She lasted until mid-afternoon, but then, as I was stitching up a nasty wound in a man’s leg, I noticed her turn absolutely white. The patient, a large, heavily muscled workman, lay unconscious from the ether on my improvised operating table.
I turned to Jenny. The contrast between her and Violet was striking. With her youth and rosy complexion, she radiated health and well-being. “See to Violet, my dear. She is about to faint.”
“I am not.” Even as she spoke, her brown eyes grew glassy, and she swayed.
“Hurry,” I said to Jenny.
Violet let her lead her away. Jenny returned almost at once. She shook her head. “Is Mrs. Wheelwright ill? She does not seem herself.”
“She is ill. I told her I thought she should remain at home.”
Jenny’s concern was obvious. “Is it serious?”
“Not yet, but it could be.”
Jenny shook her head. “I cannot understand it. She has everything, has she not? She is beautiful, wealthy, and clever. And yet, she has always seemed so... sad.”
I glanced at Jenny’s blue eyes, the clear, youthful innocence reflected there. If I could not fathom Violet’s torments, how could I begin to explain them to Jenny? I prayed silently that Jenny and her young man might truly learn to love one another. Recently we had talked again, and at least she knew what the whole business was about.
Jenny nodded at the unconscious man. “Can I help?”
“Yes. We are nearly finished. I am going to wash the wound in carbolic one last time, and then I shall be ready for the dressing.”
She handed me the bandage, keeping her eyes focused elsewhere as she did so. I wondered why—bloody wounds and ugly sores did not seem to bother her—then smiled as the answer came to me. My patient was mostly covered, but his thigh was exposed. Jenny had never seen a man’s bare leg before, that pale skin with the short curly hair. My cultivated medical detachment had inured me to such sights.
Violet did not want to leave, but I resolutely had a cab sent for. She stared so forlornly at me that I gave her thin white hand a squeeze, my own hand rough and red from the irritating disinfectant.
“What is it, Violet? What is wrong?”
“Nothing. I only... I look forward to this time with you, and I was hoping... We must go to Simpson’s again soon.”
“Certainly we shall. But you really should not have come today.”
“No?” The mocking smile pulled at her lips. “I like to come here. It makes me feel... It is the only truly good thing I do. Everything else is...” A laugh slipped from her lips. “It gives me a context for my own ills, my own suffering, and it reminds me how wrong everything is.”
“Wrong?”
She laughed again and stood. “Come and see me soon, Michelle, and perhaps I shall explain.” The evasiveness in her eyes contradicted her words.
It was well after six when I got home, the streets dark and wet, and I had a sudden longing for the sun, for warmth. My patients needed me then more than ever, but it would have been wonderful to flee to the south of Italy or France, somewhere clear and sunny without fog or the stink of coal smoke and soot. However, a delightful smell greeted me as I climbed the stairs—roasting meat, probably a joint of pork. Coming home to a warm comfortable house and a good meal was no small consolation in the dark, wet cold of a London winter.
Henry rose to greet me. In the large purple armchair, his long thin legs thrust straight out, his boots up on the matching ottoman, sat Sherlock Holmes, a wary smile on his gaunt face. Abruptly I was struck by the similarity in appearance between him and Violet—the same unhealthy intensity, the sense of some dark obsession consuming them.
“Sherlock stopped by to tell me about his inquiries, and I invited him to stay for supper.”
“Very well, but I have a bone to pick with you, Sherlock Holmes.” His smile flickered weakly then vanished. “So help me, if you ever take Henry off to a place like Underton again, you will no longer be welcome in my house.”
“Michelle...” Henry began.
“It is one thing to risk your own neck, but it is unforgivable to drag Henry along. I will not have it—do you understand? If anything had happened to him...” My voice shook, and my eyes were awash with angry tears.
Henry took my arm. “It was my choice, Michelle. He told me I need not come—he warned me it was not wise.”
I wrenched free of him. “Then he must have known exactly how foolish you are! Such advice would only convince you all the more.”
“Michelle, it is not fair to blame him.”
