Holmes nodded. “Gladly, madam. You are wearing your coat although it is warm in here. Moreover, earlier I noticed Michelle leap to prevent the waiter from removing your coat. Also, your dress and your collar are not properly aligned. I suspect a tear or breach in the back which has been pinned together.”
Violet nodded. “Oh, very good. And the feminine weakness?”
“I had to ask myself how a woman such as yourself might have damaged her dress. Henry told me you were with Michelle at the medical clinic. You would have been subjected to unpleasant sights and smells—wounds, lacerations and sores. Perhaps the sight of blood became too much for you, and you swooned. Knowing Michelle’s views on female dress, she would have tried to loosen your garments—it would be easy to tear a dress in the process.”
I clapped my hands. “Bravo, Sherlock.”
Violet’s mouth formed the mocking smile. “And the disarray of my undergarments?”
Holmes reddened about the ears. His face could not be called handsome. His nose was too large, his features too sharp, his hair too black and oily. All the same, I was so fond of him that I liked his face: it had great character and showed his every mood. His gray eyes were particularly large and expressive.
“As I said earlier, modesty forbids.”
Henry laughed. “When her coat is open, even an undiscerning oaf such as I can tell whether or not a woman is wearing a corset.”
“Henry!” I exclaimed.
“A corset distorts the female shape,” he said. “It and the bustle make women resemble primitive fertility symbols. At least the bustle has fallen out of fashion.”
Violet shook her head, and finished the last of her roll. “Fairly beaten, Mr. Holmes. The first round goes to you, but next time I shall be better prepared.”
The waiter appeared and set down our plates before us. The smell of the beef set my mouth watering, and I quickly took a spoonful of the potatoes.
Holmes eyed the slab of red meat on Violet’s plate. “I see you are in earnest, madam. You must be in training. Already you have begun to fortify yourself. The Simpson’s large is a truly prodigious cut.”
He withdrew his watch from his vest pocket. “I fear we have exceeded our allotted five minutes. We should leave the ladies to dine in peace.”
Violet sawed at one end of the meat, cutting it into small, neat strips. “You may stay a while longer if you will promise to make no further deductions about me.”
“You have my promise, Mrs. Wheelwright.”
“And some of the details were not correct. It was not the sight of blood which made me faint.”
“No?” Holmes leaned forward. “What then?”
Violet’s brown eyes glanced my way. “Weariness,” she said sharply. “And a corset laced far too tightly.”
I swallowed a mouthful of beef. “I can vouch for her, Sherlock. She watched me stitch up several wounds without flinching.”
Holmes’ lips pursed briefly, and his fingers tapped at the tablecloth. “A detail only, as you said.”
Violet raised her eyes and swept them briefly from face to face. She dabbed at her mouth with the napkin. “No, it was not blood, as you may well deduce from this bleeding slab of bovine tissue before me.”
An explosive laugh slipped from Sherlock’s lips. Violet, although at first taken aback, seemed pleased by his response.
“Violet,” I said, “your comment is too perceptive for someone who has spent time in the anatomy lab.”
Violet finished chewing another piece. “I am sorry, Michelle. Anyway, it was not blood which made me faint. I have been under something of a strain of late.” She bit her lip and glanced at Holmes, who had not taken his eyes off her.
“Have you, Mrs. Wheelwright?”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes. And are you as chivalrous in real life as in the narratives?”
Holmes’ upper lip twisted back. “‘Chivalrous?’”
“Under your misogynous front beats a heart of gold.”
Holmes’ mouth twitched. He sighed. “It is at moments such as this that I most despise Watson’s efforts. You have me at a disadvantage, madam. Although we have only been acquainted a quarter of an hour, you assume you know my character because of some foolish words you have read. I would ask—I would beg of you—to reserve your judgment until you know me better.”
He stared at her so gravely that her smile faded away. “Perhaps I have done you an injustice, Mr. Holmes, although you must admit that your deductions were decidedly in keeping with Dr. Watson’s portrayal.”
