The Web Weaver

by Sam Siciliano

  “We were discussing blackmail,” Holmes said.

  “Ah—yes, and as I was saying, it’s very bad for business—just as is roughing up the customers. Volume and happy customers are the key to my success. I want the man who visits one of my houses to go away smiling and eager to return. I want him to tell all his friends about my girls. Sure, you might make a few quid blackmailing some bloke, but word gets around—it always does—and then trade drops off. That’s why any girl who robs a customer or tries a bit of blackmail is out the door at once. And that’s why I’m concerned, Mr. Holmes. I’ve had to dismiss three times as many girls this past year as before, and that’s most unusual. Until now, the rate always stayed about the same, and I’ve been involved in the trade for twenty years.”

  Holmes’ fingers stroked his chin. “Curious. Have you...?”

  His words were cut off by the boisterous applause greeting a fat man who had stepped up onto a rickety chair. He had a huge gray mustache and wore a purple velvet vest. “Welcome, gents! Welcome, one and all, to the Sportin’ Tavern, and now it’s time for our sport. Everyone placed their bets? If not, see Fred over there in the corner. Raise yer hand, Fred. Now let’s get to it. You all know the rules. Whichever dog kills the most rats in two minutes wins the grand prize. First up’ll be the current champ, Curly Joe.”

  A toothless old man at the front held up a truculent little brown bulldog whose face had many folds. Curly’s partisans cheered loudly. The dog nearly writhed from his master’s arms, so desperate was he to get at the rats. I had a sick feeling in my stomach and took a swallow of the foul stout. I did not care for rats, but I did not enjoy seeing any creature slaughtered.

  Holmes started to question Ratty again, but his eyes were fixed on the ring. “Hold off, Mr. Holmes. I want to watch Curly. He was a wonder in his prime, but he’s a bit old now. He’s put on weight, hasn’t he, Moley?”

  “A regular little pig,” rumbled his companion.

  The master of ceremonies had withdrawn a gold watch and raised his hand. “Ready—set—go!”

  Curly fell upon the rats like an avenging angel, catching them by the throats and shaking them. One he caught by the hindquarters and flung against the wall. The rats raced about, vainly attempting to escape. Some tried to work their way into the crack between the wall and the floor. One of the bolder ones leaped at Curly and clamped his teeth into the dog’s ear. The dog released another rat and gave a howl, then shook his head wildly. The rat swung about, his long pink tail whipping through the air, but his teeth held their grip.

  Ratty’s smile was fierce. “He’ll never win now. Too slow by far.”

  Seeing that shaking would not dislodge the rat, Curly changed his tactics and swung his head around, smacking the rat against the wall. With a squeal the rat let go, and Curly was on him at once.

  “Time!” The man in the vest raised his hand.

  “’Ere, Curly.” With some difficulty, the elderly owner managed to pull the dog from the ring.

  Two men in black aprons stepped into the circus and began gathering the dead or dying rats, while the master of ceremonies conferred with another man.

  “Twenty-one rats it is for Curly!”

  There was some feeble cheering, but the groans of disappointment were louder.

  “No, he’ll never win now. I recall one time he killed nearly fifty. Of course, that was the best night of his life.”

  I drank my stout and glanced at the men all around me, their faces hot and flushed from drink and excitement, and I felt, as never before, the incredible gulf between us. How could anyone enjoy this spectacle? It was so vile, so base and vicious. The Roman crowd at the Coliseum must have resembled this mob. My stomach twisted, and for a moment I feared I might vomit. I wanted to stand up and flee, but that was foolish. Getting away from Underton alive would be difficult enough even with Holmes’ aid.

  Ratty sat back and turned to us. “Now, then, Mr. Holmes, what was you asking about?”

  “Have you no idea who is stirring up the prostitutes?”

  “I have my suspicions. There is a certain revivalist church group made up of females. Angels of the Lord, they call themselves. Most of the preachers who come round are harmless fools. One such minister came to the house near here, and the girls got so tired of listening to his whining and lamenting about hellfire that they finally jumped him and pulled off his trousers. Gave him a blanket and told him to be gone or they’d strip him naked then start on themselves. I saw that part. You should have seen his face. A big gangly fellow, a blanket wrapped round his scrawny legs.”

