Between the Thames and the Tiber

and Africa. The most common of these were of course the various strychnine poisons that were made from the seeds of the strychnos nux vomica, a plant native to India. These and others mimic many diseases and if given over long periods of time produce long suffering and, finally, death.”

I recalled as he spoke that he remained in France for about eight weeks before his return to London only two days before. His stay in Paris was far longer than he had planned, due largely to the publication of the monograph, and he did not arrive in London until almost the end of January.

“Two days ago, while you were out, dear Watson, I was informed by Mrs. Hudson that a monk, probably of the Roman Church, wished to see me. He had appeared suddenly and unannounced. She had gathered from his broken English that it was a matter of the gravest urgency, and judging by his excited gestures, she felt that I had best see him at once. I, unfortunately, was not here either, and so our prospective client left, saying that he would return at the same time the following day.” And so he had, for there was a sudden knock at our door, unmistakably that of our landlady, and Holmes nodded, asking that she show our guest in immediately.

When he entered, I was a bit taken aback, for I recognized him instantly. Still tall, though slightly bent and much older now than I remembered, there was no mistaking the dramatic figure, the powerful face, the aquiline nose, the famous moles on the cheeks, and the long snow-white hair that reached his shoulders. He wore the long black frock of the monk, and a black velvet cape over his tall frame.

“Welcome, Monsieur Abbe,” said Holmes in French, “I am rarely honoured by so distinguished a visitor. And this is my colleague, Dr. Watson. I think you will find the chair near the window the most comfortable. Please sit down.”

“I need your immediate help, Monsieur Holmes,” said the monk, continuing in French.

“I am at your service, Monsieur Liszt. I assume that you have learned of me through—”

“The King of Bohemia, my good friend, and most recently through friends in the French Surete, where you are held in the highest esteem. The King has often recounted to me— and to very few others—the successful outcome of your intervention in his affairs, an intervention that saved his marriage and throne. And now I turn to you for help, not for myself, at least not directly, but for my daughter, Cosima, more than anyone, and for her husband, who has been my close friend for many years.”

Holmes paused briefly to light his pipe. He looked at me directly as he said, “You know as well as I, Watson, that one does not have to be an avid follower of music and musicians to know of whom Monsieur Liszt speaking.”

Indeed, I thought to myself, even an unmusical person such as I knew of those of whom he spoke. Liszt, his daughter Cosima, and her husband, the German composer Wagner, were the subject of constant gossip and the object of endless attacks by pamphleteers and the lower forms of the press, both in Germany and the rest of Europe. Holmes himself kept a large file on musicians, one in which Wagner and his circle figured prominently.

Addressing our guest, Holmes said, “Please continue, Monsieur Liszt. If I believe that I can be of help, I shall be so gladly.”

His guest paused for a moment, struggling with his choice of words.

“Then let me explain, Monsieur Holmes. I believe Richard Wagner is in great danger, and I fear for his life. We have known each other for many years. We first met in Paris over forty years ago, and while we have had careers that often placed us far apart, we have never lost touch. Since he married my daughter Cosima in 1870, his children are now my grandchildren, and I have made it part of my life to visit with his family as often as my work permits. I was not a good father, Monsieur Holmes, neither to Cosima, nor to her brothers and sisters. My habits are well known, but, seasoned by age perhaps, I have attempted to make amends, at least to Cosima, by spending time with little Siegfried and his sisters, the Wagner children. I adore them and wish them every happiness.

“But Wagner himself, as long as I have known him,” he continued, “has possessed a very difficult character. A person of strange moods and abrupt changes in character, one never knew whether he would be jovial or morose. Plagued all his life by financial worries, seeing enemies everywhere, his creative genius always found itself subject to his powerful but destructive emotions. Because he is so difficult, I at first opposed Cosima’s association with him. I preferred frankly the less talented but steadier Hans von Bulow. Even after she left him to live with Wagner, I opposed their marriage, and I advised von Bulow not to grant a divorce. But after I saw Cosima and realized how happy she was with Richard, I finally relented. She told me that she had made her life very complicated by marrying Wagner, but he was the joy of her life, just as Hans, her first husband, was her life’s sorrow, and her children her life’s work. Richard, himself, never seemed happier than after their marriage.”

