Henry stroked my hair lightly. “How could you... waste...? Oh, what is the use of questions.”
Holmes dropped the fork abruptly and pulled a revolver from the pocket of his frock coat. “Please do not move your right arm, Mr. Farnsworth—no sudden motions whatsoever. Very good. Now slowly withdraw your hand. Set it on your lap. Excellent. Henry, I believe he has a pistol of some sort in his inner jacket pocket. Would you be so kind...?”
Henry walked across the room to the sofa and carefully reached into Farnsworth’s pocket. He was on the opposite side from the sister. He withdrew a small, ugly weapon.
“A derringer, Mr. Farnsworth. Wherever did you find it? Do you realize how difficult it is to hit anything? They are totally useless beyond a few feet.”
Violet shook her head angrily. “You did not tell me about any guns, James.”
Farnsworth glared at her. “His proof does not amount to much.”
“What is the use?” Violet sighed. “You have it all exactly right, Mr. Holmes.” Her smile slowly faded. “I must confess I don’t much care for the idea of prison.”
“You cannot!” I cried. “You are too sick!” I turned to Sherlock. “For God’s sake—you cannot let them lock her up—please!”
Holmes flinched. “Calm yourself, Michelle,” he said. Henry came back across the room. I grabbed for his hand. He sat on the chair arm and put his other hand on my shoulder.
Holmes and Violet were staring at one another. She appeared sick again and utterly exhausted. The Farnsworths were frightened now, both of them. The fire had died down, but with a sudden crackle, an ember flew out and landed on the hearthrug.
Holmes lowered the revolver and closed his eyes momentarily. His mouth twitched. “If you will return the money—every penny—I shall let you go.”
Violet stared at him. “What?”
“You must give back all the money and call off the Angels of the Lord and the others. It must all cease.”
Violet smiled. “My own father-in-law has paid James for years to spy on me, and Harrington—he was such a pig. Abigail was only one of his victims. If you had known him, you might have understood.”
Holmes opened his mouth, his face reddening. “You presume too much, madam. Never speak that way to me—never. I will not tolerate such talk from you or anyone else. You are beautiful and have great charm; you are a genius; but you do not know everything. You are not God. Do not try to be a deity—do not try to judge and punish the guilty. The world will always have an abundance of fools and scoundrels. Now then, as I said, if you will return the money, dismiss these two, and call off your Angels, I shall let you go free. If you will only give me your word, I shall leave this house and never set eyes on you again.”
Violet stared silently at him. The corners of her mouth slowly rose. “Free?” She laughed. “You still do not understand.”
“For God’s sake, Violet.” Farnsworth leaned forward, a man I had never seen before. “Say yes!”
Violet shook her head. “None of you do. You simply do not understand. I would rather die than spend another day with my husband. This is my eighth wedding anniversary.” She laughed, baring her teeth. “It was to be the day of my escape—my triumph. I’d rather die than stay with him—I’d rather die.” She was smiling, but there was no doubt she meant it.
“Damnation.” Holmes shook his head, teeth clenched. “Whatever am I to do with you?”
The door swung open, and Holmes jerked about, the revolver ready. Donald Wheelwright froze in the doorway, looming there like some great brown mountain, and stared at the gun. Holmes lowered the barrel. “What is going on in here?” He had on his worn tweed jacket and his enormous walking shoes.
Violet began to laugh. A red flush appeared on her cheeks. “I was just explaining to Mr. Holmes that I would rather die than spend another day with you.”
Wheelwright’s brow furrowed, the sullen anger showing in his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“You must congratulate Mr. Holmes. He has solved the whole mystery—the spiders, the gypsy, everything. He is worth every pound you paid him. You must assure Father Wheelwright that he is most assuredly not overrated.”
“What is this?” Wheelwright asked.
Holmes and Henry stared blankly at him. I knew how they felt. Not only did he appear dangerous, but whatever could we say to him?
“I am the mastermind—I am the evil genius.” She laughed harshly. “I made the whole thing up—along with the Lovejoys’ assistance. Abigail was the gypsy at the Paupers’ Ball, and she left the note in the library.”
Wheelwright turned his gaze on Miss Farnsworth, and she went ashen, her fear obvious. “No, no,” she murmured.
“But you must not blame her—it was my idea—it has all been my idea. I dreamed up the cake with the spiders, and I helped choose them. I knew what a coward you were, how they would reduce the big, strong, masterful Donald Wheelwright to quaking jelly. Watching your face that night made it all worthwhile—watching you run away like some silly little servant girl. And it was Lovejoy who choked me last week after I had found another spider. The spiders were a nice touch. Abigail and I pretended I had been attacked. And last night I tore open my gown with a garden fork and pretended to see the gypsy. It hurt—it hurt dreadfully.” Her voice wavered for a moment. “But I thought of you as I did it. Mr. Holmes was clever enough to find the fork. It’s there on the floor. I’ve also been busy robbing all the pretentious, arrogant fools whose company I have had to endure all these years. I have used a good deal of your money in my schemes, but I have invested so wisely that you are a rich man. Of course, if you had tried to manage the money yourself, we would no doubt be in the poorhouse by now—you could not manage the boiling of an egg.” This struck her as funny, and she began to laugh.
None of us had moved. Donald Wheelwright’s face was red, his eyes fixed on her. “Is this some... joke?” He glanced at the rest of us.
Holmes grimly shook his head. “No.”
He stepped slowly through the doorway, then closed the door and locked it. “You did all this?” He reminded me of people I had treated who had been badly injured but who did not seem to understand that they were hurt.
Violet choked off her laughter. Her face was red, her eyes aflame, and she hissed, “Yes!” and jerked her head in a nod.
“You did?” He could not seem to believe it. “But why?”
“Why? You dare to ask why? Because I hate you!”
“Why?” His voice was a rumble.
“Because of what you did to me—because of the filthy, nasty thing you did to me—again and again. I told you not to touch me! I told you I could not bear it! But you were a brute—an animal. You hurt me so—again and again.” The hysterical mania that had seized her faltered; her lips quivered, her eyes filling with tears.
“Oh, no.” I sighed softly. “Oh, I should have know—I must have known.”
She had married in her early twenties, and like most women of her class—like Jenny—she had known almost nothing. Some women were lucky, but if the man were rough and cruel, the results could be disastrous, akin to ravishment. And there was no escape for the unhappy woman—no way out—legal or otherwise. The man might do whatever he wished with her.
Wheelwright glanced nervously about the room. “I haven’t touched you in years.”
“Thank God for small favors.” Violet laughed harshly. “But you did—you kept at it that first year even though you knew how I loathed it—loathed it. You kept pawing at me. I thought I would go mad each time you touched me. I did not know what to do. I seriously considered suicide. Spiders are no more frightful to you than you are to me. I wanted to die, but then I decided that was foolish. What I really wanted was for you and all your kind to suffer—to feel the same pain and humiliation as I. That was when I decided upon revenge. I would wait and plan and gather you and all the others in my web. I pretended to submit, I seemed to make peace, but all the while I consoled myself by making my plans, by imagining how you and the others would suffer even as your wives, your servants, and your pathetic whores had suffered.” She bared her teeth in a cruel, joyful smile. “Oh, yes, and I made sure I could not bear your child.”