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this is a libretto, and these other sheaves, the music. I don’t recognize the piece.”
    “Nor should you,” Mr. Holmes said. “It is freshly commissioned. After returning to London, I was occupied with reinvestigating and settling the last fragments of the Jack the Ripper matter and putting the proper highly placed persons at peace. I then had a word with your associate in Transylvania, Bram Stoker. Mr. Stoker easily convinced Sir Arthur to compose a chamber opera on the six wives of Henry the Eighth, especially for your vocal range.”
    “And,” I wondered aloud, “who wrote the words?”
    “Ah, Miss Huxleigh, an excellent question. I doubt we shall ever know for sure. Stoker himself wrote some of it, but Oscar Wilde had heard of the project and insisted on having a hand in the matter.”
    “What!” I was appalled. “The vile Wilde?”
    “More wily than vile, I would think. This is, by the way, the closet piece on the wives of Henry the Eighth.”
    “The very work you suggested to me in Paris. I remember, Mr. Holmes,” Irene said in obvious surprise, and with perhaps a bit too much pleasure to please me.
    “It is one thing to suggest a work of art, another to watch it being born,” he admitted, the faintest twinkle of amusement in his gray eyes. “The two librettists did nearly come to blows in my presence concerning the title of the work. Stoker wanted to call the piece ‘Brides of the Axe.’ Wilde wanted ‘Henry the Eighth’s Secret Wives.’ Sir Arthur settled on a ‘A Suite of Queens.’ ”
    “And you, Mr. Holmes,” Irene interjected at last, “was there no title you favored? After all, you commissioned the work.”
    He shook his head and fanned his long fingers in denial. “I suggested the idea. It did not cost me a penny or a pound. That is hardly commissioning a work of art. You were your own benefactress in this case. You have staunch friends in London, madam.”
    Irene’s face glowed at this assurance. I realized that she missed the city and its circle of acquaintances, though she had always made the best of being exiled to Paris by circumstances beyond her control.
    “You must have had some hand in this result, Mr. Holmes.” She lifted the thick scroll in her right hand as if it were a scepter. Already I could see the mantles of those long-dead queens settling on her artistic soul.
    Mr. Holmes shrugged modestly. I could not believe it. “Stoker and Wilde wrote the words,” he repeated. “Sullivan the music. I made one minor contribution in suggesting that the violin serve as the model of and counterpoint to the soloist’s voice.”
    Irene hastened to the piano, quickly absorbing the music indicated in the arcane patterns on the parchments.
    “ ‘Six Wives, Six Lives,’ ” she declaimed her version of the title. “And I shall sing of every one of them, and of their deaths.”
    “Two did not have the grace to die until their own good time,” he pointed out.
    “I said it was a brilliant concept, but I did not expect—”
    Mr. Holmes bowed slightly. “Nor did I expect the Guarneri, madam.”
    “Apparently,” Irene said, “we have managed to exceed each other’s expectations equally. Surely now you will take the violin.”
    He shook his head. “I will take my leave. Urgent matters call in London. This chamber concert was reward enough.”
    “For Nell’s life?” Irene sounded incredulous.
    “For the translation, and the introduction to the fascinating Krafft-Ebing and his studies. Adieu, madam. Miss Huxleigh.”
    He nodded and moved into the hall to redon cape and cap and leave our home.
    Moments later the latch fell shut on the front door, followed by the departing hooves of the hired horse-and-trap.
    Sophie appeared in the doorway. “So tea will not be served, madam?” she asked in dour tones.
    “Of course, it will! Nell and I—and Casanova—will partake royally.”
    Sophie was no sooner gone than Irene was unrolling the libretto, thumbing papers to grasp both