The Web Weaver

by Sam Siciliano

  Holmes nodded. “I see. We are dealing with an angel.”

  Mrs. Lovejoy’s eyes rolled upward. “You do understand, sir. She is a veritable angel.”

  “No doubt. An angel of the Lord.”

  Mrs. Lovejoy’s eyes opened wide. “She is not! She is only...” She cut off her words, her face reddening. “I mean to say... she is... she is the angel... of this house. Our good angel of the house.” Her voice grew soft again.

  As puzzled as I, Holmes stared at her closely. “And do you honestly believe in angels and devils, Mrs. Lovejoy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And what does the devil look like?”

  “He has horns and a tail.”

  “Does he have a mustache and a goatee?”

  She stared angrily at him. “It does not do to mock the Evil One.”

  “And have you thought much about the nature of evil, Mrs. Lovejoy?”

  “What?”

  “Of what does evil consist? Come—you must have reflected upon the matter.”

  She hesitated, then the words burst forth. “It is those with power abusing the helpless, the less fortunate—it is men who beat and humiliate women, men who lie and brutalize and...” She cut off, suddenly.

  Holmes stared at her. “Ah.” Her cheeks had turned red. “It is the drunken laborer who comes home and beats his wife,” he said.

  “That is a good example.”

  “It is the manufacturer who employs men and women for long hours of toil under deplorable conditions, pays them a pittance, ruins their health, then dismisses them.”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “Yes, that is exactly it.”

  He was still watching her. “It is the rich man who dallies with a lady of ill repute until her looks are gone and then casts her adrift.”

  Mrs. Lovejoy hesitated only an instant; her eyes had caught fire. “Yes.”

  “I see. And what do you think should be done about such evil?”

  Mrs. Lovejoy’s eyes showed a wild animation that I would not have expected from such a person. “I would make them...” Her voice rang out, suddenly loud and strong. She closed her eyes, and the muscles in her slender throat rippled as she swallowed. When she spoke her voice was again earthbound. “I pray, Mr. Holmes, every day, that such evils may be averted.”

  “And do you think the Deity hears your prayers?”

  She nodded solemnly. “Oh, yes. Someday He will come again, and London will become the New Jerusalem. All will be transformed.”

  “Tell me, Mrs. Lovejoy, is there any evil of the variety you describe in this household?”

  She stared at him, warily. “I have already said the mistress is an angel.”

  “And your master?”

  A hint of anger showed in her brown eyes, but vanished almost immediately. “I am only a servant, sir. It is not my business to say.”

  Holmes sat down in a chair and stared closely at Mrs. Lovejoy. She demurely lowered her eyes. Holmes set the fingertips of one hand against those of the other. “Madam, which church do you attend?”

  Her head jerked upright. “What?”

  “I asked which church you attend?”

  “I... Why—why is it your business to ask such a question?”

  I was surprised by her haughtiness, but Holmes only smiled.

  A flush spread across her cheeks. “Forgive my... impudence, sir. One must... must struggle always against Pride. That was Lucifer’s great sin, which cast him from Heaven. I pray every day for all the sinners, but in this great evil city, this den of wickedness, I have had a hard time finding a worthy church. I meet occasionally with a few goodly women of like mind; we meet to do God’s work, to... to pray together and...”

  Holmes was puzzled. “A congregation of women?”

  “No, no—not at all—an informal prayer group only, and there is a church I occasionally attend, a church on... Hampstead Street. The minister there is... tolerable.”

  “Ah, yes,” Holmes nodded. “I know that church well. Is that not the Reverend Dunbar’s church—Obadiah Dunbar?”

  She moistened her lips with her tongue, hesitating. “I... believe so, although...”

  “Yes, yes, a large hardy fellow with a white mustache who laughs a great deal and...” Sherlock said.

  Mrs. Lovejoy closed her eyes and promptly fell out of her chair. I was at her side at once. I turned her over, but her eyes were closed. I glanced up at Holmes, but he seemed completely undisturbed. She moaned, and fluttered her eyelids. “What...?” she murmured.

  I massaged her small, cold hand. “Do not try to get up yet, Mrs. Lovejoy.”

