The Web Weaver by Sam Siciliano Page B

so much. I said books were my solace, but music is another, one which warms my blood as mere words never can.” She laughed again. “I am pleased that Dr. Watson did not invent your musical inclination, but he does not do you justice. Do you really own a Stradivarius?”
    Holmes nodded, his eyes fixed on her. “I do.”
    “I envy you.”
    He raised the violin by its neck. “It is no better than this instrument. I take it this is yours?”
    “Yes. My father left it to me.”
    “And do you play, Mrs. Wheelwright?”
    She had gradually approached us and stopped about a yard from Holmes. She gave a slight nod. They stared intently at each other.
    “Was that Bach’s music?” I asked.
    “It was the Allemande from his Partita Number One,” Violet said.
    Holmes handed her the violin, then stooped to pick up the handkerchief and gave it to her as well. She stepped back, tucked the violin under her chin and played a few notes. “You have a good ear—it is well tuned.” She drew in her breath through her nostrils, her rosy lips clamped together, and began to play.
    I have no great ear, but I could tell this was more Bach. The melody went much faster and teemed with notes. It must have been fiendishly difficult. Although the music was very formal, very dignified, its passion was striking; she gave it such pathos, such yearning. My eyes shifted to my cousin. He was absolutely transfixed. I had seen him absorbed before, but never with such fire in his eyes, such color on his cheek. When she finished at last, he drew in a great breath, opened his mouth, then turned and went to an armchair, virtually collapsing. Mrs. Wheelwright watched him. She too was flushed.
    “That was also Bach, was it not?” I asked.
    Violet nodded. “Yes, from the same partita.” She set down the violin and bow, and held the handkerchief out to Holmes. He raised his head, then took it.
    “Brilliant, Mrs. Wheelwright. Your playing is extraordinary.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”
    “It was quite remarkable,” I said.
    She smiled at me. “Thank you, Henry.”
    Holmes ran his hand across his forehead and back over his oily black hair, then stood. “I think we have intruded upon your household long enough.”
    “I have something for you both.” She went to her desk, then selected two envelopes from a stack, and handed one to each of us. “I am giving a small dinner party a week from today, frightfully formal,I fear, but you are both invited—and Michelle, of course. Perhaps you can liven things up. My cook is truly formidable, so I can promise you a memorable meal.”
    I glanced down at the invitation. “How very kind of you.”
    “Not at all. Michelle is especially dear to me, and I have been intending to have you as our guests for some time.”
    “We shall be happy to attend.”
    She smiled again. “I am glad. And you, Mr. Holmes? It is next Monday. I do hope you can come.”
    He stood and thrust the invitation into his coat pocket. He was nearly a foot taller than Violet. “I shall.” They were staring at each other, again.
    “Oh, good.” She laughed. “This will also give you the opportunity to investigate our friends and relations. You can decide who is in league with the old gypsy.”
    Holmes gave a snort of laughter. “No doubt.”
    She led us back downstairs. She and I chatted, but despite some glances from her, Holmes remained unusually quiet. We tipped our hats, said good day, and stepped outside. The yellow glow of the sun was gone, only gray showing in the sky.
    “She is an exceptional woman,” I said.
    “Yes.” Holmes was still clutching his handkerchief.
    “By the way, I meant to ask you earlier—who is that minister you mentioned, the Reverend Obadiah something?”
    Holmes took a deep breath, which seemed to clear his head. He smiled. “The Reverend Obadiah Dunbar is my own invention. He does not exist.”

Four

    A fter we reached Baker Street, I told Holmes I would be happy to accompany him again on an