Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of The Cold-Served Revenge

VII: A Duet for Violin and Violoncello

Nothing much had changed in London during our weeklong absence. The newspapers grinded out the same stories; Mycroft moved between his apartment in the Pall Mall, the Diogenes Club and his office in Westminster; and the King[16] was increasingly anxious about the disappearance of Albert Bollinger.

My wife, who apparently assumed that I would be away longer, had left town to visit her relatives. I put Holmes up in our guest room and the next afternoon Mycroft came over and the three of us planned what to do next over a bottle of red wine.

We related everything that had happened in Italy, including our meeting with Luigi Pascuale, who had taken over the management of Minutti’s factory. Mycroft informed us that if Bollinger were declared dead, the nobleman’s sister Emily would inherit the family business.

“I doubt she would allow the business to be managed by a secretary or anyone she does not know,” said Mycroft. “She is a very determined and resourceful lady who likes to keep a firm grasp on things. We must seek another motive for Bollinger’s kidnapping besides a desire to take over his business.”

He also had news for us concerning Rupert Darringford. The son of a noble country family, he was a rich man with an unremarkable past. We even obtained his photograph, in which we clearly recognised the man who had stormed out of Pastor Barlow’s house. The pieces of the puzzle were finally falling into place.

“Darringford, the family estate in Scotland, is looked after by servants. Lord Rupert is the last living male heir to the title. He was never very popular in society, unlike his sister. They say that he suffers from a kind of mental disorder. But it may just be slander. For the time being, however, we cannot arrest him. We lack evidence, as he has been living in seclusion for several years; and he constantly travels, although nobody knows his present whereabouts.”

“I certainly wonder what he is up to,” said Holmes. “Why would he want to control Minutti’s business? Money? By all accounts he is already vastly wealthy. Patent theft? Espionage? But to whose benefit? Was he responsible for the attack on me? In all probability, yes. He will not hesitate to kill further and will stop at nothing.”

“His sister Alice Darringford lives near London, you ought to start with her,” said Mycroft, handing his brother a dossier. “Here is the information that we managed to obtain. There is also a dossier about Bollinger. We are beginning to lose hope that he is still alive.”

“I had hoped that in Venice we would uncover the connection between his disappearance and Minutti’s death,” said the detective sadly.

“Nobody sees it as a failure,” said his brother. “The case is intricate and our theories are hazy at best.”

“We ought to have been more careful,” said Holmes. “Perhaps I am too old and have been too long in retirement. I acted rashly, like a bull in a china shop.”

“Nonsense!” I cried.

“I agree with the doctor, Sherlock. Put such thoughts out of your mind; I need you to be as charming as possible tomorrow evening.”

Holmes looked at his brother with suspicion.

“You know that I hate parties.”

“Ah, but you will go to this one, it is work related,” said Mycroft, taking from his pocket an invitation to the garden party in the luxurious villa of Lady Darringford. “It is an event for the nobility, so do try to play the part. There will be no better opportunity to get close to Lady Darringford and to obtain as much information about her brother as possible.”

The detective did not know whether to rejoice or despair. Naturally we could not have hoped for anything better. He graciously took the invitation and read it. It was for Mr Cedric Parker and Dr John Watson.

Sighing he placed it on the table and for the rest of the day made himself scarce.

He only emerged from his shell in the evening before the event. Perhaps he was conserving his energy to help him endure the party, but at the strike of six he stood in the vestibule dressed in his best tailcoat, which he had had Mrs Hudson send over from the farm.

“I have not worn it in several years, but it still fits, wouldn’t you say?”

Indeed it did.

Holmes’s physique was just as lithe and slim as ever, hence the suit fit as though it had been made to measure the day before. Mrs Hudson looked after his things with great care. The tailcoat and trousers were carefully brushed and ironed, and kept free of moths. He matched the suit with a starched white shirt and collar and black bowtie. As always he radiated dignity and nobility.

I too was ready. I opted for a classically cut summer suit with a necktie. We were ready to depart. The carriage was waiting.

We arrived at Alice Darringford’s villa, or rather palace, shortly before seven o’clock. Guests from far and wide were already arriving. A long line of automobiles, fiacres and carriages streamed in along the road from London, passing through the main gates at less than one minute intervals. There were so many of them that the coachmen and chauffeurs had to jostle and compete for who would unload their passengers first. We disembarked onto the vast marble steps lit by torches and leading to the widely opened doors of the opulent mansion.