“Is it not? Whose wretched plan was it?”
Holmes drummed nervously at the chair arm with his long fingers. “You are harsh, madam.” (I could not remember the last time he had addressed me so formally.) “You forget that he is my cousin and my good friend. Desperate circumstances require desperate measures. This is a dark business, and the risk to everyone involved is considerable. Do you recall what you said to me concerning Mrs. Wheelwright after the opera? ‘I beg of you to save her.’ And I promised you that I would do everything in my power. Our visit last night was part of my effort to honor that promise, and Henry, very bravely, offered to accompany me. Had he not, it is quite possible I would not have returned from Underton alive. Your friend and I are deeply in his debt.”
I clenched my fists, drew in my breath, and all my rage seemed to melt into grief. I took out my handkerchief, sat down and wiped at my eyes. “You always know what to say.”
Henry put his hand on my shoulder. “Michelle, I...”
“Next time please have the simple decency to tell me when you are about to risk your life.”
“I promise I shall.” He stroked my cheek in a way that made me want to cry simply because I did love him. “You must be famished. Perhaps if we ate...”
I stood and put my handkerchief in my pocket. “Yes, I am starved. Let us eat.”
Henry helped me off with my coat. Holmes watched me sadly; at last he stood. I had taken Henry’s arm, and as Sherlock started by, I slipped my other hand about his arm. I felt him stiffen, and then he gave a tired, yet relieved sigh.
“Next time I shall come along,” I said. “Henry is not the only one with dramatic abilities.”
Holmes smiled briefly. “I know that.”
We all laughed. “I could play the part of a prostitute. I have seen enough of them at the clinic.”
We sat down at the dining-room table. Harriet had put out the silver candelabrum that my mother had given us, as well as our best silver and china.
“You may have your histrionic opportunity sooner than you imagine,” Holmes said. “However, the part is suitably respectable.”
Harriet filled my bowl with the rich bean soup in broth, which was her specialty. “Thank you,” I said. “It smells even better than usual.”
“I put in a bit more pepper,” she said.
I took a quick spoonful then turned to Holmes. “Of what role are you speaking?”
Holmes opened his linen napkin with a flourish. “That of the respectable wife of a wealthy merchant dealing in Scottish whisky.”
Henry’s eyebrows sank inward. “What merchant?”
“You are to play the merchant. After Mr. Blackdrop and Heinrich Verniger, I thought it well time for you to portray someone of a higher class.”
“And what part will you play?” I could feel each spoonful of hot soup improving my spirits.
“I shall be Henry’s elderly father.”
“And who will be the audience for our performance?” Henry asked.
“Mr. Geoffrey Steerford.”
Henry set down his spoon. “You have arranged a meeting so quickly?”
“I have, although it took me much of the day. Mr. Steerford is a hard man to see. He appeared in London about two years ago and has been selling shares in some enterprise, which has attracted considerable capital. The venture is both secretive and exclusive. I could not discover its exact nature, but the minimum investment is one thousand poun
ds, although ten thousand is not uncommon.”
“Good Lord,” Henry murmured.
“I began the day with a visit to Lord Harrington. He gave me the names of several investors, one of whom owed me a favor. I visited this person and obtained a letter of introduction for a prosperous merchant—a fictional one. Next I went in the guise of a servant to Steerford’s residence, which is not half a mile from those of the Wheelwrights’ and the Herberts’. Steerford was out, but I arranged an appointment for my master tomorrow afternoon.”
“Who is this master?” I asked.
Holmes smiled. “The wealthy whisky dealer Mr. Robert Carlyle.”
Henry choked back a laugh, barely keeping his soup down. “Am I any relation to Thomas?”
“No, but we do have Scottish roots.”
“Perhaps I shall wear a wig,” I said. “I have always wanted to try black hair.”
Henry shuddered. “God forbid.”
“You and Henry need not bother to disguise yourselves, but I must alter my appearance. Steerford may be someone I have met before under a different name. Then too, Watson’s narratives and Paget’s drawings—highly idealized though his renderings may be—have made me much too well-known.”
