The Web Weaver

by Sam Siciliano

  She shrugged her formidable shoulders. “They keep him occupied.”

  My laughter put some warmth in her smile. She wore a pink dress that did not at all suit her, a gaudy ostentatious thing which clashed with her reserved manner. Surely it was more a clue to her husband’s nature than her own.

  Holmes was staring at the necklace with the three enormous diamonds—it was difficult to ignore. “Tell me, Mr. Herbert, that necklace—did it not belong to the Duke of Denver? I recognize it by reputation.”

  Herbert nodded. “Very good, Mr. Holmes. I purchased it from the duke himself some five years ago. His misfortunes were my gain.”

  Sherlock stared coolly at the man’s self-satisfied countenance. “Perhaps, sir.” He hesitated. “I have often thought such spectacular jewelry to be more trouble than it is worth.”

  Mrs. Herbert’s eyes abruptly caught fire. “Exactly, sir. Exactly.” We all stared at her, surprised by her sudden vehemence. “I have often tried to tell him so.”

  Herbert gave an embarrassed smile. “My wife, oddly enough, has never cared for the necklace. Why do you say it is more trouble than it is worth, Mr. Holmes?”

  “There are literally thieves everywhere, Mr. Herbert. This is tantalizing bait.”

  “But if one is careful... I assure you the necklace is kept locked in the best safe money can buy, absolutely unbreakable, and whenever my wife wears it—only a few times a year—our stout footman, a very trustworthy fellow, accompanies us everywhere.”

  Holmes smiled grimly. “That safe only gives you false confidence. As I often tell my clients, such jewelry is best kept locked in a bank vault and treated like bars of gold bullion. Its ornamental value causes one to take foolish risks. One would not blithely wear several thousand pounds in notes strung about one’s neck.”

  Mrs. Herbert gave a ferocious nod. “I am never comfortable in it—never.”

  Mr. Herbert’s face reddened, some of his joviality evaporating. “Surely you exaggerate, Mr. Holmes? Such a thing of beauty should be seen! There must be precautions one might take. What would you advise?”

  “Keep a written record of each time you have the necklace out of the safe, never take your eyes off it for even an instant, and have it appraised annually.”

  “What on earth for? I do not plan to sell it.”

  “Have it appraised to make sure it is what you think it is—a clever thief could substitute a worthless fake, and the theft might go unnoticed for years.”

  The color slowly drained from Herbert’s face. His wife seized his arm. “George, are you well?”

  He took a big swallow of sherry. “Such a thing could not happen.” He managed a smile. “We are too careful.”

  Holmes shrugged. “I recall a case involving a large emerald which had been in the family for years. When the owner went to sell it, he discovered he had only a fake. The theft may not have even been during his lifetime.”

  Herbert took another glass of sherry from a passing servant. “Well, at least I had it appraised at the time of purchase. The theft must have happened in the past five years.” He gave a hearty laugh, but his wife was not amused.

  “I think you should take Mr. Holmes’ advice and lock the wretched thing up.”

  “No, no, Emily. You look far too charming for me to be willing to shut it up.”

  She gave a weary sigh, but for the first time something like affection showed in her face. “Oh, George, you are hopeless.”

  “After all, my dear, I got it for you.”

  “So you always say.”

  From somewhere above us came a booming crash. Holmes whirled about. Lovejoy stood on the balcony above us holding a pair of cymbals, his demeanor magisterial. Beside him stood Violet.

  “Dinner is about to be served. Do come upstairs and be seated.” She stepped back, and Lovejoy crashed the cymbals again. A muted laugh swept through the gathering.

  “Lord, those things gave me a start,” Henry said.

  Holmes nodded. Mrs. Herbert said, “She does something different every time. In August it was trumpets.”

  We started for the stairway. I took Henry’s arm. Mr. Herbert gazed about warily, worried now that some jewel thief lurked nearby.

  Dr. Dyson and his wife Margaret waited for us. He stroked thoughtfully at his white, gray and brown beard, his fingers lost in its depths. Margaret held his other arm loosely with her gloved hands.

