“Does Mrs. Wheelwright have any enemies?” Holmes asked. “Or is there anyone on your staff who might harbor some minor resentment against her?”
“No.”
“Your wife appeared equally certain.”
“There is no question of it. No one in London pays better wages—you would be surprised how stingy some of the illustrious wealthy can be.”
Holmes shook his head. “No, I would not.”
“Moreover, she treats everyone from me and Mrs. Lovejoy to the lowest scullery maid with equal respect. I have never had an unkind word from her. She has no enemies under this roof.”
“What of Mr. Wheelwright? Does he have enemies?”
Lovejoy hesitated. “Perhaps.”
“Who in the house dislikes him?”
“‘Dislike’ is perhaps too strong, sir. There have been misunderstandings on occasion. Normally Mr. Wheelwright is a quiet sort of man. He is not easily roused, but beware of him when he is. He is quite particular about certain things.”
“Such as?”
“The time of day at which meals are served. That his shoes are brushed and set where he can find them. Nothing makes him angrier than being unable to find something. Mrs. Wheelwright once gave away some worn clothes, which included a favorite jacket. There was... an unpleasant scene. His valet, old Osborne, is always threatening to quit.”
“Why?”
“He says he does not like the way the master treats him, but I think he actually fears him. Poor Osborne is barely five feet tall, and well, you have seen the master. He rarely strikes anyone, but...”
“Whom exactly has he struck?”
Lovejoy raised his black eyebrows, his eyes suddenly mournful. “I am sorry, sir, but I can say no more. I may have already been indiscreet.”
“Very well, Mr. Lovejoy, we shall not pursue these domestic matters. Do you know of any enemies outside the house?”
“There I am on unfamiliar ground. You must ask Mr. Wheelwright himself. I gather he is not so... unpopular as his father, but I am only speculating.”
“Yes,” Holmes said. “I have heard how the elderly Wheelwright crushed his rivals. I have also heard some curious speculation about the content of his products.”
Lovejoy said nothing but gave a very slight, reluctant nod.
“Thank you, Mr. Lovejoy. I shall be returning another day to speak with the staff.”
“I shall have the carriage brought round, sir. I hope I have been of assistance.”
He stood. His was a very imposing presence in his black morning coat, his posture, diction, and bearing perfect. Butlers were sometimes portrayed as buffoons on stage, but theirs was a position of great responsibility. Capable and intelligent, Lovejoy was more of a gentleman than many gentlemen.
I stood up and stretched my arms. Holmes went to the bookshelves. He pulled out a volume, and soon his upper lip wrinkled in disdain.
“What is it?” I asked.
“The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.”
I could not help but laugh.
“Mrs. Wheelwright has diverse tastes: natural histories, entomology, biology and geology; Jules Verne’s romances, Watson, Dickens, and Eliot. Ah, what have we here!” From one of the shelves hidden below the table, he pulled out a violin, the wood a lustrous reddish brown. He examined it minutely. “I do believe—yes, it is a Guarneri!—a Guarneri del Gesù. It is not inferior to my Stradivarius. I must try it.”
He tuned the instrument, plucking at the strings and adjusting them. Finally, he pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket, and tucked that and the violin under his chin. Standing very straight, he held the bow loosely at the end of his long outstretched arm; he closed his eyes, raised the bow in a single fluid gesture and brought it down across a string, playing a long sustained note. “Oh yes, a very warm tone, exquisite.” The fingers of his left hand danced about as he played some scales. “Beautiful, absolutely beautiful.” Eyes still closed, he launched into a piece.
The melody began plainly enough, but quickly grew more complicated. When a contrapuntal line was introduced, I decided Bach was probably the composer. Holmes’ playing emphasized the music’s majesty and dignity, but the instrument’s tone added warmth. Rather awestruck, I listened from my chair without stirring.
After the final note had died away I heard a tremulous voice: “Oh, bravo, Mr. Holmes—bravo.”
Holmes lowered the violin, his handkerchief falling to the floor. “Forgive me for not consulting with you first, Mrs. Wheelwright, but I could not resist such an instrument.”
Violet stood by the doorway, her dark eyes blazing and face flushed. She wiped at her eyes with her long fingers, and laughed. “Emotion is such a foolish, senseless thing. Most of the world can listen to music without being much affected, but it moves me so much. I said books were my solace, but music is another, one which warms my blood as mere words never can.” She laughed again. “I am pleased that Dr. Watson did not invent your musical inclination, but he does not do you justice. Do you really own a Stradivarius?”
Holmes nodded, his eyes fixed on her. “I do.”
“I envy you.”
He raised the violin by its neck. “It is no better than this instrument. I take it this is yours?”
“Yes. My father left it to me.”
“And do you play, Mrs. Wheelwright?”
She had gradually approached us and stopped about a yard from Holmes. She gave a slight nod. They stared intently at each other.
“Was that Bach’s music?” I asked.
“It was the Allemande from his Partita Number One,” Violet said.
Holmes handed her the violin, then stooped to pick up the handkerchief and gave it to her as well. She stepped back, tucked the violin under her chin and played a few notes. “You have a good ear—it is well tuned.” She drew in her breath through her nostrils, her rosy lips clamped together, and began to play.
I have no great ear, but I could tell this was more Bach. The melody went much faster and teemed with notes. It must have been fiendishly difficult. Although the music was very formal, very dignified, its passion was striking; she gave it such pathos, such yearning. My eyes shifted to my cousin. He was absolutely transfixed. I had seen him absorbed before, but never with such fire in his eyes, such color on his cheek. When she finished at last, he drew in a great breath, opened his mouth, then turned and went to an armchair, virtually collapsing. Mrs. Wheelwright watched him. She too was flushed.
“That was also Bach, was it not?” I asked.
Violet nodded. “Yes, from the same partita.” She set down the violin and bow, and held the handkerchief out to Holmes. He raised his head, then took it.
“Brilliant, Mrs. Wheelwright. Your playing is extraordinary.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”
“It was quite remarkable,” I said.
She smiled at me. “Thank you, Henry.”
Holmes ran his hand across his forehead and back over his oily black hair, then stood. “I think we have intruded upon your household long enough.”
“I have something for you both.” She went to her desk, then selected two envelopes from a stack, and handed one to each of us. “I am giving a small dinner party a week from today, frightfully formal, I fear, but you are both invited—and Michelle, of course. Perhaps you can liven things up. My cook is truly formidable, so I can promise you a memorable meal.”
I glanced down at the invitation. “How very kind of you.”
“Not at all. Michelle is especially dear to me, and I have been intending to have you as our guests for some time.”
“We shall be happy to attend.”
She smiled again. “I am glad. And you, Mr. Holmes? It is next Monday. I do hope you can come.”
He stood and thrust the invitation into his coat pocket. He was nearly a foot taller than Violet. “I shall.” They were staring at each other, again.