A Study in Sherlock

manuscript and she returns it within the month. She’s quick and accurate and quite reasonable. She even inserts his scribbled notations neatly. William makes such a mess of his practice scores that he likes to have a fresh set for his performances.”

Dr Watson seemed surprised. “He doesn’t play from memory?”

She smiled. “Of course he does, but he doesn’t trust himself. Once he became so tangled in a Liszt concerto that he vowed never again to play in public without a score in front of him. I turn the pages for him and half the time he forgets to signal me to turn. If I did not follow carefully, he would be two pages ahead of me.”

Dr Watson may have been interested in this musical digression, but I was not. “Please come to the point, Elizabeth,” I said impatiently.

She sighed and complied.

Soon after settling into their lodgings, Mr Breckenridge had played at a reception for Lord P———.

“It is our custom to eat a light meal before a performance,” Elizabeth said. “Nothing more than bread and butter and some consomme. Just the two of us alone so that William can approach the music in a serene state of mind. Afterwards, we have a late supper with some of the other musicians or with the patron who sponsored the concert.

“That evening, all was as usual, yet by the end of it, I found myself light-headed and short of breath. I ascribed it to our change of air and thought little of it, especially as I felt fine the next day. Two nights later, it happened again, and again I was better for the rest of the week. The pattern has continued. I am quite well until I share a light meal with him before he plays, then I become increasingly ill until I can barely get through a performance. Three nights ago, I could not rise from my chair and had to be helped from the stage. It was so bad I had to miss the last two performances. Only today was I well enough to seek Mr Holmes’s help. Now you tell me I have come in vain.”

She sank back on the sofa, defeated.

“Not necessarily, my dear,” said Dr Watson. “I may lack his quick intelligence, but I learned much from close observation of his methods.”

“And I have read all your published accounts of his remarkable deductions,” I said. (I would not be so bold as to tell him that in one or two of those accounts Mr Holmes seemed to go around his elbow to reach his thumb whereas a woman would have gone directly across the palm, so to speak.) “Perhaps together we may help. Where do you take those light meals? Who prepares the food? Who serves it?”

We soon had a full account from her. Her maid brought up a tray to their rooms. As a rule, the tray held a small tureen of clear broth, a half loaf of bread and butter, and a pot of tea.

“Who serves?” asked Dr Watson as he made notes on a small pad he had taken from his pocket.

“I do,” Elizabeth told him. “I dismiss the maid and ladle the soup from the tureen into identical bowls. I also cut and butter our bread. My husband pours the tea, then adds one lump of sugar to each cup, and a few drops of milk.” She paused before continuing with a bitter look of shame. “It pains me to admit that when I asked him to fetch a handkerchief from our bedroom three nights ago, I switched our cups in case he should have slipped something into the tea without my seeing even though I had watched his every movement. That night, as I’ve told you, I was as sick as ever I have been. It was a long programme and I almost collapsed before it was finished.”

Dr Watson looked up from his notes. “Your maid?”

“Maria was born in my grandparents’ house. If she wishes me harm, why wait until we are in London? As for the manservant, Giorgio did resent me when William and I first married. A wife does bring change, does she not?”

“Indeed,” Dr Watson murmured, and I felt he was remembering the changes his own marriage had wrought.

“He has since forgiven me, though, because he and Maria are to wed when we return to Venice. Nevertheless, my first suspicions fell there, yet how could either of them poison a tureen of soup, a loaf of bread, or a pot of tea without poisoning both of us? No, it has to be William. There’s no one else. But how? And why?”

“Is there another woman?” I asked.

“No, Aunt. At least I don’t think so. He’s very handsome and many women have thrown themselves at him whether or not I am there, but I can honestly say he doesn’t seem to notice. His family tell me that he was quite homely as a boy—all arms and gangly legs and interested only in his music. He still thinks of himself that way.” A blush brought colour to her pale face. “I am the first woman to break through his reserve.”

“Would he benefit by your death?” asked the doctor.

With a smile for me, Elizabeth shook her head. “As Aunt will tell you, sir, my father married for love, not money; and what money he did leave disappeared into her second marriage.”

“When is your husband’s next performance?”

“Tonight. We will sup together as usual and I will be there to assist him as long as I am able. It’s a shorter programme than last time, so perhaps I can manage.” She reached for her handbag. “I brought two passes. I hoped that you and Mr Holmes might agree to come and we could act as if the meeting were an accident.”

“An excellent idea,” I said briskly, plucking the tickets from her hand. I gave one to Dr Watson and retained the other for myself. “Even better would be if I joined you for your early meal.”

She started to protest but I held up my hand to stop her. “While he may prefer to sup alone with you, I am your aunt whom you have not seen in years. We can go back to your lodgings together as if the accidental meeting occurred this afternoon.”

“I have told William about you,” she said slowly, “and we did plan to call on you during our stay here.”

“Excellent,” said Dr Watson. “Having met accidentally, it would be only natural that your aunt should wish to meet your husband immediately. I do not see how he can object and I doubt he will attempt anything with two pairs of eyes watching.”

He questioned Elizabeth a second time about her exact symptoms, then asked if he might borrow the key to Mr Holmes’s rooms. “I should like to consult his notes on poisons.”

I handed it over most willingly.

At about six o’clock that very day, my niece and I arrived at a large and attractive house near the West End that had once been a nobleman’s private residence. We entered to the sound of piano music and Elizabeth led me straight through the hall into a spacious room furnished with two pianos, a harpsichord, several music stands, and many small gilt chairs. Three of the chairs stood near the grand piano. A stout gentleman of middle age sat next to a younger woman. Their dress indicated wealth and taste. A second woman in a modest skirt and jacket with lilacs pinned to the collar of her shirtwaist occupied the chair slightly behind and to the left of the man who was playing so beautifully.

Upon seeing us enter, she rose and hastily gathered up the loose sheets of music on the piano.

Surprised, the pianist followed her eyes, then sprang to his feet. “Elizabeth! I was beginning to fear something had happened to you. You’re not well enough to go out alone.”

“Something has happened, William,” she said. “This is my aunt whom I told you of, Mrs Hudson. We met in one of the shops and I insisted she come meet you at once.”

“Splendid!”

Mr Breckenridge appeared to be eight or ten years older than Elizabeth. I was prepared for his handsome features, his height, and his long fingers; I was not prepared for the warmth of his smile and the genuine pleasure he seemed to take in meeting me, nor the pride with which he introduced my niece to the others.

“Sir Anthony Stockton, Lady Anne, allow me to present my wife and her aunt Mrs Hudson. Elizabeth, Sir Anthony wishes to commission a work to celebrate their wedding anniversary.”

Although Sir Anthony said all the proper things, I noted that Lady Anne boldly looked my niece up and down and murmured, “Delighted, Mrs Breckenridge. You are a very lucky woman to have such a … talented husband.”

Her smile gave a double meaning to the word talented, but the men seemed not to notice.

Elizabeth then introduced me to Mrs Sarah Manning, the copyist that she had so praised earlier. A soft- spoken woman of some thirty years, her manner was respectful and self-effacing. I later learned that she was the widow of a well-regarded piano teacher who now earned her living by turning drafts of manuscripts into finished