The Web Weaver

by Sam Siciliano

  He glanced up at me. “Good Lord,” he murmured. “And who can this be?” He stood, walked over and kissed my throat, then my mouth, his arms encircling me, the starchy sleeves rustling slightly. A little later I pushed him gently aside and tried to catch my breath. His warm hand lingered on my bare shoulder. “I do believe it is Michelle.”

  “You make me dizzy,” I said.

  “I might well accuse you of the same crime. If you dress this way, you must expect to be so accosted. Perhaps we should send the Wheelwrights a note that you are feeling ill, and then we might spend the evening at home.”

  “Oh, no. After all this effort at appearing beautiful, I must be seen.”

  “And I must suffer every brute at this party ogling my wife!” He shook his head mournfully. “At least I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that the most beautiful woman there will be leaving with me at the end of the evening.”

  I kissed him lightly on the mouth. “You are a dear.” He drew me closer. “No, Henry, you must not get me all hot and bothered.” Dimly, we heard a knock at the door. “That must be Sherlock,” I said.

  Henry released me. “Bad timing on his part.”

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and then Harriet and Holmes came into the sitting room. His black overcoat was unbuttoned. He also wore a dress shirt, waistcoat, and bow tie, his top hat in hand. He appeared very tall, the coat almost like a black cape. With his beaked nose and piercing eyes, he reminded me of some dark bird of prey. Henry helped him off with his great coat, then handed it, the hat and stick to Harriet.

  Holmes pulled off his gloves and glanced briefly at me. “Michelle, you look... quite remarkable.” He turned and stood before the fire, rubbing his hands.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Henry withdrew his watch. “The Wheelwrights’ carriage will be here shortly.”

  “It was kind of Violet to insist on sending a carriage,” I said. “Sherlock, have you discovered anything further about this mysterious affair with her and the gypsy?”

  He turned to us, one hand clasping the other wrist behind his back. “My lack of progress is annoying. Mrs. Wheelwright seems to have no enemies whatsoever, and if someone were angry at Wheelwright, a likelier possibility, why would that person not torment him directly? Especially since he does not much care for his wife.”

  I sighed. “Oh, Sherlock, are you certain of that?”

  He glanced at Henry, then at me. “Yes.”

  “Are you two sharing some confidence?”

  Holmes shook his head. “No.” But I saw reluctance in Henry’s eyes.

  From below came a rapping at the door. Henry stood. “That must be the carriage. I’ll get your coat, Michelle.”

  “I shall wear the black velvet cloak and a shawl.”

  Henry kissed me on the back of the neck while Sherlock was turned away, then set the cloak over my shoulders. “You are a dreadful pest,” I whispered affectionately.

  The men put on their black overcoats and took their top hats, and we all trooped downstairs. The evening was a blustery one, the wind cool and heavy with moisture. The clouds had swept in late that afternoon, and I was afraid that our fair sunny weather was gone for that year. The carriage was the one Violet and I had used, and Henry remarked on the smooth ride.

  Holmes sat across from us gazing out the window. As we passed a gaslight, his face was lit up, then covered again in shadow. He was staring at me.

  “Michelle, I do not wish you to betray any confidence, but can you tell me anything about Mrs. Wheelwright that might assist my efforts on her behalf?”

  “You put me in an awkward position, Sherlock. She is both my patient and my friend.”

  “Anything you tell me will go no further. Need I remind you that she has been threatened and that her life may be in danger?”

  I frowned. Sherlock surely had her best interests at heart, but certain suspicions—if that were not too strong a word—I would keep to myself. I had noticed some oddities, which I could not explain even to myself.

  “Her general health is good, but she is highly strung. She has almost too much energy. Unlike some of our colleagues, I do not believe in rest and idleness as a treatment for nervous women, but she rushes about constantly. As a result she often has difficulty sleeping. At one time she relied on laudanum, but she assures me that she now takes it only as a last resort. I have told her it is best to rise and read a book or walk about the house, and that seems to have helped her. She suffers from occasional dyspepsia, again I believe because of her frantic activities. She sometimes becomes weary and depressed, but even when her spirits are at their lowest, she keeps up a brave front.”

