“Was that Bach’s music?” I asked.
“It was the Allemande from his Partita Number One,” Violet said.
Holmes handed her the violin, then stooped to pick up the handkerchief and gave it to her as well. She stepped back, tucked the violin under her chin and played a few notes. “You have a good ear—it is well tuned.” She drew in her breath through her nostrils, her rosy lips clamped together, and began to play.
I have no great ear, but I could tell this was more Bach. The melody went much faster and teemed with notes. It must have been fiendishly difficult. Although the music was very formal, very dignified, its passion was striking; she gave it such pathos, such yearning. My eyes shifted to my cousin. He was absolutely transfixed. I had seen him absorbed before, but never with such fire in his eyes, such color on his cheek. When she finished at last, he drew in a great breath, opened his mouth, then turned and went to an armchair, virtually collapsing. Mrs. Wheelwright watched him. She too was flushed.
“That was also Bach, was it not?” I asked.
Violet nodded. “Yes, from the same partita.” She set down the violin and bow, and held the handkerchief out to Holmes. He raised his head, then took it.
“Brilliant, Mrs. Wheelwright. Your playing is extraordinary.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”
“It was quite remarkable,” I said.
She smiled at me. “Thank you, Henry.”
Holmes ran his hand across his forehead and back over his oily black hair, then stood. “I think we have intruded upon your household long enough.”
“I have something for you both.” She went to her desk, then selected two envelopes from a stack, and handed one to each of us. “I am giving a small dinner party a week from today, frightfully formal, I fear, but you are both invited—and Michelle, of course. Perhaps you can liven things up. My cook is truly formidable, so I can promise you a memorable meal.”
I glanced down at the invitation. “How very kind of you.”
“Not at all. Michelle is especially dear to me, and I have been intending to have you as our guests for some time.”
“We shall be happy to attend.”
She smiled again. “I am glad. And you, Mr. Holmes? It is next Monday. I do hope you can come.”
He stood and thrust the invitation into his coat pocket. He was nearly a foot taller than Violet. “I shall.” They were staring at each other, again.
“Oh, good.” She laughed. “This will also give you the opportunity to investigate our friends and relations. You can decide who is in league with the old gypsy.”
Holmes gave a snort of laughter. “No doubt.”
She led us back downstairs. She and I chatted, but despite some glances from her, Holmes remained unusually quiet. We tipped our hats, said good day, and stepped outside. The yellow glow of the sun was gone, only gray showing in the sky.
“She is an exceptional woman,” I said.
“Yes.” Holmes was still clutching his handkerchief.
“By the way, I meant to ask you earlier—who is that minister you mentioned, the Reverend Obadiah something?”
Holmes took a deep breath, which seemed to clear his head. He smiled. “The Reverend Obadiah Dunbar is my own invention. He does not exist.”
After we reached Baker Street, I told Holmes I would be happy to accompany him again on an afternoon, because my practice was not particularly demanding at that time. Thus, two days later, I received a telegram inviting me to meet with royalty and high society.
I had some difficulty getting away and arrived late, shortly after one. No royal barouche was present at Baker Street, only an antiquated carriage whose scowling driver possessed a huge black mustache. The horses, however, were regal, massive creatures whose dark brown and black coats had a glossy sheen; they were cleaner and better cared for than many London children.
Their apparent owner sat before the fire in the chair of honor, and both he and Sherlock rose to greet me. What an extraordinary costume! His frock coat was double breasted and of a brilliant maroon velvet, a style which had been fashionable decades ago. However, the big shiny silver buttons, which matched his belt and shoe buckles, must be recent additions. His waistcoat was purple silk, his trousers gray wool. He had deep brown, leathery skin, and a fine network of cracks about his eyes and mouth. His mustache and the long hair spilling onto his shoulders were white, but his eyebrows remained a stark black. His eyes themselves were dark brown, large, and curiously intense.
“This is my cousin, Dr. Henry Vernier,” Sherlock said. “Henry, this is the king of the gypsies.” A faint smile played about Holmes’ lips, but his eyes remained serious.
“A pleasure to meet your majesty,” I said.
The monarch had a grip like a steel trap, but a brief glint of irony showed in his dark eyes. He held a foul- smelling cigar between two fingers of his left hand.
“I am sorry to be late,” I said.
Holmes opened his desk drawer and took out a wooden box. “His majesty has only recently arrived.” He raised the lid, and I could smell the tobacco. “Would you care for one of mine?”
The gypsy flicked his wrist lightly, tossing the remnant of his cigar into the fireplace. “Ah, yes. Good of you to remember.” He stuck the long cigar in his mouth, then withdrew a clasp knife from his pocket and opened it. Light glistened upon the long shiny blade. He lopped off the end of the cigar, threw the fragment into the fireplace, and let Holmes light the cigar. Soon he gave a contented sigh, releasing a cloud of fragrant smoke. Sherlock used a more gentlemanly cutter on his own cigar.
“This is truly wonderful, Mr. Holmes.” He glanced at me. “Your cousin is not only my friend, but a friend to the gypsies. He has saved my son from rotting in an English jail.”
Holmes crossed his legs and exhaled. “He was most unjustly accused.”
“Still, I am in your debt forever. What can I do for you? Your note did not say.”
Holmes took the thick cigar between thumb and forefinger. “Did you hear of the gypsy woman appearing at the Paupers’ Ball a year and a half ago?”
The gypsy said nothing, but his eyes changed rather subtly. Until then he had appeared an exotic, even faintly comical figure, but now I saw something dangerous in his countenance. Certainly that clasp knife was not used only for cutting cigars. He muttered something in Romany, the gypsy language, which was obviously a curse, then nodded.
“What can you tell me about her?”
“I can tell you she was almost certainly one of the
“Who are the
Holmes glanced at me. “The term is a generic one for non-gypsies. So your majesty does not believe she was a gypsy?”
The gypsy shrugged. “Who can be sure of anything in this life? All I know is the business has a bad smell. We gypsies do not go looking for trouble, not like this woman did. Also, no one can tell me who she is, not even the gypsies who saw her.”
I frowned. “There were gypsies at the ball?”
The king gave me a stern look but said nothing. Holmes shook his head. “That does not interest us. So you made inquiries as to her identity?”
“Yes. There are not so many old gypsy women in London, not true gypsies, and especially not sorceresses. No one can tell me who she is. Also, her English is too good. I hear she has no accent and bellows like a bull.”
“Do you have any idea who might wish to do your people harm?” Sherlock asked.
