Il Virtuoso
Title: Il Virtuoso
Author: capt_facepalm
Rating: PG
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (Gaslight)
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson, other canon favourites, some original characters
Summary: A pre-hiatus casefic for numberthescars at acd_holmesfest canon fiction exchange
Warnings: Violence, violins
Word Count: 2500-ish
Author's Notes: Originally posted here: The Virtuoso
.oOOo.
Il Virtuoso
For Mary.
During my association with my good friend, Sherlock Holmes, there have been many cases which shall likely never see the light of publication. The reasons for this vary from case to case. Sometimes, it is a matter of similarity with other previously published material; other times, the details of the case are too disturbing to be made public. In this case, however due to the victim’s international renown and great fame, falsification of names and dates could never disguise his identity. Therefore, I commit this adventure to paper only because it is the kind of story my dearest Mary prefers to read.
.oOOo.
It was with dubious success that my good wife undertook the Herculean task of creating a gentleman out of me. It was not so much a matter of turning a sow’s ear into a silk purse, but more like pounding a horseshoe into a sow’s ear. Alas, silk purse might still be too much of a stretch, even if both parties were equally willing. I fear that my experience in the army left me with too many bad habits and not enough good graces to fit in with polite society. A doctor is still a tradesman, after all, and the dilemma of which fork to eat with what course seems ridiculous in the grand scheme of things. Mary persisted nevertheless, and it was for that reason we found ourselves late one autumn evening in the West End, having attended the second-most memorable violin recital I was ever likely to experience.
Even I can admit that the performance had been breathtaking. Mary and I stood among a small group of acquaintances, praising the performance and discussing the merits of other contemporary virtuosi when cries of “Dottore! Dottore!” hailed from the backstage egress. Had I not understood the foreign words, I certainly would have recognised the distress one’s voice holds when in mortal terror.
Before any of us could react, a great mountain of a man stumbled out from the alley and collapsed to the pavement. When I made to examine him he pushed me away and gestured into the darkness “Il maestro...” he pleaded, and gestured again. I removed my overcoat and placed it around him. Our evening companions stood back in shock. The insufferable Peterson looked as if he might faint when I ordered him to help the stricken man.
Unaccustomed to the darkness, I moved cautiously into the deserted alley. Before me, a man lay in the dim light cast by the open stage door. It was Nicolo Bennetti, the great virtuoso who had given us such a fine performance that evening. He had been gravely wounded. His head was bleeding profusely and he moaned as I felt his neck for his pulse.
“Watson, have you not learned anything over the years? Rushing into dangerous situations without a thought of self-preservation-” my long-time (and most unexpected) friend said as he stepped into the light.
“Holmes! What are you doing here? And what is that costume?”
“I’m afraid I have made a grave mistake,” he said. “I was certain that Bennetti would be attacked outside the concert hall, and I was posing as his driver. His carriage is behind us in the mews. I came when I heard Deluca’s call for help and I find you already here-”
“Help me get him inside. I need to examine-”
“Not inside. His attackers may still be in there. We’ll take Bennetti to your consulting rooms.”
Kensington seemed to me to be a peculiar option when there were two hospitals close at hand, and I said as much. Holmes was never one for false flattery, so I was very gratified when he assured me that he was certain Bennetti would receive better care from me than could be found in any hospital. Between the two of us, we managed to carry the injured violinist to the handsome brougham, and Holmes whipped up the horses.
The commotion we made getting Bennetti into my consulting rooms woke Beth, our maid. Receiving late night patients came as no surprise, and she set about lighting the rooms and boiling some water. Bennetti had taken a horrible beating. His face was barely recognisable for the dark bruising which had already begun to appear. Worse, however, were the poor man’s hands: they had been mashed into useless flippers. No more music would come from them. His attackers may not have killed the artist, but they succeeded in killing his art.
“Will that be all, Doctor?” Beth asked, “Or will Mrs Watson be needing anything?”
“Mary!” Holmes and I exclaimed in unison.
“Steady, old man! I’ll fetch her home for you.” Holmes’ blanched expression was far from encouraging.
“I can’t believe I just left her- She’ll never forgive-”
“Au contraire! Do give the woman some credit. I believe that she will understand once she has been given all the facts.”