  Henry laughed softly. “Insomnia and an excess of energy. Oddly familiar.”

  Holmes was silent for a moment. “And her childlessness?”

  “There are no obvious anatomical problems, but that is often the case with infertility. She was also examined a few years ago by a specialist.”

  Holmes watched me. “It seems a matter of regret to her.”

  I bit at my lip. “I... am not so sure.” Violet had shown almost no squeamishness during her two days at the clinic: lacerations, wounds, sores, pus, and blood made no impression. But childbirth... A woman had barely made it to the clinic and given birth immediately. Jenny remained at my side, but Violet had simply vanished for those few brief frantic moments.

  Holmes gazed out the window. “No instinct is stronger in women than the maternal one.”

  I opened my mouth, but then closed it. I had learned not to contradict men when they made such overblown generalizations, as it was usually futile. Sherlock had so little real experience with women—how was he to know any better? All the same, in his work he must have met some women in whom greed, ambition, or hatred were stronger than a maternal instinct. Henry gave my hand a gentle squeeze, his way of commending my restraint.

  The carriage stopped before the Wheelwrights’ house, and Collins opened the door for us, the familiar gap-toothed grin on his face. Inside stood the butler, Lovejoy, his hair and his dress impeccably black. He bowed deeply while other servants took our coats. “Good evening, Doctors. Welcome, Mr. Holmes. It is a pleasure to see you again.”

  We stepped inside, the great hall already filled with people. Donald Wheelwright stood at one side of the room towering over the two older men next to him. Looking about, I found Violet on the opposite side of the room speaking with someone I recognized—Dr. Matthew Dyson—my predecessor as her physician and a good friend. She saw me, put one hand on Dyson’s shoulder, and swept toward us.

  She was radiant and absolutely beautiful. Her gown was a pale lavender silk, a darker purple lace forming a pattern, which began at her bosom and flowed down the front of the dress. (She favored the color which was her name.) About her long slender neck she wore a necklace of gold and diamonds; small diamond earrings glittered on each ear. The pallor of her skin and the subdued hue of her dress contrasted with her black hair and dark eyes. Her shoulders were far narrower than mine, the muscles firm, the lines of her throat and arms long and clean. I glanced to either side of me. Henry’s eyes were fixed on her, while Holmes appeared faintly intoxicated.

  “Michelle, you look lovely!” she exclaimed.

  “Not half so lovely as you.”

  “Nonsense! I’m sure Henry feels otherwise, as will most of the others here.”

  Henry put his hand on my waist. “I tried to persuade her to remain at home with me this evening.”

  The smile on Violet’s face did not waver, but confusion showed briefly in her eyes. “How selfish of you! I am glad you decided to share her.” Violet turned to Holmes, who had not taken his eyes off her. “It is good to see you, Mr. Holmes. I am glad you could come.” He nodded but said nothing. Violet put her lip between her teeth, and glanced about. “You must have some champagne or sherry. Both are available.”

  A certain awkwardness had crept into her voice, and it surprised me. “Your dress is beautiful, my dear,” I said,
“and those diamonds!”

  She shrugged her bare shoulders. “I think a simple gold chain like yours is more flattering, but Donald insists the family jewels be flaunted.”

  “Good Lord,” Holmes murmured. “Now there is a veritable fortune.”

  We all turned and saw a sour-looking woman of middle age who wore an incredible necklace. Three of the diamonds were at least an inch across; red rubies and green emeralds surrounded them.

  Violet let a ripple of laughter slip from her lips. “Yes, tonight Mrs. Herbert’s jewels eclipse all others. I fear the Wheelwright diamonds can hardly compete.”

  “However, the situation is exactly opposite with regards to the wearers themselves,” Holmes said.

  Holmes did not look at Violet as he said this, and it took her a second to catch his meaning. She caught at her lip again with her teeth and smiled. “Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Holmes.”

  “It is no compliment, madam, only the simple truth.”

