The Web Weaver

by Sam Siciliano

Holmes scowled. Henry said, “Do you think so?”

  Steerford’s right arm swung out expansively. “Have you heard of Herr Benz’s horseless carriage, constructed in 1885? A humble start, but already Mr. Renault has begun constructing more advanced machines. He has refined the internal combustion engine, adding a second cylinder. These engines all use petrol, a distillate of petroleum, and one considerably lighter than kerosene. Kerosene has already captured a major portion of the lamp business. It burns better than coal or whale oil and can be produced more cheaply. Given the existing market for kerosene and the potential market for petrol as the internal combustion engine and the motorcar grow in use, we are confident the market for oil will dramatically increase in the twentieth century, eventually far surpassing that for coal.”

  Holmes cackled again, an annoying sound. “What about the electric light, sir? What happens to your market for kerosene then?”

  Steerford smiled and nodded patronizingly. “A very apt question, Mr. Carlyle. It is true that the electric light will someday replace light produced by gas or oil, but the process will be a lengthy and costly one. Electricity requires expensive generating and distribution facilities. Wires must be strung up everywhere and run into houses, which must then be retrofitted with further wiring. The growing petrol market for engines should more than compensate for the gradually declining market in kerosene. Does either of you gentlemen know the current source of most oil?”

  “Another easy one,” Holmes said. “The United States of America.”

  “Very good, sir!” He turned to Henry. “You are well served by having so knowledgeable an advisor. And has either of you heard of Mr. John Rockefeller?”

  Holmes nodded. “Certainly.”

  “Perhaps you could tell your son and his wife about Mr. Rockefeller.”

  “He’s an American millionaire and the owner of Standard Oil.” Holmes had an avaricious glint in his eye. “He started with practically nothing in the seventies, and now he is one of the richest men in the world. He has a virtual monopoly on oil production in the States.”

  “Quite so. Mr. Rockefeller is proof of the extraordinary opportunity which the oil business provides.” He let his right hand drop. His left hand still held the leather book. The fireplace seemed to be his stage, we the audience. “What I am about to reveal now must remain confidential. I must have your word on it.”

  Henry had been stroking thoughtfully at his mustache, his gray leather gloves in his other hand. “You have my promise.”

  “And mine,” I said.

  Holmes cackled again. “I’ll not make any promises beforehand! What’s so blasted secret?”

  Mr. Steerford squinted gravely at him through the thick lenses. “If not, I shall have to ask you to leave.”

  Holmes’ smile turned to a scowl. “An outrage! I’ve never had to make such a promise in my life.”

  Henry gave him a severe look. “Father, I think we should hear him out.”

  I restrained a smile. “Yes, Father Carlyle.”

  Holmes scratched fiercely at his nose. “Oh, I suppose so.”

  “I have your word you will not say a word to another living soul?”

  “You do, sir.” Holmes emphasized the “s” with a sibilant hiss.

  Steerford nodded. “Excellent. You will not regret your promises. I have a brother slightly older than myself, a learned man, who studied chemistry and geology at Oxford. He spent some time in the United States working in the oil business. His education and his work there convinced him of the possibility that petroleum reserves might exist in Britain itself. If so, our country would no longer be dependent on American oil, and of course, such a discovery could lead to very great wealth indeed. Some five years ago my brother returned to England and commenced his quest. Two years ago we began some test drilling. The results have exceeded our wildest dreams. The first well began limited production a few months ago. We had a few investors provide capital for our initial foray. They have already quadrupled their money—quadrupled it.”

  Holmes regarded him warily, as if he suspected a snake-oil salesman. “Who are these investors?”

  “Lord Russell, the former Lord Harrington, and Mr. Lawrence Hawke. Any one of them would be only too happy to confirm their profit in this enterprise.”

  Henry nodded. “So that is where Harrington got the money. He was reported near bankruptcy.”

  “He borrowed all he could and put every last penny into the well.” Steerford sighed gravely. “How tragic that he left us before he could enjoy his profits.”