With those rather less-than-reassuring words, Holmes was gone. I had no time for self-recrimination because Bennetti required my full attention. Unsure of the extent of his injuries, I administered only enough morphine to ease the worst of his pain. My examination revealed three broken ribs, several fractures to the bones in both hands, and concussion. I addressed each injury in turn and do not know how long I had sat watching over my patient when Holmes returned, bringing with him my wife and Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard. Ignoring Holmes and the policeman, I offered Mary my sincerest apologies, which she accepted, to my great relief.
“I have questions for your patient, Doctor. When will I be able to speak with him?” asked Gregson.
“Bennetti has been sedated. It will be tomorrow morning at the earliest, and that too is dependent on the state of his concussion.”
“Perhaps I can enlighten you, Inspector,” said Holmes. “I have more than passing familiarity with the details of this case. I know the motive but have yet determine the names of the actual attackers.”
The four of us retired to our sitting room and Holmes told us of his involvement with the unfortunate Nicolo Bennetti.
My friend had been engaged for the past month in tracking the men who had been threatening Bennetti since he arrived in London. Despite his worldly reputation, the maestro had come from very humble origins. He was a lesser son of a peasant family from the village of Montedoro on the island of Sicily. From an early age, young Nicolo had demonstrated a gift for music. The Bennettis wanted to give Nicolo a good education but they were extremely poor. Money was borrowed. Promises were made. Loyalties were tested. Threats followed. Nicolo’s talent flourished on the international stage. His performances were in constant demand throughout Europe’s finest recital halls. Family trouble grew in Sicily. Five years ago, fearing for Nicolo’s safety, the Bennetti family sent Deluca, Nicolo’s childhood friend, to protect him from harm.
“Deluca. Ah yes, the big man who sent me to find Bennetti. How is he?”
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” said Gregson, “Deluca bled to death outside the recital hall. He had been stabbed multiple times. It’s a wonder he made it that far.”
I suddenly felt very tired. There seemed to be no end to the misery in the world. I rose to look in on Bennetti. At least I might still be able to help him. He lay in an uneasy slumber. Satisfied that my patient was as well as could be expected, I applied a fresh dressing to his head wound. When I returned to the sitting room, Holmes was outlining a clever plot to catch the thugs who attacked Bennetti and killed Deluca.
“The murderers are bound to strike again. Gregson, you must use your Fleet Street contacts. We must entice the attackers into a second attempt at the next performance. If you position your men about the hall ahead of time, you stand a good chance of catching them in the act.”
Holmes’ plan was ingenious albeit highly dangerous. Gregson would place an article about the attack in the newspapers. It would state that an attack on the renowned violinist had been foiled because the inept attackers had attacked an imposter, a decoy hired to protect the maestro. Holmes would dress the part of Bennetti and perform the solo concerto the following evening. If the thugs made a second attempt, the police would be on hand to make the arrest. As the Maestro’s scheduled repertoire consisted of Italian works (florid and romantic, was my friend’s description), Holmes stated his only concern was not an inability to play the music, but the threat that he might fall asleep from sheer boredom in the middle of his own performance. Humility was never one of his strongest suits. Surely, I thought, Bennetti’s reputation alone would sustain the audience even if Holmes’s performance was not of the same calibre. I have learned to keep thoughts like that to myself.
Mary saw Holmes and Gregson to the door before she retired for the night. With the planning of Holmes’s escapade, and the necessity to keep a regular watch over my patient, I would have little chance for sleep. Mary found me the next morning, in light slumber next to my patient’s bed. Instead of bringing my morning coffee, she insisted that I go to bed and get some proper sleep. She would watch over Bennetti and wake me if there was any change. I acquiesced, knowing full well that I would need to be as rested as possible if I were to assist Holmes that night.
So, that evening, I found myself once again in evening clothes at the recital hall. This time, I waited in the shadows of the wings, my coat draped over one arm, concealing my trusty revolver beneath. It was from this vantage point that I experienced the most memorable violin recital I was ever likely to see.
My friend’s disguise was impeccable. He had adopted the stature and appearance of Maestro Bennetti. One would have to be face to face with him to see the difference. Holmes strode out as if he owned the stage and proceeded to place the entire audience under his thrall. He played flawlessly and with great passion. It was truly astounding.