  Moley’s face reddened and his shoulders began to quake. He rumbled but nothing much came out. Glancing at him, Ratty began to laugh. Moley finally released some air, the sound something like an ill-firing engine, “puh-puh-puh.”

  “He was out the door in a flash and ran down the street. What a sight!”

  Moley finally opened his mouth, emitting a veritable shriek of laughter, but the cheers and shouts of the crowd soon drowned him out. Another dog careened about the ring, snatching madly at the rats.

  “Anyway, these Angels of the Lord are far cleverer than most preachers. They sound like... suffragettes or socialists. They tell my girls they are being exploited and that they need to unite and demand better wages. Now, as I’ve said, any of my girls who wants better wages can get them by moving up the ladder. It’s survival of the fittest, after all. These Angels are a tough lot; a tight group, very secretive. Many of them are former prostitutes or dismissed servants. They tell the girls once their looks are gone they’ll be cast out on the streets. They tell them how bad all men are and how the females have to stick together. It’s very sad. I remember one bright smiling lass who had a great future before her. One of the Angels talked to her, and next thing you knew she was all sullen. Became a regular rotten apple. She tried a bit of blackmail with a poor clerk, and of course I had to let her go.”

  Holmes frowned. “And you think... some person is behind the Angels?”

  Ratty nodded. “Oh, yes. I know talent when I see it. The head Angel is clever, whoever he is. The Angels may be righteous, but they’re making a good take. The person is misguided: blackmail and theft are a dangerous way to make money. Oh, I’ve tried them both, as you know, Mr. Holmes, but my houses are safer and more reliable.”

  “And none of your—” Holmes smiled ironically— “peers knows who is behind the Angels either?”

  “No one knows. Like I said, I was hoping you could tell me.”

  Holmes’ upper lip curled. “Not yet.”

  “Look at that pathetic thing!” Ratty said.

  A roar of laughter went up as a fat little terrier was set in the ring and gazed wearily at the rats.

  “Get ’em, Tiger!” The owner was heavy himself, with protruding eyes and clenched fists. “Get ’em!”

  “E’s too fat to move.”

  “Try starvin’ ’im for a week or two next time!”

  The humiliated owner withdrew the dog even before the two minutes were up. Holmes’ long fingers made fists, and he pounded lightly at his knees, his jaw thrusting forward. He glanced at me and must have seen the desperation in my eyes. “There is little point in remaining.” He turned to Ratty. “Tell me, have you ever heard of Geoffrey Steerford?”

  “Something to do with finance and speculation, isn’t it? Heard of him, but risky investments are not for me. My profits go straight into a good sturdy English bank.”

  Holmes took off his hat and ran his fingers through his damp hair. “Ratty, thank you for your assistance. I hope to remove this thorn from your flesh. I must be leaving.”

  Ratty’s jaw dropped, again revealing his narrow sharp teeth. “So soon? But Prince Albert hasn’t even had his chance yet! Won’t you at least stay for that?”

  “I have... other business. And Herr Verniger wishes to return to his wife.”

  “Ah.” Ratty gave me a conspiratorial wink, which made me want to slap him. “It seems a shame. Not very polite
, it is.” His eyes narrowed, suddenly dangerous. “I could make you stay.”

  Something in his tone of voice made my flesh crawl, and I thought if I had to remain in that stinking, noisy, hellish den for even a minute longer, I would go mad. I slipped my hand into my pocket and seized the revolver handle while trying to look ferocious, not frightened out of my wits. Holmes stared coldly at Ratty, who was the only one smiling now. His men had all gone silent. Moley was frowning, his squinting eyes appearing even tinier behind the thick lenses.

  “I think not,” Holmes said.

  “No? My pals are good men.”

  “Then it would be foolish to risk their lives—or your own.”

  Ratty’s nostrils flared, and he gave a sharp laugh. “Oh, very well, be off with you then! I can’t force you to share in our good times.” He laughed again, and his companions joined in. They seemed as relieved as I. “What about your sovereign? I’m sure you’ll win two on it.”