  Holmes shook his head. “Foolish, foolish! Never put all your eggs in one basket. That’s sound advice.”

  “My brother is certain that the entire region near our first well abounds in oil. We hope to construct some fifty wells in the next ten years as well as extensive facilities for refining and processing the crude oil. We shall have the largest production facilities in Europe. To make our dream possible, we are selling shares in our venture for the price of one thousand pounds per share. We hope to raise a million pounds.”

  My jaw dropped, and Henry gave his head a slight shake.

  “We are very near our goal, but should you wish to invest, there are still shares available for purchase.”

  Holmes stared suspiciously at him. “Where is this well?”

  Steerford gave a mournful sigh. “You certainly must understand that I cannot possibly reveal the location. Negotiations are underway to purchase the surrounding land over the petroleum reserves. If the news were to get out... No, no—once our goal is met and the deeds are in hand, I shall gladly tell you—but I must remain mute until then.”

  “And how do I know you are not making this all up? Tell me that, sir?”

  “Father!” Henry exclaimed. “Surely you can see that Mr. Steerford is a gentleman.”

  Steerford gave an appreciative nod. “Thank you, Mr. Carlyle. Your confidence is appreciated, but your father’s skepticism is understandable. In some cases, we have actually arranged visits to the well in a completely shut-up carriage, in order that the route remains secret. But hopefully, these documents will suffice. I have here photographs of the well, the signed testimonials of several worthy gentlemen who have seen it, and the bills of sale from a refinery which received our raw petroleum and produced petrol and kerosene. May I?”

  He sat down on the sofa between Henry and Sherlock, and then opened his book. “Here is the well itself.”

  I rose and walked over behind the sofa. I saw a picture of an oil derrick, its metal frame silhouetted against the sky. As he turned the pages, Steerford provided a running commentary—which soon grew tiresome. There were several photographs of the well, including one showing a wagon loaded with the metal barrels, and the testimonials he had mentioned. Both the nobility and the wealthy merchant class were represented. When he had finished, I returned to my chair while he stepped before the fireplace. Again it was as if he were on stage, we the audience. To emphasize a point, his already high-pitched voice would soar higher still.

  “Well, gentlemen, I hope you realize the incredibly lucrative opportunity being offered to you.”

  Holmes licked his lips, almost drooling with greed. “And may we interview some of these gentlemen, should we wish to?”

  “Oh, yes. Any of those whose testimonials were included.”

  “And how many shares might we purchase?”

  “As many as you wish—within reason.”

  Holmes cackled. “Reason has little to do with it! I’ll be talking to some of your people there. We’ll see, we’ll see.”

  Henry nodded. “Indeed we shall. It seems a splendid enterprise.”

  “I have put every pound of my own modest income into this venture.” Steerford slipped his watch from his waistcoat pocket; the gold had a reddish glow in the firelight. “I shall be happy to answer any further questions, but I do have another engagement soon.”

  Henry discreetly stared at Holmes, who gave his head a quick shake. “We need not keep you any
longer,” Henry said as he stood. “You have given us nearly an hour of your valuable time.” He shook hands with Steerford.

  Holmes leered at them, his frame stooped. “And will you need your answer soon?”

  “I do not wish to rush you, but the shares are going quickly.”

  “I heard you needed the money by the fifteenth of November. Heard that was the absolute deadline.”

  Steerford smiled politely. “There are those of an indecisive nature whom I might have wished to hasten. That might explain your misapprehension, but I wish you to be comfortable with whatever sum you choose to invest.”

  Henry nodded. “That’s decent of you. I feel confident we shall purchase some shares.”

  Holmes made his annoying cackle for what I hoped was the last time. “If this is on the level, we surely will.”

  Henry stared severely at him. “There can be little question of that.”

  I smiled and nodded. “Certainly not, and when the profits begin to come in, you will no longer be able to deny me the new brougham I want.”

  Henry smiled. “You know I can refuse you nothing.”

