Chapter 14 - A Lie That's Preferable to the Truth
"Have a seat, my dear."
Jim motioned Violet over to a couple of armchairs in front of Lynda's desk. She took a seat, her heart-rate a dull thud. This could be good news or bad. She found Jim Moriarty hard to read.
Perching on an arm of the chair opposite, Jim said, "I have loved this—this little game of ours. Playing Hollywood executive, playing film producer. Did you like me winning over Stacia Jecks? Getting the ball rolling on Canning Town?"
Violet clasped her hands together in her lap, her brow furrowed.
"I'm… sorry?" she asked.
But Jim bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I did try to warn him," he said in slight exasperation before looking up once more. "I sent my messenger along, only he got distracted during delivery, and the message wasn't relayed with enough… gravitas."
Wait. Warn him? Who?
"Are you talking about Hersch Gleitzman?" Violet asked tentatively, her throat tightening.
"Huh?"
"W-warn… who?"
"Oh," Jim said. "You're still existing in our little fairy tale. Hersch Gleitzman doesn't even rate in the real world. But he was getting in my way. Our way. No wonder he got stabbed in an alleyway in Queens. A simple mugging gone wrong, you see. Oh! No, wait." A fierce heat began to spread across Violet's cheeks with these words as Jim looked at his watch. "That hasn't happened yet," he continued, frowning. Looking up at Violet, he said, "Sorry. I've rather spoilt the ending there. But that ordinary, unimaginative insect. Did he really think he could pull one over on the woman who spat in Sebastian Moran's face?"
Something snapped inside Violet, like one of Sherlock's violin strings wound too tight.
"Jacob," Jim went on. "Jacob Venucci. I gave Jakey-boy the message to relay via you, but he was distracted by his feelings." He wrinkled his nose a little. "Oh well," he said, shrugging. "Just let me give you the message myself. Tell Sherlock to back off."
The blood had drained from Violet's face. She knew these words in a completely different context. Sebastian Moran. Jake. Sherlock. Back off? The air in the room crackled with static.
Her incompatible worlds were colliding.
"But…"
"I can see you're utterly confused. My apologies. I keep forgetting how ordinary minds work. But I'm surprised Sherlock's never mentioned me. He must have. There's no way he'd believe someone like Sebastian Moran had the expertise to evade arrest all these years. Well, except for this year. Nice sleuthing there. And I must admit I'd grown rather bored of Seb's tantrums. But surely he's said something—Sherlock. I like to think of myself as a consultant. Like him! Consulting Criminal. Or Criminal Mastermind of the Underworld. You've gotta admit that's sexier."
He spoke like Sherlock—that casual arrogance that everyone should understand the subject matter. But how did he know so much about Sherlock? And the case?
Somewhere a distant memory of Sherlock's assertion when commencing the Sebastian Moran case came to the forefront her mind.
I suspect a more intelligent figure is pulling the strings.
But how could that be him? Jim Moriarty? He worked in the entertainment industry, for goodness sake.
"I… I don't know what you're talking about," Violet said, her mind scrambling. "H-how can you be…"
"How can I be what?" Furrows appeared in his brow. He sounded a little impatient now. Rising to his feet, he added, "Both the Chief Operating Officer of Etienne-Lumiere and the Criminal Mastermind of the Underworld?"
All the air seemed to have whooshed out of Violet's lungs as she watched Jim tread the carpet towards Lynda's desk.
"You work for the studio," she said without any real conviction in her tone.
"Honey, I am the studio," Jim replied, pivotting on the rug and stretching his arms out wide. He seemed kind of comical and outrageously mad. A bit like Timothy Killaney's villain in Rise of the Five. "I'm every studio," he added, puffing up slightly. "How do you think you got where you are today? I know just the right buttons to push on just the right people."
Violet felt as if the room was dimming at the edges—a vignette, leaving Jim at its focus.
"Regency Road," Jim went on, leaning against the desk and folding his arms across his chest. "I got you that role. Didn't turn out quite like I wanted it to, but still. It gave you a start." A tiny sliver of ice found its way into Violet's heart. "And Catherine Hilderness," he continued. "Sir Henry Masters really didn't want you. It took me three attempts to convince him otherwise. Nice of you to pester the casting director, but that ain't what got you the gig, my dear. I thought old Sir Henry was going to have a heart attack by the end there. What was it like working with him? He must've strived hard to hide his loathing of you."
Violet's jaw slackened. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. It sounded like nonsense, but… at the same time, it all clicked—her good fortune regarding roles this year. Not due to her talent or determination. And Sir Henry Masters, especially. She always felt uncomfortable in his presence.
