A Melody Unfinished

by Mary Ho ("My lawfully wedded husband")

One lazy Saturday morning in early July I sat down at my dressing table to do a jojoba oil treatment on my hair. I had mail ordered the oil from America and was looking forward to pampering my hair when the phone rang. Holmes answered it and I listened to the sound of his voice from downstairs as I worked the warmed oil through my thigh-length hair. I had just started to comb the oil through it when Holmes appeared in the bedroom.

"That was Mycroft," he said. He ambled over to stand behind me at my dressing table. "He would like us to do him a favor."

A favor for brother Mycroft? When my brother-in-law Mycroft wanted a favor from his younger brother it usually sent him off on an adventure of some sort or another. In 1919, ten years ago, doing a favor for Mycroft had allowed Holmes and me to adventure in Palestine for six weeks. "Where is he sending us this time? I hope we are not leaving anytime today."

Holmes chuckled. "I assure you that you will have sufficient time for your regular hair pampering." Pulling up a chair behind me, he held out his hand for the wide-toothed comb. As he pulled it gently through my hair he explained. "I fear this assignment is of the more mundane kind. A fellow member of Mycroft's club, a Jeremy Byron, is the conductor of a small orchestra scheduled to play at a ball Lord Charles Cavendish-no relation to the Duke of Devonshire's family-is giving in mid-August. He was telling Mycroft how he was looking for first and second chair violinists, to replace the two he has lost recently. Mycroft mentioned us and said that though we could probably not fill in permanently, we could probably fill in for the ball. We would be playing with a string quartet for the dinner, then join the orchestra for the ball. Would you like to do it?"

Holmes finished combing and began to plait my hair. I looked at my husband in the mirror. Our lives had been rather quiet for the last few months, with only two small cases to break the pattern. This would provide a little diversion for him and for me as well. I had to admit that I liked the idea. It was nice to play in public once in a while. "Yes, I think I would like to, Holmes. Do we have to audition? I assume you will be concertmaster, but the conductor may wish to place me elsewhere, or perhaps nowhere."

"Mr Byron does wish us to come to London and play for him. An audition, as you say. We each will prepare two solo pieces and then we will be given some more to sight-read. If you want my opinion, my dear Russell, you have a good chance of becoming my standpartner."

"Piffle," I answered, but I couldn't help feeling pleased, even if I didn't really believe him.

He smiled and did not say anything more as he finished off my braid. When I treated my hair with the jojoba oil I would plait it then put it into a turban for the day. In the evening I would shampoo it out. The oil would leave my hair soft and nourished, which was important for hair as long as mine was. I flipped the braid over my head, folded the extra length, and tied the turban around my head.

"Come for a walk with me," said Holmes when I was done.

"Looking like this?"

"Your hair will not muss in the wind. Come."

I met Holmes' eyes and saw the earnestness that did not show anywhere else in his gently sardonic face. I smiled an affirmation, removed the old shirt I wore as a smock, and went to find suitable clothes for the walk.

On Monday we went up to London by train. Jeremy Byron met us at Victoria Station. He was thin man of average height, with dark hair and a ready smile. On the drive to his house he asked, "Do you mind me asking about your musical background, Mr Holmes?"

Holmes dutifully began to recite his violin background, which included the names of his teachers and playing first chair starting when he was fifteen in a student orchestra. He had stopped playing in orchestras and ensembles by the time he started his detective career, but had kept up with the violin in his spare time, learning and composing pieces on his own. If you call some of the peculiar music he comes up with "composing", I thought with a smile. Holmes caught my smile and dug an elbow into my ribs. I in turn playfully stepped on his foot.

"And you, Mrs Holmes?" Mr Byron turned his attention to me. "May I ask your background?"

I corrected him politely. "If you please, Mr Byron, I prefer to be addressed by my maiden name, which is Russell."

This made him pause for a moment. "Right then, Miss Russell. My apologies."

"That's all right. About five years ago my husband began teaching me classical violin and fiddle. I've played in public twice, once by myself and once with a group. I also play the Great Highland bagpipes."

"Ah." Even without seeing his face (Holmes and I were both in the backseat), I could tell he was dubious about me. And I knew without words that part of it was due to the fact I was a woman. "Playing the bagpipes...that is quite interesting. Now, about your violin playing-was it a solo recital and an ensemble later on?"

"Actually, the first time some friends goaded me into fiddling when we were in a pub. The second time my husband and I were guest musicians with the Mulliken traveling Irish music group."

"I see," said Mr Byron.

Just then we arrived at his house in Bloomsbury, and I was spared further embarrassment. Before we got out of the car, Holmes leaned over to me and whispered, "Your playing will speak for itself." He ran a finger gently along my jaw and turned to get out of the car. After a moment of surprise, I followed him. Early on I had found, unexpectedly, that when it came to my music Holmes could be very encouraging. It was one of the few areas in my life where I felt some insecurity and knowing this, Holmes was often encouraging instead of disparaging when it came to my playing, though he never hesitated to correct me severely if I muddled up a technique I knew well. When it came to areas where I wasn't insecure, such as theology or detecting, his manner toward my abilities was much less gentle, but that was his nature. Underneath his sardonic manner was his approval of me. Unless it was about theology-he had always disapproved of my interest in the subject.

We met Byron's wife and seven-year-old daughter, who ran up to greet her father enthusiastically. The audition was to be held in the family's music room. When Byron saw my husband's Stradivarius, he stared in disbelief. Holmes noticed and said, "Yes, this is a Stradivarius, Mr Byron. Lovely, is she not?" Holmes' violin was lovely, a light reddish-brown with intricate, vine-like designs painted on the sides, going all around the instrument. There was even an unusual diamond border painted on the face of the violin, going around the edge.

"Where did you purchase your instrument, Mr Holmes?" asked Byron.