  “What am I doing on the floor?”

  “You fainted.”

  “Oh.” She put her hand on her forehead. “My head feels so very odd.”

  I turned to Holmes. “You had better find someone to help her.”

  “My interview was nearly finished.” He strode toward the library door, opened it and stepped into the hall.

  “Have you felt ill in the last day or two, Mrs. Lovejoy?”

  “A bit dizzy in the morning, sir, and I do have something of a queasy stomach.”

  I put my hand on her forehead. Her brown eyes stared at me from under half-closed lids. Again I noticed how translucent the skin over her eyes appeared, the faint blue veins showing through. “You do not seem to have a fever. Have you eaten much today?”

  “No, sir. With the queasiness I thought...”

  Holmes and Lovejoy appeared at the door. Violet swept past them, the copious garments under her skirts rustling as she walked. “How is she?”

  “She needs to eat something,” I said, “and then lie quietly.” Lovejoy knelt beside me. We helped her up into the chair.

  Violet shook her head. “She has been working far too hard. I told her she might delay this interview, but she insisted.”

  Mrs. Lovejoy took a deep breath. “I feel better. Pardon my foolishness.”

  Lovejoy held her arm tightly. “You must take better care of yourself, dearest.”

  She smiled weakly and let Violet and Lovejoy lead her to the door. Holmes brushed aside his frock coat and slipped his hand into his trouser pocket. “I should like to speak with Mr. Lovejoy now, if he has the time.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”

  “I shall take good care of Abigail,” Violet said.

  Violet paused as she and Mrs. Lovejoy reached the doorway. With her back to us, Violet said, “Jonathan, may I have a brief word with you? There are... some chores.”

  Lovejoy glanced at Holmes and me. “Pardon me, gentlemen. I shall be with you in an instant.” He returned almost at once. “Now then, Mr. Holmes, how may I assist you?”

  “Do sit down, Mr. Lovejoy.” We all sat. Holmes crossed his legs. “We were discussing church when your wife swooned.”

  Lovejoy shrugged. “I would know nothing about that, sir. My wife does the churchgoing for us both. I believe in the Deity, but I cannot abide having some sanctimonious man in a black gown preach at me.”

  “Your wife seems to have a religious bent.”

  “She does, sir. She is always praying for everyone and trying to save us from the devil’s snares.” Lovejoy seemed faintly amused.

  “I would presume your wife attends church every Sunday?”

  “Ah, you might well think that, but she does not. She has rather strict requirements for a congregation and preacher; she has found no church that truly satisfies her.”

  Holmes’ gray eyes watched the butler closely. “That does seem odd.”

  “She is very opinionated, sir, very opinionated indeed, but a good woman and a good wife, despite all her talk of the devil.”

  “She did mention a church she attends occasionally.”

  Lovejoy nodded. “On Hampstead Street, I believe.”

  “Is not that the Reverend Obadiah Dunbar’s church?”

  Lovejoy smiled. He had very good teeth, white and straight. “As I indicated, Mr. Holmes, you are asking the wrong man. I have not set foo
t in a church for many a year. Are you a frequent churchgoer yourself?”

  “I am not.”

  Lovejoy gave a brief laugh. “Then we understand one another.”

  “We digress, Mr. Lovejoy. What can you tell me about this ugly business with the note?”

  Lovejoy’s smile vanished. “Not much, I fear.”

  “How long have you been employed by the Wheelwrights, Mr. Lovejoy?”

  “My wife and I have been with them for about six years. Before that we were with the Stamps of Liverpool, the small household of an elderly couple. After their deaths—which followed closely upon one another—we came to London.”

  “Who employed you?”

  “Mrs. Wheelwright. She is a very capable wife, Mr. Holmes. There are those ladies who have neither the ability nor the inclination to manage a large household. Mrs. Wheelwright, to the contrary, involves herself in every detail. Not a meal is cooked, not a room furnished, not a maid hired, not a bill paid, without her consideration. She is a brilliant woman, sir, kind-hearted and charming as well.”

  Holmes nodded. “So I have seen. And what of your master?”