"And here you are on Rise of the Five," Jim continued. "It's happened pretty fast for you, hasn't it? So, what else have I got lined up? Improbity? Nice little scandalous sex romp. Wonder what Sherlock's gonna think of that one. But… Arthur Avenue. That wasn't my doing. I really can't see it working out. I would never have grouped you with that bunch of old has-beens. Well…" He glanced around the office with a sigh. "This has been interesting, but back to the point of our little meeting. Tell Sherlock to back off."
This again.
Despite the air pressing in on her and the topsy-turvy revelation of her career successes, Violet grasped onto something tangible—the memory of the last time these words were spoken to her by Jake.
"No," she said, rising from the armchair.
"What?"
Her voice trembled, but she managed to repeat herself. "I said, 'No'. I'm not doing it. I told Jake, and I'm telling you: tell Sherlock yourself. You're not using me as a messenger for your stupid power plays."
"Oh," Jim said, laughing lightly. "Good! I didn't think Sherlock would put up with you all this time if you didn't have a backbone."
"Why are you afraid of him?" Violet ventured.
"Afraid of him? No, no. I was once distracted by him. Now he's just annoying. I always thought he was like me—fiercely chasing that little bit of excitement to keep him from being bored. To keep life from flatlining. But then he became ordinary. Dating? Hooking up with an actress? Now that blew me away, I must admit. My favourite kinds of people. Actors."
His favourite people? Actors?
"Is that why you're helping me?"
Jim's eyes glinted with humour and he touched the tip of his tongue to his top lip before he spoke again.
"Funny concept, the entertainment industry. Just look at the history of the world. People have always been like this. It's a cultural thing. Admire those who are successful, talented, and unobtainable. Worship them. Actors are revered as gods. And if I'm the one to create the gods then what does that make me? It's a little hobby of mine. On the side. But as I've told you, I have interests the world over. Where do you come in? I wanted to see what—or who—had made Sherlock so ordinary. And it was you! Violet Hunter, at the infancy of her career. I could've let you flounder around for years working as Sherlock Holmes's personal assistant, with the odd yoghurt ad on TV thrown in so you could still call yourself an actor. But now you're going places and I'm the tour guide. But are you up for the ride? The lovely Daisy wasn't. She left early."
"Daisy?" Violet repeated, the only name her mind could catch onto while it was buried in an avalanche of thoughts.
"Sherlock is meddling," Jim went on while Violet was still trying to determine if Jim meant Daisy Firmington. All other thoughts relating to Jim's pivotal role in her career lay in a pile at her feet. "Prague," he said. "Munich. They were important to me, so I need you, Violet Hunter, to give Sherlock my message. It has to be you. You're his weakness."
Jim turned from her. From across the desk, he pulled a laptop towards him.
"If you're not willing to play," he said, "then let me give you an extra incentive. It's your emotions I need to appeal to. You'll make Sherlock listen to you."
He pressed a key on the laptop bringing the computer to life, drawing Violet's gaze. The screen was split into three, the videos playing in each looping back to the beginning after a few seconds.
Violet easily identified the subjects: Emily, her father, and Mandi.
"I really don't know what her appeal is," Jim said, pointing to Emily, her old friend from Manchester, as Violet approached the desk. "Jake said you were quite fond of her."
Emily stood by a lamppost, smoking, the point-of-view from inside a car that was pulling up alongside. The young woman leant into the open window. There was no audio, but it was obvious what was going on here. Violet knew what Em had to do to pay to feed her heroin addiction.
In the middle of the screen, the camera's perspective showed her dad opening the door to his flat, a half-smile on his face as he stepped back to allow the person who was filming him to enter. In the entranceway of the flat at the Brassworks that Violet knew only too well, the cameraperson stopped in front of the hall mirror and fluffed out her hair. It was Cherry, the woman Sherlock and Violet had encountered on the stairwell one night—the woman both she and Sherlock had deduced was a hired escort. She wasn't holding anything, so Violet could only conclude the elaborate brooch she wore on her dress contained a hidden camera.
The final video appeared to be CCTV footage of Mandi exiting a nightclub via an alleyway with an unrecognisable man. He suddenly pivots her against the alley wall and they embrace, lips locked in a passionate kiss.
"Kinda got a common theme going on here," Jim said. "It was unintentional, believe me."
"Why are you doing this?" Violet asked, her voice shredding itself at the edges.
"The danger of working on the streets, or having clandestine liaisons with all manner of people, is that unfortunate things can happen. Although, I think it's more likely your friend Emily here will die from a heroin overdose more so than an attack from a random punter. But that's just my opinion. You might have your own insight."
Violet said nothing, both mesmerised and horrified by the images in front of her.
"And there we have it," Jim said. "The little message you're to deliver to Sherlock is: back off, or three of the people you care about will die. One at a time."
Jim closed the lid of the laptop with a snap, jolting Violet back to the here and now.