"A pawnshop," answered Holmes. When Byron went slack-jawed with disbelief, Holmes gave me a glance perilously close to a wink, then began to tune.

When we were ready, Mr Byron took a seat by the piano. "All right, Miss Russell. I would like to hear you first. Your faster piece, please."

Up to this moment I had not felt too nervous, but now my heart was in my throat. He was dubious about my classical playing ability and thought to get me out of the way first. I understood his skepticism, as I did not have a standard classical musician's background. However I did resent that he did not believe me up to standard because I was a woman. Let him make of my playing what he would, I thought.

I began with a Bach sonata, number one in G minor, the presto section, and played entirely from memory. The notes were light and very fast. As I had come to expect, my nervousness faded as I played. I was aware of only the music flowing around me, and a pair of grey eyes watching me, encouraging me without words.

When I finished, I came out of my trance and saw Mr Byron attempting to hide his surprise. "Well...very good Miss Russell. I admit I did not expect this level of playing from you. No insult intended toward your teacher, of course," he smiled apologetically toward Holmes, "but most people after five years of training do not possess...your technical abilities."

Holmes spoke up quietly. "You will find, Mr Byron, that my wife possesses extraordinary talent with the violin in every style she has ever attempted."

I blushed hotly. "Um...if you will excuse me for a moment Mr Byron, I think my bow needs more rosin." I gave Holmes a weak smile of thanks and went over to my violin case for my rosin. Such praise from Holmes was quite rare, more so in public, and it had caught me off guard. I rosined my bow (which didn't really need it), and came back to the middle of the room more composed.

"Right then, Miss Russell," said Mr Byron, all business once more. "Your second piece, please."

So I played "Melodie in E Flat" by Tchaikovsky, opus forty-two, number three. Once again I lost myself in the music, and when I emerged blinking into the light after the final high note, I saw Mr Byron smiling and nodding. "That will do, Miss Russell." He placed a music stand before me and placed a sheet of music on it. "Sight-read this please."

I studied the music. Byron had covered over the composer and title, but even without knowing who had written it I could see it was a very difficult, fast piece. During my lessons Holmes would often make me sight-read difficult pieces, so I was no stranger to this. Quelling my sudden butterflies, I began. I made a mistake. Then another...and later on two more. I gritted my teeth and played to the end.

"That will do, Miss Russell. Mr Holmes, are you ready?"

As I passed Holmes on my way to a chair he placed a hand on my shoulder. We looked at one another silently. He squeezed my shoulder gently and stepped to the center of the room. Holmes' first piece was a selection from Saint-Saëns' "Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso". He played through the piece flawlessly, and played with equal skill his second piece, Paganini's "Cantabile." There was something about the way he could play this piece that could move me to unshed tears. Today was no exception, but since I expected it, keeping my eyes dry (or mostly dry) was not too difficult. He was then given a piece to sight-read, different from the one I had been given, but like mine it was difficult and fast. He didn't make any mistakes that I could hear. I smiled wryly at him when he came to sit beside me.

"It doesn't matter where he places me, anyway," I murmured. Holmes squeezed my knee and did not say anything.

Mr Byron walked over to where we were sitting. "Well, Mr Holmes," he said, shaking my husband's hand. "I would be pleased to have you as a guest concertmaster for Cavendish's ball. And Miss Russell..." Here he turned to me. "...I would be pleased to have you fill in the position of second chair violin. I've never had a woman in my orchestra before, but you are welcome to join us for the ball."

"Thank you, Mr Byron. I am happy to join." And I was-a soaring happiness filled my being, the same feeling I had felt after I had played my first session at the Oxford pub. I had another musical success.

"I would like you two to also be in the string quartet for the dinner, if that suits."

"I would be happy to," said Holmes. He turned to me. "Russell? Do you want to be in the quartet?"

I nodded my assent, and everything was set. Byron gave us the music we had to learn for the ball and offered to drive us to the train station. We declined, as we wanted to have lunch at Simpson's before catching the train. As we walked down the street looking for a taxi, Holmes said, "So, Russell."

"So, Holmes."

"You do realize that the piece you sight-read was the last section of Pablo de Sarasate's "Habanera", opus twenty-one, number two? The piece ends with several measures of unbelievably fast notes."

"Is that what it was? I confess I did not try to identify the piece. Have I heard it before?"

"No, I don't think so. That is all the more credit to yourself."

I felt ridiculously pleased. I covered it by asking, "What did he have you sight-read?"

"A section of Saint-Saëns' "Havanaise".

I tucked my arm through his, moving closer to him. "I was impressed by that final very high note. I did not know you could do such a thing. Will I never get your limits?"

He smiled and did not say anything more. But then, he did not need to.

On a Monday, a week and a half before the ball, Holmes and I went up to London. Byron's orchestra had three rehearsals scheduled before our performance, and the string quartet was to have two. I had called the elves (my private name for the married couple who were my tailors) three weeks earlier and had asked them to make an appropriate black dress for me. They had it waiting on Wednesday afternoon for me to try on. It had a floor length hem and long sleeves ending in points where they would rest against the backs of my hands. Its style was reminiscent of Victorian yet modern at the same time, showing off my slender frame. The elves fussed and figured out where nips and tucks were needed, then let me change and told me the dress would be ready the day after tomorrow. I left with a slight smile, wondering what Holmes would think.

My appearance at the our first rehearsal caused a few shocked whispers and even more muttering among the orchestra members, all of whom were male. A woman hired into a professional orchestra was very rare, and naturally my appearance caused some commotion. Holmes and I ignored them. Mr Byron rapped his baton on his music stand for attention.

"Attention, everyone. This is Mr Sherlock Holmes and his wife, Mary Russell, who will be guest concertmaster and second chair violinist, respectively, for the ball."

