I smiled. “Country squires.”
“Exactly. Young Wheelwright is second in command at the potted meat business, but the old man rules with a hand of iron. His son keeps brief office hours and is, as we know, often free in the afternoon. He does not seem particularly interested in the family business, nor does he seem particularly competent. The old man is tight with his money, while the younger seems to take his wealth for granted. All in all, the shrewdness and driving passion so central to the father are absent in the son.”
“That is often the case.”
“Mrs. Wheelwright is widely known for her many charitable activities and for her charm and her abilities as a hostess. Largely because of her, the Wheelwrights are a part of London’s best society. She is known to have one of the best cooks in town.”
“Ah,” I said, “you fail to mention her other obvious appeal. Besides charm and having a good cook, there is her great beauty.”
Holmes hesitated for a moment. “I am aware of that.”
We had reached a neighborhood of imposing homes and little traffic. These were the townhouses of the wealthy, not country estates, but they were still mansions compared to the three-story home in which Michelle and I dwelt. Here lived not only the families of the owners, but a multitude of maids, footmen, gardeners, coachmen and cooks. The Wheelwright dwelling was the largest on the street. Green ivy covered its red brick, the paint about the doors and windows a sparkling white.
A footman let us in, and the butler, traditional head of all the servants, soon appeared and introduced himself. Although the lines at the outer corners of his eyes proclaimed him to be in his late thirties, his shiny black hair had no hint of gray. A blue-gray shadow covered the lower half of his face, a dimple marked the center of his chin, and I wondered if he had to shave more than once a day. He wore a black morning coat, a wing collar, and black-and-gray striped trousers, all his apparel radiating cleanliness and order.
Holmes nodded. “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my cousin Dr. Henry Vernier. Mrs. Wheelwright is expecting us.”
The butler’s gaze remained fixed on him. “May I say, Mr. Holmes, as one of your admirers, that we are most honored to have you under our roof. Certainly if anyone can untangle these unfortunate events, it is you.” He made a fluid gesture with his right arm toward the elderly manservant who had appeared behind him. “You may leave your hats and stick.”
We did so, and followed the butler past a staircase with an elaborately carved oaken banister, and down a hallway to the library. Violet closed a book and rose to greet us. She looked rather better than she had last Wednesday evening. Her cheeks had a pink flush, and her eyes glowed. She wore a mauve dress that emphasized her tiny waist and slim figure.
I had reflected before that she appeared to have Italian or Spanish blood. Her lips were full and naturally red; her hair pure black; her nose slender, but pronounced; her eyes an unusually dark brown. Her skin, however, was very fair. Her bearing was regal, and she was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. Little wonder Holmes found her beguiling. All the same, she was a bit thin for my taste. Michelle could never be considered fat, but I preferred her more substantial bounty, her abundance of curves.
“Ah, you have met Lovejoy—he and his wife are the true masters of our house. Without them, chaos would reign.” Violet raised her arms and swept around in a circle, her skirts flaring outward. “See, Mr. Holmes—no pins today. The sweet disorder in the dress is remedied. A logical mind such as yours must abhor all such disorder.”
Holmes had reddened slightly, but he recovered immediately. “Had you ever seen my chambers you would know better.”
Violet laughed, and gave me a nod. “Good day, Henry. It is wonderful to see you.”
“You are looking well,” I replied. “So you have recovered from your adventures at the clinic and at Simpson’s?”
“I must confess to sleeping some ten hours on Wednesday night.”
“I asked Henry to accompany me,” Holmes said. “You can, of course, rely utterly upon his discretion.”
“Oh, certainly.” Her face momentarily lost some of its animation. “For a moment I had managed to forget that your visit was not purely social. Shall we discuss this business here or in the sitting room? I confess a fondness for the library.”
Holmes gazed at the wall opposite the windows. The bookshelves went all the way to the ceiling, some twelve feet, and they were packed with books. The room had a southern exposure, and the light from the tall windows flooded a massive oak table and its matching chairs. “You like books,” Holmes said. It was a statement, not a question.
