This was directly after The Musgrave Ritual. Before Holmes had even heard of Ricoletti of the club foot or his abominable wife, had reached the crowning glory of his career by recognizing the significance of a second stain upon a wooden floor, or entered into the grotesque and chaotic lives of people such as the pitiable Hilton Cubitt, or Grimsby Roylott of Stoke Moran. There were many other strange characters soon to come parading through the sitting room of our shared flat on Baker Street. But this was before all the Trelawney Hopes, Cadogan Wests, and Tadpole Phelpes. Before even The Woman's picture held its sacred spot amongst his files.
It is a story never before published for the simple reason that I, trusted friend, and sometime tolerated biographer, was not there.
I was still married to my first wife at the time, late December of 1882, and consequently inhabiting my home away from Holmes. Still, I spent many restful evenings at the flat overlooking Baker Street, after many adventuresome and tiring days. It was not uncommon to find Holmes and myself seated across from each other at the fire, he with his briarwood pipe and I with my cigar, reading the agony columns and sipping innumerable cups of Mrs. Hudson's tea.
On this particular night the ash was thick on the ground, and the room smudged with our combined smoky exhalations, when he fixed me with those grey eyes, sometimes so manic, but now hooded, swimming in the pale gas light, his deathly pallor warmed by the orange half-light of the fire.
I suppose now in hindsight that the 7% solution had had its way with him, but at the time I did not suspect as much. Perhaps I thought his armchair more comfortable than usual, or less so. Whatever the cause, it was on this night that he finally told me his secret, a secret so guarded, so rare, that even I could give it no credit until confronted with proof.
The lengthy nights of summer were giving way to the first chills of autumn when Holmes found himself visited, alone in his cramped rooms on Montague Street, by a woman of no uncommon bearing. The call of newspaper hawkers and the clip of horses' hooves drifted up from the street below and hung in the prolonged silence that lasted well after the door of the tiny flat opened to admit her.
"Mr. Holmes," she began, after the hazy interior of Holmes' rooms had settled them both, taking away the novelty of the sight of each other. "My name is Vias Rushford. I am here because I am in terrible need of your particular help. "
"Vias?" I interrupted. Holmes drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, searching the flames of the fire for patience. "What an unfortunate name. What was she like?"
"Like?" Holmes turned from his contemplation to frown at me.
"Miss Rushford. What was she like?"
"Oh, Watson! You are sometimes as simple as a new barn cat." He cast his eyes around the room again, and then crossed his arms over his breast, drawing mightily at his unlit pipe. "She was not obscenely tall," he said after a moment of thought. "Nor was she short enough to be considered petite."
"How frightfully informative of you to say, old boy," I grumbled. "I was simply curious. What did she want?"
"Ha. What any woman wants: to last in a man's living memory for all time."
"Oh, well. Obviously. Would you mind passing the coal scuttle?"
"You've smoked all your own cigars, then?"
"I have - with your help, Holmes. Now pass it over."
He pulled the scuttle off the corner of the hearth and held it out to me, casting his own pipe down on one of the many spare plates that littered the floor. I selected one and lit it off a glowing coal from the fire. Pushing the coal back into the grate I settled back and gave him my full attention. "I'm sorry old boy," I soothed, not wishing to heighten his ire. "Tell me all. What did this obscenely non-petite woman want?"
"Why, access, of course, Watson."
"Access?"
"Access! To my not unintimidating brain. For the straight steel blade of my logic to cut through her feminine malaise."
"Ah. Of course. These were her words?"
"Hers were somewhat more to the point."
"I cannot pay you, but would instead be forever in your debt."
Holmes' pipe went slack in his teeth, the bowl hitting his chest with a gentle thud. The clock ticked loudly from the wall by the door. Finally, for lack of anything helpful to say, he simply said, "Vias?"
"Yes, sir, but most everyone who knows me calls me Kit."
"Ah." The pipe flicked upwards again, and a cloud of bluish smoke billowed from the side of his mouth, some to be drawn into his arched nostrils, while the rest encircled his head and drifted upwards finally to add to the already prevalent stain in the ceiling paint.
"Your mother no doubt is a lover of wildflowers. Since Vias is the assumed root word for Viola, the scientific name for all species in the family Violaceae. I can only assume Kit because it is a reference to one of the more common varieties of Violet, Kit-run-in-the-fields to be precise."
"Or because my middle name is Katherine." She removed her hat and placed it on the table, laying beside it her clutch and damp umbrella. "But you may choose to believe whatever takes your fancy Mr. Holmes. It is never my intention to disrupt a man's confidence in his own reasoning. I find more often than not it spoils the mood."
Her eyes scanned the room, glossed here and there over broken dishware, cutlery scattered on the floor, vials, and bookshelves stuffed to overflowing. Finally she came to rest on the vacant armchair across the fireplace from Holmes. "And yes, I will sit, thank you. It is very gallant of you to ask."
And so she sat, crossing her hands and ankles neatly, and stared at the detective with a most forward and disarming look.
"Do you like violets, Mr. Holmes?"
He leaned back in his chair, legs tucked snugly under him, and continued to smoke that long disputatious-looking briarwood of his. "Less and less," he said between his teeth.