“Granted, madam, but you must admit that you invited—no, you positively begged for—a certain comeuppance.”
Violet laughed, then set down her fork and clapped her hands. “Bravo, Mr. Holmes. We are fairly matched. I shall try to know you better, especially since you are related to my good friend.”
While they had been talking I had finished my roast beef. With a contented sigh I pushed my plate back. “Take care, Sherlock. Be wary of dining with her at Simpson’s. You may discover more adventures than you thought possible.”
Violet’s mouth formed an ironic smile. “At any rate, Mr. Holmes, I am glad you are not dead. The Final Problem gave many of your admirers a scare. I have often wondered about Professor Moriarty.”
“Moriarty is another fiction, madam. Regretfully, he does not exist.”
“Regretfully, Mr. Holmes?”
“There are so few truly first-rate criminal brains. An arch-foe of Moriarty’s caliber would be welcome; battling him would surely be the high point of my career.”
Violet laughed. “A pity. I shall pray that some day you find yourself a Moriarty. Are you certain he does not exist?”
Holmes hesitated a moment. “Yes, madam.”
I frowned. “Surely you would not wish such a monster upon London, Sherlock. There are enough problems as it is.”
“Boring and insoluble problems, Michelle—a Moriarty I could handle. Besides, all of London enjoys a good crime, the bloodier the better.”
“What a dreadful thing to say!” I said.
Henry turned to his cousin. “Sherlock, perhaps we should allow the ladies to at least eat their desserts in peace.”
Holmes nodded. “Yes. We have intruded long enough.”
“You need not run off on my account,” Violet said.
Both men stood. They each wore long black frock coats. Sherlock was slighter than Henry, but both were just over six feet tall. Holmes gazed down at Violet. “It has been a pleasure, Mrs. Wheelwright.”
“It has, Mr. Holmes. In the future I hope to provide less fertile ground for deduction. I do trust we shall meet again.”
Holmes’ smile was brief and harsh. “Oh, we shall, madam.”
Henry appeared rather grim. He touched my shoulder and said, “Do not be too late.”
I put my hand over his. “I shall not.”
Violet and I watched them leave. Violet put a piece of meat in her mouth and chewed slowly.
“My comment about bloody tissue was unwise. I may never eat roast beef again.”
I laughed. “Now that the men are gone, you need not finish.”
“Donald always orders the large portion. I have always wondered if I could eat so much. I have learned that I can, but it seems a hollow triumph. Well, hardly hollow, since I am completely stuffed. I fear I must forgo dessert.”
“Not I. They have a very good cream cake.”
Violet resolutely swallowed the last bite and pushed the plate back several inches. “You never told me you were related by marriage to Sherlock Holmes, Michelle. He is not so handsome as Mr. Sidney Paget draws him, but he has a most interesting face. He certainly startled me with his deductions.”
“You seemed rather upset, my dear. What is this strain you spoke of?”
Violet gazed at me, and I could sense the wheels, the small gears, turning inside. “I shall tell you another time. This is still our night out. We must not spoil it with seriousness.”
“I hope the men did
not ruin it for you. I have had a wonderful time.” I reached over and grasped her hand with my big fingers, which were reddened from carbolic acid.
“I, too, Michelle. You are very good company. We must see each other more often. Too many of my acquaintances are vapid and ineffectual, wearisome to be around.”
“Oh, I know exactly what you mean.”
The waiter came, and I ordered dessert. We lingered afterwards talking until I realized that it was nearly half past eight. Violet insisted on driving me home. My house near Paddington Station was not far. In the carriage I began to yawn, and she complained, jokingly, that it was contagious.
Climbing the stairs to the second floor was an effort. Henry was waiting for me in the sitting room. We embraced, and he initiated a kiss, which made me briefly forget my fatigue.
“Oh, Henry, a day around women makes me appreciate you all the more. I enjoy the company of my sex, but I could not live with them day after day.”
He ran his fingertips along my cheek. “I feel the same about men.”
“Oh, my feet hurt.”