  Dr. Dyson approached us with his wife. “I am happy to see, Dr. Doudet Vernier,” he began, “that you are taking good care of Mrs. Wheelwright. She appears fit enough. You also appear quite spectacular yourself. If our compatriots who still believe women have no business in medicine could see you now, you might charm them, Circe-like, into changing their minds. Of course, they are already swine.” While he spoke he maintained the gravest composure.

  I seized his arm. “You are a rogue, but a charming one.”

  His wife shook her head. She appeared slightly younger than he, just shy of sixty, but she had pure white hair. Her expression was as good-humored as his. “Pay him no attention. He’s always pestering someone.”

  “Michelle, do you remember my wife, Margaret?”

  “Of course,” I lied. “And you know Henry. And this is his cousin Sherlock Holmes.”

  Dyson’s bushy gray eyebrows dived inward. “Good Lord—the consulting detective?”

  Holmes’ mouth twitched into a brief smile. “None other.”

  Mrs. Dyson’s eyes had grown very large. “I thought you were dead, Mr. Holmes.”

  “A rumor only.”

  Violet laughed. “Thank goodness! I shall not try to introduce you to everyone, but I fear I must at least present you to Donald’s parents. Would you excuse us briefly, Dr. Dyson?”

  She started through the crowd, stopped briefly before a servant with a tray, and handed each of us a glass. “You must be properly fortified before meeting father Wheelwright.”

  I took a quick sip. The champagne was cold, bubbly, and delicious.

  Ahead of us was Donald Wheelwright, that head with the neatly trimmed brown hair and mustache, the thick neck and wary eyes, rising above all others. He wore the same black evening dress—white shirt and tie—as the other men, but the coat was enormous. I had only met him once or twice, always in passing, and somehow his sheer size had never struck me so forcibly as now. I had not seen him since Violet revealed her physical indifference toward him, and I wondered suddenly what he might be like if he were truly angry. Violet was so small and slight. Given his size and his strength, he might do whatever he wished with her. Despite the glitter of jewels and the extravagant chandeliers overhead, I felt a momentary chill. There was something about his eyes... I took a big swallow of champagne.

  “What is it?” Henry whispered, his hand on my waist.

  I slipped an arm about him. “Nothing. I’m only a little dizzy.” He stared at me, his eyes full of concern, and I thought again how much I loved him. We might occasionally quarrel, but never in all the time I had known him had I been afraid of him. He had always been so very gentle. I realized Violet was speaking.

  “I believe you have all met my husband, Donald?”

  I raised my head and nodded. You are being foolish, I told myself. Do not make him into a monster. Perhaps he is fond of Violet.

  “And these are his parents, Mr. Donald Wheelwright, Senior and Mrs. Jane Wheelwright. This is Dr. Henry Vernier, his wife Dr. Michelle Doudet Vernier, and this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

  Old Wheelwright and his wife seemed shrunken alongside their son—hard to believe they could have conceived such a giant! His father was not even six feet tall, his wife a good foot shorter. The old man stooped slightly and was quite lean. The pink skin of his scalp showed between the thin strands of white hair; a few bristly hairs jutted forth from his large nostrils; and his blue eyes showed a hint of long-simmering anger. His coat appeared slightly wilted, and his white shirt had a faint yellow tint. His short, stout, matronly wife in her black dress reminded me of Queen Victoria, but in the brown eyes of her broad, somber face I saw the first resemblance to the son. Their eyes showed the same wariness.

  Old Wheelwright managed a ferocious smile, his watery eyes fixed on my bosom. I wished I had my shawl to cover myself. “You’re the lady doctor my daughter-in-law is always talking about, eh? I’m not sure I approve of lady doctors.” Somehow he made “daughter-in-law” sound insulting.

  I was annoyed and said the first thing that came to mind. “I’m not sure I approve of gentleman meat barons.”

  He scowled at this, while his wife’s jaw slackened and dropped, then he laughed. “You don’t, do you? I like a woman with spirit, Doctor...” He glanced at Violet. “What was the name again?”

  “Doudet Vernier,” I said.

  “Why two names, tell me that?”

  “Since my husband is also a physician, it becomes confusing otherwise. Hence, he is Dr. Vernier, I am Dr. Doudet Vernier.”

