out a hand to forestall her.

'I'll go. You need your rest,' he mumbled, his voice gruff from sleep, as he slipped out of bed and padded across the floor, lifting his dressing gown from the hook behind the door as he passed. Mounting the stairs, two at a time, as the wailing grew louder with proximity, he turned right at the top and was at Violet's bedside in a few strides.

He could see her, in the dim illumination from the nightlight, sitting up in bed with tendrils of hair, damp from sweat, plastered to her forehead. Even before his hand touched her skin, he could feel the heat radiating from her.

'Dad-dee,' she whimpered, pitifully, raising her arms to be lifted up. 'My mouse is shore.'

Sherlock scooped her up and sat down on the bed with her in his lap.

'Where does it hurt?' he asked and Violet opened her mouth wide and pointed to the gum at the back, bottom left.

Sherlock peered in at the place where she pointed but couldn't really see anything in the faint light from the conch shell night lamp.

'Let me feel,' he said, gently inserting a finger into her mouth and rubbing the tip lightly over the surface of the offending gum – and feeling the ridge of an erupting molar, just below the surface, intent on breaking through.

This was familiar territory for a seasoned dad. When Violet had first begun teething, Sherlock had paced the floor boards with the grizzling infant night after night, while she chewed on a frozen wet flannel to relieve the pain and heat in her protesting gums. The high fever was an added complication but a bottle of sugar-free Calpol in the cupboard downstairs would soon deal with that. Picking up the summer blanket from the floor, where Violet had presumably kicked it in her restless sleep, he wrapped it loosely around the child and carried her against his shoulder, down the stairs to the kitchen, talking reassuringly all the way.

As father and daughter entered the midnight kitchen, Redbeard struggled out of his bed and waddled across the floor, rudely awoken by these unexpected night-time visitors but pleased to see them, nonetheless. Sherlock reached down and ruffled the dog's ears, affectionately, as he crossed to the far side of the room, opened the up-and-over door of one of the eye-level wall cupboards and scanned for the bottle of Calpol. He found it in a plastic storage box, along with all the other medicines, kept well out of the sight and reach of inquisitive small children. He plucked it out and closed the door before perching Violet on the work top in front of him, freeing up both hands to remove the bottle from its cardboard carton, give it a good shake and measure a 5 ml dose into the plastic spoon provided.

'Open wide,' he prompted and Violet obliged, closing her lips around the spoon, and swallowing the strawberry flavoured liquid gratefully.

'Dink ob water, Daddy,' she pleaded, pushing the damp hair back off her forehead with both hands, fingers spread like starfish; gazing, beseechingly, at him with huge, luminous eyes, guaranteed to melt any father's heart.

'Of course, darling girl,' he cooed, gathering her up off the work top and returning the Calpol to its place in the cupboard before crossing to the kitchen sink to drop the plastic spoon onto the draining board and reach for one of Violet's colourful feeder cups, standing upside down in the drainer. He half-filled the cup from the water filter jug and fitted the spouted lid before handing it to her.

Bringing it to her lips, Violet took several big swallows before lowering the cup and offering it back to him.

'Fantoo, Daddy,' she whispered, and snuggled back into his shoulder.

Crisis managed, Sherlock gazed distractedly around the room - and spotted Redbeard standing patiently by the Utility Room door, glancing back over his shoulder at his master, clearly indicating a wish to go outside for a comfort break. Sherlock obliged, opening the intervening doors, and following the dog out into the night garden.

Standing barefoot in the middle of the lawn, with Violet resting in his arms and Redbeard snuffling about in the flowerbeds, seeking a suitable spot to pee or poo – or maybe both - Sherlock closed his eyes and tilted his chin towards the sky, with the cool breeze fanning his cheeks and the cold dew drenching his feet. It was a warm night, and the temperature in the garden was further boosted by the residual heat of the day radiating off the brick walls of the house. Opening his eyes again, his attention was drawn to the huge golden orb just appearing over the rooftops of the houses behind – a super moon, without a doubt.

Such was the effect of light pollution in London, or any urban area, for that matter, that the stars in the night sky were rarely visible to the naked eye; but over to the East, one object was shining brightly – a tiny pinpoint of light but steady, not twinkling, so not a star but a planet - the Planet Venus, if he wasn't very much mistaken. And looking to the West, a slightly bigger steady point of light – Jupiter - could be seen alongside a blurry mass of objects which he recognised as The Pleiades or Seven Sisters, an open star cluster in the constellation of Taurus.