  “Michelle,” he said, “you do have a prosperous look. Of course we know why, do we not, Henry? Her practice is thriving because she has stolen all our patients—batted those charming blue eyes—brained them and hoisted them away in her bag.”

  “Matthew!” his wife exclaimed. “What a dreadful accusation! You wretched men certainly deserve the worst. How you love to prod and poke at us poor creatures! Say what you will, women are gentler.”

  Another woman spoke to Margaret, and she turned away. I slipped my hand about Matthew’s arm. “You know, of course,” he said, “that I was only jesting. I’m happy to see you succeed. Pioneers like you have shown your opponents’ fears to be mere prejudice.”

  I laughed, but I was moved. “Oh, Matthew, you are such a dear. Not only do you ridicule accusations of patient-snatching, but you actually refer people like Violet to me. You are the most good-hearted soul I know.”

  Dyson flushed slightly, but I could see he was pleased. “I knew Violet would do better with you. She is a charming lady, and like you, she laughs at my jests, only...” We were halfway up the stairs.

  “Only...?”

  “Something was troubling her, I could tell, but she would never confide in me. Of course, I was only her doctor, not her minister, but I felt I was missing some vital information.”

  I thought about Violet’s distaste for Donald. “We all have our troubles,” I murmured.

  Dyson laughed gruffly. “Too true, but this did not seem the usual thing.” His voice dropped almost to a whisper. “Not the usual marital disharmony. Not childlessness either.”

  My amazement must have shown, and he laughed. “We stodgy old men are not all blind, Dr. Doudet Vernier. At my age, you have seen certain... patterns repeat themselves so often that you have an instinct for them. I am rarely surprised anymore, but, with Violet I... Oh, pardon me, Mr. Holmes. I should watch where I am going.”

  Holmes had been farther ahead with the Herberts, but he was suddenly just before us, and Matthew had nearly walked into him. I knew at once that he must have been listening.

  “Not at all, Dr. Dyson. The fault is mine.”

  The large double doors were open, and as I stepped into the dining room I gave an involuntary gasp. It was like an enchanted palace. The light came from enormous candelabras of ornate silver, two and even three feet high, with white tapers each a foot long. The candelabrum at the center of the long table held ten candles, the flames at a level taller than a man. The warm yellow-orange light glittered and sparkled off countless surfaces of glass, crystal, and silver. The damask tablecloth had a subtle, white-on-white pattern, and each place setting had four sterling silver forks, four spoons, four knives, and four glasses, all resplendent. The napkins were neatly folded and stood like elfin crowns. Crystal vases and pale white china bowls held exotic flowers—lilies, orchids, roses—or luminescent yellow-green moss or darker green ivy. In the corners of the room were ferns, huge potted things, which belonged in some prehistoric jungle. The guests cast flickering shadows against the dark wood and floral wallpaper.

  Violet appeared at my side and took my arm, the diamonds at her throat catching the candlelight. “I have been selfish,” she whispered. “I put you and Henry near me.” Her skin had a warm glow of its own.

  “Oh, it is all so beautiful,” I murmured.

  Violet released me before my chair, which Henry politely pulled out for me. At my place were the menu and a folded card with my name on it. Ravenous, I felt ready to devour all five courses on the menu—soup (turtle), fish (poached salmon), meat (beef Wellington or stuffed quail), s
weet (chocolate cake), and dessert.

  Henry shook his head. “The tablecloth looks clean enough to operate upon. A pity we must spoil such splendor by actually eating here.”

  The man beside me, a clergyman who recalled a mournful raven, gave us a disapproving stare. The two elderly Wheelwrights had the place of honor at the head of the table, and to their left were this elderly clergyman in black and his equally thin, dour wife. Donald stood to the right of his father, surveying the room and his guests, his face placid, his eyes uneasy. Soon everyone at the table except Donald and the minister were seated, but hovering nearby were Lovejoy and the footmen in formal attire.

  “Reverend Killington will say the benediction,” Donald said loudly. His voice had a nervous edge. He sat, and we all bowed our heads.

  “Father in heaven, we thank thee for thy bountiful gifts which we are about to receive, and we pray that in these troubled and iniquitous times our hearts may remain pure and unsullied. When the dreadful judgment day comes and thou strikest down the wicked and sendest them into the fire, we pray thou wilt have mercy on our poor souls. We ask this in the name of thy son, Christ our Lord.”

