The Web Weaver

by Sam Siciliano

  She drew in her breath, and then seemed to notice the handkerchief in her hand. With a sniffle, she dabbed at her eyes. “A tragedy it is. I only hope I can be of help.”

  Holmes closed the door behind her. “Normally one tries to determine who might have a motive for a crime, but if these wages are typical, any of your servants might wish to rob you.”

  Herbert grew red in the face. “You do not know the entire story, and there are other compensations—such as the Christmas bonus.”

  “Oh, no doubt—no doubt.” He pulled out his cigarette case again, then thrust it back. “I can do nothing more here. I shall return tomorrow.” He picked up his overcoat, draped it over his arm, and then took his hat and stick. “One caution. Have someone keep an eye on Mrs. Dalton. I want her to be here when I return.”

  Herbert stood. “Surely you cannot suspect her? As I said, she has been with us for over twenty years—she is part of our family and does admirable work.”

  “We shall discuss my suspicions tomorrow, Mr. Herbert. We shall also discuss my fee.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Holmes...”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Herbert tagged along behind us, puffing to keep up. From the sound of his breathing I knew his lungs were not in good condition. Holmes strode down the hall, taking the stairs two at a time, then put on his coat as he crossed the mammoth entry room, the black wool swirling about him. Firth nodded weakly at us, while the footman opened the door. Herbert mumbled an apologetic farewell, but his words were lost in a gusty wet wind that assailed us. The rain had stopped, and patches of blue showed in the gray sky as the sun struggled to appear.

  “Imbecile,” Holmes muttered. “Stingy imbecile.”

  “So you think that Mrs. Dalton might be the thief? She did remind me of my grandmother.”

  “That, I believe, is the desired effect. Yes, I suspect her.”

  “And not the maid?”

  Holmes gave a snort of derision. “That was her mistake. She was too quick to bring up the maid. Far too convenient—a suspect who is not available to confirm or deny Mrs. Dalton’s allegations. Herbert is busy thinking about the maid instead of the fact that Mrs. Dalton is the one person who regularly handled the necklace. Switching it would be a simple matter.”

  “Someone else might have opened the safe. You did say anyone might get the combination from the drawer. Why would Mrs. Dalton do such a thing?”

  “Henry! Were you not listening? Because he has paid her a pittance for over twenty years! He decorates his wife as if she were a Christmas tree so all of society will know of his riches and success; yet he pays a maid seven shillings a month. And then there is his handling of the necklace. He is an imbecile.”

  I seized his arm. “Do slow down a bit. You are practically running.”

  “Oh, very well.”

  “Did you eat any breakfast?”

  “Uh... perhaps. Nothing substantial.”

  “It is well past noon. You must be ravenous.”

  He took a deep breath. “Very good, Henry. A sound deduction.”

  “Unless you are going somewhere else in particular, we might stop for lunch.”

  “I am going nowhere but away from this wretched street and the homes of Mr. George Herbert and Mr. Donald Wheelwright. I have had my fill of their company. I know a restaurant close by, a twenty-minute walk, which serves a superb hot corned beef, boiled cabbage, and potatoes with horseradish on the side.”

  “That sounds delicious. Then I must be getting home. I shall have much to tell Michelle. I wish I could have seen Violet.”

  “Violet,” Holmes murmured. He stopped walking, turned and stared down the street at the elegant row of townhouses with their immaculately groomed lawns and shrubbery, their neat walkways, their red brick and green ivy, their stately trees. He raised his stick and swept the end in an arc to encompass them all. “She does not belong here. She is better than any of them—she is wasted here, wasted.” He closed his eyes and let his stick fall. The iron tip clacked against the pavement. “I am weary, Henry.”

  “You will feel better after you have eaten.” We resumed walking. I knew exactly how he felt. I would be happy to get home to Michelle.

  Seven

  The day after the party I was very busy with patients, but after a quick supper, I took a cab to the Wheelwrights’ home. Henry did not want me to go, and truly, after the events of the past twenty-four hours, I would have been happy to spend a quiet evening with him. All the same, Violet was my friend and my patient—I felt I must go, especially since Henry had not seen her in the morning.

