I sighed wearily. I had only met Violet Wheelwright a few times, but I had liked her. Wheelwright, on the other hand... And if he were an adulterer, too... “I cannot believe it.”
“Henry, you should know how common such behavior is.”
“It may be common, but it is wrong. Blast it all, Violet is so pretty! Why would he trifle with a prostitute when he is married to a woman such as her?”
“Is that not also obvious? Because he is a dullard, Henry—a blockhead. Her beauty does not matter. He wants someone equally obtuse who will flutter her eyelids and tell him how handsome and clever he is. I doubt his wife would do that.”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Wheelwright seems a familiar name... Of course—Wheelwright’s Potted Meats! I’ll wager he’s that Wheelwright’s son and heir. The old man has a reputation for being shrewd and ruthless. I cannot picture the son maintaining the family empire. Perhaps there is an elder brother.”
“They are rich. Michelle commented on it, and Violet has been only too willing to purchase medicine, food, and clothing for the poor. You have put me in an awkward position, Sherlock.”
“In what way?”
“I do not like to keep secrets from Michelle, and what you have deduced about Mr. Wheelwright concerns her good friend. Should I tell Michelle, she may be similarly perplexed, but knowing her, she will want to tell Mrs. Wheelwright about her husband’s infidelity. Who knows what misery may then ensue?”
“Oh, nonsense.” Holmes crossed his legs, took his pipe, and began to cram tobacco into the bowl. “If Mrs. Wheelwright is anywhere near as intelligent as you claim, she already knows about her husband’s infidelity. In my experience, the wife usually knows about the mistress, and so long as the husband is discreet, not particularly abusive, and continues to make his income readily available, she does not much care.”
“What a horribly cynical viewpoint.”
“Marriage is the institution created for cynics, but do not blame me for your dilemma. Mr. Wheelwright is the guilty party. If he makes a habit of leaving his afternoon rendezvous in such disorder, then others must have remarked upon the fact. By the way, had you heard anything of this gypsy curse?”
“Not a word. That note was certainly vile. What do you make of it?”
Holmes drew in on the pipe. “Probably some discontented servant, nothing more. The whole business is far too melodramatic to be genuine. It reeks of artifice, of histrionics.”
“But what about the gypsy at the ball?”
“The author of the note probably has no relation to the gypsy, but that affair also seems suspicious. An old gypsy cursing all of well-to-do London is simply too dramatic, too sensational. I always suspect reports of anything even faintly supernatural, and this is very dubious. I shall be interested in meeting Mrs. Wheelwright and hearing her version of the events. Wheelwright certainly has no flair for storytelling.”
“I think she will please you. She is remarkably beautiful, but her wit and liveliness are what captivate one.”
Holmes laughed. “You make her sound a very paragon. I suppose I must guard my heart, for she is, after all, a married woman.” His irony had a weary edge.
I sighed but said nothing. I could think of no rejoinder.
“Do not tell Michelle, Henry. I would not have her worried as well. Perhaps in this case, I should have kept my deductions to myself.”
He rose, glanced out the window, then walked to his desk and examined the spider with his glass. “Her meal is half gone. My poor tegenaria, you had another close call. Luckily the massive Mr. Wheelwright was too cowardly to strike you. Come, Henry, cheer up. Would Michelle spare you this evening? I am tired and have not dined out in a while. A good piece of beef at Simpson’s would be the very thing. Given Mr. Wheelwright’s promised check, I can afford to be generous and feed an industrious physician.”
I forced a smile. “Oh, very well. Michelle may be late herself since she is with Mrs. Wheelwright.”
“Good. It is settled then. Wheelwright, gypsy curses, and my mysterious Moriarty and his web will be forgotten for the rest of the evening.”
“You must tell me more about Moriarty.”
“In due time I shall, but not tonight—tonight, British roast beef shall rule supreme, and only topics conducive to good digestion will be discussed.”
Two
As usual, by late Wednesday afternoon, I was weary in body and soul. In the morning Violet, her footman Collins, and I had walked about and visited the patients who were too ill to come to the clinic. I was fairly well known as the lady doctor, but Collins provided security in so rough a neighborhood. A big, tall, strapping fellow with a ready smile, he was known to be good with his fists.
We trudged up many dark narrow flights of stairs which stunk of human waste and visited the cold, dimly lit rooms where entire families dwelt, squalor and misery their perpetual companions. The weather had recently changed, the golden warmth of early fall giving way to the foul yellow fog and drizzle which were harbingers of winter. I dreaded the change because I knew what would happen to so many of my patients. With the bell of my stethoscope pressed against their chests, I could hear the consumption devouring their lungs. Suggesting a change of climate, wintering over in Italy or Spain, would have been a cruel mockery to those who could afford neither adequate nutrition nor shelter. Many would not live to see another summer.
At the clinic, in the afternoon, the parade of human suffering continued. I saw many children and infants with runny noses, coughs and fevers. If they were lucky, it was only a head cold or the first croup of the season. The weather had also aggravated the rheumatism of the elderly.
One woman about my age (just past thirty) had the most beautiful chestnut hair. She also had a dreadful black eye and a split lip. “It hurts when I breathe,” she said. I had her disrobe to the waist so I could examine her. Her skin was very pale, truly almost white, her frame slender. The outline of the humerus showed through her skin, and the shape of each curving rib was clearly defined. Her fingers were long and thin, the bones prominent—an artist’s hands—but red and rough from toil. She was frail and beautiful; somehow she reminded me of a painting of Saint Sebastian stuck full of arrows. From her sagging breasts and slightly swayed back, I could tell that she had borne children, and the proof—a small pale girl with the same chestnut hair—waited beyond the screen.
On her left side was a fist-sized bruise, its bluish-purple contrasting with her fair skin. I drew in my breath. Behind me Violet muttered, “Dear God.” The woman’s face grew even paler.
I tried to probe gently, but soon tears streaked her cheeks. However, she made no sound. Half naked, she seemed so weak and vulnerable that it was hard to understand how any man could have hurt her so.
“I’m afraid you have some broken ribs, my dear.” I taped them up carefully and told her to come back to see me in two weeks time.
While she finished dressing, I turned to Violet. She had gone to the window, and now stood with her back to me, staring out at the street below. The pale nape of her neck showed under the long black hair that had been carefully wound about and pinned up.
“How are you?”
She said nothing.
“Violet?” I put my hand on her arm and felt, briefly, her muscles trembling violently, but then she slipped away and turned to face me. Her brown eyes had an odd glint—fear or rage, I could not tell which. She held her head very stiffly, but high and proud. She had the longest, most slender neck of any woman I knew. Her nose was also long and thin—aquiline—the nose of an aristocrat.