nor does he seem particularly competent. The old man is tight with his money, while the younger seems to take his wealth for granted. All in all, the shrewdness and driving passion so central to the father are absent in the son.”
“That is often the case.”
“Mrs. Wheelwright is widely known for her many charitable activities and for her charm and her abilities as a hostess. Largely because of her, the Wheelwrights are a part of London’s best society. She is known to have one of the best cooks in town.”
“Ah,” I said, “you fail to mention her other obvious appeal. Besides charm and having a good cook, there is her great beauty.”
Holmes hesitated for a moment. “I am aware of that.”
We had reached a neighborhood of imposing homes and little traffic. These were the townhouses of the wealthy, not country estates, but they were still mansions compared to the three-story home in whichMichelle and I dwelt. Here lived not only the families of the owners, but a multitude of maids, footmen, gardeners, coachmen and cooks. The Wheelwright dwelling was the largest on the street. Green ivy covered its red brick, the paint about the doors and windows a sparkling white.
A footman let us in, and the butler, traditional head of all the servants, soon appeared and introduced himself. Although the lines at the outer corners of his eyes proclaimed him to be in his late thirties, his shiny black hair had no hint of gray. A blue-gray shadow covered the lower half of his face, a dimple marked the center of his chin, and I wondered if he had to shave more than once a day. He wore a black morning coat, a wing collar, and black-and-gray striped trousers, all his apparel radiating cleanliness and order.
Holmes nodded. “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my cousin Dr. Henry Vernier. Mrs. Wheelwright is expecting us.”
The butler’s gaze remained fixed on him. “May I say, Mr. Holmes, as one of your admirers, that we are most honored to have you under our roof. Certainly if anyone can untangle these unfortunate events, it is you.” He made a fluid gesture with his right arm toward the elderly manservant who had appeared behind him. “You may leave your hats and stick.”
We did so, and followed the butler past a staircase with an elaborately carved oaken banister, and down a hallway to the library. Violet closed a book and rose to greet us. She looked rather better than she had last Wednesday evening. Her cheeks had a pink flush, and her eyes glowed. She wore a mauve dress that emphasized her tiny waist and slim figure.
I had reflected before that she appeared to have Italian or Spanish blood. Her lips were full and naturally red; her hair pure black; her nose slender, but pronounced; her eyes an unusually dark brown. Her skin, however, was very fair. Her bearing was regal, and she was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. Little wonder Holmes found herbeguiling. All the same, she was a bit thin for my taste. Michelle could never be considered fat, but I preferred her more substantial bounty, her abundance of curves.
“Ah, you have met Lovejoy—he and his wife are the true masters of our house. Without them, chaos would reign.” Violet raised her arms and swept around in a circle, her skirts flaring outward. “See, Mr. Holmes—no pins today. The sweet disorder in the dress is remedied. A logical mind such as yours must abhor all such disorder.”
Holmes had reddened slightly, but he recovered immediately. “Had you ever seen my chambers you would know better.”
Violet laughed, and gave me a nod. “Good day, Henry. It is wonderful to see you.”
“You are looking well,” I replied. “So you have recovered from your adventures at the clinic and at Simpson’s?”
“I must confess to sleeping some ten hours on Wednesday night.”
“I asked Henry to accompany me,” Holmes said. “You can, of course, rely utterly upon his discretion.”
“Oh, certainly.” Her face momentarily lost some of
“That is often the case.”
“Mrs. Wheelwright is widely known for her many charitable activities and for her charm and her abilities as a hostess. Largely because of her, the Wheelwrights are a part of London’s best society. She is known to have one of the best cooks in town.”
“Ah,” I said, “you fail to mention her other obvious appeal. Besides charm and having a good cook, there is her great beauty.”
Holmes hesitated for a moment. “I am aware of that.”
We had reached a neighborhood of imposing homes and little traffic. These were the townhouses of the wealthy, not country estates, but they were still mansions compared to the three-story home in whichMichelle and I dwelt. Here lived not only the families of the owners, but a multitude of maids, footmen, gardeners, coachmen and cooks. The Wheelwright dwelling was the largest on the street. Green ivy covered its red brick, the paint about the doors and windows a sparkling white.
A footman let us in, and the butler, traditional head of all the servants, soon appeared and introduced himself. Although the lines at the outer corners of his eyes proclaimed him to be in his late thirties, his shiny black hair had no hint of gray. A blue-gray shadow covered the lower half of his face, a dimple marked the center of his chin, and I wondered if he had to shave more than once a day. He wore a black morning coat, a wing collar, and black-and-gray striped trousers, all his apparel radiating cleanliness and order.
Holmes nodded. “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my cousin Dr. Henry Vernier. Mrs. Wheelwright is expecting us.”
The butler’s gaze remained fixed on him. “May I say, Mr. Holmes, as one of your admirers, that we are most honored to have you under our roof. Certainly if anyone can untangle these unfortunate events, it is you.” He made a fluid gesture with his right arm toward the elderly manservant who had appeared behind him. “You may leave your hats and stick.”
We did so, and followed the butler past a staircase with an elaborately carved oaken banister, and down a hallway to the library. Violet closed a book and rose to greet us. She looked rather better than she had last Wednesday evening. Her cheeks had a pink flush, and her eyes glowed. She wore a mauve dress that emphasized her tiny waist and slim figure.
I had reflected before that she appeared to have Italian or Spanish blood. Her lips were full and naturally red; her hair pure black; her nose slender, but pronounced; her eyes an unusually dark brown. Her skin, however, was very fair. Her bearing was regal, and she was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. Little wonder Holmes found herbeguiling. All the same, she was a bit thin for my taste. Michelle could never be considered fat, but I preferred her more substantial bounty, her abundance of curves.
“Ah, you have met Lovejoy—he and his wife are the true masters of our house. Without them, chaos would reign.” Violet raised her arms and swept around in a circle, her skirts flaring outward. “See, Mr. Holmes—no pins today. The sweet disorder in the dress is remedied. A logical mind such as yours must abhor all such disorder.”
Holmes had reddened slightly, but he recovered immediately. “Had you ever seen my chambers you would know better.”
Violet laughed, and gave me a nod. “Good day, Henry. It is wonderful to see you.”
“You are looking well,” I replied. “So you have recovered from your adventures at the clinic and at Simpson’s?”
“I must confess to sleeping some ten hours on Wednesday night.”
“I asked Henry to accompany me,” Holmes said. “You can, of course, rely utterly upon his discretion.”
“Oh, certainly.” Her face momentarily lost some of
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