  Lovejoy was surprised, but since I had my medical bag, he must have assumed it was a professional visit. Ladies of good breeding did not make social calls after supper. He told me Mr. Wheelwright was out, and then assured me that the cook, Alice, and his wife were all feeling much better and did not require my attention. A maid, Gertrude, led me up two flights of stairs to Violet’s bedroom.

  Gertrude knocked lightly at the door. It swung open. “Yes?”

  “Ma’am, the doctor is...”

  “Oh, Michelle—you need not have come. You must be exhausted yourself.”

  “I wanted to see you, Violet.”

  “Come in. Thank you, Gertrude.”

  The bedroom was an enormous one, easily larger than our sitting room, and very inviting. Many of my wealthy patients had terrible taste, their bedrooms overflowing with bric-a-brac, lace, gaudy drapes, patterned wallpaper and borders, and baroque furniture. This room was clean, bright, and simply done, the curtains and the wallpaper cream-colored, the carpet a reddish Persian pattern. The bed had no canopy, and the chairs were comfortable-looking but not ornate. A large desk sat near the tall windows, books and papers covering it. Violet’s nightclothes were also simple, not the silk negligee or robes one might expect, but a white nightgown of cotton flannel which fell to her feet, and over it, unbelted, a pure white wool robe. She gestured at a chair near the fireplace.

  “Sit down. You do look tired.”

  “I am weary. It was a very busy day. Where will you sit?”

  “I shall bring over another chair in a moment. I do not want to sit just yet.”

  I was only too happy to rest. A chunk of glowing coal gave off welcome warmth after the damp chill of the cab ride.

  Violet stared down at the black iron grate. She held out her hands, her long slender fingers spread apart. They began to quiver slightly. She made fists, then thrust her hands into the pockets of her robe. Her face appeared pale and thin, but her dark eyes were restless, agitated. Her long black hair fell nearly to her waist. I had not seen her before with her hair down; she appeared younger and slighter, oddly vulnerable. Perhaps it was only that I was accustomed to seeing her elegantly dressed with not a hair out of place. The robe and gown hid her woman’s shape; she reminded me somehow of young waifs I had seen on the street.

  “I fear I am hardly presentable,” she said. “I hope you do not mind.”

  “Of course not. You look very comfortable. I envy you.”

  She gave me a smile that had none of her usual irony. “Take off your boots if you wish and join me in my slovenly ways.”

  “Thank you, I shall.” I bent over and undid the buttons, then slipped my feet free. The boots were well made and did not have the high heels and pointed toes fashion decreed, but it was still a relief to have them off after a long day. I thrust forward my feet and flexed my toes before the fire.

  “Ah...” I murmured. “This is the best I have felt all day.”

  The room was very quiet; the wind rattled the windowpanes gently. Violet took a step closer to the fire. Her bare feet protruded from under the lacy hem of her nightgown. Her feet were pale, her toes long and slender like her fingers.

  “I am glad you came, Michelle. I was...” Her voice faded away.

  I reached out and gave her wrist a squeeze. “How are you feeling, my dear?”

  She raised her shoulders but said nothing.

  “Lov
ejoy tells me Alice and the cook are perfectly well. And his wife is much better.”

  “Thank God for that,” she said.

  I sighed and closed my eyes. It would have been easy for me to fall asleep in that chair. With the bustle of the day done and the room so warm and peaceful, I could feel how fatigued I really was. “I wish there was something I could do, some way I could help you.”

  “Oh, Michelle, you have helped me—only... I cannot—I cannot bear your kindness—I do not deserve it. You are so... good. You are everything I am not.” Her voice broke, and her eyes filled with tears.

  “What are you saying? Your servants worship you. You are known throughout London for your kind heart and your good work. I have seen you at the clinic. Somehow you understand my patients; they sense it. You are one of the few women of your class I know who is completely free of prejudice and vanity.”