“I do. They have been my solace my entire life.”
“Indeed?” With a fingertip he opened a thick book that lay upon the table. “Middlemarch. Ah. And do you—like Dorothea or Saint Theresa—seek some great cause?”
Violet’s smile grew bitter. “Perhaps. But I know better: there are no great causes. Please sit down. These chairs are more comfortable than those at the table.” She gestured at some plush armchairs.
Holmes sat, but leaned forward restlessly. “Did your husband tell you about his visit to Baker Street?”
She stiffened, her chin rising. The impression I had was that of a cloud passing across the sun, effacing its brilliance. “He did.”
Holmes had crossed his legs, and his foot began to bob. “Please tell me in your own words about the events at the Paupers’ Ball.”
Violet shook her head. “I was a fool. I should have kept quiet. For once Donald was right, but I felt someone must say something. I was speaking with Lady Harrington. She was dressed as a scullery maid, while I was in the guise of a flower girl. The gypsy first appeared at the balcony above the hall, and naturally we assumed she was one of us. I remember thinking that she was remarkably good in her role. However, it soon became clear that she was not acting.”
“In what way did it become clear?”
Violet thought for a second. “Her hatred, Mr. Holmes. No one could feign such hatred. ‘Curse you,’ she cried. ‘God curse you all! May you all be struck down, may you suffer even as those you pretend to be. May God make you all honest paupers! May you die poor and miserable!’”
“Do you recall her appearance?”
“Yes. She was close to my height, about five foot three, but with a stoop. Her hair was pure white, her skin dark brown and lined. She had a beak of a nose with a mole at the end and the blackest eyes I have ever seen. Her teeth were discolored, and one or two were missing. She wore gold hoop earrings, a soiled red dress, a black handkerchief tied over her hair, and a heavy black shawl. She had several gaudy rings of gold and silver on her fingers. Oh, and she walked with a slight limp.”
Holmes nodded. “Very good, Mrs. Wheelwright. You have an eye for detail. And what was the reaction of the spectators to the gypsy?”
“Shocked silence. She had a piercing voice, Mr. Holmes. Age might have withered her, but that voice carried to every corner of the room.” She frowned. “I have asked myself many times why I spoke to her, but I cannot explain it even to myself. Perhaps I was offended at her treatment of Lady Harrington, our hostess, a long-suffering woman. Perhaps I wanted to show how... how clever I was. Oh, I don’t know why I behaved so foolishly.”
“It must have taken courage,” I said.
Violet gave me a mocking smile, a characteristic expression. “Some might argue it was rather stupidity.”
Holmes foot began to bob again. “What exactly did you say?”
“I tried to calm the woman. I told her God must be weary of being asked for vengeance, that she might rather request He soften our hearts and give us compassion. Finally, I suggested we pray together. She was outraged. She turned all her fury on me. She...” Violet’s voice suddenly shook, and she covered her face with her hand. Her fingers were long, her hand slender and delicate.
Holmes uncrossed his legs and sat upright in his chair. “Mrs. Wheelwright, we need not continue if...”
She r
emoved her hand, and sighed. “Her curses mostly involved botanical metaphors—withering up, being struck barren and without fruit—that kind of thing.”
Holmes removed the folded parchment note from his coat pocket. “As in this note?”
Violet nodded. The fingers of Holmes’ left hand tapped idly on the chair’s arm.
“An unpleasant business. And how...? I suppose this encounter has left you shaken?”
She shrugged. “Mr. Holmes, I shall not raise doubts in your mind by protesting too often; let me merely say once and for all, that I am not superstitious. No one enjoys the spectacle of a depraved and hysterical old woman, especially when one becomes her principal target. All the same, I do not lie awake at night fearing malevolent gypsies and the weight of the curse about to fall upon me.”
Holmes’ smile was mirthless. “Many people find that their resolution deserts them in the early hours of the morning.”
