The Web Weaver

by Sam Siciliano

  She stared incredulously at him. “You’re a wonder, Mr. Brownstone. I have always wanted to have my own shop. My father is a shopkeeper.”

  “A fine trade fer a lady. Perhaps yer gentleman will marry you and set you up in such a shop.”

  She shook her head. “I think not. He does not approve of ladies in trade.”

  Holmes frowned. “The kind who wants to put you on a pedestal and ’ave you sit about being beautiful and queenly all the day long.”

  Again she stared at him. “Exactly so. He cannot understand all my handiwork. He thinks—he thinks I should be content to do nothing, grateful for the opportunity.”

  “A peculiar notion, ma’am. I’m shore he wouldn’t wish to sit about all day. Of course, I could use a bit of idleness now and then, but not fer day after day.”

  She stared off into space. “All the same, I do believe he is fond of me.”

  “I’m sure he must be.” Holmes said this so sincerely that she smiled.

  “You are a philosopher, I can tell, Mr. Brownstone.”

  “Not me, ma’am. I’m only an ’umble plumber who sees wot he sees. I visits the rich all the time, and while I could do fer a bit of their quid, I’d not trade places with them. Why just last week I ’ad to clean out a drain at young Mr. Wheelwright’s mansion—not the old man, the one on the meat tins, but ’is son. Now ’is wife didn’t seem nowhere near as satisfied with ’er lot as you.”

  Miss Ladell snapped a piece of biscuit off with her teeth. “What... what was the lady like? I have heard of her—because of her charitable works.”

  “Oh, nice enough fer a lady, but ’ardly so friendly as you. She’d never ’ave tea with a couple of plumbers!” He laughed.

  Miss Ladell’s smile was forced. “Is she—is she not rather cold?”

  Holmes frowned, his brow furrowing below the jagged edge of the red wig. “Maybe a bit. Of course, we ’ardly saw ’er. Our dealins was with the ’ousekeeper.”

  “And was she very beautiful?”

  “No, she ’ad a face like a dried prune.” Both Miss Ladell and I stared incredulously at him. He grinned, the corners of his mouth lost beneath the mustache. “Oh, you mean the missus—not the ’ousekeeper. She was a fairly fine specimen of a woman, but not enough flesh on ’er fer my taste. Too bony. As I say, I like a bit of flesh on a woman.”

  Miss Ladell’s smile was genuine now. “I’d not trade places with her.” Up until then, I had been favorably impressed with her, but I did not care for the smugness in her voice.

  Holmes set down his cup. “Well, we’ve loitered about long enough. There’s other drains to conquer. Drink up, Blackdrop, and let’s be off.”

  We all rose, and she followed us to the door. Holmes had his hat in one hand, a congenial smile on his face. Abruptly he frowned and pointed at the wall beside Miss Ladell. “There’s an ugly brute of a spider, ma’am. If you...”

  Her eyes widened. She strode quickly around behind us, then seized Holmes’ grimy arm. “Oh, please kill it—please do!” She would not look at the wall.

  “I think it’s gone behind that picture of the little girl.”

  “Oh, please kill it—Mr. Brownstone—please. I cannot bear a spider! Please.”

  “Very well, ma’am. My missus ’ates ’em too.” He withdrew a dirty handkerchief from his pocket, then raised the picture frame and proceeded to catch the nonexistent spider. “Got ’im!”

  She raised her eyes, sighed, and put her small white hand over her bosom. “That’s the second service you’ve done me today, Mr. Brownstone. Thank you, oh so very much.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am. Guh’day.”

  “Guh’day,” I echoed. “The tea and biscuit was good.”

  “One moment, please.” She seized a small purse and gave us each a shilling. We thanked her. She smiled again, opening the door to let us out. Holmes and I walked around the house. I put the shilling in my pocket. The fog and damp cold were cutting after the warm kitchen.

  “That is a side of you I think I have never seen before,” I said.

  Holmes laughed. “I must confess that I sometimes find my disguises positively liberating. Well, Henry, do you think we have found our mastermind, the brain behind the spider-filled cake?”