The orchestra members, who had begun to mutter again upon hearing Holmes' name, muttered even louder when they learned I was to sit in the second chair. I smiled to myself, rather enjoying their discomfiture. They would just have to learn to put up with a woman in their midst. Holmes tucked his violin under his chin in preparation for tuning, then looked at me and winked. I grinned back and started with a series of warm-up exercises that left those musicians who chose to stare at me, rather than warm up themselves, openmouthed.

The rehearsals went smoothly. After the first, the other musicians seemed to accept my presence, though only a few went out of their way to welcome me. Holmes and I had been diligent in learning our parts, so it was an easy matter to blend in with the other violins. My favorite pieces were the waltzes. They were sweeping and flowing and made me want to dance along with the notes. This was one of the times I truly appreciated the classical violin training Holmes had had me undergo. Not only could I play reels and jigs, but I could play classical pieces with equal skill, thanks to my husband.

The day of the ball was a busy one. Holmes and I polished our violins and I gave special attention to his clothes, brushing and ironing. When I put on the black dress, I noted Holmes' reaction out of the corner of my eye. He raised an eyebrow and came up to me. "Did your elves make this?" he asked, fluffing the skirt and caressing the velvet in his hands.

I smiled at him in the floor-length mirror I was standing in front of. "Yes. Lovely, isn't it?"

"Quite." He then placed his hands on my shoulders, gently kissed my forehead, and moved off across the room to find his tie. After a moment of surprise I picked up his tailcoat from where it was lying across the foot of the bed and followed, trying to hide my smile of pleasure.

When we arrived at the Cavendish house, I could not help but be impressed in spite of myself. The house was in Belgravia, at a corner of Belgrave Square. It was larger than the townhouses that lined the rest of the square, cream-colored with two tall columns in the front. The large, hanging porch light was on, and the front doors were open. I could see a sparkling, ornate chandelier fully lit in the front hall. Two curving staircases on either side of the room wound up to meet in a balcony on the second floor. The floor of the entrance hall was laid in black and white tile. It would not be dark for several hours yet, but even so the house made an imposing sight. I knew it would be stunning when full evening came on. Considering that this ball was to be one of the highlighted social events of the season, with many politicians, peers, and even a few royalty in attendance, it was not surprising the Cavendishes had left not a detail overlooked.

Guests were already arriving. The viola and cello in our quartet were already there, and as we set up in a corner of the dining hall, Mycroft came over.

"Brother Mycroft. This is an unexpected pleasure," I said. We shook hands and I kissed him on the cheek.

He tried not to turn scarlet. "Always a pleasure to see you, my dear Mary. Sherlock," he said to his brother, nodding to him. "Alright, I trust?"

"As always," Holmes replied.

"Mary, you have been improving on your instrument, I see," Mycroft said, giving my violin and hands an appraising glance.

"I certainly hope so. Would you like me to play something right now?" Mycroft always had a keen interest in hearing me play, though he tried to hide it.

At his nod, I began playing an upbeat strathspey, "The Marquis of Huntley", then the equally spirited hornpipe that went with it, "The Mathematician". Francis and Vincent, the violist and cellist, stared at me. A few guests poked their heads into the dining hall in curiosity. The servants setting the table gave me curious glances. It did feel incongruous, wearing my concert gown and playing a strathspey and hornpipe, but I enjoyed it all the same. At the end the Holmes brothers, and even Francis and Vincent, clapped. Feeling suddenly shy, I sat down and smiled my thanks.

Mycroft smiled approvingly. "Keep up the good work, Mary." With that he moved off to join the other guests gathering in the hall and drawing rooms. Feeling ridiculously pleased with my brother-in-law's approval, I hit my tuning fork on the edge of my chair and began to tune my violin, rather unnecessary since I had already done it, but it was something to keep me busy.

The dinner music was mostly Haydn pieces for the string quartet. The music was light and airy, providing the perfect backdrop to the dinner. One of them was Haydn's unfinished string quartet in D minor, consisting of only two movements. Our last piece for the dinner was Schubert's "Rondo in A Major for Violin and String Quartet". For this one a third violinist from the orchestra joined us, allowing Holmes to play the required solo violin. All throughout the evening I had occasionally glanced at Holmes out of the corner of my eye and marveled at his ability to memorize music. Often he would be playing with his eyes closed, savouring the music, paying the sheet music on our shared stand not the slightest bit of attention. During his solos in the Schubert piece, he opened his eyes not at all. We had both learned the music at the same time, but where I had sections memorized here and there, he had managed to completely memorize it with hardly any effort. Holmes never ceased to surprise me.

After the dinner, we were allowed a short break to eat a little dinner ourselves, seated at one end of the now empty long table while servants moved back and forth around us, clearing the dishes left by the other guests. I looked forward to the ball with much anticipation. I had never performed with an orchestra before, and I could not help but feel excited at the prospect of doing so.

The ballroom was glittering and magnificent. Several French doors at one end stood open, and two large, ornate, sparkling chandeliers drew my eye. Men and women moved about the room, the men dressed impeccably in evening suits, the women in expensive gowns of all kinds and colors. The other orchestra members had arrived and were setting up on a short stage at one end near a set of doors, and as we made our way to it, I caught sight of Mycroft. He nodded to us, and Holmes nodded back. I smiled in return.

As concertmaster it was Holmes' duty to tune the orchestra. When we were ready, a hush fell over the room, and Holmes walked onto the stage. He stopped in front of his chair, looking tall and handsome in his concert suit, and nodded to the oboist. The oboist played his "A", and the winds followed suit. The oboist played another "A", and the strings followed suit. Holmes sat and tuned with us. Then Byron gave us the signal to start our first waltz of the evening, "Vienna Blood" by Strauss.

That evening I could not help but be charmed by the atmosphere and the novelty of creating the music that contributed a large part to it. What struck me most of all was the fact that I and everyone else was a single musician, but together we could create the lovely sound known as orchestral music. Classical violin was worlds away from my usual habitation of Celtic fiddling, but I found myself enjoying and appreciating this different world. Fiddling is more relaxed in style than classical, but even in fiddling discipline and correct technique are what make a good fiddler. Holmes had given me that by teaching me classical violin alongside my fiddling.