  “Oh, Michelle.” The tears started down her cheeks, and she turned away. “If you only knew... what your friendship means to me... what...” She took a deep breath, her back straightening, and she rose up on the balls of her feet and clenched her fists as she struggled to master herself. Suddenly she wilted, knees bending, body twisting about as her right hand clutched at her side. “Dear God.” Her face went white.

  I was out of the chair at once. I did not try to make her stand but guided her to the chair. She collapsed and bent over with a groan. “Oh, it hurts...”

  “Try not to fight it so,” I said. “It will pass. Take a deep breath. Yes, that’s good.”

  Slowly, she straightened up, a peculiar smile tugging at her lips. “That was the worst one ever.”

  I frowned. “Have you been having these pains for long?”

  “For a while, but not so often. Since last night they come and go all the time.”

  “What kind of pain is it?”

  “Very sharp. I imagine a knife slipping between one’s ribs would feel that way.”

  “Is it better or worse on an empty stomach?”

  “Worse.”

  “When did you last eat?”

  “I... I am not exactly sure.”

  “You did not eat supper?”

  “I could not face Donald—not today. I...”

  “Violet, that is foolish! You must eat regularly. You may have the beginnings of a stomach ulcer.” Actually, it was probably quite far along. “Where is the pull for the maid?”

  She took a deep breath and sat up. “There, by the bed.”

  I walked over and pulled twice. I poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the nightstand. “Drink this. It should help.”

  “Thank you.” Her color was coming back, but she still held her hand to her side.

  There was a knock at the door. I walked over and opened it. Gertrude looked up at me; she was so small she made me feel like a giantess. “Your mistress needs some food. Could you bring some hot soup and bread up on a tray?”

  “Certainly, ma’am.”

  I closed the door, then walked back across the room, picked up a chair and carried it over next to Violet and the fireplace.

  Her mocking smile had returned. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “Violet, you must take care of yourself.”

  She sighed, and then put her lip between her teeth. “I shall try.”

  I put my hand on her shoulder; she felt so bony, so slight. She was only five or six inches shorter than I, not tiny like Gertrude, but next to Violet I must resemble some brawny peasant lass. She brought out both my maternal and professional instincts: she needed to eat more—she was far too thin.

  “Is the pain better?”

  “Much better.”

  With a sigh, I sat down, stretched out my legs and flexed my toes again, warming them. “I shall want you to eat quite regularly, and every hour or two between meals you must drink some milk.”

  She made a face. “I do not much care for milk, Doctor.”

  “Consider it medicine and drink it down.”

  She let go of her stomach. “I suppose it could be worse. It could be cod liver oil.”

  “You take that after the milk.”

  She gave me an incredulous look. I laughed, and she smiled. “Thank you again for coming. I was so dreading this evening, this night. I...”

  I waited for her to continue, but she did not. “You should have sent for me if you were having pains.”

  “I did not want to bother you, especially after last night.”

  “Violet—it is no bother. Even were you not my friend, it is my work. Promise me that if the pains change, if they grow... more severe, you will call me at once.”

  She looked up at me, her cheeks slightly flushed, her dark eyes bright.

  “Promise me.”

  “Oh, very well.”

  “Ulcers can be quite serious if left untreated. I shall... I should speak with your husband.”

  Her hand clutched at her side. “You must not!”

  “He should be told.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  She said nothing, but glared at the fire.

  The sadness caught me by surprise, my fatigue augmenting it. “Do you hate him so much?”

  She glanced at me, and now her brown eyes truly seemed to burn, to smolder, like the red-hot coal on the grate.

  “Oh, Violet, he must feel something for you—I know he does. When the cake was brought out...”

  “You know nothing about it. Nothing.” Her voice was colder than I had ever heard it. I had an odd feeling at the nape of my neck; I turned away. “You are upset. Why?”

  “Because you hate him—because you are unhappy, and it should not be that way.”

  She sighed. “It is as I said. You are too good.”

  “You are good, too.”

