have been doing in a brothel?”
Holmes took a spoonful of soup. “It must be as Ratty suspected. She was stirring up the employees. Madam Irene must be a partisan of the Angels.”
I frowned. “I cannot believe... Perhaps Mrs. Lovejoy was only there on a visit of mercy. She is a religious woman.”
Henry again shook his head. “But the hour—that is not the time one would choose for a charitable visit to a brothel—not during the prime shift, so to speak.”
“Please, Henry.”
“Well, it is true. And her manner was furtive. I wonder... That woman has never seemed quite sane. The morning after the spider cake she was positively deranged. Maybe she is mad but dissembles well. She could have some irrational grudge against Violet.”
I bit at my lip. “I suppose it is possible, but Violet treats all her servants so well.”
“The person behind this business is quite sane,” Holmes said. “Only a capable mind of extraordinary power could have concocted these schemes. And as I have noted before, the person has a peculiar sense of humor, not mad, but... deviant.”
“Who can it be?” Henry could not keep the exasperation from his voice. “The Lovejoys seem so plain, and neither Donald Wheelwright nor his mistress is a mental giant. Perhaps none of it is related—the gypsy’s curse, Lord Harrington’s suicide, the theft of the necklace, and the threats against Violet.”
Holmes smiled coldly. “Ratty knew better. A rat has a remarkable sense of smell.”
“Is that why they sniff about so?” Henry repressed a shudder. “Let us not discuss rats—not after last night. Perhaps... Old Wheelwright is very shrewd and would like Violet out of the way. Could he be behind all this villainy?”
Holmes was briefly silent. “It is certainly possible. I consider him a suspect in the Wheelwright affair, but it is nearly inconceivable that he has any connection with the Angels of the Lord. Even in the case of the Wheelwrights alone, I sense a powerful and curiously subtle intellect. Then there is the dark humor I have commented upon. Old Wheelwright is simply too vulgar—too grasping and rapacious—too dull.”
“It might be best,” I said, “to simply ask Mrs. Lovejoy what she was doing near Underton last night.”
Holmes set down his soupspoon and shook his head curtly. “That is the one thing you absolutely must not do. It would put her on her guard.”
“We could question Violet about the matter.”
“
“But why?”
He hesitated, licked his lips, and then dabbed absentmindedly at his mouth with his napkin. “It is... too risky. Mrs. Lovejoy would certainly notice any change in Mrs. Wheelwright’s manner toward her.”
Harriet marched in bearing the steaming joint on a platter and set it before Henry. He inhaled deeply. “Superb, Harriet—truly superb!”
She smiled at him. “Thank you, sir.”
Henry ran the long blade of the knife over the steel a few times, then began to carve. Harriet was a wonderful cook (unlike me), and we ate very well, although we spurned elaborate sauces and many courses. If one ate everything served at a dinner like that at the Wheelwrights’, indigestion—or worse—was guaranteed.
Henry put the brown meat from the outside on my plate; he knew I liked it best. Then he heaped meat on Holmes’ plate. “We must fatten you up, Sherlock,” he said. “You are looking thinner than ever.”
I nodded. “Henry is right. I saw Violet today and thought the same thing: I wanted to bring her home and let Harriet help me fatten her.”
Holmes paused, fork in hand. “Mrs. Wheelwright did not look well?”
I sighed. “She did not.”
His gray eyes somehow stared through me. “This case may be the high point of my career, and at last I sense the threads coming together. All the same, sometimes I wish I had never heard of the Wheelwrights.” His voice was suddenly harsh, and he paused. “Other times I feel that I would have missed...” His eyes shifted and noticed us both staring at him. “Forgive me. I too am weary. And hungry.” He cut off a piece of meat and put it in his mouth.
Henry stepped up to the front door of Steerford’s house and rang the bell. He was magnificently dressed in his best black greatcoat and silk top hat. A diamond pin pierced his gray silk cravat, a loan from his cousin. As an old man with a miserly streak, Holmes appeared almost shabby—and virtually unrecognizable. He had colored his hair white, then added bushy white eyebrows and curly white sidewhiskers, which blossomed out from under the brim of his top hat. A huge white mustache somehow shrank his nose and hid his lips. He wore spectacles with thick lenses.
The door swung open, and an elderly man in formal attire opened the door, his watery eyes scrutinizing us. “Good day, sirs. Madam.”
“Mr. Robert Carlyle to see Mr. Steerford,” Henry said.
“He is expecting you, sir. Please come in.”
The butler gave our coats to the housekeeper then led us down the hallway to a cozy sitting room. The dark, elegant furniture and carpets were all new. Standing before the fire was a man in a black frock coat, his hands clasped behind him, his back to us.
“Ah, good... day.” As he turned, his voice skipped a beat, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. His smile wavered, then recovered and became earnest. His hair was black, but his sidewhiskers were grayish, as were his mustache and goatee. He wore thick spectacles low on his nose, his eyes peering over the rims, and his hair was combed straight back and had an oily shine. His dress was impeccable: a double– breasted black frock coat with silken lapels (nearly identical to the one Henry wore), black waistcoat, and gray-and-black striped trousers, the glossy toes of his boots gleaming. As he extended his hand to shake Henry’s, I saw a pearl-and-gold cuff link.
“Robert Carlyle,” Henry said.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Carlyle. And this charming lady must be your better half. I hope talk of financial matters will not bore you too much, Mrs. Carlyle.”
I managed a smile. “I shall do my best to keep awake.”
Steerford’s brow sank as he turned to Holmes. He had extremely bushy, black eyebrows, which extended across the bridge of his nose. “And who are you, sir?”
Holmes extended his hand. “I’m a Carlyle, too. James Carlyle, this lad’s father. Someone has to keep an eye on him. Can’t have him squandering the family fortune.” Holmes’ faintly querulous voice had the quaver of age and a slight Scottish burr.
“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Carlyle. Rest assured, we are not talking of squandering fortunes here, but of increasing them many times.”
“Easy words to say, Mr. Steerford.”
“Hopefully before you leave, you will be confident I offer more than mere words. To those select few my partners and I feel are worthy, we offer the financial opportunity of a lifetime.” Mr. Steerford’s voice flowed smoothly, almost like a caress, but its tone was pitched high for a man.
“Please sit down and warm yourselves by the fire. Mrs. Carlyle, I think you will find that chair most comfortable. Gentlemen, if you will take either end of the sofa, I shall soon show you certain documents and tangible evidence of our enterprise.”
We did as he suggested while he turned and walked over to a desk. He dimmed the lamp slightly then picked up a thick leather-bound book, which appeared to be a photograph album. He walked over to the fire and turned toward us. With the lamp low and his back to the fire, his face was in shadow.
“Gentlemen, could one of you tell me what the dominant fuel of our century has been, what fuel has made possible the great flowering of British industry and the rise of steam-powered machinery?”
Holmes cackled. “That’s easy enough. Coal.”
“Exactly so, Mr. Carlyle. Very astute.”
“Astute? Hardly. Any fool could figure that out.”
“You would be surprised, sir. Now, can either of you tell me what fuel is likely to dominate the coming century?”
Henry and Sherlock shared a glance. “Coal again,” Holmes said.
