The Web Weaver

by Sam Siciliano

  “That would be very kind.”

  We went upstairs. The enormous dining room appeared different, vast and mostly empty, the warm, subdued light of the candles replaced by the dull gray light of the cloudy sky. Gone were the white linen tablecloth and napkins, the splendid sterling silver settings, the vases and bowls of colorful exotic flowers, and the throng of guests and servants. The bare brown table had shrunk, many leaves no doubt having been removed.

  Holmes sat at one end of the table, a cup of coffee before him, a cigarette in hand. He was pale, and the fatigue seemed to be setting in. His black tailcoat had been removed, but he still wore the dress shirt, waistcoat, and bow tie. They had lost the crisp, freshly starched look of the evening before and, like Holmes, appeared slightly wilted. Next to him, on the table, was the infamous chocolate cake.

  “Good morning, Henry. You look much rested.”

  “I wish I could say the same for you. Did you sleep at all?”

  “Of course not. I wished to think.”

  “I have told you before that one thinks better when one is rested.”

  “And I have told you that I disagree.” He sipped at his coffee. A maid appeared with another cup and poured me some.

  “Thank you.” I turned to Holmes. I did not want to look at the cake. In spite of myself, it set my insides crawling again. “Have you discovered anything?”

  “Yes, but it is most frustrating. Someone has gone to a great deal of effort to humiliate me, and...”

  “Humiliate you?”

  His gray eyes showed anger, and he stubbed out the cigarette in a huge crystal ashtray. “Yes.” He pointed at the note from the cake. “This was meant for me as much as the Wheelwrights.”

  “Could this person have known you would be present?”

  Holmes gave an annoyed snort. “Do not be obtuse. Of course they did. This has all the marks of an inside job. I always considered the gypsy story ludicrous, and this is further confirmation. It should be one of the servants, but what servant would go to such ridiculous lengths? Someone has a peculiar sense of humor.”

  “Humor?” I set down my coffee cup. “You call that humor?”

  “It is very black humor, but humor all the same. Did it never strike you as amusing last night? To see the cream of London society, all those ladies and gentlemen in their finery, reduced to a hysterical mob, knocking furniture, glasses, and each other aside in their panic to escape? Once some time has passed and your own fears have dwindled, you will see the comical side.”

  “I do not think so. You have a peculiar notion of the comical.”

  He frowned. “You mistake me if you think I could ever condone such a thing. The people’s fear was all too genuine. Comical it may have been, but cruel, as well. It was not a trivial matter to pull off. We are dealing with a very clever and determined person. I simply cannot believe it was a mere servant. Have you given any thought as to how the spiders came to be placed in the cake?”

  “I... I suppose someone in the kitchen...” Again my intestines seemed to writhe. “Yes, it must have been one of the cooks who...”

  “But how would this person have placed live spiders inside of a cooked cake? It would have been quite a project. To begin with, many spiders were captured—this in a house reputed to be free of spiders. Then the entire center of the cake was hollowed out so that it resembled a tube cake. The spiders and the message were put inside, then the open center was covered with a circle of stiff paper and the whole thing frosted over. Such a cake would take considerable time to prepare, yet the cook and her assistants made the cake in the early afternoon, working together. It was placed in the pantry off the kitchen. They all swear the cake was a normal one. Once made, you could not easily tamper with such a cake; sabotaging it would be a difficult and messy business. So how did the spiders get into the cake?”

  I frowned. “I had not thought... I do not know.” I could not repress a shudder.

  “What is it, Henry?”

  “I was thinking about someone trapping all those spiders, especially the big one. What a loathsome monster.”

  “They were all harmless, Henry, and they too are to be pitied.”

  “I hope you are joking!”

  “Not at all. They were taken from their natural habitat, stuffed into a cake, and then most of them were slaughtered unnecessarily. They committed no crime. That theatrical performance last night says far more about the nature of humans than that of spiders. The big one was a beauty, an extraordinary specimen of tegenaria domestica, also called ‘the cardinal’ because one of its distant relations so frightened Cardinal Wolsey. At least the big spider appeared to escape with its life. This business with the cake was concocted to frighten and to appear supernatural. We were meant to think the spiders appeared in the cake by diabolical means.”

