The Web Weaver

by Sam Siciliano

  I gave him a look of utter astonishment, and my face grew warm.

  “Come, come, sir—we are men, are we not?”

  “I— I do not share your views.”

  “As you will. All the same...” His eyes watched me very closely. “My son’s marriage is... ridiculous. Always has been. Your wife is her doctor. If he could be freed, I would be most grateful, most grateful indeed.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He sighed wearily. “I’ve misjudged you. I should have known. You’re no better than all the others. Your cousin is worse yet. No help from the great Sherlock Holmes. Being able to resist a woman’s charms is a genuine talent, one all too rare. Good day to you, sir.” He nodded and walked past me down the hallway.

  I stared dumbly at him. The brief conversation left me feeling oddly disgusted. I went downstairs and found Holmes and Lovejoy by the entranceway. Holmes had put on his black tailcoat. “There you are,” he said. “How are your patients?”

  “Mostly better.” I opened my medical bag. “Mr. Lovejoy, this small vial contains a sedative. Give your wife about five drops in a glass of water at bedtime, twice that for Mr. Wheelwright.”

  Lovejoy nodded. “Very good, sir. Five drops and ten.”

  “And should your wife behave at all... strangely, send word at once to me or my wife. She should be better tomorrow.”

  “I am sure she will be. I shall try to persuade her we are in no immediate danger from the devil. I shall see to your coats, gentlemen, and have the carriage brought round.”

  I turned to Holmes. “Did you see Mr. Wheelwright, Senior? Count your blessings, if not. He behaved most curiously.”

  Holmes’ eyes narrowed. “I shall want to hear about it.”

  “I see you survived your conversation with his son.”

  “Yes. Your mentioning the cake seemed to de-fang him. We discussed—” he looked around, but we were alone—“the Lovejoys and his household affairs. They have his complete confidence, although the wife is something of a fanatic. He also does not consider it unusual that Mrs. Wheelwright handles nearly all his finances. She also has his confidence.” He smiled ironically.

  Lovejoy and a footman returned with our coats and top hats. We put them on and stepped outside. The overhang of the roof sheltered us from the cold incessant drizzle. The doors behind us opened again, and a different footman rushed up to us, his face flushed. The Wheelwright footmen were spared gaudy antiquity, but this fellow had powdered hair, white stockings, a red jacket, and buckles on his shoes.

  “Mr. Holmes—Mr. Sherlock Holmes? Ah, thank heavens! I tried Baker Street, but your landlady said you’d been out all night. Please, sir, you must come at once—the master is powerful upset. The house is just down the street—number twenty-seven.”

  Holmes’ gray eyes stared wearily at him. “And who is your master?”

  “Mr. George Herbert.”

  Holmes closed his eyes. “Blast it. We shall walk. Twenty-seven, you said?”

  “But I can bring round the carriage straight away.”

  “I prefer to walk.”

  Holmes had long legs and set a quick pace; I always had to work to keep up with him, my own stride being more leisurely. “What can Herbert want?”

  “Do not be obtuse, Henry. I must say he has acted quickly. He was probably at the jeweler’s shop as soon as it opened.”

  “Good Lord,” I murmured. “The necklace.” The rain was cold on my face.

  “Yes. He has had it appraised. Now he too will want miracles from me.”

  “Out of one madhouse and into another,” I said. “Mrs. Lovejoy seemed close to a mental breakdown. She rather worried me. I wish I could have seen Violet. Did you spend any time with her during the night?”

  Holmes abruptly stopped walking and stared at me, his eyes incredulous.

  “I only meant—Sherlock, you know what I meant. As neither of you slept, I only wondered... Forgive me, it was an impertinent question.” My face felt flushed.

  Holmes gave a snort of laughter. “No, it was an honest one. She spent most of the night in the library, while I was in the dining room smoking and thinking. She did come to visit me at about four in the morning. We shared a cup of warm milk in the kitchen. It was remarkably peaceful after the pandemonium the evening before. I am sure Mrs. Grundy or the Reverend Killington would not approve of my being alone with a married woman, but I assure you I was the perfect gentleman.” His voice had a faint hint of irony or contempt.

