“Perhaps you should go then.”
She laughed. “Sherlock did not invite me. Besides I have several patients coming.”
“No anemia for you.”
She took my arm and kissed my cheek. “You are a very good doctor, Henry. In time you will obtain the appreciation you deserve.”
I shrugged, hardly so convinced of either of her assertions. “Perhaps. Visiting the Wheelwright home should be interesting, and Sherlock needs someone to look after him. Violet may have actually charmed him.”
The hansom stopped before 221 Baker Street, just before one. The cabby, who was as thin and worn looking as his horse, took his fare and tipped his hat. The rain of the past few days had abated, but the sun seemed feeble, only a muted yellow through the clouds.
Holmes had company. The stranger’s mustache was neatly trimmed, but the reddish hair about his ears was thick and curly, its abundance contrasting with his balding pate. His complexion was ruddy, and his blue eyes regarded me warily. He was impeccably dressed, black silk highlighting the lapels of his frock coat, a diamond pin in his cravat.
“Lord Harrington, this is my cousin, Dr. Henry Vernier.”
Harrington shook my hand, then pulled on his gloves. “Please give this matter your consideration, Mr. Holmes. I do not wish my brother’s reputation—” he glanced briefly at me— “to remain sullied.”
“I shall do what I can. We shall continue our conversation another time. As I said, I have other business this afternoon.”
“Very well, sir.” He put on his top hat, took his walking stick in his right hand, and marched out the door.
“Have a seat, Henry,” Holmes said. “A carriage from the Wheelwrights should be arriving shortly. Lord Harrington had an interesting story.”
“I thought Lord Harrington had killed himself.”
“And so he did. Joseph Harrington left no heir, so his brother Michael, whom you just met, is now Lord Harrington. He is skeptical of the official version of his brother’s death, as well he might be. Men rarely kill themselves in that manner.”
“What manner?”
“By cutting one’s throat with a razor.”
I felt a stir low in my belly and repressed a shudder. “I have never heard of such a case.”
“Although rare, it does happen. Lord Harrington also told me his brother was notoriously long-winded, yet the scrawled note only said, ‘I cannot go on.’”
“Wasn’t Harrington supposed to have remade his fortune after squandering much of his inheritance?” I asked. “Some mysterious investments.”
“Yes. His brother did not go into the detail, but that is true. He suspects foul play, and he has revealed an enticing detail the police did not discover. His brother had a female visitor the afternoon he died.”
“Why were the police not told?”
“Most of the servants had been given the afternoon off, and the elderly butler who had let her in feared a scandal. Lord Harrington is convinced she murdered his brother. He chooses to overlook the more obvious explanation.”
“You mean...?”
Holmes nodded, then rose and walked impatiently to the bow window. “Lady Harrington was out of town visiting her sister. I know you told me the afternoon is not reserved for fine gentlemen and harlots, but it does seem a preferred time.”
“But why would Harrington have killed himself?”
“How should I know!” Holmes exclaimed. “Perhaps it was self-loathing.” He put his fingertips against his forehead, and his voice quieted. “It all grows so... wearisome. The man had everything—wealth, a title, good breeding, education—and yet he could rise no higher than... a mere animal. Is man’s nature truly so base?”
I shook my head. “No. Perhaps you are also thinking of Donald Wheelwright.”
Holmes turned to me, angry. “Perhaps I am.”
“All men are not like him or Harrington.”
Holmes glanced out the window. “The carriage is here, Henry, a fancy four-wheeler. We travel in style today.” He reached for his top hat and stick.
During the ride we were both rather pensive. I knew I could never forgive myself if I were unfaithful to Michelle. I might still have longings toward other women, but it was one thing to have such longings, another to act upon them. All the same, despite the great facade of moral rectitude, Holmes was right—adultery was all too common amongst upper-class men.
“Have you discovered anything yet about the Wheelwright case?” I asked.
“Only that which is of general knowledge. Violet Montague married Donald Wheelwright eight years ago this November. She was twenty-two years of age, he some six years older. She was the daughter of a widowed Oxford don, Alexander Montague, an eminent naturalist whose specialty was entomology. He had died, unexpectedly, a year before the marriage at the peak of his career. His obituary in
I nodded. “That explains much of Violet’s character.”
“Donald Wheelwright is the son of
I pulled at the end of my mustache. “I am surprised Donald was spared a similar fate.”
“That was considered. Donald was seen with a duke’s daughter, but then he married Violet quite suddenly. The papers mentioned an extended honeymoon on the continent, but it was cut short when Violet fell ill in Venice.”
“The old man could not have approved. He must have been furious.”
Holmes nodded. “No doubt—although he appears to have been reconciled with his son and daughter-in-law. The couple has dwelt in the same townhouse for six years, and five years ago the Wheelwrights, father and son, purchased an enormous country estate in Norfolk near Sandringham. They have sunk a small fortune into refurbishing the dilapidated manor house.”
I smiled. “Country squires.”
“Exactly. Young Wheelwright is second in command at the potted meat business, but the old man rules with a hand of iron. His son keeps brief office hours and is, as we know, often free in the afternoon. He does not seem particularly interested in the family business, nor does he seem particularly competent. The old man is tight with his money, while the younger seems to take his wealth for granted. All in all, the shrewdness and driving passion so central to the father are absent in the son.”
“That is often the case.”
“Mrs. Wheelwright is widely known for her many charitable activities and for her charm and her abilities as a hostess. Largely because of her, the Wheelwrights are a part of London’s best society. She is known to have one of the best cooks in town.”
“Ah,” I said, “you fail to mention her other obvious appeal. Besides charm and having a good cook, there is her great beauty.”
Holmes hesitated for a moment. “I am aware of that.”
We had reached a neighborhood of imposing homes and little traffic. These were the townhouses of the wealthy, not country estates, but they were still mansions compared to the three-story home in which Michelle and I dwelt. Here lived not only the families of the owners, but a multitude of maids, footmen, gardeners, coachmen and cooks. The Wheelwright dwelling was the largest on the street. Green ivy covered its red brick, the paint about the doors and windows a sparkling white.
A footman let us in, and the butler, traditional head of all the servants, soon appeared and introduced himself. Although the lines at the outer corners of his eyes proclaimed him to be in his late thirties, his shiny black hair had no hint of gray. A blue-gray shadow covered the lower half of his face, a dimple marked the center of his
