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Authors: Sam Siciliano
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its animation. “For a moment I had managed to forget that your visit was not purely social. Shall we discuss this business here or in the sitting room? I confess a fondness for the library.”
Holmes gazed at the wall opposite the windows. The bookshelves went all the way to the ceiling, some twelve feet, and they were packed with books. The room had a southern exposure, and the light from the tall windows flooded a massive oak table and its matching chairs. “You like books,” Holmes said. It was a statement, not a question.
“I do. They have been my solace my entire life.”
“Indeed?” With a fingertip he opened a thick book that lay upon the table. “ Middlemarch . Ah. And do you—like Dorothea or Saint Theresa—seek some great cause?”
Violet’s smile grew bitter. “Perhaps. But I know better: there are no great causes. Please sit down. These chairs are more comfortable than those at the table.” She gestured at some plush armchairs.
Holmes sat, but leaned forward restlessly. “Did your husband tell you about his visit to Baker Street?”
She stiffened, her chin rising. The impression I had was that of a cloud passing across the sun, effacing its brilliance. “He did.”
Holmes had crossed his legs, and his foot began to bob. “Please tell me in your own words about the events at the Paupers’ Ball.”
Violet shook her head. “I was a fool. I should have kept quiet. For once Donald was right, but I felt someone must say something. I was speaking with Lady Harrington. She was dressed as a scullery maid, while I was in the guise of a flower girl. The gypsy first appeared at the balcony above the hall, and naturally we assumed she was one of us. I remember thinking that she was remarkably good in her role. However, it soon became clear that she was not acting.”
“In what way did it become clear?”
Violet thought for a second. “Her hatred, Mr. Holmes. No one could feign such hatred. ‘Curse you,’ she cried. ‘God curse you all! May you all be struck down, may you suffer even as those you pretend to be. May God make you all honest paupers! May you die poor and miserable!’”
“Do you recall her appearance?”
“Yes. She was close to my height, about five foot three, but with a stoop. Her hair was pure white, her skin dark brown and lined. She had a beak of a nose with a mole at the end and the blackest eyes I have ever seen. Her teeth were discolored, and one or two were missing. She wore gold hoop earrings, a soiled red dress, a black handkerchief tied over her hair, and a heavy black shawl. She had several gaudy rings of gold and silver on her fingers. Oh, and she walked with a slight limp.”
Holmes nodded. “Very good, Mrs. Wheelwright. You have an eye for detail. And what was the reaction of the spectators to the gypsy?”
“Shocked silence. She had a piercing voice, Mr. Holmes. Age might have withered her, but that voice carried to every corner of the room.” She frowned. “I have asked myself many times why I spoke to her, but I cannot explain it even to myself. Perhaps I was offended at her treatment of Lady Harrington, our hostess, a long-suffering woman. Perhaps I wanted to show how... how clever I was. Oh, I don’t know why I behaved so foolishly.”
“It must have taken courage,” I said.
Violet gave me a mocking smile, a characteristic expression. “Some might argue it was rather stupidity.”
Holmes foot began to bob again. “What exactly did you say?”
“I tried to calm the woman. I told her God must be weary of being asked for vengeance, that she might rather request He soften our hearts and give us compassion. Finally, I suggested we pray together. She was outraged. She turned all her fury on me. She...” Violet’s voice suddenly shook, and she covered her face with her hand. Her fingers were long, her hand slender and delicate.
Holmes uncrossed his legs and sat upright in his chair. “Mrs. Wheelwright, we need not continue if...”
She removed
Holmes gazed at the wall opposite the windows. The bookshelves went all the way to the ceiling, some twelve feet, and they were packed with books. The room had a southern exposure, and the light from the tall windows flooded a massive oak table and its matching chairs. “You like books,” Holmes said. It was a statement, not a question.
“I do. They have been my solace my entire life.”
“Indeed?” With a fingertip he opened a thick book that lay upon the table. “ Middlemarch . Ah. And do you—like Dorothea or Saint Theresa—seek some great cause?”
Violet’s smile grew bitter. “Perhaps. But I know better: there are no great causes. Please sit down. These chairs are more comfortable than those at the table.” She gestured at some plush armchairs.
Holmes sat, but leaned forward restlessly. “Did your husband tell you about his visit to Baker Street?”
She stiffened, her chin rising. The impression I had was that of a cloud passing across the sun, effacing its brilliance. “He did.”
Holmes had crossed his legs, and his foot began to bob. “Please tell me in your own words about the events at the Paupers’ Ball.”
Violet shook her head. “I was a fool. I should have kept quiet. For once Donald was right, but I felt someone must say something. I was speaking with Lady Harrington. She was dressed as a scullery maid, while I was in the guise of a flower girl. The gypsy first appeared at the balcony above the hall, and naturally we assumed she was one of us. I remember thinking that she was remarkably good in her role. However, it soon became clear that she was not acting.”
“In what way did it become clear?”
Violet thought for a second. “Her hatred, Mr. Holmes. No one could feign such hatred. ‘Curse you,’ she cried. ‘God curse you all! May you all be struck down, may you suffer even as those you pretend to be. May God make you all honest paupers! May you die poor and miserable!’”
“Do you recall her appearance?”
“Yes. She was close to my height, about five foot three, but with a stoop. Her hair was pure white, her skin dark brown and lined. She had a beak of a nose with a mole at the end and the blackest eyes I have ever seen. Her teeth were discolored, and one or two were missing. She wore gold hoop earrings, a soiled red dress, a black handkerchief tied over her hair, and a heavy black shawl. She had several gaudy rings of gold and silver on her fingers. Oh, and she walked with a slight limp.”
Holmes nodded. “Very good, Mrs. Wheelwright. You have an eye for detail. And what was the reaction of the spectators to the gypsy?”
“Shocked silence. She had a piercing voice, Mr. Holmes. Age might have withered her, but that voice carried to every corner of the room.” She frowned. “I have asked myself many times why I spoke to her, but I cannot explain it even to myself. Perhaps I was offended at her treatment of Lady Harrington, our hostess, a long-suffering woman. Perhaps I wanted to show how... how clever I was. Oh, I don’t know why I behaved so foolishly.”
“It must have taken courage,” I said.
Violet gave me a mocking smile, a characteristic expression. “Some might argue it was rather stupidity.”
Holmes foot began to bob again. “What exactly did you say?”
“I tried to calm the woman. I told her God must be weary of being asked for vengeance, that she might rather request He soften our hearts and give us compassion. Finally, I suggested we pray together. She was outraged. She turned all her fury on me. She...” Violet’s voice suddenly shook, and she covered her face with her hand. Her fingers were long, her hand slender and delicate.
Holmes uncrossed his legs and sat upright in his chair. “Mrs. Wheelwright, we need not continue if...”
She removed
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