Sherlock Holmes had always been dismissive of his own musical talents. When we shared the Baker Street flat, he was quick to dismiss my earnest praise and considered my ability to judge his skill to be negligible at best, comedic at worst. And rightly so. When we first met, my experience with music was limited to rousing songs that were not acceptable in mixed company, and a scant number of hymns barely remembered from my childhood. Yes, I enjoyed music, but my tastes were unsophisticated in comparison with his more cultured ones. Holmes valued the opinion of no one. His motives for making music were the same as those for all his actions: the love of the art alone. Nonetheless, after the applause for his first encore, I noted a subtle shift in my friend’s demeanour. His posture became more like his own and less like Bennetti’s. Here was the artist, finally receiving the recognition he never knew he sought.
Holmes launched into his second encore with gusto. The audience was rapt with attention. Never before had they heard such music. But I had. Many times. Mostly in the dead of night in my old Baker Street flat. The cheeky scoundrel was playing one of his own compositions!
There was no third encore.
The audience filed out, the orchestra retired, and the caretakers swept the rose petals from the stage. Now the waiting began. All the lights, except for those backstage, had been dimmed. Should there be an attack, I was in the dark and too far removed from the action. Then I realised that my friend had purposely placed me in the wings for my protection. How I hated that he had so little regard for my abilities! With my eyes, I followed the ropes up into the flies to see if there was one which I could loosen so as to drop a sandbag on his arrogant deductive head.
Perhaps it was some movement, or perhaps it was a reflection of light off the rifle barrel. To this day I still do not know how I spotted him. An assassin was amongst the flies, and he was taking aim at my friend backstage.
“Holmes! Sniper!” I yelled as the rifle fired. Without a second thought I sent two shots into the flies. The rifle fell and clattered to the stage. Further sounds of struggle could be heard from backstage, but I had to be sure that the rifleman would cause us no further trouble. I climbed the ladder as fast as I could but when I had gained the walkway, my man had disappeared.
Now I not one who is ill at ease with heights, but the narrow planks of the catwalk had a springy action, and the only handhold was an untested slack rope. With the only light coming from below, I lost my footing on some unexpected slickness and nearly fell. Blood! At least one of my shots had landed.
Far below me Gregson and his men had wrestled two suspects to the ground.
“There’s at least one other still at large,” I called down to them.
I had no warning other than Holmes’ expression as he yelled my name. From instinct I ducked just as the injured sniper sprang upon me. There was a frantic struggle as we each tried to throw the other from the walkway. As we grappled, I felt a sharp pain in my back and swore when I recognised the cold bite of a knife. Not knowing how badly I was wounded, I disengaged and tried to back away. My attacker, hatred shining in his eyes, snarled something in his native tongue, and charged. As I raised my arm to meet his blade, fickle fate finally decided to side with me for a change. Just as I had done earlier, my attacker slipped on the blood. Off balance, he fell shrieking to the stage. After the horrible sound of his impact all was silent. I clung to the rope handrail until one of Gregson’s men pried me off and helped me descend the ladder.
“You see, Watson?” asked Holmes, flushed from the double success of his performance and his successful capture of Bennetti’s would-be assassins, “It was a flawless plan. I knew they would have to make a second attempt tonight!”
“And when did it occur to you that this time they might use guns?” I demanded.
“Oh.”
Piero Brazzi and his brother Davide, the men captured backstage, were led away by Gregson’s men. Both received twenty-year sentences and neither would live long enough to see freedom. Within the first year of their incarceration, Piero was killed in a fight with another prisoner, and Davide was shot during a brazen escape attempt. My dead sniper was identified as Giuseppe Lila. All three men had connections to one of the leading Sicilian crime families.
Nicolo Bennetti remained with us for nearly two weeks, first under my care as a patient, and then as an honoured guest. I brought in a specialist to examine the musician’s hands and see what could be done. Amputation would not be required, but the fractured bones fused as they healed. Although he would never perform with his violin again, the great Bennetti took up the baton and rose to international acclaim as a fine conductor. Mary still cherishes the letters the great man wrote to us in gratitude for the hospitality he received in our home while under our care.
Luckily, my own wound proved to be nothing serious. Lila’s blade had struck my scapula and could penetrate no further. There was some muscle damage which made me unbearably irritable (or so I’m told) until it finally healed. It did not prevent me from seeing to my patients and tending to my practice. My ongoing gentrification continues to provide a great source of amusement to my wife and friends, but I am happy to report that I have made progress. At formal dinners, I no longer rise when a lady enters the room if she is a server, and I now know the difference between opera and operetta. Perhaps someday, I will even be able to decode the perplexing problem of cutlery etiquette.
John H. Watson
June 11, 1889
.oOOo.
