The Web Weaver

by Sam Siciliano

  Holmes ran his hand through his hair. “Lovejoy and Collins have no doubt tramped the lawn under the window to mush, but I shall want to have a look. The grass is wet, and a solitary footprint may remain. The intruder must have locked the door, then escaped through the window.” He looked up and noticed Wheelwright still standing. “Tegenaria domestica is as frightened of humans as you are of her. No doubt she has retreated to some crevice. You may as well sit down.”

  Wheelwright did not move. Finally, he said, “You have been on the case for nearly a month, and we have gone from one disaster to another. I cannot take much more of this.”

  Holmes drew himself up to his full height, which still left him a few inches below Donald Wheelwright. “I have tried to explain to you that I am not a miracle worker. I am making progress, but you must be patient.”

  “You ask me to be patient when my wife is nearly strangled to death? We will both be dead and buried by the time you figure things out.”

  Holmes’ eyes narrowed, and his face went red. He glanced briefly at Violet. “Perhaps you have a point. I... I shall personally see to it that there are no further attacks upon your wife. With your permission, I or one of your male servants shall remain close by her.”

  Wheelwright did not appear mollified. He went to the table, poured more brandy, and sank into a chair. The massive oak chair looked like child’s furniture with him sitting in it. He took a big swallow of brandy. Outside, the wind was low and steady.

  “I cannot... This is like some terrible nightmare. This has been the worst month of my life.”

  Violet gave a sharp, shrill laugh, which made my flesh crawl. “It is a nightmare for you? My nightmare has lasted for more than four weeks—it has lasted for months—for years—and it grows worse and worse. Oh, whenever will it end?” Her voice broke, and she turned away from us to hide her tears.

  Again I felt as if something had caught in my throat. Wheelwright stared dumbly at Violet, his eyes pained and confused. I wanted to shout, “Go to her for once—comfort her, you blockhead!” But he did not move.

  Holmes took a step forward, then stared at me, his hands clenched into fists. “See to her,” he managed to say.

  I rose and put my hand on her shoulder, then touched her black hair with my other hand. “Please, my dear...”

  She almost leaped to her feet, turning and twisting away. “Michelle, I cannot bear your kindness! Can you not understand? Oh, God.” She bit savagely at her lip, her right hand clutching at her left side. “I must get away from here! I must. Donald, you must take me away—away from this wretched house—from London—you must.” Her voice was raw and hoarse.

  Surprised, Wheelwright looked at her. “Where?”

  “Anywhere!”

  He drank the rest of his brandy. “We could go to Norfolk. If not for the family business, we would have gone there by now, but father wanted me close by because of his dealings with Atherton. I think after all that has happened he would understand.”

  “Yes—any place. Norfolk will do fine.” She gave a harsh laugh.

  Wheelwright stared vacantly at her. It was as if he could not really see her. “We could leave tomorrow.”

  “Yes. Oh, yes.” She laughed again, then her hand clasped at her side, and her face went ashen. “Oh Lord, it hurts so.”

  I took her arm and drew her back to the chair. “Do sit down.” She might have fallen had I not had hold of her.

  “Thank you. I have to get away. I must get away.” She was crying again. Sherlock’s eyes were anguished.

  “The brandy has probably irritated her stomach. I shall have to get her some milk.”

  Holmes turned to Wheelwright. “Norfolk may or may not be safer than London. With your permission, I shall accompany you there.”

  Wheelwright had refilled this glass. “As you wish.”

  “So shall I.” The words were out of my mouth before I could reflect on what I was saying.

  Wheelwright raised his head. “What?”

  “She is ill. Someone needs to look after her.”

  Violet appeared truly surprised. “You cannot mean it. Your practice...”

  “I can be away for a week or two, if need be.”

  Holmes stared intently at me. “I shall want Henry along as well. He will be of assistance.”

  “Someone can fill in for us.”

  Violet put her small white fingers about my big red hand. “I shall be glad for your company. You are the only person who is not part of the nightmare, the only one who is free. I... I did not mean it about your kindness. I...”

