Sam Siciliano - The Web Weaver

Violet’s hand seemed to rise of its own accord, floating lazily upward so that the revolver pointed at Farnsworth. He stopped moving. Violet smiled. “Thank you, James, but I have other plans.” She motioned toward the door with the barrel. “Our acquaintance has been a pleasant one, of mutual benefit, and I shall miss you. You both shared my hatred of injustice and played your parts well. Now please go.”

Abigail was distressed. “But, Violet...”

“Will you leave me be!” Violet cried. “Do go! I would not want to shoot you, but I am so tired I cannot think well. My father taught me about revolvers. And Abigail, I know I can rely on you—distribute my share amongst the Angels. Now goodbye.”,

Farnsworth shook his head. He had played the butler for so long he tended to slide back into the role. “A pity. Mr. Holmes was correct. We are only two hack actors. We could never have managed without you. Goodbye, Violet.”

He strode toward the door, drawing Abigail Farnsworth after him. “My gypsy was not hack work,” she said. Farnsworth unlocked the door, then carefully shut it behind them.

I felt dizzy. Everything had happened so fast. Only about fifteen minutes had passed since Donald Wheelwright had come through the doorway.

Violet smiled briefly, her hand trembling. She walked over to a chair by the fire and sat. “Michelle...” Her voice shook, and her eyes were full of tears again. “Oh, God.” She raised the revolver and put the barrel under her chin.

“Violet,” I moaned as fear swept through me, a sudden chill at the nape of my neck, “whatever are you doing?”

“Do you not see? This is the way it was always meant to end. I understand that now.”

“No.” I shook my head. “No, it was most assuredly not meant to end this way.” My mouth felt dry, my hands icy. The dread had returned.

“I’m sorry, Michelle, but...”

“Violet—in God’s name, if you apologize to me one more time, I swear I will strangle you!”

We stared at each other, and then she laughed. “My poor Michelle. I cannot blame you. I shall... I shall try not to apologize again. Can I not make you understand? He hurt me so many times— again and again . I could do nothing. My life has been a nightmare, and now... I am glad I killed him, but I am sorry he is dead. Does that make sense?”

“Yes.” I took a step forward.

“If you come any nearer I shall surely press the trigger. Perhaps I shall press it anyway. My head does hurt, and my stomach. Oh, it will be good to be dead, to be free, finally, of hate and fear and pain—all this pain.”

“No, Violet.” My own eyes were full of tears. “It is not good to be dead—it is good to be alive. You are free now, if you want to be.”

“No—I told them the truth—I can never be free.” Her right hand held the gun, but her left hand slipped over to her side. “Oh, God, this hurts so. My cursed stomach has hurt me forever—it wakes me in the night and spoils my days.”

“The burden is gone, the truth known. You will heal now.”

She shook her head, smiling wearily. Her left eye was badly swollen and bluish. Unaware of what she was doing, she wiped her mouth on her sleeve, leaving a bloody smear on the silk. Her eyes could not seem to focus properly, and I saw she was near the point of collapse. The barrel of the gun quavered continually. I took a step closer.

“No, Michelle.” She drew in her breath, and I saw her struggling to master herself, to find the will for that one final, desperate act.

“You will not go to prison,” I said. “I promise you. What you did was terrible, but necessary. You saved Sherlock. Donald very nearly killed him—and he might have killed you as well. Please put down that revolver.”

“I should not have struck him the second time. That was cruel. I have no reason to go on living. Can you not see the justice of it? Mr. Holmes accused me of playing God, but all I ever wanted was justice.” She sighed. “My justice may seem suspiciously like vengeance. I shall make amends now. I honestly cannot think of why I should live.”

“Because you are my friend!” I cried. “And I should miss you ever so much if you were dead!” I could not restrain my tears, but I kept talking and took another step forward. Violet’s dark eyes were stark against her bruised white face. “You are such a wonderful person, my dear, that it would be a terrible waste, the worst crime of all. You are barely thirty. You are young and you are beautiful, witty, and charming. I have few female friends whose company I can tolerate, and I will not have the best of them blowing her brains out! You said you would not apologize again; well, show me, for once, that you are my friend—show me that you love me even as I love you. And there is Sherlock—he also loves you.”

Violet sobbed and shook her head. “No, no—it is too late—I am lost. I deceived him not once, but many times. And you—I deceived you. It has torn me apart. Oh, I did not want to!” She was crying so hard.

“Oh, my dear, I forgive you—you know I do. I only wish you had confided in me about... Oh, Violet— please .”

I walked over and took the gun from her hand.

“Michelle.” She stood and embraced me, her arms feeble.

“It is over now,” I said. “It is finished.”

“Oh, thank God.” Her body swayed, then went limp in my arms as she finally found the unconsciousness she longed for.

Afterword

Iwoke up early that morning and had to think for a while to remember that I was not at home in London, but near a small village, high in the Alps. February was only two days away. Henry lay beside me, breathing slowly. I moved nearer to him. The room was icy cold, and he gave off heat like a steam radiator. The window behind the curtains was a fuzzy square of grayish light.

I closed my eyes, ready to go back to sleep, then remembered that Violet was with us and that she was still miserable. The thought was like a reoccurring pain, some dull headache. Henry and I had been weary of rain and fog, the winter even gloomier than usual, but we had also made the trip because we had hoped it would improve Violet’s spirits.

Over two months had passed since the disastrous climax at Norfolk. Physically and mentally exhausted, Violet had come down with bronchitis. She had been gravely ill, and I had spent many nights by her bedside. She had a high fever and grew delirious. In her sleep she would talk to Donald Wheelwright. When she became frightened, I would bathe her forehead and try to calm her. Between my practice during the day and the long nights with Violet, I too became exhausted. Henry finally took me aside and sternly told me that even though I had the constitution of an ox, I would eventually wear myself out or fall ill, and then I could help no one. Gertrude and the other servants shared the nursing with me after that, and Henry took on some of my patients. Several elderly ladies found him quite charming.

Violet had recovered from the bronchitis, but then the inevitable depression set in. At least the physical illness had let her sleep, the body overpowering the mind and asserting its demand for rest. Her stomach ulcer had also been better. But once her fever lifted, her spirits sank, and her insomnia returned. Try as I might, I could not distract her from black thoughts.

She, who had run a household of over thirty servants, handled all the accounts and investments, and overseen a vast, secret organization, now spent most of her days idly brooding before the fire. She had been a witty and charming conversationalist, but now I could barely get her to talk to me. I could not recall the last time I had heard her laugh. She had become pale, thin, and weak, a prime candidate for pneumonia—which would kill her quickly—or tuberculosis, a disease of lingering horror.