Please sign the guestbook
Author: capt_facepalm
Rating: PG
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (Gaslight)
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson, other canon favourites, some original characters
Summary: A pre-hiatus casefic for numberthescars at acd_holmesfest canon fiction exchange
Warnings: Violence, violins
Word Count: 2500-ish
Author's Notes: Originally posted here: The Virtuoso
.oOOo.
Il Virtuoso
For Mary.
During my association with my good friend, Sherlock Holmes, there have been many cases which shall likely never see the light of publication. The reasons for this vary from case to case. Sometimes, it is a matter of similarity with other previously published material; other times, the details of the case are too disturbing to be made public. In this case, however due to the victim’s international renown and great fame, falsification of names and dates could never disguise his identity. Therefore, I commit this adventure to paper only because it is the kind of story my dearest Mary prefers to read.
.oOOo.
It was with dubious success that my good wife undertook the Herculean task of creating a gentleman out of me. It was not so much a matter of turning a sow’s ear into a silk purse, but more like pounding a horseshoe into a sow’s ear. Alas, silk purse might still be too much of a stretch, even if both parties were equally willing. I fear that my experience in the army left me with too many bad habits and not enough good graces to fit in with polite society. A doctor is still a tradesman, after all, and the dilemma of which fork to eat with what course seems ridiculous in the grand scheme of things. Mary persisted nevertheless, and it was for that reason we found ourselves late one autumn evening in the West End, having attended the second-most memorable violin recital I was ever likely to experience.
Even I can admit that the performance had been breathtaking. Mary and I stood among a small group of acquaintances, praising the performance and discussing the merits of other contemporary virtuosi when cries of “Dottore! Dottore!” hailed from the backstage egress. Had I not understood the foreign words, I certainly would have recognised the distress one’s voice holds when in mortal terror.
Before any of us could react, a great mountain of a man stumbled out from the alley and collapsed to the pavement. When I made to examine him he pushed me away and gestured into the darkness “Il maestro...” he pleaded, and gestured again. I removed my overcoat and placed it around him. Our evening companions stood back in shock. The insufferable Peterson looked as if he might faint when I ordered him to help the stricken man.
Unaccustomed to the darkness, I moved cautiously into the deserted alley. Before me, a man lay in the dim light cast by the open stage door. It was Nicolo Bennetti, the great virtuoso who had given us such a fine performance that evening. He had been gravely wounded. His head was bleeding profusely and he moaned as I felt his neck for his pulse.
“Watson, have you not learned anything over the years? Rushing into dangerous situations without a thought of self-preservation-” my long-time (and most unexpected) friend said as he stepped into the light.
“Holmes! What are you doing here? And what is that costume?”
“I’m afraid I have made a grave mistake,” he said. “I was certain that Bennetti would be attacked outside the concert hall, and I was posing as his driver. His carriage is behind us in the mews. I came when I heard Deluca’s call for help and I find you already here-”
“Help me get him inside. I need to examine-”
“Not inside. His attackers may still be in there. We’ll take Bennetti to your consulting rooms.”
Kensington seemed to me to be a peculiar option when there were two hospitals close at hand, and I said as much. Holmes was never one for false flattery, so I was very gratified when he assured me that he was certain Bennetti would receive better care from me than could be found in any hospital. Between the two of us, we managed to carry the injured violinist to the handsome brougham, and Holmes whipped up the horses.
The commotion we made getting Bennetti into my consulting rooms woke Beth, our maid. Receiving late night patients came as no surprise, and she set about lighting the rooms and boiling some water. Bennetti had taken a horrible beating. His face was barely recognisable for the dark bruising which had already begun to appear. Worse, however, were the poor man’s hands: they had been mashed into useless flippers. No more music would come from them. His attackers may not have killed the artist, but they succeeded in killing his art.
“Will that be all, Doctor?” Beth asked, “Or will Mrs Watson be needing anything?”
“Mary!” Holmes and I exclaimed in unison.
“Steady, old man! I’ll fetch her home for you.” Holmes’ blanched expression was far from encouraging.
“I can’t believe I just left her- She’ll never forgive-”
“Au contraire! Do give the woman some credit. I believe that she will understand once she has been given all the facts.”
