“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 removed 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?”