  “There can be no question of that.”

  “She said we must speak of other things than spiders and gypsies; otherwise she would never be able to sleep. We talked about... many things. Do you recall Michelle mentioning Mrs. Wheelwright’s occasional dyspepsia?”

  “Yes.”

  “She tried to hide it, but she did appear to be suffering from some pains. I noticed her pressing her hand against her side. The warm milk seemed to comfort her.”

  I frowned. “I do not like that. She could have a stomach or duodenal ulcer.”

  “She is quite a remarkable woman,” he said. We had arrived at the house numbered twenty-seven.

  “In what way?”

  “In every way.”

  Holmes used the ornate brass knocker to rap at the front door. Another distraught-looking footman in the same ostentatious red livery opened the door. We followed him upstairs. A door opened and Emily Herbert stormed out followed by a matronly old servantwoman. Mrs. Herbert had clenched her fists, and her eyes were furious. When she saw Holmes, her lips drew back to reveal her large jagged teeth. She managed a nod, but said nothing.

  The old woman dabbed at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. “Oh dear, oh dear.”

  We stepped into the library. George Herbert was seated in a large armchair with the necklace on the table before him. Also present was an elderly man with wavy white hair curling over his outstretched ears. From his formal dress, I surmised he was the butler. He clasped the cupped fingers of one hand with those of the other, then repeated the motion with his hands reversed. He had brown age spots below his knuckles.

  “Thank God you’ve come, Mr. Holmes.” Herbert’s face was pale, his thick neck ballooning out from the tight, starched wing collar. “It was exactly as you said. That thing is a fake, a well-made one, but a fake all the same. Whatever am I to do?”

  Holmes’ mouth drew into a tight line as he started to remove his overcoat. At this, the elderly butler staggered to his feet to help. The old man set the overcoat on a chair, then arranged the top hat and walking stick.

  “You ask me whatever are you to do. Well, it is too late for me to tell you. You have already further bung... mismanaged things.”

  Herbert was surprised. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, sir, that by now everyone in your house knows the necklace has been stolen and the news is well on its way about the neighborhood. By dusk half of London will know of the theft.”

  “Surely you exaggerate, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Herbert. Had you consulted me first I would have told you to pretend nothing was amiss. I could not have promised anything, but there might have been a chance, albeit a slight one. Now, however, if the thief is one of your household—the likely case—that person has his guard up.”

  Herbert’s dismay was apparent. “I only thought...”

  “You did not think, sir—that has been your problem all along, but we shall have to do the best we can. I am not hopeful. I believe you said you purchased the necklace five years go? Yes, then it could have been stolen almost any time. Where was it kept?”

  Herbert raised his hand. “Behind the picture there.”

  Holmes grasped the pastoral landscape with cows by the frame and set it on the floor. “Yes, the safe is, at least, a decent one.” He put an ear next to it and turned the knob. “In good working order. You have, I trust, committed the combination to memory.”

  Herbert’s looked to the floor, then out the window. “Not quite.”


  Holmes ran his hand across his forehead and into his oily black hair. “I suppose you have it written on a piece of paper. And where is this piece of paper kept?”

  “Locked away, Mr. Holmes—locked away in my desk drawer there.” Herbert seemed pleased with himself.

  Holmes’ gray eyes shifted to the desk, and he struggled, visibly, with his temper. “In the desk. A child could pick that lock, Mr. Herbert—a child could force the drawer open. What is the point of buying an expensive, well-made safe if you leave the combination lying about? Why did you not just leave the necklace in the drawer along with a note saying, ‘Please steal me?’”

  Herbert said nothing, but his eyes glistened.

  Holmes sat down, withdrawing his cigarette case from his pocket. “May I smoke?” He withdrew a cigarette, and then lit it, his fingers quivering. “I am tired, Mr. Herbert, and already... rather frustrated. As you may have deduced from my dress, I have not been home since the party last night.”

