Violet did not want to leave, but I resolutely had a cab sent for. She stared so forlornly at me that I gave her thin white hand a squeeze, my own hand rough and red from the irritating disinfectant.
“What is it, Violet? What is wrong?”
“Nothing. I only... I look forward to this time with you, and I was hoping... We must go to Simpson’s again soon.”
“Certainly we shall. But you really should not have come today.”
“No?” The mocking smile pulled at her lips. “I like to come here. It makes me feel... It is the only truly good thing I do. Everything else is...” A laugh slipped from her lips. “It gives me a context for my own ills, my own suffering, and it reminds me how wrong everything is.”
“Wrong?”
She laughed again and stood. “Come and see me soon, Michelle, and perhaps I shall explain.” The evasiveness in her eyes contradicted her words.
It was well after six when I got home, the streets dark and wet, and I had a sudden longing for the sun, for warmth. My patients needed me then more than ever, but it would have been wonderful to flee to the south of Italy or France, somewhere clear and sunny without fog or the stink of coal smoke and soot. However, a delightful smell greeted me as I climbed the stairs—roasting meat, probably a joint of pork. Coming home to a warm comfortable house and a good meal was no small consolation in the dark, wet cold of a London winter.
Henry rose to greet me. In the large purple armchair, his long thin legs thrust straight out, his boots up on the matching ottoman, sat Sherlock Holmes, a wary smile on his gaunt face. Abruptly I was struck by the similarity in appearance between him and Violet—the same unhealthy intensity, the sense of some dark obsession consuming them.
“Sherlock stopped by to tell me about his inquiries, and I invited him to stay for supper.”
“Very well, but I have a bone to pick with you, Sherlock Holmes.” His smile flickered weakly then vanished. “So help me, if you ever take Henry off to a place like Underton again, you will no longer be welcome in my house.”
“Michelle...” Henry began.
“It is one thing to risk your own neck, but it is unforgivable to drag Henry along. I will not have it—do you understand? If anything had happened to him...” My voice shook, and my eyes were awash with angry tears.
Henry took my arm. “It was my choice, Michelle. He told me I need not come—he warned me it was not wise.”
I wrenched free of him. “Then he must have known exactly how foolish you are! Such advice would only convince you all the more.”
“Michelle, it is not fair to blame him.”
“Is it not? Whose wretched plan was it?”
Holmes drummed nervously at the chair arm with his long fingers. “You are harsh, madam.” (I could not remember the last time he had addressed me so formally.) “You forget that he is my cousin and my good friend. Desperate circumstances require desperate measures. This is a dark business, and the risk to everyone involved is considerable. Do you recall what you said to me concerning Mrs. Wheelwright after the opera? ‘I beg of you to save her.’ And I promised you that I would do everything in my power. Our visit last night was part of my effort to honor that promise, and Henry, very bravely, offered to accompany me. Had he not, it is quite possible I would not have returned from Underton alive. Your friend and I are deeply in his debt.”
I clenched my fists, drew in my breath, and all my rage seemed to melt into grief. I took out my handkerchief, sat down and wiped at my eyes. “You always know what to say.”
Henry put his hand on my shoulder. “Michelle, I...”
“Next time please have the simple decency to tell me when you are about to risk your life.”
“I promise I shall.” He stroked my cheek in a way that made me want to cry simply because I did love him. “You must be famished. Perhaps if we ate...”
I stood and put my handkerchief in my pocket. “Yes, I am starved. Let us eat.”
Henry helped me off with my coat. Holmes watched me sadly; at last he stood. I had taken Henry’s arm, and as Sherlock started by, I slipped my other hand about his arm. I felt him stiffen, and then he gave a tired, yet relieved sigh.
“Next time I shall come along,” I said. “Henry is not the only one with dramatic abilities.”
Holmes smiled briefly. “I know that.”
We all laughed. “I could play the part of a prostitute. I have seen enough of them at the clinic.”
We sat down at the dining-room table. Harriet had put out the silver candelabrum that my mother had given us, as well as our best silver and china.
“You may have your histrionic opportunity sooner than you imagine,” Holmes said. “However, the part is suitably respectable.”
Harriet filled my bowl with the rich bean soup in broth, which was her specialty. “Thank you,” I said. “It smells even better than usual.”
“I put in a bit more pepper,” she said.
I took a quick spoonful then turned to Holmes. “Of what role are you speaking?”
Holmes opened his linen napkin with a flourish. “That of the respectable wife of a wealthy merchant dealing in Scottish whisky.”
Henry’s eyebrows sank inward. “What merchant?”
“You are to play the merchant. After Mr. Blackdrop and Heinrich Verniger, I thought it well time for you to portray someone of a higher class.”
“And what part will you play?” I could feel each spoonful of hot soup improving my spirits.
“I shall be Henry’s elderly father.”
“And who will be the audience for our performance?” Henry asked.
“Mr. Geoffrey Steerford.”
Henry set down his spoon. “You have arranged a meeting so quickly?”
“I have, although it took me much of the day. Mr. Steerford is a hard man to see. He appeared in London about two years ago and has been selling shares in some enterprise, which has attracted considerable capital. The venture is both secretive and exclusive. I could not discover its exact nature, but the minimum investment is one thousand pounds, although ten thousand is not uncommon.”
“Good Lord,” Henry murmured.
“I began the day with a visit to Lord Harrington. He gave me the names of several investors, one of whom owed me a favor. I visited this person and obtained a letter of introduction for a prosperous merchant—a fictional one. Next I went in the guise of a servant to Steerford’s residence, which is not half a mile from those of the Wheelwrights’ and the Herberts’. Steerford was out, but I arranged an appointment for my master tomorrow afternoon.”
“Who is this master?” I asked.
Holmes smiled. “The wealthy whisky dealer Mr. Robert Carlyle.”
Henry choked back a laugh, barely keeping his soup down. “Am I any relation to Thomas?”
“No, but we do have Scottish roots.”
“Perhaps I shall wear a wig,” I said. “I have always wanted to try black hair.”
Henry shuddered. “God forbid.”
“You and Henry need not bother to disguise yourselves, but I must alter my appearance. Steerford may be someone I have met before under a different name. Then too, Watson’s narratives and Paget’s drawings—highly idealized though his renderings may be—have made me much too well-known.”
“When are we to meet Mr. Steerford?” I asked.
“Would tomorrow afternoon at four be possible? I know you are very busy, Michelle, but Mr. Steerford had few openings and is unavailable in the evenings.”
“I shall manage somehow.”
Henry glanced at Holmes. “And what of the Lovejoys?”
“I have discovered nothing. Their having no traceable past is, in itself, suspicious. I have telegraphed a police detective of my acquaintance in Liverpool and asked him to make some inquiries. I am not hopeful.”
Henry shook his head. “I have never been so surprised to see anyone in my life. What could Mrs. Lovejoy