Sherlock gave a low rumbling chuckle, imagining how surprised John Watson would be to see him standing here, star-gazing, in the middle of the night. And how even more surprised his friend would be to learn that he could recognise and name individual planets and constellations. It was truly remarkable what a man could learn from his own children…

The touch of a cold wet nose on his bare calf brought Sherlock's attention back to the here and now. Retracing his steps to the house, with Redbeard trotting on ahead - bound for bed - he closed and locked the back door, wiped his wet feet on the coir mat in the Utility Room, and made his way through the house, closing doors behind him as he went; mounting two flights of stairs to Violet's room, he returned the now sleeping child to her boat bed and covered her loosely with the summer blanket. Bending low to drop a soft kiss on her forehead – already noticeably cooler to the touch – he left the room as quietly as he had come and returned to his own bed.

ooOoo

The next morning, Violet was still feeling the ill-effects of her emerging molar and was rather clingy, to say the least. It was decided that a quiet Sunday at home would be best for her. William was more than happy to comply. A day spent doing next to nothing was the perfect antidote to the previous two weeks, which had been extremely hectic.

'I don't mind taking Freddie to rehearsal if you'd rather stay home,' Sherlock offered but Molly reminded him of the conversation she needed to have with Miss Simone; and they had already agreed that she was the best person for that job.

'Also, I think I can guess who Violet would prefer to spend the day with,' Molly commented, eying their youngest child, cradled in her father's arms. So, it was settled. Sherlock would take the dual role of nurse maid and chef du jour, and Molly would go and do battle with the ballet teacher.

ooOoo

Mother and son arrived at the dance school fifteen minutes earlier than scheduled, in the hope of catching Miss Simone alone. What they found was a very sparsely populated Reception Area and Miss Margo at her usual post, at the desk. Freddie took himself off into the changing room to get into his dance uniform and Molly approached the Guardian Gatekeeper and coughed politely to gain her attention. As ever, Miss Margo took her time finishing what she was writing before looking up.

'Yes, Mrs Holmes?' she asked, eventually.

'Good afternoon, Miss Margo,' Molly replied, smiling politely, 'I was wondering if I might have a word with Miss Simone before the afternoon rehearsal?'

'My niece is on her lunch break, at the moment,' Miss Margo replied, peering sternly down her nose at Molly. 'She's very busy, you know, and this is the only time in the day she gets to herself.'

Molly nodded her appreciation of Miss Simone's hard work and dedication and need for occasional breaks but she was not to be deterred.

'I will take up as little of her time as possible,' she assured the Gatekeeper – who was seriously living up to the nickname Sherlock had assigned to her.

Miss Margo hardened her glare but Molly was not to be put off. She smiled in return but with a steely determination. After a few moments of intense eye contact, it was Miss Margo who blinked.

'Oh, very well,' the old woman huffed, wriggling off her high chair and dropping to the floor. 'I'll go and see if she's finished her lunch. You wait here,' she added, over her shoulder, as she scurried off down the corridor to Studio One. It was the first time Molly had ever seen Miss Margo desert her post at the reception desk. By the looks on the faces of the one or two other parents present, it was a first for them too.

As Molly waited for the old lady to return, she reflected on Miss Margo's propensity for rudeness. Notwithstanding the fact that the school was entirely dependent on the fees paid for lessons to finance its activities, the woman invariably treated all the parents, guardians and carers with the utmost disdain. She had elevated discourtesy to a veritable art form.

After a brief pause, the sound of Miss Margo chuntering to herself could be heard, alerting all to the fact that she was returning. She appeared in the doorway and gave Molly a disparaging look then approached the reception desk and hauled herself back into the high chair. Once resettled in her usual spot, she gave a dismissive wave in the direction of the corridor and said,

'She will see you, now.'

Molly nodded her thanks and set off down the corridor in the direction of Studio One.

She was not looking forward to this encounter at all. Molly disliked conflict of any kind and went out of her way to avoid it, preferring to defuse situations before they became confrontational. Also, unlike Sherlock and Marie, who had been the principal interfaces between the school and the family, she had barely spoken to Miss Simone, other than to thank her for her work with Freddie and to accept the teacher's compliments for her son's achievements. The dance teacher had always presented as the very epitome of deference and courtesy but, as she approached the door to the studio, Molly could not help but wonder whether there might be a bit of Miss Margo lurking behind that genteel façade.

She need not have worried. As she reached for the handle to pull open the studio door, it was pushed open from the other side and there stood Miss Simone, looking every bit as apprehensive about the imminent encounter as Molly was feeling. She was instantly triggered to put the other woman at her ease.

'I'm so sorry to disturb you during your lunch break…' Molly began.

'Oh, that's quite alright!' the dance teacher assured her, wringing her hands and laughing nervously. 'I was just going over the afternoon schedule, making sure I had all the right children coming at the right time so… Honestly, you're not disturbing me at all. Please, come and sit down,' she insisted, crossing to the piano stool, and indicating for Molly to take the chair next to it. Once they were both seated, Miss Simone said,

'How can I help you?'