  Lovejoy’s enthusiasm was checked midair and seemed to spiral slowly downward. “Well, sir, Mr. Wheelwright is an honest, decent man. Frankly, I do not deal with him so often as with the mistress. He has his personal valet and does not much concern himself with the running of his household.”

  “He lets his wife manage it for him.”

  Lovejoy nodded. “Exactly, sir. She is very good at it, and after all, it is a wife’s duty.”

  “Does Mrs. Wheelwright have any enemies?” Holmes asked. “Or is there anyone on your staff who might harbor some minor resentment against her?”

  “No.”

  “Your wife appeared equally certain.”

  “There is no question of it. No one in London pays better wages—you would be surprised how stingy some of the illustrious wealthy can be.”

  Holmes shook his head. “No, I would not.”

  “Moreover, she treats everyone from me and Mrs. Lovejoy to the lowest scullery maid with equal respect. I have never had an unkind word from her. She has no enemies under this roof.”

  “What of Mr. Wheelwright? Does he have enemies?”

  Lovejoy hesitated. “Perhaps.”

  “Who in the house dislikes him?”

  “‘Dislike’ is perhaps too strong, sir. There have been misunderstandings on occasion. Normally Mr. Wheelwright is a quiet sort of man. He is not easily roused, but beware of him when he is. He is quite particular about certain things.”

  “Such as?”

  “The time of day at which meals are served. That his shoes are brushed and set where he can find them. Nothing makes him angrier than being unable to find something. Mrs. Wheelwright once gave away some worn clothes, which included a favorite jacket. There was... an unpleasant scene. His valet, old Osborne, is always threatening to quit.”

  “Why?”

  “He says he does not like the way the master treats him, but I think he actually fears him. Poor Osborne is barely five feet tall, and well, you have seen the master. He rarely strikes anyone, but...”

  “Whom exactly has he struck?”

  Lovejoy raised his black eyebrows, his eyes suddenly mournful. “I am sorry, sir, but I can say no more. I may have already been indiscreet.”

  “Very well, Mr. Lovejoy, we shall not pursue these domestic matters. Do you know of any enemies outside the house?”

  “There I am on unfamiliar ground. You must ask Mr. Wheelwright himself. I gather he is not so... unpopular as his father, but I am only speculating.”

  “Yes,” Holmes said. “I have heard how the elderly Wheelwright crushed his rivals. I have also heard some curious speculation about the content of his products.”

  Lovejoy said nothing but gave a very slight, reluctant nod.

  “Thank you, Mr. Lovejoy. I shall be returning another day to speak with the staff.”

  “I shall have the carriage brought round, sir. I hope I have been of assistance.”

  He stood. His was a very imposing presence in his black morning coat, his posture, diction, and bearing perfect. Butlers were sometimes portrayed as buffoons on stage, but theirs was a position of great responsibility. Capable and intelligent, Lovejoy was more of a gentleman than many gentlemen.

  I stood up and stretched my arms. Holmes went to the bookshelves. He pulled out a volume, and soon his upper lip wrinkled in disdain.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.”

  I could not help but laugh.

  “Mrs. Wheelwright has diverse tastes: natural histories, entomology, biology and geology; Jules Verne’s romances, Watson, Dickens, and Eliot. Ah, what have we here!” From one of the shelves hidden below the table, he pulled out a violin, the wood a lustrous reddish brown. He examined it minutely. “I do believe—yes, it is a Guarneri!—a Guarneri del Gesù. It is not inferior to my Stradivarius. I must try it.”

  He tuned the instrument, plucking at the strings and adjusting them. Finally, he pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket, and tucked that and the violin under his chin. Standing very straight, he held the bow loosely at the end of his long outstretched arm; he closed his eyes, raised the bow in a single fluid gesture and brought it down across a string, playing a long sustained note. “Oh yes, a very warm tone, exquisite.” The fingers of his left hand danced about as he played some scales. “Beautiful, absolutely beautiful.” Eyes still closed, he launched into a piece.

