who brought such utter concentration to listening; briefly her dark thoughts were forgotten. He finished the piece. She did not open her eyes. “One more, please. Do you know the saraband from the third partita?”
This was more languorous than the first—stately in its sorrow—but I hardly heard it. I was so sleepy. I leaned against Henry, and he drew me close. “Oh my dearest,” I murmured softly. How I wished the long evening were over.
At last Holmes lowered the violin, sighing deeply. “My Stradivarius is no better. It may not be its equal.”
Violet moistened her lips and opened her eyes. “Bring it with you to Norfolk, and we shall see. Thank you very much, Mr. Holmes. Your playing is inspired.” She looked at me. “I am very tired.”
“As well you should be.”
There was a polite knock at the door. “Come in,” Holmes said.
The door opened and Lovejoy stepped into the room. “I am sorry for the delay, but Abigail was distraught. You wished to see me, Mr. Holmes?”
“In a moment. I want to have a look about the grounds. Would you fetch a lantern? First, however, we need Mrs. Wheelwright’s maid. She is ready to retire?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Henry slipped free of me and put his hat on the table. “What has happened here?”
“You will hear the whole story soon enough.” Holmes gestured with his hand at Violet. “By the way, would you be so kind as to have a look at Mrs. Wheelwright’s throat?”
Henry frowned, then walked over to Violet. She drew in her breath and looked elsewhere. “Good God!” Henry seemed to jump back. “Who has done this?”
Holmes gave a sharp laugh. “That is the question I would most like answered. Have a good look, Henry. I shall want your professional opinion.”
Henry’s examination was more detached than Sherlock’s, but his revulsion was obvious. Brutality disturbed him.
Another brief knock at the door, and Lovejoy reappeared with Gertrude. I helped Violet to her feet. Her eyes were red and puffy—she was utterly worn out. Her fingers brushed aside a strand of black hair. She winced.
“My throat hurts.”
“Have Collins go upstairs with Mrs. Wheelwright and the maid,” Holmes said to Lovejoy. “Collins should examine the room, especially under the bed and in the closets. He should only remain outside while Mrs. Wheelwright is dressing. She is not to be left alone under any circumstances. Have a cot brought up for the maid.”
“Me, sir?” Gertrude’s eyes opened wide.
“Have no fear, miss. You will not be alone. I shall be in a chair in the same room.”
“The same room?” Lovejoy’s voice was faintly incredulous.
Holmes frowned. “Yes. There will be no more mysterious assailants. Please fetch me that lantern now.”
Gertrude and I led Violet to the door. She walked stiffly, stumbling slightly. I released her arm, and she turned, her face a mute appeal. “Michelle...”
“I shall be up in a moment to say good night.”
She smiled weakly. “Thank you.” She turned to Holmes. “Good night, and thank you again for your playing.”
He nodded, then closed the door behind her. Henry took off his coat. “Now, will one of you please explain what has happened!”
Holmes took out a cigarette, which he smoked while I told Henry all that had occurred. When I was finished, Henry shook his head.
“Who—or what—can have done this?”
Sherlock’s lips twitched briefly into a smile. “You think it was the devil, then?”
“I no longer know what to think.”
I shook my head. “Why should the devil need to go around strangling people? I would also expect him to be better at his work.”
Holmes laughed loudly and threw his cigarette butt into the fireplace. “Oh bravo, Michelle! One would assume the fiend could choke someone to death if he were really determined to do so. Did you notice the unusual nature of those bruises on her throat?”
“They were so distinct,” I said. “She must have fragile blood vessels.”
Holmes shook his head. “No, no—I refer to the gap in front.”
“The gap?” Henry asked.
“Given the size of the hands, the person could have wrapped them entirely about her throat, but he did not. He carefully avoided her larynx. I doubt he wanted to severely injure or kill her.”
My hands clenched into fists. “You mean someone only wanted to frighten her? How absolutely beastly!”
“I must question the servants, but the most obvious and interesting suspects—Lovejoy, his wife, Mr. Wheelwright—cannot have done it. Lovejoy and Wheelwright were together, and of course Wheelwright’s hands are far too large to have made those marks.”
“You do not actually think Mrs. Lovejoy could have done it?” I asked incredulously.
Holmes shrugged. “I know not what to make of her mental state, but she is the single most obvious suspect. She gave quite a performance. We have only her word for the ‘black fiend,’ and she could have crept up behind Mrs. Wheelwright and tried to throttle her. Unfortunately, she has very small, weak-looking hands. She, too, could not have made those marks. So we are left with a mysterious assailant who conveniently fled through the window.” Lovejoy reappeared with a small lantern. “Ah, thank you. Henry, would you care to join me?”
“Do you think it is safe outside?” I asked.
“I only wish our strangler were loitering about.” Holmes and Henry took their hats and left.
I seized my bag and went upstairs to Violet’s room. She had on her nightclothes. She was visibly trembling. “There is nothing to be afraid of now,” I said.
She gave me a grotesque smile. “Yes, there is.”
I prepared several drops of an opiate in a glass of water for her, and then sat beside her on the bed. She fell asleep almost at once. The fearful tension slowly faded until her face was utterly relaxed, her lips half parted, her forehead a smooth blank. Her hair was aswirl, the snaky black coil contrasting with the white sheets and her pale skin. Even asleep she appeared thin and exhausted.
I went back downstairs to the library. The wind had finally died away, and Henry had pulled one of the plush red chairs near the fireplace. A big log crackled nicely. He raised his arm, and I squeezed into the chair beside him, a tight fit.
“This will teach you to go visiting at odd hours.”
“I am so tired,” I said. “And did you find anything outside?”
“Only many of Collins’ and Lovejoy’s footprints.”
“No cloven hooves? Perhaps the fiend does not leave footprints.” I felt him stiffen. “I am sorry. It is not really amusing.”
“Sherlock told me we are going to Norfolk.”
“Yes. You do understand why?”
“Of course I do. We might get a spot of nice weather there. It should be lovely.”
“No, this cold and fog and rain and darkness will last forever.” My voice nearly broke.
“Hush.” Henry touched my cheek and slipped out of the chair. I shifted about, resting my head on the soft curved back. The warmth of the fire felt good, and he stroked my shoulder. “You are very brave, and I love you very much.”
I wanted to say something or touch his hand, but I was so sleepy, my limbs so heavy. My thoughts drifted elsewhere. Henry’s voice changed to that of Sherlock, but I could not make out his words. Sleep was a welcome refuge from black fiends and the memory of Violet’s throat marred by those vivid, hand-shaped bruises.