  I could not restrain another shudder.

  Holmes laughed. “Come, Henry—you must know better! Does the devil stoop now to culinary maleficence? Brimstone in the biscuits, sulfurous sauces, and the like? No, no. The cook insisted last night and again this morning that the cake was not hers. This morning she was calmer, and I tried to stimulate in her a sense of outrage. She said the color of the frosting there is wrong; she tasted it and said it could not be hers, as it was made with lard, not butter. Now do you see how it was done?”

  “No.”

  Holmes sighed, nostrils flaring. “They switched cakes. The pantry had a door to the outside; someone came in and substituted that cake with the spiders for the benign one.”

  “But that would...” I frowned. “You are correct about the trouble involved. Why on earth...? And it must have been someone in the household, someone who knew exactly what kind of cake was to be served.”

  “Yes!”

  “But what servant would have the time—or the money—to construct such a cake?”

  “Now you begin to comprehend my frustration. Of course, the results of this extraordinary effort were spectacular. One must grant our opponent that. No one who attended will ever forget last night’s party.”

  “One can imagine an angry servant slipping soap in the potatoes, but the cake is on a different scale altogether. Who can have done it?”

  Holmes took out his silver case and withdrew a cigarette. “There is a familiar suspect in affairs where the wife has been mysteriously threatened.” I stared incredulously at him. “You do not catch my meaning?” He said softly, “The husband.”

  “You cannot be serious!”

  “It is a possibility which must at least be considered.”

  “I have never seen a man so frightened in my life. He was nearly out of his mind. How could he ever devise such a plan? Moreover, he came to you.”

  “That could be meant to distract us. However, you have pointed out the main problem. I also doubt he could have ever willingly gone along with such a scheme given his dread of spiders. Quite a foolish dread—I cannot say they would not hurt a fly, but humans had nothing to fear from that batch. Perhaps Wheelwright had an accomplice, one whom he let improvise.”

  “I would not want to be that accomplice when Wheelwright gets hold of him.”

  Holmes laughed, knocking off a long cigarette ash. “Quite so, but who else might have the imagination—and the resources—to concoct such a scheme? None of the servants, except possibly Lovejoy or his wife, seems likely.”

  “But Mrs. Lovejoy was hysterical, and why would they do such a thing?”

  Holmes suddenly slammed his fist against the table, rattling our cups and saucers. “How should I know?” He stubbed out his cigarette. “Pardon my bad temper, but I... Perhaps it is only egotism, but I almost wonder if I am not the real target of this business, the Wheelwrights mere pawns. Perhaps it is—” his lips twisted into a weary smile—“...my Moriarty.”

  I opened my mouth, then closed it. Again, I had the odd sensation of something crawling about in my belly, and I wanted to leave the Wheelwrights’ house. Holmes had focused on the comical side of the infected cake, bu
t to me the black side was far more evident. Only a deranged mind could have dreamed up so cruel a trick. Holmes had many enemies, and Watson had made him famous. What if a criminal genius had determined to humiliate and destroy him? I took a final swallow from my cup. “I do not think you are being egotistical.”

  Holmes stood, raised his long arms overhead, and yawned as he stretched. “I am truly tired. I wish I could leave.”

  “Why do you not?”

  “I do not wish to postpone an unpleasant encounter with Mr. Wheelwright.”

  As if on cue, the door at the far end of the room opened, and Donald Wheelwright strode toward us. He was pale, and he had a small nick on his right cheek where he had cut himself shaving. One look into his eyes, and I knew we were in for trouble. His dress was immaculate: black frock coat and waistcoat, gray satin cravat with a diamond pin, striped trousers, black boots with pointed toes, everything brushed and pressed. I realized abruptly the difference between then and the first time I had seen him—he had been disheveled that afternoon.

  “What have you to tell me, Mr. Holmes?” He folded his arms and remained standing.

  “I cannot tell you who is behind this business, although that is surely what you want to hear.”

  “I have been humiliated—humiliated!—and in my own home. Whoever will dare set foot in my house again?”