Molly had put a lot of thought into how she would broach the subject of Freddie's bruises but none of the opening remarks she had rehearsed seemed appropriate, now, so she just took a breath and dived in.

'First of all, I must say that Freddie loves doing the Punch and Judy dance…'

'Oh, he does, yes!' the teacher nodded, enthusiastically. 'And he is perfect in the role.'

'Yes, I'm sure he is,' Molly replied, 'but…'

Miss Simone's face fell. Was she about to lose her star performer?

'My husband and I were not very familiar with the whole Punch and Judy thing. We didn't realise it was so…violent.'

'Ah,' said the dance teacher. 'Yes, well, it is a traditional form of entertainment, of course; and actually, the original version is very violent in deed. In fact, Mr Punch is an absolute rogue. He murders his wife and child and, when the policeman comes to arrest him, he murders the policeman, too.'

Molly was aghast.

'And, in fact, Punch and Judy shows are banned by a lot of UK local authorities. We certainly would not be allowed to perform the original version in Brighton. But we watered down the plot, making Mr Punch more of a blundering fool than a rogue. In our scenario, he accidentally drops the baby on its head…'

Molly grimaced at that image.

'…but the baby is absolutely fine, I assure you! And Judy fetches the policeman…'

'The fat policeman?' Molly interjected.

'Ah, yes, I see what you mean. I might need to have a think about that…' Miss Simone mused. 'Anyway, the policeman can't catch Mr Punch so Judy takes matters into her own hands and wins the day…so it actually has a feminist theme.'

Molly frowned. Domestic violence was not acceptable, regardless of who was being violent to whom. The teacher could see she was not convinced.

'But it is only comedy violence,' Miss Simone reasoned. 'You know, like a cartoon or clowns?'

Molly could see where Miss Simone was coming from but…

'The thing is…when I was bathing Freddie last night, I found that he had quite extensive bruising on his back and shoulders…'

'Oh!' the teacher gasped, looking absolutely horrified. 'Oh, Mrs Holmes, I am so sorry! I really can't apologise enough…'

For a moment, Molly feared the other woman was about to faint.

'No, no, it's alright!' she exclaimed. 'Or rather, no, it's not alright but it's not absolutely terrible…I mean, the bruises…there are a lot of them but they are quite superficial…not life-threatening or anything, it's just that…'

'Yes?' said Miss Simone, clasping her hands and gazing beseechingly into Molly's eyes.

'Freddie said it's part of the dance that Judy…that is to say, Izzy…chases Mr Punch…Freddie…hitting him with the policeman's plastic truncheon. Obviously, we can't have Freddie getting beaten up every time he does the dance.'

'Oh, no! Absolutely not!' Miss Simone agreed. 'Oh, dear. I have explained to Izzy that it is just pretend. And she has done the dance before and certainly I don't remember there being an issue with bruising then. In fact, the trio won a gold medal for the dance at last year's Brighton Festival. Obviously, the other two girls were very upset when Olivia broke her toe because they were hoping to get another gold this year but… Oh, dear…' She seemed to run out of steam.

The two women sat looking at one another, at a bit of an impasse. But Molly thought she had a handle on the situation.

The issue was obviously Izzy's. she seemed to be having difficulty curbing her enthusiasm for the more aggressive aspects of the choreography. Was she upset that Olivia couldn't dance the role this year and she had to dance it with Freddie, instead? And was she giving vent to her disappointment by whacking Freddie with the plastic truncheon? It seemed quite likely. So, what could be done about it?

Obviously, someone would need to have a word with Izzy and explain that Freddie was actually doing them a huge favour by stepping in at the last minute and learning a new dance from scratch but… Molly had an idea.

'How about...' she began, '…if we were to replace the plastic truncheon with one made of foam? Then, even if Izzy did get a bit carried away with the whacking, she couldn't actually hurt Freddie, could she?'

'Oh, what a marvellous idea!' Miss Simone exclaimed, 'and I'm sure I can get a foam truncheon from the theatrical costumiers that we sometimes use to hire props and costumes.'

The dance teacher assured Molly that she would speak to Izzy about the whacking and, at that point, Molly didn't feel she could say anything further about the questionable ethics of the dance. But she would be having a word with Freddie, to make sure he understood that domestic violence was a serious issue and not something to be lampooned. As a pathologist, she had performed far too many post mortem examinations on the victims of domestic violence to ever treat it as a joke.

She thanked Miss Simone for her time and the two women walked back to the Reception Area together.

The room had filled up while Molly was in the studio and now the teacher called all the children to attention and sent them off, filing down the corridor to the rehearsal room, water bottles in hand. Molly smiled at Freddie and ruffled his hair as he passed. The bruises were plainly visible on the parts of his back and shoulders not covered by his leotard and Molly hoped that Miss Simone would take this opportunity to show Izzy that her actions of the day before had had real consequences.

ooOoo