“I suppose I had better be going.”
“Not at all, Henry. You can play the part of Watson. Most of my clients expect to find him at my side. Besides, it is too early for supper. From what you told me of Michelle, she is probably engaged for the rest of the afternoon.”
“Yes, it is her day at the clinic. Very well, I shall stay. Medicine has also been rather dull of late. Let us hope your visitor has some interesting tale to relate.”
Holmes took off his dressing gown while he walked to his bedroom, and he returned wearing a frock coat, just as Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door: “Mr. Holmes, there is...”
“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I know. You may send in Tiny.”
She rolled her brilliant blue eyes and withdrew.
Despite Holmes’ description, I was not prepared for the bulk of the man who entered, his head barely clearing the doorframe. He wore formal dress, the ubiquitous black frock coat, waistcoat with gold watch chain showing, and striped trousers, the toes of his boots shiny, but all in all, he did not appear at home in his grand apparel. He had a slightly frumpled look, his tie askew, an errant lock of hair almost standing up.
At one time, he must have been a superb physical specimen, but now, nearing forty, he had the look of a man in transition toward corpulence. His shoulders were still broad, but his waist was thick, his neck too fleshy and full under the square chin. All the same, at a good six and a half feet tall, with an eighteen-inch neck, fingers thick as sausages, and a weight nearer three-hundred than two-hundred pounds, he was an imposing figure. His hair and mustache were light brown, his eyes blue, his skin fair with a tendency toward redness. His gaze shifted from me, to my medical bag, to my cousin.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
“Yes. I am he. What may I do for you, Mr.—?”
“Wheelwright, Donald Wheelwright.” His immense paw briefly swallowed Holmes’ long, delicate fingers.
“This is my cousin, Mr. Wheelwright. As you noted, he is a physician.”
Wheelwright’s hand now swallowed mine. It felt sweaty, big, very strong, and I noticed the reddish-brown hair on the back. “Dr. Watson,” Wheelwright said softly.
I raised my eyebrows. Holmes’ gray eyes had a wicked gleam, and he turned Wheelwright aside before I could apprise him of my true identity. A very faint, floral scent touched my nostrils. I glanced at my hand and sniffed cautiously. Lavender?
“Now then, Mr. Wheelwright, do be seated and tell me how I can be of service.”
Wheelwright sat warily, and the chair was dwarfed with him in it. He gave a sigh, and his mouth stiffened. “I— This is a black business, Mr. Holmes. I usually like to keep my affairs private, but... My safety and my wife’s safety are at risk, and the police don’t seem to be of much use. I didn’t quite know where to turn, but I was told you were the very best for this type of deviltry. I’m not superstitious, mind you, but all the same...”
“Who has threatened you, Mr. Wheelwright?”
His eyes showed a sudden coldness. “Who told you I had been threatened?”
“You did, albeit in a roundabout manner.”
He nodded. “I see. Well, there have been letters, and... See here, did you ever hear about the business with the gypsy at Lord Harrington’s ball?”
Holmes’ fingers tapped at his leg, and he frowned. “Was that nearly two years ago?”
“Yes, that’s right. Two years in January it will be. You know about it then?”
“Only vaguely. Something about a gypsy curse, was it not? I saw a brief article in one of the papers. Tell me about it, Mr. Wheelwright.”
Wheelwright sighed and shifted restlessly in the chair, which creaked ominously. “She was— There was this old hag. She appeared during the dancing. This was the Paupers’ Ball, and we were all in costume. She told us we should be ashamed—as if having money was a fault—and then she said how wicked we were. She had a piercing voice that got a grip on you, and at first no one was quite sure whether she was part of the entertainment. She came down the stairs and cursed everyone and wished the most terrible things on us all. And then...” His mouth stiffened, his brow furrowed, and he shook his head. “It was not wise. My wife tried to talk to her. The gypsy began to shriek at her. Finally, Harrington’s servants seized the gypsy and threw her out. The party was spoilt, though.”
Holmes gave a sharp staccato laugh. “Yes, I’ll wager it was. What did the gypsy look like?”
“Like a gypsy.”
Holmes forced a smile. “And what does a gypsy look like? What did this particular gypsy look like?”
“An old hag, as I said, in a bright dress—red, I believe. She had a hooked nose and bad teeth. Oh, and she wore big round golden earrings. What an old witch.”
“But her voice was piercing rather than feeble?”
“Oh, yes. Everyone in the hall could hear her.”
“And your wife confronted her?”
He gave his head a shake. “She was across the room from me, or I’d have stopped her. You don’t try to reason with a lunatic.”
“And what did Mrs. Wheelwright say to the gypsy?”
“She told her that our being dressed up meant no... disrespect, and that only the Almighty could punish, and she even...” He drew in his breath. “She asked the old hag to pray with her for God’s mercy.”
“And the gypsy did not take kindly to these suggestions?”
“No, she was still cursing my wife as they dragged her off.”
“What exactly was the nature of these curses?”
Wheelwright’s tongue appeared briefly at the corner of his mouth. “That she and all she knew would have bad luck, and... die in torment, and...” His face lost some of its earlier ruddy color. “And that she—my wife—would be... barren.”
Holmes took his elbows off his knees and sat back. “And by barren did she mean childless?”
Wheelwright nodded slowly. “Yes.”
Holmes tapped at his knee with his fingertips. “I do not wish to appear insensitive, Mr. Wheelwright, but it must be asked. Do you and your wife have any children?”
Wheelwright’s eyes narrowed, a brief hint of ice showing in their blue depths. “No. My wife... she is... But it was not the blasted gypsy!” His neck grew redder. “We already knew, long, long before the ball... I said I’m not superstitious, and I’m not.”
Holmes nodded thoughtfully. “How long have you been married, sir?”
“Nearly eight years.” Wheelwright seemed to grudge each word.
“I see. So the gypsy cursed your wife in particular and everyone else at the party. How very dramatic. The newspaper article comes back to me now. The curse involved general ruin, misery and misfortune, lingering illness, and early death, I believe. A crowd of London’s high society mesmerized by a vengeful gypsy who appears out of nowhere at the ball. Somewhat like Poe’s ‘Red Death.’”
“What’s this red death? I don’t recall her saying anything about any red death.”
“I was alluding to the story by Edgar Allan Poe.”
“Who’s he?”
“An American writer of some note. But we digress, Mr. Wheelwright. Something more immediate than the ball has brought you to see me.”
“That’s right, Mr. Holmes.” His big hands formed fists. “Some strange things have happened to several of the people who were at the ball. Harrington himself cut his own throat. It’s enough to make a man nervous. And then... then there was this note...”
Holmes placed his hands upon his knees. “Note? Let me see it, please.”
“It’s... it’s not very... nice.”
“I must see it.”