The Web Weaver

by Sam Siciliano

  Relieved laughter greeted the pronouncement. Everyone began talking at once.

  “Soap?” Violet’s voice was incredulous. “Soap?”

  Holmes’ mouth formed an ironic smile. “With cayenne pepper mixed in, not paprika.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Violet whispered. Her mouth contorted into an odd smile, and a laugh slipped from her lips.

  “How can you laugh?” Donald Wheelwright’s voice was soft, but his anger was all the more pronounced.

  “Oh, do sit down,” Violet said. “As Mr. Holmes said, no one will die from eating these potatoes. I shall have extra rolls served. The poor cook will be mortified. How shall I ever break it to her?”

  “Break it to her?” Wheelwright’s hands made fists a good six inches across. “Dismiss her at once!”

  “She is not responsible. She would never do such a thing, and she will feel far worse about this than you.”

  “Let me accompany you, madam,” Holmes said. “I want to have a look in the kitchen before anything is touched.”

  “Ah.” Violet nodded. “The Case of the Peppered Potatoes. If anyone can get to the bottom of this mystery, it is you, Mr. Holmes. Come, the game is afoot!”

  Her husband stared at her as if she had gone quite mad, but Holmes began to laugh, gently at first, then with rare gusto. Violet started for the kitchen, and he followed, still laughing.

  “It was not poison?” moaned Mrs. Wheelwright.

  “It was soap, Jane,” her husband said.

  “Soap? But it burned.”

  “The cayenne pepper,” I said. “Sit down and eat something. It will make you feel better. I am sure you are hungry.”

  “I couldn’t eat a thing. This awful taste. It won’t go away.”

  “Have a drink of wine. It will help wash away the taste.”

  “I don’t usually drink wine,” she said. I took a glass of claret, then helped her drink it. “It is very strong.” She took another sip, then sighed. “I do feel better.”

  “Have some meat now.”

  She glanced at the potatoes and shuddered. “Get them away—please get them away!” I took her plate, used a knife to push all her potatoes onto my own plate, then sat hers back before her. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  With a sigh I sat down, put my napkin on my lap, then cut off a big piece of meat and began to chew.

  Killington scowled down at the mashed potatoes. “This is the devil’s work for certain.”

  I let my knife drop and turned to him. “Do be quiet!”

  I must have been the first woman to ever speak that way to him; his astonishment was complete.

  “Eat your meat, Jeremy,” his wife said.

  “Please pass the rolls,” I said to Donald Wheelwright. Everyone else had begun to eat, but he still sat staring dumbly about, his eyes wrathful. I would not want to be the person who had put soap in the potatoes if Wheelwright ever discovered his or her identity. He handed me the basket, and I took a roll.

  “The beef is excellent,” Henry said to Donald, “very tender.”

  Wheelwright nodded but said nothing. Eventually he composed himself and began to eat. Although the main course was off to a shaky start, the food and wine soon restored everyone’s spirits. Even Mrs. Wheelwright appeared better after she had consumed her burned meat and several rolls. Only the Reverend Killington was reluctant to eat, no doubt because he believed the meal came from the devil’s kitchen.

  Holmes and Violet soon returned.

  “Well, Mr. Holmes—” old Wheelwright gazed up from his half-consumed rare beef—“have you found the perpetrators?”

  “I have not.”

  “A bar of soap is missing,” Violet said. “Somehow it must have fallen into the hot potatoes. I am certain it was an accident.”

  Her husband’s face darkened, and Holmes appeared skeptical. Old Wheelwright gazed at him sharply.

  “You do not believe it was an accident, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I do not. One accident might be a possibility, but that would not explain the cayenne pepper.”

  Old Wheelwright gave a snort of laughter. “Probably some sly devil’s idea of a joke.”

  His wife’s eyes widened in horror. “A joke—a joke!”

  The old man turned to his son. “By the way, I’ve done some checking on that Steerford fellow. Can’t find out anything bad about him, but I wouldn’t give him a penny.”

  Mr. Herbert was talking with Henry, but he suddenly turned toward the Wheelwrights, his interest all too obvious.