There were several Strauss pieces that night, and after playing a particular upbeat and exciting one called "The Hunt", the orchestra was allowed to take an intermission of twenty minutes. Holmes laid his violin in his lap, his bow on our music stand, and flexed his fingers.

"Is your rheumatism acting up?" I asked, concerned.

"No," he answered, still looking at his hands. I looked at his face carefully, trying to see if he was trying to downplay anything, but then he looked up from his hands and met my eyes. His eyes softened and he said, "Maybe a little. It should not hamper my playing, however." He drew on a pair of white dress gloves and smiled at me. "A little warmth should help them. I am going for a glass of water. Would you like some?"

I nodded and stood up to stretch a little and follow him. We went to the little "backstage" area-a room just outside the ballroom where orchestra members were allowed to stow their instrument cases-to put our violins away and went to the refreshment table. While there an Earl Gramworth hailed Holmes. Introductions were made, and when their discussion turned to the minute details of a murder investigation underway in London, I excused myself and made my way back to the stage. I retrieved my violin and went back to my seat to rearrange our sheet music. We had actually learned more pieces than we were scheduled to play tonight, to accommodate any requests anyone might make. These extra pieces, consisting of popular dances and waltzes, I placed to the back. Then I made sure that the ones on the programme were in order.

"Hello, Mary."

That shockingly familiar voice stilled my hands from their rearranging of the sheet music. Slowly, almost reluctantly, I looked up.

"Hello, Peter," I greeted him. Peter Lascelles, the second son of a duke, graduate of Christ Church College, my former beau. A person I had previously referred to in my other memoirs as "the young man with an automobile."

"Of all places, I wouldn't have expected to find you here. In a library, yes. But not playing violin in an orchestra." He laughed lightly.

I chuckled as well. "Well, some things have changed."

"I should say so myself," he said, his eyes suddenly intense upon me. I looked away quickly, busying myself with polishing a spot on my violin with the skirt of my dress.

He was still handsome, one of the handsomest men I had ever seen. Tall and thin, his hair was still thick and dark, his eyes a piercing and startling shade of blue. Though I tried to concentrate on my violin, I could feel his eyes on me.

"Would you like to take a walk on the terrace with me? It will be a better place to talk than here."

I found myself agreeing, and stood up. My instrument case was backstage, so after a moment of trying to decide what I should do, I laid the violin on my seat. We threaded our way through the crowded room, and emerged onto the terrace. Side by side we walked slowly into the gardens.

"How have you been, Mary? It's been a long time."

"I've been all right. I spend much of my time in theological study and research. You?"

"I'm in government, working for the Prime Minister."

"Ah. I have heard your name from time to time, in fact."

He laughed. "Ah yes. That would happen, wouldn't it? Politics can be bad for your health, but a great way to get in the newspapers, eh?"

I laughed, remembering that his wry sense of humour had been one of the qualities that had attracted me to him in the first place. "Yes, I should think so. I often feel sorry for politicians. Seeing some of those political cartoons is enough to turn me off from the business forever."

"It's not so bad, really. You just have to be thick-skinned. It's rather funny to see what they say about you in the press."

I chuckled. "If I were as thick-skinned as you I should probably see things your way. But I'm sure the papers at their worst has driven many of the mocked to tears."

Peter grinned. "Oh yes. It's bad, really, but it's just the way it is. Nasty, but a lot of fun. Like a mud fight."

I laughed again. "Politics is a mud fight!"

He laughed with me. "Imagine us as a lot of pigs in a sty just looking for a chance to get the others dirty while trying to stay clean and hoard all the food."

This self-deprecating comment drove us both to hilarity, and after it passed, he asked, "Still have your head in the clouds?" He nudged me playfully.

I grinned at the old joke he had often teased me with in the old days, referring my reading of theology at Oxford. "If that's the way you put it, yes. There are few other places I'd rather be."

"And mucking about with chemicals?"

I grinned. "That too."

"What about the Bodleian?"

I laughed. "Yes, the Bodleian and theology. Inseparable in my world. I still make trips to Oxford so I can research in the Bodleian." I could not believe how much I was enjoying this. After we had gone our separate ways and up until now, I had tried to keep the memories of Peter in the back of my head. I had forgotten how enjoyable his company could be.

"Do you really? That does not surprise me at all." He grinned at me, and after a moment of silence he said, "Your ring on your right hand makes me curious. Are you married?"

"Yes. My husband, Sherlock Holmes, is here tonight in fact. He is the concertmaster, the first chair violinist."

"Sherlock Holmes? The famous detective?" Peter threw back his head and laughed. At the look on my face he sobered and said, "I'm not mocking you, Mary. It's just that he's so famous and all that, you know? Fancy knowing someone who is married to someone as well known as he. In fact I did see him tonight. Sharing the music stand with you, right?"

I nodded. "Yes." After a moment of silence, I asked, "Tell me about your work."

As he talked, I directed our steps back toward the house. We came to a stone urn not far from the terrace and he stopped. Cupping my face in his hands, he said softly, "You're lovelier than I remember you, Mary." His fingers caressed my neck.

Memories of other times he had held and touched me flooded my mind, and I did not pull away immediately. When a voice called out to me, I started guiltily. "Yes, Holmes?" I called back. "Over here."

Holmes found us and I could tell that he sensed something unusual about the situation. His eyes narrowed, but he held out his hand to Peter. "Hello. I'm Sherlock Holmes. I was just looking for my wife." I did not miss his choice of words.

Peter clasped his hand. "Lord Peter Lascelles. Mary and I knew each other at Oxford, and this is the first time we've seen each other in years." He smiled affably.

Only someone who knew Holmes as well as I could see him stiffen when Peter said his name.

