Free The Midwife and the Assassin by Sam Thomas Page A

afterbirth, at least not yet.”
    â€œI warrant we could wait all night and into the morning, and there still would be no afterbirth,” she replied.
    I nodded and we sat in silence as we finished our wine. Neither of us wanted to complete the circle we’d begun to draw, for it looked rather too much like a noose that would soon find its way around Mrs. Ramsden’s neck.
    â€œThat is not her child,” Mrs. Chidley said at last.
    â€œNo,” I said. “But it is someone’s child. And it is dead, perhaps at her hands.”
    â€œAh, Christ,” she moaned as she pushed back her chair. “I do not want to do this.”
    â€œI’ll help you,” I said. “I’ve done similar work, and I know that it’s best done with friends.”
    â€œI’d welcome it, Mrs. Hodgson.”
    â€œBridget,” I replied. “If we’re going to be friends, you must call me Bridget.”
    â€œThen I am Katherine,” she said. “Now let us put an end to this bloody business.”

 
    Chapter 7
    As we neared Mrs. Ramsden’s chamber we heard her shouting once again, and this time Martha answered her. Katherine and I exchanged a glance and threw open the door to find Martha and Mrs. Ramsden engaged in a gruesome wrestling match, as Mrs. Ramsden tried to flee with the child and Martha tried to keep her from doing so.
    â€œI will bury my child and none will stop me,” Mrs. Ramsden cried.
    Katherine and I crossed the room, seized Mrs. Ramsden by the arms, and—despite her loud and increasingly obscene protests—dragged her to the bed. She held the child’s body to her breast the entire time.
    â€œThis is not your child, Grace Ramsden,” Katherine declared. “And you must consider me and Mrs. Hodgson to be the finest fools in England if you thought we would be taken in by such a ruse.”
    The gossips cried out in surprise at this accusation, but a smile darted across Martha’s lips. She had come to the same conclusion. In the tumult that followed all the women started to talk at once, and each vied for a closer look at the child in Mrs. Ramsden’s arms. This would not be a birth soon forgotten, and none of the gossips wanted to be left without some news of her own.
    â€œOf course it’s mine,” Mrs. Ramsden cried, silencing the crowd. “How could it be otherwise?”
    â€œWhen did you cut the navel string?” Katherine asked. “And where is the afterbirth?”
    â€œAnd why is he so clean?” I asked. “You did not wash him—the water is still in the kitchen, and the child has none of the stuff and matter of birth upon him.”
    At this the women began to chatter once again, and one slipped out of the room. Soon the entire Cheap would have some account of what had happened.
    â€œGive me the child, Grace,” Katherine said. Her voice barely rose above a whisper, but I could hear the steel behind it.
    When Mrs. Ramsden did not move, Martha and I stepped forward and held her arms while Katherine prized the child from her grasp. After a moment Mrs. Ramsden surrendered to the inevitable and released the infant. While Martha watched Mrs. Ramsden in case she tried to reclaim the child, Katherine and I stepped away from the bed to examine the corpse.
    He was a baby boy, and while we could not judge how long he had been dead, his skin was cold and dry. In no wise could he have been born only a few minutes before.
    â€œYou never were pregnant, Grace,” Katherine said. “Where did you get the child? You must tell us.”
    A deathly quiet settled over the room as we waited for her answer. Had she stolen a young mother’s child and murdered it herself? None of the gossips had heard of an infant missing from anywhere in the neighborhood, but the Cheap was one small corner of London. If she had taken the child from one of the more distant parishes, they might not have heard the news. Or