  She gave her head an emphatic shake, a hard, sharp laugh slipping from between her lips. “No, there you are wrong. I am not good. Quite the contrary.”

  “That is nonsense! I told you so. You deserve to be happy.”

  “Do I? Does anyone deserve happiness?”

  “Everyone deserves happiness.”

  She smiled. “The Reverend Killington would be interested in your view. Does even Donald deserve happiness?”

  “Yes, but perhaps... perhaps apart from you.”

  Her smile was cruel. “That is all rather beside the point. I could never obtain a divorce. As a man, his adulteries are excusable under the law, and my virtue is intact. However, if I could find a partner in sin, then Donald might be persuaded to divorce me. Unfortunately, I have neither the time nor the inclination.”

  My face felt hot, and I stared in horror at her. “What are you saying?”

  “Oh, he has a mistress, a plump little blonde thing. No doubt that is where he is tonight, seeking consolation.”

  “Is this some... joke?”

  “No joke, I assure you.”

  How would I feel if I ever discovered Henry had been unfaithful to me? I wanted to speak, but my throat seemed to have closed off.

  There was a knock. I rose quickly and went to the door. “Thank you, Gertrude.” I took the silver tray and carried it over to Violet, then returned to my chair.

  The grief had come from nowhere, and it all whirled about—the look in Violet’s eyes, the thought of how such a betrayal must hurt, the sense of what my life would be like without the love that sustained me. I did not trust myself to speak yet.

  Violet frowned, then set the tray down before her chair and stared into the fireplace. “Oh God, how I loathe myself.” Her hands curled into fists, and one slipped again to her side. “I had no right to tell you—to burden you with my shame. I knew it would disturb you, but I went ahead anyway. Can you forgive me?”

  I gave an impatient sigh. “For God’s sake, Violet—will you not believe I am your friend? There is nothing to forgive. The hurt, after all, is yours, not mine.”

  “Will you not understand? There is no hurt.”

  “The pain, then.” I suddenly understood. “The shame—th
e rage, the anger—it is pain.”

  “Ah.” She laughed once. “Yes, perhaps... You are perceptive.”

  I drew in my breath resolutely. “Now eat your soup. We are both too tired to know exactly what we are doing or saying.”

  She picked up the tray and set it on her lap. She removed the silver dome covering the soup bowl. “Perhaps there is something to what you say.” She took a spoonful of soup, showing even then a certain graceful elegance.

  I took a slow, deep breath. The thought that Donald Wheelwright had a mistress still shook me. I knew I was being foolish. So many men did. There were reasons, explanations, but none of that mattered. A thought popped into my mind—Sherlock saying Donald Wheelwright did not much care for his wife—then the glance he and Henry had shared. “They should have told me,” I murmured angrily.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. How is the soup?”

  “Very good. It does feel quite... soothing.”

  “That is what we want. I shall have to talk to the cook about what you should eat. No curries or extremely spicy food.”

  “I never much cared for curries.”

  The sudden grief had died away, and now I felt very tired. I knew if I closed my eyes I would be asleep at once. The fire felt so warm and good on my feet. They had been half frozen during the cab ride.

  Violet’s throat rippled as she swallowed the soup. She did have the longest neck I had ever seen. She too appeared exhausted, her eyes dull, the lids half closed. I thought of Donald Wheelwright off with some plump, insipid blonde, and again I felt an ache of sorrow. He should be the one with Violet now—the one to comfort her.

  “You know,” she said, “that I do envy you.”

  “I am flattered.”

  “Do not joke about it. You have everything, and I have nothing.”

  “I would not mind a room like this.”

  “Gladly would I give it to you—along with this entire house, all the servants, the furniture, the whole wretched lot. I have nothing that matters. I wish I could trade places with you for one day, but that would be worse—I could never bear to return.”

  “You are serious.”

  “Of course I am. I can see how you and Henry feel about one another.” She smiled briefly. “I cannot exactly understand it, but I can see that it is genuine enough. Then there is your profession—to actually be doing something worthwhile, something using the brains God gave you—and there is your beauty.”