"Pleased to meet you," said Holmes, then turned to me. "We start up again in seven minutes, Russell."

I looked at my watch, surprised at how the time had flown. "I lost track of time. I'm sorry, Holmes. I will be in shortly."

My husband nodded and looked at Peter. For a moment I was reminded of two wild stallions I had once seen in California, facing each other before battle. Then Holmes turned away and went back into the ballroom.

Peter turned back to me. "Last name basis?" he asked lightly.

I smiled. "We've always addressed one another by our last names. After we married we were so used to it neither of us thought to change."

"He is so much older than you." He paused. "You don't mind me saying so, do you?"

I shook my head. "We are aware of how it looks to others. It is one of the first things they notice, so we have come to expect it."

Peter nodded, then suddenly said, "Meet me tomorrow? At Giordano's restaurant. We can have lunch and talk some more."

I hesitated. Holmes and I had planned to leave tomorrow afternoon. But that didn't mean I couldn't stay a few extra hours. We had brought my car, so Holmes could drive back and I could take a train and have him meet me at the station.

"Sure." I wasn't sure what made me say yes. His company was enjoyable, and I still found him attractive, but though I still liked him a lot I no longer had any strong feelings for him. I must have known somehow that he had something he really wanted to say to me.

We agreed to a time, then walked back to the ballroom. Before we went in, Peter turned to me. Touching my cheek gently with his fingers, he said softly, "Tomorrow, then."

The soft flutter in my stomach surprised me. I nodded, and we parted ways.

The rest of the evening was a whirl of music and dancing. We played many waltzes and dances, including two interesting Strauss pieces. The "Non-Stop Fast Polka" required us to sound like the chugging of a train at the beginning of the piece, and even included a train whistle Byron had brought in especially for this piece. I could never play the piece without a smile. The amusing "Artists Quadrille" was compiled of various musical themes, starting with Mendelssohn's "A Midsummer Night's Dream", commonly used as wedding recessional music. I looked at the ball attendees and saw people laughing. The quadrille was one of my favorite pieces that evening. But the one I liked above all the rest was Lehár's "Where the Lark Sings", a lovely, flowing waltz that made me want to be out on the ballroom floor with Holmes. It was easy to put Peter out of my mind while playing.

From time to time I glanced at Holmes. I knew he would never admit how much, but he was enjoying himself very much as well. Often, the expression on his face would be similar to how I had seen it at orchestral concerts-rapturous, lost in the music. This time he was part of the orchestra, and he was swept away. Music, listening to it or playing it, relaxed him in a way few things ever did. That evening it struck me how much alike we could be. Our minds worked the same way, neither of us fit in with the rest of humanity, and we could both lose ourselves in music. The difference here was that I had to be playing a piece before I could lose myself in it, while Holmes could be either listening or playing. That night I think I truly understood why he had never stopped playing the violin. It was another way he could express himself without words.

Later on that night, when we got back to our rooms, I told Holmes that Peter wanted to meet with me to have lunch the next day, and that I afterward could take a train to Eastbourne, where he could meet me with the Morris.

"If that is what you wish, Russell." His face was unfathomable as he buttoned his pyjamas. He turned away and drew back the curtains to open the window. The night was warm and still.

I fingered a seam in my nightgown. "Holmes, he's an old friend from Oxford. He wants to have lunch, that's all." I began to rub my bad shoulder, which ached a little from the long night of playing.

After a short period of silence Holmes came to my side and sat on the bed behind me, slipping his arms around my waist. He rested his chin on my left shoulder. I leaned my head against his and we sat this way for awhile, Holmes fingering one of my braids. Then he spoke quietly. "I trust you, Russ. It's just that I find myself...disliking the idea of an old beau who still has an interest in you."

I stirred, surprised. "You think?"

"Quite obvious, my dear Russell. The way he looks at you and says your name tells me quite a bit about his feelings." He sighed quietly and tightened his arms about me, and I knew his next words would be difficult for him to say. "He thinks I am too old for you. He thinks ours is a marriage of convenience. He did not have to say it, it was all in his eyes." He said this so quietly that I would not have been able to hear him but for our proximity. I could hear the anger underlying his words.

I turned in his arms and planted kisses on his eyes and mouth. I ran my fingers through his hair and looked into his eyes. "It's not true," I whispered fiercely. Our lips met, and a little while later I unwound an arm from around Holmes, pushing aside my curtain of hair to reach over to the nightstand and switch off the lamp, letting the moonlight illuminate the room through the open curtains.

The next morning I made sure Holmes had my set of car keys and told him the approximate time I would arrive at Eastbourne. I put on a modest outfit, a blouse and my tweed skirt, and set off for the restaurant. I had started out early, and as I took my time walking to the restaurant, I began to remember how this had all started.

It had begun in 1919, soon after I had returned to Oxford for Michaelmas term. I was still recovering mentally and physically from the gunshot wound inflicted by my maths tutor Patricia Donleavy. My time with Holmes in his cottage and on our six-week trip to the Continent had done much to heal me, but I still had had a ways to go. The postwar years had brought a large number of mature young men to Oxford, and Peter Lascelles had been one of them. He had served in the war, but not on the front and had survived with minor injuries from the skirmishes he had been a part of.

We had first met at my patristics lecture. I looked around one day and he had caught my eye, then winked at me. Outraged, I turned my head away quickly, more or less sticking my nose in the air. Instead of putting him off, this encouraged him. He caught me after the lecture as I was walking to my tutorial.

"Hello. My name's Peter." He stuck his hand out.

"I'm Mary." I considered refusing to shake, then decided to be polite and shook his hand. I continued walking.

"What are you reading, Mary?"

"Theology."

"Brilliant. I read history."

"How nice." I continued walking.

He was very persistent. "I'm going to a play this evening. Would you like to go with me?"

"No thanks. I'm busy tonight."

"That's an excuse, you know."

