was moved. It was not merely the music, but the sight of Violet, the languorous tenderness in her beautiful, pale face as she caressed the strings of her Guarnieri.
When she finished, she lowered the violin but did not open her eyes.
“How beautiful,” Michelle murmured.
Holmes was staring at Violet, his gray eyes consuming her. Anyone could have seen that he was totally and hopelessly in love. I stroked the end of my mustache. How ever would this end? She probably felt the same way, but she was a married woman. I knew my cousin too well to think he could ever be part of some sordid, adulterous affair.
Holmes stood and seized his own violin from the end of the table. Hearing him, Violet opened her eyes. He pulled out a handkerchief, and tucked it and the violin under his chin. “Play the partita again,” he said.
Violet closed her eyes and played. Holmes hesitated, and then began. I knew he played well, but I had not realized he could improvise so spectacularly. He picked up fragments of the melody, spun them out, raised or lowered them an octave, slowed them down or sped them up, all the while managing to harmonize with Violet. The Bach was difficult enough, but his contrapuntal accompaniment was that of a virtuoso, truly inspired. Near the end, his melodies merged with hers, and the final notes were in unison.
Michelle clapped her hands loudly. “Oh, bravo!”
Violet opened her eyes and stared up at him, a faint flush lingering on her cheeks. “That was very good, Mr. Holmes.”
Oh, dear God, I thought—she does love him.
We dressed for dinner and ate that evening in the great hall, our conversation drifting into the vast expanse overhead, echoing back faintly. The room was chilly, all the courses tiresome. Donald Wheelwright was silent, his great sullen presence casting an air of gloom over the meal. Holmes and Violet were reserved, and I was relieved to see that the feelings, which had seemed transparent earlier, were well hidden.,
Wheelwright might have a mistress whom he had set up in her own house; he might no longer love his wife; yet I was fearful of what he would do should he discover that Violet loved another. His size certainly contributed to the impression, but he had always seemed dangerous to me, someone I would not wish to anger.
The evening dragged on, and at last I pleaded fatigue from my journey as an excuse to retire early. Michelle looked at me, then made a similar excuse. Holmes appeared faintly amused. It was some time before Michelle and I were in a mood for conversation. I told her of the realization that had struck me that afternoon.
“I am so happy for them,” she said with great enthusiasm.
I stared curiously at her. “Why? I cannot see any way that they might...”
“Somehow they will find a way, I know it.”
She seemed so pleased, so happy, I did not want to tell her outright that the situation seemed hopeless. Michelle was the optimist, while I had a jaundiced view of humanity. All in all, we balanced each other out, and her cheerfulness was one of the very qualities that had attracted me to her. Nevertheless, I felt I must warn her.
“It would be very difficult for them. Wheelwright does not seem the type of man to ever willingly step aside. And Sherlock would never...”
She frowned and regarded me curiously. “Would he not?” I gave her such a look that she blushed, which was rare. “I only meant... It is only convention, after all, especially if Donald has a mistress, and... Oh, Henry—you know I am not a wicked person, and they are not wicked either! It does seem so wretched.”
“Perhaps... They might be content with a Platonic relation.” She stared at me so that I laughed, then took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “I know it is hard for you to conceive of such a thing, but there are people, especially women, who lack your passion. Not every man is as lucky as I.”
She smiled, her face still flushed. “I am glad you feel that way, but you saw how they looked at each other. I do not think a Platonic relation would satisfy them. Besides, I have always considered such arrangements absolutely beastly—as if an illicit love were perfectly acceptable, so long as it was not technically consummated! Were you to love another, it would not much matter to me whether... It is the loving itself which would hurt, regardless.”
I kissed her gently. “You needn’t worry.”
“Oh, Henry. I wonder...” After a brief silence, she said, “Perhaps you could speak with Donald Wheelwright and try to probe his thoughts.”
“You are joking.”
“I do not mean you should ask him directly. However, you might sound him out. The poor fellow must be rather lonely, although he seems happier here. He is fond of his dogs and his sport. I do believe he likes the outdoors, and he has never seemed happy in formal dress. You could accompany him when he goes out tomorrow.”
“Possibly.”
My lack of enthusiasm amused her. She had let down her hair, and it spilled onto the pillow. I stroked the thick strand nearest me.
“I must speak with Sherlock tomorrow and give him some papers from Lestrade.”
“There will be plenty of time for that in the morning. Then you and Donald Wheelwright can be off together on the hunt. It may even be agreeable.” She laughed at the expression on my face. “You might bring home a pheasant for our supper.”
Thus it was that after reviewing matters with Holmes in the morning, I found myself plodding through the woods with Donald Wheelwright and his two retrievers in the afternoon. The day was again very fine, another golden autumn afternoon, the clean fresh air invigorating. Given the weather and the retrievers’ canine enthusiasm, it would have taken an effort to be gloomy, and my companion’s spirits lifted once we had left the house.
I realized I had never had a real conversation with Wheelwright or actually been alone with him. He was more at ease in his aged brown tweed jacket, canvas trousers, and battered, shapeless wool hat with almost no brim. I had seen hunters on my country walks whose apparel was as fashionable and spotless as their citywear, but Wheelwright obviously preferred worn and comfortable clothing. He carried his shotgun breech open, and the pockets of his jacket were stuffed with shells. He had offered to lend me one of his shotguns, but I told him I would accompany him as a spectator only. Not only the birds and animals would be safer.
Two or three times I tried to start a conversation, but Wheelwright obviously did not believe in idle chitchat for the sake of avoiding silence. He had a leisurely stroll, yet his legs were so long that each step covered a great distance. I was over six feet tall myself, but I had to work to keep up. In the woods it was cooler, the light dappled, yellow, on leaves or bark or fern where it penetrated the foliage above. My breath formed a white mist, and everything about us seemed damp and decomposed, the odor rich and earthy, overpowering.
“What exactly are you hunting?” I asked.
“Nothing much.” He had relaxed, the customary tension, which showed in his eyes and furrowed brow, completely gone. “If we’re lucky we might scare out a pheasant or a cony. I’m more just walking, as I said earlier. If I really wanted to get a few ducks, I’d go down by the pond and sit, but Goldie and Chieftain like to keep moving. So do I.”
The path opened up, and we came out into a clearing, grass and ferns sloping downward to a big pond below, its waters blue and still under the autumn light. By the pond was an ancient oak, six feet across, its limbs all gnarled and twisted, the lower branches each as thick as the trunk of a normal tree. Most of its leaves were gone, many floating on the waters below. Black forms were perched about the branches, and we could hear the din of the crows, the caws, of their convocation.
Wheelwright stopped to enjoy the view. The golden retriever saw the water and was off like a shot down the hill. She plunged into the pond with no hesitation. The Irish setter trotted down, but only stared curiously at its companion. Wheelwright leaned his gun against a stump and took a silver case from his jacket.
“Care for a smoke?”
“No, thank you,” I said.
Wheelwright took out a very long cigar, then put the case back in his jacket. He glanced at me, the hint of a frown briefly showing. He hesitated, bit off the end of the cigar, spat it out, and struck a match. As he inhaled, he continued to regard me closely. I was again struck by the size of his fingers; they were thicker than the cigar, a good inch across above the knuckles.
“I hope you don’t mind seeing a man bite off a cigar.” From his tone it was difficult to tell whether he was apologizing or warning me not to take offense.
I smiled. “Not at all. Gentlemen are supposed to use cigar cutters, but surely one must make some allowance