"Just one more challenge, my dear. One more consideration. You should know that some people say my name with a certain kind of… awe. It's whispered in corners, both feared and revered. In other quarters, no one dares speak my name out loud. And that's where you live now, Violet Hunter. In that quarter. Your challenge is to deliver my warning to Sherlock Holmes without giving away my identity. I have to be allowed to continue here. You can't tell him when and where and how I gave you this message."
"I can't lie to Sherlock. He'll know."
"You and I both know that isn't true. You've lied to Sherlock before and gotten away with it. He's blinded by his trust in you. And besides, you're an actress with some talent. Do you think your climb to the top would be as convincing to the rest of the world if you were a hack?"
"He'll ask me questions."
"And you won't answer them. It's that simple. If I get wind of… if I even hear a whisper that I'm being investigated, then you may as well plunge in the knife yourself… or the syringe… or… whatever."
Jim picked up the laptop and patted it affectionately.
"Well, I'd better be off," he said to Violet's stunned silence. "And so had you. You've got to pack for Brisbane, and don't forget that all important phone call you have to make to your boyfriend."
Jim disappeared through the office door, and in his wake the air pressure in the room lessened, allowing Violet to breathe once more.
#
"Ma'am?"
Violet jolted awake and blinked, bleary-eyed, at the flight attendant.
"Another Muscat… thanks," she said automatically, her voice scratchy from sleep.
"Ah… was it tea or coffee?" the flight attendant asked.
Oh, fuck it. Is it breakfast time already? Violet thought, her mind a thick soup.
"Tea. Please. Earl Grey."
The actress straightened up fully and brushed her hair from her face as the tea was poured and the tea cup placed on the table beside her chair. She had dozed off again after waking and staggering to use the facilities. On the way she had asked the delightful Philippa, the flight attendant, to remove her bedding now that she was awake and could she please have something to drink. When she returned, she curled up into her now upright seat and promptly fell back asleep. Dear God, she was a mess.
Violet ran her fingers through her hair again, then took a gulp of tea. Its soothing effect had her leaning heavily back into her seat, her eyes fluttering to a close, her breath a languid exhale.
When would they serve her alcohol again? Was it too tacky to ask? Not that it was entirely her fault. Philippa had given her a Laurent-Perrier Grand Siècle after boarding and well, it was a slippery slope after that. There was the Esk Valley Pinot Noir from New Zealand during dinner, and in keeping with the antipodean theme, she chose the Rutherglen Muscat from Australia, a dessert wine. It went smoothly with the cheese board (the double brie was from Somerset!), her glass continually topped up before it ran dry. Now that definitely wasn't her fault.
Still, all that alcohol served to smooth the edges and take her mind off her non-existent talent.
You're the most talented actress I know.
Thank you, Sherlock. You don't really know many actresses, do you?
Point taken.
Why didn't you answer your fucking phone? I wouldn't be on this neverending flight if you had.
You know why. I'm on a tricky case and therefore non-con—
Non-contactable. I know.
Arsehole.
Prior to this assumption, she'd phoned his number repeatedly in a blind panic the evening after she'd met with Jim. She'd snapped at Mandi for getting in a fluster herself because Violet wasn't telling her anything. But there'd been no other solution. People would die if she didn't give Sherlock the message to stop what he was doing. And it would be her fault. So, she had to return to London if she couldn't get through to him.
Violet chose the pita bread with halloumi cheese and mediterranean vegetables for breakfast. Something to soak up the wine. She only ate the bread anyway. The rest of her flight went along the same lines as the start.
Minimum food. Low carbs, remember! Maximum red. The Merlot, a Château Dassault, went well with lunch, whatever that was. Superb! she had remarked to Philippa, not that Violet could really tell the difference between the Merlot and the Muscat and the Pinot Noir. Sherlock always knew the subtle differences between the various red wines he chose for them. He would sniff them first and tell her about their fruit notes. Oh, Sherlock!
She frequently scrolled through the selection of movies—never watching more than five minutes at a time—and shuddered at the thought of who was controlled by Jim. Or Gleitzman. Had been controlled by Gleitzman.
She shivered whenever she thought of the fatal attack on Hersch Gleitzman. She'd seen the headlines when she was in transit in Singapore.
I've rather spoilt the ending there, Jim had said.
Yes, you did, Jim. Remind me never to watch a film with you.
Soon enough, the old A380 lurched towards Heathrow and Violet was off tap.
She remembered to put one foot in front of the other when disembarking the plane. Go with the flow. Follow the herd. Thank God for all those signs and travelators. She paused on one of the travelators to draw on her coat.
No luggage to collect, just the backpack she had taken on board as hand luggage. She was only going to be here for… what was it? Ten hours? Twelve? Give Sherlock his message, spend the night in Baker Street, then repeat the journey in reverse tomorrow.
