Victorian Villainy by Michael Kurland

is?”
    “She’s upstairs in her room,” Crisboy told me. “She is quite upset. But of course, we’re all quite upset. She asked not to be disturbed.”
    I made for the staircase, Holmes close behind me. “Why this rush?” He demanded. “We can’t just barge in on her.”
    “We must,” I said. I pounded at her door, but there was no answer. The door was locked. I put my shoulder against it. After the third push it gave, and I stumbled into the room, Holmes close behind me.
    There was an overturned chair in the middle of the room. From a hook in the ceiling that had once held a chandelier, dangled the body of Lucy Moys.
    “My God!” Holmes exclaimed.
    Holmes righted the chair and pulled a small clasp knife from his pocket. I held the body steady while Holmes leaped up on the chair and sawed at the rope until it parted. We lay her carefully on the bed. It was clear from her white face and bulging, sightless eyes that she was beyond reviving. Holmes nonetheless cut the loop from around her neck. “Horrible,” he said. “And you knew this was going to happen? But why? There’s no reason—”
    “Every reason,” I said. “No, I didn’t predict this, certainly not this quickly, but I did think she might do something foolish.”
    “But—”
    “She must have left a note,” I said.
    We covered her body with a blanket, and Holmes went over to the writing desk. “Yes,” he said. “There’s an envelope here addressed to ‘The Police.’ And a second one—it’s addressed to me!”
    He ripped it open. After a few seconds he handed it to me.
Sherlock,
It could have been different
had I been different.
I like you tremendously.
Think well of me.
I’m so sorry.
Lucy
    “I don’t understand,” Sherlock Holmes said. “What does it mean? Why did she do this?’
    “The letter to the police,” I said, “what does it say?”
    He opened it.
To whoever reads this—
I am responsible for the death of my sister Andrea. I killed her in a jealous rage. I cannot live with myself, and I cannot allow Professor Maples, a sweet and innocent man, to suffer for my crime. This is best for all concerned.
Lucinda Moys
    “I don’t understand,” Holmes said. “She was jealous of Faulting? But I didn’t think she even knew Faulting very well.”
    “She kept her secrets,” I said, “even onto death.”
    “What secrets?”
    “This household,” I said, gesturing around me, “holds one big secret that is, you might say, made up of several smaller secrets.”
    “You knew that she had done it—that she had killed her sister?”
    “I thought so, yes.” I patted him on the shoulder, and he flinched as though my touch was painful. “Let us go downstairs now,” I said.
    “You go,” Holmes said. “I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
    I left Holmes staring down at the blanket-covered body on the bed, and went down to the parlor. “Lucy has committed suicide,” I told Crisboy, who had put the bottle down but was still staring at the wall opposite. “She left a note. She killed Andrea.”
    “Ahhh!” he said. “Then they’ll be letting the professor go.”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “She’d been acting strange the past few days. But with what happened, I never thought.... Hung herself?”
    “Yes,” I said. “Someone must go to the police station.”
    “Of course.” Crisboy got up. “I’ll go.” He went into the hall and took his overcoat off the peg. “Ahhh. Poor thing.” He went out the door.
    About ten minutes later Holmes came down. “How did you know?” he asked.
    “The footsteps that you preserved so carefully,” I said. “There were three lines: two going out to the cottage and one coming back. The single one going out was wearing different shoes, and it—she—went first. I could tell because some of the prints from the other set overlapped the first. And it was the second set going out that had the indentations from the walking stick. So someone—some woman—went out after Andrea Maples, and