  I grimaced, shaking my head. “You need not remind me of my eagerness to jump to conclusions. I can think of no more unlikely suspect than Miss Ladell. She did seem somehow... well... positively wholesome.”

  Holmes laughed in earnest. “I warned you that might be the case.”

  “She was very candid with us. She does treasure her little house and her knickknacks.”

  Holmes nodded. “I agree. She has little capacity for subterfuge. Her emotions are transparent. She was genuinely curious about Violet Wheelwright. And her terror of spiders was not feigned.”

  “It’s curious. I... she is nowhere near so beautiful as Violet, but she is appealing. I must admit I found her more likable than Donald Wheelwright.”

  Holmes gave a sharp laugh. “That is no great compliment, but yes, again I agree.”

  “Her taste is another matter. Those dreadful plates! Michelle has a horror of such things.”

  “Her doilies were well made, but her taste, although predictable, is not the best. She and Wheelwright are well suited for each other. A pity he did not marry someone like her. Of course, his father would have never allowed such a match.”

  I shook my head. “It is all so senseless. And we have wasted an entire afternoon.”

  “Wasted? Hardly! You have had your introduction to the snake.”

  “God save me from the snake!”

  “And we have ruled out a major suspect. We are making progress. The goal must be to discover the perpetrator—not to have the perpetrator be the person we wish.” The corners of his mouth vanished briefly under the red mustache. “That would be setting ourselves an impossible task. We are closer to the truth than we were this morning.” We walked along in silence for a minute or two. “I must confess... I wish Miss Ladell could have her little shop and that Wheelwright could marry her. Well, we must try to hail a cab. I hope we have better luck this time. Would a bath interest you, Henry?”

  “I have longed for one since I first put on these clothes.”

  “Let us return to Baker Street, fetch clean clothes, and then I know an excellent Turkish bath. We can spend the remainder of the afternoon soaking off the grime and cold.”

  “A heavenly idea!” I exclaimed. I shifted the toolbox from my right hand to my left. “Your snake is certainly heavy.”

  Holmes shook his head. “I fear we’ve a long ways to go before we make a real plumber of you, Blackdrop.”

  Ten

  While we were sitting in the Turkish bath, the steam permeating our cold weary frames, Holmes appeared to doze. I was sleepy myself and closed my eyes.

  “It might be worth the risk.”

  I gave a start, and then realized he had spoken. “What did you say?”

  “I said it might be worth the risk. There is an unsavory fellow I have dealt with in the past, one Mortimer ‘Ratty’ Grace. He has been involved in every type of vice—cracksmen, pickpockets, fake revivalist preachers, and various swindlers—but his specialty now is prostitution. He owns several brothels. He might know something about the recent outbreak of blackmail and the mysterious Angels.”

  I gave my head a shake. “He sounds like a thoroughly despicable specimen of humanity.”

  “Oh, he is—although considering him human may be something of a compliment.” He frowned slightly and stared at me through the steamy air. “We are not on the best of terms. I have frustrated certain schemes of his, but I also saved the life of his... friend, Moley.”

  “Moley? Moley? And Ratty? They sound as if they are characters in a children’s story book.”

  Holmes smiled. “Hardly. One would not allow children anywhere near these two creatures.” He closed his eyes and sat back.

  “Well?”

  He did not open his
eyes. “‘Well’ what?”

  “Are you going to arrange to meet with Ratty and Moley?”

  “I am.”

  “But what of the risk you mentioned?”

  “I shall take it.”

  Not being by nature one who relishes danger and adventure, I hesitated. “Do you want me to accompany you?”

  Sherlock’s dark eyebrows sank, a half-inch vertical line appearing on either side of the bridge of his nose. “Ratty favors a certain decrepit tavern in Underton, the worst rookery in London, and he holds a man’s life very cheap.”

  I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry despite the hot moist air. “Then I doubt you will want to venture into the lion’s den alone.”

  Holmes was quiet for a moment. At last he opened his eyes. “No, I would not wish to go alone.”

  “I shall come with you.”

  “As I have said, the risk is considerable. Speak with Michelle before you hazard your life.”

  “Knowing her, if I do, she will wish to accompany us.”

