Holmes stared calmly back at her. “You only drove him to it.”
“No.”
Lovejoy stood and took her by the shoulders. “Please, Abigail.”
Violet had also gone very pale. “Why... why would she do such a thing?”
Holmes’ fingertips tapped at his thighs. “There was a great deal of money involved. But let me tell you who these two really are. Lestrade was kind enough to set his clerks to work and sent descriptions of the finalists in the contest down with Henry. The clerks were looking for a man and woman briefly involved in crime, five to ten years ago, who had no subsequent record of arrests. I provided a detailed physical description of the Lovejoys, and I told Lestrade to be especially alert for any persons with a background in the theater.”
“Theater?” Henry said.
Mrs. Lovejoy’s teeth clamped together, while Lovejoy gave a sharp, involuntary laugh.
Holmes nodded. “Yes. It had become obvious that both Lovejoys were consummate actors. I had seen Mr. Lovejoy do Steerford, and then there was Mrs. Lovejoy’s remarkable performance last week after seeing the supposed fiend. Do you recall her excellent diction and impressive volume? Unlike Mrs. Wheelwright, whose voice was hoarse, weak, and strained, Mrs. Lovejoy was deafening. She has a very big voice and has been well trained. Her religious fanatic is quite convincing, but of course it is only another role.”
Mrs. Lovejoy could not repress a brief, savage smile.
“Of course, the high point of her career, the performance of a lifetime, was that of the crazed gypsy at the Paupers’ Ball.”
Mrs. Lovejoy dug her nails into her knees, and I drew in my breath sharply. “Dear God,” Violet murmured, her hand still pressed to her side.
Holmes smiled. “The old gypsy was always the most preposterous part of the whole business, a character from a second-rate melodrama. After I saw Il Trovatore I became convinced she was modeled after Azucena. Tell me, madam.” He stared sharply at the woman in the black dress. “Did you ever study voice as well?”
She said nothing.
Henry nodded. “She could have left the note in the library—and substituted the cake before the party. She knew everything that went on in the house. And she must have watched while someone else tried to strangle Violet.”
I leaned forward in my chair and stared at the woman. “How could you do such a thing? What has Violet ever done to you?”
Her guilt seemed obvious, and she lowered her eyes. Lovejoy had hold of her arm. “I... I do not know what you are talking about,” she said.
Holmes gave a sharp laugh. He was pale himself and caught up in a strange fury. “Do you not, Miss Abigail Farnsworth?” She drew in her breath, her eyes widening. “It was unwise to retain your actual first name. And this is Mr. James Farnsworth. They are not man and wife. They are brother and sister. The descriptions fit perfectly, and there are even photographs from their days on stage. She had lighter hair then, but it was only dye.”
No one spoke for about a moment—the air was charged with tension.
“These two come from a theatrical family, having joined their parents as children on tours. They worked in the serious theater. Miss Farnsworth had a career as the blonde ingénue, while her bearded brother—who is six years her senior—specialized in Shakespeare. Unfortunately, Miss Farnsworth decided to supplement her flagging career with some extortion. She became involved with several wealthy and indiscreet young gentlemen. Miss Farnsworth would lead them along so far, but then Mr. Farnsworth would appear as the outraged brother and threaten both bodily injury and public denunciation. They were only too happy to pay a hundred pounds or so to have him off their backs. Two disgruntled suitors finally compared notes and went to the police.”
Already I felt relieved. “But why would they want to hurt Violet?” I asked.
The Lovejoys—or Farnsworths—stared at one another. He still held her arm in his hand. She turned to me and gave a sharp laugh. “You don’t understand, do you? You are like all the others. I hate you—hate you all.” She clenched her fists, her face contorting horribly. She laughed again. “Have you ever had to bow—to scrape—to fawn and beg? You are no better than she! Your kind treat us like dirt—you do not even see us!”
“No mistress is kinder than Violet!” I exclaimed.
“Kind—kind!” She drew back her lips, baring her teeth at me. “I do not want your kindness—your charity! I want you and all your kind to suffer—to suffer as you have made me and so many others suffer. And all those filthy young men! Curse you—curse you all!”
Lovejoy shook her arm. “What are you saying, my dear? Stop this, I beg of you! Please, my dear.” He shook his head. “Your nonsense has disturbed her, Mr. Holmes. You are absolutely mistaken—I have never heard of your Farnsworth, but you have upset my wife. Her mind is... unbalanced.” He seemed genuinely distressed.
Holmes raised his long white hands, then clapped politely three times. “Bravo, Mr. Farnsworth—bravo, Miss Farnsworth. Another superb performance. It is truly a shame you did not continue on in the theater. What a pair you might have made. You could have challenged Henry Irving and Ellen Terry. Alas, I fear it is now too late.”
Violet’s left hand clutched the arm of the chair, the tendons standing out. I was glad to have the threat to her life lifted, but I feared what this added strain might do to her. She did look ill, her eyes feverish. She stared at Holmes. “Are you... are you quite sure about this, Mr. Holmes?”
As he looked at her, the smile faded from his lips, and I could see the fatigue about his eyes. He had also been up all night, and the two of them were beyond mere exhaustion. “Yes,” he said.
Violet put her hand over her eyes. “I... I cannot believe it.”
Henry appeared as relieved as I. “You must tell Donald Wheelwright. He will have to eat some crow.”
Violet moaned and turned away toward the window. I stood up and went to her. “Oh, my poor dear.” I touched her unhurt shoulder, and she clutched desperately for my hand. “It will be all right now—it is all over with.”
The Farnsworths said nothing. Sherlock’s mouth jerked briefly into a smile, and then it was gone, his gray eyes bleak and desperate.
“Not quite,” he said. “A few details remain.”
The fire had died down. He picked up a log, dropped it on the flames, then seized the poker and thrust viciously at the blackened wood. “Obviously an accomplice was involved, the person who attempted to strangle Mrs. Wheelwright last week and who attacked her last night. The first event would seem to require a man, the second a woman.”
“It could have been a man disguised as a woman last night,” I said. “The gypsy must have been strong.”
Holmes laughed, a sound that set my teeth on edge. “Very good, Michelle. So we have an accomplice to account for, and one very curious fact.” He paused and looked first at Henry, then at me. Neither of us spoke.
Holmes began to pace. “The Farnsworths in the police records do not amount to much. Their crimes were petty and uninspired. Decent actors they might be—even splendid at times,” he gave them an ironic glance, “but there is nothing to prepare one for the scope and genius of what they have done in the last year or two. You have heard me jokingly refer to my Moriarty, but all along I have sensed a truly first-rate mind at work. The oil scam was cleverly designed to pull in the cream of London society, to embarrass and even ruin many. I am quite certain Mr. Steerford got his million pounds, and then there was the peculiar business with the Angels of the Lord. A very odd sensibility was involved, one with an insidious twist. My Moriarty wanted to arouse the prostitutes and servants, to inflame them, to turn them against their employers and their clientele. Money—mere avarice—was not what motivated Moriarty. We are dealing with a complex and disturbed mind, but a brilliant one. To have conceived of so many plots, to have spun so many webs, cast so many threads, found so many allies, all consumed with the same hatred of high society and the same hatred of... of men.”