"I adore them. Or the names for them at least. Pink-eyed John, Love-lies-bleeding, Jack-jump-up-and-kiss-me -"
"Yes. Thank you." His nostrils flared. "I am familiar with the over two hundred common names given to that wayside flower, pray, let us not innumerate them all."
"Of course, Mr. Holmes. Just as you wish. I am in need of advice." She leaned towards him then, hands clutching each other, white-knuckled in her lap. "I need the sort of help that only a man such as yourself can give."
He found her unsettling; of that I am quite sure since he did not say so. Holmes' omissions are more telling than most men's confessions. He told me she had carelessly allowed multiple strands of it to escape her chignon.
"Color?"
"Honduran Mahogany."
"Of course," I replied. He rolled his eyes at me.
Her eyes were blue, noted because only three to five percent of people with dark hair also had such light eyes. He likewise included himself, of course, in this elite percentage. Her hands were long and slender, also not unlike his own. Lips petal pink and not too full. She suffered from a certain regularity of feature that marked her out as what society would deem beautiful, and probably would have been so, had it not been for her absurd confidence in her own intelligence. "Which-" he informed me, "-was highly unwomanly."
I nodded across the fire. "Indeed! How dare she?!"
"Silence Watson, I am not finished. The worst is yet to come."
Holmes observed her minutely for a moment, before saying "My dear lady, I am all attention."
"I am being followed."
"Indeed?"
"Yes. Daily."
"Have you any inkling by whom?"
"I do not know him, but he has been there every day for the last week. Never on the same city block as me, but always one behind."
"A ruffian?"
"A well-dressed man. Every day when I leave – "
"From the stage door of the opera house – "
"Yes, I take the same route to… wait, how…?"
"I believe orchestra members still exit the stage door with the actors. Surely they don't let musicians go out the front door with the audience."
"This is true Mr. Holmes, but how –"
"Through various and sundry means Ms. Rushford." His hands fluttered in the air around him, fingers pointing to various aspects of her person, flicking, eventually coming to rest on his slicked back hair, where they smoothed, and then steepled together in front of his lips.
"Actually, I was going to ask how you landed upon the opera. I could be with the symphony."
"I'm afraid not"
It was her turn to raise an eyebrow at him. "Indeed?"
"You have a slight dusting of white powder across your left shoulder. It is the base for many theatrical make-ups. I use it myself on occasion. But if it were something you had to wear, it would undoubtedly be on both sides of your collar, from where they rub against your neck. This however seems to be from someone else's cheek," he continued. "An embrace on the way out? An actress acquaintance no doubt, since a man would never be so forward. The symphony has no need of actors. The opera does.
"Your fingers have that spatulaing at the end common in those that play a stringed instrument. Your chin still has the indent of your violin. You have come straight from work. I heard no hansom arrive before you entered, therefore you have walked. The mud on your boots proves it. The opera house is not close, but not too far for a determined walker to arrive at about this time after a matinee. By this I assume you have not the money for the cab fare, otherwise, why walk in the rain? You see, it simply must be the opera. It is a catch-all for a great number of middling musicians."
Kit jolted to her feet, cheeks pink, eyes blazing. She took a few quick breaths to calm herself, not breaking her stare with him.
"You are being purposefully rude Mr. Holmes."
"Theatrics Miss Rushford. It is the truth, and therefore not worth getting upset about. Although anger does seem to make your accent come out more. Eastcheap? You've wandered quite a distance from Whitechapel."
"Come Mr. Holmes, those words smack of pettiness. I would expect better from a fellow violin player. And these rooms do not suit a particularly successful man, either, if we are judging on looks alone."
Holmes gritted his teeth and ignored the well-placed jab. Instead he answered her first observation. "I make no secret of my love of the instrument. The case lies open on my desk, as you can see."
"I can indeed. I see an instrument more often plucked than played. I see a man more interested in cords, not music, a bow badly mistreated and rarely rosined, and you sir, should be ashamed to play so petulantly upon such a beautiful and rare instrument, though I am hardly surprised, as those who have no worries about their income, regardless of how poorly they furnish their rooms, rarely prize such treasured possessions."
She turned and made for the door, gathering her belongings from the table as she went. But despite how quickly she moved, Holmes moved faster. His palm landed against the door just as she reached it, slamming it shut in her face. The two squared off over the diminutive space now between them. It was not until this moment, looking up into his long angular face, that she realized how tall he was. And how handsome, with eyes suddenly pale sleet and fixed intensely on her. He took a long deep breath before bringing his face an inch closer to hers.
"Petulant?"
"You have obviously been careless with it. The scratches are evident, even from here."
"And my income?"
"It is a Stradivarius Mr. Holmes. If I could afford such an instrument, and the lessons to go with it, I would not be playing at what is to your mind, the lowly opera house."
Holmes' lips parted, revealing straight white teeth, sharp gaze pricking hers unabashedly.
"Play it for me."
"What?" She drew away from him, until her back was pressed against the door. How long would it take someone to get up here if she screamed?
