“Ten minutes,” she hissed at us, then stepped backwards and out of the room.
“Close the door, Henry, and then pour yourself and Miss Morris some brandy. You both look ill.”
Miss Morris collapsed into the chair. Her hands trembled. “Oh God,” she murmured.
“Lock it,” Holmes said.
There was a key in the latch, and I turned it. I would not have expected a lock, but given the nature of Miss Morris’s business, it was not surprising. A crystal decanter sat on the dark cherry-wood sideboard upon a lacy covering. My own hands were somewhat shaky, but I poured some brandy into two glasses and took a healthy swallow from one. The burning impact of the drink was a shock, but it steadied me. I took another swallow, then walked over and offered the other glass to Flora Morris. She was frightfully pale and obviously badly frightened. She gave her head a wild shake.
“Drink it,” Holmes commanded.
She took the glass, swallowed some, and began to cough.
“Have another swallow,” I said, “but more slowly.”
Her blue eyes gazed up at me, her lips parted slightly. I could not bear to see such fear. I put one hand on her shoulder. “We shall not harm you.”
“If you cooperate with us, Miss Morris. Where is the note?”
She held the glass with both hands clutched against her, and I could see it quiver, the liquid sloshing slightly. “Note?” She was genuinely confused.
“Lord Harrington’s suicide note.”
“I–I don’t know nothing about no note.”
Holmes gave a sigh. “If you will give me the note and tell me what happened, we shall leave you in peace. Otherwise I fear we must take you directly to the police.”
She stood quickly, the brandy tumbling onto her dress, the glass rolling onto the floor. “No! Not that! Please, sir...”
Holmes had thrust the revolver back into his coat pocket. He extended his right hand, palm up. “The note, then. We do not want to alarm your aunt unnecessarily.”
She swayed briefly, and I seized her shoulders with both hands. I was accustomed to Michelle, and by contrast, there seemed almost nothing to this girl. I doubt she weighed more than eighty pounds. Perhaps she was consumptive. “Sherlock!” I exclaimed. “Be merciful—she is only a child.”
“She is no child, and she was hardly merciful to Lord Harrington. Now get me that note.”
She drew in her breath, and I released her. Her eyes still glistened with tears. “Thank you,” she mumbled. She walked over to a bureau, opened the bottom drawer, dug around a bit, and then withdrew a folded piece of paper. She handed it to Sherlock.
“Please sit down,” he said.
She collapsed into the chair and began to weep in earnest. Sherlock opened the note. I stood behind him where I could read it. The writing was very small and filled the entire page.
My dear Harriet,
When you read this, I shall be no more. Forgive me, my dearest, but my life has become such an agony that I can no longer bear it. This seems the only way out, the only honorable refuge after so dishonoring you, myself, and my friends.
Should anyone approach you after my death with stories about my baseness, know that in my heart of hearts, I have loved you and you alone. I have been weak; I have been heir to the sins of the flesh that so beset Adam’s descendants; but you have always been my inspiration, a beacon of light and virtue shining through in all this wretched darkness. Words cannot convey the disgust I feel toward myself for my actions. I cannot explain why a man with a wife such as you would fall into the mire. The weakness is mine and mine alone. Do not blame yourself, my darling. I bear sole responsibility. Had I been stronger, had I not erred at an early age, perhaps I could have resisted the devil, but I could never forbear wicked pleasures. Now I pay the price for my worldly sins. If only I had followed my angel, none of this would ever have happened. No one else ever meant anything to me. Always remember, my dearest wife, that you and you alone were the one true love of my life.
As for my friends, I hope they too can forgive me, for I fear I have let loose a devil amongst them. This demon took advantage of my weaknesses. He made me a fortune, knowing full well he meant to reclaim it, and he introduced me to the harlot who would ensure my downfall. I cannot be certain, but I believe he is planning the general ruin of others. Denounce ________ my dearest. The children of Israel are known for their rapaciousness, but no Jew exults so in the destruction of their victims. It is all money with them. Not so with this ghoul, this vampire: he most desires blood, not money. Warn the others to have a care. He and that gypsy must truly be infernal agents. I can fight them and my own weak nature no longer. I pray that some day the Almighty and you, my dearest, will forgive me.