Violet squared her shoulders. “I am not such a person, Mr. Holmes. All the same, no one wants to be hated.” Her dark eyes glistened. “You are too polite to inquire, but I am not capable of having children. This became clear long before the old gypsy’s ravings.”
I frowned. “Have you discussed this with Michelle?”
She hesitated. “Only briefly. Several years ago Dr. Dawson recommended me to Dr. Cabot.” Her mocking smile returned. “Donald insisted we pursue the matter with the best physicians in London. The quest was fruitless.” Her mouth twisted at the irony of the final word.
“Nevertheless, you should not give up hope.”
“I would... I would... like to have a child...” Her voice had an odd timbre, and her eyes appeared almost feverish.
I stared closely at my cousin. As a physician I had discussed such matters with my patients, but he was clearly uncomfortable. “The information is pertinent, Mrs. Wheelwright,” he said. “However, you need elaborate no further. From what you have said, I assume this is a matter of regret to your husband.”
“Oh, yes. And to my father-in-law. They would like to have an heir, ideally a male—a son. To carry on the dynasty of potted meat pharaohs.” She said this last with sudden venom. A single tear slipped from her left eye and trickled down her cheek. Angrily she wiped at it with her fingertips, then drew in her breath and closed her eyes.
I turned to Holmes. “Perhaps we should continue with this interview at another time.”
He gave a brief nod, but Violet shook her head. “Not at all. Please forgive me. I should not have... I am perfectly well.”
“This interview need not last much longer,” Holmes said. “The incident at the ball occurred nearly a year and a half ago. When did you find this note?” He raised the piece of parchment.
“Almost two weeks ago, Mr. Holmes. I came into the library at around eleven in the morning. It was on my desk there.” She pointed to the corner. Above the desk’s surface were pigeonholes, papers stuffed into many of the holes, while books and envelopes were stacked neatly to the side. “I do not think that the content bothered me so much as finding such a thing in my own home.”
My hands tightened on the chair arms. “I imagine so. Rather like discovering a large spider in one’s bed.”
Violet only shrugged. Holmes briefly raised his black eyebrows. “Spiders do not disturb you?”
“Do not all proper, God-fearing British women despise spiders?” Her ironic smile faded away. “No, I do not care for them.”
Holmes nodded, then stood up abruptly and went to the desk.
“This is an impressive piece of furniture, Mrs. Wheelwright. Ah, all the pigeonholes are labeled: grocer, greengrocer, milliner, haberdasher, tailor, cobbler, and so on. I take it you manage the household accounts?”
“I do, Mr. Holmes. With Mr. and Mrs. Lovejoy’s assistance.”
“That must be no small task for a household of this size. How many servants do you employ?”
“Thirty-three here in town.”
My jaw dropped slightly. Michelle and I employed a woman to do the cleaning and the cooking, and it was difficult to imagine two people requiring so many servants. Of course, there would be the cook and her two or three helpers, a variety of maids, footmen, gardeners to care for the grounds, men to maintain the horses and carriages, and so on. I simply would not want such a mob under the same roof with Michelle and me!
Holmes returned to his chair but did not sit. “You found the note in the morning two weeks ago. When had you last been in the library before then?”
“The afternoon before.”
“Would your husband or anyone else have used the library in the interval?”
Violet’s mocking smile returned. “No. He prefers billiards or his club to books. My maid Gertrude tidied the room at about nine, but no one else would have come in here.”
“You said you were not superstitious, Mrs. Wheelwright. Therefore one other person obviously came in here. As the room was left unattended for over twelve hours, almost anyone might have crept in and left this foul thing.” He raised the paper in emphasis. “Who do you think might have left it, Mrs. Wheelwright?”
She drew in her breath, squaring her shoulders. “I honestly do not know. Logically, I suppose it must have been one of the servants, and yet, I know them all, and I cannot think that any of them would have done it.”
“You know them all?”
