3. From PowerOfPens: Music helps Holmes solve a case.
"Holmes," I whispered as we crept through the shadows towards the arbor. "Why are we here? Surely if we have found no evidence in the past week that implicates Lady Tremaine in her husband's murder, we will not find it here."
Holmes shot me a briefly irritated look and readjusted his grip on his violin. It was the presence of the violin that had caused me to break my silence in the first place. In my long acquaintanceship with Holmes, I had been on many midnight stakeouts. However, I could not imagine what use a violin would be on an enterprise that relied primarily on stealth and silence.
Instead of answering, Holmes led the way to a small bower created artfully by a stone bench and the branches of an overhanging willow. I cast my eyes in the direction of the house, but although I know we were quite near, the willow's waving fronds obscured the lighted window that belonged to Lady Tremaine. I imagined this place would be incredibly picturesque in the morning light; I wondered idly how many young lovers had met beneath these boughs. Holmes, however, seemed to have no interest in the beauty of the place. Waving for me to keep still and silent, he crept to the center of the grotto, head also tilted in the direction of the house. Then, at some signal only he could see, he lifted his violin to his shoulder and began to play.
I have spoken before of Holmes' talent on the violin, but even my long experience did not prepare me for the haunting melody that he drew from the strings that night. I vaguely recognized it as some kind of Irish ballad, but here, within a curtain of willow branches and lit only by moonlight, I felt my hair stand on end. I could not help but feel as though spirits were gathering around to listen my friend, his eyes closed in the middle of the clearing and bow moving ceaselessly across the strings.
The song trailed off at last, and far off, we heard a sharp noise, like a window being slammed. Holmes' smile was fierce and feral in the moonlight. "Come, Watson," he whispered to me. "Our work is done."
"Lord Tremaine was known to serenade his lady with that very ballad," he said with satisfaction the next day as Inspector Lestrade escorted Lady Tremaine down to a waiting carriage. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, and I fancied I could see the trace of tears on her pale cheeks. "Indeed, he often did so in that clearing, the place where he proposed five years ago. Knowing as I did that she often slept with her windows open, it was a simple matter to ensure that she would hear it."
"But what made you believe she would make a full confession?" I asked. "Surely a woman who poisoned her husband is unlikely to have much familial feeling."
Holmes fixed me with his steadiest gaze. "On the contrary, her husband's betrayal could not have roused her to such action if she did not suffer fervently from just such an attachment. Love, Doctor Watson, is by far the most dangerous of all human emotions, for it devoid us of our reason and inspires us to commit the most monstrous of actions."
I could find no words to argue the point just then; instead I watched as the carriage pulled away.
