The Nursery Debacle

The Scene in the Nursery

It was a dreary and rainy day in October, not an uncommon climate for London in the autumn season, or in fact most of the year. Holmes and I were spending the afternoon in our flat at Baker Street, him having no current case and I no current practice.

"Brougham," Holmes said without looking up from his book.

"Pardon?" I asked, confused.

"It's a brougham that just pulled up," he replied. "If you were wondering."

"Oh, I wasn't listening to it," I said.

"Neither was I, but I heard it."

I put down my book and peered out of the window. Sure enough, a brougham had stopped in front of our place, and I watched as a man stepped out. It was mystifying to me how Holmes could tell the difference between a dogcart, a brougham, and a trap by its sound, when I had not even heard the noise.

"You are correct," I told Holmes. "Is it a client?"

"I presume so, otherwise he would most likely not be here," he replied, still not looking up from his book. "Yes," he continued after a pause where I assume he was listening to something, "here he comes now."

I could hear footsteps on the stairs, and our landlady entered to tell us of the man's arrival, followed by the man himself. His head was bowed as he entered, and when he looked up his eyes were dull and full of grief. He lowered himself into one of the armchairs, and Holmes took his regular seat. 

"Name," he said.

"James Harris," the man replied.

"Thank you. Begin."

"I believe my child..." Harris began, but his voice caught. "I believe my child," he repeated after a moment, "has been murdered."

Holmes looked vaguely intrigued. "Go on. Be as specific as possible."

"Well," said Harris, "Nine months ago, I had impregnated my wife–"

I cleared my throat. "Does this have anything to do with the case?"

"Yes," Harris replied. "Well, if you demand all of the details, I am the child's father."

"It may prove useful, but I am sure we do not have to go that far into detail," Holmes said. "Plus, you do not know that for a fact–"

I nudged him sharply, cutting him off. "Stop," I hissed under my breath.

"Right then," Holmes said to Harris. "Pray continue."

"Well, my wife gave birth just early this morning. I was away at the time with my other children, so she was kept company by the nursemaid. When I returned..." Harris broke off into a sob, and Holmes took a deep breath in annoyance.

"Perhaps it would be better if we saw for ourselves," I suggested.

"Yes, yes, I suppose it would. I cannot finish telling it," Harris said, standing up. We fetched our coats and hats and left the flat, and I hailed a brougham. There weren't many people on the road due to the excessive rain, so we exited the busy part of London fairly quickly . Holmes paid our fare and we got out in front of a quaint cottage. Harris led us inside, and a woman came rushing up and embraced him.

"Oh, James," she sobbed, "You're back, thank goodness! A horrible thing has happened."

"I know," Harris replied solemnly. "I went to fetch these two men."

He showed us down the hallway and into a small room which was presumably the nursery, and I felt my heart catch in my throat as my eyes took in the scene. 

Next to an armchair covered in blankets and pillows, a crib stood in the corner of the room, and horror slowly rose within me as I realized what it contained.

The body of a small infant lay lifeless, covered in deep gashes, staining the otherwise clean linens with blood.