“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.”
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.”