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In the many years of my close acquaintance with my dear friend and colleague Sherlock Holmes, I have come to be, on several occasion, the witness of some truly unexpected display of humanity from him. Let it not be misunderstood that Holmes was a cold man, as where he is more discreet than most in the display of his feelings by his private nature and the logic of his mind, he is not without a heart. No, I was rather referring to what I can only call his scattered ‘bouts of generosity’. One of these has been related in The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle where a petty thief was allowed to walk free thanks to my friend silence to the Yard, or again in The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot. In the latter and despite him having figured out the murderer, he did not help out the investigation and an otherwise honourable man was never convinced for his action.
In all these cases but one, I could rather be brought to agree with my dear friend’s actions. The law, as much as it stands above us all, does not fit ‘the particular’. It is cut not to, but Holmes’ bohemian ways sometime rose against the hard and ineluctable press of its weight against what is, fundamentally, people.
‘I am not working for the law Watson,’ he commented to me one day I confronted him about it, ’the law got its agents and I am certainly not one of them. If I were to ever admit working for some higher purpose, I guess it would be justice. But as I stand, I only pick cases for my entertainment.’
I am still not sure to this day the reason that kept my friend silent on the matter of Miss Elizabeth Dunner, but I suspect some deep wrung admiration for her Art, if not for her character or otherwise. I decided on finally relating the events of this strange encounter, as they are now old enough that no prejudice can come from the tale, in the hope it would help me get a better understanding of it.
It was, so far as the Baker Street flat was concerned, a fairly normal morning. The night had no doubt been rather more disturbed, as Lestrade had come barging in right after supper and Holmes had gone running out on a moment notice. I could not follow as one of my patients was in a very worrisome condition and I had to keep to his bedside all night. As I walked in, I found a violin on the coffee table which stood out as strange to me, since Holmes was (out of all things) rather protective and careful of his instrument. As I moved to pick it up in curiosity, my friend called me on it.
‘I’d rather not do that, Watson. What remains of the poison would probably suffice in inconveniencing you for a few days.’
‘Holmes!’
‘Fascinating case. The Yard was dumbfounded of course, but it was quite simple. Caused quite a panic though. That’s what had Lestrade in such a hurry.’
‘What happened then?’ I asked, moving closer to the perfect breakfast prepared by the always reliable Mrs Hudson.
‘Yesterday at the overture of ‘Fidelio’, the first violin Sir Jake Oliver was sent in a violent fit just as he finished his first piece. He died with his music in front of the whole audience. What alerted the Yard to a possible murder was the blood he coughed, and the fact similar symptoms in a lesser form were shared by the closest musicians.’
The bell rang. I rose an inquisitive brow toward Holmes, who had sprung into action just as he had expected the early call. I mournfully abandoned the promise of breakfast in favour of a cup of tea and what would probably be a late step into the last night case.
A woman was introduced in the room. She was of a striking feature despite her plain clothing and dress. Her dark and opulent hairs were woven in an unassuming bun, and the modesty of the styling only brought forward the delicate sharpness of her traits and the forlorn depth of her eyes. She probably was employed as a maid, and of little means I deduced, from what little of Holmes methods I had picked up.
Holmes invited her to sit, but she hesitated, her gaze trained on the violin I had observed myself a few minutes before. She paled a little and I thought she might faint, but before I could intervene, she had gathered her spirits and moved in.
‘Miss Dunner,’ Holmes started sharply, ‘this is my friend and colleague Dr Watson, and I do believe you know who I am. You may therefore be a little puzzled as to why I should ask you to come here this morning.’
Sherlock had stayed up and was pacing the room in quite a theatrical fashion. I was quite used to such display, but the young woman seemed rather intimidated by it, as she was still to breath a word.
‘I wondered if you’d accept to play the violin for me.’ He finished with a smile.
At this rather unexpected demand her eyes widened in surprise and dare I say, fright as she took in the violin a second time.
‘Mr Holmes, I…’ She protested weakly.
‘Not, of course, this instrument.’ Holmes said, pointing to the dead man’s violin. ‘I practice myself.’ And he proceeded to take out his own, which I would easily place as his most valued possession, and present it to our guest. She considered the instrument and the offeror, and some kind of spirit hardened her feature.
She played the instrument in the most remarkable fashion and I was charmed beyond belief. I am not private to the intricacies of the art, but seldom have I seen such a look of appreciation and perhaps even admiration on my friend’s face. As she wrung the last chord and slowly put the instrument down, she talked as if to herself. She looked taken in a deep and hurtful reminiscence.
‘Father taught me to play the violin. He loved me and my mother even if he could not marry her.’
‘Your father was the late first violin of the opera, Mr Benedict.’ Holmes provided.
She nodded.
‘He did not expect to die so soon. And neither did my mother. I was left with nothing but her position as a maid at the opera. Of course, Jake knew. He was my father understudy.’ She seemed to be lost for words, before continuing. ‘He knew and he got cruel about it. I know my father loved him as a son. We as good as learned to play together. My father thought Jake would take care of us if something happened to him.’
Her lips were thin, and all colour seemed to have deserted her face. Her dark eyes sought Holmes’ and she whispered.
‘I was better than he would ever be, yet I got relayed to dusting the ground he walked on. I was the one going penniless and enduring his jeers when he should have worshiped my talent. I was powerless Mr Holmes. What should have I done?’
It strikes me as I write these lines, that she had not been seeking mercy from Holmes. As I look back on those events with a clear head, it now appears to me this young lady had been asking a genuine question to my friend. Perhaps this explains the conversation I had later this day with Holmes.
‘So how did she do it?’
‘The bow hair was coated in a thin white and poisonous powder. Very much like the resin used to ensure to violin is wrung. When he started playing the stain and vibrations liberated puffs of the powder that the violinist inhaled. She must have overdosed it to make sure it was effective hence the closest musicians being affected as well.’
‘You’ve not contacted the Yard yet.’ I remarked sharply.
‘No, I haven’t.’ Holmes answered in a pensive kind of way, plucking his violin moodily.
I could see that it was one of this moods where I would not get what I considered to be a meaningful conversation with him, and resolved to expose my worries to him later, when it would have left him. To my great surprise, after a somewhat long silence, he continued.
‘The word is a merciless press against all of us Watson. It crashes against us and dulls the sharpness of our minds. I managed to carve myself a bit of it and shape it to my liking, so as to be able to exercise my talents and faculties.’
He plucked a few chords.
‘I wonder what would have happen if even this liberty had been refused to me.’