  “You may keep them, Ratty. After all, the tip was yours, and you have told me a great deal this evening.” Holmes stood up.

  “That’s good of you.” Ratty seemed genuinely pleased although he must already have had a fortune. He rose and nodded at me. “A pleasure making your acquaintance, Mr. Vinegar.” Moley loomed up behind him.

  I nodded and tried to smile. “Yah, yah.”

  We set down our glasses on our chairs then stepped off the platform. “Keep me informed!” Ratty shouted. He turned to the pugilist who’d taken his bet. “Jack, another round here—my mouth is positively parched.”

  A dog leaped into the ring, teeth bared, and seized a big gray rat by the throat, releasing a spray of blood. Small red splatters now covered the white paint of the floor and the wall.

  I shoved aside a man who blocked my way, cursing him angrily. I made it to the stairs and went down them two at a time. My eyes burned from the smoke; they watered and stung.

  “Henry!” Holmes shouted. “Henry!”

  I strode through the pub, which was half vacant now because of the ratting upstairs, and pulled open the oak door. The cold wet fog enveloped me. After the heat and noise of the ratting den, it was like plunging into a quiet icy stream—a fetid one. The fatty, rancid smell of the rendering plant and the muted decay of the slaughterhouse mingled with the mist. My stomach lurched, and I tasted something hot and foul, which I fought to keep down. My hand groped out as I sagged against the brick wall.

  “Henry—what is it?”

  “I think I am about to vomit.”

  “Little wonder. I should never have brought you with me.”

  “Are you mad? You would have faced that odious little vermin alone?”

  He seized my arm. “Try walking. It may steady your stomach.”

  “Yes. My God, let’s get out of here.” I lunged forward, but his grip tightened.

  “I said walking, not running. In another quarter of an hour we will be out of here. In an hour or two you will be with Michelle.”

  I made a loud sound between a sob and a laugh. “Can it be? Shall I ever see her again?”

  “Of course you will.”

  We were in the blackest part of the alley now. Most of the windows on either side were dark. The rain had already soaked my clothes again, and I started to shiver. Holmes still held my arm. “The trip was well worth it, Henry. He told me little I did not know or suspect, but confirmation of one’s theories is of value in a case like this.”

  “He is not really a man, is he, Sherlock? He was truly a rat, and the rest of them were not men either. They were dogs—or pigs. Someone—Circe, I suppose—had turned them into swine. Or maybe rats. Did you ever see so many rats? It is the tails I cannot abide. Their bodies are all furry, but those pink hairless tails...”

  “Please stop that, Henry. You have shown your bravery. Now show some good sense. Ratty is only a man. Were you to strike him down, another Ratty would arise. It is only a business to him, and he does treat his ‘girls’ fairly well. I thought he might know... If even Ratty and his friends are in the dark, then no one knows.”

  We had turned onto the cobblestone street. The rain poured down, drenching us to the skin. A few men were out, but they huddled under the shelter of the eves. I was shivering so hard my teeth wanted to chatter.

  “Aren’t you cold?” I asked. A streetlight lit up the steamy vapor of my breath.

  “Yes, but this rain is a good thing. The roving bands like the one we met earlier will prefer to stay indoors until it lets up. It is time to consider what we might have to eat and drink when we return to Baker Street. We deserve some reward for this evening’s work.”

  “Nothing for me. I shall never eat again.”

  “Perhaps curried rats tails?”

  “Sherlock!” In spite of myself, a strange, outraged laugh burst from my lips.

  He gave a great roar of laughter, drowning out the steady sound of the rain on the dark stones about us. “Forgive me, it was a very ill jest, but one I could not resist.” He stopped before an alley. “And here is the gateway back to the surface, back for me—I who have no Michelle—to Il Purgatorio, while you pass upward to Il Paradiso.”

  We started down the alley, the featureless brick walls rising on each side. “You had your chance,” I said. “Ratty offered you a night with the lovely Jeanne du Baisers.”