  Steerford rang for the butler, who, after another round of farewells, showed us to the front door. A rented four-wheeler waited for us across the street. The fog drifted lazily before the streetlamp; in the muted, dying light the carriage itself seemed almost a mirage.

  Henry and I sat together on one side, Sherlock opposite us. “What a dreadful old man you make!” I exclaimed.

  Holmes’ cheeks rose, the corners of his mouth hidden under the mustache. “I thought I was rather charming in a miserly sort of way. And what did you both think of Mr. Steerford’s proposal? Would you invest your every pound?”

  “I must confess,” Henry said, “that I found his presentation quite persuasive. I would, of course, wish to confer with some of the people who have actually seen the well, but I was favorably impressed.” He laughed. “As I have no thousand pounds to invest, it hardly matters.”

  Holmes’ thin face went in and out of light and shadow as the carriage made its way along the street. He had taken off his spectacles. “And you, Michelle?”

  “It was, as Henry says, impressive, but all the same, something about Mr. Steerford did not please me. I did not exactly mistrust him, but... His voice was odd.”

  “In what way?”

  “It was curiously high-pitched and yet so mellifluous, so... polished. I suppose he has given the same speech dozens of times—that would explain why he almost seemed to be saying lines in a play.”

  Holmes gave a sharp laugh. “Very good, Michelle! I suppose it is to be expected. Neither of you has had my experience with frauds, cheats, and charlatans. All in all, the higher classes of society are more gullible than the lower ones. If some polished rogue appears to be a fellow gentleman, he can spout almost any nonsense and be believed.”

  “But the photographs,” Henry said, “and all the testimonials. He said we might even visit the well.”

  “It would not be so terribly difficult or expensive to construct a false well and stock it with real petroleum.”

  “But what about the men who have already made their fortune off the well? Surely if it were fraudulent...?”

  “Bait, Henry—bait. Once such a scheme is going well, one can pay off the earlier investors to make the business more convincing. As I said, a certain class of people rashly assumes that a fine-speaking man with a good tailor cannot lie; and when they hear that simple Mr. Bull has already made his fortune and that Lord Twitterly has invested, all remaining doubts vanish.”

  “Do you think..?” Henry drew in his breath loudly through his teeth. “Is there no possibility that he was telling the truth?”

  “There might be a possibility—a slim possibility—but for one thing.”

  “What one thing?”

  “The fact that Mr. Steerford was not who he appeared to be—the fact that he was in disguise.”

  “What?” Henry and I exclaimed in unison.

  Holmes laughed. “Can you both be so blind? Did you not notice his resemblance to me? I refer to the spectacles, all the false facial hair—mustache and beard in his case. I must admit, his disguise was well done, a professional job. The beard hides all manner of distinctive marks on the chin.”

  “Ah...” I said. “And his voice...”

  “Exactly. Pitched far higher than normal. He used falsetto for emphasis.”

  Henry made one hand into a fist and struck his knee. “Oh, I feel like a very idiot.”

  “As I said, he is quite good, and you are certainly not the first to be duped. I do believe he is close to his goal of a million pounds.”

  “Good heavens,” Henry murmured. “There has never been such a theft.”

  “Whoever can he be?” I asked. “And why would he need to disguise himself?”

  A patch of yellow-white light suddenly illuminated Holmes’ face, revealing the fierce glee in his eyes. “I believe I know exactly who Mr. Geoffrey Steerford is.”

  “Who?” Henry asked. “Who?”

  “I really must verify my suspicions. It is a bit premature to tell you.”

  I reached out and squeezed his bony knee. “Sherlock—you must tell us!”

  “All in good time, Michelle. All in good time.” He gave a short laugh. “And of course, I shall have to be on guard myself.”

  “Why?”

  “Because our friend, Mr. Steerford, undoubtedly recognized me, even as I recognized him.”

  Twelve

  I had not seen Violet since Wednesday afternoon when she had left the clinic; Friday, after supper, I resolved to visit her. Henry was surprised but did not try to dissuade me, probably because he knew how headstrong I could be. He only said, “Try not to be too late.”