  “I suppose there’s some sense in that.” His eyes drifted briefly downward as he again ogled my bosom. What a foul old man, I thought. “And this is the great Sherlock Holmes?”

  Holmes stared coolly at him. “You may keep your superlatives in reserve. Few men of fame live up to their reputations, I find.”

  Wheelwright’s brow furrowed. “My son has told me what he is paying you. I hope you are worth the price.”

  “Father...” Donald Wheelwright began, but a sharp glance from the old man cut him off.

  Violet kept her smile, but her cheeks reddened.

  Holmes also colored slightly, his gray eyes icy. “‘Treat every man to his just deserts, and who shall escape whipping?’ The phrase may not be exact, but Hamlet said something similar.”

  The old man gave a gruff laugh. “They do say you are the best, Mr. Holmes, and I am glad to have you working for us in this unfortunate business.” It was not quite an apology, but it was the best we might expect.

  Holmes nodded brusquely, then turned to Mrs. Wheelwright. “And you, madam, what are your thoughts on this unfortunate business?”

  She seemed dumbfounded that she had actually been addressed. “People should not go asking for trouble,” she said, “especially since the powers of the devil are strong.”

  Her husband’s lip curled; he laughed sharply. “The virtuous need not fear the devil! I don’t believe in curses. The Lord knows, I’ve been cursed often enough, and yet here I am.”

  Violet stepped between Henry and me and took our arms. “I must introduce them to some other people, then speak with Mrs. Lovejoy and the cook. Dinner will be served shortly.”

  The elder Wheelwrights nodded. Henry stared intently at them, and then downed his champagne in a single swallow. “It is always a pleasure meeting one of the pillars of British nutrition. The picture on the tins does not do you justice.” He said this so gravely that only Sherlock and I would have known he was joking. The old man appeared puzzled, really seeing Henry for the first time.

  “Come, my dear.” I drew him away. I could see that Violet was amused. “You will have us thrown out of the party,” I whispered.

  “I do not much care. I like staring at a pretty woman as much as any man, but there is such a thing as discretion. Oh well, the poor fellow was sorely tempted.”

  I smiled, but whispered, “Hush.”

  Violet waited until we were well out of earshot, and then said, “I hope you will forgive my father-in-la
w’s rudeness. He believes that his wealth gives him the right to treat the rest of humanity as his inferiors. Let me introduce you to the Herberts—you can have a better look at the necklace, Mr. Holmes—and then I really must see how dinner is coming along.”

  Mr. George Herbert was a portly man whose joviality clashed with his wife Emily’s sour countenance. Given that he was Mr. Herbert, not Lord Herbert, he must have made his fortune in trade, his wife’s necklace the beacon of his success. Herbert grinned as he was introduced, then offered Holmes his plump ruddy hand. Emily Herbert tried to smile, but the rest of her face would not go along.

  Violet gave my arm a squeeze, bade us goodbye and turned to leave. Her dress left half her spine and both clavicles exposed, her long slender neck shown to good advantage. I noticed Holmes staring past me at her bare back.

  “Well, Mr. Holmes,” George Herbert said, “I have followed your career with some interest, and it is a great honor to meet you.”

  Reluctantly, Holmes turned his gaze upon Herbert. “I am pleased to hear it, sir.”

  “I have even read your pamphlet on various tobaccos.”

  “Indeed? You surprise me.”

  “Of course, I’m partial to hats and coats—they are the key to a man’s character. You’ve heard the business about the eyes being the windows to the soul? Nonsense. I believe it to be the coat. A shoddy tight-fitting coat means a narrow parsimonious soul. A spaciously cut, ample coat is the sign of a generous, expansive nature. Whenever I meet a man, I always take his measure by the coat upon his back.”

  “How, then, do you judge the fair sex?” Henry asked.

  Herbert’s smile faded, and he shook his head. “There you have me, sir. I’m afraid the fair sex is something of a mystery. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Yes.”

  I turned to Mrs. Herbert whose smile was at odds with her strained, disapproving eyes. “And what do you think of your husband’s theories?”