“When are we to meet Mr. Steerford?” I asked.
“Would tomorrow afternoon at four be possible? I know you are very busy, Michelle, but Mr. Steerford had few openings and is unavailable in the evenings.”
“I shall manage somehow.”
Henry glanced at Holmes. “And what of the Lovejoys?”
“I have discovered nothing. Their having no traceable past is, in itself, suspicious. I have telegraphed a police detective of my acquaintance in Liverpool and asked him to make some inquiries. I am not hopeful.”
Henry shook his head. “I have never been so surprised to see anyone in my life. What could Mrs. Lovejoy have been doing in a brothel?”
Holmes took a spoonful of soup. “It must be as Ratty suspected. She was stirring up the employees. Madam Irene must be a partisan of the Angels.”
I frowned. “I cannot believe... Perhaps Mrs. Lovejoy was only there on a visit of mercy. She is a religious woman.”
Henry again shook his head. “But the hour—that is not the time one would choose for a charitable visit to a brothel—not during the prime shift, so to speak.”
“Please, Henry.”
“Well, it is true. And her manner was furtive. I wonder... That woman has never seemed quite sane. The morning after the spider cake she was positively deranged. Maybe she is mad but dissembles well. She could have some irrational grudge against Violet.”
I bit at my lip. “I suppose it is possible, but Violet treats all her servants so well.”
“The person behind this business is quite sane,” Holmes said. “Only a capable mind of extraordinary power could have concocted these schemes. And as I have noted before, the person has a peculiar sense of humor, not mad, but... deviant.”
“Who can it be?” Henry could not keep the exasperation from his voice. “The Lovejoys seem so plain, and neither Donald Wheelwright nor his mistress is a mental giant. Perhaps none of it is related—the gypsy’s curse, Lord Harrington’s suicide, the theft of the necklace, and the threats against Violet.”
Holmes smiled coldly. “Ratty knew better. A rat has a remarkable sense of smell.”
“Is that why they sniff about so?” Henry repressed a shudder. “Let us not discuss rats—not after last night. Perhaps... Old Wheelwright is very shrewd and would like Violet out of the way. Could he be behind all this villainy?”
Holmes was briefly silent. “It is certainly possible. I consider him a suspect in the Wheelwright affair, but it is nearly inconceivable that he has any connection with the Angels of the Lord. Even in the case of the Wheelwrights alone, I sense a powerful and curiously subtle intellect. Then there is the dark humor I have commented upon. Old Wheelwright is simply too vulgar—too grasping and rapacious—too dull.”
“It might be best,” I said, “to simply ask Mrs. Lovejoy what she was doing near Underton last night.”
Holmes set down his soupspoon and shook his head curtly. “That is the one thing you absolutely must not do. It would put her on her guard.”
“We could question Violet about the matter.”
“No.” He gave his head another resolute shake.
“But why?”
He hesitated, licked his lips, and then dabbed absentmindedly at his mouth with his napkin. “It is... too risky. Mrs. Lovejoy would certainly notice any change in Mrs. Wheelwright’s manner toward her.”
Harriet marched in bearing the steaming joint on a platter and set it before Henry. He inhaled deeply. “Superb, Harriet—truly superb!”
She smiled at him. “Thank you, sir.”
Henry ran the long blade of the knife over the steel a few times, then began to carve. Harriet was a wonderful cook (unlike me), and we ate very well, although we spurned elaborate sauces and many courses. If one ate everything served at a dinner like that at the Wheelwrights’, indigestion—or worse—was guaranteed.
Henry put the brown meat from the outside on my plate; he knew I liked it best. Then he heaped meat on Holmes’ plate. “We must fatten you up, Sherlock,” he said. “You are looking thinner than ever.”
I nodded. “Henry is right. I saw Violet today and thought the same thing: I wanted to bring her home and let Harriet help me fatten her.”
Holmes paused, fork in hand. “Mrs. Wheelwright did not look well?”
I sighed. “She did not.”
