The Untold Story of the Midwife at Stonehaven Weave

The Equipment Chest and the Register of Births

Stonehaven Weave, a large, stone-built property, was the residence and clinic of Mrs. Clara Vestry, a registered midwife who served the sprawling rural parish from 1880 until 1908. Mrs. Vestry’s life was one of relentless, often emergency-driven travel and intimate, necessary labor. Her practice was essential to the community, and her records were meticulous. Her sudden cessation of work in 1908, noted in local histories as a voluntary, immediate retirement, remained an oddity—she simply vanished from the county listings and the house was swiftly abandoned.
Her professional headquarters were in the consulting room. In a corner, we located a large, deep wooden chest, bound with iron strapping. It was unlocked and contained her complete professional equipment, meticulously organized. Inside lay rolls of clean, aged cotton batting, several small, stoppered glass bottles (now empty, but labeled with faded instructions for tinctures), and a coil of fine, sterilized thread.
Tucked into a small compartment at the bottom of the chest was the key to her identity: a small, dark leather journal titled Parish Births and Maternal Records. It was not a personal diary, but an exacting record of every birth she attended, noting the date, location, complication, and payment received. The entries stopped on May 21, 1908, noting the successful delivery of a farmer’s son near the town limits.

The Final Settlement and the Train Ticket Stub

Mrs. Vestry’s records showed that she received her payment for the final birth the day after the entry was made. The mystery was the quick, complete abandonment of her essential practice.
The final clue was found behind the headboard of the bed in her simple, functional sleeping chamber. Taped securely to the wood was a small, torn piece of paper: a ticket stub for a third-class rail journey to a port town 300 miles away, dated May 23, 1908—two days after her final recorded birth.
Accompanying the stub was a single, plain, white envelope sealed with a thumbprint in wax. Inside was a handwritten note addressed to the local parish priest. It was not a farewell, but a formal notification of her immediate and permanent retirement, accompanied by a deed granting the cottage and all its contents to the parish for use as a dispensary.
Mrs. Vestry, whose life was one of constant public service and documentation, closed her practice with the same professional rigor she applied to a delivery—leaving no personal trace, only a legal settlement and the material evidence of her final, forsaken journey. She left her full kit, her property, and her entire documented life to the community, taking only the single train ticket that carried her into an untold anonymity.