  Holmes sighed. “I share your humiliation. You have no comparable reputation to live up to, and if your friends are so easily frightened away, they are of the fickle sort hardly worth bothering with.”

  Wheelwright’s hands formed those two massive fists. “I won’t be talked to that way!”

  “Then perhaps I should leave. It has been a long night, and I am rather fatigued.”

  Wheelwright’s eyes showed disbelief. Given his size and his position, people would be deferential, but I had never seen Holmes back down before any man. He was brave, it is true, but reckless at times, and the owner of quite a temper. My own instincts were more conciliatory.

  “He has not been idle,” I said. “He has figured out how the spiders came to be in the cake.”

  A shadow passed over Donald Wheelwright, and his face grew paler still. He glanced down at the cake, and I saw the revulsion strike him anew. “I want that out of here!”

  Lovejoy had entered the room behind his master, and he stepped forward, seized the silver tray with the cake, and walked briskly toward the kitchen. Wheelwright sat down and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, his anger forgotten. Remembering how I had felt myself, I sympathized.

  “Did you get much sleep last night?” I asked.

  His head turned slowly toward me. “No. Very little.”

  “Let me leave you something to take tonight. You will feel better after a good night’s rest.”

  “Thank you.” He took a deep breath. “What was this about the cake?”

  Holmes started to explain, but I stood up. “I must see to my patients.”

  “I shall join you when Mr. Wheelwright and I are finished,” Holmes said.

  “Very well. Oh, how fares Violet this morning? Michelle will want to know.”

  Donald Wheelwright lowered his eyes. “I have not seen her.”

  Holmes took out his cigarette case. “She was up all night. I spoke to her before she retired this morning. She appeared quite calm.”

  “Calm!” Wheelwright mouthed the word to himself.

  I went to the kitchen and found Mrs. Grady, the cook, and her two assistants hard at work. She was a tall woman with large hands and broad shoulders, her black hair shot through with gray. One assistant was peeling potatoes, the other working on pie dough, but Mrs. Grady stood before a large cutting board. She held an enormous butcher knife, her hands bloody, two piles on the wood—one of chopped and one of whole kidneys. Close by sat a bowl filled with cubes of raw beef. Obviously dinner was to be steak and kidney pie, a dish I could not tolerate. Every since my anatomy classes, I could not bring myself to eat either kidneys or liver.

  “How are you feeling this morning, Mrs. Grady?”

  She gave a resolute sigh. “Much better, Doctor. That drink your good wife gave me made me sleep like a babe. And the mistress and Mr. Holmes both spoke to me this morning and cheered me.”

  “Mr. Holmes spoke with you?”

  “About the cake. He explained what those devils did. By God—should I ever catch them!” By way of emphasis she brought her muscular forearm down quickly, the blade chopping a kidney neatly in two. “Somehow knowing... knowing it was not my cake—that my cake had nothing to with the frightful business—made me feel so much better. Saboteurs they was, Mr. Holmes said, saboteurs, and he swore he’d catch them.”

  “If anyone can catch them, Sherlock Holmes can.”

  “And Mrs. Wheelwright told me she would be lost without me, that every woman in London envies her. She is very sweet. She suggested I make the master’s favorite dish by way of... by way of restitution. I pride myself on my sauces, but he likes a steak and kidney pie better than anything. Of course, when the crust is done just right and the gravy the proper thickness, it is a dish fit for a king. The trick is not to overcook the kidneys and make them tough.”

  “I am glad to find you so recovered.”

  “Someone has to look after the mistress, after all. Mr. Holmes said if I was to leave, who would make sure the food was fit? No saboteurs will meddle with my kitchen again, I promise you.” Again the knife hit the board with a thunk, another kidney lopped in two.

  “I shall see to Mrs. Lovejoy next and then Alice.”

  “I’ll have Rose here show you to Mrs. Lovejoy’s room. Poor little Alice. Of course Mr. Wheelwright didn’t mean to knock her down, but she’s a tiny thing. Do thank your lady for me, Doctor. I was most upset last night, and she was so kind to me.”

  “I certainly shall.”

  Rose wiped off her hands on a towel, then led me into the servants’ wing. We paused before a stout door, and I rapped lightly. “Mrs. Lovejoy, it is Dr. Vernier. May I see you?”

