“I do not much care. I like staring at a pretty woman as much as any man, but there is such a thing as discretion. Oh well, the poor fellow was sorely tempted.”
I smiled, but whispered, “Hush.”
Violet waited until we were well out of earshot, and then said, “I hope you will forgive my father-in-law’s rudeness. He believes that his wealth gives him the right to treat the rest of humanity as his inferiors. Let me introduce you to the Herberts—you can have a better look at the necklace, Mr. Holmes—and then I really must see how dinner is coming along.”
Mr. George Herbert was a portly man whose joviality clashed with his wife Emily’s sour countenance. Given that he was Mr. Herbert, not Lord Herbert, he must have made his fortune in trade, his wife’s necklace the beacon of his success. Herbert grinned as he was introduced, then offered Holmes his plump ruddy hand. Emily Herbert tried to smile, but the rest of her face would not go along.
Violet gave my arm a squeeze, bade us goodbye and turned to leave. Her dress left half her spine and both clavicles exposed, her long slender neck shown to good advantage. I noticed Holmes staring past me at her bare back.
“Well, Mr. Holmes,” George Herbert said, “I have followed your career with some interest, and it is a great honor to meet you.”
Reluctantly, Holmes turned his gaze upon Herbert. “I am pleased to hear it, sir.”
“I have even read your pamphlet on various tobaccos.”
“Indeed? You surprise me.”
“Of course, I’m partial to hats and coats—they are the key to a man’s character. You’ve heard the business about the eyes being the windows to the soul? Nonsense. I believe it to be the coat. A shoddy tight-fitting coat means a narrow parsimonious soul. A spaciously cut, ample coat is the sign of a generous, expansive nature. Whenever I meet a man, I always take his measure by the coat upon his back.”
“How, then, do you judge the fair sex?” Henry asked.
Herbert’s smile faded, and he shook his head. “There you have me, sir. I’m afraid the fair sex is something of a mystery. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Holmes?”
“Yes.”
I turned to Mrs. Herbert whose smile was at odds with her strained, disapproving eyes. “And what do you think of your husband’s theories?”
She shrugged her formidable shoulders. “They keep him occupied.”
My laughter put some warmth in her smile. She wore a pink dress that did not at all suit her, a gaudy ostentatious thing which clashed with her reserved manner. Surely it was more a clue to her husband’s nature than her own.
Holmes was staring at the necklace with the three enormous diamonds—it was difficult to ignore. “Tell me, Mr. Herbert, that necklace—did it not belong to the Duke of Denver? I recognize it by reputation.”
Herbert nodded. “Very good, Mr. Holmes. I purchased it from the duke himself some five years ago. His misfortunes were my gain.”
Sherlock stared coolly at the man’s self-satisfied countenance. “Perhaps, sir.” He hesitated. “I have often thought such spectacular jewelry to be more trouble than it is worth.”
Mrs. Herbert’s eyes abruptly caught fire. “Exactly, sir.
Herbert gave an embarrassed smile. “My wife, oddly enough, has never cared for the necklace. Why do you say it is more trouble than it is worth, Mr. Holmes?”
“There are literally thieves everywhere, Mr. Herbert. This is tantalizing bait.”
“But if one is careful... I assure you the necklace is kept locked in the best safe money can buy, absolutely unbreakable, and whenever my wife wears it—only a few times a year—our stout footman, a very trustworthy fellow, accompanies us everywhere.”
Holmes smiled grimly. “That safe only gives you false confidence. As I often tell my clients, such jewelry is best kept locked in a bank vault and treated like bars of gold bullion. Its ornamental value causes one to take foolish risks. One would not blithely wear several thousand pounds in notes strung about one’s neck.”
Mrs. Herbert gave a ferocious nod. “I am never comfortable in it—
Mr. Herbert’s face reddened, some of his joviality evaporating. “Surely you exaggerate, Mr. Holmes? Such a thing of beauty should be seen! There must be precautions one might take. What would you advise?”
“Keep a written record of each time you have the necklace out of the safe, never take your eyes off it for even an instant, and have it appraised annually.”
“What on earth for? I do not plan to sell it.”
“Have it appraised to make sure it is what you think it is—a clever thief could substitute a worthless fake, and the theft might go unnoticed for years.”
The color slowly drained from Herbert’s face. His wife seized his arm. “George, are you well?”
He took a big swallow of sherry. “Such a thing could not happen.” He managed a smile. “We are too careful.”
Holmes shrugged. “I recall a case involving a large emerald which had been in the family for years. When the owner went to sell it, he discovered he had only a fake. The theft may not have even been during his lifetime.”
Herbert took another glass of sherry from a passing servant. “Well, at least I had it appraised at the time of purchase. The theft must have happened in the past five years.” He gave a hearty laugh, but his wife was not amused.
“I think you should take Mr. Holmes’ advice and lock the wretched thing up.”
“No, no, Emily. You look far too charming for me to be willing to shut it up.”
She gave a weary sigh, but for the first time something like affection showed in her face. “Oh, George, you are hopeless.”
“After all, my dear, I got it for you.”
“So you always say.”
From somewhere above us came a booming crash. Holmes whirled about. Lovejoy stood on the balcony above us holding a pair of cymbals, his demeanor magisterial. Beside him stood Violet.
“Dinner is about to be served. Do come upstairs and be seated.” She stepped back, and Lovejoy crashed the cymbals again. A muted laugh swept through the gathering.
“Lord, those things gave me a start,” Henry said.
Holmes nodded. Mrs. Herbert said, “She does something different every time. In August it was trumpets.”
We started for the stairway. I took Henry’s arm. Mr. Herbert gazed about warily, worried now that some jewel thief lurked nearby.
Dr. Dyson and his wife Margaret waited for us. He stroked thoughtfully at his white, gray and brown beard, his fingers lost in its depths. Margaret held his other arm loosely with her gloved hands.
“Michelle,” he said, “you do have a prosperous look. Of course we know why, do we not, Henry? Her practice is thriving because she has stolen all our patients—batted those charming blue eyes—brained them and hoisted them away in her bag.”
“Matthew!” his wife exclaimed. “What a dreadful accusation! You wretched men certainly deserve the worst. How you love to prod and poke at us poor creatures! Say what you will, women are gentler.”
Another woman spoke to Margaret, and she turned away. I slipped my hand about Matthew’s arm. “You know, of course,” he said, “that I was only jesting. I’m happy to see you succeed. Pioneers like you have shown your opponents’ fears to be mere prejudice.”
I laughed, but I was moved. “Oh, Matthew, you are such a dear. Not only do you ridicule accusations of patient-snatching, but you actually refer people like Violet to me. You are the most good-hearted soul I know.”
Dyson flushed slightly, but I could see he was pleased. “I knew Violet would do better with you. She is a charming lady, and like you, she laughs at my jests, only...” We were halfway up the stairs.
“Only...?”
“Something was troubling her, I could tell, but she would never confide in me. Of course, I was only her doctor, not her minister, but I felt I was missing some vital information.”
I thought about Violet’s distaste for Donald. “We all have our troubles,” I murmured.