With all my love,
Joseph
I shook my head. “The poor, tortured devil.”
Holmes had finished reading before I had. His lips twisted. “His brother was correct about his being long-winded. Little wonder he could not accept a note which said merely, ‘I cannot go on.’”
I shook my head. “Have you no heart at all?”
“I have heart enough, but my brain grows weary with human stupidity. All these professions of love—what good are they coming from a dead man? If he loved his wife so much, why did he not live? These pathetic, trite scrawlings are small consolation indeed.” He turned to the girl weeping on the chair. “We are nearly finished, Miss Morris, but you must honestly answer a few questions first. You had decided to blackmail him, had you not?”
She raised her head. Her eyes were red, and her nose was running. She sniffled and wiped at her face with her sleeve. “It wasn’t my idea! They told me to do it. How was I to know ’e’d kill himself?” Her hysteria had weakened her studied articulation.
“Who are ‘they’? Your aunt?”
She nodded eagerly. “Yes, and her friends. The Angels.”
Holmes frowned slightly, his gray eyes suddenly hot. “Angels? Of the Lord?”
She nodded again. “I didn’t want to do it. He was always a nice enough sort. Peculiar if you take my meaning, but harmless. Half the time he didn’t want to do nothing but stare at me. They said we could retire on the money, and so we shall.”
“How much did you ask for?”
She licked her lips. “Five thousand pounds.”
“Good Lord!” I exclaimed. “And he gave it to you?”
She nodded, then her mouth twitched, and she sobbed once. “Why’d he have to do it right when I was there? Why? I didn’t mean no harm. He gave me the five thousand, then called me devil and ’ore. He had a razor, and I thought for sure he’d murder me, but he opened up ’is own throat instead. Oh God, there was so much blood! And he was choking terrible and...” She covered her face with her hands and wept loudly.
Holmes ran his long fingers up his forehead and through his oily black hair. “Yes, it is all perfectly clear. You came to collect the money, and perhaps to threaten him and ask for more.” She shook her head wildly. “Regardless, he knew you and auntie would never let go once you had your talons in him. He paid you off, then cut his own throat. You may have been upset, but you retained enough presence of mind to take this note, then scrawl ‘I cannot go on’ upon a piece of his stationery. Afterwards you fled the house.”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Very well, Miss Morris. One last thing. You must tell me whose name has been scratched out on the note.”
She raised her face. Her eyes were all puffy, and she looked even younger than twenty. She was genuinely surprised. “Scratched out?”
Holmes stood up and approached the chair. She scrunched down. He thrust a finger at the paper. “Here.”
“But I didn’t do that. It was Auntie. She said we might sell the note later.”
“What was the name?”
“I don’t remember.”
Holmes gave a great sigh, folded the note and put it in an inner pocket of his jacket. “I honestly do not want to turn you over to the police.”
This brought on a renewed outburst; she covered her face again, sobs shaking her slight frame.
“Sherlock, do not bully her. She is already frightened half to death.”
He glared angrily at me. “I must have the name. Compose yourself, Miss Morris.”
“I cannot remember! Oh God, I would tell you if I could!”
I shook my head at Holmes. “You have her so upset she can hardly think.” I walked over and put my hand on her shoulder. “Now then, Miss Morris, please calm yourself—please. We are going soon, and we will not harm you. Think, though, can you not recall the name? Please try.”
She gazed up at me, and I felt an inner pang. Perhaps I am a weakling, but I cannot bear to see a woman suffer. “I... I cannot remember it. Auntie will be very angry with me if...”
“She need not know. Please try to remember.”
She stared at me; she did seem calmer. “Turnford?” she murmured. “Turn? Or something like it. Stuh...”
Blows rained upon the door, and she clutched at my arm, wincing in terror. “Do not let them take me!”
