Holmes’ gray eyes watched the butler closely. “That does seem odd.”
“She is very opinionated, sir, very opinionated indeed, but a good woman and a good wife, despite all her talk of the devil.”
“She did mention a church she attends occasionally.”
Lovejoy nodded. “On Hampstead Street, I believe.”
“Is not that the Reverend Obadiah Dunbar’s church?”
Lovejoy smiled. He had very good teeth, white and straight. “As I indicated, Mr. Holmes, you are asking the wrong man. I have not set foot in a church for many a year. Are you a frequent churchgoer yourself?”
“I am not.”
Lovejoy gave a brief laugh. “Then we understand one another.”
“We digress, Mr. Lovejoy. What can you tell me about this ugly business with the note?”
Lovejoy’s smile vanished. “Not much, I fear.”
“How long have you been employed by the Wheelwrights, Mr. Lovejoy?”
“My wife and I have been with them for about six years. Before that we were with the Stamps of Liverpool, the small household of an elderly couple. After their deaths—which followed closely upon one another—we came to London.”
“Who employed you?”
“Mrs. Wheelwright. She is a very capable wife, Mr. Holmes. There are those ladies who have neither the ability nor the inclination to manage a large household. Mrs. Wheelwright, to the contrary, involves herself in every detail. Not a meal is cooked, not a room furnished, not a maid hired, not a bill paid, without her consideration. She is a brilliant woman, sir, kind-hearted and charming as well.”
Holmes nodded. “So I have seen. And what of your master?”
Lovejoy’s enthusiasm was checked midair and seemed to spiral slowly downward. “Well, sir, Mr. Wheelwright is an honest, decent man. Frankly, I do not deal with him so often as with the mistress. He has his personal valet and does not much concern himself with the running of his household.”
“He lets his wife manage it for him.”
Lovejoy nodded. “Exactly, sir. She is very good at it, and after all, it is a wife’s duty.”
“Does Mrs. Wheelwright have any enemies?” Holmes asked. “Or is there anyone on your staff who might harbor some minor resentment against her?”
“No.”
“Your wife appeared equally certain.”
“There is no question of it. No one in London pays better wages—you would be surprised how stingy some of the illustrious wealthy can be.”
Holmes shook his head. “No, I would not.”
“Moreover, she treats everyone from me and Mrs. Lovejoy to the lowest scullery maid with equal respect. I have never had an unkind word from her. She has no enemies under this roof.”
“What of Mr. Wheelwright? Does he have enemies?”
Lovejoy hesitated. “Perhaps.”
“Who in the house dislikes him?”
“‘Dislike’ is perhaps too strong, sir. There have been misunderstandings on occasion. Normally Mr. Wheelwright is a quiet sort of man. He is not easily roused, but beware of him when he is. He is quite particular about certain things.”
“Such as?”
“The time of day at which meals are served. That his shoes are brushed and set where he can find them. Nothing makes him angrier than being unable to find something. Mrs. Wheelwright once gave away some worn clothes, which included a favorite jacket. There was... an unpleasant scene. His valet, old Osborne, is always threatening to quit.”
“Why?”
“He says he does not like the way the master treats him, but I think he actually fears him. Poor Osborne is barely five feet tall, and well, you have seen the master. He rarely strikes anyone, but...”
“Whom exactly has he struck?”
Lovejoy raised his black eyebrows, his eyes suddenly mournful. “I am sorry, sir, but I can say no more. I may have already been indiscreet.”
“Very well, Mr. Lovejoy, we shall not pursue these domestic matters. Do you know of any enemies outside the house?”
“There I am on unfamiliar ground. You must ask Mr. Wheelwright himself. I gather he is not so... unpopular as his father, but I am only speculating.”
“Yes,” Holmes said. “I have heard how the elderly Wheelwright crushed his rivals. I have also heard some curious speculation about the content of his products.”
Lovejoy said nothing but gave a very slight, reluctant nod.
“Thank you, Mr. Lovejoy. I shall be returning another day to speak with the staff.”
“I shall have the carriage brought round, sir. I hope I have been of assistance.”
He stood. His was a very imposing presence in his black morning coat, his posture, diction, and bearing perfect. Butlers were sometimes portrayed as buffoons on stage, but theirs was a position of great responsibility. Capable and intelligent, Lovejoy was more of a gentleman than many gentlemen.
I stood up and stretched my arms. Holmes went to the bookshelves. He pulled out a volume, and soon his upper lip wrinkled in disdain.
“What is it?” I asked.
“
I could not help but laugh.
“Mrs. Wheelwright has diverse tastes: natural histories, entomology, biology and geology; Jules Verne’s romances, Watson, Dickens, and Eliot. Ah, what have we here!” From one of the shelves hidden below the table, he pulled out a violin, the wood a lustrous reddish brown. He examined it minutely. “I do believe—yes, it is a Guarneri!—a Guarneri del Gesu. It is not inferior to my Stradivarius. I must try it.”
He tuned the instrument, plucking at the strings and adjusting them. Finally, he pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket, and tucked that and the violin under his chin. Standing very straight, he held the bow loosely at the end of his long outstretched arm; he closed his eyes, raised the bow in a single fluid gesture and brought it down across a string, playing a long sustained note. “Oh yes, a very warm tone, exquisite.” The fingers of his left hand danced about as he played some scales. “Beautiful, absolutely beautiful.” Eyes still closed, he launched into a piece.
The melody began plainly enough, but quickly grew more complicated. When a contrapuntal line was introduced, I decided Bach was probably the composer. Holmes’ playing emphasized the music’s majesty and dignity, but the instrument’s tone added warmth. Rather awestruck, I listened from my chair without stirring.
After the final note had died away I heard a tremulous voice: “Oh, bravo, Mr. Holmes—
Holmes lowered the violin, his handkerchief falling to the floor. “Forgive me for not consulting with you first, Mrs. Wheelwright, but I could not resist such an instrument.”
Violet stood by the doorway, her dark eyes blazing and face flushed. She wiped at her eyes with her long fingers, and laughed. “Emotion is such a foolish, senseless thing. Most of the world can listen to music without being much affected, but it moves me so much. I said books were my solace, but music is another, one which warms my blood as mere words never can.” She laughed again. “I am pleased that Dr. Watson did not invent your musical inclination, but he does not do you justice. Do you really own a Stradivarius?”
Holmes nodded, his eyes fixed on her. “I do.”
“I envy you.”
He raised the violin by its neck. “It is no better than this instrument. I take it this is yours?”
“Yes. My father left it to me.”
“And do you play, Mrs. Wheelwright?”
She had gradually approached us and stopped about a yard from Holmes. She gave a slight nod. They stared intently at each other.
