“We would prefer a brief chat,” Holmes said. “Perhaps you would like to know the name of the person who told us about you?”
“Surely.” Again there was something oddly vacant about her smile.
“Lord Joseph Harrington.”
If this was a test, it produced the desired effect. She sat bolt upright, and every last vestige of color drained from her already pale face. One hand rose, covered her mouth.
“I see the name is familiar to you.”
She let her hand drop. “What is this?”
“We are friends of the late Lord Harrington, Miss Morris, and we wish to put some questions to you.”
She said nothing, but her terror was palpable, showing most of all in her eyes. “I didn’t do nothing.”
Holmes peered at her. “Did you not, Miss Morris?”
Her hand slipped down to her chest, her fingers splayed out across her bosom. “I swear to God I didn’t.”
“So you did not kill him?”
I would not have thought she could be more frightened, but her mouth opened wide, revealing discolored teeth. She tried to speak, but nothing came out. She shook her head wildly. “No—no!” Abruptly her eyes seemed to go liquid, and tears trickled down her cheeks.
I glanced at Holmes, then at her. “Calm yourself, Miss Morris. If you are truly innocent, you have nothing to fear from us.”
Holmes’ gray eyes were fixed on her, and his visage seemed monstrous, gargoyle-like, with that beak of a nose, sharp chin, and probing stare. “That is true. If she is innocent.” The irony in his voice was cutting.
Her hands shook, but she still seemed unable to speak.
“For God’s sake, Sherlock—you will make her ill.”
Suddenly, she leaped to her feet. “Auntie!” she screamed. “Auntie!” I wanted to cover my ears, her voice was so loud.
The door swung open at once, and the old woman appeared. All pretense of amiability was gone, and she resembled a vicious cur, her face red with anger. Behind her stood a tall man whose visage was completely at odds with his dress. He wore the formal garb of a butler, but he had the face of a pugilist, worn and aged. His nose was twisted and had been broken more than once; he had a great scar over one eye.
I too had leaped to my feet, but Holmes remained seated. He opened his coat, withdrew a revolver, cocked it, and leveled the barrel at Mrs. Morris. “I mean your niece no harm, madam, but I will speak with her.”
The old harpy glared at him. She was, luckily for us, a good ten feet away, or I think she would have rushed him. The revolver did not seem to frighten her, but the gigantic butler appeared subdued. He backed up slightly into the doorframe.
“Give me ten minutes with your niece, and then I shall leave. We need to ask her a few questions about Lord Harrington.”
The name, which had so frightened Miss Morris, seemed to enrage the old woman even further. Her great chest swelled, and her face grew so red I thought she might burst a vessel in her brain. “You get out of here!”
“Ten minutes, Mrs. Morris.”
“Out!” she bellowed.
Holmes reached into his pocket with his left hand and threw several gold coins at her, which I recognized as sovereigns. “Ten minutes, my good woman. I would prefer paying you to shooting you.”
I could not believe he would actually shoot the old dragon, but if he had any doubts, you could not see them in his face. The old woman snatched up the coins while the pugilist butler stepped sideways, out of the line of fire.
“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.