  “One minute, please.”

  “Thank you, Rose,” I said.

  She curtsied. “You’re welcome, Doctor. Oh, and Alice is just there, four doors down.”

  “Come in,” Mrs. Lovejoy said.

  I turned the brass knob and opened the door. The room was dim; the curtains drawn. Mrs. Lovejoy wore her customary black dress, and she lay upon the bed, one hand across her forehead, palm up.

  “How do you feel today, Mrs. Lovejoy?”

  “Not well, Doctor.” Her voice was tremulous, her eyes wild. “I fear we are all doomed.”

  “Surely not. Everyone has survived the evening.”

  She sat up abruptly. “The devil is loose in this house, Doctor! The Evil One—Satan himself! He toys with us!”

  Her fear and excitement were somewhat contagious, her voice deafening, but I remained cool. “Calm yourself, madam. There are other agents besides diabolical ones.”

  “It was no agent—it was Satan, I know it! How else came those filthy vermin—those wretched spiders—into the cake? He breathed upon it! He touched it with his sulfurous breath and left those vile crawling things, his minions of...”

  “Do not work yourself up, madam. There is a simpler explanation. Mr. Holmes is certain a cake was prepared with spiders and substituted for the cook’s good one. The devil had nothing to do with it.”

  Her eyes abruptly came into focus. “What?” She drew in her breath, then a sharp laugh burst out. Her mouth twisted into a peculiar smile. She turned away, but another laugh slipped out. Her laughter had an ugly edge.

  “Please, Mrs. Lovejoy.” I seized her arm. “Please calm yourself.”

  “He thinks he is so clever, your Mr. Holmes. Well, I know it was the devil—I know it! There is evil here in this house, and now we must pay. The Fiend will not be satisfied until we are all damned—until we all burn naked with him in the fires of hell! All their pride and money will be no help, then, not against that fire—everyone will writh
e and twist—and burn—and scream...” Her voice rose in a deafening crescendo.

  “Stop it!” I cried. “Stop that!” I shook her.

  Her eyelids fluttered, and she put her hand over her forehead. “What? Oh, yes. Yes...” She drew in her breath. “Forgive me, Doctor. I did not sleep well, and...”

  “I shall give your husband something for you to take tonight, and I do not want you in here alone in this gloomy room.”

  She touched my hand with her fingers. They felt hot but faintly clammy. “Whatever must you think of me?” She stood. “I’ll go and see how the mistress is faring. First I must wash up.” I stared closely at her. “Have no fear, Dr. Vernier. I shall follow your advice.”

  She seemed to have recovered, and I was glad to leave her. I wondered about her sanity. Alice was quite a contrast. She appeared so young and healthy, her spirits so good, that I told her she could certainly go back to work. She had a nice goose egg on her head, but her youthful exuberance had shaken off the dark events of the prior evening.

  I left the servants’ quarters, turned down a hallway and saw Lovejoy talking with the older Donald Wheelwright. My frown was involuntary, but perhaps the old devil was kind enough to check on his son and daughter-in-law.

  Lovejoy gave me a wary look, but Wheelwright smiled ferociously and approached me, his top hat in hand. “Good morning, Doctor.”

  “Good morning, sir. You seem fit today.”

  “It takes more than a few bugs to ruffle my feathers.”

  “Your son does not seem to share your attitude.”

  The old man’s smile changed to a scowl. “He’s a fool—a silly fool—a woman. I’ve told him so from the time he was a boy, but he won’t listen to me.”

  “One cannot always control one’s fears. It is not a matter of mere will.”

  “Nonsense.” Wheelwright’s jaw snapped at the air. “But that’s not what I wanted to speak to you about.”

  “No? What then?”

  “My daughter-in-law, Doctor. She is a lunatic.”

  “What?”

  He smiled again. “Oh, you’re taken in like all the others, but it’s true, you know.” He watched me closely, but I said nothing. “She’s beautiful, I admit that, but quite mad. Soft and weak, too, like a woman. It wouldn’t matter so much if she wasn’t barren. Women aren’t good for much else, not really, not if you don’t care for the filthy business.”