He kissed me again. “Do sit down.”
I lay on the sofa. He sat at the far end and began undoing the buttons on my right boot.
“The clinic was a madhouse today,” I said. “These were supposed to be sensible shoes, but they are still not comfortable. You and Sherlock were oddly grim before you left the restaurant.”
Henry slipped off my boot and began to massage my instep. Only one lamp was lit, but a big piece of coal glowed in the fireplace. His eyes stared at the fire, his mouth taut beneath the thick mustache.
“Do not stop,” I said.
“What?”
“Massaging my foot.”
“Oh.” His fingers worked at my foot through the thick stocking. “Donald Wheelwright came to see Sherlock today.” He told me about the visit: the gypsy curse, the note and Mr. Wheelwright’s reaction to the spider.
When he finished I murmured, “How horrible.”
We were both silent. I tried to make sense of what he had told me, but it made my head hurt. “Henry, I do not think that Violet... She may not much care for Donald.”
“From what little I saw of him, I can see why.”
“I cannot understand how she could have married such a man. Someone like Sherlock would be perfect for her.”
Henry smiled. “She made quite an impression on him, despite himself.”
“I could see that. I wonder how Donald feels about Violet.” Henry gazed again at the fire, and his mouth seemed to slump. “What is wrong?” I asked.
He hesitated. “I... I do not like the whole business.”
“Nor do I, but Violet is my friend. She may need my help.”
“And knowing you, you will give it to her.”
I took his free hand. “Would you have it otherwise?”
He let go of my foot, turned my hand, and kissed my palm. “No.”
Weary as I was, I felt a flicker of longing in my throat. I remembered Violet in the carriage, the muted loathing in her voice, and I squeezed his hand. “Oh, Henry, I do love you so.”
He stared at me. “Let’s go upstairs.” Our bedroom was on the third floor.
“I am so tired you will need to carry me.”
“I shall if you wish.”
“If I weighed as much as Violet, I would let you try, but I do not wish to treat you for an injured back. If you will provide an arm to lean on, that will suffice.”
We stood. He slipped his arm about my waist. I picked up my boots with one hand, put the other on his shoulder, and we started for the stairway.
Three
The following Monday a telegram from Holmes arrived early in the morning:
I shall be visiting the Wheelwright home this afternoon to question the household. If your practice is anemic and you wish to join me, be at Baker Street by one.
When I showed the note to Michelle, her eyes lit up. “Oh, Henry, you must go! I shall cover for you.”
“There will be little to cover, but more to the point, why should I go at all? This is hardly my affair.”
“But Violet is my friend. We must do all we can to help her.”
“Perhaps you should go then.”
She laughed. “Sherlock did not invite me. Besides I have several patients coming.”
“No anemia for you.”
She took my arm and kissed my cheek. “You are a very good doctor, Henry. In time you will obtain the appreciation you deserve.”
I shrugged, hardly so convinced of either of her assertions. “Perhaps. Visiting the Wheelwright home should be interesting, and Sherlock needs someone to look after him. Violet may have actually charmed him.”
The hansom stopped before 221 Baker Street, just before one. The cabby, who was as thin and worn looking as his horse, took his fare and tipped his hat. The rain of the past few days had abated, but the sun seemed feeble, only a muted yellow through the clouds.
Holmes had company. The stranger’s mustache was neatly trimmed, but the reddish hair about his ears was thick and curly, its abundance contrasting with his balding pate. His complexion was ruddy, and his blue eyes regarded me warily. He was impeccably dressed, black silk highlighting the lapels of his frock coat, a diamond pin in his cravat.
“Lord Harrington, this is my cousin, Dr. Henry Vernier.”
Harrington shook my hand, then pulled on his gloves. “Please give this matter your consideration, Mr. Holmes. I do not wish my brother’s reputation—” he glanced briefly at me— “to remain sullied.”
“I shall do what I can. We shall continue our conversation another time. As I said, I have other business this afternoon.”
“Very well, sir.” He put on his top hat, took his walking stick in his right hand, and marched out the door.