“Yes. I interview all the servants before they are hired, and I make it my business to know them. I want them to feel welcome in my home.”
Holmes was genuinely astonished. He opened his mouth, then reconsidered and closed it. Finally, he said, “When was the last time you hired a new servant?”
Violet’s brow wrinkled briefly. “I think it has been nearly two years.”
Again Holmes could not hide his astonishment. I had heard several of my wealthier patients complain about getting and keeping decent help. To have had no turnover in such a large staff in two years was remarkable.
“What exactly did you do when you found the note?”
“I showed it to Mrs. Lovejoy. She could not imagine where it came from. No, that is the wrong way to put it—she believes the note is the devil’s handiwork. And I showed it to Donald that evening when he came home.”
“He seems to think the gypsy curse has been effective, that several of the partygoers have been struck down.”
Violet laughed. “I know. It is so reassuring to blame our misfortunes on malevolent spirits rather than blind chance or our own failings.”
“You do not believe that the gypsy curse had anything to do with Lord Harrington’s death?”
She shook her head. “No. To me he always seemed a trifle... peculiar. His wife had much to bear. Age, sickness, and death always take their toll. The crowd at the ball was so large that misfortune would naturally have struck many of the participants.”
Holmes nodded thoughtfully. “So one might think.”
Violet raised only her right eyebrow. “You seem skeptical, Mr. Holmes.”
“I always am, so early in a case. One must not leap to conclusions. Is there anything else you wish to tell me, Mrs. Wheelwright? No? In that case, I shall want to talk separately to Mr. and Mrs. Lovejoy.”
“Very well, Mr. Holmes.” She stood and adjusted the skirts of her dress.
“Thank you for your assistance, madam.”
She gave him a glorious smile. “The pleasure was mine.”
Holmes’ gaze lingered on her as she left the room. His guard was down, and his admiration for her was apparent. I thought of making some jest, but I knew it would anger him. And who could blame him? She was a beautiful and desirable woman. Some men might be put off by the power of her intellect, but certainly to Holmes it made her all the more appealing. Were I in his shoes, I would have cursed the divorce laws for compelling such a woman to remain with a man who was so poor a match for her.
Holmes stood up, again walked over to the desk, and peered at the pigeonholes. “Mrs. Wheelwright is obviously not fearful of doing her s
ums. Ah, do come in, Mrs. Lovejoy. Please be seated.”
Mrs. Lovejoy was a rather austere-looking woman of about the same height and build as Violet, perhaps a bit older, but with none of her employer’s beauty or animation. She parted her black hair down the middle, leaving exposed a white furrow, and her skin was very pale. Her eyes were large, brown and rather vacant, her face narrow, almost gaunt, with prominent cheekbones. She wore a black muslin dress, a plain cut, with a multitude of tiny black buttons down the front. All in all, she recalled a dour Puritan of Cromwell’s time. She sat down and regarded Holmes warily.
“And how long have you been in Mrs. Wheelwright’s service, madam?”
“About six years, sir.” She was very soft spoken.
“And what kind of mistress is she?”
“The very best there is, sir.”
“And Mr. Wheelwright, what kind of master is he?”
She blinked twice. Her eyelids were almost translucent; the skin between her dark brows and her lashes a faint blue. “The master is... a fair man.”
“Indeed?” Holmes sat back against the tabletop. “And what do you make of the business with the gypsy curse and the note Mrs. Wheelwright found?”
“The devil’s work, sir—the devil himself.”
A smile pulled briefly at Holmes’ lips. “Do you know why the devil would have singled out your mistress?”
“Because of her goodness. She cares for all us servants and sets an example for all the cruel and stingy mistresses and masters, and she works to help the poor.”
“And does your mistress have any enemies? Besides the devil?”
“No, sir.”
“Has she dismissed anyone for bad conduct in the last year or two?”
“No, sir.”
“Has she reprimanded anyone publicly or lost her temper at any of the staff?”
Mrs. Lovejoy shook her head. “Certainly not.”
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