  Wheelwright raised a bony finger and tapped the side of his nose. “I trust my nose, and it tells me things don’t smell right.”

  “But Steerford comes highly recommended, and he seems a decent enough chap,” Herbert said. The two Wheelwrights stared silently at him, their disapproval evident. Although they were not physically alike, something in their gaze—in the expression itself—was uncannily similar. Herbert reddened slightly. “Begging your pardon, that is—if I might intrude.”

  Violet smiled at him. “Such conversation is reserved for that time after the ladies depart. Finance and tobacco go well together, but monetary matters should never be mixed with food. Indigestion is sure to result.”

  Herbert laughed, his stout body quavering. “Your point is well-taken.”

  I had finished eating, and the serving girl asked if she might take my plate. I nodded. Herbert was telling Henry about some business difficulties. I pretended to listen, but the Reverend Killington was difficult to ignore. He was explaining to Violet and the two elderly ladies that the decline in British civilization was caused by women turning from the old ways and their proper sphere. Violet showed the patience of a saint, but I had to fight to keep my temper. The Reverend obviously meant me to hear—he wished to provoke me—but I would not give him the satisfaction.

  Holmes had dissected his quail with all the skill of a surgeon—only tiny bones remained. Now he seemed to be listening to several conversations at once, probably in the hope of discovering something significant. He was like some predatory creature waiting silently and patiently.

  At last Killington turned directly to him. “Do you not agree, Mr. Holmes? Does not this outrageous behavior of these contemporary females disturb you? Wherever will it all end?”

  Holmes gave a slight shrug. “Such matters are hardly my concern. Nor do they much interest me.”

  Violet’s mouth formed the familiar mocking smile, but her dark eyes were not so detached. “You are lucky, Mr. Holmes. We ladies are rarely allowed the luxury of disinterest.”

  Killington’s eyes widened in disbelief. “The public morality does not interest you, sir?”

  “Frankly, Reverend, it does not.”

  Killington, all too briefly, seemed at a loss for words.

  After the plates had been carried away, Lovejoy entered pushing a cart bearing an enormous chocolate cake covered with small flaming candles. Several ahs were heard. I was speaking with Violet, who had not seen the cake. “Whose birthday is it?” I asked.

  “Birthday?” She set down her water glass, touched her lips with her napkin, and looked over her shoulder. “Oh, no.” She shook her head. “I am not to be spared, after all.” She turned to her husband. “Have I you to blame for this?”

  He said nothing, but a faint smile played about his lips. Perhaps he has some feeling for her after all, I reflected.

  Donald moved his chair aside, and two of the maids set the cake on its silver tray before Violet. I had never seen such a large cake; it was nearly two feet wide.

  Mrs. Lovejoy stood smiling nervously behind her mistress, her pale face contrasting with her black dress. “Begging your pardon,” she said timorously. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen.” The room grew silent. “Today is a special day, our beloved mistress’s thirtieth birthday, and this seemed too good an opportunity to miss. She insisted there be no fuss, but it was not difficult to convince her to have her favorite dessert served—cook’s special devil’s food, six-layer chocolate cake.”


  “Devil’s food,” Killington muttered darkly.

  “We hope you will all join us in a birthday song.”

  Everyone sang. Violet rolled her eyes upward and sat silently, the mocking smile pulling at her lips. When we finished, there was applause. “Blow out the candles, ma’am,” said Mrs. Lovejoy.

  Violet looked at Henry and me. “Given Pasteur and Dr. Lister’s theories, I doubt our house physicians will approve of my spreading microbes, but I swear I am in good health.” Everyone laughed, and she blew the candles out.

  “Well done!” Herbert said, and there was yet more applause.

  Mrs. Lovejoy took a plate and a silver knife. “The first piece is for you.”

  “Let me get it. Besides, that way I can make sure it is large enough.” This statement drew more laughter.