Oh my God. What am I doing? She could feel a hysterical kind of laughter bubbling up inside her.
Violet spied her driver, Maurice, holding a sign with the name "Lettie" on it—her childhood name and one that Emily had always called her. Mandi had latched onto it. What an efficient P.A.—making sure nobody knew she was arriving.
Saving lives!
That's it! She remembered. That's why she was doing this. To save their lives. Emily. Her dad. Mandi.
"Evening, Ms Hunter," Maurice said, relieving Violet of her hefty backpack and leaving her with just her handbag to carry. "Welcome home."
"Thank you."
One foot in front of the other. Bow head. Eyes downcast. Readjust sunglasses.
Somebody off to the left was snapping a photograph of her.
She fell asleep on the journey from Heathrow to the City of Westminster, sunglasses still in place, and woke with a jolt when the limo braked suddenly. Peering through the rain-slashed window, she could just make out Hammersmith Station.
Saw something at the Lyric Theatre, once, just around the corner.
When I had designs on becoming an actor.
Nearly home.
The lights of the city were red and white blobs through the window. Autumn rain.
Violet's insides fluttered at the thought of seeing Sherlock again. It would be a relief to unburden herself, to have him say, "What a moron. I already know who he is, Violet, and he's under arrest as we speak!"
Yes!
No. That would be the most unlikely outcome. But he would at least assure her he was off the case—the one that would get her loved ones killed—and he would accompany her back to Australia! Wonderful!
No!
He shouldn't come back with her. Jim wouldn't be there, anyway, and Sherlock would be bored out of his mind with nothing to solve because Violet wouldn't tell him anything. Couldn't tell him anything.
The limo pulled up alongside the kerb outside 221, its tyres splashing in the gutter. Violet stepped out onto the footpath, gazing up at the orange glow emitted through the upstairs flat windows. Rain dashed her face, plastering her hair to her head.
"Miss!"
Sherlock would be sitting by the fire, reading one of his serial killer biographies.
"You shoulda waited!" Maurice said, holding an umbrella over her head.
If he's home, then why didn't he ring me?
"Here," the driver insisted, holding the handle out for her to take. "I'll just get your luggage."
Violet took the umbrella without much thought. Walking to the door took more effort than she realised it would. She swayed a little, then stood there, staring at the brass knocker, mesmerised about being back in London, back in Baker Street, before remembering she had the key. She lived here.
"Here, I'll hold that," Maurice said, coming up beside her and reaching for the umbrella.
His presence spurred Violet into action. She rummaged inside her handbag for the housekey, plucked it out, then slid it into the lock. A jiggle and a twist, that's it!
After pushing the door open a little, she thanked Maurice, who handed her the backpack he'd retrieved from the boot, and negotiated with him for a return pickup the next morning at 9am.
Shivering, she crossed the threshold. She carefully closed the external door behind her, instead of letting it fall shut. It was very late, after all, and she had so many strikes against her name already, where the landlady was concerned.
Violet shed her jacket, unzipped her boots, and left them, along with her backpack, in a wet pile at the bottom of the stairwell. She tip-toed up, clutching the banister. The narrow staircase did sway a little. Or was that the walls?
She smoothed her damp hair away from her face, her heart thumping in anticipation. It would all be over soon. Everything will be okay.
No, it won't, the Sherlock in her imagination retorted. Because you can't tell me about Jim Moriarty and the hold he has on your career.
Apart from that.
Pausing on the landing half-way up, Violet could hear the faint sound of violins and other stringed instruments. Sherlock was playing something from his collection again? The last time she heard anything like that, it was at full volume and he was drinking whiskey and smoking.
And believing that Violet was a traitorous harlot.
Something very odd here.
Cautiously, Violet ascended to the top. The door to the living room stood ajar. Placing one stockinged foot over the threshold, she gently pushed the door inwards a little, before peering behind it.
Fire crackled and danced in the fireplace, partly obscured, though, by a silhouetted figure kneeling on the floor in front of Sherlock's chair. It only took a split second for Violet's eyes to refocus on the occupants.
Sherlock sat in his armchair, leaning forward, just about to kiss the woman at his feet, her long, wavy tresses cascading over the blue satin dressing gown she was wearing. Sherlock's dressing gown? She, though, had become distracted by Violet's entrance.
Violet's heart iced over.
A faint smile plucked at the woman's lips. Sherlock blinked and straightened up, a mild panic flitting across his features as he, too, spied Violet frozen by the doorway.
"Cousin Lettie," the woman remarked.
#
Author's Note:
Please consider reviewing even if you've never given feedback before. I'd love to know if there's still interest for this fan fic. At the moment, I'm feeling completely discouraged from updating, which is a shame, because I really love this story. Thank you!