her.
“Thank you. I have to get away. I must get away.” She was crying again. Sherlock’s eyes were anguished.
“The brandy has probably irritated her stomach. I shall have to get her some milk.”
Holmes turned to Wheelwright. “Norfolk may or may not be safer than London. With your permission, I shall accompany you there.”
Wheelwright had refilled this glass. “As you wish.”
“So shall I.” The words were out of my mouth before I could reflect on what I was saying.
Wheelwright raised his head. “What?”
“She is ill. Someone needs to look after her.”
Violet appeared truly surprised. “You cannot mean it. Your practice...”
“I can be away for a week or two, if need be.”
Holmes stared intently at me. “I shall want Henry along as well. He will be of assistance.”
“Someone can fill in for us.”
Violet put her small white fingers about my big red hand. “I shall be glad for your company. You are the only person who is not part of the nightmare, the only one who is free. I... I did not mean it about your kindness. I...”
Wheelwright took another swallow of brandy. “Mr. Holmes, there is one thing you must understand.” His face was ruddy, his broad forehead wrinkled. “This is your last chance. No more talk about patience or the difficulties of the case. Any more disasters, and you will be dismissed, and I’ll find someone who can do a proper job.”
Holmes’ lips curled into a smile, gray eyes smoldering. He hesitated, no doubt struggling with his pride. “I accept your terms, sir.”
Wheelwright emptied the glass and rose. “If we are to leave tomorrow, I must see to a few things.”
Violet let go of my hand, then withdrew a handkerchief and wiped at her eyes. “The Lovejoys can join us later, or perhaps Abigail should come. She also needs to get away.”
Wheelwright gave a short rumble of a laugh. “She needs a stay in a madhouse.”
Violet sat up, her right hand still holding her side. “She is not to blame for this business. It has taken its toll on her.”
Wheelwright shrugged. “We can discuss it in the morning.” He started for the door.
“One moment, sir,” Holmes said. “What were you doing when you heard Mrs. Lovejoy scream?”
Wheelwright blinked dully. “I was in the smoking room talking with Lovejoy and Collins.”
“How long had the three of you been there?”
“Half-hour or so.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wheelwright.”
Wheelwright closed the door behind himself. “His hands are far too large, anyway,” Holmes said softly. “Mrs. Wheelwright, may I have another look at those bruises?”
Violet nodded. “Certainly.”
Holmes walked over to us, raised his hands, then hesitated and looked at me. “Michelle, would you be so kind...?”
I opened her collar, pulling the material aside. The sight of those bluish handprints on her white skin still disturbed me. She must bruise easily to have it show so distinctly. Her throat was so very long, and the finger marks came around the front; the fingers separated only slightly at their tips, but the hands had not quite met. There was a gap of over an inch, which was lucky—otherwise, her larynx might have been crushed. The palms in back had made little impression, but the thumbprints were clearly visible.
Holmes’ hands hung tightly at his sides, and again I saw longing in his eyes. He had an excuse for staring at her so, but I knew he was appreciating the beauty of her throat, the curve of her jaw. His eyes briefly met hers. Then they both looked away.
“Curious,” he said. “Very curious. Mrs. Wheelwright, would you care to retire?”
She shook her head. “I shall never sleep.”
“I can give you something, Violet. And you must drink some milk.”
“I feel better now.” She tried to smile, but her brown eyes still had a wild glint. Briefly, she bared her teeth. “Mr. Holmes?”
He sat back against the edge of the table. “Yes?”
“Have you... have you ever thought you might be going mad?”
I put my arm on her shoulder. “You must not say such things.”
She laughed. “Michelle is far too healthy—far too sane—to understand, but you... Has the possibility ever occurred to you?”
He stared gravely at her. “Yes.”
“
“But I do not allow such thoughts to linger. I do not allow myself to indulge in such fancies. They are a form of... self-deception. Self-punishment.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes.”
She put her hand over her forehead. “If only I could stop my thoughts... It grows so tiresome!”
“No storm lasts forever. It is the penalty we pay for our intellect, for our ability to think better and more intensely than our fellow men. Once our mind undertakes a problem, we cannot rest until it is resolved, until we have our answer, and the wearier we grow, the more frantic our thoughts become. When it is all over, exhaustion and black melancholy often follow.”
Her hand shot out and touched his knee. “Oh, yes—
I could see his fingers tighten about the table edge, the tendons rising to the surface. “You shall not go mad, Violet. I promise you. Your sufferings will end.”
It was the first time I had heard him address her as anything other than Mrs. Wheelwright. She laughed, a strained sound, but her relief was audible. “Oh, thank you. I hope—I wish...” She put her hand over her forehead. “Oh God, I am so exhausted I cannot...”
I shook my head. “As well you might be. You should go to bed.”
“I shall, but first...” She looked again at Holmes. “Would you do me a favor, Mr. Holmes?”
“Anything you wish.”
“My violin is on the shelf there. Play me something—play some Bach”
Holmes frowned. “
“Yes.”
“But... will it not appear somewhat strange to...?”
“Everyone will think it is me. If anything, it will reassure the servants. They are used to music emanating from this room at odd hours. No one has enough of an ear to tell your playing from mine.”
Holmes gazed at me. “Will you go upstairs,” I asked, “when he is finished?”
“I promise I shall. I merely... I am not up to playing myself, and I want... I want to think about something else.”
I hesitated, and then nodded. Holmes shrugged and walked over to the shelf where the violin sat. He plucked the strings, tuning them, and then tucked a handkerchief and the violin under his chin. The bow slid across the string and swelled into a resonant note, which his quivering fingertips gave a warm vibrato.
“A wondrous instrument,” he said.
The door burst open, and Henry rushed into the room. He wore a bowler hat and his black overcoat, but his shirt collar was unbuttoned. “What on earth has happened?”
I walked over to him and slipped my arm about his waist. “Hush, for a moment, and then I shall tell you everything. Just now we must listen to Sherlock play.”
Holmes raised the bow, then began. I do not much care for Bach’s music. All those melodies going at once frustrate me because I can only hear one thing at a time, only bits and pieces. Nevertheless, Holmes played beautifully. I had always been struck by the passion of his music; only then did he give his emotions full rein.
Violet had closed her eyes and seemed to melt into the chair. Holmes was the only other person I had known