“Have a seat, Henry,” Holmes said. “A carriage from the Wheelwrights should be arriving shortly. Lord Harrington had an interesting story.”
“I thought Lord Harrington had killed himself.”
“And so he did. Joseph Harrington left no heir, so his brother Michael, whom you just met, is now Lord Harrington. He is skeptical of the official version of his brother’s death, as well he might be. Men rarely kill themselves in that manner.”
“What manner?”
“By cutting one’s throat with a razor.”
I felt a stir low in my belly and repressed a shudder. “I have never heard of such a case.”
“Although rare, it does happen. Lord Harrington also told me his brother was notoriously long-winded, yet the scrawled note only said, ‘I cannot go on.’”
“Wasn’t Harrington supposed to have remade his fortune after squandering much of his inheritance?” I asked. “Some mysterious investments.”
“Yes. His brother did not go into the detail, but that is true. He suspects foul play, and he has revealed an enticing detail the police did not discover. His brother had a female visitor the afternoon he died.”
“Why were the police not told?”
“Most of the servants had been given the afternoon off, and the elderly butler who had let her in feared a scandal. Lord Harrington is convinced she murdered his brother. He chooses to overlook the more obvious explanation.”
“You mean...?”
Holmes nodded, then rose and walked impatiently to the bow window. “Lady Harrington was out of town visiting her sister. I know you told me the afternoon is not reserved for fine gentlemen and harlots, but it does seem a preferred time.”
“But why would Harrington have killed himself?”
“How should I know!” Holmes exclaimed. “Perhaps it was self-loathing.” He put his fingertips against his forehead, and his voice quieted. “It all grows so... wearisome. The man had everything—wealth, a title, good breeding, education—and yet he could rise no higher than... a mere animal. Is man’s nature truly so base?”
I shook my head. “No. Perhaps you are also thinking of Donald Wheelwright.”
Holmes turned to me,
angry. “Perhaps I am.”
“All men are not like him or Harrington.”
Holmes glanced out the window. “The carriage is here, Henry, a fancy four-wheeler. We travel in style today.” He reached for his top hat and stick.
During the ride we were both rather pensive. I knew I could never forgive myself if I were unfaithful to Michelle. I might still have longings toward other women, but it was one thing to have such longings, another to act upon them. All the same, despite the great facade of moral rectitude, Holmes was right—adultery was all too common amongst upper-class men.
“Have you discovered anything yet about the Wheelwright case?” I asked.
“Only that which is of general knowledge. Violet Montague married Donald Wheelwright eight years ago this November. She was twenty-two years of age, he some six years older. She was the daughter of a widowed Oxford don, Alexander Montague, an eminent naturalist whose specialty was entomology. He had died, unexpectedly, a year before the marriage at the peak of his career. His obituary in The Times mentioned his intellectual brilliance, his eccentric charm and his musical abilities.”
I nodded. “That explains much of Violet’s character.”
“Donald Wheelwright is the son of the Donald Wheelwright, founder of Wheelwright’s Potted Meats. The elder Wheelwright was born a virtual pauper. He destroyed most of his competitors in the early seventies, and by 1882 he obtained an exclusive contract to supply the British Navy with canned meats. He is now one of the wealthiest men in England, and Donald junior is his only son and heir. He has a daughter, Julia, who is married to a marquess.”
I pulled at the end of my mustache. “I am surprised Donald was spared a similar fate.”
“That was considered. Donald was seen with a duke’s daughter, but then he married Violet quite suddenly. The papers mentioned an extended honeymoon on the continent, but it was cut short when Violet fell ill in Venice.”
“The old man could not have approved. He must have been furious.”
Holmes nodded. “No doubt—although he appears to have been reconciled with his son and daughter-in-law. The couple has dwelt in the same townhouse for six years, and five years ago the Wheelwrights, father and son, purchased an enormous country estate in Norfolk near Sandringham. They have sunk a small fortune into refurbishing the dilapidated manor house.”
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