  Holmes frown deepened. “Absolutely not.”

  “Do you think I would allow such a thing? I shall make some excuse and come with you.”

  Holmes opened his mouth, and then closed it. Finally, he said, “I should be grateful for your company, but do not feel obliged. Should you change your mind I shall certainly understand.” He closed his eyes again and let his head rest back against the tiles.

  “Will it be safer for two people to visit Ratty than for one?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Then I shall come.”

  Holmes said nothing, and I closed my own eyes and tried—in vain—to regain the warm, easy comfort I had felt earlier.

  “Thank you, Henry.”

  Sunday was an uneventful day, and I worked to put our prospective visit out of mind. Perhaps, after all, “Ratty” would not wish to meet with Sherlock. Monday further lulled me into a sense of security. However, Tuesday I received a telegram asking me to be at Baker Street by eight p.m. should I wish to visit Mr. Mortimer R. Grace. My stomach lurched. I thought of backing out, but I knew I could never forgive myself should anything happen to my cousin.

  I told Michelle that Sherlock wanted me to accompany him, but I did not mention the danger involved. However, I almost gave myself away with my farewell embrace. My eyes grew teary as I thought how much I loved her and as I reflected that I might not see her again. She knew me too well not to sense that something was wrong, but I rushed out before she could question me.

  The weather was foul, a cold blustery rain, and Holmes’ sitting room was so warm and inviting I would have gladly remained behind, even were our endeavor not so perilous. He sat in a wicker chair before the fire, legs crossed, a pipe with a long stem between his lips. He wore the purple dressing gown and his favorite slippers. One would have thought he was settled in for the night.

  He withdrew his watch, noted the time and gestured at a chair with his long graceful fingers. “Have a seat, Henry. You are early. Warm yourself by the fire.” He took a long draw from the pipe. “It is as I thought. We shall have to enter the singularly unpleasant Underton rookery and meet Ratty at the Sporting Tavern. There we have the exciting spectacle of some ratting to anticipate.”

  “Ratting?”

  Holmes gave an ironic smile. “Although not as popular as in Dickens’ day, it remains a favorite sporting event of the less fortunate. Rats are turned loose in a miniature circus and then the competing dogs, one by one, are set upon the unfortunate rodents. The dog who slays the most rats is champion.”

  “Good Lord—such things still go on?”

  “One may sympathize with the bear, the cock, or the dog: hence the prohibition of their combats. Rats, however, have few friends.” Sherlock exhaled a cloud of smoke, the bowl of the pipe nestled in his right hand. “We shall have to go incognito. I fear we must be nearly as filthy as our friends Mr. Brownstone and Mr. Blackdrop.”

  I gave him an annoyed look. “Oh, not again.”

  “Our journey will be dangerous enough disguised as ruffians, but were two prosperous gentlemen to pass through Underton after dark, they would not last five minutes.” He stood, tapped the bowl of the pipe into the fire, and set the pipe alongside its companions in the rack on the mantel. “Come.”

  The clothing did not stink quite so much this time, but was still frightfully soiled. We put on black trousers, jackets, and hats. The bowlers were the same as before. I recognized the torn brim on Holmes’. His jacket had once been a frock coat, but all the buttons and the silk on the lapels were gone, the right sleeve badly torn at the elbow. The waistcoat had been a garish, black-and-white checkered affair, but now it was dirty gray. At least my shoes were still whole—barely, given the worn leather—but Sherlock’s left boot was open at the toe.

  “Your foot will be soaked,” I said.

  “No matter.”

  He dirtied our faces and hands, and then blackened a few teeth. He smiled and nodded. “Very good, even if I do say so.” With his skeletal frame and that gaunt face with its piercing eyes and beaked nose, he did appear rather threatening.

  “I would not wish to encounter you on a dark street.”

  His smile was reassuring. “You also appear rather intimidating. By the way, you are to play the part of my bodyguard. Try to appear as truculent and as fierce as possible.”

  “Your bodyguard? Who would believe...?”