I turned on him angrily, then saw the twinkle in his eye. I exhaled, then said, "And how would you know?"

"Because it's obvious you want nothing to do with me. Therefore, your excuse of being busy is just that, an excuse. Besides, term just started. How busy can you be?"

I did not know what to say to that, so I turned away in a huff and started walking again. This did not put him off just yet. "I've seen you taking walks outside of town," he said. "I know lots of good places to visit around here. I have a motorcar, too. Makes it a lot easier to get around."

"I'm sure," I answered.

"I can give you a ride sometime, if you'd like."

"Let me think about it." I was forced to admit to myself that a car ride in the country was an appealing idea, particularly since lately I had been missing the country.

"Splendid. Let me know," he said jauntily, then took off down a side street and disappeared.

At the next lecture I saw him again, and once again he tried to talk to me afterward. I rebuffed his advances. At the end of the week, he found me leaving a tutorial and once again offered a drive in the country. This time I gave in, more to get him off my tail than anything else.

The drive was actually enjoyable. He knew a lot about the countryside around Oxford and kept up a running commentary that I actually found amusing. When I laughed at one of his army stories, he grinned and said, "You're laughing! I'm not so bad, am I?"

I thought this comment rather self-centered, but said, "I guess not."

"Will you have dinner with me?"

"No, Peter."

"Then will you come to a Haydn concert with me on Tuesday?"

The mention of classical music made me think of Holmes. I wasn't exactly missing him, but since I had left Sussex for Oxford this term I had felt his absence more than usual. Suddenly I wanted to be somewhere that reminded me of him. I accepted Peter's offer.

I am still not sure how it happened, but after the concert we began to see each other regularly. I was quite sure he liked me, but my feelings toward him were more muddled. I liked him very much as a person, and he amused me with his sense of humour and stories, but I really couldn't say if I was interested in him as more than a friend. Still, when he kissed me three weeks after our first date, I did not object. I had never kissed anyone before, and had always been at least somewhat curious as to what happened during one. It was a rather chaste kiss, but still pleasurable and I decided, in a detached way, that I wouldn't mind if we did this regularly.

So our dates began to include kissing as well, which eventually became snogging sessions in Peter's car (or near it) in remote country areas. I discovered that these provided me a measure of comfort that a part of me desired since being shot and betrayed by someone I trusted. I enjoyed our closeness and the sensations which coursed through my body while we were at it, and though they came nowhere to filling the hole in my heart left by Holmes' absence, they went a ways toward entertaining me and comforting me in a backhanded way.

But I would often wonder what I was doing. One night when Peter dropped me off and I had to sneak into my lodgings (it was after curfew), I left the lights off, knelt by the window with my head and arms on the sill, and cried. What am I doing? I wondered. Here I am, engaging in these activities with someone I don't love, don't even know what I feel for, activities which ought to have some meaning but don't because they don't even touch the core of me.

Still, I let it go on, and things progressed farther than I would have allowed had I been in a normal state of mind that term. I did not lose my virginity, but when I think how close I came a few times, I shudder and recoil from the memories.

When it got cold, Peter would sneak me into his lodgings, and we would talk and try to study, which never was for very long because we always ended up in each other's arms. A few times I sneaked him into my rooms. Ronnie caught us one evening. Peter and I were rather deep into things when she knocked and opened without waiting for me to answer first.

"I say, Mary," she began but stopped cold when she saw us on the hearthrug. I quickly yanked my shirt down and tried to smooth my hair. "Yes, Ronnie?"

"I'm sorry... I didn't know you had company... bye." She hastily left.

"Ronnie, wait!" I called, but she either didn't hear me or was too embarrassed to return.

I left Oxford for the Christmas holiday feeling horrible about myself. Peter had promised to write and had said he would miss me, but though he was sweet to me and had been all term, I could not muster the kind of sad feeling I was supposed to have at a time like that.

I could not live at my cottage for long. My aunt's presence was unbearable. A few days after arriving home I packed a bag and went to stay with Holmes. He could instantly see that something was wrong with me, very much so. But I did not tell him about Peter.

Holmes and Mrs Hudson treated me very kindly that holiday. Holmes made sure to include me in all his experiments, and every evening we sat before the fire and talked. We talked of everything-my studies, his cases, his monographs, Christmas spirit, everything but Peter.

He sent me three letters that holiday. I had given him Holmes' address, as I had not wanted my aunt to get her hands on anything she could use against me. I dutifully wrote back, telling him of my activities and trying not to mention Holmes anymore than I had to. One evening he, Mrs Hudson, and I were sitting around the fire when Mrs Hudson asked who the young man was who was sending me letters.

I broke down then. Haltingly, I told them of my relationship with Peter, concealing nothing, not even how I felt, and found myself sobbing at the end of my story. Mrs Hudson got down on the rug beside me and held me, rocking me as if I were a child. Holmes, after a minute, put his pipe on the mantel and sat beside me as well, awkwardly rubbing my back.

My tears stopped eventually and I sat up, sniffling and hiccuping. Mrs Hudson got me a glass of water, which I drank slowly. I hated how vulnerable I was, but I knew that here, I would not be condemned for it or have it used against me.

"What's wrong with me?" I quavered, cupping my trembling hands around the glass. I hiccuped again.

"Oh Mary, love, there's nothing truly wrong with you. You're still recovering from your traumatic experience, is all," Mrs Hudson said, trying to soothe me.

"But why do I feel so horrible?"

Holmes spoke up. "Your...activities of the past term, while providing a measure of satisfaction, are not what you need to heal." His voice was unusually kind and gentle, different from his normal sardonic tone.

I looked at him, and waited. He continued. "I have not had much experience with these matters." Here he looked uncomfortable, but continued. "But from my many observations and talks with people, and...a little experience of my own, I have learned that your...activities are the kind that must have meaning and honesty behind them or else they are just empty actions, hurting the soul instead of building it up."