“Open this door!” The old woman’s immense lungs made her voice boom, and I recalled the wolf in the fairy story who could blow down doors. “Your ten minutes is up!”
Holmes sighed and withdrew his revolver. Miss Morris squeezed my arm more fiercely. “Do not murder me!”
“He will not hurt you.”
Another blow made the door shudder in its hinges. “Open, I say!”
“One minute, madam,” Holmes shouted. “Turn the key, Henry, and then retreat as quickly as you can.”
I glanced down at the girl, then slipped my hand inside my coat and pulled out one of my cards. “You need to get away from that old monster. My wife and I can give you refuge. By now you must know that you have chosen wrongly.”
She nodded. “Oh, yes.”
I gave her the card, and then gently pried her hand loose from my arm. “You are very young. It is not yet too late.”
She gave her head a shake, too moved to speak.
Another crash came, louder still. “Open, by God, or we’ll break it down!”
I went to the door, turned the key, and withdrew hastily.
Holmes had the revolver aimed at the door. “Turn the knob, madam.”
The door burst open, revealing the old woman and the pugilist butler. He shrank back at the sight of the revolver, but she strode into the room.
“That is far enough, madam.”
“You’d shoot a harmless old woman?”
“Not a very apt description, madam. We shall leave now, but I warn you I need the name you crossed out of Lord Harrington’s suicide note. I shall be back for it.”
“Never set foot in this house again!”
“I prefer not to, just as I prefer not to involve the police. They might not look kindly on the activities of you, your nieces, and your angelic accomplices.”
The old woman clenched her fists. Perhaps they were mostly flesh, but they had quite a span. Holmes’ words had infuriated her all the more. “You dare not!”
“I want that name. Think upon what I said. Now stand aside, and you, sir, either come in here where I can keep an eye on you or get away while you can.”
The pugilist eagerly followed the latter suggestion; we could hear his footfalls as he went down the hallway, then down the stairs. Glowering at us, the old woman stood aside as Holmes and I circled about her. She gave us a final look of utter hatred, which chilled me, then went to the girl. “Don’t let them make you cry, dear. They can’t hurt us.”
“Oh, Auntie!” Miss Morris stood and practically fell into the old woman’s arms; they engulfed her, those sausage-like fingers digging into the blue silk of her dress.
Something seemed to catch in my throat; I had never felt such repulsion. I wished Holmes would shoot the old creature and close those dreadful, evil eyes once and for all.
“Come, Henry.”
Holmes put his hand on my arm, but I wrenched free of him.
“Henry.” He took my arm again, and I glared at him. His lips formed a bleak smile, but his eyes were pained. “Come on. We have both had quite enough of this.”
I took a great breath of air and realized my heart was beating rapidly. “Yes. Let us go.”
Holmes kept the revolver out, but there was no sign of the butler. The parlor was still dim and musty. Once we were outside, I could not seem to get enough air—the light was so bright, and everything seemed so clean. I stopped, took another step and realized my legs were not functioning so well.
Holmes’ hand closed again about my arm. “Easy, Henry.”
“I...” The pavement seemed to tilt, the trees across the street suddenly wavering.
“Keep walking. You will feel better soon.”
It was good advice. A short way down the street, I felt nearly normal. I remembered the old woman’s face as she glared at us, the girl in the blue dress swallowed up in her arms. “That filthy pig,” I muttered.
Holmes gave a curt nod. “She was an odious creature.”
“That poor girl.”
“You are too chivalrous, Henry. She is old enough to know what she is doing. Taking Harrington’s suicide note and leaving a substitute showed remarkable self-possession.”
“But if that thing has her under her power...”
“Their association was no doubt voluntary, and it has proven profitable to them both.”
I stopped abruptly. “Do not talk that way! Do not!”
Holmes’ lips twitched. “Very well, Henry.”
We walked for a long while. I merely followed Sherlock, but gradually the furor that had seized me abated. I felt exhausted and very much wanted to go home to Michelle. The beauty of the day was quite lost on me.
