Gomorrah, harlots everywhere. We invite the wrath of the Almighty, his avenging angels, we beg for it.” His eyes fell on Donald Wheelwright. “Do you not agree?”
“These are... uncertain times.”
Violet turned to Sherlock. “Have you seen the new production of
“No, but I am going later this week.”
“How fortuitous. Donald and I shall also be attending. I hoped you might tell me whether it was worthwhile.”
“The cast is first-rate, and the productions have been very strong this season, both musically and dramatically.
Killington nearly dropped his fork. “Wagner!” he said, stabbing at his salmon. “The profligate whose music glorifies lust.”
“I thought so, too,” Violet said, “but you surprise me. I believe one must have a fundamentally romantic nature to appreciate Wagner.”
Holmes shrugged. “I would not know about that. The music is beautiful.”
“But what could be more romantic than a white knight riding on a giant swan to rescue a maiden in distress?”
Holmes smiled. “It is a curious mount.”
“Familiars of the devil,” Killington muttered.
The maids began to circulate again, gathering up the fish plates. A girl appeared behind the older Wheelwrights and set a large plate before each of them. The meat baron had a slab of rare beef Wellington, while his wife’s appeared practically burned. Beside the beef was a mound of mashed potato, yellow melted butter floating on top.
Holmes and Violet were discussing leitmotifs in the music dramas of Richard Wagner, much to the amazement of the Herberts and another couple across from Henry. Donald and his father were talking, or rather the old man was speaking about, the day’s business. Jane Wheelwright and Mrs. Killington listened to the Reverend denounce the poor for bringing their afflictions upon themselves. Henry occasionally joined in the musical conversation, although I had often heard him say it was not humanly possible to stay awake during an entire Wagnerian opera.
I accepted a plate of beef Willington rather than the stuffed quail. The buttery potatoes did look delicious, but courtesy dictated that I wait. Jane Wheelwright seemed to feel the same temptation. Her face was directed toward the Reverend Killington, but it was obvious where her thoughts were focused. She had not eaten any salmon. The short plump fingers of her right hand toyed with the beautiful sterling silver spoon. She glanced at her husband, then at the Reverend and his wife, and quickly took a spoonful of potato. Confusion showed momentarily in her brown eyes, then fear.
“Aghh!” she cried, mashed potato dribbling from her mouth. “
“Jane—what on earth...?” began her husband.
She spit out as much of the potatoes as she could. “Poison!” she cried. “Poison!” Her chair fell back as she stood and pointed one finger at the mashed potatoes. “They are bad! Oh, that taste—get me something! Do something!”
Violet, Donald, Henry, Sherlock, and I all stood at once, while all conversation in the dining room came to a halt. I could see the sudden fear on all of the faces about us.
Holmes stepped around to Mrs. Wheelwright’s side. “Calm yourself, madam.”
“He is right,” I said. “Do sit down.”
She gazed up at me, and I could feel her shoulder trembling under my hand. “They taste so awful—it burns. Oh, I am sure I shall die—poison, it must be poison!”
“No one would poison you, my dear. Please sit down.”
Holmes had picked up the plate; he placed it under his large nose and sniffed vigorously. His brow wrinkled. He set the plate down, then took a bit of potato on his long forefinger and touched it to his tongue.
“Have a care, Sherlock!” Henry said.
“It is poison!” Mrs. Wheelwright wailed. “Poison...”
“Hush,” I whispered. “You must not frighten everyone.”
Holmes took a larger taste and chewed thoughtfully. In a loud clear voice, he said, “It is not poison, but only soap. I would not recommend the potatoes, but I guarantee no one will die from eating them.”
Relieved laughter greeted the pronouncement. Everyone began talking at once.
“Soap?” Violet’s voice was incredulous. “Soap?”
Holmes’ mouth formed an ironic smile. “With cayenne pepper mixed in, not paprika.”
“Oh, Lord,” Violet whispered. Her mouth contorted into an odd smile, and a laugh slipped from her lips.
“How can you laugh?” Donald Wheelwright’s voice was soft, but his anger was all the more pronounced.
“Oh, do sit down,” Violet said. “As Mr. Holmes said, no one will die from eating these potatoes. I shall have extra rolls served. The poor cook will be mortified. How shall I ever break it to her?”
“Break it to her?” Wheelwright’s hands made fists a good six inches across. “Dismiss her at once!”
“She is not responsible. She would never do such a thing, and she will feel far worse about this than you.”
“Let me accompany you, madam,” Holmes said. “I want to have a look in the kitchen before anything is touched.”
“Ah.” Violet nodded. “The Case of the Peppered Potatoes. If anyone can get to the bottom of this mystery, it is you, Mr. Holmes. Come, the game is afoot!”
Her husband stared at her as if she had gone quite mad, but Holmes began to laugh, gently at first, then with rare gusto. Violet started for the kitchen, and he followed, still laughing.
“It was not poison?” moaned Mrs. Wheelwright.
“It was soap, Jane,” her husband said.
“Soap? But it burned.”
“The cayenne pepper,” I said. “Sit down and eat something. It will make you feel better. I am sure you are hungry.”
“I couldn’t eat a thing. This awful taste. It won’t go away.”
“Have a drink of wine. It will help wash away the taste.”
“I don’t usually drink wine,” she said. I took a glass of claret, then helped her drink it. “It is very strong.” She took another sip, then sighed. “I do feel better.”
“Have some meat now.”
She glanced at the potatoes and shuddered. “Get them away—please get them away!” I took her plate, used a knife to push all her potatoes onto my own plate, then sat hers back before her. “Thank you, Doctor.”
With a sigh I sat down, put my napkin on my lap, then cut off a big piece of meat and began to chew.
Killington scowled down at the mashed potatoes. “This is the devil’s work for certain.”
I let my knife drop and turned to him. “Do be quiet!”
I must have been the first woman to ever speak that way to him; his astonishment was complete.
“Eat your meat, Jeremy,” his wife said.
“Please pass the rolls,” I said to Donald Wheelwright. Everyone else had begun to eat, but he still sat staring dumbly about, his eyes wrathful. I would not want to be the person who had put soap in the potatoes if Wheelwright ever discovered his or her identity. He handed me the basket, and I took a roll.
“The beef is excellent,” Henry said to Donald, “very tender.”
Wheelwright nodded but said nothing. Eventually he composed himself and began to eat. Although the main course was off to a shaky start, the food and wine soon restored everyone’s spirits. Even Mrs. Wheelwright appeared better after she had consumed her burned meat and several rolls. Only the Reverend Killington was reluctant to eat, no doubt because he believed the meal came from the devil’s kitchen.
Holmes and Violet soon returned.
“Well, Mr. Holmes—” old Wheelwright gazed up from his half-consumed rare beef—“have you found the perpetrators?”
“I have not.”