Mrs Hudson took my hand gently. "Mary, I think you must break off this relationship with this boy. Don't pretend to like him if you really don't. You'll only hurt yourselves in the end."

"Do I have to tell him how I feel?"

"Honesty is always best in these situations, I think," said Holmes. "Then everyone knows exactly where they stand."

I went up to bed soon after. For the rest of my holiday, I worked with Holmes on his experiments, helped Mrs Hudson in the kitchen, and many times just sat and thought.

One early evening on my twentieth birthday I sat on the cliffs, dangling my feet over the edge and watching the Channel. It was cold and very still with no wind, but I huddled inside my winter coat anyway. Eventually I heard footsteps behind me and Holmes appeared at my left shoulder. He sat down on the cliff edge beside me and pulled his coat tight around him. He sat with arms resting on an upright knee, dangling a leg into space, and did not say anything. Eventually I spoke what was on my mind.

"Peter means well," I said in a low voice. "I think he likes me very much. I just don't return his feelings. I mean, I like him very much...but not in the way he likes me."

There was a long moment of silence, then Holmes said, "What will you do?"

"I will tell him the truth. We've been seeing each other for four months, but I feel nothing but friendship for him and an odd connection. I think this connection is because of all the...intimate things...we've done."

Holmes nodded slowly. "Those things will bind two people together, whether they wish it or not." He paused, then said so quietly I almost did not hear, "Sex binds them even closer."

I looked at him, surprised that he would talk about such a personal subject. He continued, "But unless there is honest love with it, it is empty...meaningless."

I stared down at my mittened hands, examining the pattern of the weave. I felt my face grow hot. "We never went that far. That was one thing I could not allow."

"I am glad, Russ."

When I looked at him I could see his concern and care for me in his eyes. And something else I could not fathom. "I don't want to do anything I would regret later," I said.

Holmes reached out and gently squeezed my upper arm. He slid his hand down to my hand to give it a gentle pat, then stood up. "Shall we go to dinner?" I gave him my left hand to pull me up, and we headed back to the cottage.

When Hilary term began and I saw Peter again, I took him aside the first evening we had alone and told him how I felt. I told him I was sorry. He looked sad, but he brushed a knuckle gently over my cheek and said, "Mary, I thank you for your honesty. In fact, I respect you all the more for it." He paused, fingering the end of one of my long braids. "I could always sense that there was something you were holding back. Something that you just could not share with me. It made me wonder if it wouldn't come to this someday."

We were sitting facing one another on a bench at Corpus Christi College, beside a path in front of a stone wall overlooking Merton Fields and Christ Church College and its cathedral far below. We looked over the view in the gloaming in silence for awhile. Then Peter asked, "So... is this good-bye?"

"Well... I would like us to remain friends." Truth to tell the thought of losing him did pain me.

"Sure... we can still go to concerts and plays. When you are done with your finals and get your degree I will even throw flour on you." He grinned devilishly.

"Don't even think you can!" I laughed, shoving him playfully. Then we sobered. He cupped the side of my head, and our lips met for a long, deep, and tender kiss. He nuzzled my neck and hair and whispered, "Good-bye, Mary."

"Good-bye, Peter."

We stood and he watched, smiling, as I tucked my braids under my cap, pulled the brim low and zipped up my coat, transforming myself into a young man. We passed the college porter without incident, and he walked me to my college, stopping along the way at a grocer's so I could pick up some biscuits. At the gate I pulled my cap off, letting my braids fall. Peter grinned. "I'll see you around," he said. He turned and left. I watched his figure disappear into the deepening dusk, then entered my college.

And we had remained friends. Occasionally we would go places together, a music concert here, dinner in a pub there. Over the next one and a half years until I received my degree, we saw each other once in a while, but not often. When I finished my finals he was there waiting with my few friends and threw a small bucket of confetti over me, with a little flour for good measure. I laughed and shoved him. After the celebration that evening we had gone our separate ways and I had not seen him again until last night.

Peter was already waiting for me when I arrived. During lunch we reminisced about Oxford, discussed current events, and even talked about some of the things going on in our lives. I told him about my music lessons and some of the cases Holmes and I had been on, and he regaled me with humourous stories of his job. Overall, it was a very enjoyable luncheon, and I was surprised at how fast the time seemed to fly. Afterward he proposed a walk in Regents Park. I consented. As we strolled along the paths, I could sense that Peter wanted to say something to me, but was hesitant. Finally, he asked, "Mary, are you happy?"

"How do you mean, Peter? Right now? Yes, I'm quite happy."

"I mean... in your personal life."

"Yes, of course. I have my theology, my music and my husband. We live in the quiet countryside and have few disturbances there. I can travel to and from Oxford to research when I please. I'm happy."

Peter suddenly pulled me over into a grove of trees where we were hidden from any passersby. We faced each other, his hands gripping both of mine. His eyes searched mine. After a long minute he asked, "Are you sure?"

I chuckled. "Oh Peter... what it is you really want to ask me?" I smiled at him beguilingly.

He broke down then and laughed. "Oh alright...you were always so good at figuring me out. I just wanted to let you know...if you were ever unhappy in your marriage...you shouldn't have to stay in it. We could get married. It might cause some talk, you know...a politician marrying a woman who divorces her first husband to marry him. But like I said, I'm thick-skinned. I wouldn't let it bother me."

I looked down at our joined hands. I could not deny that his offer pleased the side of me that enjoyed masculine attention. I took a breath. "Peter...I know it seems hard to believe, but I really do love Holmes." I raised my eyes to his. "With all my heart and soul. He's old enough to be my grandfather, but that doesn't affect what we feel for one another."

"I was surprised to learn that you had married at all. You were always so independent," said Peter softly.

