now, if you want to be.”
“No—I told them the truth—I can never be free.” Her right hand held the gun, but her left hand slipped over to her side. “Oh, God, this hurts so. My cursed stomach has hurt me forever—it wakes me in the night and spoils my days.”
“The burden is gone, the truth known. You will heal now.”
She shook her head, smiling wearily. Her left eye was badly swollen and bluish. Unaware of what she was doing, she wiped her mouth on her sleeve, leaving a bloody smear on the silk. Her eyes could not seem to focus properly, and I saw she was near the point of collapse. The barrel of the gun quavered continually. I took a step closer.
“No, Michelle.” She drew in her breath, and I saw her struggling to master herself, to find the will for that one final, desperate act.
“You will not go to prison,” I said. “I promise you. What you did was terrible, but necessary. You saved Sherlock. Donald very nearly killed him—and he might have killed you as well. Please put down that revolver.”
“I should not have struck him the second time. That was cruel. I have no reason to go on living. Can you not see the justice of it? Mr. Holmes accused me of playing God, but all I ever wanted was justice.” She sighed. “My justice may seem suspiciously like vengeance. I shall make amends now. I honestly cannot think of why I should live.”
“Because you are my friend!” I cried. “And I should miss you ever so much if you were dead!” I could not restrain my tears, but I kept talking and took another step forward. Violet’s dark eyes were stark against her bruised white face. “You are such a wonderful person, my dear, that it would be a terrible waste, the worst crime of all. You are barely thirty. You are young and you are beautiful, witty, and charming. I have few female friends whose company I can tolerate, and I will not have the best of them blowing her brains out! You said you would not apologize again; well, show me, for once, that you are my friend—show me that you love me even as I love you. And there is Sherlock—he also loves you.”
Violet sobbed and shook her head. “No, no—it is too late—I am lost. I deceived him not once, but many times. And you—I deceived you. It has torn me apart. Oh, I did not want to!” She was crying so hard.
“Oh, my dear, I forgive you—you know I do. I only wish you had confided in me about... Oh, Violet—
I walked over and took the gun from her hand.
“Michelle.” She stood and embraced me, her arms feeble.
“It is over now,” I said. “It is finished.”
“Oh, thank God.” Her body swayed, then went limp in my arms as she finally found the unconsciousness she longed for.
I woke up early that morning and had to think for a while to remember that I was not at home in London, but near a small village, high in the Alps. February was only two days away. Henry lay beside me, breathing slowly. I moved nearer to him. The room was icy cold, and he gave off heat like a steam radiator. The window behind the curtains was a fuzzy square of grayish light.
I closed my eyes, ready to go back to sleep, then remembered that Violet was with us and that she was still miserable. The thought was like a reoccurring pain, some dull headache. Henry and I had been weary of rain and fog, the winter even gloomier than usual, but we had also made the trip because we had hoped it would improve Violet’s spirits.
Over two months had passed since the disastrous climax at Norfolk. Physically and mentally exhausted, Violet had come down with bronchitis. She had been gravely ill, and I had spent many nights by her bedside. She had a high fever and grew delirious. In her sleep she would talk to Donald Wheelwright. When she became frightened, I would bathe her forehead and try to calm her. Between my practice during the day and the long nights with Violet, I too became exhausted. Henry finally took me aside and sternly told me that even though I had the constitution of an ox, I would eventually wear myself out or fall ill, and then I could help no one. Gertrude and the other servants shared the nursing with me after that, and Henry took on some of my patients. Several elderly ladies found him quite charming.
Violet had recovered from the bronchitis, but then the inevitable depression set in. At least the physical illness had let her sleep, the body overpowering the mind and asserting its demand for rest. Her stomach ulcer had also been better. But once her fever lifted, her spirits sank, and her insomnia returned. Try as I might, I could not distract her from black thoughts.
She, who had run a household of over thirty servants, handled all the accounts and investments, and overseen a vast, secret organization, now spent most of her days idly brooding before the fire. She had been a witty and charming conversationalist, but now I could barely get her to talk to me. I could not recall the last time I had heard her laugh. She had become pale, thin, and weak, a prime candidate for pneumonia—which would kill her quickly—or tuberculosis, a disease of lingering horror.
I turned restlessly in the bed, then stroked Henry’s shoulder and arm, feeling the muscles beneath his nightshirt. He mumbled a word that I could not make out.
Old Wheelwright had been a devil, but we had managed to shield Violet. Holmes had resolved that we would, as much as possible, be truthful, and I had told Lestrade that Violet had struck her raging husband just as he was about to kill Sherlock Holmes. The fact that we had all obviously been assaulted—especially Violet—supported our story. However, because we did not want Violet to go to prison and because the Farnsworths had safely escaped, they took the blame for the oil well scheme, the Angels of the Lord, and the evil gypsy. We were all questioned, but in the end no charge was brought against Violet. I think her poor battered face influenced Lestrade.
Old Wheelwright had been doling out money to Donald for years, and he cut Violet off without a penny. However, unbeknownst to her father-in-law or her deceased husband, Violet had built up a small fortune of her own. She had had complete control of Donald’s finances (a fact which astonished me, as I have no head for figures), and she had invested shrewdly.
The major newspapers were restrained in their coverage, but not so some of the sensational dailies. We made sure Violet never saw any of these, but Sherlock was not so lucky. One paper actually ran the headline, “Famed Detective Smitten at Last.” My mouth twitched, my anger flaring briefly like an ember someone had blown upon. It was ironic because the famed detective was hardly behaving like a conspiratorial lover.
Although he was obviously deeply concerned, he had refused to see Violet since that fatal morning. When she had bronchitis, he had come to inquire of her health every day, and even now, he asked Henry or me about her at least once a week. On the worst night, as she lay burning with fever, he had paced about her library until morning, but I could not get him to come upstairs to the bedroom.
At first I had been willing to leave him alone, but when Violet finally recovered, I went to see him at Baker Street. I pleaded with him for over an hour to simply go to see her—but in vain. He appeared colder and more gaunt than ever before, his face thin and imperious like some marble Caesar. I asked if he might somehow excuse her actions, even if he could not forgive. All I received were remarks like, “It would be neither to her benefit or mine were we to meet again. I have nothing more to say to her.” Always before, I had felt certain that Sherlock’s better qualities outweighed his eccentricities; now I was not so sure. Perhaps he was cold—and selfish.
I had asked Henry to talk with him, but he gave me an odd look and asked if I really thought Sherlock could simply forget everything Violet had done.
“That is not the point!” I had exclaimed.
“Oh, but I’m afraid that is the point.”
I ran the sole of my foot along Henry’s foot to his ankle bone and onto his calf muscle. He stirred, and his hand sought mine even though he was still fast asleep.
Violet had not mentioned Holmes until one evening about two weeks ago. I had brought her violin to her room and urged her to play. She took the violin and the bow, and then considered my request, her gaze turning inward. “The last time I played was for Mr. Holmes at Norfolk.” Her lips formed a smile, but one totally lacking in warmth or humor. “How he must despise me.” She gave a sharp laugh. “I deserve his disgust.” She set aside the