  Wheelwright took another swallow of brandy. “Mr. Holmes, there is one thing you must understand.” His face was ruddy, his broad forehead wrinkled. “This is your last chance. No more talk about patience or the difficulties of the case. Any more disasters, and you will be dismissed, and I’ll find someone who can do a proper job.”

  Holmes’ lips curled into a smile, gray eyes smoldering. He hesitated, no doubt struggling with his pride. “I accept your terms, sir.”

  Wheelwright emptied the glass and rose. “If we are to leave tomorrow, I must see to a few things.”

  Violet let go of my hand, then withdrew a handkerchief and wiped at her eyes. “The Lovejoys can join us later, or perhaps Abigail should come. She also needs to get away.”

  Wheelwright gave a short rumble of a laugh. “She needs a stay in a madhouse.”

  Violet sat up, her right hand still holding her side. “She is not to blame for this business. It has taken its toll on her.”

  Wheelwright shrugged. “We can discuss it in the morning.” He started for the door.

  “One moment, sir,” Holmes said. “What were you doing when you heard Mrs. Lovejoy scream?”

  Wheelwright blinked dully. “I was in the smoking room talking with Lovejoy and Collins.”

  “How long had the three of you been there?”

  “Half-hour or so.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wheelwright.”

  Wheelwright closed the door behind himself. “His hands are far too large, anyway,” Holmes said softly. “Mrs. Wheelwright, may I have another look at those bruises?”

  Violet nodded. “Certainly.”

  Holmes walked over to us, raised his hands, then hesitated and looked at me. “Michelle, would you be so kind...?”

  I opened her collar, pulling the material aside. The sight of those bluish handprints on her white skin still disturbed me. She must bruise easily to have it show so distinctly. Her throat was so very long, and the finger marks came around the front; the fingers separated only slightly at their tips, but the hands had not quite met. There was a gap of over an inch, which was lucky—otherwise, her larynx might have been crushed. The palms in back had made little impression, but the thumbprints were clearly visible.

  Holmes’ hands hung tightly at his sides, and again I saw longing in his eyes. He had an excuse for staring at her so, but I knew he was appreciating the beauty of her throat, the curve of her jaw. His eyes briefly met hers. Then they both looked away.

  “Curious,” he said. “Very curious. Mrs. Wheelwright, would you care to retire?”

  She shook her head. “I shall never sleep.”

  “I can give you something, Violet. And you must drink some milk.”

  “I feel better now.” She tried to smile, but her brown eyes still had a wild glint. Briefly, she bared her teeth. “Mr. Holmes?”

  He sat back against the edge of the table. “Yes?”

  “Have you... have you ever thought you might be going mad?”

  I put my arm on her shoulder. “You must not say such things.”

  She laughed. “Michelle is far too healthy—far too sane—to understand, but you... Has the possibility ever occurred to you?”

  He stared gravely at her. “Yes.”

  “Ah—I knew it.”

  “But I do not allow such thoughts to linger. I do not allow myself to indulge in such fancies. They are a form of... self-deception. Self-punishment.” />
  “Do you think so?”

  “Yes.”

  She put her hand over her forehead. “If only I could stop my thoughts... It grows so tiresome!”

  “No storm lasts forever. It is the penalty we pay for our intellect, for our ability to think better and more intensely than our fellow men. Once our mind undertakes a problem, we cannot rest until it is resolved, until we have our answer, and the wearier we grow, the more frantic our thoughts become. When it is all over, exhaustion and black melancholy often follow.”

  Her hand shot out and touched his knee. “Oh, yes—yes! You do understand—you do.”

  I could see his fingers tighten about the table edge, the tendons rising to the surface. “You shall not go mad, Violet. I promise you. Your sufferings will end.”

  It was the first time I had heard him address her as anything other than Mrs. Wheelwright. She laughed, a strained sound, but her relief was audible. “Oh, thank you. I hope—I wish...” She put her hand over her forehead. “Oh God, I am so exhausted I cannot...”