  Holmes was briefly silent, and I could barely see the black shape of him beside me, let alone his face. The alley was quieter and somewhat sheltered from the downpour.

  “Ah, yes, the lovely Mademoiselle Du Baisers. One can imagine how lovely, how radiant, such a woman must be.” His voice was full of loathing.

  “When we reach the end of this alley are we almost to the Running Fox?”

  “Yes, it is just around the corner.”

  The light from the street ahead of us spilled into the alley, and I could see the raindrops’ slanted fall. Perhaps it was only my imagination, but already it seemed to smell cleaner. I staggered out into the street and swung my arms about, staring up at the cloudy heavens. The raindrops stung my cheeks and eyes. My hat fell off.

  “Saved!” I cried. “Shall I kiss the ground?”

  Holmes smiled. The rain had smeared the blackening on his face, and his dark clothing was soaked. All the same, he seemed as oddly happy as I. “I cannot recommend it. While not the equal of the alley, the pavement here is none too clean.”

  We started down the street, and abruptly the rain diminished. A great quiet seemed to settle about us. A lone carriage passed, the horse’s hooves clopping regularly on the street. It stopped ahead of us at the stately old house with the two streetlights.

  “I am so glad to be out of there,” I mumbled. Never again would I volunteer for any insane adventures!

  Holmes grabbed my arm and pulled me back against the wall, clapping his other hand over my mouth. All my fears returned at once. “What?” I tried to say, but could not speak through his hand.

  “We are in no danger. Be quiet and still. Do you understand?” I nodded, and he lowered his hand. “Look over there.”

  We were in the shadows and behind a hedge of bushes and a thick tree trunk. Across the street, two women stood in the doorway talking. One was older and wore a gaudy, elaborate gown; the other was a slight figure in a black dress, bonnet, and coat. The older woman seemed to be thanking the younger woman.

  “That is Madam Irene,” Holmes whispered. “The brothel is hers.”

  I frowned. The younger woman was twisted partly away, and the light on the porch was not good. Still, she seemed oddly familiar.

  “Good night, and bless you,” exclaimed the older woman, her voice ringing out. “Truly you are an Angel of the Lord!”

  The woman in black turned and started down the walkway to the waiting hansom. The light from the streetlamp fell full on her face, showing her pale skin, thin nose, and tight lips. The bonnet sat back on her head so that we could see the black hair parted in the middle.

  “Good Lord,” I said.

  “H
ush!”

  She seemed almost to hear me, for she hesitated and gazed about. We did not move. She went to the end of the walkway where she was hidden from us by the cab. The driver climbed back up, then snapped his whip and started down the dark, barren street.

  Holmes took a deep breath, then released my arm. “Mrs. Lovejoy?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Yes. Mrs. Lovejoy.”

  Eleven

  Henry had behaved so strangely before he left that I resolved to wait up for him. He returned just before midnight, murmured, “Thank God,” and gave me an embrace that took my breath away. I demanded to know where he had been, and when he hesitated, I told him we must not try to deceive one another. Clearly, he was relieved to tell me the truth.

  The mention of Underton made the back of my neck feel cold. I listened silently as he related the whole nightmarish story—the tubercular coachman, Sherlock’s performance as a lunatic, the encounter with Ratty and Moley, the disgusting spectacle of the ratting, and the unexpected appearance of Mrs. Lovejoy. My anxiety grew, manifesting itself as a tightness in my throat and chest. When he was finished, I began to weep, an action that surprised us both.

  He tried to comfort me—I was not only fearful but outraged. “How could you do such a thing and not even tell me? How could you?”

  His own eyes filled with tears as he apologized.

  We sat together by the fire a long while. Henry was badly chilled from being wet and cold for so long. We actually fell asleep, and only later did we wake and go upstairs.

  The next day, Wednesday, was my day at the clinic. Violet was there although I had told her not to come. She was not squeamish, but the harried pace and the frightful condition of most of the patients were agitating and disturbing. She did not look well. She had grown thinner, gaunter, and although she was still undeniably beautiful, she appeared oddly fragile, vulnerable even—qualities I had never associated with her.