My cousin spoke at last. “I am sorry, Henry. I am accustomed to such people, but I should have spared you. I knew we were likely to encounter such a reception.”
“It... I have never seen anyone like that old woman.”
“She was an unusually vile specimen of her kind.”
We continued to walk. An omnibus went by, and I reflected on all the respectable people it seemed to contain. Men in bowler hats and well-dressed women sat on the upper level, taking in the sunshine. “I should have never come,” I said almost to myself.
“I am glad you did. I...” Holmes lowered his eyes. “Perhaps I have grown too hard, too cynical. I wish... virtue were more common in females. Youth and innocence, the general views to the contrary, do not always go hand in hand. Anyway, your gentler methods succeeded where I failed.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We have the hint of a name. Turnford, or perhaps ‘Stuh’ something. Stuford?”
“Why on earth would the old monster care enough about the name to cross it out?”
“Perhaps because she and these Angels have some connection with Mr. Turnford.”
“Who are these damned Angels?”
Holmes laughed. “‘Damned Angels’ is a bit of an oxymoron, unless they are of the fallen variety. I do not know who they are, but I shall find out. They are allies of Mrs. Morris and Flora. Turnford must have introduced Harrington to the girl. The note says as much. Harrington also thought Turnford was behind the blackmail.”
“But why?”
“Turnford wanted his money back—and he did not want his name blackened by Harrington. Now Harrington is conveniently out of the picture. Turnford can continue with his business, and Mrs. Morris has a great deal of money.”
My head began to throb. “Preying off mens’ weaknesses—I wish you had shot the hag! Such a creature does not deserve to live!”
“Calm yourself, Henry. Life and death have little to do with deserving. I shall have to go back there tomorrow and try to get the name from her.”
“You would not dare.”
He gave a sharp laugh, his gray eyes suddenly dangerous. “You know me better. I shall not be cowed by her or that pathetic ex-pugilist.”
“I shall have to come with you.”
Holmes stopped abruptly. “I think not.”
“I cannot let you face them alone.”
“We shall see. I know of a tavern close at hand, and a pint of bitter is most definitely in order.”
“I wonder if the girl will get away from her. I hope she takes my invitation to heart. If only Michelle could speak with her...”
Holmes gave a short, sharp laugh. “Do not expect her at your door, Henry. I would like to be proven wrong, but it is most unlikely.”
We returned to the house the next day, but repeated rapping on the oak door brought no response. An old man with white sidewhiskers, sitting on his front door step next door, beckoned us over. He told us that Mrs. Morris and her two nieces had left early that morning, taking several large trunks, and he did not know when they might be back.
“A nice enough woman. Always had a smile for everyone. And the girls were certainly beauties. I’ll miss them.”
Holmes smiled at him but said nothing. I was immensely relieved. I had slept poorly, and the old woman had lurked in my dreams, gray and terrible, while Flora’s tearful face stared up at me in mute appeal.
Five
Violet’s invitation to dinner had given me an excuse to buy a new dress, but I was troubled by thoughts of my poor patients at the clinic. I set aside an equal sum to distribute there.
The dress did suit me, although it was somewhat risqué. My shoulders and part of my bosom were left bare. The silk fabric was of medium weight, a beautiful shade of green, with no wretched train dragging about on the ground. Our maid Harriet helped me do up my hair, then I put on pearl earrings and a gold necklace, both gifts from Henry. Glancing in the mirror, I was pleased with everything except my hands. They were large and red—fashion and carbolic acid were clearly incompatible. Luckily, gloves were to be worn with my dress, and once I had put them on and tugged their ends up past my elbows, I could pretend to be one of the idle rich.
When I came down Henry was seated in his favorite armchair. The top of him was white—waistcoat, dress shirt, and bow tie; the bottom was black—trousers and patent leather shoes. His black tailcoat was thrown across a nearby chair. He looked very handsome, his brown hair and mustache slightly shaggy. (I hated the shorn Prussian style.)
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