"It is a treasured instrument, as you say. You may never have such an opportunity again. Show me what you can bring out of it."
Holmes stepped towards her, forcing her to step around him farther into the room. He smiled a self-satisfied smile at that, left the doorway, crossed back to the couch, and threw himself across it with no attempt at decorum at all. Instead the back of his hand came to his brow, and then slid down over his closed eyes. Obviously he was prepared to listen.
Kit almost left. She regained the door, her hand on the knob, turning. But it was a Stradivarius. And she might go the rest of her life before running into another chance to touch something so rare and beautiful. It's owner too, was singular. Somehow captivating and repugnant in equal parts. She felt a momentary pang of regret that his insides did not match the beauty of his exterior, but knew better than to expect such, really. In life, Kit had grown accustomed to disappointment. So much so that she knew the wisdom of seizing an opportunity when one knocked, or, in this case, slammed a door shut in her face.
She went to the desk and picked the violin up, gently fitting it under her chin. It felt odd, of course, as every instrument new to the player invariably does, but it also felt right, and beautifully balanced. She fingered the bow, turning her mind over what to play.
"Do not be ashamed," Holmes drawled airily. "I am accustomed to listening to all levels of talent. Simply do the best you can."
Kit smiled at that. She let the bow rest on the strings for a moment, before taking a deep breath and pulling into Franz Shubert's rendition of "Der Erlkonig" for solo violin.
Holmes eyes snapped open as the manic notes flew from the instrument at the breakneck speed of a galloping horse. He watched her wrist flicking the bow skillfully back and forth, while her elbow flared and dropped. Her fingers were a twitch of movement, subtle, perfect, the music pushing, grabbing him and dragging him along with it. Something welled in him, threatening to burst and overflow.
He could imagine the father of the story riding through the drear, desperately clinging to his son, pursued by the Elf King, the long strides of the horse's flight, the cries of the terrified boy, and the horror of the homecoming, the father arriving in his courtyard to find his son dead in his arms. Holmes felt a delicious shiver run up his spine.
In a slight lull he realized that his lips were parted, mouth open, hands fisted at his sides. His eyes cut over to Kit, assuring himself that she had not seen him. He was satisfied at a glance that she had not. Her eyes were closed. Transported, the sensations hit him in waves of impatience, thick trepidation, scintillating joy, and a new sensation, something foreign and powerful, like love and respect and fear of the primordial unknown. Awe. For a woman with an imperfect chignon and such light captivating eyes. She opened them then, and, seeing is look, gave him a warm smile, as if they were compatriots possessed of an understanding.
He crossed the room as a shot does, snapping his hand down over hers on the neck of the violin. The bow shrieked to a halt over the strings. They stood staring at each other, both panting in some shared unconscious exertion.
"Why did you choose to play that?"
"It is the best I can do."
He grabbed the violin from her hands, noting how the wood was still warm, a phantom touch from her he had not foreseen or allowed.
"Please leave. I am no longer seeing clients today."
"But…what of the man following me?"
"If he is there again next week come back and see me. I suspect he is an admirer with nothing more than autographs on his mind."
He slammed the violin case shut, and she gathered her things on the table, moving quickly to distance herself from his sudden vehemence. He wheeled and stalked after her towards the door.
"Mr. Holmes, please, I'm sorry if I have offended you -"
"Nonsense. It's just that there are so many demands on my time."
Kit jumped as he flung open the sitting room door and ushered her out into the hall. "I would call you a cab of course, but we both know you would not use it."
"But…"
With that he shut the door in her face.
I will say this about my dear friend, he is never one to let propriety get in the way of his actions.
"But, why ever would you do such a callous thing, Holmes?!"
"At the time I saw no danger in her situation. Her concern seemed unfounded."
"But to throw her out the door, after hardly speaking to her at all, my dear fellow, what were you thinking?"
"Why, that I must be rid of her immediately, that her continued presence could only be detrimental to both of us."
"Detrimental?! But she obviously meant no harm, she was simply frightened. You were acting like a brute."
My shock must have been visible in my face, for he paused a moment, letting his gaze rest in the flames. "I was acting in self-defense, friend Watson. She saw me, somehow. She came unbidden to my home, to my inner sanctuary, and recognized me, so easily. It was as if my strong built and lasting defenses were non-existent. I am a man who does not wish to be touched, and yet she managed so easily to take hold."
"Was her playing really like that?"
"Yes. Her playing was like that."
The fire crackled in the hearth. An ember skittered out onto the worn red carpet at our feet. I crushed it out with the toe of my shoe.
"It sounds like you gave her almost no chance to explain her circumstances to you."
"Exactly. Watson, some would consider Der Erlkonig as one of the most difficult violin pieces ever composed. Obviously, concerning Kit Rushford, I was prone to making mistakes."
"And so what did you do?"
"I locked my door to her. Confident that our paths would never cross again."
"And did they?"
"The next morning over breakfast I received a telegram from one of her friends in the orchestra.
"She had seen her man again?"
"She had been attacked by him shortly after leaving my rooms.
"My dear boy, How awful!"
"She was unconscious in a hospital bed at St. Bart's. He had crushed both her hands."