  The Reverend Killington had a piercing tenor voice worthy of an Old Testament prophet. As I was seated next to him, I was relieved when he finished. I raised my eyes and across the table saw Violet’s mocking smile. Briefly she raised her right eyebrow.

  Everyone joined in the “amen.”

  “Thank you, Reverend Killington,” Donald said.

  Smiling fiercely, the elderly Wheelwright nodded. “The Reverend knows how to pray.”

  “It is my profession.” The Reverend Killington sat absolutely upright—as if his spine had no curve to it. His face was thin, his hair mostly gone on top, but he had black bushy eyebrows and brown eyes which glowed like two hot coals.

  Violet introduced us to the Reverend and his wife. The room, meanwhile, had filled with maids in black dresses and white aprons who served soup from tureens on carts. The soup was green and smelled odd.

  Henry shook salt and pepper on his, and then took the first spoonful with great relish. “I have not had turtle soup in a long time.”

  I forced a smile. I did not care for turtle soup, but I knew I must eat some. The Reverend Killington had an odd look in his fiery eyes. He certainly did not approve of woman physicians, and he probably also thought my dress was a deliberate provocation, my flesh offered up as a temptation.

  “So you are a doctor, madam?”

  I knew at once from the accusatory tone that I had guessed right. I nodded and tried to smile. From the brief downward shift of his eyes, I saw that my other guess was also correct. He was less obvious than Donald’s father, but dinner would be an ordeal if I had to spend it with the two old men leering at my bosom between mouthfuls.

  Violet must have read my thoughts—certainly she was likely to share my fate since her lavender dress revealed both shoulders and the curve of her breasts. “She is a very good doctor, Reverend, and a stout-hearted one.” A faint hint of truculence was in her voice. “I am sure she has seen sights which would make your hair stand on end, but she is a great comfort to the sick. I can vouch for it.”

  Killington’s long nose pointed toward her. “What exactly do you mean?”

  “I have worked with her at the clinic for the poor.”

  “Violet...” I began.

  “Oh, how can you bear it!” exclaimed Mrs. Killington, going even paler. “I do so hate sickness. It makes me positively ill.”

  “It is God’s work,” Violet said. “Does the Bible not bid us care for the sick and dying?”

  Donald Wheelwright said nothing, but his bland face somehow radiated disapproval.

  The Reverend Killington reddened. “You presume too much, Mrs. Wheelwright. I do not believe the Almighty meant the weaker sex to be subjected to bloody sights and death. That stern conflict is reserved for men. Women should remain at home and provide their husband and their children with the shining example of their virtue.”

  “This soup really is delicious.” Henry smiled at Violet. “My compliments to the cook. I do not much care for bloody sights and death myself, and I have never been able to figure out why Michelle should be so much less squeamish than I. Truly the ways of the Lord are mysterious. Why would He give such a strong stomach to a mere woman?”

  Killington seemed too surprised to speak. Violet laughed and said, “Would you care for more soup?”

  “Yes, but I think I shall just take Michelle’s. She is too polite to tell you that she does not care for turtle soup. She had a pet turtle as a child who was quite dear to her.”

  I laughed and put my hand over his. “It is true. Françoise la tortue.”

  “And what of you, Mr. Holmes?” Violet said. “You are very quiet.”

  “The soup demands my concentration, madam. It is very good.”

  “And do you also disapprove of women doctors?”

  He glanced at me, then said gravely, “I dare not.”

  Henry nearly choked on his soup. “A wise answer, Sherlock.”

  “I suppose,” the Reverend Killington said to me, “that you also believe in the vote for women?”

  I sighed wearily. The two older women looked shocked.

  Violet raised her right eyebrow again. “Oh, she could not!”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “Of course not.”

  Henry began to cough and had to help himself to a glass of water. The maids took our soup bowls and passed out plates with pink fillets of salmon.

  “I am relieved to hear it. Such an inversion of the natural order would mean the ruin of the British Empire, its total collapse.”

  “I wonder if the good weather we have had will return.” Under his breath Henry whispered, “Only an hour or two to go.”