  The melody began plainly enough, but quickly grew more complicated. When a contrapuntal line was introduced, I decided Bach was probably the composer. Holmes’ playing emphasized the music’s majesty and dignity, but the instrument’s tone added warmth. Rather awestruck, I listened from my chair without stirring.

  After the final note had died away I heard a tremulous voice: “Oh, bravo, Mr. Holmes—bravo.”

  Holmes lowered the violin, his handkerchief falling to the floor. “Forgive me for not consulting with you first, Mrs. Wheelwright, but I could not resist such an instrument.”

  Violet stood by the doorway, her dark eyes blazing and face flushed. She wiped at her eyes with her long fingers, and laughed. “Emotion is such a foolish, senseless thing. Most of the world can listen to music without being much affected, but it moves me so much. I said books were my solace, but music is another, one which warms my blood as mere words never can.” She laughed again. “I am pleased that Dr. Watson did not invent your musical inclination, but he does not do you justice. Do you really own a Stradivarius?”

  Holmes nodded, his eyes fixed on her. “I do.”

  “I envy you.”

  He raised the violin by its neck. “It is no better than this instrument. I take it this is yours?”

  “Yes. My father left it to me.”

  “And do you play, Mrs. Wheelwright?”

  She had gradually approached us and stopped about a yard from Holmes. She gave a slight nod. They stared intently at each other.

  “Was that Bach’s music?” I asked.

  “It was the Allemande from his Partita Number One,” Violet said.

  Holmes handed her the violin, then stooped to pick up the handkerchief and gave it to her as well. She stepped back, tucked the violin under her chin and played a few notes. “You have a good ear—it is well tuned.” She drew in her breath through her nostrils, her rosy lips clamped together, and began to play.

  I have no great ear, but I could tell this was more Bach. The melody went much faster and teemed with notes. It must have been fiendishly difficult. Although the music was very formal, very dignified, its passion was striking; she gave it such pathos, such yearning. My eyes shifted to my cousin. He was absolutely transfixed. I had seen him absorbed before, but never with such fire in his eyes, such color on his cheek. When she finished at last, he drew in a great breath, opened his mouth, then turned and went to an armchair, virtually collapsing. Mrs. Wheelwright
watched him. She too was flushed.

  “That was also Bach, was it not?” I asked.

  Violet nodded. “Yes, from the same partita.” She set down the violin and bow, and held the handkerchief out to Holmes. He raised his head, then took it.

  “Brilliant, Mrs. Wheelwright. Your playing is extraordinary.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

  “It was quite remarkable,” I said.

  She smiled at me. “Thank you, Henry.”

  Holmes ran his hand across his forehead and back over his oily black hair, then stood. “I think we have intruded upon your household long enough.”

  “I have something for you both.” She went to her desk, then selected two envelopes from a stack, and handed one to each of us. “I am giving a small dinner party a week from today, frightfully formal, I fear, but you are both invited—and Michelle, of course. Perhaps you can liven things up. My cook is truly formidable, so I can promise you a memorable meal.”

  I glanced down at the invitation. “How very kind of you.”

  “Not at all. Michelle is especially dear to me, and I have been intending to have you as our guests for some time.”

  “We shall be happy to attend.”

  She smiled again. “I am glad. And you, Mr. Holmes? It is next Monday. I do hope you can come.”

  He stood and thrust the invitation into his coat pocket. He was nearly a foot taller than Violet. “I shall.” They were staring at each other, again.

  “Oh, good.” She laughed. “This will also give you the opportunity to investigate our friends and relations. You can decide who is in league with the old gypsy.”

  Holmes gave a snort of laughter. “No doubt.”

  She led us back downstairs. She and I chatted, but despite some glances from her, Holmes remained unusually quiet. We tipped our hats, said good day, and stepped outside. The yellow glow of the sun was gone, only gray showing in the sky.

  “She is an exceptional woman,” I said.

  “Yes.” Holmes was still clutching his handkerchief.

  “By the way, I meant to ask you earlier—who is that minister you mentioned, the Reverend Obadiah something?”

  Holmes took a deep breath, which seemed to clear his head. He smiled. “The Reverend Obadiah Dunbar is my own invention. He does not exist.”