Holmes proceeded up the steps as though he were dragging an iron ball on his leg.

I had to laugh.

At the entrance a footman in livery sidled up to us and offered us champagne. We drank it and plunged into the crowd. The vestibule already contained many notables. I recognised several politicians and actors, and there were also industrialists and members of noble families. Their wives wore the most opulent jewels, which danced in the light of the crystal chandelier above our heads. From both sides of the hall a staircase rose to the upper floor of the house; on the right was an immense drawing room and French doors leading to the garden. The guests conversed in a lively manner while a six-piece orchestra played gently in the background.

We walked through the villa, politely conversing with people whom I knew mainly by reputation in a manner that Holmes derisively called “a variant of empty chatter”. Personally I was fascinated by how some people could carry on a ten-minute monologue without actually saying anything.

Two hours passed in this way without us even seeing our hostess. Finally we walked out into the garden. The sky had already darkened and silver stars shone down on the illuminated garden.

À propos of that garden! The architect must have lavished it with attention. The lawns, shrubs, trees, beds of exotic flowers, everything was designed in charming and brilliant combinations of colours and shapes, and it was all perfectly maintained. It was especially magnificent now in the spring. I guessed that one of the reasons for the festivities was the proud owner’s desire to show off her hobby.

“Lady Darringford certainly has taste and a weakness for fine things,” said Holmes. “I feel as though I am in Versailles.”

We set off on a short tour of the park, further from the merry company and the light of the lamps, in order to rest from the noise of the party, which was already making my head spin, and take some fresh air. We made it all the way to a beech grove next to an old gazebo.

The mighty crowns of the trees had a regular egg-shaped form and the trunks were textbook slim, covered in a thin light-grey bark with a slight blue tinge. On the ground lay achenes and near them were freshly planted rhododendrons.

“The architect did not succeed in this part of the garden,” said Holmes. He was referring to the lack of taste reflected in the gazebo, which was begging to be torn down, and the disparate combination of trees. Nevertheless the shrubs smelled beautifully and had a calming effect. We were ready to head back to the whirlwind of society in the centre of the garden.

“Watson, is that you?” we suddenly heard in the dark. “I can’t believe it!”

The lawn was overflowing with people, so at first I did not know who was calling. From a cluster of guests emerged a tall man in a red officer’s uniform, waving at me in a friendly manner.

I only recognised him when he came closer and his face with its rust-coloured sideburns shone in the light of one of the lamps. It was Pankhurst, my old friend from my student years.

“How long has it been since I’ve seen you!” he boomed. “Hell, at least thirty, forty years![17] But don’t think I’ve lost track of you. I literally devour your stories about that famous detective. They are simply exceptional!”

“Thank you, Pankhurst, I am happy to see you again too,” I said, shaking his hand.

“Is it true what I have heard? That Holmes is dead?”

“Sadly, yes. This is Mr Parker, Holmes’s cousin,” I said, introducing the detective, who had been standing silently a short distance away.

The officer took off his hat and shook both of our hands.

“My condolences to both of you. England has lost a great man. He embodied the values that we all believe in.”

“And what are you doing here, old friend?” I said, steering the conversation elsewhere, despite the fact that Holmes looked as though listening to someone singing his praises interested him.

“Well,” said the old soldier waving his hand and barely able to contain a disgusted grimace. “I am here because of my youngest daughter, Grace. I am her escort. You see, my friend, I can tell you: she is unmarried and I fear that she will remain so for a long time. Not that she isn’t pretty, mind you. But she has taken up these modern feminist ideas and considers men as just a necessary evil.”

Pankhurst sighed and gulped down a glass of champagne.

“As I said, our country is going down the drain. The values and traditions which made England great are departing with the generation to which we three - and Mr Holmes - belong.”

“Surely it can’t be that bad,” I said.

“I wish you were right,” said the officer, screwing up his face. “It is my fault. During my career I did not have time for her; after the death of my dear wife she was raised by her aunt, the wife of my eldest brother. A peculiar woman. So long as she is under the influence of her friends, including our hostess, it is hard to believe.”

“I had no idea that Lady Darringford was a feminist,” said Holmes.

“She is not actively involved in the movement, but she shares their opinions,” said Pankhurst. “By the way, have you met her?”

“As yet we have not had the pleasure.”

“She was here a moment ago,” he said, looking around. “There she is, heading into the drawing room!”