  “That wretched party. I wish I had never gone. I am ruined.”

  ” Holmes inhaled deeply on the cigarette. “Surely not, although you have lost a good sum of money. About a hundred thousand pounds, I’d wager.”

  Herbert groaned, then nodded.

  “Good Lord,” I murmured.

  “But you still have your business and your home. You are not the first man to be robbed, nor the last. You are still a wealthy man.”

  “It was much of my fortune, Mr. Holmes. Twenty years work gone down the drain.”

  “Tell me, who officially knew—besides yourself—that the necklace was kept in the safe there?”

  “My wife, of course, and Firth, our butler.” The old man wearily raised his head; he seemed even more heartsick than his master. “No one else really.”

  “Who took the necklace from the safe when it was to be worn?”

  “I did—oh, and Mrs. Dalton. I would take it from the safe and give it to her. She took it to my wife and helped her put it on.”

  “Did she watch as you opened the safe?”

  “No, no—she waited outside the door.”

  “But could she have seen you with the key to the desk in your hand?”

  “Possibly.”

  Holmes closed his eyes briefly. He walked to the fireplace and flicked off an enormous ash from his cigarette into the grate. “I shall want to speak with her.”

  “She was with my wife. You must have seen her as you were coming in. She has been with our household for over twenty years. I trust her completely. An amiable woman who reminds me of my old nanny.”

  “All the same, I shall want to talk to her—now, if that is convenient.”

  “Firth, could you fetch Mrs. Dalton?”

  The butler slowly stood. “Very well, sir.” He remained bent over as he walked. Holmes waited until the old man had closed the door.

  “Who runs your household, Mr. Herbert? I doubt your butler is up to the task anymore.”

  “Emily has no head for figures, Mr. Holmes. Mrs. Dalton oversees the servants, the menus, our dealings with tradespeople, and the accounts. Firth used to do it, but as you noticed, he has declined over the years. I shall soon have to put a younger man in his place.”

  Holmes took a final draw on his cigarette, then tossed the remnant into the fire. “I take it your wife is quite angry?”

  “Furious, Mr. Holmes. Furious. I... Some day that tongue of hers will get her into trouble. I am a patient man, but I shan’t be vilified in my own home. She does not understand the benefits to us of mingling with the better classes. She forgets how little she had when we were married, what a good husband I have been, and how much she owes me.”

  Holmes gave me a quick, ironic glance. “Women can be most ungrateful.”

  “Mr. Herbert,” I said, “were you at the Paupers’ Ball at Lord Harrington’s?”

  He nodded gravely. “I was. I’m not superstitious, but a man has to wonder. Harrington cut his throat, Jenkins gone mad. Perhaps this gypsy...”

  “Who is Jenkins?” Holmes asked.

  “Richard Jenkins. Made his fortune in steel, owned the biggest ironworks in London. He used to live not three houses away. Went completely crazy and had to be put away. I heard about it at my club. Emily knew his wife, a friend of Violet’s.”

  The door swung open, and Firth let Mrs. Dalton in. She was still dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief. A stout woman, she wore the familiar white lacy cap and a white apron over her black dress. Her jaw was wide and permanently thrust forward, a dental defect that gave her the truculent look of a bulldog.

  “Such a tragedy!” she exclaimed. “Such a tragedy.”

  “Mrs. Dalton, I am Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Oh yes, I have heard of you.”

  He gestured with his long fingers at the false necklace. “What can you tell me about this?”

  “Nothing, I fear.” Her face scrunched up, tears appearing in her eyes. “Except my poor master is heartbroken, and the mistress is very upset.”

  “Yes, yes, Mrs. Dalton. But what do you think happened to the necklace?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, sir!”

  “You know the household well. Whom might you suspect?”

  “None of us, sir! Certainly not! Burglars it must have been, cracksmen. They must have come in late one night and opened the safe.”

  “How would they have known about the safe?”

  “They has their ways, Mr. Holmes. Some are fearsome clever.”

  Holmes nodded. “No doubt. Mr. Herbert tells me you would take the necklace from the safe to his wife on those occasions when she wore it.”

