The Nursery Debacle

Enter Isabel

I stood over the crib beside Sherlock Holmes for a minute, watching his examine the body. It had a dreadful irony about it: the room was one of cheerfulness, one that radiated happiness and new life, yet it contained such a horrible crime.

"Knife wounds," Holmes announced. "A household one, by the looks of it."

"Who would do such a thing?" I breathed.

"According to Mr. Harris," Holmes replied, "the only people in the house when this could have occurred were Mrs. Harris and the nursemaid, so they are our main suspects, but we must not rule out any other possibilities quite yet."

"We can rule out Mrs. Harris," I said.

Holmes looked at me, eyebrows raised. "And why is that?"

"Why? She's the mother!"

"And what has that got to do with anything?"

"A mother would not kill her own child!" I exclaimed. 

"We must not rule out any possibilities," repeated Holmes calmly.

"Honestly, I am appalled at your notions sometimes."

 I followed him to the sitting room where Mrs. Harris was sitting in an armchair, looking out the window at two small children playing in the yard, and we sat down on the sofa across from her. 

"Tell me everything that happened," Holmes demanded.

Mrs. Harris nodded, surprised by his direct order. "At the time, it was only me and Isabel in the house. James was out with the children."

I nodded; it was usual to keep the children away when the mother gives birth.

"Are those your children?" I asked, looking out the window.

"Yes," Mrs. Harris said.

"Isabel is your nursemaid?" Holmes clarified.

"Yes," confirmed Mrs. Harris again. 

Holmes gestured for her to continue.

"Isabel was by my side, keeping me company and comforting me. She made sure I was comfortable with blankets and pillows and such, but I must have passed out as I delivered the child, so I remember nothing more. When I awoke, I was here, in the living room."

"It was I who moved her," explained Harris, who had joined us on the sofa. "Upon discovering the scene, I carried her to the living room to spare her waking up to see it for herself. Of course, it does nothing to ease the pain, but..." 

Holmes opened his mouth, but I laid a hand on his thigh before he could say anything, knowing that whatever came out of his mouth at that moment was bound to be insensitive. Not on purpose, of course, but insensitive nonetheless. 

"Do you have any knives?" Holmes asked, no doubt changing what he was going to originally say.

"Yes," Mrs. Harris said, leading us to the kitchen. On the counter there was a rack of kitchen knives. I observed that it was full, and from Holmes' face I could tell that he was thinking about this. He stared at Mrs. Harris for a long time with a steely gaze.

"It's how he gathers information," I explained to her, for she was obviously feeling slightly uncomfortable.

"Where is Isabel?" asked my companion after a while.

"Upstairs. I can call her," Mrs. Harris offered.

"Yes, please."

Mrs. Harris called for her, and few moments later a tall woman came downstairs. An apron was draped over her blouse tucked into her long skirt, and her dark hair was pulled back into a tight updo.

Holmes looked her up and down for a moment, then straight in the eye.

"Miss Isabel," Holmes said, "I hereby accuse you of the murder of the youngest member of the Harris family."