  Violet sat almost directly across from me, and I saw her thrust the knife into the chocolate cake. Her dark eyebrows plunged, a puzzled look on her face. “How odd. Something is...” She used a silver cake server to take out the thick piece she had cut. Instead of a complete triangle, a wedge, there was only the outside part of the cake, a chunk that left a notch showing in the cake. “I believe...”

  Things happened so suddenly then that they remain a blur of impressions. Mrs. Lovejoy clapped her thin white hands to her face and screamed, a hideously loud and piercing sound, and staggered back. Violet shoved the cake away from her. Donald Wheelwright moved faster than I thought so large a man possibly could—he hurled his chair aside and backed away, knocking over one of the maids. Everyone else at our end of the table rose except for Holmes, who leaned forward, entranced.

  Out of the opening in the cake had come the largest spider I had ever seen, a monstrous black thing, its torso an inch across, its slender legs giving it a breadth of four or five inches. Smaller brownish-black spiders poured from the cake, but they were not so fast as the big one. He ran madly for the other end of the table, the white linen providing a dramatic backdrop for his sinister, sable form. As he proceeded on his erratic path, chairs were upended and people backed away wildly from the table.

  Half the people in the dining room—not all of them women—seemed to be screaming. “Oh God!” I heard Henry cry. More chairs fell over with bangs; water glasses, coffee cups, and saucers smashed.

  Insects do not usually disturb me, but I was startled. Seeing them swarm from the cake like maggots from a corpse was unbelievably nasty. A wave of revulsion passed over me. For an instant I too wished to flee, but I forced myself to master my fear. Sherlock, Violet, and I were the only ones still near the table. Violet stared at me, then grabbed for her chair and sank down.

  Sherlock’s face was flushed, his eyes filled with excitement. “Incredible!” he exclaimed. “Incredible. I have never seen such a specimen of tegenaria.”

  A hand grasped my arm tightly. “Lord, Michelle—get away!”

  I turned. Henry was ashen.

  “They cannot hurt us.”

  “For God’s sake!—humor me.”

  I stepped back. A brawny maid swept into the room; her stout hands raised a broom overhead, her grim eyes resolute.

  “Kill them!” a man shouted, his deep voice shrill. “Kill them all!” It was Donald Wheelwright. He seemed to have completely lost his reason and reminded me of a frightened horse or dog, terror manifest in his visage.

  The maid would have probably demolished the cake, but Holmes seized the broom handle. “Have a care—you must not disturb the cake!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She moved aside, bringing the broom down with a great whoomph on the table. Those few glasses left standing were knocked over, and the silver candelabrum at that end fell, some tapers breaking, others toppling onto the floor. “Got them!” She raised the broom, and I could see smashed spiders smeared across the white linen. The wrathful broom rose and fell several times, but Holmes stood guard over the cake.

  Dr. Dyson appeared at our side, a glass of brandy in each hand. “Drink this.” He offered Henry and me a glass each.

  Henry snatched his, swallowed it down, then turned away from the table with a shudder. “Filthy buggers!”

  I shook my head. “I do not need it. I have had enough to drink this evening.” I was impressed with Matthew’s composure. “You are so calm.”

  “I spent some time in the tropics. One grows accustomed to ungodly large spiders and beetles.”

  His wife nodded her approval at the maid. “That’s right, dear—whack the little beggars!”

  Matthew shook his head. “Luckily I brought along my bag, doctors. We have plenty of work before us. No strokes or heart failures, I hope, but several very shaken people.”

  “I shall be with you in a moment,” I said. “First I must see to Violet.”

  “Don’t get too near!” Henry exclaimed.

  I put my hand on his cheek. “Please calm yourself, darling. You cannot help anyone when you are like this. You are being rather silly. The spiders cannot harm us.”

  He took a deep breath, and much of the wildness went out of his eyes. “I... One spider might be tolerable—but so many!”

  “Hush.”

  He took my gloved hand and kissed my knuckles. His color was returning. “Next time I suggest remaining home for the evening, I hope you will listen to me.”

  I smiled faintly. “So I shall.”

  I walked around the table. Old Wheelwright stood surveying the crowd, his face pale. A ghastly, trembly smile contorted his lips.