We looked in the direction he was pointing, but saw only a female silhouette against the backdrop of the illuminated entrance to the villa. I reckoned her to be a lady of medium height with well-rounded hips and a tall coiffure decorated with peacock feathers. She was the first tangible lead to Rupert Darringford, the secretive man with the blood of Minutti and Paolo on his hands.

“We should pay our respects,” said Holmes, and as Pankhurst returned to his friends, we detached ourselves from him and left the garden.

“Let us hope that the lady does not share her brother’s opinions,” I said, remembering the fleeting incident with Darringford in Fulworth.

The detective did not reply. He tried not to lose sight of Lady Alice, who was moving about her house with the natural grace of a swan. Now we finally saw her in full light.

I had to keep my jaw from dropping. Alice Darringford was without doubt the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She possessed a full feminine figure and light-coloured hair and eyes, which lent her a certain ethereal quality.

She stopped in the middle of the drawing room and clapped her hands.

“Friends, allow me to invite you to a small recital that my dear friend Grace Pankhurst and I have prepared for you!” she called in an enchantingly raspy voice.

The other guests began to return from the garden to the house. The lady made her way to an improvised stage, which until then the orchestra had occupied.

The musicians removed their instruments, leaving only two note stands.

“Grace, my dear, if you would,” she said, grasping the violoncello.

Pankhurst’s daughter, slim and freckled, brought over her violin and the women patiently waited for the audience to settle down. Thanks to Pankhurst, who rushed in for his daughter’s performance and used his elbows to make room for us, we were able to watch the recital unobstructed from the first row.

I immediately recognised the piece. It was Brahms’ Concert for Violin and Violoncello. Both women had it rehearsed with endearing precision. It may have lacked lightness of touch, but thanks to the goddess-like presence of Lady Darringford, to me it sounded like the sweetest music from heaven.

The bows slid along the strings with a gracefulness that captivated even Holmes. He closed his eyes and listened with bated breath, as though he feared that his respiration might interrupt the music. The other guests were similarly enraptured, including the morose soldier.

Suddenly a false note crept into the mellifluous tones, then immediately another one. Everyone noticed it. The people began whispering among themselves; they had no idea what was happening. The false note had come from the violin, which tried to continue playing for a moment longer, but then gave up its vain effort.

It fell quiet. Lady Alice frowned and Grace lowered her eyes, crestfallen.

“Forgive me, I have a cramp in my hand,” she said, almost in tears.

She vainly tried to make a fist, but the muscle would not budge. She was oppressed by the thought that she had ruined everyone’s evening. I felt sorry for her. Pankhurst wanted to console her, but the detective quickly jumped onto the stage and took charge of the unhappy young lady. He gallantly helped her down and kissed her hand.

“Put a compress on it,” he advised her.

He too had had experience with cramps caused by holding a bow. Then he delivered Grace to her father, smiled at her kindly, and returned to Lady Darringford.

“It would be a shame to deprive your guests of such beautiful music,” he said, picking up Grace’s violin. “Would you permit me to accompany you?”

Lady Darringford pursed her lips, raised her eyebrows and looked at him from head to toe.

“It is a difficult piece. Are you a good violinist?”

“More of a talented amateur.”

“Very well,” she said sweetly. “My friends, your attention please. We will continue!”

The detective bowed, placed the violin under his chin and turned back the pages of the notes to the start of the last movement. He and the lady counted silently to each other and began to play.

The company again listened.

At first everything went smoothly, but then Holmes performed a slight flurry of improvisation. It could be discerned only by those who knew Brahms’s piece well, and by Lady Alice.

She shot him a glance, but continued playing. Then she too improvised. She smiled in triumph at how she had managed to momentarily snap the detective out of his concentration. It was terrific. The concert had turned into a contest!

They carried on this game of improvisation for several minutes. Then my friend tightened his grip on the bow and applied it with such vigour to the strings that he began drowning out the violoncello. Out hostess could not let that pass and perfunctorily increased her volume too.

It was delightful!

But not even Holmes’s mastery could outshine the sound of the violoncello, at least for me. Both musicians put all they had into the performance. Carried away by passion, their foreheads broke out in sweat. The guests remained hushed as they watched this joust between two artists, for whom music had become a weapon.

The pace quickened, but I saw only the woman.

I listened to the enchanting music and allowed myself to be carried away on its waves somewhere outside time and space.

It was love at first sight.