chin, and I wondered if he had to shave more than once a day. He wore a black morning coat, a wing collar, and black-and-gray striped trousers, all his apparel radiating cleanliness and order.
Holmes nodded. “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my cousin Dr. Henry Vernier. Mrs. Wheelwright is expecting us.”
The butler’s gaze remained fixed on him. “May I say, Mr. Holmes, as one of your admirers, that we are most honored to have you under our roof. Certainly if anyone can untangle these unfortunate events, it is you.” He made a fluid gesture with his right arm toward the elderly manservant who had appeared behind him. “You may leave your hats and stick.”
We did so, and followed the butler past a staircase with an elaborately carved oaken banister, and down a hallway to the library. Violet closed a book and rose to greet us. She looked rather better than she had last Wednesday evening. Her cheeks had a pink flush, and her eyes glowed. She wore a mauve dress that emphasized her tiny waist and slim figure.
I had reflected before that she appeared to have Italian or Spanish blood. Her lips were full and naturally red; her hair pure black; her nose slender, but pronounced; her eyes an unusually dark brown. Her skin, however, was very fair. Her bearing was regal, and she was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. Little wonder Holmes found her beguiling. All the same, she was a bit thin for my taste. Michelle could never be considered fat, but I preferred her more substantial bounty, her abundance of curves.
“Ah, you have met Lovejoy—he and his wife are the true masters of our house. Without them, chaos would reign.” Violet raised her arms and swept around in a circle, her skirts flaring outward. “See, Mr. Holmes—no pins today. The sweet disorder in the dress is remedied. A logical mind such as yours must abhor all such disorder.”
Holmes had reddened slightly, but he recovered immediately. “Had you ever seen my chambers you would know better.”
Violet laughed, and gave me a nod. “Good day, Henry. It is wonderful to see you.”
“You are looking well,” I replied. “So you have recovered from your adventures at the clinic and at Simpson’s?”
“I must confess to sleeping some ten hours on Wednesday night.”
“I asked Henry to accompany me,” Holmes said. “You can, of course, rely utterly upon his discretion.”
“Oh, certainly.” Her face momentarily lost some of its animation. “For a moment I had managed to forget that your visit was not purely social. Shall we discuss this business here or in the sitting room? I confess a fondness for the library.”
Holmes gazed at the wall opposite the windows. The bookshelves went all the way to the ceiling, some twelve feet, and they were packed with books. The room had a southern exposure, and the light from the tall windows flooded a massive oak table and its matching chairs. “You like books,” Holmes said. It was a statement, not a question.
“I do. They have been my solace my entire life.”
“Indeed?” With a fingertip he opened a thick book that lay upon the table. “
Violet’s smile grew bitter. “Perhaps. But I know better: there are no great causes. Please sit down. These chairs are more comfortable than those at the table.” She gestured at some plush armchairs.
Holmes sat, but leaned forward restlessly. “Did your husband tell you about his visit to Baker Street?”
She stiffened, her chin rising. The impression I had was that of a cloud passing across the sun, effacing its brilliance. “He did.”
Holmes had crossed his legs, and his foot began to bob. “Please tell me in your own words about the events at the Paupers’ Ball.”
Violet shook her head. “I was a fool. I should have kept quiet. For once Donald was right, but I felt someone must say something. I was speaking with Lady Harrington. She was dressed as a scullery maid, while I was in the guise of a flower girl. The gypsy first appeared at the balcony above the hall, and naturally we assumed she was one of us. I remember thinking that she was remarkably good in her role. However, it soon became clear that she was not acting.”
“In what way did it become clear?”
Violet thought for a second. “Her hatred, Mr. Holmes. No one could feign such hatred. ‘Curse you,’ she cried. ‘God curse you all! May you all be struck down, may you suffer even as those you pretend to be. May God make you all honest paupers! May you die poor and miserable!’”
“Do you recall her appearance?”
“Yes. She was close to my height, about five foot three, but with a stoop. Her hair was pure white, her skin dark brown and lined. She had a beak of a nose with a mole at the end and the blackest eyes I have ever seen. Her teeth were discolored, and one or two were missing. She wore gold hoop earrings, a soiled red dress, a black handkerchief tied over her hair, and a heavy black shawl. She had several gaudy rings of gold and silver on her fingers. Oh, and she walked with a slight limp.”
Holmes nodded. “Very good, Mrs. Wheelwright. You have an eye for detail. And what was the reaction of the spectators to the gypsy?”
“Shocked silence. She had a piercing voice, Mr. Holmes. Age might have withered her, but that voice carried to every corner of the room.” She frowned. “I have asked myself many times why I spoke to her, but I cannot explain it even to myself. Perhaps I was offended at her treatment of Lady Harrington, our hostess, a long-suffering woman. Perhaps I wanted to show how... how clever I was. Oh, I don’t know why I behaved so foolishly.”
“It must have taken courage,” I said.
Violet gave me a mocking smile, a characteristic expression. “Some might argue it was rather stupidity.”
Holmes foot began to bob again. “What exactly did you say?”
“I tried to calm the woman. I told her God must be weary of being asked for vengeance, that she might rather request He soften our hearts and give us compassion. Finally, I suggested we pray together. She was outraged. She turned all her fury on me. She...” Violet’s voice suddenly shook, and she covered her face with her hand. Her fingers were long, her hand slender and delicate.
Holmes uncrossed his legs and sat upright in his chair. “Mrs. Wheelwright, we need not continue if...”
She removed her hand, and sighed. “Her curses mostly involved botanical metaphors—withering up, being struck barren and without fruit—that kind of thing.”
Holmes removed the folded parchment note from his coat pocket. “As in this note?”
Violet nodded. The fingers of Holmes’ left hand tapped idly on the chair’s arm.
“An unpleasant business. And how...? I suppose this encounter has left you shaken?”
She shrugged. “Mr. Holmes, I shall not raise doubts in your mind by protesting too often; let me merely say once and for all, that I am not superstitious. No one enjoys the spectacle of a depraved and hysterical old woman, especially when one becomes her principal target. All the same, I do not lie awake at night fearing malevolent gypsies and the weight of the curse about to fall upon me.”
Holmes’ smile was mirthless. “Many people find that their resolution deserts them in the early hours of the morning.”
Violet squared her shoulders. “I am not such a person, Mr. Holmes. All the same, no one wants to be hated.” Her dark eyes glistened. “You are too polite to inquire, but I am not capable of having children. This became clear long before the old gypsy’s ravings.”
I frowned. “Have you discussed this with Michelle?”
She hesitated. “Only briefly. Several years ago Dr. Dawson recommended me to Dr. Cabot.” Her mocking smile returned. “Donald insisted we pursue the matter with the best physicians in London. The quest was fruitless.” Her mouth twisted at the irony of the final word.
“Nevertheless, you should not give up hope.”
“I would... I would... like to have a child...” Her voice had an odd timbre, and her eyes appeared almost feverish.
I stared closely at my cousin. As a physician I had discussed such matters with my patients, but he was clearly uncomfortable. “The information is pertinent, Mrs. Wheelwright,” he said. “However, you need elaborate no further. From what you have said, I assume this is a matter of regret to your husband.”