With those rather less-than-reassuring words, Holmes was gone. I had no time for self-recrimination because Bennetti required my full attention. Unsure of the extent of his injuries, I administered only enough morphine to ease the worst of his pain. My examination revealed three broken ribs, several fractures to the bones in both hands, and concussion. I addressed each injury in turn and do not know how long I had sat watching over my patient when Holmes returned, bringing with him my wife and Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard. Ignoring Holmes and the policeman, I offered Mary my sincerest apologies, which she accepted, to my great relief.
“I have questions for your patient, Doctor. When will I be able to speak with him?” asked Gregson.
“Bennetti has been sedated. It will be tomorrow morning at the earliest, and that too is dependent on the state of his concussion.”
“Perhaps I can enlighten you, Inspector,” said Holmes. “I have more than passing familiarity with the details of this case. I know the motive but have yet determine the names of the actual attackers.”
The four of us retired to our sitting room and Holmes told us of his involvement with the unfortunate Nicolo Bennetti.
My friend had been engaged for the past month in tracking the men who had been threatening Bennetti since he arrived in London. Despite his worldly reputation, the maestro had come from very humble origins. He was a lesser son of a peasant family from the village of Montedoro on the island of Sicily. From an early age, young Nicolo had demonstrated a gift for music. The Bennettis wanted to give Nicolo a good education but they were extremely poor. Money was borrowed. Promises were made. Loyalties were tested. Threats followed. Nicolo’s talent flourished on the international stage. His performances were in constant demand throughout Europe’s finest recital halls. Family trouble grew in Sicily. Five years ago, fearing for Nicolo’s safety, the Bennetti family sent Deluca, Nicolo’s childhood friend, to protect him from harm.
“Deluca. Ah yes, the big man who sent me to find Bennetti. How is he?”
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” said Gregson, “Deluca bled to death outside the recital hall. He had been stabbed multiple times. It’s a wonder he made it that far.”
I suddenly felt very tired. There seemed to be no end to the misery in the world. I rose to look in on Bennetti. At least I might still be able to help him. He lay in an uneasy slumber. Satisfied that my patient was as well as could be expected, I applied a fresh dressing to his head wound. When I returned to the sitting room, Holmes was outlining a clever plot to catch the thugs who attacked Bennetti and killed Deluca.
“The murderers are bound to strike again. Gregson, you must use your Fleet Street contacts. We must entice the attackers into a second attempt at the next performance. If you position your men about the hall ahead of time, you stand a good chance of catching them in the act.”
Holmes’ plan was ingenious albeit highly dangerous. Gregson would place an article about the attack in the newspapers. It would state that an attack on the renowned violinist had been foiled because the inept attackers had attacked an imposter, a decoy hired to protect the maestro. Holmes would dress the part of Bennetti and perform the solo concerto the following evening. If the thugs made a second attempt, the police would be on hand to make the arrest. As the Maestro’s scheduled repertoire consisted of Italian works (florid and romantic, was my friend’s description), Holmes stated his only concern was not an inability to play the music, but the threat that he might fall asleep from sheer boredom in the middle of his own performance. Humility was never one of his strongest suits. Surely, I thought, Bennetti’s reputation alone would sustain the audience even if Holmes’s performance was not of the same calibre. I have learned to keep thoughts like that to myself.
Mary saw Holmes and Gregson to the door before she retired for the night. With the planning of Holmes’s escapade, and the necessity to keep a regular watch over my patient, I would have little chance for sleep. Mary found me the next morning, in light slumber next to my patient’s bed. Instead of bringing my morning coffee, she insisted that I go to bed and get some proper sleep. She would watch over Bennetti and wake me if there was any change. I acquiesced, knowing full well that I would need to be as rested as possible if I were to assist Holmes that night.
So, that evening, I found myself once again in evening clothes at the recital hall. This time, I waited in the shadows of the wings, my coat draped over one arm, concealing my trusty revolver beneath. It was from this vantage point that I experienced the most memorable violin recital I was ever likely to see.
My friend’s disguise was impeccable. He had adopted the stature and appearance of Maestro Bennetti. One would have to be face to face with him to see the difference. Holmes strode out as if he owned the stage and proceeded to place the entire audience under his thrall. He played flawlessly and with great passion. It was truly astounding.
