The young woman smiled with relief, turned on the stair, and led the way up. I directed her to our sitting room where we began our conversation.
“I take it that you are English?” Holmes inquired.
“Yes,” she said, “from London.”
As she took her tea from our landlady, I observed her for a moment. Young, perhaps no more than twenty- two or twenty-three, almost pretty, she was dressed in a dark blue dress, a straw Italian bonnet over her chestnut hair. There was a look of strength and determination in her green eyes, but she appeared to be quite tense, her fingers moving nervously on her lap and then fingering a silver locket that she wore around her neck.
“I come to you with a matter of the greatest concern to me, Mr. Holmes. I must speak to you in all candor. I trust that this gentleman is as trustworthy as—”
“I myself am. Quite correct. This is my colleague, Dr. Watson. You may speak before him as you would to me. You are a pianist, I see?”
I could sense her wonder as Holmes began to ply his tricks.
“Indeed, I am, but how could you know that?”
“It is simplicity itself. I noted as you took your seat that your bag contains a common edition of some music. Noting the letters—ven protruding from the top, I assumed the name of Beethoven. Judging from the thickness of the volume and its well-worn look, I was sure that it was a volume of his sonatas, obviously among the commonplaces of the pianist’s trade. Add to that your posture, which speaks eloquently of hours at the piano, and your well-developed hands and fingers.”
“It is with reason that you have the reputation that you have,” she said admiringly.
“But there is more, dear lady. You have been practising with great assiduity a particular piece—the piano concerto in D minor of Anton Rubinstein.”
At this a look of disbelief crossed her face, and she became almost angry as she answered, “That is unfair, Mr. Holmes. You are correct, of course, but I feel now that someone has told you of me and that you are engaged in some kind of deception, to what end I do not know.”
“Forgive me,” said Holmes, with a smile, “I can assure you that I have not spoken to anyone about you—I do not even know your name—and that so obvious are the clues to me that I often forget how mysterious their explanation may be to the untrained eye. Among other things, I am a student of the human hand. Because of its wide use in our work and activity, it can be even more important in revealing a life than the face itself. Thus while la Signora Manfredini was pouring your tea, I observed your hands as they moved unconsciously on your lap and then stretched as you toyed with your locket. Noting the span between the fingers, particularly between thumb and forefinger, I surmised what was almost assuredly a D minor chord. The rhythm and repetitions brought me to the melody and cadence of the Rubinstein piece, now the rage in Europe among pianists. But tell me what I do not know, to wit your name, and why you are here.”
The young woman appeared relieved by Holmes’s explanation, and said: “You are most amazing, Mr. Holmes. I shall not forget easily these illustrations of your methods. I hope they can be used to help me. My name is Alice Morel, and I am indeed a musician. I have trained at the Royal Conservatory in London, and was selected to take part in the piano competition soon to take place here in Rome under the auspices of the
“A singular honor,” said Holmes. “And a rather nerve-wracking one, I would imagine.”
“It is, Mr. Holmes. It means all-day practise, little sleep, and the anxious feeling that comes over one when one knows that the leading pianists of the world are the judges. Rubinstein himself is coming. Winning means a year’s study with him. And rumours are rife that Busoni and Theodor Leszhitisky will also attend.”
“I see,” said Holmes. “But, while the excitement must be great, there is something else that is producing a certain agitation in you. What is it?”
“Let me tell you how it came about. I won the preliminary competition in London two months ago, and was told to prepare for my immediate departure for Italy. Once arrived, I was to spend the next three months in preparation for the competition, which is to take place at the end of this coming August. It was made clear to me by our director that my performance would mean much to the national honour since whatever our accomplishments abroad we were not known in Europe or America as a musical nation.”
“’Tis true indeed, we English are not considered musical, a not unjust opinion of us in some ways, but not totally true on the other hand. Pray continue, Miss Morel.”
“On my arrival in Rome I was met by the British vice consul, Mr. Herbert Spenser, who helped me settle in and also to find a suitable piano on which to practise. Through the officials at the Academy he helped me find a flat on Via Ezio, off the Via Crescenzio. According to the notice, the flat was fully furnished, and I was told that it was the property of a Colonel Santoro, a military man of some note in Italy and recently retired. He seemed kind and friendly in our first meeting and showed me through the flat. Despite the disappointment in Italy at its armies’ defeat at Adowa, Santoro was one of its few heroes, and he showed me many photographs of himself and his various medals. “The flat was furnished with heavy wooden furniture from the Carpathians, somewhere in Hungary or Austria, I think, hardly to my taste, but I did not complain. Indeed, when I saw what was in the study I was overjoyed. It was a large concert grand piano, originally given to his daughter, he said, but hardly used. The piano, a Vulsin from Graz in Austria, was all I could ask for. I touched the keys and I heard the sweetest tone emanate from it. Mr. Anzio, the music publisher, had supplied it instead of offering it to some foreign potentate. Mr. Spenser had done very well by me, and I thanked him and the Colonel profusely for their help. It was precisely then that Mr. Spenser gave me this locket as a good-luck charm.”
“A Maria Theresa
She handed the locket over, and Holmes examined it closely while Miss Morel continued her tale.
“With this start in my Italian adventure, I was filled with optimism and practised long and hard each day, knowing that if my work continued at that level, I surely should have a chance at first place in the competition. Then my luck began to change.”
Tears formed in her eyes, and she drew a handkerchief from her bag. She kept her composure, however, and Holmes conforted her with a soft, “Pray continue, Miss Morel, we are ready to help you.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Holmes; it has been a nightmare that perhaps only a musician could understand.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes, “I am well aware of the strictures that the musical life puts upon one. I am a violinist of sorts and know well the tensions of such a career.”
Miss Morel smiled wanly at us, and continued her account.
“The first thing was the piano. About ten days ago, after a long hard practise one morning, I went out to walk in a nearby square not far from the Tiber. I returned after but an hour and sat down at the piano eagerly without even removing my coat. Suddenly my valued friend had changed. The piano had gone badly out of tune and half of the keys in the middle register were stuck. Perplexed, I lifted the lid to see what was wrong. Like most pianists, Mr. Holmes, I know little beyond the basics of piano construction. I could see nothing amiss. The rest of the day was spent finding a piano tuner. Colonel Santoro found one who finally came that evening and restored the sound of the piano. He attributed the problem to a change in temperature and left.
“For two days, I played constantly, always fearful that if I ventured out, I would find the piano again in unplayable condition. But one day, I returned after a visit to the Academy to find two strings broken. The tuner came, and replaced them, saying that the strings appeared to have been cut by someone.”
Holmes listened with increasing interest to the young woman’s story. His expression became more serious as she spoke. He leaned forward and returned the locket to her. As he did so, he wiped his hands with a handkerchief.
“Pray, continue, Miss Morel,” he said quietly.
“After the tuner left, I sat down to play, but after a few minutes, I was interrupted by a knock at the door. I opened and found an older woman standing there, elegantly dressed, accompanied by a much younger man.
“I understood what she said, but impressed upon her as intelligibly as I could that I spoke little Italian. She then continued haltingly in English. I invited them in and the signora explained to me why they had come: She and the Colonel no longer lived as husband and wife but were separated, though not divorced, however, since divorce was not possible in Italy. A court had awarded her the flat. The Colonel was allowed to live in it but was not permitted to rent it to anyone. She told me that I would be served and asked to appear in court as a witness to the