"I struggled for awhile when I realized how Holmes felt about me. I really never knew until I was about twenty-one. And when I realized it, it drove me from him for awhile. But then I realized my feelings for him. And at that point it was something neither of us could fail to acknowledge. And he loves me just as much as I love him. He doesn't always show it...but when he does I could never mistake otherwise."

Peter watched my eyes carefully, wanting to know if I spoke the truth. Finally he smiled and sighed gently, rubbing the backs of my hands with his thumbs. "Nobly said, Mary." He paused, then continued softly. "I still have feelings for you, Mary. However, I honor your love and faithfulness to you husband. But I also wanted to let you know...that should you ever find yourself alone...I'm here."

I knew what he was saying. The idea of Holmes preceding me in death made a lump rise in my throat and I could not speak for a minute. Then I raised my eyes to meet Peter's. "I realize that it is more than likely that Holmes will be the first to pass away. But the way I love him, the way we love one another...I do not know if I could ever love that way with another. Our minds...our very selves...they match. They go together.

"I've come to realize love is much more than just feelings, however. It is also a solid commitment. For better or for worse, Holmes and I have committed ourselves to each other. Besides, if I am ever "alone," as you say, by that time you will probably be married yourself. Peter, I know that someday you will find someone to love and marry. You deserve someone who can love you with all her heart."

Peter did not say anything for a bit, just studied our hands. Then he raised my hands to his lips, never taking his eyes off mine. The expression in his eyes was sad, but resigned. "Thank you," he murmured. "Your honesty shames me..."

I placed my finger over his lips. "Peter, I know you care about me. You spoke from your heart. I am not angry, not in the least. I know you mean well...you always have."

He smiled in an apologetic way. My heart melted and I stepped closer to him, kissing him on the cheek. He blushed.

We left the grove and strolled to the lake, where we found a bench and sat together companionably, watching the swans and ducks. We did not say much, but surprisingly our silences were not uncomfortable. When it was time for my train he drove me to the station. As we waited for it to arrive, I said, "It was an enjoyable lunch, Peter."

He smiled. "The same here."

When my train came he handed me up onto the car. I took a seat by the window and looked out. Peter still stood on the platform. He watched me with an almost wistful expression. As the train started moving he gave me a little salute, then blew a kiss. I grinned and touched my cheek. I watched his receding form until I could see him no more.

It was 7:30 when the train pulled into Eastbourne station. I immediately saw Holmes on the platform. As I alighted and walked up to him, he did not smile, but looked intently into my face. I stopped in front of him. "Holmes."

"Russell."

As we drove home in near silence over the downs, a storm began to blow in. I began to wonder if a similar thing was blowing into our relationship.

When were inside the cottage I greeted and hugged Mrs Hudson, who smiled widely and said, "I'll have your dinner for you in a little bit, Mary. Those trains don't serve decent meals, they don't. You don't mind waiting a bit, do you? Oh good. What with all the cleaning I had to finish today I'm just starting on your dinner now. Mr Holmes had his an hour or two earlier. You can tell me all about the ball when you eat."

I changed into trousers and shirt, and went downstairs. Holmes was sitting in the basket chair in front of the fireplace with his back to the room, smoking his pipe. The smoke curled around his head, hanging around his chair. I silently got out my violin, and instead of a Celtic air I began to play Massenet's "Meditation from 'Thaïs'". I closed my eyes and lost myself in the music, the notes flowing around and through me, becoming part of my being, speaking where I was silent. I heard nothing, saw nothing, not the rain or lightning, nor the thunder, only the mournful, longing music I played.

When I finished I opened my eyes. Holmes, pipe gone, sat before me on the couch. Our eyes locked, and he rose and stood before me as I lowered my violin. He reached out, traced a long finger over the line of my cheek and said, "How could I ever doubt your constancy, Russ?"

I replied, "And you never shall."

Later, I told him everything about my afternoon with Peter, omitting nothing. Holmes listened, twisting a long lock of my hair around his fingers. When I finished, I looked at him. He looked glum. "Nobody likes to think of death," I said softly, commiserating with him.

He said nothing, just twisted the lock of my hair around his index finger, watching the lamplight play off the strands. I looked down at my hands. Finally, he said, "If it happens, I do not want you to be unhappy forever."

"'I would find it impossible to have an other than all-inclusive relationship with a man, one that totally integrated all parts of our lives.'"

Holmes smiled at the old quote, a slight rewording of something I had told to him once, describing him, when we had first met. "You haven't forgotten."

"No." I paused. "I would feel your absence...very much. But I would pick up the pieces and go on. Not much else I could do."

"I do not doubt you could take care of yourself, Russ. I just would like to know that if you did find another you would not let any memory of me prevent you from marrying."

I covered his hand, which was resting on my knee, with mine. "I strongly doubt I ever could find anyone. But if I ever should, I will follow the dictates of my heart as I see fit."

This seemed to satisfy Holmes. He sat up straighter and, gathering my hair together to the front over my shoulder, wrapped his arms around me and pulled me down so I lay close against him, drawing the covers around us. I took off my glasses, snuggled back against him, and we fell asleep. Sometime later, I was dimly aware of a soft knock at the door, then someone softly calling my name. I realized it was Mrs Hudson, who had my dinner ready, and had had it ready for some time. I heard her pause, then her soft footsteps crossed the room. Right before she shut off the lamp on my nightstand (I had felt too comfortable to bother moving myself to shut it off), I saw her smile.

Epilogue: The Completion of the Melody

It was not the last I was ever to see of Lord Peter Lascelles. Every once in a while when I found myself in London, I would occasionally look him up and we would dine together. Holmes even joined us several times, developing a sort of truce with Peter. And Peter did eventually marry a very independent, lovely woman-a journalist who eventually started her own paper. They are very happy.

I never did take Peter up on either of his offers. We could blend, but never truly be one as Holmes and I are one flesh. Instead, we became lifelong friends, a relationship he eventually became very comfortable with. Neither of us would want it any other way.

The End