  I shook my head. “As well you might be. You should go to bed.”

  “I shall, but first...” She looked again at Holmes. “Would you do me a favor, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Anything you wish.”

  “My violin is on the shelf there. Play me something—play some Bach”

  Holmes frowned. “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “But... will it not appear somewhat strange to...?”

  “Everyone will think it is me. If anything, it will reassure the servants. They are used to music emanating from this room at odd hours. No one has enough of an ear to tell your playing from mine.”

  Holmes gazed at me. “Will you go upstairs,” I asked, “when he is finished?”

  “I promise I shall. I merely... I am not up to playing myself, and I want... I want to think about something else.”

  I hesitated, and then nodded. Holmes shrugged and walked over to the shelf where the violin sat. He plucked the strings, tuning them, and then tucked a handkerchief and the violin under his chin. The bow slid across the string and swelled into a resonant note, which his quivering fingertips gave a warm vibrato.

  “A wondrous instrument,” he said.

  The door burst open, and Henry rushed into the room. He wore a bowler hat and his black overcoat, but his shirt collar was unbuttoned. “What on earth has happened?”

  I walked over to him and slipped my arm about his waist. “Hush, for a moment, and then I shall tell you everything. Just now we must listen to Sherlock play.”

  Holmes raised the bow, then began. I do not much care for Bach’s music. All those melodies going at once frustrate me because I can only hear one thing at a time, only bits and pieces. Nevertheless, Holmes played beautifully. I had always been struck by the passion of his music; only then did he give his emotions full rein.

  Violet had closed her eyes and seemed to melt into the chair. Holmes was the only other person I had known who brought such utter concentration to listening; briefly her dark thoughts were forgotten. He finished the piece. She did not open her eyes. “One more, please. Do you know the saraband from the third partita?”

  This was more languorous than the first—stately in its sorrow—but I hardly heard it. I was so sleepy. I leaned against Henry, and he drew me close. “Oh my dearest,” I murmured softly. How I wished the long evening were over.

  At last Holmes lowered the violin, sighing deeply. “My Stradivarius is no better. It may not be its equal.”

  Violet moistened her lips and opened her eyes. “Bring it with you to Norfolk, and we shall see. Thank you very much, Mr. Holmes. Your playing is inspired.” She looked at me. “I am very tired.”

  “As well you should be.”

  There was a polite knock at the door. “Come in,” Holmes said.

  The door opened and Lovejoy stepped into the room. “I am sorry for the delay, but Abigail was distraught. You wished to see me, Mr. Holmes?”

  “In a moment. I want to have a look about the grounds. Would you fetch a lantern? First, however, we need Mrs. Wheelwright’s maid. She is ready to retire?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Henry slipped free of me and put his hat on the table. “What has happened here?”

  “You will hear the whole story soon enough.” Holmes gestured with his hand at Violet. “By the way, would you be so kind as to have a look at Mrs. Wheelwright’s throat?”

  Henry frowned, then walked over to Violet. She drew in her breath and looked elsewhere. “Good God!” Henry seemed to jump back. “Who has done this?”

  Holmes gave a sharp laugh. “That is the question I would most like answered. Have a good look, Henry. I shall want your professional opinion.”

  Henry’s examination was more detached than Sherlock’s, but his revulsion was obvious. Brutality disturbed him.

  Another brief knock at the door, and Lovejoy reappeared with Gertrude. I helped Violet to her feet. Her eyes were red and puffy—she was utterly worn out. Her fingers brushed aside a strand of black hair. She winced.

  “My throat hurts.”

  “Have Collins go upstairs with Mrs. Wheelwright and the maid,” Holmes said to Lovejoy. “Collins should examine the room, especially under the bed and in the closets. He should only remain outside while Mrs. Wheelwright is dressing. She is not to be left alone under any circumstances. Have a cot brought up for the maid.”

  “Me, sir?” Gertrude’s eyes opened wide.

  “Have no fear, miss. You will not be alone. I shall be in a chair in the same room.”

  “The same room?” Lovejoy’s voice was faintly incredulous.