  “How many glasses of champagne did you drink?” I whispered back.

  “Oh, I do hope so!” exclaimed Mrs. Killington. “Jane, dear,” she said to Mrs. Wheelwright, “we must go out for a carriage ride should the good weather return.”

  “The devil is close at hand,” Killington muttered. “This great metropolis is little better than Sodom or Gomorrah, harlots everywhere. We invite the wrath of the Almighty, his avenging angels, we beg for it.” His eyes fell on Donald Wheelwright. “Do you not agree?”

  “These are... uncertain times.”

  Violet turned to Sherlock. “Have you seen the new production of Il Trovatore at Covent Garden, Mr. Holmes?”

  “No, but I am going later this week.”

  “How fortuitous. Donald and I shall also be attending. I hoped you might tell me whether it was worthwhile.”

  “The cast is first-rate, and the productions have been very strong this season, both musically and dramatically. Lohengrin was sublime.”

  Killington nearly dropped his fork. “Wagner!” he said, stabbing at his salmon. “The profligate whose music glorifies lust.”

  “I thought so, too,” Violet said, “but you surprise me. I believe one must have a fundamentally romantic nature to appreciate Wagner.”

  Holmes shrugged. “I would not know about that. The music is beautiful.”

  “But what could be more romantic than a white knight riding on a giant swan to rescue a maiden in distress?”

  Holmes smiled. “It is a curious mount.”

  “Familiars of the devil,” Killington muttered.

  The maids began to circulate again, gathering up the fish plates. A girl appeared behind the older Wheelwrights and set a large plate before each of them. The meat baron had a slab of rare beef Wellington, while his wife’s appeared practically burned. Beside the beef was a mound of mashed potato, yellow melted butter floating on top.

  Holmes and Violet were discussing leitmotifs in the music dramas of Richard Wagner, much to the amazement of the Herberts and another couple across from Henry. Donald and his father were talking, or rather the old man was speaking about, the day’s business. Jane Wheelwright and Mrs. Killington listened to the Reverend deno
unce the poor for bringing their afflictions upon themselves. Henry occasionally joined in the musical conversation, although I had often heard him say it was not humanly possible to stay awake during an entire Wagnerian opera.

  I accepted a plate of beef Willington rather than the stuffed quail. The buttery potatoes did look delicious, but courtesy dictated that I wait. Jane Wheelwright seemed to feel the same temptation. Her face was directed toward the Reverend Killington, but it was obvious where her thoughts were focused. She had not eaten any salmon. The short plump fingers of her right hand toyed with the beautiful sterling silver spoon. She glanced at her husband, then at the Reverend and his wife, and quickly took a spoonful of potato. Confusion showed momentarily in her brown eyes, then fear.

  “Aghh!” she cried, mashed potato dribbling from her mouth. “Aghh!”

  “Jane—what on earth...?” began her husband.

  She spit out as much of the potatoes as she could. “Poison!” she cried. “Poison!” Her chair fell back as she stood and pointed one finger at the mashed potatoes. “They are bad! Oh, that taste—get me something! Do something!”

  Violet, Donald, Henry, Sherlock, and I all stood at once, while all conversation in the dining room came to a halt. I could see the sudden fear on all of the faces about us.

  Holmes stepped around to Mrs. Wheelwright’s side. “Calm yourself, madam.”

  “He is right,” I said. “Do sit down.”

  She gazed up at me, and I could feel her shoulder trembling under my hand. “They taste so awful—it burns. Oh, I am sure I shall die—poison, it must be poison!”

  “No one would poison you, my dear. Please sit down.”

  Holmes had picked up the plate; he placed it under his large nose and sniffed vigorously. His brow wrinkled. He set the plate down, then took a bit of potato on his long forefinger and touched it to his tongue.

  “Have a care, Sherlock!” Henry said.

  “It is poison!” Mrs. Wheelwright wailed. “Poison...”

  “Hush,” I whispered. “You must not frighten everyone.”

  Holmes took a larger taste and chewed thoughtfully. In a loud clear voice, he said, “It is not poison, but only soap. I would not recommend the potatoes, but I guarantee no one will die from eating them.”