scores and by providing fresh copies whenever needed. Lady Anne had been Mr Manning’s student and the friendship had continued after his death.
As the Stocktons took their leave of Mr Breckenridge and he walked them to the door, Mrs Manning asked my niece, “Will you feel well enough to assist tonight?”
“I’m quite recovered now,” Elizabeth said. “Thank you for taking my place these past two nights on such short notice.” She gestured toward a portfolio that lay upon the piano. “Is that tonight’s score?”
Mrs Manning nodded. “But Mr Breckenridge wanted me to make some small changes, so I’ll bring it to the theatre.”
Then she, too, took her leave and I went upstairs with Elizabeth and her husband. He seemed in exceptionally high spirits and soon explained the reason. “On our trip over, I suddenly realised that the coda of a new piece I’ve been working on captured the wrong mood and it has worried me immensely. This morning I finally saw what was needed.”
“Is that what you were playing when we came in?” Elizabeth asked.
He frowned and did not answer.
“And why did Mrs Manning gather up the sheets and put them in her portfolio as if she did not wish me to see them?”
My new nephew, who had asked me to call him by his Christian name, turned to me as if to an old confidant and said, “Was she always this curious as a child, Aunt Hudson?”
I smiled and said nothing.
“Elizabeth has told me so much of her happy childhood in Scotland that I accepted an invitation to play in Edinburgh this summer.”
“It will mark my first visit there since Father died,” she said to me. “But, William, what has that to do with Mrs Manning’s odd behaviour?”
“It’s a Scottish rhapsody for you, my dearest. I planned to play it on our first evening there as your birthday surprise. Unfortunately, Lady Anne saw the draft I had left with Mrs Manning and immediately wanted it. It seems that Sir Anthony’s fortune was built on Scottish wool and she thought it would be perfect for their grand anniversary celebration. They prevailed upon Mrs Manning to arrange today’s meeting and begged me to play it for them. He offered me quite a handsome sum, but of course I refused.”
“Oh, William!” said my niece, her face aglow with happiness.
Shortly thereafter, her maid entered, bearing a tray that held a light meal for the three of us. After his earlier display of affection, I could not bring myself to believe that William Breckenridge would do anything to hurt her. Indeed, he told me of his concern for her health and made her promise she would consult a doctor should her dizziness return. Nevertheless, I watched his every movement but Elizabeth managed it so that his hands never came near her food or drink.
A carriage had been provided by the theatre management and upon our arrival, I saw Elizabeth draw from her pocket a small lozenge and discreetly put it in her mouth. Before we parted in the vestibule of the theatre, I managed to question her privately about it.
“When I first began to accompany singers back at La Fenice, my grandfather warned me to take extra care that my breath would never offend. As a result, I always take a piece of peppermint before a performance.”
The odour of mint was quite distinct as I bent my ear to her lips. “Could that—?”
“No, dear Aunt, I threw away the drops I brought with me from Italy and purchased fresh ones here which I keep very close. They are much stronger than I prefer but they serve their purpose.”
When I slipped into my seat beside Dr Watson, I told him all that I had seen and observed. “Did you learn anything in your search of Mr Holmes’s notes?”
“Indeed I did. From her symptoms—giddiness, headaches, and difficulty in breathing—I suspected cyanide poisoning and Holmes’s notebook entries confirm it. Whatever the source, your niece must be ingesting very tiny amounts. A large dose would kill her instantly and would be quickly detected. It may be that the poisoner wishes to make it appear a natural illness.”
As the lights went down, I drew his attention to a box overlooking the stage. “Sir Anthony and Lady Anne,” I whispered. “I fear she has designs on Elizabeth’s husband.”
The first half of the program was devoted to a Beethoven string quartet. We remained in our seats during the interval and watched while Mrs Manning, in a charming yellow gown with a bouquet of primroses at her bosom, raised the piano lid, adjusted the bench, and placed sheets of music on the rack. A few minutes later, I saw her enter Sir Anthony’s box and take a seat beside Lady Anne. According to the programme, the evening was to end with Schubert’s “Trout” quintet.
I’m sure it was delightful. Certainly the audience applauded enthusiastically, as did Dr Watson, but all my attention was for Elizabeth, who sat in a straight chair behind and to the left of her husband and followed the notes on the pages before him. At regular intervals, she rose unobtrusively and, using her left hand so as not to obstruct his sight, she quickly turned a page, then sat down again.
Halfway through the music, I touched Dr Watson’s sleeve and whispered, “Watch my niece.”
A moment later, his eyes widened and I heard an almost inaudible “By Jove!”
It seemed to both of us that she grew steadily weaker through the playing of the concerto and after turning the last page, she quitted the stage with unsteady steps. As soon as the lights came up again, we hurried to the dressing room where we found Elizabeth lying back in a chair, her eyes closed and her mouth open as she laboured to breathe. Mr Breckenridge knelt beside her with a cold cloth in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Distraught, he looked up at me and said, “She’s had another attack.”
I quickly introduced Dr Watson, who took her pulse and said, “Can you hear me, Miss Elizabeth?”
She nodded weakly.
“Do you feel as if ice water is running through your veins?”
Her eyes flew open. “Yes! And my chest! It feels as if it’s bound by iron bands.”
“She needs fresh air,” Dr Watson said. “Now.”
My nephew gathered her up in his strong arms and strode down the hall through an outer door into an enclosed courtyard with a stone bench. He held her until her breathing slowed to normal and she could sit unaided.
William seemed more worried than ever and asked if Dr Watson could diagnose Elizabeth’s illness.
Before he could answer, Sir Anthony, followed by Lady Anne and Mrs Manning, pushed through the small group of musicians and their friends who had gathered in concern. “I know an excellent doctor in Harley Street, Breckenridge. Allow me to send for him.”
Elizabeth tried to protest, but even Dr Watson urged her to submit to a thorough examination. It was agreed that he would come to their rooms next morning and join Sir Anthony’s doctor for a consultation.
With the immediate crisis past, we went back inside and talk turned to the mundane. William was warmly complimented on his performance and Dr Watson asked if he might borrow the score that Mrs Manning had collected from the piano rack. “I am no musician but there’s a passage in the first movement that I should like to examine, if I may.”
“Let me give you a fresh copy, sir,” said Mrs Manning, who started to open a leather portfolio.
“No need,” he assured her.
Despite her protests, he insisted. “This one will do nicely for my purpose. I’ll return it when I come tomorrow morning.”
Carriages were called for and Dr Watson escorted me back to Baker Street, where he retired to Mr Holmes’s old rooms. I had the maid put fresh linens on one of the beds and sent up a supper tray. It was almost like old times.
Next morning, I was up and out at daybreak, yet I managed to be seated by my niece’s side when Dr Watson and Sir Ernest Fowler, the noted physician, arrived at ten o’clock.
After a thorough examination, the two left the bedroom to confer.
“What is it?” William asked anxiously when they returned.
“Will she recover?”
“Thanks to Dr Watson,” Sir Ernest said. “Mrs Breckenridge, I’m told you suspect someone is trying to poison you?”
William looked thunderstruck when she nodded. “Poison?”