  Holmes frowned. “Yes. There will be no more mysterious assailants. Please fetch me that lantern now.”

  Gertrude and I led Violet to the door. She walked stiffly, stumbling slightly. I released her arm, and she turned, her face a mute appeal. “Michelle...”

  “I shall be up in a moment to say good night.”

  She smiled weakly. “Thank you.” She turned to Holmes. “Good night, and thank you again for your playing.”

  He nodded, then closed the door behind her. Henry took off his coat. “Now, will one of you please explain what has happened!”

  Holmes took out a cigarette, which he smoked while I told Henry all that had occurred. When I was finished, Henry shook his head.

  “Who—or what—can have done this?”

  Sherlock’s lips twitched briefly into a smile. “You think it was the devil, then?”

  “I no longer know what to think.”

  I shook my head. “Why should the devil need to go around strangling people? I would also expect him to be better at his work.”

  Holmes laughed loudly and threw his cigarette butt into the fireplace. “Oh bravo, Michelle! One would assume the fiend could choke someone to death if he were really determined to do so. Did you notice the unusual nature of those bruises on her throat?”

  “They were so distinct,” I said. “She must have fragile blood vessels.”

  Holmes shook his head. “No, no—I refer to the gap in front.”

  “The gap?” Henry asked.

  “Given the size of the hands, the person could have wrapped them entirely about her throat, but he did not. He carefully avoided her larynx. I doubt he wanted to severely injure or kill her.”

  My hands clenched into fists. “You mean someone only wanted to frighten her? How absolutely beastly!”

  “I must question the servants, but the most obvious and interesting suspects—Lovejoy, his wife, Mr. Wheelwright—cannot have done it. Lovejoy and Wheelwright were together, and of course Wheelwright’s hands are far too large to have made those marks.”

  “You do not actually think Mrs. Lovejoy could have done it?” I asked incredulously.

  Holmes shrugged. “I know not what to make of her mental state, but she is the single most obvious suspect. She gave quite a performance. We have only her word for the ‘black fiend,’ and she could have crept up
behind Mrs. Wheelwright and tried to throttle her. Unfortunately, she has very small, weak-looking hands. She, too, could not have made those marks. So we are left with a mysterious assailant who conveniently fled through the window.” Lovejoy reappeared with a small lantern. “Ah, thank you. Henry, would you care to join me?”

  “Do you think it is safe outside?” I asked.

  “I only wish our strangler were loitering about.” Holmes and Henry took their hats and left.

  I seized my bag and went upstairs to Violet’s room. She had on her nightclothes. She was visibly trembling. “There is nothing to be afraid of now,” I said.

  She gave me a grotesque smile. “Yes, there is.”

  I prepared several drops of an opiate in a glass of water for her, and then sat beside her on the bed. She fell asleep almost at once. The fearful tension slowly faded until her face was utterly relaxed, her lips half parted, her forehead a smooth blank. Her hair was aswirl, the snaky black coil contrasting with the white sheets and her pale skin. Even asleep she appeared thin and exhausted.

  I went back downstairs to the library. The wind had finally died away, and Henry had pulled one of the plush red chairs near the fireplace. A big log crackled nicely. He raised his arm, and I squeezed into the chair beside him, a tight fit.

  “This will teach you to go visiting at odd hours.”

  “I am so tired,” I said. “And did you find anything outside?”

  “Only many of Collins’ and Lovejoy’s footprints.”

  “No cloven hooves? Perhaps the fiend does not leave footprints.” I felt him stiffen. “I am sorry. It is not really amusing.”

  “Sherlock told me we are going to Norfolk.”

  “Yes. You do understand why?”

  “Of course I do. We might get a spot of nice weather there. It should be lovely.”

  “No, this cold and fog and rain and darkness will last forever.” My voice nearly broke.

  “Hush.” Henry touched my cheek and slipped out of the chair. I shifted about, resting my head on the soft curved back. The warmth of the fire felt good, and he stroked my shoulder. “You are very brave, and I love you very much.”