  “You are tall, your fists and shoulders large. I know you have histrionic talents. Use them. Be silent but threatening. We shall have other reserves.” He pulled open a drawer, removed a revolver, the metal a sinister blue-black, and handed it to me. “Be careful with this.”

  “You know I cannot hit the proverbial broad side of a barn.”

  “There are no barns where we are going, and if you need to use it, I doubt it will be from a distance.” He tried to close the drawer, but it was too full of clothing. From a second drawer, he took out another revolver, which he examined and put in his coat pocket. He was searching for something else, but I turned away.

  Outside the wind had picked up, and the rain seemed ready to become a downpour. “I suppose umbrellas would be out of character,” I said.

  “Most assuredly. Ah, Blunt is waiting for us, our Charon with his black barque.”

  Across the street, in the pool of light from a streetlamp, sat a battered black hansom. Both driver and horse had seen better days. The black horse’s ribs were showing, his weary misery evident in his drooping posture. The driver’s black mackintosh appeared waterproof, but the rain had pooled and dribbled off his worn top hat. His face was gaunt and white, an odd leer twisting his mouth. The sight reminded me of those grim medieval paintings of Death or the Plague, a hideous skeleton upon his chariot pulled by a skeleton horse.

  “Blunt!” Holmes cried. “As we arranged, you will take us to the Running Fox Tavern.”

  “Certainly, Mr. ’Olmes.” Blunt’s teeth, what was left of them, were brown and rotting. He coughed once, a sound that made me think of the wasted lungs and tumorous masses I had seen in anatomy cadavers.

  “I thought I told you when I last tipped you to give your horse a decent meal.”

  “I did, sir.”

  “You did not. We cannot continue our profitable association should you persist in abusing your horse.”

  I stepped up into the cab, glad to be out of the rain. Blunt snapped his whip, and the cab started down the street, the wheel to my left groaning horribly. It must have been misshapen, for each time the bump or flaw came round, that side of the carriage rose up, then down, with a slight jar.

  “This was the best you could do for a cab?”

  A streetlamp briefly illuminated Sherlock’s soiled face, the ironic, tight-lipped smile. “Blunt will drive us nearer the rookery than any other cabby, and he will wait for us to return. The less distance we have to walk, the better.”

  The cold rain fell in earnest, blurring the gaslight and taking the sharp edges off everything: t
he storefronts, the countless billboards and signs. The journey was less than an hour, but the rain and fog, the groaning wheel and the regular jouncing to our left, the torturous coughs of the driver, and the thought of the danger and the ugly slum we rode toward, all combined into a waking nightmare, a ride that I shall never forget. Near the end of our journey, the buildings began to appear shabby, the streetlights fewer and further between.

  We came at last to the Running Fox Tavern, a decrepit place, the creature on its signboard so worn it resembled a mangy cat rather than a fox. Holmes stepped out first. The rain had abated somewhat, but I knew I would soon be soaked to the skin. The drops felt frigid on my face, and a gust of wind seemed to reach with chilling fingers for my bones.

  Sherlock took a coin from his pocket and gave it to Blunt. “We should return in an hour or two. As the night is cold, you may wish to wait inside.”

  “Bless you, Mr. ’Olmes.” Blunt stepped down from the cab, then coughed hideously. He was only about five feet tall. He started for the door of the tavern.

  “Do not drink so much you cannot drive,” Sherlock said.

  Blunt’s laugh sounded much like his cough. “’Ave no fear. It’d take an ’ole night before you’d lose me. Come fetch me when y’re back.”

  Sherlock turned to me. “We have about a fifteen-minute walk before us. Whatever you see, whatever anyone says to us, say nothing and continue walking. British law and civilization do not apply within Underton’s boundaries.”

  He set off at a resolute pace down the street, and I followed, struggling with my fear. Across the street from the tavern was a tall, stately home, the windows lit up with a rosy, yellowish glow. The edifice was in much better condition than its neighbors and appeared inviting.

  I raised my hand and pointed. “That place seems out of character for this neighborhood. It even has two functioning streetlamps.”

  Sherlock gave a sharp laugh. “It is a well-known bawdy house, Madam Irene’s. You can have one of the girls for a mere seven shillings.”