His gray eyes somehow stared through me. “This case may be the high point of my career, and at last I sense the threads coming together. All the same, sometimes I wish I had never heard of the Wheelwrights.” His voice was suddenly harsh, and he paused. “Other times I feel that I would have missed...” His eyes shifted and noticed us both staring at him. “Forgive me. I too am weary. And hungry.” He cut off a piece of meat and put it in his mouth.
Henry stepped up to the front door of Steerford’s house and rang the bell. He was magnificently dressed in his best black greatcoat and silk top hat. A diamond pin pierced his gray silk cravat, a loan from his cousin. As an old man with a miserly streak, Holmes appeared almost shabby—and virtually unrecognizable. He had colored his hair white, then added bushy white eyebrows and curly white sidewhiskers, which blossomed out from under the brim of his top hat. A huge white mustache somehow shrank his nose and hid his lips. He wore spectacles with thick lenses.
The door swung open, and an elderly man in formal attire opened the door, his watery eyes scrutinizing us. “Good day, sirs. Madam.”
“Mr. Robert Carlyle to see Mr. Steerford,” Henry said.
“He is expecting you, sir. Please come in.”
The butler gave our coats to the housekeeper then led us down the hallway to a cozy sitting room. The dark, elegant furniture and carpets were all new. Standing before the fire was a man in a black frock coat, his hands clasped behind him, his back to us.
“Ah, good... day.” As he turned, his voice skipped a beat, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. His smile wavered, then recovered and became earnest. His hair was black, but his sidewhiskers were grayish, as were his mustache and goatee. He wore thick spectacles low on his nose, his eyes peering over the rims, and his hair was combed straight back and had an oily shine. His dress was impeccable: a double– breasted black frock coat with silken lapels (nearly identical to the one Henry wore), black waistcoat, and gray-and-black striped trousers, the glossy toes of his boots gleaming. As he extended his hand to shake Henry’s, I saw a pearl-and-gold cuff link.
“Robert Carlyle,” Henry said.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Carlyle. And this charming lady must be your better half. I hope talk of financial matters will not bore you too much, Mrs. Carlyle.”
I managed a smile. “I shall do my best to keep awake.”
Steerford’s brow sank as he turned to Holmes. He had extremely bushy, black eyebrows,
which extended across the bridge of his nose. “And who are you, sir?”
Holmes extended his hand. “I’m a Carlyle, too. James Carlyle, this lad’s father. Someone has to keep an eye on him. Can’t have him squandering the family fortune.” Holmes’ faintly querulous voice had the quaver of age and a slight Scottish burr.
“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Carlyle. Rest assured, we are not talking of squandering fortunes here, but of increasing them many times.”
“Easy words to say, Mr. Steerford.”
“Hopefully before you leave, you will be confident I offer more than mere words. To those select few my partners and I feel are worthy, we offer the financial opportunity of a lifetime.” Mr. Steerford’s voice flowed smoothly, almost like a caress, but its tone was pitched high for a man.
“Please sit down and warm yourselves by the fire. Mrs. Carlyle, I think you will find that chair most comfortable. Gentlemen, if you will take either end of the sofa, I shall soon show you certain documents and tangible evidence of our enterprise.”
We did as he suggested while he turned and walked over to a desk. He dimmed the lamp slightly then picked up a thick leather-bound book, which appeared to be a photograph album. He walked over to the fire and turned toward us. With the lamp low and his back to the fire, his face was in shadow.
“Gentlemen, could one of you tell me what the dominant fuel of our century has been, what fuel has made possible the great flowering of British industry and the rise of steam-powered machinery?”
Holmes cackled. “That’s easy enough. Coal.”
“Exactly so, Mr. Carlyle. Very astute.”
“Astute? Hardly. Any fool could figure that out.”
“You would be surprised, sir. Now, can either of you tell me what fuel is likely to dominate the coming century?”
Henry and Sherlock shared a glance. “Coal again,” Holmes said.
Steerford shook his head. “No, sir. Petroleum—oil.”
The Web Weaver Page 23