The usual London fog clung to the cobbled streets as Dr. John Watson walked along the sidewalk. The mist, thick and oppressive, dampened the gaslights that lined Baker Street, casting long shadows in the gloom. With a shiver, the doctor entered the front door of 221. Grateful to be out of the weather, he swiftly divested himself of his coat, scarf, and hat, his fingers clumsy with cold.

Mrs. Hudson bustled forward with her usual efficiency. "Terrible weather today, doctor," she remarked, taking his sodden belongings. "Shall I dry these for you?"

"Yes, please. I pity any soul forced to remain out in it," Dr. Watson replied with a weary smile. His glance moved instinctively toward the staircase. "Has Mr. Holmes ventured out today?"

"No, sir, but he had a visitor earlier." Her voice carried a note of curiosity. "A gentleman who asked for you at first, but then agreed to speak to Mr. Holmes when I informed him you were out."

"Oh? And who might that have been?" Watson queried, arching an eyebrow. He hadn't been expecting any visitors, and it was hardly the day to make social calls.

"He gave his name as Mr. Henry Fitzwilliam of Paddington Street."

The name was vaguely familiar, and it took a few moments of thinking for him to recall why he knew it. "Ah, yes. An old school-fellow. I am sorry to have missed him. He spoke to Mr. Holmes, then?"

The landlady nodded. "For quite some time, if I'm not mistaken." She shook out his damp coat. "I'll bring up a tea tray for you, doctor. I imagine you could use something warm after being out in that dreadful weather."

Watson gave her a distracted nod as he hurried up the stairs, curiosity beginning to bloom. As he reached the landing, he was arrested by the delicate strains of a music box, muffled by the door but distinct enough to cause him to hesitate. Holmes rarely indulged in music unless it was his violin. The gentle, haunting melody only heightened Watson's confusion as he turned the handle and entered the room.

"Ah, Watson," came Sherlock Holmes' greeting, delivered without so much as a glance in his direction. The man himself was crouched by a low table, his hawk-like gaze fixed on a small, intricately carved music box. "I trust you found the weather disagreeable?" he added with his characteristic detachment.

"It was wretched, as you might expect," Watson replied, crossing to the center of the room. "Mrs. Hudson mentioned a visitor—Henry Fitzwilliam, was it? An old acquaintance of mine, I believe."

"Indeed. He left me with this curious object," Holmes gestured to the music box, halting its melody with a deft movement. "What do you make of it?"

The doctor bent to examine the small box. It appeared ordinary at first glance—a finely polished piece of oak, its lid delicately carved with a floral pattern. The mechanism within turned a cylinder, producing a tune Watson did not recognize. "I can see that it is a music box," he observed, stating the obvious. "Where did Fitzwilliam acquire it?"

"You excel at the rudimentary, Watson," Holmes said with a touch of amusement. "But it is not where he acquired it that concerns us. Rather, why he brought it to me at all."

"Did he wish to give me this music box?" Watson asked in confusion.

Holmes let out a sharp laugh, finally turning to face him. "Hardly. Your old school friend is concerned, my dear Watson, that this charming little device is driving his wife mad."

Astonished, Watson blinked. Had he heard that correctly? "Mad?" he repeated. Holmes nodded. "Over a music box? I've never heard of such a thing."

"That is what I told him you would say," Holmes remarked, a trace of smugness in his tone. "He claimed his wife has become obsessed with the tune it plays—an obsession that borders on hysteria. He left it with me to determine whether there is any rational explanation for her behavior."

Still baffled, Watson leaned closer as Holmes resumed the music box's soft, eerie tune. "What is the story?"

Holmes sat back and steepled his fingers in front of his face. "Two weeks ago, the box was delivered to Henry Fitzwilliam's home as an anonymous gift," he explained. "His wife, Emily, placed it in her music room. That evening, she played it after dinner—nothing unusual there, you might think. But her reaction was anything but ordinary. She was horrified, asking her husband if he heard 'it.'"

"'It?'" Watson repeated. "What did she mean?"

"Mr. Fitzwilliam didn't know. Nor did Mrs. Fitzwilliam clarify, but since that night, she has been humming the tune—always halting when her husband notices. Worse still, she began playing the box obsessively, withdrawing into herself." Holmes paused before he added, "Her husband suspects the music is somehow to blame."

Instinctively, Watson reached for his notebook to begin taking notes. "And what is this tune supposed to be?"

Holmes allowed the music to play for another few seconds before stopping it abruptly. "Do you not recognize it?"

Watson shook his head. "It doesn't sound like anything I've heard before."

"That is because the cylinder has been tampered with," Holmes explained. "The melody it plays should be 'After the Ball,' a common piece of music, but what you hear now is a distorted version—a deliberate alteration."

"But why would someone tamper with a music box?"

"Why indeed," Holmes murmured, tapping his chin. "The answer lies not in the music alone, but in the message it conveys."

"It appears someone went to a great deal of effort to simply share a message with the lady," Watson commented, more intrigued than ever with the case. "Well, then. What is the message supposed to be?"

Holmes' eyes gleamed with excitement as he stood abruptly. "It is a cipher, Watson. The alterations are not random—they form a pattern. I suspect that this music box was intended not merely to torment Mrs. Fitzwilliam but to convey some malicious message. We must visit the Fitzwilliam household immediately."

Without further explanation, Holmes strode toward the door. Watson barely had time to scramble to his feet and follow his friend into the fog-shrouded night.

~*~

Hours later, they returned, exhausted but victorious. Watson sank into his chair with a sigh. "Holmes, I am still astounded by how you unraveled the mystery. How did you know the music was a cipher?"

Holmes, now seated by the fire, leaned back in his chair, his gaze distant. "The alterations to the melody hinted at something deliberate. Upon closer examination, the changes in the tune were too precise to be coincidental. The rhythm, the pauses—they were part of a message intended to reach Mrs. Fitzwilliam alone."

Watson leaned forward. "You mentioned that before. What was the message?"

Holmes nodded solemnly. "It was a cruel communication, designed to remind her of a past love—one who took his own life after she ended the association. The melody, altered to sound off-key, was meant to evoke those painful memories. A subtle but devastating psychological attack."

"And who would do such a thing?"

"Such a personal message would only be known by someone close to Mrs. Fitzwilliam. I deduced that it must have been a former friend, or someone who pretended to be a friend, who would know something of Mrs. Fitzwilliam's past."

"But why? Who would be so cruel?"

"Revenge, my dear Watson. You heard Mrs. Fitzwilliam admit her friend has often been jealous in the past. I'm sure if the woman is questioned, it would not take long to reveal that she has harbored deep resentment these many years. She sought to torment Emily subtly, driving her to madness with a haunting melody only she could hear."

The doctor shook his head. "A cruel but cunning plan. Now that you have warned Mrs. Fitzwilliam and the music box has been destroyed, what can be done about the matter? What is to stop this jealous friend from acting again?"

"I have sent the woman a personal message, warning her that her scheme has been revealed. If she were to make another attempt against Mrs. Fitzwilliam in any way, it will be traced back to her. I'm sure she will not do so. The friendship is at an end."

"Remarkable, Holmes. And now the Fitzwilliams can find peace."

A slight smile crossed Holmes' face. "It was an interesting puzzle, but alas, it was not a riddle that my mind could not solve."

As the fire crackled, the two sat in reflective silence, the riddle of the haunted melody finally put to rest.