  Since I worked during the day, I was spared many boring hours and the snobbish warfare of ladies’ afternoon social calls. I could avoid spurning or being spurned, and no silver tray sat near our door for ladies’ cards. Because Violet was a patient, I had a ready excuse for calling at so odd an hour.

  The rain of the past week had ended, giving way to a cold, blustery wind, which howled mournfully and sent flying everything not fastened down. Someone’s newspaper had escaped, and the pages were scattered about the street. The wind seized a page and hurled it onto our neighbor’s lawn. The barren black tree branches swayed. I shivered, thought how nice it would be to spend the evening with Henry, and then stepped into the waiting hansom.

  Once we were off, I leaned against the side of the swaying cab and closed my eyes. My feet hurt, and I had the beginning of a headache. The week had been so busy, and I was still tired from being up so late Tuesday night. A quiver of fear flickered about my chest as I remembered the risk Henry and Sherlock had taken. How I wished the whole wretched business with Violet were resolved, the threat against her lifted.

  If only she were free. She was one of the few women whose company I enjoyed. I need not try to hide my intellect; I need not titter or giggle; I need not feign a fascination with the latest fashions from Paris or the latest gossip about Lord and Lady So-and-So. And Sherlock was a sweet man, although I could never tell him such a thing to his face. Such a curious blend of intellect and innocence. The worst of it was that they needed one another: each seemed strangely incomplete. The law and custom that bound Violet in her marriage were wrong; no good could come of it, I was certain.

  Such thoughts made my head hurt all the more, and I tried to set them aside. The wheel of the hansom went through a pothole; the cab sagged, then threw me to the left, the springs groaning. I thought longingly of Violet’s carriage. No doubt she would offer to have me driven home.

  The wind was even stronger before her house. The giant maple groaned and shook. A crow rose cawing from a limb, black against the pinkish-gray sky. The ivy along the brick front rustled and fluttered. I wrapped my coat tightly about me.

  A shapeless, muted cry merged briefly with the wind, taking on a human timbre. I stopped and wondered w
hat it might be. The sound ceased abruptly, leaving only the moan of the wind. It had been so faint, I wondered if I had only imagined it. My hands felt cold. I made fists with them.

  I strode quickly to the front door and pressed the bell. Up close the rustle of the ivy was even louder, as if each leaf were alive and struggling to escape. Hurry, I thought, and rang the bell again.

  I waited and waited, but at last I turned the knob and pushed open the heavy door. Glancing over my shoulder, I stepped in and closed the door behind me. Strangely relieved, I set down my medical bag and pulled off my gloves. “Hello?” I cried. “Good evening!” The entrance way was very dim, an oil lamp burning in the room next door.

  At last I heard the rapid patter of footsteps, and the little maid Gertrude came toward me, her handkerchief clutched in one hand. “Oh, thank heavens!” she cried. “It’s Providence surely! Oh, please come in—someone’s been murdered!”

  “Murdered! Are you certain?”

  “Oh, just come, ma’am! Please!”

  I took my bag and followed her to the hallway. A group had formed before the library door: the footman Collins, Mr. Lovejoy, Mrs. Grady the cook, and looming over them all, Donald Wheelwright. He hammered at the door with his massive fist. “Open up, I say! Open up!” He put his hand on the brass knob, and then slammed his shoulder into the wood. “It’s no good. It won’t open.”

  “What has happened?” I asked.

  Wheelwright glanced at me, puzzled. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see Violet. What has happened?”

  Lovejoy appeared only faintly perturbed. He had on his usual black morning coat and striped trousers; his black hair was parted neatly on the left side, not a hair out of place. “Mrs. Wheelwright was reading in the library, and I was speaking with Mr. Wheelwright when we heard a dreadful cry.”

  Mrs. Grady sobbed loudly. “Someone’s killed, I know.”

  “Oh, I hope not!” said Gertrude.

  I looked about. “Where is Mrs. Lovejoy?”

  Lovejoy swallowed once. “She may be in there.”

  “We must break in the door!” Wheelwright exclaimed.