  Violet still sat in the chair staring at the wrecked table with the smashed spiders, broken glasses, and china. I pulled off my glove and put my hand on the bare skin of her shoulder. She glanced up at me. Her face appeared thin and flushed, a wild gleam in her eyes; her mouth twitched briefly into a smile that reminded me of Sherlock.

  “How are you, my dear?” I asked.

  “I shall never forget this birthday.”

  Holmes was bent over the cake. At last he stood up and thrust his hand into the opening where Violet had cut out the piece. “My God!” someone shrieked. He withdrew a small envelope smeared with chocolate, tore it open and withdrew a note. His gray eyes glared, but his mouth twisted into a frightful smile.

  “Hah!” he shouted.

  “What on earth is it?”

  He handed me the note. Violet stood and read it with me.

  Mr. Sherlock Holmes cannot save you from me and my little friends. Next time they will eat you, not cake.

  A.

  Six

  Michelle and I did not get home from the disastrous dinner party until well after midnight. It was a fortunate coincidence that three physicians had been invited. Many of the ladies—and gentlemen–young and old alike, suffered from hysterical shock. Others had been physically injured.

  One lady, in her alarm, pulled the chair out from under her husband, and he landed hard upon his coccyx. This may sound comical, but if the bone breaks, it is extremely painful, and one cannot sit for weeks. The maid that Donald Wheelwright had bowled over struck her head against the wall and was briefly knocked unconscious. Old Mrs. Wheelwright had fainted dead away.

  Perhaps the saddest case was the cook. She blamed herself for everything, although she was clearly not responsible. At first she insisted she would pack her things and leave at once. Both Michelle and Violet tried to calm her. Finally she agreed to remain, but she was inconsolable. Before we left, Michelle gave her a sedative to help her sleep. She kept muttering that she was disgraced, that she would never cook again. Holmes wanted to question her about the cake, but Michelle would not allow it. She told Violet to make sure the cook went back to work in the kitchen the next morning; that would be the best thing for her.

  I sympathized with the cook. My own actions during the cake cutting were a major source of embarrassment. True, I had not completely lost my reason like Donald Wheelwright, but my irrational fear seemed foolish and unmanly. It had taken Michelle’s remarks—and her touch—to bring me to my senses. Early in our rela
tionship I had grudgingly realized who was the stronger person. I was only a fair-weather physician, while Michelle would have made an excellent army surgeon.

  By way of absolution, I resolved to return to the Wheelwright’s house the next day. Someone needed to check on the casualties, and as usual, Michelle’s morning schedule was full. The hansom pulled up before the townhouse shortly after ten. The rain had returned, the day overcast and gloomy. A footman let me in, and then took me to Lovejoy, who appeared none the worse for wear.

  “Ah, Dr. Vernier, how good of you to come. Mrs. Wheelwright went to bed at last, while Mr. Wheelwright has just risen. Your cousin, Mr. Holmes, is in the dining room.”

  “When did he arrive?”

  Lovejoy smiled. “He never departed.”

  “Good Lord—he has spent the entire night here? Well, I shall want to see the little maid that struck her head—Alice, wasn’t it?—and the cook and your wife. How is your wife doing this morning, Mr. Lovejoy?”

  “She is better, but still gravely shaken. She does not have a strong constitution to begin with, and such a disturbance... We men may laugh at spiders, but to a woman’s fainter heart, the loathing is quite genuine.”

  I managed a smile. “No doubt, although you must have noticed that several of the men—especially your master—had an equal dread of spiders.”

  Lovejoy gave a reluctant nod. “It is true, sir. The fact was well known in our household, as I told Mr. Holmes this morning. Nothing infuriates the master more than finding a spider in the house. Mrs. Lovejoy always stresses this to the maids. Frightened though they might be, they must tell her, and she, poor dear, who loathes them herself, gets one of the footmen to destroy the creature. The point has been driven home many a time, and as a result, I can truly say this house has always been free of spiders. We have been ever vigilant.”

  “I am sure you have.”

  “Perhaps you would like a cup of coffee with your cousin before you get to work.”