“Within this happiness,” said Holmes,” there must be something that you find troubling, Monsieur Liszt, otherwise you would not be here. Please tell me what it is.”

“I shall explain, Monsieur Holmes. In brief, it is this: for no apparent reason, Wagner’s health has deteriorated rapidly in the last several years, so rapidly that I have begun to suspect an external cause. Considering his enormous success as a composer and the familial happiness that he shares with his wife and children, there is no reason for this decline and for the number of maladies with which he has been afflicted. He was a vigorous man in his youth, and except for his youthful excesses, he has been a man of abstemious habits. He is, through the influence of Schopenhauer, a kind of Buddhist, un bouddhiste allemand, as they say, who has led the quiet life of a composer.”

“Then there is,” Holmes interjected, “as I have long suspected, no truth behind all the rumours and wild tales associated with him—and about you, Monsieur Abbe, I might add.”

The Abbe laughed. “Monsieur Holmes, the public desires this kind of tale. It is what fills the concert halls and pays our way. The public does not understand artistic creation in the slightest. It cannot comprehend in the least what effort and time is involved just to produce a finished score, let alone conceive it. We are not all Mozarts. Even the shortest of my etudes has taken hours not just to compose, but merely to write out clearly for the printer. The years of hard labor that go into the creation of works such as Lohengrin or even of some of my more modest efforts, such as Les Preludes, leave little time for the wild life. We lead, Monsieur Holmes, the most bourgeois of lives in order to generate the passion necessary to create the music of the future, as Wagner himself has characterized it.”

Holmes watched Liszt carefully as he stood up and paced across the room. His face, that of a true Magyar, showed the greatest concern.

“I have spent several months with the Wagners over the last year, Monsieur Holmes, and I have seen the steady decline of my friend Richard. His nights are sleepless. He cannot find rest, he is tormented by fierce dreams, spasms of the muscles, deep pain through his joints and severe nocturnal hallucinations. He has all but given up composing. I have just left them. They are in Venice, a place that Wagner finds congenial. Richard is ill, very ill, and he does not follow his doctors’ orders. I was alarmed at how he looked at Christmas. It was then that I thought that something was very wrong, that there might be an external cause.”

“Like poison. And that is why you came to me?” asked Holmes.

“Precisely, Monsieur Holmes. I say this with no knowledge whatsoever of his condition, only a certain intuition that comes when we are disturbed by the unexpected perception of our close friends and relations. The doctors have not been able to diagnose his various maladies to my satisfaction. If I am correct in my suspicions, then we must intervene. According to the French security forces, you know more about poison and its effects than anyone alive. According to the King of Bohemia, you are the best consulting detective in the world. I believe that you are the right man to investigate the matter. And, if I am wrong, we will have lost nothing.”

“Monsieur Abbe, I shall be happy to, but I shall need to have direct access to Herr Wagner and his family. And since I am not a physician, I request that my colleague, Dr. Watson, accompany me. His experience should be of great aid to us.”

“That can be easily arranged. Fortunately, Monsieur Holmes, Cosima and her husband have expressed the desire to improve their own English as well as that of their children by having two English speakers live with them for a time. On my recommendation, those persons could be you.”

“This would mean a trip to Venice.”

“The family is at present occupying large quarters in one of the old palaces off the Grand Canal, the Palazzo Vendramin. There is more than adequate room for you, and you would lack for nothing. In addition, I am willing to pay you whatever you wish, including your expenses. I am not the King of Bohemia, Monsieur Holmes, but I assure you that I can afford to pay you whatever fair sum you require.”

“I accept your offer, Monsieur Abbe. Nothing keeps me in London at present, and since I have never visited