  “Not from the safe—no, sir—from Mr. Herbert. I don’t know nothing about the safe. I stayed outside. I wouldn’t want to accidentally see what I wasn’t meant to.”

  “And you always took the necklace directly to your mistress?”

  “Straight away—and clutched to my bosom. No one could take it from me.”

  “And you put it around her neck yourself.”

  “Oh, yes.” Her forehead became a mass of wrinkles. “Usually.”

  “There was an exception?”

  “Let me see now. Yes, when we had that maid a year back, Gwendolyn Harper, she was named. She was with us only a few months, before I sent her packing. You recall, Mr. Herbert, the business with her young man. Shameless, that.”

  Holmes’ finger drummed impatiently at the table. “You were about to explain the exception.”

  “Oh yes, she took the necklace from me at the mistress’s door and insisted she’d put it on the mistress. Said it was her duty.”

  Herbert sat up in the chair. “I recall her now—a very surly girl of lax morals. She was insolent and was not with us for long. You don’t mean to say you actually handed the necklace over to her?”

  “What else was I to do?” Mrs. Dalton sobbed loudly, sniffled, then began to cry.

  Holmes’ gray eyes were fixed on her. “Calm yourself, madam. So you suspect this girl, do you?”

  She nodded slowly. “I do, Mr. Holmes. She was a bad sort, that one. Always putting on airs, and so proud. She didn’t like the mistress and the master or the rest of us.”

  “Why did she not like them?”

  “She said...” She glanced warily at Herbert. “She complained about the wages and the treatment she got. She was lucky to have a roof over her head and three good meals a day! Ungrateful, very ungrateful—so many of these young girls are that way nowadays.”

  “What were her wages?”

  Herbert stiffened. “I hardly think that has any relevance.”

  “Let me worry about the relevance. What were her wages, Mrs. Dalton?”

  “If the master doesn’t wish me to say...”

  Herbert gave a resigned sigh. “You may tell Mr. Holmes.”

  She moistened her lips with her tongue. “Seven shillings a month.”

  Holmes stared at her, then turned to Herbert. “A month? Surely you mean a week?”

  He
rbert stared at his hands. “No, those were her wages.”

  Holmes looked at Mrs. Dalton. “And what are your wages, madam?”

  “I cannot tell you, sir.”

  “I wish to know.”

  “Well, I’ll not tell you.” Her defiance was manifest in her eyes and her jaw, and she twisted the handkerchief with her big hands.

  “I pay her a pound a month,” Herbert said.

  A sharp laugh escaped Holmes. “After twenty years service? Perhaps we had best discuss my fee, Mr. Herbert. I expect more than a guinea or two.”

  “Mr. Holmes!” Herbert struck the table with his fist. “You shall have whatever you wish. Within reason.”

  “Oh, thank you.” He turned to Mrs. Dalton. “So you think this girl might have arranged the theft because of her... ingratitude?”

  “I don’t like to speak poorly of anyone, sir, but yes, I do.” She glanced at her employer. “I could make inquiries. Someone may know where she is living now.”

  Herbert nodded. “That’s very good of you, Mrs. Dalton. Please do so.”

  “Yes, sir.” She stood, but Holmes was between her and the door.

  “Tell me, Mrs. Dalton, have you many friends in the neighborhood?”

  “Friends?”

  “At other houses. Such as the Wheelwrights’.”

  She did not falter, but I sensed the wheels turning briefly before she answered. “A few.”

  “That is not surprising, since they live so close. And who might these acquaintances be?”

  “The cook, Mrs. Grady, is my friend. She’s the best cook in all of London.”

  “Anyone else?”

  She hesitated and again moistened her lips. “Mrs. Lovejoy I know. A little.”

  He stared closely at her, but she would not meet his eyes. “Have you nothing more to tell me, Mrs. Dalton?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Are you certain of that?”

  She nodded, her jaw shifting as she briefly ground her teeth.

  “Very well, you may go, but I shall wish to talk to you again soon.”