“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.)
He glanced up at me. “Good Lord,” he murmured. “And who can this be?” He stood, walked over and kissed my throat, then my mouth, his arms encircling me, the starchy sleeves rustling slightly. A little later I pushed him gently aside and tried to catch my breath. His warm hand lingered on my bare shoulder. “I do believe it is Michelle.”
“You make me dizzy,” I said.
“I might well accuse you of the same crime. If you dress this way, you must expect to be so accosted. Perhaps we should send the Wheelwrights a note that you are feeling ill, and then we might spend the evening at home.”
“Oh, no. After all this effort at appearing beautiful, I must be seen.”
“And I must suffer every brute at this party ogling my wife!” He shook his head mournfully. “At least I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that the most beautiful woman there will be leaving with me at the end of the evening.”
I kissed him lightly on the mouth. “You are a dear.” He drew me closer. “No, Henry, you must not get me all hot and bothered.” Dimly, we heard a knock at the door. “That must be Sherlock,” I said.
Henry released me. “Bad timing on his part.”