not like the whole business.”
“Nor do I, but Violet is my friend. She may need my help.”
“And knowing you, you will give it to her.”
I took his free hand. “Would you have it otherwise?”
He let go of my foot, turned my hand, and kissed my palm. “No.”
Weary as I was, I felt a flicker of longing in my throat. I remembered Violet in the carriage, the muted loathing in her voice, and I squeezed his hand. “Oh, Henry, I do love you so.”
He stared at me. “Let’s go upstairs.” Our bedroom was on the third floor.
“I am so tired you will need to carry me.”
“I shall if you wish.”
“If I weighed as much as Violet, I would let you try, but I do not wish to treat you for an injured back. If you will provide an arm to lean on, that will suffice.”
We stood. He slipped his arm about my waist. I picked up my boots with one hand, put the other on his shoulder, and we started for the stairway.
Three
T he following Monday a telegram from Holmes arrived early in the morning:
I shall be visiting the Wheelwright home this afternoon to question the household. If your practice is anemic and you wish to join me, be at Baker Street by one.
When I showed the note to Michelle, her eyes lit up. “Oh, Henry, you must go! I shall cover for you.”
“There will be little to cover, but more to the point, why should I go at all? This is hardly my affair.”
“But Violet is my friend. We must do all we can to help her.”
“Perhaps you should go then.”
She laughed. “Sherlock did not invite me. Besides I have several patients coming.”
“No anemia for you.”
She took my arm and kissed my cheek. “You are a very good doctor,Henry. In time you will obtain the appreciation you deserve.”
I shrugged, hardly so convinced of either of her assertions. “Perhaps. Visiting the Wheelwright home should be interesting, and Sherlock needs someone to look after him. Violet may have actually charmed him.”
The hansom stopped before 221 Baker Street, just before one. The cabby, who was as thin and worn looking as his horse, took his fare and tipped his hat. The rain of the past few days had abated, but the sun seemed feeble, only a muted yellow through the clouds.
Holmes had company. The stranger’s mustache was neatly trimmed, but the reddish hair about his ears was thick and curly, its abundance contrasting with his balding pate. His complexion was ruddy, and his blue eyes regarded me warily. He was impeccably dressed, black silk highlighting the lapels of his frock coat, a diamond pin in his cravat.
“Lord Harrington, this is my cousin, Dr. Henry Vernier.”
Harrington shook my hand, then pulled on his gloves. “Please give this matter your consideration, Mr. Holmes. I do not wish my brother’s reputation—” he glanced briefly at me— “to remain sullied.”
“I shall do what I can. We shall continue our conversation another time. As I said, I have other business this afternoon.”
“Very well, sir.” He put on his top hat, took his walking stick in his right hand, and marched out the door.
“Have a seat, Henry,” Holmes said. “A carriage from the Wheelwrights should be arriving shortly. Lord Harrington had an interesting story.”
“I thought Lord Harrington had killed himself.”
“And so he did. Joseph Harrington left no heir, so his brother Michael, whom you just met, is now Lord Harrington. He is skeptical of the official version of his brother’s death, as well he might be. Men rarely kill themselves in that manner.”
“What manner?”
“By cutting one’s throat with a razor.”
I felt a stir low in my belly and repressed a shudder. “I have never heard of such a case.”
“Although rare, it does happen. Lord Harrington also told me his brother was notoriously long-winded, yet the scrawled note only said, ‘I cannot go on.’”
“Wasn’t Harrington supposed to have remade his fortune after squandering much of his inheritance?” I asked. “Some mysterious
“Nor do I, but Violet is my friend. She may need my help.”
“And knowing you, you will give it to her.”
I took his free hand. “Would you have it otherwise?”
He let go of my foot, turned my hand, and kissed my palm. “No.”
Weary as I was, I felt a flicker of longing in my throat. I remembered Violet in the carriage, the muted loathing in her voice, and I squeezed his hand. “Oh, Henry, I do love you so.”
He stared at me. “Let’s go upstairs.” Our bedroom was on the third floor.
“I am so tired you will need to carry me.”
“I shall if you wish.”
“If I weighed as much as Violet, I would let you try, but I do not wish to treat you for an injured back. If you will provide an arm to lean on, that will suffice.”
We stood. He slipped his arm about my waist. I picked up my boots with one hand, put the other on his shoulder, and we started for the stairway.
Three
T he following Monday a telegram from Holmes arrived early in the morning:
I shall be visiting the Wheelwright home this afternoon to question the household. If your practice is anemic and you wish to join me, be at Baker Street by one.
When I showed the note to Michelle, her eyes lit up. “Oh, Henry, you must go! I shall cover for you.”
“There will be little to cover, but more to the point, why should I go at all? This is hardly my affair.”
“But Violet is my friend. We must do all we can to help her.”
“Perhaps you should go then.”
She laughed. “Sherlock did not invite me. Besides I have several patients coming.”
“No anemia for you.”
She took my arm and kissed my cheek. “You are a very good doctor,Henry. In time you will obtain the appreciation you deserve.”
I shrugged, hardly so convinced of either of her assertions. “Perhaps. Visiting the Wheelwright home should be interesting, and Sherlock needs someone to look after him. Violet may have actually charmed him.”
The hansom stopped before 221 Baker Street, just before one. The cabby, who was as thin and worn looking as his horse, took his fare and tipped his hat. The rain of the past few days had abated, but the sun seemed feeble, only a muted yellow through the clouds.
Holmes had company. The stranger’s mustache was neatly trimmed, but the reddish hair about his ears was thick and curly, its abundance contrasting with his balding pate. His complexion was ruddy, and his blue eyes regarded me warily. He was impeccably dressed, black silk highlighting the lapels of his frock coat, a diamond pin in his cravat.
“Lord Harrington, this is my cousin, Dr. Henry Vernier.”
Harrington shook my hand, then pulled on his gloves. “Please give this matter your consideration, Mr. Holmes. I do not wish my brother’s reputation—” he glanced briefly at me— “to remain sullied.”
“I shall do what I can. We shall continue our conversation another time. As I said, I have other business this afternoon.”
“Very well, sir.” He put on his top hat, took his walking stick in his right hand, and marched out the door.
“Have a seat, Henry,” Holmes said. “A carriage from the Wheelwrights should be arriving shortly. Lord Harrington had an interesting story.”
“I thought Lord Harrington had killed himself.”
“And so he did. Joseph Harrington left no heir, so his brother Michael, whom you just met, is now Lord Harrington. He is skeptical of the official version of his brother’s death, as well he might be. Men rarely kill themselves in that manner.”
“What manner?”
“By cutting one’s throat with a razor.”
I felt a stir low in my belly and repressed a shudder. “I have never heard of such a case.”
“Although rare, it does happen. Lord Harrington also told me his brother was notoriously long-winded, yet the scrawled note only said, ‘I cannot go on.’”
“Wasn’t Harrington supposed to have remade his fortune after squandering much of his inheritance?” I asked. “Some mysterious
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