A Study in Sherlock

I should not have agreed to such a plan for anyone except him, and Elizabeth carried it off admirably. Or so he said. I myself did not see the significance of the hats the lady had ordered, but Elizabeth’s descriptions were enough to let him deduce that she planned a trip to Russia in the near future. With that information, Mr Holmes was able to bring the case to a satisfactory conclusion for his client.

Indeed, he was so pleased that he gave my niece half a crown and said he was sorry she could not remain in London to assist him should such a need ever arise again.

After my sister-in-law’s return to Italy, I tried to keep in touch, but she was an indifferent correspondent. A year or two later, I received a letter that she planned to remarry. After that, nothing. My letters were returned unopened.

Now, suddenly, here was my niece, ten years older, a wedding band on her finger and fear in her eyes.

“You’re not well,” Dr Watson said, and indeed she was near swooning.

We helped her to the sofa in my parlour and I rang for Alice to bring smelling salts and a fresh pot of tea.

When she had somewhat recovered, Elizabeth explained that her mother had died six years earlier and that she had gone to live in Venice with her grandparents, who were itinerant musicians. She earned her keep by giving private English lessons. “My grandfather arranged for me to work with the opera company there, and I played piano for singers who were learning their roles. That’s how I met William.”

I took her hand in mine and touched the ring. “William is your husband? Is he English?”

She nodded. “William Breckenridge. He’s a concert pianist and a composer as well. Perhaps you know his Venetian Springtime?”

I did not, but Dr Watson seemed impressed. “A suite of caprices, are they not? Mr Holmes had one of them transcribed for the violin. The Bridge of Sighs, if I’m not mistaken. By Jove! That’s your husband?”

Elizabeth flushed with shy pride at his praise.

I was not deterred. “Surely he’s not the one who wants to kill you?”

“No! Yes! Oh, Aunt, I can’t be sure. That’s why I hope Mr Holmes will help me.”

Sadly, I had to tell her that the great detective was no more. “But what has happened to make you fear for your life?”

“This is William’s first tour in England since our marriage two years ago. I hoped it would be a second honeymoon. Instead it’s been a nightmare. He has become distant and almost cold to me. Normally, I wouldn’t worry because he always withdraws into himself when he is composing and working out the musical problems he sets himself, but the difference this time is that I’m being poisoned.”

I was shocked. “Poisoned? How?”

For a moment her old spirited nature flashed in her brown eyes. “If I knew that, do you not think I would avoid it? I can’t even be sure he’s the one doing it, yet who else could it be?”

She looked at us in despair.

“Tell us everything,” Dr Watson said. “Perhaps we can help.”

“It began two days after we arrived in London,” Elizabeth said. She spoke flawless English but an occasional word or phrase and a certain musical lilt in her inflections reflected her years in Italy. “William took rooms for us in a pensione where he has stayed before. It’s popular with musicians. There’s a grand piano he can use in the front parlour and it’s near his copyist.”

“Copyist?” I asked.

She nodded. “He met Mrs Manning on his first tour of England and has used her ever since. He sends her a manuscript and she returns it within the month. She’s quick and accurate and quite reasonable. She even inserts his scribbled notations neatly. William makes such a mess of his practice scores that he likes to have a fresh set for his performances.”

Dr Watson seemed surprised. “He doesn’t play from memory?”

She smiled. “Of course he does, but he doesn’t trust himself. Once he became so tangled in a Liszt concerto that he vowed never again to play in public without a score in front of him. I turn the pages for him and half the time he forgets to signal me to turn. If I did not follow carefully, he would be two pages ahead of me.”

Dr Watson may have been interested in this musical digression, but I was not. “Please come to the point, Elizabeth,” I said impatiently.

She sighed and complied.

Soon after settling into their lodgings, Mr Breckenridge had played at a reception for Lord P———.

“It is our custom to eat a light meal before a performance,” Elizabeth said. “Nothing more than bread and butter and some consommé. Just the two of us alone so that William can approach the music in a serene state of mind. Afterwards, we have a late supper with some of the other musicians or with the patron who sponsored the concert.