Sherlock Holmes had always been dismissive of his own musical talents. When we shared the Baker Street flat, he was quick to dismiss my earnest praise and considered my ability to judge his skill to be negligible at best, comedic at worst. And rightly so. When we first met, my experience with music was limited to rousing songs that were not acceptable in mixed company, and a scant number of hymns barely remembered from my childhood. Yes, I enjoyed music, but my tastes were unsophisticated in comparison with his more cultured ones. Holmes valued the opinion of no one. His motives for making music were the same as those for all his actions: the love of the art alone. Nonetheless, after the applause for his first encore, I noted a subtle shift in my friend’s demeanour. His posture became more like his own and less like Bennetti’s. Here was the artist, finally receiving the recognition he never knew he sought.
Holmes launched into his second encore with gusto. The audience was rapt with attention. Never before had they heard such music. But I had. Many times. Mostly in the dead of night in my old Baker Street flat. The cheeky scoundrel was playing one of his own compositions!
There was no third encore.
The audience filed out, the orchestra retired, and the caretakers swept the rose petals from the stage. Now the waiting began. All the lights, except for those backstage, had been dimmed. Should there be an attack, I was in the dark and too far removed from the action. Then I realised that my friend had purposely placed me in the wings for my protection. How I hated that he had so little regard for my abilities! With my eyes, I followed the ropes up into the flies to see if there was one which I could loosen so as to drop a sandbag on his arrogant deductive head.
Perhaps it was some movement, or perhaps it was a reflection of light off the rifle barrel. To this day I still do not know how I spotted him. An assassin was amongst the flies, and he was taking aim at my friend backstage.
“Holmes! Sniper!” I yelled as the rifle fired. Without a second thought I sent two shots into the flies. The rifle fell and clattered to the stage. Further sounds of struggle could be heard from backstage, but I had to be sure that the rifleman would cause us no further trouble. I climbed the ladder as fast as I could but when I had gained the walkway, my man had disappeared.
Now I not one who is ill at ease with heights, but the narrow planks of the catwalk had a springy action, and the only handhold was an untested slack rope. With the only light coming from below, I lost my footing on some unexpected slickness and nearly fell. Blood! At least one of my shots had landed.
Far below me Gregson and his men had wrestled two suspects to the ground.
“There’s at least one other still at large,” I called down to them.
I had no warning other than Holmes’ expression as he yelled my name. From instinct I ducked just as the injured sniper sprang upon me. There was a frantic struggle as we each tried to throw the other from the walkway. As we grappled, I felt a sharp pain in my back and swore when I recognised the cold bite of a knife. Not knowing how badly I was wounded, I disengaged and tried to back away. My attacker, hatred shining in his eyes, snarled something in his native tongue, and charged. As I raised my arm to meet his blade, fickle fate finally decided to side with me for a change. Just as I had done earlier, my attacker slipped on the blood. Off balance, he fell shrieking to the stage. After the horrible sound of his impact all was silent. I clung to the rope handrail until one of Gregson’s men pried me off and helped me descend the ladder.
“You see, Watson?” asked Holmes, flushed from the double success of his performance and his successful capture of Bennetti’s would-be assassins, “It was a flawless plan. I knew they would have to make a second attempt tonight!”
“And when did it occur to you that this time they might use guns?” I demanded.
“Oh.”
Piero Brazzi and his brother Davide, the men captured backstage, were led away by Gregson’s men. Both received twenty-year sentences and neither would live long enough to see freedom. Within the first year of their incarceration, Piero was killed in a fight with another prisoner, and Davide was shot during a brazen escape attempt. My dead sniper was identified as Giuseppe Lila. All three men had connections to one of the leading Sicilian crime families.
Nicolo Bennetti remained with us for nearly two weeks, first under my care as a patient, and then as an honoured guest. I brought in a specialist to examine the musician’s hands and see what could be done. Amputation would not be required, but the fractured bones fused as they healed. Although he would never perform with his violin again, the great Bennetti took up the baton and rose to international acclaim as a fine conductor. Mary still cherishes the letters the great man wrote to us in gratitude for the hospitality he received in our home while under our care.
Luckily, my own wound proved to be nothing serious. Lila’s blade had struck my scapula and could penetrate no further. There was some muscle damage which made me unbearably irritable (or so I’m told) until it finally healed. It did not prevent me from seeing to my patients and tending to my practice. My ongoing gentrification continues to provide a great source of amusement to my wife and friends, but I am happy to report that I have made progress. At formal dinners, I no longer rise when a lady enters the room if she is a server, and I now know the difference between opera and operetta. Perhaps someday, I will even be able to decode the perplexing problem of cutlery etiquette.
John H. Watson
June 11, 1889
.oOOo.
Please sign the guestbook